Halebidu: Incredible Hoysala art, More Jain Stuff

Our final stop on the Belur circuit was Halbedu, where two architecturally important temples are located on the old Hoysala trail. There are two major temples in Halebidu - the first temple we went into was Hoysaleshawara, located about smack-dab in the center of town. It's a temple dedicated to Shiva, and was largely funded by his wealthy followers in the old Hoysala empire. It was built partly as an in-your-face gesture to the Vaishnava supporters who built the Chennakesava Temple at Belur. Ah, competition.



As at the Chennakesava Temple, the majority of the structures within are constructed from easily worked soapstone. Soapstone was dispensed with in favor of granite in the successive Vijayanagara dynasty - it's plentiful, and you can build really big stuff with it - but soapstone is tops when it comes to the creation of intricate and supple detail.



These bulls are Nandi statues, which can be seen in spades all over Karnataka. Nandi is the bull that Shiva rides, and the gatekeeper of Shiva and Parvati, his consort. The worship of a cattle god in the guise of Nandi can be traced all the way back to the Indus Valley civilization, which venerated dairy products and (thus) the cow. Cliffs Notes Version: this is why you have to drive around cows on the street in India. Nandi statues are often put at the entrance of temples dedicated to Shiva - he stands as the sentry, or gatekeeper to the inner sanctum.


I love the roofs in these Hoysala temples. You must spend some time looking up around here.

The temple dates all the way back to 1121 CE, and, like most Hindu temples, functions as a sort of building cum-learning device. Images from the Ramayana and other iconic works of Hindu literature are portrayed in vivid detail all over the walls. It was nice having Summa along to point out what each image represented and to narrate the stories for me. Sure as hell wouldn't have figured it out on my own. (As with most Indian tourist stops, the "guides" who follow you around usually know less then you do).



These rows of symbolic images mirror the temple at Belur. None of them are identical. The same goes for the repeating rows of symbolic animals.



My beloved makara (mythological guardian beast) makes another appearance here. Note the ornate swans above them, symbolizing beauty.


The door to the temple. I like the guys with their arms around each other here. Men do this all over India. Nothing gay about it.

Halebidu was sacked by Muslim invaders in the 14th century, but the temple (rather miraculously) avoided incurring much damage. It was renovated and now exists in a remarkably intact state.



This temple is remarkably steep around the edges. Probably helped keep the water away from it. This is not exactly a dry region.


Liked this austere looking woman a lot.


The second major temple at Halebid is the Kedareshwara temple, dating from around 1319 BC. It hasn't maintained its original form inside, but the outside more then makes up with it. The same repeating "bands" of animals are here, but most remarkable are the story-telling figures on the outside walls. They are portrayed with an inordinate and totally charming amount of personality. My camera decided this would be a fabulous time to die, so I was forced to switch to my Iphone camera. I'm pleasantly surprised, actually.


Details on the walls. Incredible. You could look at this for days.



Shiva dancing his cosmic dance.



I love the Dravidian method of portraying lions and other animals.



A very get-to-the-point portrayal of Yama, the God of Death. There's an even more distressing portrayal of the terrifying goddess Kali elsewhere, but the camera wouldn't cooperate.



After these temples, we made a brief stop at the nearby Jain basadi. They seem to get even fewer visitors then the other spots. Had to go wake up the guard so he could open the gate to let us in to the last one. There were a couple of these, and it's hard to find their names. The man who administered the temple was very small, and dark, and his eyes had the yellow of jaundice in them. He spoke no English, but my companions spoke Hindi (naturally), and by means of this we were able to communicate. He was deadly serious about his job and his position, and directed us to the remarkably shiny pillars within. They were made of soapstone, and so smooth and burnished by age that they reflected back blurry and mirror-like. He began making strange hand gestures in front of them. "It's a special feature of the pillars," Sumanjay explained. "He is saying that if you move your hands, or your arms, in a certain way, it will make a funny reflection."

