‘Among India's tirthas’, writes Eck,‘Kāshī is the most widely acclaimed. Pilgrims come from all over India to bathe in the Ganges at Kāshī and to visit her temples, and they come from all sectarian groups ... From one perspective, Kāshī is a single tīrtha among others ... At the same time, Kāshī is said to embody all the tīrthas. One may visit the far-off temple of Shiva, high in the Himālayas at Kedāra – right here in Kāshī. And one may travel to the far South to Rāmeshvaram ... right here in Kāshī. And even if one does not visit the sites of these transposed tīrthas in Kāshī, the power of all these places has been assimilated into the power of this one place, and the pilgrims who visit Kāshī stand in a place empowered by the whole of India's sacred geography ...
A place such as Kāshī is important, even supreme, without being unique ... To celebrate one god or one tīrtha need not mean to celebrate only one. Far from standing alone, Kāshī, like a crystal, gathers and refracts the light of other pilgrimage places. Not only are other tīrthas said to be present in Kāshī, but Kāshī is present elsewhere. In the Himālayas ... on the way to the headwaters of the Ganges, the pilgrim will come to a place called the Northern Kāshī [Uttarkashi] ... In addition to the northern Kāshī, there is a southern Kāshī and a Shiva Kāshī in the Tamil South ... This kind of “transposition of place” is a common phenomenon in Indian sacred topography ... [T]he affirmation is that the place itself, with its sacred power, is present in more than one place’.
(Eck 1983: 39–41;emphases added)1
Here again, a form of polycentrism is at work: ‘Kashi-tīrthas’ – other than the ‘original’ (Benares) Kāshī-tīrtha – have been established over a long period of time at various places in the land in a multi-polar grid, such that the purifying and saving śakti or power associated derivatively with the Benares-Kāshī is able to manifest itself elsewhere, in several other centres, for the benefit of those who cannot make it to the original Kāshī-tīrtha. The same power is at work in all the centres, radiating from one and the same source, and manifesting interactively. Sacred space has been structured, to use Eck's image,‘like a crystal’, gathering and refracting the light not only of other pilgrimage places, but also of one place so that that place can actually be present ‘in more than one place’. This is why the same name – Kāshī – is given to the other places of this poly-centric network, for the same power is at work in each of them.
The matter does not end here.‘In a similar way’, continues Eck,’the River Ganges is a prototype for other sacred waters, and her presence is seen in countless rivers and invoked into ritual waters all over India’ (1983: 41). She does not use the term ‘polycentrism’, nor has she theorized the matter in the way we have throughout this book, as a characteristic, if not the defining, feature of Hinduism, but her examples are grist to our mill, especially with regard to the structuring of sacred space in the Ancient Banyan. We can follow on with an extension of the Ganges-example outside India. Thus there is a freshwater lake near the centre of the island of Mauritius (in the Indian ocean) that is a pilgrimage site for Hindus. Temples have been built around it, and crowds throng there during religious festivals. In terms of secular geography, this lake and the original Ganges are thousands of miles apart. Yet the lake is viewed as holy, by the Hindus of the island, because it is believed that some Ganges water, transported from India, was mingled with its waters many years ago. In effect, the lake has ‘become’ another Ganges with respect to purificatory powers, and, as if to accentuate this point, it is not referred to by Hindus in religious context by its official name, but as‘Ganga Talab’.
It is interesting to note that this polycentric conception of sacred space has been exploited by Hindu royalty for political purposes during the course of history. In his book, Imagining India, Ronald Inden writes:
When we consider that all rivers were said ultimately to originate from the Gagā [Ganges], when we take into account the fact that some of the Purāṇas refer to the Godavari and the Krishna, the rivers constituting the imperial domains of the Rashtrakutas [in middle-eastern India], as Gagās of the south, when we remember that the Rashtrakutas were talking about these topographical features not simply as physical places, but as the domains of purposive agents [‘the Gods’] interacting with time, country, universal king and cosmic overlord to make and remake a divinized polity [emphasis added], it all makes good sense.
