Demons in the detail: temple architecture of the Hoysala dynasty

Fig 1. Narasimha at Chennakeshava temple, Belur

I recently visited the state of Karnataka, India, where I fulfilled a long-standing ambition to see the ancient temples of the Deccan region. But not everything translated well into print or pictures: the famous site of Hampi, for example, is a vast complex of ruined temples dotted across a rocky landscape which quite defeated my pathetic phone-camera.

Instead, it was the less famous though equally beautiful temples that provided good blog material. And this image (Fig 1)  has always been a favourite of mine, partly because it’s deliciously gory but also because of its underlying legalistic humour.

What we see is the god Vishnu disembowelling the demon-king Hiranyakashipu (those two long chains are his intestines, meticulously carved in stone). As told in the Bhagavata Purana (an 8th-9th C religious text), the demon persuaded the god Brahma to make him invincible. The terms of the gift, however, were that Hiranyakashipu could not be killed (a) by man or beast, (b) indoors or outdoors, or (c) by night or day. 

Vishnu overcame these parameters easily by assuming the form of the man-lion Narasimha (neither man nor beast ✓) and killing the demon on the threshold of his home (neither indoors nor outdoors ✓) at the point of sunset (neither night nor day ✓). Which goes to show that even a demon-king needs to check the small print.

This particularly gruesome version comes from the Chennakeshava temple at Belur, a 12th C temple dedicated to Vishnu, built by the kings of the Hoysala dynasty. The Hoysalas ruled a large part of the Deccan from the 10th to the 13th C, but are not especially famous today: they never achieved the domination of the Cholas (whose rule extended to South-east Asia) or the glory of the Mughals. 

Fig 2. Approximate area of Hoysala kingdom, 10th-13th C

Their place in history is secured, however, by their temple architecture which is ornate to the point of obsession. The level of detailing stands out even in a milieu that is not known for restraint. Italian Rococo is perhaps the only other school that comes close.

In Fig 3 for example we see the 12th C Hoysaleswara temple at Halebidu, dedicated to Shiva.  As at Belur and the other great temple at Somnathpur (which I didn’t visit), the façade is densely layered and segmented, providing multiple surfaces for the display of religious sculpture. The material used was chloritic schist, also known as soapstone (not to be confused with the soapstone in fake jade jewellery). This relatively soft but supple stone can be carved intricately without crumbling, a quality of which the Hoysala sculptors took full advantage.

Fig 3. Hoysaleswara temple, Halebidu

Each of the carved panels looks like it took a lifetime to complete. And from the architectural plans (below), it seems that each of the linga sanctuaries (the star-shaped sections on the left) was designed with as many facets as possible to provide space for ornamentation.

Source: Temples of Deccan India, George Michell

The two door-guardians at the main entrance (Fig 4) are perfect examples of the microscopic detailing typical of Hoysala sculpture.

Fig 4. Door-guardians at Halebidu

The outer walls are covered with carved panels with borders of leaves, flowers or animals. The one in Fig 5 depicts Ganesha (right) and a rare image of Brahma riding a peacock (left). Each bead in their jewellery and head-gear is carved in three-dimensional detail. Even Ganesha’s pet rat (under his feet) wears a jewelled harness and has sharp little claws on each toe. 

Fig 5. Brahma (L) and Ganesha (R) at Halebidu

Stories from the Bhagavata Purana, the Mahabharata or the Ramayana were the sculptors’ favourite subjects. The panel in Fig 6 depicts the ace archer Arjuna (from the Mahabharata) shooting an arrow into the eye of a fish-shaped target suspended high above. In the story, Arjuna uses only a reflection in a bowl of water to take his aim. The sculptor depicts Arjuna’s right arm pulled back and his hand wide open as if he has just released the arrow. His right leg is bent so that he can shoot upwards but his eyes are downcast, looking only at the reflection in the water.

Fig 6. Arjuna the archer, Belur

In Fig 7 at Belur, Vishnu outwits another demon-king, named Bali, who has taken over the universe. Vishnu, disguised as a dwarf, begs Bali to give him a little piece of land, so small that he can cover it in three steps. The demon-king agrees. Vishnu then reveals himself and takes two gigantic steps covering the earth and the universe. Bali, admitting defeat, offers his own head as the last step and Vishnu takes it, thus securing his victory. 

Fig 7. Trivikrama panels at Belur

The story is carved on two neighbouring niches: the dwarf on the left (with his little umbrella) making his request to Bali, and Vishnu on the right, taking one of his giant steps which makes him look like he's dancing the can-can. This popular image, known as Trivikrama (the three steps), appears at Vishnu temples across southern India. 

It was touching to see these stories being re-told to groups of local visitors (we were the only foreigners there), as they probably were hundreds of years ago. 

More trip-based posts to come when I finish sorting out my 300+ photos.

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