This the daughter did. "It works!" she said. "He claims that it makes you look like an aspect of Shiva, with all the arms." I watched her wave her arms a bit. She was correct: the reflection came back with many arms. Other motions produced a snake, a tiger, and a spider. I somewhat doubt this was intended by the Hoysala architects. Time has, I think, given these pillars their special shine. But it is certainly an added feature.

The little man led us to the back of the temple, which featured a Jain image rather similar to that of the hill. A naked, "sky-clad" man with his eyes closed in seemingly blissful reverence, his legs stumpy, his body soft and feminine. It was a temple not in use, or not in anyone's memory: the stairs climbed up to the top of the statue's head so that worshippers could dump milk and ghee and honey over him during festival times. I was most interested in the bats: the bats that clung to the door that protected the statue, and fluttered half-heartedly around in the light of day. I thought of rabies, of course - rabies, swift and fatal, a disease that (doubtless) was not entirely easy to treat in India - but the bats appeal won out. When they flutter, though, one understands why ladies in the olden days were afraid that they might get tangled in your hair. The guide watched, stone-faced and weathered, as we oohed and ahhed over the bats. They were nothing new to him.

I stood outside of the temple, for a moment, and watched the landscape around me. It was a classic scene of the Deccan plateau, replete with tall coconut palms, and water buffalo in the field just over there, and fresh tropical flowers in reds and yellows, and little woven reed-huts of the local people. A rice paddy lay a little away, and there were women working in it, almost at the end of their day. The Deccan, is, I think, a landscape that is naturally pleasant and amiable to mankind. It is the sort of gentle and fertile landscape that is written into our DNA, and is the kind that sustains us. "Goodness," Sumanjay said, as she came up behind me. "I have had more then enough temples for the day, I think."

We loaded ourselves into the car, and so, back to Bangalore. Night time was falling, slowly and with a lot of orange, all around the Deccan, and it was a tropical sunrise and of the sort that I remember from my very earliest childhood in Florida. The hills of the region switched their lights on, and we passed by village after tropical village, full of kids in uniforms heading home from school, and men and women shushing their bullocks about the hindquarters with little palm flails. The huts were often made of woven palm, and resembled to a remarkable extent the sort of thing one might find at a tropical resort in California or Hawaii. "In the USA, we have huts like those in expensive tourist resorts. People think they add character."
"Really?" Sumanjay said. "They are nice huts, and very pretty, but they only last about three years. They're just home, or storage, out here."

We passed by the region that was known to harbor dacoits, but thankfully, it was not entirely dark as of yet, and we would have been able to made evasive manuevers if any had leapt out of the bushes at us. I for one did not harbor anything particularly valuable, other then a few thousand rupees and an Iphone. Of course, such treasures made possible by American decadence were doubtless more then enough to succor the average dacoit, who made his living in the most hand to mouth fashion possible. I thought of the thugees, the renowned (and charismatic) strangler-bandits of the raj era. They were finally brought to heel by one of the British administrators, who, quite cleverly, put them in a prision and set them to making crafts and greeting tourists, in lieu of hanging them. Smart man.

I managed to stay awake all the way back to Bangalore. I think this was four hours, but I am not sure. It is hard to figure out just when one has entered the area of a flat Indian city. There are always countless villages, and the highways are either invisible, taken-out, or otherwise rendered unusable. The street signs are few and confusing, even to Hindi and Kannada speakers, and the villagers rarely are able to give anything approximating directions. The rains of the monsoon make everyone confused, and make everyone (eventually) lost. "The road is terrible, he says, and so he'll divert and try to find a new one."

We got lost in this endeavor, of course. I guess we were about 50 Km from Bangalore, but with Indian cities, this means nothing whatsoever in terms of what time you will actually get home. There is the traffic to consider, and Bangalore's is some of the worst in India. The city began as a laid-back garden village, a Raj administrative center in the salubrious climate of the Deccan, and it's sudden and explosive growth after the IT explosion was tragically unplanned. So during peak hours - which of course, we were returning in- the entire city turns into a massive and rowdy traffic snarl, full of auto-rickshaws, motorbikes, cars, buses, and God knows what else all seemingly converging on a single point, and all of them blasting their horns as loudly and as often as possible. We knew we were back in Bangalore, or at least sort of back in Bangalore, when the village traffic began to give way to slightly larger buildings, and then even larger, then even larger, and then we were in the Majestic region. Or at least we thought so. Sumanjay and the driver were no more sure then myself, and they conferred in break-neck Kannada about the matter, as I sat a bit pissed off against the door handle, and cursed Indian traffic. My dinner time was passing away, and this was, to me, a tragedy.