(1990: 259)
The Rashtrakutas, in other words, transposed the fluid sacrality of the Ganges – as well as the God Śiva's dwelling place, holy Mount Kailasa – into the boundary rivers and mountain places, respectively, of their own domain, so that, in effect, these rivers and high places became the sacred land of Śiva over which they felt legitimized to rule as proxies. Through this process of diffusion or ‘transposition’, the authority of the originals was dispersed to new centres in a way that made ‘good sense’ to all concerned. The world was re-structured and political legitimacy re-framed.
In this way, times and spaces can be run together in Hindu art too. An example of this occurs in a magnificent depiction – sculpted from the living rock – of the story of the descent of the Ganges, at Mahabalipuram (also known as Mamallapuram), a little south of Madras/Chennai, on the Coromandel coast. The gist of the story is as follows.
King Bhagīratha needed the sacred waters of the Ganges, who dwelt in heaven, to purify the remains of a large group of his ancestors, which would enable them to reach heaven. But how to induce the Ganges to descend from her heavenly abode to fulfil this need? He decided to persuade her by the acquisition of tapas or spiritual energy. This worked. After 1000 years of arduous austerities on his part, the Ganges agreed to descend to earth at the Himalayas (earth's high point), but she advised Bhagīratha that, unless Śiva, who dwelt in the Himalayas, cushioned the impact of her torrential fall in his matted locks, the earth would be destroyed. More acquisition of tapas followed, and at last Śiva consented to break the Ganges’ descent to earth. So, in the Himalayas, the Ganges (also known as the daughter of the Himalayas) plunged from heaven towards earth, first crashing into Śiva's tangled hair and then meandering through so as to fall gently to earth. Bhagīratha led the waters to where his ancestors lay to purify them, and after this to what we now know as the Bay of Bengal so that the ocean's space could be filled. The world has benefited ever since.
The huge Mamallapuram sculpture, which is dated to the seventh century, was begun during the reign of the Pallava king, Narasimha Varman I. Though unfinished, its carvings range over 60 ft. in breadth and 25 ft. in height. As one looks at the bas-relief, the eye focuses on a central cleft in the granite down which the Ganges is expected to flow to earth. Two serpent figures in particular, one male (nāga), the other female (nāginī) – top halves in human form with sinuous bottom halves – seem to rise upwards along the cleft, the female following the male. Their multiple-hooded heads would have added to the fanning effect of the water as it cascaded down from a cistern (no longer present) placed at the top of the relief. On either side of the central groove, over a hundred animals, humans and heavenly beings, flock, at different levels, towards the centre, to witness the marvel of the descent. A disproportionately huge and impressive elephant family stands on the right as you face the relief, while on the left side, towards the summit, Bhagīratha is seen as an ascetic, first in a pose (possibly) seeking the boon of the Ganges’ descent to earth from the demiurge Brahmā, and then directly above, in the presence of a giant Śiva agreeing to break the impact of the plunging river. Here we have the spaces of the heavenly and earthly realms, and the phases of Bhagīratha's first and second ascetic labours – not to mention the fruit of these labours, the descent of the Ganges – meshing simultaneously in a display of multiple spatial and temporal coordinates.2
Let us look at other examples of the interrelation of secular and sacred space and time in Hinduism. First, consider the building of the temple. Early Vedic religion did not make use of temples. The place where the sacrificia
l ritual (yajña) was performed became (temporarily) sacred, and was sometimes referred to as the nābhi or navel – the axial point – of the world. The time during which the yajña was performed became sacred time, opening the door to immortality. The solemn ritual was likened to a womb with the patron of the sacrifice (the yajamāna) as the embryo. This ritual gave new birth to the yajamāna, and as such was a bridgehead to the transcendent realm.
