The narrow streets of Badami were dark, empty, and silent at 5 am. I passed the Bhutanatha group of temples, picturesquely sited on a platform that juts into the Agastya Tirtha — a large, artificial tank.
Picking my way through tumbled boulders and thorny bushes I headed towards the base of the large sandstone massif which formed a ridge to the east of Bhutanatha. At length, I found a clearing with an unobstructed view of my target — a large sandstone boulder to the southeast of the Bhutanatha Temple.
But what was I, an architect by training, doing in this setting, in the first place? Astronomy had been my first love, while growing up in my hometown of Kochi, and my passion for the night sky had simmered on the backburner during my architectural studies. I got a lucky break after graduating, when I was recruited to be a part of a team setting up an astronomical observatory in the Western Ghats near Pune.
After that stint, I tried my hand at architectural practice and realised I did not enjoy it at all, and settled into a teaching job at Manipal University. It is in that university town that I got interested in the built heritage of the surrounding regions. Combining my newfound interests in ancient architecture with my old passion for astronomy, I did my doctoral studies examining megalithic monuments of India for deliberate astronomical alignments.
Two men hirsat Nilaskal, framing the setting sun on winter solstice;
Back to the present
The target of my attention — the sandstone boulder — was locally called Panchalinganaphadi. This massive boulder on the edge of the tank, with two small temples from the 10th century perched atop, constitutes one of the enduring images of Badami.
I was particularly curious about a small rock-cut feature at the base of Panchalinganaphadi, which I had noticed more than a decade ago. This tiny excavation at the base of the rock had been given scant attention by the academic community. During my very first visit to Badami, I had asked one of the security guards at the site what this feature was. He replied that the rays of the rising sun light up this “cave” every day of the year. This piqued my curiosity. Over subsequent visits to Badami, I measured the rock-cut “cave” and its orientation. It is a small excavation — barely 1.9 metres wide, and about a metre deep and a metre high. Its inside surfaces are all planed flat and there are pilasters and beams carved to define the edges. However, there is no deity enshrined within, or carved in relief on the rear wall — there is only an ochre circle painted on a white backdrop. Since this is a common sun symbol, the security guard’s story did seem credible.
I then created a CAD (computer-aided design) model of the cave and tested it for solar illumination. Care had to be taken to account for the massive ridge of sandstone that reared up in the east. My model confirmed the guard’s observation. The sun did illuminate the cave on every single day of the year. However, since this could arguably be mere coincidence, I did not read too much into the result. But when I happened upon an unfinished carving of the sun god Surya on a boulder very close to Panchalinganaphadi, I was quite excited. There might be something in the solar connection, after all.
The last piece of the puzzle fell into place when I considered the enigmatic image in a natural grotto near Panchalinganaphadi. In a natural cavern formed by a huge slab of sandstone which had collapsed against the rocky hillside, a seated figure carved on the rear wall had been variously interpreted by scholars as the Buddha or Mahavira.
An aerial view of the Panchalinganaphadi boulder with the Bhutanatha temples in the background
It did not make much sense because the figure was clothed, ruling out a Jina, and was too richly adorned to be the Buddha. A rosary in the right hand of the figure too did not
match with the iconography of the Buddha. Vaishnava symbols carved on the backrest
of the throne on which he is seated added to
the confusion.
Only a description by the antiquarian Henry Cousens, where he insisted that the figure was a royal portrait of one of the Chalukyan kings, seemed to be credible. To the local inhabitants of Badami, the figure is known as Koshtaraya, or the leper king. According to oral legend, one of the Chalukyan kings had contracted leprosy and he used to live in this grotto and bathe in the Agastya Tirtha to cure himself.
Healing rays
This proved to be the key to the puzzle — many temples to the sun were built as thanksgiving to the sun god for curing leprosy — the most well-known of these being the Sun Temple at Konark. Krishna once cursed his son Samba for a perceived indiscretion of his, resulting in Samba getting afflicted with leprosy. It is believed that Samba would bathe in the Chandrabhaga River every day at dawn and worship Surya till he was cured of the disease.
