Krishna lifts the roof in Cambodia

Source: National Museum of Cambodia, Phnom Penh 

This 7th century Cambodian sculpture of the Hindu god Krishna, from the National Museum in Phnom Penh, caught my attention in John Guy’s excellent catalogue* of ancient South-East Asian sculpture. I was particularly taken by the statue’s graceful stance and the wonderful expression on his face. How does something from 7th century Cambodia come to possess all the energy and elegance of Indian and Greco-Roman art?

You may remember Krishna as the god who swooped down to rescue the Elephant King in the previous post. This time, he is lifting a mountain called Mount Govardhan with one hand and holding it over an entire village, in order to protect it from a rain-storm sent by the god Indra. This scene (known as Krishna Govardhana) is a favourite in Indian art, especially in the field of miniature painting. In the 17th century version below, from Bikaner in Rajasthan, Krishna lifts the mountain nonchalantly, like a waiter holding a tray, while he basks in the attentions of adoring women. Cowherds tend to their flocks in the foreground, while in the upper right corner Indra watches from atop his white elephant, no doubt cursing Krishna for foiling his plan.

Source: British Museum

I like the fact that, while depicting Krishna as the hero, the artist has also emphasised the life-giving qualities of rain. The foliage is lush and green (which you would appreciate if you lived in dusty Rajasthan) and the cows are obviously healthy and productive. The one in the bottom left is even giving birth to a new calf under the anxious gaze of a rain-soaked cowherd!

In the Hindu pantheon, Krishna is one of the forms taken by Vishnu, though he may actually have been a regional deity in his own right before being absorbed into the Vaishnavite fold. He is always portrayed as youthful and energetic, often associated with cowherds (hence the bovine imagery), notorious for his dalliances with pretty girls, and beloved of mothers and grannies who coo over his childish antics such as stealing butter from the pantry.

All of which makes me wonder how this laddish deity was received in 7th century Cambodia, nearly three centuries before the Angkor civilisation. There are so few surviving records that it’s impossible to be sure. Hinduism and Buddhism both made a strong impact on the region, spreading along trade routes from Eastern and Southern India early in the first millenium (precise dates are sketchy). Cambodian sculpture from this period shows clear signs of influence from Indian models; there are even some examples of Hari-hara, the half-Vishnu half-Shiva composite figure that is a classic of Indian sculpture. The novelist W Somerset Maugham was enchanted by a Hari-hara that he saw in the Phnom Penh museum while he was travelling through Cambodia in the 1920s.*

The predominance of Buddhism in Cambodia today disguises the fact that for long periods, Hinduism was the dominant religion there. And local devotees seem to have taken to Krishna enthusiastically, judging from the several images of Krishna Govardhana that have been found. The finest, like our sculpture, come from a site called Phnom Da, about 60km south of Phnom Penh. Not much is known about it, except that it was a Hindu cave temple complex, probably active around the 6th-8th centuries. When excavated by French archaeologists in the early 20th century, it yielded some beautiful and sophisticated sculptures, with long elegant limbs, smooth powerful bodies and expressive faces. These have become a reference point for the study of South-East Asian sculpture, with scholars often referring to a “Phnom Da style”.

The example below (now in the Cleveland Museum in the US) is a fine example, described by John Guy as “perhaps the greatest pre-Angkorian sculpture outside Cambodia”. A Cleveland curator has noted that it’s the perfect image for a cave temple, as Krishna seems to be holding up the roof!

Source: Cleveland Museum of Art

The Cleveland piece is certainly more imposing than our Krishna, being twice as high (2.4m versus 1.2m) and in possession of his lower limbs which were re-discovered in the 1950s.  But I have a sneaking fondness for the Phnom Penh piece because of its cheery and slightly smug expression – exactly how a boy-god would look while lifting a mountain with one hand.

* Reference material:
Lost Kingdoms: Hindu-Buddhist Sculpture of Early South-East Asia (2014), ed. John Guy, Metropolitan Museum, New York
The Gentleman in the Parlour (1930), W Somerset Maugham

"The Cleveland Museum's Kṛṣṇa Govardhana and the Early Phnom Da Style of Cambodian Sculpture", (2000), Stanislaw Czuma, Ars Orientalis Vol 30

So hungry you could eat an elephant

 

Source: British Museum

This Indian musical instrument (a sarinda - like a small violin) caught my eye in the British Museum. Made of ivory in the early 18th century, the main body is carved with images of flowers and angels, while the scroll-end depicts a monster devouring an elephant and clutching another in its claws (above right). The artist had a macabre sense of humour, because the sarinda is played in an upright position, so the musician would have the monster staring straight at him! On the other hand, I wonder if this was a decorative piece only, as ivory surely wouldn't produce good resonance for a stringed instrument.

By showing the poor elephant sliding into the monster’s maw, the artist persuades us that the monster must be enormous. It’s a neat trick that is also seen for example at Gangaikonda Cholapuram, the magnificent South Indian temple built in the 11th century by Rajendra Chola I. In this case, the image is carved beside a doorway to act as a threat to trespassers.

The elephant’s size makes it a good snack for monstrous appetites. This occurs in another popular image in Indian art: the god Vishnu rescuing an elephant from the makara, a crocodile-like monster. As told in the Bhagavata Purana, the king of the elephants was having a quiet drink from the river when it was seized by the makara and held in a death struggle. The elephant prayed to Vishnu, who swooped down and killed the monster with his deadly sudarshana chakra (a sharp-edged spinning disc). In artistic renderings, Vishnu is often portrayed as the handsome dark-skinned young avatar Krishna, accompanied by his flying companion Garuda who seems to be a kind of parakeet in the example below. You can also see the chakra embedded in the makara's neck. The scene is known collectively as Gajendra Moksha, the Liberation of the Elephant King.

Source: Victoria & Albert Museum

It’s not hard to see where the idea of the makara came from: India is home to three large species of crocodile, two of which (the saltwater and the mugger) regularly attack humans, while the gharial is harmless but grows to over 5 metres. Their presence was noted by the armies of Alexander the Great when he reached the Indus River in the 4^th century BC. He thought he’d reached a section of the Nile because it was the only other place where they had seen crocodiles.

And crocodiles do actually attack elephants, as shown in this photograph taken in Zambia in 2010 (see also this article). A Google search turns up at least three recorded incidents in the past 10 years. In all these cases the elephant survived, so clearly Vishnu is still standing by when needed. But if you ask me, it’s never really safe to go back in the water. 

Source: Scientific American