In time, as an alternative pattern of worship became established with the image of a deity as its object – such ritual is usually known as pūjā – it was believed desirable to build ‘residences’ ( devālaya, mandira) to house the image. This alternative pattern would have come into effect several centuries before the beginning of the Common Era. Fairly recent archaeological discoveries (which need not indicate the earliest phase of this practice, of course) back this up. Stone remains of Viṣṇu and Śiva temples, found in mid-western and more northern parts of India, have been dated to about the third century B.C.E.;indeed, the amount of evidence of images of deities of one sort or another increases steeply from the beginning of the Common Era (D. Chakrabarti 2001: 48–51). There is evidence to indicate that more wood and other perishable materials were used in the construction of these early temples than in later times;it is not unreasonable to assume, therefore, that their remains would be that much harder to find, owing to the perishability of the materials used. Perhaps this is why we have less archaeological data for the existence of temples before the beginning of the Common Era than might otherwise be expected. In any event, the earliest spaces for image-worship may well have been such natural features as caves and bowers. This would explain two things: (i) why the sanctuary of even modern temples often resembles a cave, both with respect to form and the lack of direct access to sunlight, and (ii) why so many shrines housing images are natural or man-made grottoes and caves even today. Here there may be a connection with the early Vedic sacrificial ritual, for the temple-sanctuary in which the (principal) image is kept is called the garbha-gṛha or'womb-house. In the sacred confines of the temple, the worshipper is to be transformed and spiritually reborn.
The Hindu temple embraces a host of religious polarities, some exhibiting the spatial and temporal polycentrism of which we have been speaking. Thus not only is the temple a temporal dwelling for the timeless divine, it is also the locus for a multiple focusing, by virtue of the many different images it may contain, of one underlying divine source (we shall return to this idea later in the chapter). The temple also represents a ‘descent’ into the ‘cave of the heart’ – an expression used in the Upaniṣads – so that the worshipper may emerge by this experience into the light of the divine grace and wisdom. There is a sense of interiority that accompanies a visit to the temple that Hindus well tend to understand. The temple is also an earthly template of celestial habitations: it is, in a way, heaven brought down to earth, by making earthly space into heavenly space. This is indicated by the layout of large temples. Most temples are enclosed by several concentric perimeter-walls;at the heart of the complex lies the garbha-gṛha or womb-house, sheltering the principal image worshipped. As one approaches the inner sanctum through gateways in the walled enclosures, one progressively enters ritually purer space until one enters the pure presence of the deity. This movement represents a spiritual journey in the course of which the worshipper is meant to purify heart and mind by leaving worldly attachments behind. Sometimes – to the bemusement of visitors not in the know – this idea of progressive spiritual purification may be signified by the placing of explicit erotic carvings on pillars, lintels or walls encountered along one's way to the inner sanctum. The material world with its cravings must be left behind in one's approach to the deity. Other explanations for such motifs may be a depiction of joie de vivre or well-being, which the temple represents in its social aspect, or the power of such themes to protect by distracting the gaze of ‘the evil-eye’. Indeed, it is quite likely that the explanation lies in a combination of one or more of these reasons, depending on the intention of the builder(s).
But, as hinted above, the Hindu temple is more than just a religious centre of worship. It is also a social hub for those who enter and for those who live in its environs (though often to the exclusion of Untouchables, who frequently have had to establish their own temples, whether in the village or in urban locations. This is partly why it is not unusual to find more than one shrine or centre of worship even in small villages). Large temples can employ, permanently or for occasional needs, huge numbers of people, including priests, musicians, builders, carpenters, cooks, sculptors, water-carriers, cleaners, etc. Such temples have also been charitable benefactors for those in distress. This is a longstanding tradition.
