Indic Diplomacy

14 Sat Jan 2017

Posted by Jaideep A. Prabhu in Book Review

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Arthashastra, Condoleezza Rice, Deep Datta-Ray, diplomacy, ethics, foreign policy, Great Power, IFS, India, Indian Foreign Service, Indira Gandhi, Jawaharlal Nehru, Krishna, kutayuddha, Mahabharata, modernity, non-alignment, nuclear, Rajiv Sikri, realism, Shivshankar Menon, Union Public Service Commission, UPSC, vasudhaiva kutumbakam

Datta-Ray, Deep. The Making of Indian Diplomacy: A Critique of Eurocentrism. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2015. 380 pp.

Indian diplomacy has long vexed its observers, occidental and oriental alike. Lacking in a culture of periodical declassification and easy access to past and present practitioners, the workings of South Block remain impervious to methodical scholarship. In this environment, a book that promises to reveal not only how Indian diplomacy is conducted but also why it is such an enigma is a welcome arrival. As the title avers, The Making of Indian Diplomacy: A Critique of Eurocentrism seeks to properly establish the functioning of the members of the Indian Foreign Service in the culture and traditions of their homeland rather than in Christendom’s theories of statecraft.

Several things are of note in this project: first, Deep Datta-Ray, the author, is making a cultural approach to the study of diplomacy and foreign policy. While this may seem perfectly normal to most, it is a method that has had few takers in the historical profession. Though it has become more popular over the last decade, international relations remains firmly in the grip of abstract theories such as realism, constructivism, or Marxism. And yet, diplomats and their political masters do not leave their values and biases at home each day as they come in for work; they are enmeshed in a cultural web which cannot but inform their policies.

Second, Datta-Ray criticises scholars who complain that Indian foreign policy makes little sense for judging it by Western customs of politics, governance, and power. Despite nearly two centuries of British rule – between Crown and Company – over India, cultural transfer from metropole to periphery remained superficial at best. In other words, Thomas Macaulay failed to create brown Englishmen; Indians remain rooted in their traditions and understanding of the world.

Macaulay’s failure would not be a startling revelation in itself but Datta-Ray goes on to argue that the entire modern project in Europe is deeply rooted in its Christian heritage and incompatible to the Indian ethos. The binarism of exclusivist monotheistic cults transcends mere theology and permeates all aspects of culture, resulting in a fundamentally different understanding of the cosmos and man’s place in it. Islam, being an Abrahamic offspring, literally, meshes better with European notions of power relations and the state than dharmic religions do. Again, this is not a new argument: originally put forward in academic circles in the mid-1970s, it has percolated into the awareness of ordinary Indians perhaps a decade ago. However, Datta-Ray’s systematic application of this idea to foreign policy is a first and deserves careful consideration.

Unfortunately, The Making of Indian Diplomacy is filled with turgid prose that could impress only dissertation committees. Such jargon-laden, impenetrable language, the hallmark of cultural studies, is one of the reasons the humanities has lost respect in society. Datta-Ray commits such perversions upon the English language – the Queen was never meant to sound like this – that it would make Guillaume Apollinaire proud! Yet those who brave the presentation are rewarded with some fascinating insights into the workings of India’s Ministry of External Affairs.

Indian history remains, disappointingly, strongly entangled to privileged access and Datta-Ray, son of Sunanda K Datta-Ray, seems to have it. This project needed the personal intervention of then prime minister Manmohan Singh, such was the resistance of the bureaucracy against an interloper. Even then, one MEA mandarin asked the author, “What do you want with our documents? They only reveal process, not intent.” This gives an insight into Indian bureaucratic thinking that marks it different from Western practice. Fortunately, Datta-Ray has used his opportunity well – embedded with the Indian Foreign Service allowed him to observe, talk informally, and interview officially dozens of young aspirants, serving officials, and retired civil servants. The resulting monograph can be understood as discussing the structural and intellectual differences between Western and Indic diplomacy.

The Body of the Beast

Before looking at policies and attitudes, Datta-Ray asks who populates the service. He finds that many of the applicants come from modest backgrounds in the hinterland, some not even aware of the IFS until they had cleared the Union Public Service Commission examination! Many come to government service as a means to mediate between it and their village, or enlist its assistance to protect their region from the state. There is less suspicion of the state compared to Western countries, for one primary reason – it is present in the villages, where private corporations find it unprofitable to venture. Ironically, the failure of the state to adequately provide basic necessities for its citizens is also its greatest strength. Many of the incoming civil service cadre seem to hold an organic view of society in which the state remains a place people can come together and lift themselves up through the opportunities it provides. While the cosmopolitan disenchanted may scoff at such idealism, Datta-Ray has revealed an interesting undercurrent that will last as long as a government job is seen as a guarantor of upward mobility. However, is it necessarily different from the West? One would assume that governments world over attract service-minded people, some more fortunate than others, however cynical it may leave them at the end. A quick comparison to a small sampling of other countries would have helped the argument along much better.

The Making of Indian Diplomacy praises how several IFS officers left lucrative careers in the corporate world to enter into government service. Some officers, ironically, do not want to leave home; others see a civil service job as a badge of status despite working conditions that are less than adequate. For example, at one point during the negotiations over the civil nuclear cooperation with the United States, the Indian delegation consisting of a Joint Secretary from the MEA and two lawyers found itself matched by an American official and his team of 55 lawyers! The Joint Secretary in question, S Jaishankar, when quizzed by his astounded counterpart, simply shrugged and replied that Indians make do. Jugaad, the popular term nowadays for making do, seems romantic only to those who never had to resort to it. MK Narayanan, the national security advisor from 2005 to 2011, glibly dismisses this as Indians not being a litigious society. However, the truth might simply be insufficient resources, poor recruiting power, and a deterring application process. Western foreign service departments are a lot more casual about lateral entry hires from industry, ensuring adequate manpower and expertise available to their ministers and senior bureaucrats at all times. These are certainly factors that make the IFS stand out from Western services but perhaps not in a way to be desired!

Datta-Ray reveals an interesting tidbit about promotions in the civil services: everyone gets positive reviews. As a result, personnel files are useless when it comes time to raise one above his peers. One officer confided in the author that this was because seniors were afraid that they would be accused of casteism if they marked anyone down. Datta-Ray uses this state of affairs to argue for a peculiarly Indian “total evaluation” process that goes beyond words on paper to assess the suitability of an officer for a higher position. It is this system that allowed Shivshankar Menon, former national security advisor to Manmohan Singh and successor to Narayanan, to supercede 16 positions to become the foreign secretary in October 2006. Of course, a less charitable view might be that “total evaluation” is making a virtue out of necessity and that it merely conceals an egregious problem in Indian institutions, namely, using caste victimisation as a weapon to conceal incompetence.

Intellectual Weltanshauung

Datta-Ray recounts when Menon explains the role of a diplomat to the incoming batch of IFS recruits as that played by Krishna in the udyoga parva of the Mahabharata. Rather than launch into a scholarly evolution of diplomacy a la Harold Nicolson, Keith Hamilton, Richard Langhorne, Martin Wight, or Ernest Satow, the former NSA latched onto a text most Indians are intimately familiar with. The great epic remains the backbone of Indian political thinking, Datta-Ray argues, because it avoids the pitfalls of viewing the world in false dichotomies just as Indian foreign policy has shown a tendency to avoid.

