A Splendor of Caves
08/November/1998
It is to an elusive tiger that we owe our rediscovery of the cave temples of Ajanta. A party of British
officers, out hunting in 1819, pursued their quarry into a gorge in the thickly wooded Sahyadri Hills of
west-central India. The animal retreated into the dense jungle, but the dazzling sun revealed, through
the seemingly impenetrable foliage, the outlines of a horseshoe-shaped cave. The British officers
followed, crossing a river to investigate -- and soon forgot all about their hunting.
They had stumbled upon a site lost for centuries -- a series of 30 caves cut into the hills by Buddhist
monks between 200 B.C. and A.D. 650, to serve as residences, temples and schools. Each is adorned
with statuary chiseled into the rock face by the monks, and in many cases by remarkable paintings,
telling stories both religious and secular. History does not record what happened to the tiger, but the
leader of the hunting party etched his name into the wall across an irreplaceable painting: ''John Smith,
20 April 1819.''
''Ajanta and Ellora, in the monsoon?'' asked my wife, Minu, when I suggested we visit the caves this
summer, when our twin 14-year-old sons, Ishaan and Kanishk, would be enjoying their school break.
''We'll get soaked. And the flights will be delayed by the weather.''
That seemed to make sense, until I ran into a bibulous Indian guest at a diplomatic party in New York.
''Have you heard they're going to close the caves?'' he asked. ''Too many visitors. All that hot breath and
tramping feet, causing damage to the paintings and sculptures. So they'll be closing them all to the
general public.''
''When?'' I asked, horrified.
''Next year, I believe.''
That did it. Monsoon or no monsoon, we were going to catch a glimpse of Ajanta and Ellora before the
curtain came down on either place.
After two days of rest in Bombay, we flew 235 miles inland to the city of Aurangabad, northeast of
Bombay, for our excursions to Ajanta and Ellora. Aurangabad, a spread-out manufacturing town of some
1.1 million people, green and dusty in equal measure, has the airport nearest to the caves, as well as
several fine hotels.
As a concession to the suddenly queasy stomach of our son Kanishk -- whose hospitability to any passing
malady is a source of family legend -- we reversed the traditional order of doing things and decided to
go to Ellora, the nearer site, first. Our hotel, the Taj Residency, equipped our rented, chauffeur-driven,
air-conditioned car with packed lunches, chilled drinks and even umbrellas to ward off the monsoon, of
which, to Minu's relief, we saw little evidence. Our youthful guide, Srikant Jadhav, had been in the
business only four years, but he made up for inexperience with a fund of historical knowledge and a
small stock of witticisms he tested on the unamused boys (''Why is the number 6 afraid of 7? Because 7
ate 9'').
Ellora is less than an hour's drive from Aurangabad across lush farming country, on a good road. Even
though Ishaan and Kanishk had outgrown their desire as 7-year-olds to lead the Mongol hordes or,
failing that, to become military historians, we decided to make one stop on the way. This was at the
Deogiri Fort at Daulatabad, a soaring citadel on a conical hill that commands the land approaches from
both north and east. This largely 13th-century edifice, now in ruins, was widely reputed to be invincible,
so intricate was its pyramidal construction. The rock-hewn fort had several layers of walls, iron gates
with elephant-deterring spikes, a 40-foot-deep moat and a narrow twisting subterranean passage that
could be blocked by the intense heat generated by a large brazier at one end. It is a bit of a hike to the
top, and Minu soon gave up the climb, preferring to sit under a mango tree with a lazily solicitous
Ishaan, while Kanishk, miraculously revived by the challenge, trudged up with me. Among the fort's
incongruities is an ancient Hindu temple, its roof supported by 150 pillars, that today houses a modern
idol -- a kitsch figure of ''Mother India,'' draped in a gaudy sari, her eight arms brandishing an
assortment of implements, including a sword, a trident and a somewhat startled-looking snake.
We also paused to visit two contrasting graves. The first was of the Emperor Aurangzeb, the last of the
Great Moguls, after whom Aurangabad is named -- a simple and austere slab of marble paid for by the
sale of prayer caps the devout monarch had stitched himself. (He died in 1707, at the age of 89, and had
forbidden any other expenditure on a tomb.) The second, the Bibi ka Maqbara, just outside the city, was
of his wife Rabla Daurani, a grand imitation Taj Mahal, startlingly reminiscent of the original, but without
the Taj's perfect proportions and majesty. In other circumstances it might have been an attractive
resting place, but Minu didn't think so. ''Wonder what it's like for her,'' she said sympathetically, ''to
know she's buried in a travesty and her mother-in-law's tomb is where the real action is?''
At Ellora itself, we saw all 34 caves in a little over four hours, sequentially admiring the work of artists of
different faiths. This meant starting with the Buddhist (constructed A.D. 550-750), then working our way
through the Hindu caves (A.D. 600-875) to the Jain ones (A.D. 800-1000). The tour was not arduous, not
even with Kanishk still a bit wobbly at the knees. The monsoon finally sprinkled us, but briefly and rather
halfheartedly, as if it didn't really want to get in the way of our view. Around us were rolling hills, rock-
laden and stately; golden gulmohur blossoms, flaming insolent and tender amid the greenery; and then,
serene in the afternoon sun, the caves themselves, opening into the earth like a secret prayer.
The caves are numbered for the visitor's convenience. We walked through them in order, marveling at
the paucity of people. Last year we had taken the boys to Italy, where they had got accustomed to
throngs everywhere; here, being able to enjoy the splendors without crowds made our discovery of
each cave, each carving, more intimate.