The temple at Tanjore [in south India, at about the turn of the first millennium C.E.], possibly the richest during this period, had an income of 500 lb troy of gold, 250 lb troy of precious stones, and 600 lb troy of silver, which was acquired through donations and contributions and in addition to the revenue from hundreds of villages. As temple staff, it maintained in considerable comfort 400 women associated with entertainment (the devadasis [viz.’servants of the deity’ who did various tasks, including ritual dancing in the deity's presence]), 212 attendants, 57 musicians and readers of the texts, quite apart of course from the many hundreds of priests who also lived off the temple. It became imperative for the temple authorities to keep the income flowing in, and this was done in part through the temple financing various commercial enterprises and acting as banker and money-lender to village assemblies and similar bodies
(Thapar 1966: 210–11)
This scale, impressive though it might be, is dwarfed by the wealth, revenue and activities of some modern temples in India. The Tirumala Tirupati Devasthanams (TTD), the organization that runs 12 temples in the Tirumala hills near Chittoor, in the extreme south of the state of Andhra Pradesh, including the great temple of Tirupati where Viṣṇu in the form of Lord Venkatesa (known popularly as Sri Balaji) is worshipped, had an annual revenue in 2007–08 of about Rs.1216 crore (a ‘crore’ is 10 million)3: together with other income, ‘[it] got Rs.487.38 crore as offerings and donations;interest on investments yielded Rs.363 crore;human hair [shaved in and donated to the temple to be used for various purposes such as wigs etc.] was worth Rs.102.5 crore, and special darshan [viewing of the deity] tickets fetched Rs.35 crore’ (The Week, 14 September, 2008: 38). The 8ft image of Sri Balaji ‘is decorated with jewels made of at least 100 kg gold ... the Vajra Kireedam [is] a diamond crown designed by the TTD in 1986 and gifted to the Lord [Balaji] ... 28 369 diamonds of the highest quality went into the making of the 13.36 kg crown made of pure gold ... The Lord wears a dhoti [flowing lower garment] made of pure gold lace;it is the heaviest of all attire, weighing about 40 kg’ (ibid.: 32–8).
The TTD employs over 12 000 people in the management of its temples. About 1000 barbers, including 45 women, work three shifts, 24 hours a day, to shave heads in the Tirupati temple. The kitchens, which work under contract labour, employ 120 cooks and 480 helpers to provide free meals to about 45 000 people on a normal day (ibid.: 40). There is also a huge army of volunteers who help out in various ways, especially on festive occasions.
In 2007–08, Rs.154 crore was spent on salaries and wages;Rs.104 crore on fixed assets; Rs.153 crore was given [by way of] donations and Rs.167 crore given as loans and advances ... Money is spent on renovation, maintenance, salaries, 23 educational institutions, four hospitals, three Veda pathashalas [schools], one Vedic university, school and college for the deaf and ... mass marriages for those below [the] poverty line.
(ibid.: 40)
On average, about 60 000 people visit the temple every day, though on high days the number rises to in excess of 200 000.4 Not all temples, of course, are as large or as busy. Nevertheless, hundreds of thousands of shrines and temples, ancient and new – some tiny, others vast structures covering a large area – inhabit the Indian landscape, and they remain instrumental in knitting tog
ether, sometimes not altogether desirably (as when they operate policies excluding entry to some groups), the Hindu population of the land as well as traditions and customs of the past and present.
Although temples have been built in many different styles – a book like George Michell's The Hindu Temple gives a good indication of these – they are usually constructed along an east-west axis according to strict rules of proportion and the material to be used, that have been laid down in a number of texts;some of the texts still extant were composed over a thousand years ago, though much older texts have doubtless been lost (Michell 1977: Chapters 3ff.). The process of temple-building is subject to a procedure of appropriate locating and timing. The construction of a temple must be begun at an auspicious time, determined by consulting suitable texts, and temples or shrines are often built on high ground – on hills, mountains or promontories – with flights of steps leading up to them. In fact, in some of their features temples are built and viewed as symbolizing a mountain. An arduous climb to elevated ground, e.g. the summit of a hill or mountain, signifies a spiritual ascent or journey, a purifying of worldly attachments, an entry into another, ‘higher’ world. The temple is a kind of maṇḍala, or structured pattern of sacralized space and time. However small or large the temple may be, at its heart lies the womb-house in which the main deity honoured is located. Other deities and attendant figures may be present at various places or points of the compass in the temple. Large temples often contain an artificial pond or tank of considerable size. Such tanks symbolize fecundity, and water is always used in temple rituals of regeneration and purification. For this reason, temples are built near naturally flowing water if possible. A flag, impressed with the characteristic symbol for ‘Om’, usually flutters from the śikhara or ‘mountain-summit’ of the temple. This indicates that the temple is a place of active worship – the deity is in residence.
Hindus: Their Religious Beliefs and Practices (The Library of Religious Beliefs and Practices) Page 54