This is a limited reading of the Mahabharata, and indeed, Indic thought. There are several incidents in the great epic that run counter to Menon’s portrayal that can be recounted: one, Krishna’s urging Yudhishtira to perform the Rajasuya yaga; two, his advocacy of war within 13 days of the Pandavas’ exile; three, when Krishna intercepted the elephant goad thrown by the king of Pragjyotisha, Bhagadatta, at Arjuna despite a promise not to participate in the war in any way except as charioteer/advisor to the third son of Pandu; or four, the infamous manner in which Drona was made to lay down his weapons. These roles do not, strictly speaking, fit our modern imagination of a diplomat’s task. Yet to restrict foreign policy strictly to conference room machinations and champagne is too narrow an understanding of the profession. A diplomat must also provide wise counsel to his political masters, something Krishna unfailingly did for the Pandavas. If the IFS is indeed inspired by the Mahabharata, one wonders if any of them have ever truly engaged with the text. Similarly, the breathtakingly amoral Arthashastra does not shy away from advocating the use of kutayuddha if the national interest required it.

The Making of Indian Diplomacy gets to the crux of the matter when it asks why India should become a Great Power. Datta-Ray asks this in the context of Menon’s meteoric elevation and an internal memorandum by Rajiv Sikri, one of the bypassed officers. Sikri, he finds, has fallen into the trap of Western modernity and advocates Great Power status for India for its own sake. This does not satisfy Datta-Ray, who declares such a quest as un-Indian. In support, he quotes former external affairs minister, Natwar Singh’s response – that India’s goal is to remove poverty, not become a Great Power – when US Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice declared that the United States intended to help India become a major power in the 21st century. According to Datta-Ray, Indian diplomacy avoids the anarchic and binary world of power politics by understanding the international community and India’s place within it as a unified cosmos. All states are interlinked and, therefore, foreign relations is not a zero-sum game. This explains why India continues to deal with Pakistan despite the constant terrorist attacks Islamabad supports against India, or why Delhi de-links its territorial dispute with China from other facets of its relationship. In essence, the view that vasudhaiva kutumbakam, or, the world is one family, guides Indian diplomacy.

This, continues, Datta-Ray, is seen even in India’s nuclear weapons policy – Nehru and Indira Gandhi both rejected Western rationality even at the risk of appearing irrational to pursue their own reasoning. In this, they did not even trust their senior-most bureaucrats for fear that they would push India into the same anarchic-binary world Nehru had avoided through his non-alignment. Finally pushed into crossing the nuclear rubicon, India refrained from weaponisation until 1998 when circumstances forced it to take the next step. Even then, Indian diplomacy maintained its traditional roots. K Subrahmanyam, one of the architects of India’s nuclear doctrine, echoed Nehru and his daughter when he reasoned that in the nuclear age, the main purpose of foreign policy should be to prevent wars; humanity must unite and cooperate to survive.

There are a host of problems with this interpretation of Indian foreign policy. The first is to use Nehru as the yardstick of Indianness. The first prime minister, influenced on the one hand by Mohandas Gandhi’s asceticism and on the other by British notions of progress, can hardly be an example of the traditional Indian values Datta-Ray has deployed throughout his argument. Nehru certainly did not view himself the way Datta-Ray seems to. As he himself wrote in The Discovery of India that he came to India as a foreigner; Nehru had also remarked to John Galbraith, the US ambassador to India, that he was the last Englishman to rule in India. In fact, the question arises that if the IFS really is imbued with the Nehruvian spirit, is it relying on the corpus of Indic works and experiences or on a Leftist, perhaps Christian socialist version of Western thinking?

It is unfortunate that public perception of India has been captured by Gandhi’s misinterpretation of dharmic values. Vasudhaiva kutumbakam was not, as Sarvesh Tiwari has ably shown, a recommendation but an admonition. Ashoka, the great renouncer became so only after he had conquered his enemies. Ahimsa, fashionably misappropriated by Gandhi against the British, was described in a very different context by Buddha and Mahavira. In fact, Indic ethics, which are carried more in the works of literature than philosophy, speak very much in a language of realism – about proportion, balance, alliances, caution, and strength.

If anything, the examples Datta-Ray gives shows the Indian diplomatic establishment in its worst light: not trusted even by prime ministers, animated by the values of an ingabanga leader, wracked by the low quality of its recruits, unable to attract fresh talent, and riven by its own politics and demons, it mirrors much of what is wrong with Indian institutions and its polity. With decision-making centred around the prime minister’s office, foreign policy resembles more a fiefdom and India a flailing state rather than a robust and rising democracy. Did the Mahabharata, the text that informs so many IFS officers, not have counsel on governance, the limits of authority, and power?

Despite his questionable choice of examples, Datta-Ray does convince, with just his anecdote about Menon and the Mahabharata, that there is indeed an Indic way of thinking about foreign policy, even if the wrong lessons seem to have been drawn here. However, he must be cautious in making the jump from the IFS knowing about the epic, to actually following its precepts. Indeed, there is much folk wisdom and rhetoric on how Indians view themselves as part of a bigger cosmic whole; Man does not stand above nature but is a part of it. Yet it is unclear how much this thinking dictates everyday function. Despite such concerns about the environment, for example, the Ganga has turned into toxic sludge, tree cover is receding, and the air in urban centres is unbreathable. To know or to have read Aristotle is not to do as he advises.

In places, it seems Datta-Ray has created a straw man out of Western civilisation; the notion of acting with purpose rather than for its own sake that the author sees in Indic ethics sounds similar to the value Niall Ferguson sees in his very Western, Kantian Henry Kissinger. There are, indeed, differences between how Indic and Abrahamic traditions view the world but as most critics of the West are prone to do, Datta-Ray exaggerates the divergences and homogenises the West in a manner he finds problematic for India or the East.

A book must be judged not only on its argument but also the questions it tickles in the readers’ minds; in the latter, Datta-Ray has succeeded spectacularly. He is among the first to try and apply Indic frameworks to modern challenges, ambitiously threatening to subvert the normative understanding of modernity. It is perhaps too much to expect perfect coherence in the first attempt.

The Hindu Art of War

02 Sat Jan 2016

Posted by Jaideep A. Prabhu in Book Review

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ahimsa, AIT, artha, Arthashastra, Aryan Invasion Theory, asurayuddha, brahmin, Buddhism, Carl Philipp Gottfried von Clausewitz, Chanakya, Chandogya Upanishad, dharma, dharmayuddha, Hinduism, Hitopadesha, IAMT, India, Indo-Aryan Migration Theory, Indology, Islamic, Jainism, jati, jauhar, jus ad bellum, jus in bello, Kalidasa, kama, Kamandaka, Kathasaritsagara, Kautilya, kshatriya, kutayuddha, Mahabharata, Manavadharmashastra, Manu, Mortimer Wheeler, Muslim, Nayaka, Nitisara, orientalism, Panchatantra, Rajput, Ramayana, Shukranitisara, Somadeva, South Asia, varna

Roy, Kaushik. Hinduism and the Ethics of Warfare in South Asia: From Antiquity to the Present. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012. 305 pp.

Hinduism, and South Asia more broadly, has been a glaring lacuna in the study of military history and ethics. Kaushik Roy’s Hinduism and the Ethics of Warfare in South Asia: From Antiquity to the Present (henceforth HEWSA) is unfortunately a poor attempt to rectify that oversight. Although HEWSA passes as an introduction to the uninitiated, it leaves most of the important questions that vex military historians of South Asia unanswered. Although the author’s attempt to place warfare and ethics within their cultural moorings rather than posit them as universal axioms is appreciated, the wider ambitions of his work in presenting South Asia to a Western audience takes away from a focussed analysis of military matters. To be fair to Roy, however, the topic and timeframe presents a Herculean project that would require expertise not just in military affairs but also archaeology and several languages to accomplish thoroughly. This explains why a choice was made – wisely – to restrict the study only to ‘elite’ Sanskrit circles that had the greatest influence on policy. It should also be mentioned at the outset that for the purposes of this review – and most of HEWSA, South Asia is synonymous with India and the dharmic systems that abide within.