Shravanabelagola: Giant Monoliths, Bigger Rocks

Walking up the to monolith at Shravanabelagola.

Karnataka is a big and remarkably historical state, and one of its primariy attractions are the temples of Belur and Halebid. Curiously enough, these historical and remarkably beautiful places - located not too far from Bangalore - get very little traffic from foreign tourists. Which is a shame. This is Southern Indian art at its absolute zenith, under the creative and artistically inclined rule of the Hoysalas, and it is absolutely worth seeing.

I ended up renting a taxi for the day through the Sumanjay Home Stay, my guesthouse in Bangalore. The proprietress, Summa, and her daughter, ended up joining me. This was wonderful: having locals to interpret and explain everything to me really helped. They're also very interesting and well-read people, and we had a lot of nice discussions in the car about the similarities and differences between American and Indian culture. Intellectually minded Indian friends are worth their weight in gold. The drive up began in the very early morning and provided a nice look at Karnataka's rural and village areas. It is really a uniquely blessed and verdant land, full of swaying palm trees, lush rice paddies, meandering groups of water buffalo and women, women everywhere, threshing wheat in saris and shouting without seriousness at one another from across the road. Granite hills rise up from the pancake flat greenery: these lucky repositories of rock provided the base material for most of the historical wonders of ancient Karnataka.

The Hoysalas ruled the area between the 10th and the 14th century, their kingdom stretching into Tamil Nadu and bits of Western Andhra Pradesh. The name derives from a somewhat doubtful story concerning one of their young and charismatic founders. This young hero, Sala, supposedly saved his beloved Jain guru from a tiger that the two encounter near the Vasantika goddess temple at Sosevur. "Hoy" means "to strike", and so the two were combined into Hoysala. An agricultural kingdom, the Hoysalas operated off a landlord system, and also collected taxes on irrigation systems, marriage, spices, and whatever else seemed apropo. They are best known for their zealous patronage of incredible temple art, and hundreds of their distinctive soap-stone temples remain dotted around the lush tropical landscape of rural Karnataka. The Hoysalas were known for their religious tolerance, and seemed to get along fine with various Hindu sects. There were also a large number of Jains in their kingdom, as is evidenced at my first stop, the sacred Jain center of Shravanabelagola.


A view down the rock.

Shravanabelagola is about 158 KM from Bangalore, and is considered to be one of the most important places to the Jains. The Jains, as most people know, are an ancient religious sect of India with a strenously anti-violence philosophical basis. Cut down to a state of somewhat brutal simplicity, a Jain seeks to use persaonl efforts to move his soul to a state of divine conciousness and liberation, with the eventual goal of becoming a a Supreme Being or jina. Jains today are a prominent and powerful religious minority in India, and their business acumen is renowned throughout the world. There are plenty in my hometown in California.


The town below.

Shravanabelagola is an ancient place of worship situated on top of a strikingly large rock. The name means "White Pond of the Jain Monk", in allusion to the impressive tank that may be seen from the top of the mount. The town has two hills - one has a Basadi built by the Emperor Ashoka himself, though we didn't go there - and the Vindyagiri hill, which is what we are concerned with here. Vindyagiri features a profusion of temples dedicated to various saints and martyrs.


Entry to the monolith's temple.



Vindyagari also contains the 57 foot tall monolithic statue of Bhagavan Gomateshwara Bahubali. The statue is very large and truly striking, albeit in a slightly distorted fashion (his legs are too short). To reach the statue, there are a bit of stairs. Which is a gross understatement, as there are many many stairs, right up the mountain. The powers that be were kind enough to provide some metal railings. The sick and exceptionally lazy can hire four guys to carry you up on a palanquin, though this is more then a bit embarrassing. It was drizzling a little and the stairs were a bit slippery, which added an element of fun and adventure to things.




