Any dynasty that succeeds in rising to power does so with a combination of luck, timing, having friends in the right places, profiting off the fading fortunes of rivals, and clever maneuvering on the chessboard of politics and warfare. So it was with the Hoysalas who were masters of much of the southern Deccan, ruling over a large swathe of present-day Karnataka from the 11th to the 14th century. Three rivers enriched their lands and blessed them with abundant agricultural fertility: Yagachi, Hemavathi, and Kaveri.
The Hoysalas were a dynasty that began their rise in the 11th century, taking advantage of the messy and rocky political situation and asserting their independence over their former overlords, the Chalukyas. From their origins in the western ghats, they moved eastwards, establishing themselves first in the trade-route town of Belur, then creating their new capital a short distance away in Halebid. At their peak, they covered most of present-day Karnataka and even made inroads into Maharashtra and the Tamil country.
The Hoysalas are perhaps best known for their breathtakingly beautiful temples, finely carved wonders that evoke the filigreed delicacy of intricate lacework. Best known are the temples in Belur and Halebid, which are examples of the early Hoysala style. I have visited as a child, and like all childhood memories, my recollection of my time there is hazy and full of holes. What stands out most is the heat - we went in the high summer month of May when schools were closed - burning feet, the merciless sun beating down on me, a seemingly endless succession of carvings. I might have been young and disgruntled, but even then, the lingering impression is one of awe at the almost unbearable beauty all around. It was sensory overload, of a kind that imprints itself on the consciousness for a lifetime.
Very recently, we were in Mysuru for a lit fest. It had been decades since I’d been there, and while there is construction and demolishing going on as in any Indian city, I was comforted to find that it retained the “old-world” charm and warmth that endeared me to it from my earliest visits as a small child. Mysoreans bristle at the characterization of their beloved hometown as a Tier 2 or Class B city and told me that it lacks nothing that a big city has, and besides, it retains a strong sense of community. I loved my time there, short though it was, and thought to myself, I could live here.
On our last day there, we set out early in the morning to Somnathpura, the Moon Lord's town, 35 kms away from Mysuru on the banks of the Kaveri. Here lies the stunningly lovely Chennakeshava temple, built in 1258 by Somnath Dandanayaka, a general of the then Hoysala king Narasimha III. It sat in what was an agraharam, a brahmin village.
In the early 14th century, the Hoysala dynasty and many of its temples, including this one at Somnathpura fell victim to the armies of Malik Khafur, the brilliant general of Alaudin Khilji of the Delhi Sultanate. Today, worship rituals are no longer performed here and it is now impeccably maintained by the Archaeological Survey of India (ASI).
This temple at Somnathpura is a magnificent showpiece of a later, more mature Hoysala style that is both a culmination of the trials and experiments with their earlier temples and one that is unique in several respects. As they expanded into Tamil country and other parts of the Deccan, influences from the architectural styles of these places crept into their temples.
We were met at the front entrance to the temple by a friendly guard who was delighted to find out that we were fellow Tamils. His entire life story came out, and a sad one it was, with his wife succumbing to a 10-year battle with pancreatic cancer, and a son who was adrift after his mother’s death. None of this came in the way of his warmth and willingness to help us through the online payment portal. Gone are the days of cash payment and a perforated paper receipt.
There is a long walkway to the temple, which gives no hint of what lies ahead. All around is an impeccably maintained garden, something I’ve seen in every ASI-maintained monument I’ve visited. Right before the entrance to the actual temple, we were asked to remove our footwear. Mercifully, the sun was behind clouds that day, and the grounds had been swept clean of all debris and the sharp little stones that can cause such agony to tender city feet that are accustomed to the constant protection of footwear.
We entered through an open archway, and although I had seen countless photographs of this temple, I was still unprepared for the exquisite perfection that met my eyes. It is a small, compact structure, nothing like the soaring behemoths that are the Brihadeeshwara and Gangaikondacholapuram temples, but it takes your breath away with a very different kind of impact. Right here is a large stone with inscriptions in old Kannada that tell us a lot of what we know about this temple. This is how we know when the temple was built, and by whom. We get invaluable details about Hoysala genealogy and about the worship rituals that took place here.
The temple is built of chloritic schist, commonly known as soapstone, a material that is soft (and eminently suitable for intricate carving) when quarried, becoming hard with weathering. It stands on a star-shaped platform, a hallmark of the Hoysala style, and has three main sanctums (trikuta) inside, accessed past a hall with the most remarkable set of smooth, shining pillars that look like they were created off a potters wheel, and gorgeous lotus motifs on the ceiling. The shrines each have a different form of Vishnu: Keshava, Venugopala and Janardhana. Outside, the eyes are dazzled by an unending series of carvings on every available surface, showcasing elephants, horses, stories, a dizzying array of gods and mythical creatures. A special feature here is that the sculptors carved their names on the stone, adding a personal touch to something that is often only associated with kings and others in power. Often, additional details are included, like the title of the artist and the guild he was affiliated with. The names of a whole range of sculptors are immortalized on these walls, and one imagines friendships, intense rivalries, all the possibilities that human relationships give rise to, as these ancient craftsmen worked to dazzle their gods and lords.
I remember reading a story by R.K. Narayan, who belonged to these parts, written in his inimitable spare yet supremely evocative manner. I do not recollect its name, but it told the tale of a sculptor, Janakachari, from ancient times, very possibly one who served a Hoysala king or general, who was commissioned to carve a stone statue for the sanctum sanctorum at the temple in Belur. It was a race against time for Janakachari, as he had to complete his sculpture in time for the consecration of the temple. One day, as he was hard at work, he was interrupted by a young man who told him that beautiful though his idol was, it was unfit for worship, as contained a terrible flaw. Janakachari, already renowned and respected for his prowess, curtly told the young man that he was so confident that he, Janakachari, was right and the young man wrong, that he would cut his arm off if the young man could prove his point; if the young man were proven wrong, then his arm would be cut off. Sadly, the young man showed that he was right, and the story winds to a poignant end (read the story to find out more).
This story has been etched in my memory since my college days, and that day in Somnathpura, I thought about old Janakachari and all the hundreds of people who toiled to create this stunning place of worship. Those people and their era are long gone, but standing there, in that quiet little town far away from the bustle of the modern world, I could feel the richly carved stone leaning ever so gently into me, and drawing me into its world.