The question before any study of military ethics is what constitutes just war and how it should be waged. When it comes to South Asia, scholars would first have to dispel the notion that the region has never known the practice of strategic thinking; second, they would also have to break away from the overpowering Europeanising grand narrative of universal history that places the experiences of the western end of the Eurasian landmass as the normative centrestage. HEWSA begins by asking basic questions on the nature of war and politics instead of accepting readily available theories from the Western canon. Roy, however, sets up the strategists of India in a conversation with their Western (and Eastern) counterparts rather than in opposition; clearly, he does not wish to settle for the simplistic binary of East vs. West that still colours comparative studies across specialties. This is certainly a strength of the book though also a weakness as I will explain later.

Roy establishes his project as trying to answer four questions: 1. What is war?; 2. What constitutes proper justification for going to war?; 3. How should war be waged?; and 4. What are the consequences of waging war? Strategists long before Prussian military theorist h have wrestled with these questions, and the answers each civilisation has proposed to these questions are today obfuscated by a 20th century technological determinism and a Euro-American pragmatism. As historian Jeremy Black has pointed out, not all societies were driven by the motivation to come up with the most combat-effective machines because their worldviews were different; culture is the key to understanding military strategy. The import of this observation should not be diluted to posit a facile dichotomy of Western rationality versus Eastern spiritualism or wars of honour. In fact, as military scholar Michael Handel noted, the basic rationality of strategy as political behaviour is universal. Kamandaka, believed to be a 4^th century strategist in the Gupta court, for example, speaks of the importance of the people’s support for a righteous war to ensure stability – a value dear to the heart of several Western strategists as well.

Yet it would be equally unhelpful to overemphasise the similarities between different approaches to war: Indian thinkers like Chanakya and Manu were, for example, as concerned with the potential for insurgency as they were with facing foreign enemies. Indian authors rarely put their names to their treatises either; furthermore, they usually contained the amalgam of strategic thought before their period though again not always with proper citation. As a result, it is a challenge to date Indian theories of state and warfare as it is difficult to put author to treatise. Concerned as they were with dharmayuddha and kutayuddha, Indian strategists were also a product of their times: Chanakya’s Arthashastra proposes a boldly expansionist state as he wrote during the waxing of Maurya power while Kamandaka’s Nitisara is more cautious as the Gupta Empire was on the defensive from nomadic invaders from Central Asia. Perhaps the greatest difference between Indian and Western thinking on the state and warfare, as Roy astutely observes, is that Eastern societies did not view the state as an abstract principle: there was a relation between tao and the people in China just as there was between rashtra and society in India. European thinkers, on the other hand, seem to view the state more contractually and legalistically, although this is more true with modern theorists than ancient Europeans.

The greatest difference between Indian ethical texts and their Western equivalents, however, is that the former are more theoretical and describe the world as it should be, not as it is, while the converse is true for the latter. Although Roy observes this, he fails to realise how important a point he has stumbled on – Indian morality, even on the field of battle, are not as clearly defined as in the West. This is a strong reflection of dharmic thinking on matters of state and it is possible that Western thinking was similarly and equally influenced by Abrahamic certitude of the world. Yet to be fair, expounding on this would lead him away from the main topic of his study. Finally, an interesting observation by Torkel Brekke, historian of religion, about differences between Indian and European military thought is that the latter comprises of equal attention to jus ad bellum (just cause for war) and jus in bello (just conduct in war) while the former only concerns itself with the latter. The author mentions this in the introduction but disappointingly never returns to the matter explicitly later in the book. From the structure of other arguments, the reader is only left to assume that it has something to do with how Indian strategists viewed the nature of politics and conflict but some clarity would have helped.

The greatest weakness of HEWSA is the author’s willingness to indulge in simplifications about Hinduism that muddy the reader’s understanding of Indian society. Given the author’s belief that society and culture are inextricably linked to military strategy, this is an unacceptable lapse. For example, Roy repeatedly harps on the role of kshatriyas as the warrior class in South Asian society. While this may broadly be true, it does not explain how most of India’s major empires were not of kshatriya lineage. Nor does it explain how Indian emperors could sustain large standing armies based on conscription if only kshatriyas could wage war. After the fall of Rome, it was not until the 19^th century in Europe that a professional class of soldiers emerged. In the interim, armies were usually composed of farmers who had to return to their fields during harvest season. As a result, war was limited to specific periods of the calendar or the economy would suffer if farmers could not return to their fields on time. If Indian polities did not follow this rule, it is an important social and economic difference that was worth highlighting. Admittedly, Roy merely repeats the formulation of Indian philosophers on the matter but as he has been quick to point out in other aspects, Indian thinkers addressed an idealised world and not the real one. Instead, a brief explanation of varna and jati would have left readers with a clearer understanding of what actually was and what was supposed to be.

The author’s implicit acceptance of the Indo-Aryan Migration Theory (IAMT) is another factor that mars this study. Basically, IAMT was proposed by British and German Orientalists of the late 18^th and early 19^th centuries after the discovery of the Indo-European language family and postulates that the Indian subcontinent was subject to large population migrations from the Caucasus and Central Asia in three waves, the first around 2,200 BCE, the second around 1,700 BCE, and the final one around 1,000 BCE. In the mid-1940s, British archaeologist Mortimer Wheeler suggested that these waves had perhaps been invasions rather than migrations but this variation of the IAMT, referred to as the Aryan Invasion Theory (AIT), did not hold for long though it has been the strawman subject of innumerable critiques of the IAMT. Regardless, given the controversies around the subject, any scholar touching upon the topic peripherally ought to warn the reader of the assumptions made.

Roy suggests that the rules governing the war towards the end of the Ramayana were more lax than in the great fratricidal war of the Mahabharata…or at least, there seemed to be more anguish and hand-wringing at the violation of rules in the latter epic than the former. This he supposes is due to the different rules governing warfare within and without groups. The assumption here, stemming from his thoughts on the IAMT, is that Rama was an Aryan king fighting a non-Aryan king, Ravana, while the Pandavas and Kauravas were both Aryan families. In the former situation, there were few rules of just war whereas the latter had strict codes. Of course, this fails to explain how Ravana, a non-Aryan chieftain, was a great devotee of Shiva and a brahmin – outsiders would never be accorded a varna (improperly translated into English as caste). More importantly, there is no textual evidence for this supposition in the primary sources – the author cites secondary sources to back his claim, a source whose racial categories are strongly influenced by the orientalism of British Indology.

With the rise of Buddhism and Jainism, Roy correctly points out that these systems are not as pacifist or as ascetic as are commonly believed: the founders of both were themselves kshatriyas and both had several royal friends throughout their lives; Buddha was not even a vegetarian! Buddhist and Jain ahimsa was closer to the Hindu concept as expounded in the Chandogya Upanishad, related to austerity, generosity, sacrifice, truthfulness, and integrity, and not the passive non-violence of Mohandas Gandhi. Roy’s exposition is a much-needed correction to the common narrative on Buddhism and Jainism. However, he insists on seeing both these belief systems as schisms from Hinduism – a view that is not shared by many scholars of the latter.