Bahabuli is a very important figure in Jainism, the second son of the first Tirthankara, Lord Rishabha. As the story goes, Bahabuli's brother, jealous of his money and success, decided to challenge him in battle for the throne, in lieu of entering into a total war. The competition duly arrived, but as the fight began, Bahubali realized that such a battle for resources, against his own brother, was a pointless and repellant act. Instead of striking his brother, he pulled out his own hair, ceding the battle. Afterwards, Bahubali renounced all his possessions and went to live as a solitary hermit - inspiring his brother, Bharat, to eventually do the same.



The reason that vines climb up the statues leg relates to this solitary period. Bahabuli was determined to achieve enlightenment, but his ego refused to allow him to visit his father's court, which was the final hurdle needed to achieve his goal. If he visited his father's court, he'd have to bow down to his 98 brothers, who had taken up the mantle of asceticism before him, and this would be entirely too embarrassing. Unmoved, Bahabuli kept on meditating anyway, remaining so inert that vines grew up around his legs. The saint's worried sisters asked Tirthankar Adinath how he might be helped. The sage replied that Bahabuli had failed to realize that he "was standing on an elephant," which of course represented ego. His sisters promptly went to him and asked him (logically) to please get down from the elephant. After a bit of thought, he realized his colossal error, and achieved enlightenment. In the stories happy ending, he went and reconciled with his father and brothers, and soon became an icon of the Jain religion.


Stone inscriptions outside the temple.

A more obvious question remains. Why the hell is he naked? Well, there are two sects of Jains. The Sky Clad monks (Digamabar) wear no clothes, whereas the Svetambar monks wear only white. Digambara monks don't consider themselves nude: they are literally wearing the environment around them, and they feel this is entirely adequate for their needs. The monolith here of Bahabuli examplifies this ideal. As a result of this, you will see a remarkable number of naked guys climbing up the stairs to the temple. Try not to stare. (As an aside, a Jain temple is called a Basadi).

The Bahabuli statue is the subject of an immense Jain festival every 12 years. In the Mahamasthakabhisheka festival, devotees gather here in huge numbers to smother the statue in offerings of milk, sugarcane juice, saffron paste, and precious stones, jewels, and flowers, all possessing great symbolism to Jains. The last event was covered live on TV. I imagine this is fascinating to see. The next ceremony takes place in 2018, if you want to make advance plans.



Temple on the hill. There's a number of them built up here, mostly very old. People have been coming up here for a very, very long time.


Excellent rock carving. There's interesting stuff scattered around everywhere here, most of it under-interpreted.



A statue of a female saint.....


The Gulleyaki to be precise.



The Tyagada Kampa, a pavilion housing a pillar. Which is explained below.


Jain saints are big on renouncing stuff. Go figure.


Some nice paintings on the wall. Summa's daughter was suspicious as to their antiquity. Having seen some very vivid rock paintings in the Western USA of great age, I'm more credulous.


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Summa bowed down and prayed briefly at a number of the icons inside the main temple. I didn't pay this much (if any mind) but like many of my Hindu friends do in such situations, she felt a need to qualify herself. "You must think me very religious," she said, as she got up.

"And I'm not - but Hinduism is all encompassing, you know. It's not really a religion, more of a way of life." The icons inside the temple are very old and weather-blackened, and have offerings from various passerby slowly rotting in front of them.

"We Hindus can pray to anyone we feel we should pray too," she said, her voice tinged with a bit of pride. "There are not many rules."

The men at the front don't technically charge to enter the sanctuary, but you are prompted to give a Donation. You will receive a polite but extremely disdainful look if you don't give. First timers in India's religious and historical places are often shocked and a bit disgusted by these overt displays of capitalism in a theoretically holy place, but it doesn't bother me over-much. All religious organizations and localities operate by some form of a tithing or donation system: so what if these guys are out in the open about it?


Lovely orange gecko on the rocks. Don't ask me for the species.

After Shravanabelagola, it was time to make for the temples at Belur. Next blog post.