Computer models are very useful in assessing the validity of such hypotheses as the cave being fully illuminated by the sun throughout the year. But nothing can beat actually witnessing such a phenomenon. That was how I found myself crouched on a block of sandstone on a rugged hillside, anticipating the sunrise on a pleasantly cool morning in March. Gradually the darkness began to lift and I could make out the monuments of the North Fort as they caught the light of the rising sun.
The golden glow then lit up the tower of one of the temples atop Panchalinganaphadi. The glow crept slowly down its flanks, transforming the boulder to gold.
I watched with bated breath — what if my calculations were wrong and the sunlight would not enter the cave? The first glimmer of sunlight shone on the rear wall of the cave, soon intensifying to illuminate the sun symbol strongly. After photographing several frames of the sun illuminating the cave, I shot the reverse view — from the cave, of the sun rising over the eastern ridge.
It was a heady feeling witnessing an inventive creation of a medieval artisan. My head was buzzing as I left that amphitheatre of sky, light, and sandstone to the now-awake town where breakfast, and cups of hot tea awaited.
In search of megaliths
Megaliths are mostly funerary or commemorative monuments of prehistoric cultures, and several of them are impressive structures made of large blocks of stone. My work took me to megalithic sites literally from Kashmir to Kerala, as I examined them for undisputable alignments to celestial phenomena. My perseverance finally paid off when I found a series of megalithic sites in southern coastal Karnataka which had intentional alignments to sunrise and sunset on the shortest and longest days of the year. One of these sites — Nilaskal, near Nagara, is an impressive arrangement of erect stone slabs, known as menhirs, over an extensive area. Arrangements of menhirs like these are called stone alignments.
My studies had suggested that pairs of menhirs at Nilaskal should frame the setting sun on summer solstice day, which is also the longest day of the year. The same menhirs would pair up with other menhirs to frame the sunset on winter solstice, when the day is shortest.
Armed with my prismatic compass and camera, I had visited Nilaskal on winter solstice day, and this was when I first tasted the high of experiencing a spectacle which our prehistoric ancestors from the Iron Age had arranged.
Nilaskal was the climax of a series of smaller monuments, and the megalith-builders had learned well from the earlier monuments. Instead of flat ground, they selected a site that sloped gently up towards the west, so that the western skyline is raised several degrees above the actual horizon. Thus, the haze that is generally present at the horizon is avoided and the setting sun framed by the menhirs of the alignment is spectacular.
It is a thrilling business to peer into the minds of bygone generations and try to understand the knowledge systems they possessed.
The artisan who carved the “sunlight cave” at Badami would have spent months observing the play of sunlight on the boulder, making markings on its surface, before deciding the exact spot to carve the alcove. Similarly, the megalith-builders of Nilaskal would have spent months, if not years, staking out spots on the sloping land with wooden poles for markers, before deciding the positioning, and layout of the menhirs, some of which are over 6 metres tall, and 3 metres wide. But what did these alignments to the sun mean to them? It is likely it had something to do with the cult of the dead, possibly with a prehistoric belief in transmigration of the soul to the realm of the sun.
I believe in the need to communicate research findings to the public, and regularly publish illustrated articles about my research. I have published three books, the most recent of them being a collection of short fiction set in and around historical monuments and sites.
I have never regretted giving up active architectural practice for research in ancient architecture. I have been to some less-known sites in stupendous natural settings. I have surveyed Harappan monuments at Dholavira in Kachchh, searched for rock art in the mountains near Marayoor, Kerala and documented an exquisitely carved rock-cut temple in the Kumaon Himalayas. And at the end, when one takes stock, that is more than enough.
(Srikumar M Menon is a faculty member at the National Institute of
Advanced Studies, Bengaluru.)
Like this story? Email:dhonsat@deccanherald.co.in