A whole chapter is dedicated to the most famous treatise on war and politics to come out of India, the Arthashastra. The treatise is briefly summarised before its author is compared to European political philosophers and military theorists from Plato to the authors of Fourth Generation Warfare. Roy relies heavily on secondary sources, preferring the words of his contemporary scholars than of the masters themselves. In the evaluation, the Arthashastra emerges as an amoral text that was quite comfortable with kutayuddha as well as dharmayuddha and considered internal as well as external threats to the kingdom. Chanakya advocates diplomacy, assassinations, poisoning, temporary alliances, espionage, biological warfare, and any other means that can deliver victory. The focus is on strategic knowledge of the enemy than on tactical advice and Chankaya does not stop with victory: the Indian strategist considers the best ways of controlling a defeated foe as part of his analytical package. Contrary to Western armies, Indian victors allowed the conquered to maintain their language, dress, customs, and gods; only the unrighteous rulers were removed. Unlike Western theorists, Roy observes, Chanakya’s theories make human agency instead of inter-state structure the primary variable in politics. Furthermore, there is no mention of seapower, nor is there any consideration of technology as a force multiplier in battle.

Instead of the long comparative section, the topic would have been better served if a closer analysis of the Arthashastra, its author, and their milieu were attempted. How did the political, social, and economic realities of the early Maurya Empire influence Chanakya’s thoughts? How much is he a product of his time? What were the challenges to Mauryan rule at the time? Why did the Mauryans dedicate their efforts to conquering India and not send their armies westwards? The answers to these questions would have situated the Arthashastra in its own context and revealed more about warfare and ethics in South Asia than do the quick comparisons to Western and Eastern strategists. After all, it is not the Western theorists who are understudied but the South Asian context.

Roy’s discussion of early medieval India leaves much to be desired. Again, led astray by his sources, Roy argues that brahmin intellectuals of the period saw the Bactrians and Parthians as mlechchas because of their patronage of Buddhism. This would not have solved the problem of local Indian chieftains who patronised Buddhism or those who followed it and it seems bizarre that the brahmins would follow this half-measure that achieved nothing. Roy also claims that the Sunga and Kanva dynasties were established by brahmins to fight off the sudra ascendancy seen in the rise of the Nandas and Mauryas! It is in this context, the author claims, that the Manavadharmashastra was written and as a result, the primary aim of its author was to preserve the status of brahmins. While Chanakya had concentrated on artha and kama, Manu focused on dharma.

Manu is the first Indian strategist that we know of to mention seapower. Kalidasa is another but in both cases, the authors limit themselves to riverine navies and not bluewater vessels. Manu is also the first Indian strategist to show a liking for cavalry, even suggesting that the king not wage war in the absence of good cavalry. Chanakya had advocated a balanced composition of forces between infantry, cavalry, chariots, and elephants while Kamandaka had emphasised the shock value of elephants. However, Manu is more cautious than the author of the Arthashastra and voices a preference for coalitions of likeminded rulers against a common threat than a quest for power by one emperor. Oddly, though, unlike most commanders, he preferred fortress warfare to open battle despite the hardships of disease, logistics, and discipline. The army would live off the enemy’s land, laying siege to the enemy’s fort while pillaging the countryside.

In general, Indian strategists preferred to solve things through diplomacy and wealth over arms; this is the same advice one gets from Chanakya, Manu, Kalidasa, Kamandaka, Somadeva, and others though they also strongly advised against shunning violence. Later thinkers, however, accepted the use of kutayuddha more readily, especially if it could prevent war altogether. According to Roy, Kalidasa advised that dharmayuddha be followed only against Indian monarchs and not against the Yavanas; similarly, it was permissible for a victorious king to annex the kingdoms of his defeated foes outside India but not within. The development of a geographic sense of India in this period is an interesting facet that Roy does not dwell on.

The author suggests that Somadeva warned against sending armies to the northwest – this would correspond to the region whence most invasions of India occurred and usually by a foe with superior technology. Unfortunately, Roy has little more to say about this either. Something else Roy mentions is Thiruvalluvar’s advice that an army look grand and imposing. Clearly, the Tamil thinker understood the psychological dimension of warfare well and tried to bring it into play in service of his patron. The lessons of these books on strategy did not remain restricted to the elite but trickled into the Hitopadesha, Panchatantra, Kathasaritsagara, and other stories in simplified form. What the reception was is a difficult question to answer. One wonders if the wisdom of Indian military thinking was noticed by foreigners when these works were translated, first into Persian and then later into Arabic and Latin.

The descriptions of Indian treatises on strategy raise many questions that Roy does not answer. For example, Indian monarchs seemed to always lack cavalry of sufficient quality and quantity. Yet no king ever tried to address this shortcoming by importing and breeding horses in India. Kalhana, the author of Rajatarangini, mentions that the Palas and Senas of Bengal attempted to import cavalry from Afghanistan and South China, and the Hoysalas tried to crossbreed Arab mares with local breeds to no avail. When the Romans, Greeks, Persians, and Carthaginians could take elephants from India, why could Indian traders not acquire war horses? Although the problem of a weak cavalry was temporarily solved under some kings such as Vikramaditya of the Gupta dynasty or Harshavardhana of Thaneshwar and Kanauj, it remained an issue until the very end. In relation to the equine lacuna, India did not develop metal stirrups or horseshoes until much later either and this gave the Hunnic mounted archers a tremendous advantage in battle; the invaders’ composite bows also gave them greater range than their Indian opponents. Why did Indian rulers fail so spectacularly in developing or acquiring military technology despite their use of spies or their fame in trade? This would have been an important question in a military history of South Asia.

Indian reflections on warfare declined with the Islamic invasions of the subcontinent. Warriors for a jealous desert god, Muslims rulers removed Hindu advisors of the conquered Indian kings from imperial service and closed the avenue for contribution to political life. Most Hindus who continued in royal service were forced to convert if they wished to retain their positions. The Hindu kingdoms that resisted the invaders, however, did not fare better than their ancestors did in terms of learning newer and more effective military strategies and technologies. The Rajputs, for example, held to their code of personal glory on the battlefield and failed to see the evolution of mass tactics; similarly, the Nayakas in the south were disdainful of gunpowder and thought it to be weapons for the cowardly – a regressive attitude that only shattered their armies when they went up against more modern opponents. The Rajput and Nayaka views were prevalent among European knights too when they first came across the Ottoman janissaries. The social and economic structure of feudal Europe had created the European knight, a fearsome force in one-on-one combat but no match for hurtling pellets of lead. Where the Europeans adapted quickly, Indian polities failed to do so. Nowhere is this more clear than in the Shukranitisara, a work by an unknown author written around the late 17^th century.

The Shukranitisara, like any work on military matters, emphasises the training of soldiers to fight with or without arms. However, it shuns the use of warfare with mechanical devices – gunpowder, siege engines, etc. – as asurayuddha, a particularly barbaric form of kutayuddha. The concept existed even in earlier treatises such as the Arthashastra but where Chanakya used the term ‘asurayuddha‘ to define heinous practices to be avoided by a victor, such as the massacre of the males of the royal household, the violation of their women, and the appropriation of their wealth, the author of Shukranitisara reserved the term for battlefield practices that had become routine. One might pontificate over the degeneration of chivalry but such matters concerned only romantic bards while the strategists were not beyond recommending kutayuddha in the pursuit of a quicker and cheaper victory. Not only were foreign invaders less delicate about such concerns, but Muslim armies frequently desecrated Hindu places of worship, forced conversions, massacred the citizenry, raped and sold the royal women into slavery, and killed their menfolk. It was in response to this barbarism that Rajput women took to jauhar.

Although Roy accepts the atrocities of the Muslim conquests, he nonetheless enters into the record Romila Thapar’s claim that there was no sense of Hinduism in this period. He also cites Richard Eaton on how limited the damage from the Islamic invasions were. This is deeply unconvincing given the tales of conversion and massacre contained in his own study.

Roy takes the reader through the Indian freedom struggle and ends his study with a few short comments on India’s nuclear posture. However, these periods hardly reflect any thought on the ethics of warfare understood in the conventional sense. Even accepting Chanakya’s paradigm of inter- and intra-state warfare, passive non-violence seems a tool that may have, at best, suited a particular situation rather than be an entire ethical theory of warfare in itself.

Perhaps the biggest question Roy does not attempt to answer is why Indian polities remained thoroughly inept at war. Barring a brief period in the Chola Empire, no Indian kingdom ever extended beyond the boundaries of Akhand Bharat; furthermore, there was a total failure to develop or even adopt superior technologies in a timely manner. Why were Indian monarchs not able to do what rulers in most other parts of the world did routinely? A second ‘big question’ Roy could have shed light on is to what extent these theories were discussed and debated. Was there even a limited and elite public sphere in which ideas of warfare were discussed and improved upon? How well did these ideas survive transmission as one dynasty replaced another? Roy indicates that Indian treatises dealt with the ideal world more than they dealt with reality. However, what effect did the results of real battles have on them?

It is possible that these questions can never be answered for lack of sources. Nonetheless, they deserve a vigorous discussion that HEWSA did not provide. The author’s excessive reliance on secondary sources and translations also deserves comment. Although South Asia is a difficult region that demands its scholars to have a command over several languages and kills, any analysis as important as Roy’s project ought not be done without expertise in at least some of the skills and languages; perhaps a collaborative work would have achieved the desired result better. It is said that reviewers often discuss the book they would have written rather than the book at hand – this may be the case here too but any study that claims to discuss the ethics of warfare in South Asia cannot afford these lapses, particularly in a field where much of the groundwork is yet to be laid.

Bringing Stone To Life

18 Mon Aug 2014

Posted by Jaideep A. Prabhu in Society, Travelogue

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Ajanta, Alamgir, Andhaka, Aurangabad, Aurangzeb, Bibi ka Maqbara, bodhisattva, Brahma, Buddha, Buddhism, Charanandri, Daulatabad, dharmachakra pravartana mudra, Elapura, Ellora, Griheshwar Temple, Hinduism, India, Jainism, Jataka Tales, jyotirlingam, Kailasa, Kalachuri, Lakulisa, Mahabharata, Mahavira, Mahishasuramardini, Nataraja, Padmapani, pralambapadasana, purana, Ramayana, Rashtrakuta, Rishabha, Shiva, Shivapurana, Sravasti, tirthankara, travelogue, Vajrapani, Verul, Vishnu, Vishnupurana, World Heritage

Even in a land pockmarked with centuries-old temples and monuments, the cave paintings and sculptures at Ajanta and Ellora stand out as among India’s more renowned historical treasures – with good reason, as I found out this weekend. The two cave complexes are easily among the highest achievements of human engineering and artistry in the world, the only comparable examples, in my opinion, being Angkor Wat in Cambodia, the Longmen Grottoes in China, and the temples at Abu Simbel and Karnak in Upper Egypt.

Although Aurangabad does have an airport, it is a tiny one and not as well-connected in terms of cities or frequency of flights. However, you should certainly check it out in case what is available fits your schedule. We chose to start from Pune, the epicentre of Marathi culture and 235 kilometres to the southwest of Aurangabad. Although the two cities are connected fairly well by bus and train, we preferred the flexibility of a rented car. In India, most car rentals provide a driver with the car and one does not have to be worried about knowing the roads though that comes at the cost of losing one seat. In that sense, I suppose it is more of an extended taxi service than a car rental. Unfortunately, our driver was not familiar with Aurangabad but since we hardly deviated from the state highways, this did not cause much trouble. Be sure to check if your driver knows your destination well when you rent a car.

Our first destination was Ellora, or Elapura as it was once known. Thirty kilometres from Aurangabad, the caves open to the public at 06 00 and close at 18 00; if you have the stamina to make full use of these hours, Ellora would take two days to finish. For ordinary mortals, three days makes for better planning. This is assuming that you, the discerning tourist, would spend time getting an overall feel of the place, identify each of the sculptures, dwell on the construction techniques, and marvel at the artistic genius. Many plebeians, however, are simply interested in taking some selfies for Facebook or Twitter and make a nuisance of themselves at the site.

The Ellora cave complex has 34 caves, 17 Hindu, 12 Buddhist, and 5 Jain. Unfortunately, these are numbered consecutively rather than chronologically – Caves I – XII are Buddhist and in the south, Caves XIII – XXIX are Hindu and in the middle, and Caves XXX – XXXIV are Jain and in the north. If you are a stickler for chronology – it makes seeing the transitions and developments easier – as I am, you can expect Ellora to include a bit of a walk.

The latest historical research indicates that the earliest construction was of a few Hindu caves, followed by the Buddhist caves, a second phase of Hindu cave construction, and finally the Jain caves. These phases lasted from the early fifth century to the late tenth century and obviously, some of these phases overlapped with each other. The earliest caves were carved during the rule of the earliest Kalachuri kings and the later caves – Hindu, Buddhist, and Jain – were built during the Rashtrakuta Empire.

It is not necessary to visit all the caves – some are incomplete and where stonemasons and sculptors perfected their techniques before applying them to the main sites. Nonetheless, these caves may give you an idea about the construction techniques of the cave builders and should not be totally ignored.

The piece de resistance at Ellora is undoubtedly the imposing Kailasa Temple one sees immediately upon entering the premises. Constructed in the mid-eighth century by Krishna I, the megalith rises to over 100 feet and has a footprint of about 42,500 square feet. At these dimensions, it is the largest cave structure in India and probably the world. Technically Cave XVI, the Kailasa Temple is built in the Pallava style with tapering viharas and cloisters flanking the temple on three sides. It is estimated that some 400,000 tonnes of rock were excavated to create it. Originally, the temple was painted completely white so as to resemble Lord Shiva’s abode in the Himalayas. The temple itself has two floors and is surrounded by a three-storey gallery on three sides. The main prayer hall has a large and majestic lingam and the inseparable Nandi a few metres away while the walls are decorated with sculptures depicting events from the puranas and epics.

Densely packed with sculptures from Hindu cosmology, Kailasa alone requires the better part of a day to decipher and appreciate. The view of the temple from the front is blocked by a fortress wall but you can climb around the sides and get a view of the entire complex from the top and behind. What makes Cave XVI stand out as one of the greatest achievements of not just Hindu iconography but monument-building worldwide is that the entire structure was carved out of a single piece of rock – engineers, stonemasons, master craftsmen, and others would have had to have calculated how the temple would take shape precisely as they worked on it starting from the top and proceeding to the bottom. Given the necessity for structurally sound rock for the temple, workers could not simply hammer away the tonnes of rocks or wedge indiscriminately for fear of larger-than-desired cracks developing. The whole project had to be meticulously planned and carefully excavated, and that is why I rank this monument so highly.

Cave XIV is called Ravan ka Khai for reasons beyond me. It has a pillared hall and the walls are decorated with life-size sculptures of a dancing Shiva, Varahavtara, Shiva and Parvati playing chausar, Gajalakshmi, the saptamatrikas, Andhakasuravadha, and others. In fact, it looks as if one wall is dedicated to the Shivapurana and the other to the Vishnupurana. What I found most riveting, however, was the sculpture of Mahishasuramardini on the right as soon as you enter. Interestingly, though the common depiction of Mahishasuramardini shows Durga killing a buffalo, a couple of carvings at Cave XVI showed Mahishasura as a man wearing a horned helmet.

Cave XV is up a steep flight of stairs and another marvellous cave. It is a two-storeyed pillared hall with a Nandi mandapam in the courtyard. The Nandi statue has been displaced from the mandapam, I don’t know why, and can be seen on the first floor of the cave. What makes this cave even more interesting is that it is one of the few caves that are supposed to have inscriptions in them – the Rashtrakuta king Dantidurga is supposed to have etched out his genealogy and conquests in the stone somewhere near the Nandi mandapam. Unfortunately, we were ill-prepared and did not have flashlights and what feeble light our mobile phones gave off was not enough to spot it. The cave is called the Dasavatara cave but precious few of Lord Vishnu’s avatars are depicted in it; in fact, Cave XV is a Shiva shrine and is adorned with sculptures like the Markandeya anugraha murti, Gangadhara, Lingodhbhava Shiva and Tripurantaka.

Again, the multiple floors and courtyards of Cave XV make it easy to forget that this cave, like all others at Ellora, were carved out of the Charanandri Hills. The sculptures’ magnificence aside, that the entire complex was carved in situ makes it even more remarkable.

Cave XXIX, also known as Dumarlena, bears a striking similarity to the Elephanta caves in Bombay. There is a large lingam in a centrally located shrine with four doorways, each guarded by two towering dwarapalaks. The walls of the spacious cave have six large panels with various depictions of Lord Shiva such as the sundarakalyanam, Nataraja, Lakulisa, Shiva and Parvati playing a game, Ravana trying to lift Kailasa, and the killing of Andhaka.

As far as I know, there is no documentary or inscriptional evidence that details the funding of the construction of Ajanta or Ellora. One can only surmise that something of this magnitude would have required royal patronage and perhaps the support of rich local merchants. While Ajanta was lost for a long time, Ellora was close to important trade routes and did not suffer the same fate. The complex continued to receive visitors over the centuries and some fo the caves were indeed used for the purpose for which they seem to have been created – prayer.

To sample the next day’s pleasures, we ended the day with a visit to the Buddhist Cave X. In retrospect, I can say that it is, without doubt, the most stunning Buddhist cave at Elapura. The colonnaded chamber with its ribbed ceiling is reminiscent of pre-Carolingian churches (no transept) and has two floors. In the place of the altar is a stupa and before it sits Buddha on what can only be imagined as a throne. Buddha sits in the pralambapadasana, making what is probably a vyakhyana mudra, believed to be what is referred to in the base tongue as the teaching mudra. On the right side of the cave’s porch, there is a mini-shrine to Mahamayuri, one of the pancharakshas in Buddhism, who is seated on her peacock vahana and holding the iconic peacock feather. This simplicity is in contrast to later depictions, especially in Tibetan Buddhism, that show Mahamayuri with multiple arms laden with various symbols such as the lotus. Some of the pillars that ran down the sides of the cave all had regular holes at the same height, presumably to bear torches at night.

We simply had to sit there and take in the ambience of the place, imagining the cave in its heyday. The torches, the darker nights, the smell of oil, the monks, the chanting…it was quite enough to give some of us goose bumps. Although camphor is offered to the Buddha in Japan and Sri Lanka, I am not sure if that custom was prevalent in India twelve centuries ago.

The next day, before reaching Ellora, we stopped by the Grishneshwar Temple at Verul. I don’t know much about the temple itself except that it was renovated in the late 18^th century by the Malwa queen Ahilyabai Holkar or that it has a fairly high tapering shikhara of stone in various shades of red. Grishneshwar is the last of the twelve jyotirlingas and very close to Devagiri, now known as Daulatabad, barely a kilometre or so away from Ellora. There is nothing to differentiate a jyotirlingam from any other lingam visibly; it is believed, however, that those who have achieved higher states of consciousness can see the jyotirlingam as a beam of bright light penetrating the earth and stretching upwards towards the sky.

According to Hindu mythology, Brahma and Vishnu, two of the Trinity, get into a debate about who has a better knowledge of Shiva. To test them, Shiva appeared as an endless pillar of light and asked Brahma and Vishnu to go up and down respectively until the end of the pillar. After a while, Brahma came back and lied that he had seen the top while Vishnu confessed that he could not find the bottom. Shiva was enraged with Brahma for lying and cursed him that there would be no temples to him while Vishnu would be worshipped for eternity.

As many temples in India, the approach to the temple was dirty and the temple itself not clean. Even early in the morning, there was a fairly large crowd waiting for darshan. At Grishneshwar, devotees can actually touch the lingam and offer flowers, bael patra (aegle marmelos), or do a milk abhishekam themselves. As we were standing in line waiting to be given access to the garbhagudi (sanctum sanctorum), I spotted vendors I had just passed at the entrance separating the flowers from the bael patra from a pile of discarded offerings. I suspect they recycle the flora by selling it to unsuspecting pilgrims who arrive a little later. My experience was further marred by the priest asking for dakshina even before we had started our prayers. For all the agitation Hindu groups in India do about political rights, I wish a little effort were also spent in keeping these supposedly sacred places spotless.

After our temple visit, we hit the Buddhist caves. Of the twelve Buddhist caves at Ellora, only four are significant. This is not to say that others should not be visited but only that anyone pressed to finish Ellora within two days might have to prioritise which caves they wish to spend their time in.

Cave II has over 20 sculptures of the Buddha, a few unfinished and coarse, in pralambapadasana and a couple in padmasana atop a lotus. Most of the Buddhas are flanked by bodhisattvas and are making what appears to be a dharmachakra pravartana mudra though I may be wrong on this. However, many scholars argue that this mudra is the same as the vyakhyana mudra. A little variety is available in the form on a Maitreya Buddha on the right side of the entrance to the cave and a panel depicting the miracles at Sravasti on the left upon entry. There is also a depiction of Tara, the Saraswati of Mahayana Buddhism, near the Sravasti miracles panel and Jambhala, the bodhisattva of material wealth, sits at the left end of the porch. I am told that both Jambhala and Tara come colour-coded to symbolise various virtues but my knowledge of Buddhism is not up to par to remember all those details.

Another Buddhist cave of interest is Cave V. It is designed as a prayer hall seen in any Buddhist monastery, with low stone benches running down its entire length in the centre and a Buddha statue at what is presumably the altar. It is about 35 metres in depth and and lined with small cells, presumably for monks to rest between chanting, prayer, and study. At the door stand the bodhisattvas Padmapani and Vajrapani.

The last Buddhist cave we visited was Cave XII. It is a massive construction, three storeys high and built like a miniature fort with a courtyard and two keep-like structures in the right and left corners that used to be connected to the main complex. The entire cave is arranged in the form of three mandalas, and someone with significantly greater knowledge of Buddhism will have to explain to me the full significance of the cave. At the basic visual level, I can account for a series of deities like Manjushri, Raktalokeshwara, Sthirachakra, Tara, Kunda, and a couple of others at the back of the cave on the first floor. In the sanctum sanctorum sit Buddha making the bhumsparsa mudra with several bodhisattvas around him; do enter the chamber or you will miss the several sculptures surrounding the Buddha as he preaches.

The second floor has a couple of pillars with inscriptions on them; in an inscription-starved site, even sighting one inscription was elating even if I could not read much of it! The level is also similar with Tara, Kunda, bodhisattvas in the main chamber, Padmapani and Vajrapani as the dwarpalaks, and in the main shrine, again, Buddha in the bhumisparsa mudra surrounded by bodhisattvas. On this floor, he is also joined by Tara and Jambhala in the shrine. Interestingly, Padmapani seems to be holding a thunderbolt and one of the bodhisattvas an upraised sword; this is quite a contrast with the common (mis)perception of Buddhism as a peaceful and ascetic religion. In reality, there are several sects and each interpret the teachings of the Buddha in different ways; hence the weapons, the presence of several deities, and a heavy dose of tantra can be seen at Ellora.

The third floor is, in my opinion, the most majestic. There are five low stone benches running across the enormous hall, interspersed by pillars. Like Cave V, this was probably a place for meditation, prayer, chanting, and study. There are five buddhas along the right wall and four along the left either in padmasana or pralambapadasana; at the front of the hall, there are 14 of the 27 buddhas prior to Siddhartha Gautama. As our guidebook informed us, they are Vipasi, Sikhi, Vishvabhu, Krachakunda, Kanakmuni, Kashyapa, Sakya Simha, Vairochanda, Akshobhya, Ratna Sambhava, Amitabha, Amogha Siddhi, Vajrasattva, and Vajra Raja from left to right. The 14 buddhas sitting in meditation inject a serenity in the chamber that I did not feel on the other two floors. We decided to take a little break right in that hall and enjoy the feel of the cave a little longer.

The shrine has an antechamber on this floor and there are six female figures along its walls – Janguli, Mahamyuri, Pandra, Bhrikuti, Tara, and Usanisavijaya. There are also six female figures facing out, three on each side of the door, and the dwarpalaks Padmapani and Vajrapani. As for the female figures, I am a bit confused – some say they are all bodhisattvas while others say there are different manifestations of Tara. Either way, the Buddhist pantheon, I realised, is fuller than I had thought.

In the innermost chamber, Buddha sits with a bhumisparsa mudra and is surrounded by Maitreya, Sthirachakra, Manjushri, Tara, Jambhala, and other bodhisattvas.

We broke for lunch before returning to finish off the Jain caves. Now I am sure none of my companions will agree with me on this but there are absolutely no civilised places to eat in the immediate vicinity of Ellora. There is one decent-looking restaurant whose food is of middling palatability and service is atrociously slow. The rest are basically shacks fashioned out of corrugated metal sheets. There is one other sturdier place, Vrindavan, if you like Jain Gujarati food – one of us asked for an onion unknowingly and got a look as if we had asked to sacrifice the waiter’s first-born to Melqart! Personally, I plan to carry a small tucker bag of goodies on my next visit.

While we are on the topic of food, another thing I noticed is how difficult it is nowadays to find misal pav in Aurangabad; I am told that Bombay is no different either. When we went looking for some good Maharashtrian snacks, on the first evening, we were told it is a breakfast food. The next morning, however, misal pav and its friends – pav bhaji, sev batata puri, bhel puri, usal pav – was nowhere to be seen either. In fact, it was easier to locate a quasi Udupi restaurant for some idli vada and upma. This is quite different from my experience elsewhere – in the north, restaurants will carry aloo paratha, samosa, and kachori all day whether you find them fit for breakfast or not, and in the south, no restaurant worth its salt would stop making idli or dosa at any point of the day.

There is perhaps only one Jain cave that stands out – Cave XXXII, named the Indra Sabha; one thing I will clearly never understand is the naming conventions of some of these caves! In any case, Cave XXXII is a series of small shrines to Mahavira and other important tirthankaras of Jainism. There is a sarvatobhadra mandapa, meaning that there is a tirthankara facing each of the four cardinal directions; in this case, they are Rishabha, the founder of the faith, Parsvanatha, Neminatha, and Mahavira the great reformer. There is also a stambha and a free-standing rock elephant in the courtyard.

The hall contains sculptures primarily of Mahavira, sometimes flanked by Indra on his Airavata; Neminatha is seen protected by Ambika on her lion, and Parsvanantha under the hood of a naga. There are several other key Jain figures in the hall like Gomateshwara, Sarvanabhuti, Bahubali, and others. The main shrine, at the back and centre of the hall, contained a large Mahavira in his usual dhyana mudra and padmasana.

The first floor of the cave contained more of the same. However, more of the paint seems to have survived here than in any of the other caves at Ellora. Though covered in centuries of grime and neglected by the Archaeological Survey of India (ASI) – some may say that is a blessing in disguise – the remaining bits of the frescoes and murals give an idea of how wonderful the caves might have been when new.

We quickly wound up the rest of the Jain section and moved back to Kailasa where we ended the day. The temple is so massive that it takes a lot of time to take it all in; we were yet to explore the cloisters and that we did at the end of the second day, our last day in Ellora.

Despite being a UNESCO World Heritage site, Ellora is very poorly maintained. All the caves reek of largely chiropteran excrement or have anything more than natural lighting. One would simply have to be an above average photographer to capture the beauty of some of the sculptures in the recesses of the caves. Furthermore, the caves are still home to hundreds of bats and tourists should be careful in using their camera flash in the darker corners of the caves.

Yet the greatest danger to Ellora comes from elsewhere – Indians. It is shocking to see the criminal disregard the overwhelming majority of Indian visitors to Ellora show for the ancient rock sculptures. At several places, I saw litter and graffiti. This is a problem not just at Ellora but all Indian monuments I have visited. At Ellora, we also saw a special breed of idiot that insisted on climbing on top of the sculptures to take photographs. We even asked the guards to stop them but severely undermanned, had just given up and did not bother to fine or evict any of the visitors. By the second day, our horror had surpassed our desire to avoid conflict and a couple of us started yelling at the vandals to get off the artwork while others might have started mentally going through ancient and medieval torture techniques.

Maybe it is for the best that so many of India’s historical artifacts were looted by the British and are now on display in their museums – at least they are being preserved well. India’s ancient heritage needs to be preserved, no doubt, but the first step in that process seems to be to protect it from Indians.

I remember someone wondered if the defacement happens because of a loss of sacrality of the site – because the temples, chaityagrihas, and Buddhist viharas have fallen out of use, they are just ordinary structures and no longer sacred ones that need to be cherished. If true, this would be spell a sad fate for secular monuments; however, there is no reason to believe this is so as even functioning temples are quite filthy at times. Nearby Grishneshwar was dirty but not disgusting; Kashi and Puri, on the other hand, would drive any sane man to apostasy!

One way to prevent such defacement is to raise the entry fees; at present, Indians and citizens of SAARC and BIMSTEC countries can gain access for ₹10 and other foreigners for ₹250. If this were raised to a hefty ₹1,000, it may not stop the vandalism – wealth or education did not appear to be criteria for being idiots – but it will at least reduce the crowds to a level that may be more manageable for the guards. The high entry fees would also ensure that Ellora is not just some picnic spot on the way to somewhere else – usually Shirdi – and only people interested in visiting the site would come in.

The caves ought to be cleaned and proper lighting provided. By proper, I mean bright yet soft light and bulbs that give off low heat. Given the affordability of MP3 players, audio guides to the caves in five or six Indian and foreign languages can also be easily made available.

One last thing I noticed about Ellora was the damage to many of the caves. The most common reason given is water damage but that simply does not cover it. The builders of Ellora, fully aware of the Elaganga and other streams that flow through the Charanandri Hills, would have taken measures to limit water damage. Furthermore, while water damage may still explain some of the damage to the extremities of the caves, it does not explain the damage to the sculptures deeper inside. Some of the damage can also be explained by the disrepair the caves fell into after the Muslim conquest of the region. Neglected by the authorities, the caves were used by locals as dwellings as well as to stable their livestock. However, a lot of the damage curiously involves decapitation of the hands, breasts, and head – typical of Islamic marauders as can be attested by Hampi and several other sites across India. It would be a striking coincidence if water damage explains this uniformly across all the caves.

My theory is that much of the damage was wrought by the Islamic overlords of Maharashtra, from the Khiljis, the Tughlaqs, the Bahamanis, and finally the Mughals. Part of the damage was caused by the lack of maintenance and royal patronage while a significant amount must have been caused by the iconoclasm of the invaders. If anyone has a better theory, I am more than willing to reconsider my assertion.

On our last day in the region, we visited Ajanta. The first thing I learned was that the town name is pronounced अजिंठा and not अजंता as I have always heard. Admittedly, one is in Marathi and the latter in Hindi but since Indians seem to believe their regional flavours must be accommodated by all – Chennai, Kolkata, Mumbai, Puducherry – I was amused at the adhocism of this petulance.

Ajanta is about 95 kms away from Aurangabad and so not as conveniently reachable as Ellora is. On Indian roads, this translates to approximately two hours of driving. Strategically, visitors to the Ajanta would be better off staying in Jalgaon than Aurangabad. In any case, we had finally located some misal pav and had our fill – minor delays would not faze us that day!

Ajanta is a complex of 29 Buddhist caves, not all of which are finished, that were constructed in two phases. The first phase of cave building, under the Satavahanas, took place somewhere around 200 BCE and the second phase, during the reign of the Vakatakas, took place from 200 CE to 500 CE. Ajanta is therefore older than the cave complex at Ellora. It is common knowledge that the location of these caves was lost for centuries and Ajanta was found accidentally in 1819 by Captain John Smith, a British officer with the 28^th Cavalry of the Madras Presidency, while hunting.

When we reached Ajanta, I was surprised to see how well planned the site was, very unlike most tourist sites in India. My surprise soon vanished when I found out that the Japanese government planned the tourist centre and access to the Ajanta complex; implementation, however, was in the hands of the Maharashtra government and quite poor. For example, there were two or three tickets we had to purchase and the bus from the tourist centre to the caves had another ticket – I am not sure why they could not all be combined into one fee. One more thing – the caves are not, yet again, in chronological order but simply numbered in the order they come on the east-to-west tourist path.

After Ellora, I did not think I could be impressed anymore; I had just seen some of the most magnificent manifestations of human artistic endeavour and surely there could be little to surpass the Ellora 35. I was wrong. The caves at Ajanta may not have surpassed Ellora but were easily their equals in grandeur and beauty. Here, the creators had been less intense with sculpture but the paintwork had survived the centuries due to the undisturbed state of Ajanta until 1819. The beautiful frescoes and murals, though covered in grime, were still vivid and even bright in some spots.

It is difficult for me to explain even the contents of the important caves because I am not well versed in the Buddhist canon. However, the subject matter of the murals and frescoes at Ajanta are events from the life of the Buddha, stories from the Jataka Tales, and events from the lives of some of the bodhisattvas; Ajanta is too early for the more “ornamented” versions of Buddhism, though that is what makes it better.

Cave I contains the murals of Padmapani and Vajrapani prominently seen in India’s tourism promotion campaigns. Caves IX and X are chaityagrihas – they have stupas in them – and tales from the Buddhist scriptures painted on the walls. Cave X was also the cave that Smith spotted and subsequently vandalised by scratching his name and date on one of the murals higher up. Cave XXVI is famous for its large reclining Buddha rock carving, showing the man at his moment of death. It also holds a magnificent Buddha sitting in front of a stupa and preaching.

The caves at Ajanta clearly present evidence that construction was carried out in two phases. The first phase matched the earlier and more austere Hinayana Buddhism while the latter is more in line with Mahayana Buddhism. One simple example is the increasing placement of Buddha’s statue in the shrine rather than the aniconic stupa in later caves. This is, however, an oversimplification – the latter caves are not fully Mahayana caves though they represent the transition from the earlier practices of Buddhism.

Something else that is quite interesting in the Ajanta caves is the occasional but not infrequent appearance of darker-complexioned people in the paintings. Unlike much of medieval Western art in which black represented evil, there is no hierarchy implied in the cave paintings at Ajanta. Vajrapani, Buddha’s dwarpalak and a bodhisattva, is dark. In fact, even the Buddha is frequently depicted as a black man. This is not surprising to anyone well-versed in Hindu literature – Krishna, one of the key protagonists in the Mahabharata and the eighth avatara of Vishnu, is always shown to be dusky. There is no doubt that there is an aesthetic preference for fairer skin among many in India but that preference does not at all extend to moral and character judgments about darker people. The cave paintings at Ajanta are yet another example of this fact.

I remember being asked to pay for a special ticket while entering Ajanta that was supposed to be for the lighting in the caves. Unlike Ellora, Ajanta has at least attempted to remedy the problem of darkness in the caves. However, the lighting is very poor and you will need a torch as you did at Ellora. Worse, I am not sure if the lighting installed by the management is conducive to the long life of the artwork in the caves – I would have expected a brighter and softer light, probably LEDs, that gave off much less heat than what has been provided presently.

We finished with Ajanta and headed back to Pune. Ajanta is open from 09 00 until 17 00 but we did not spend the whole day wandering through the caves. This was due to the way our itinerary had turned out but honestly, I was a bit bored in the Buddhist and Jain caves of Ajanta and Ellora. No doubt, they are exquisite creations, but they are difficult to appreciate for someone not fluent in Buddhist and Jain cosmology. I walked in, was wow’ed, and I walked out – after all, there are only so many times you can see a buddha in pralambapadasana holding a vyakhyana mudra and not get bored. Growing up on the exponentially vaster Hindu canon, I took for granted what outsiders might consider mind-boggling and ultimately confusing diversity of Hinduism. My familiarity with the various avataras of Vishnu and Shiva, not to mention the epics, is hardly scholarly but these things are the sort of stuff any normal Indian would be weaned on and just know. My quick saturation with the Buddhist and Jain caves in no way takes away from them but only expresses my weaker understanding of their canon and hence an inability to enjoy them as thoroughly as I did the Hindu caves.

If you are from afar, you may want to spend some time in Aurangabad too now that you have travelled so much. The city has a few sites of interest, the Mughal emperor Aurangzeb’s unassuming tomb near Ellora being one of them. Alamgir’s first wife is also buried there in the Bibi ka Maqbara, which looks a little like a poor man’s Taj Mahal. The Daulatabad fort may also be worth a visit. The city also has a few dargahs but none quite so spectacular or for anyone so renowned – you would be better off spending your limited time elsewhere than visit mausoleums for every Tanveer, Dastagir, and Hamid.

The misal pav was one hunt we went on but if you are non-vegetarian, do not miss out on Aurangabad’s famous naan qalia, a delicious mutton preparation.

India is hot, tropical country, and Maharashtra offers no respite; Aurangabad can be quite hot and sunny even in the non-summer months. You may want to bring along a cap, sunglasses, and some sunscreen if you do not get along with Suryadev but more importantly, be sure to keep yourself well hydrated. There is a canteen at the entrance of the Ellora complex where you can replenish your supplies, and an extra bottle of water in your backpack will not hurt. The catch here is that, like most places in India, the bathrooms are utterly filthy. Beware, you have been warned!

Like most tourism in India, Ajanta and Ellora makes one seriously consider if the dirt and grime is really worth the potential pleasure of seeing an important historical site, and like most places, the answer is a resounding “Yes” after a moment’s hesitation. These two World Heritage sites are an absolute must-see for anyone interested in Indian art, and mine was a long weekend well spent.

A few photographs from…a different kind of spelunking:

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