Every pillar, alcove and niche at Ellora is carved from solid rock. We admired the contrast between the
somewhat ostentatious Cave 5, whose treasures include an immense, ornate praying Buddha, and the
plain and austere lines of Caves 1 and 7.
We could see why Cave 6 might have been ''afraid of 7.'' It seemed the work, perhaps, of lay sculptors
rather than monks, because it overflows with lush carvings: dancing dwarfs play musical instruments;
busty goddesses disport themselves, every detail of their clothing, ornaments and headdresses rendered
with minute precision; on one wall, a student toils at a desk, oblivious to temptation. Cave 10, with its
vaulted arches and intricate interior carvings, reminded the boys of a Roman basilica, except that there
was no gelato for sale outside.
''You mean they didn't actually carry a single stone into the cave?'' Ishaan asked incredulously. They
didn't. Though the rock-temples are referred to as caves, they are the work of men, who created
principally two kinds of structures -- monasteries, or viharas, and halls of worship, or chaityas. The basalt
rock of the Deccan plateau, solid but easy to hew, proved ideal for the sculptors. Imagine the drama of
it, turning mountain faces into works of art, sanctuaries, temples; year after year, working only with
natural light, the metronomic poetry of hammer and chisel against rock.
Cave 12 is a three-storied edifice carved in the seventh century to serve as a hostel for the monks. Each
room cut into the rock has a carved stone bed, complete with stone pillow, and a niche cut into the wall
for the monk's lamp. Ishaan and Kanishk, overwhelmed by the sense that they were in a 2,000-year-old
boarding school, refused to climb to the headmaster's floor. Minu and I followed our guide to the top
level, where a row of seven meditating Buddhas sits alongside another row of seven who have already
attained enlightenment, as attested to by the stone umbrellas over their beatific heads. Here, too, were
faded remnants of paintings on the ceiling, a faint hint of what was to come in Ajanta.
The Hindu Cave 16 goes one better: it is the largest monolithic carving in the world, a gigantic temple
called Kailash, after the god Shiva's mountain abode, which took 800 workmen a century and a half to
complete and is twice the size of the Parthenon. The sculptors' vision was that of a flying chariot, and
the cave is carved like one. It is embellished with vivid statuary depicting Hindu legends, a particularly
astonishing piece showing the goddess Durga slaying the demon Mahishasura amid a flurry of flailing
arms and weapons.
We ate our picnic lunch at a spot where Cave 29 overlooks a waterfall. We sat on an ancient ledge and
looked out to where the water cascaded sudden and silvery from the hillside. After lunch, when we tried
to venture farther into the cave, we found it had been cut so deeply into the hill that no sunlight ever
reached its farthest interior. The back of the cave smelled strongly of the droppings of bats, which
whirled furiously past us in the dark.
We ended our tour of Ellora at the massive double-storied Jain Indrasabha, Cave 32, a relatively late
construction (11th century) notable for more than one statue of Siddhayika, a female attendant of the
founder of the Jain faith, Mahavira. An exquisitely carved lotus on the ceiling caught our eye. And there,
in stone, was a yakshi (demoness) sitting on a lion under a mango tree. The ripe beauty of the doe-eyed
woman seemed at odds with the legendary asceticism of the Jain faith. But the caves were carved in
lushly prosperous times, and asceticism always thrives better in penury.
We started a little earlier on the second day, since the 65-mile journey from Aurangabad to Ajanta takes
almost two hours by road, and we had a flight back to Bombay at the end of the day.
Ajanta looks more like an organized tourist destination. As soon as we parked, we were inundated by
hawkers. Young boys thrust chunks of minerals into our hands as gifts to entice us into their shops. We
fled, but were drawn up short at a paved ascent that curved upward from the parking lot to the caves. A
wiry porter emerged to carry our possessions for us -- 80 rupees ($2) for the entire visit. I accepted with
alacrity, since the Taj Residency appeared to have given us an even more generous supply of bottled
drinks than on the previous day. Two more individuals appeared, looking as if a couple of the larger
sculptures had come to life. They were palanquin bearers, enterprising young men ready to carry the
less energetic visitor up to the caves in a stuffed chair mounted on two long poles. Minu looked wistfully
at the palanquin, but the shocked disapproval of our sons sent her off, abashed. ''It's their livelihood,''
she murmured defensively.
There weren't enough foreigners around to remind us that we were tourists, but the pressure of tourism
is felt more keenly at Ajanta than at Ellora: the four main caves admit only 40 visitors at a time, for a
maximum of 15 minutes. It was just as well that we were there in the relatively unpopular monsoon, for
we found an intimidating line at only one cave, to which we were able to return later. For years,
attendants used to stand outside the caves with mirrors to reflect the sunlight onto the art within, but
today Ajanta employs a ''lighting attendant'' in selected caves, whose job it is to shine a large electric
lamp upon certain paintings pointed out by your guide.
Ajanta, a purely Buddhist complex that was created beginning in the second century B.C., had
disappeared from popular consciousness around the eighth century A.D., when Buddhism faded away in
India, largely absorbed by a reformed and resurgent Hinduism. Eleven hundred years of neglect have
preserved it well, particularly its paintings, though we wondered about the long-term effects of the
helpful ministrations of the lighting attendant.
We were grateful for his presence, though, because there would have been no other way to have
captured, from three angles, the extraordinary enigmatic expression of the Padmapani Bodhisattava in
Cave 1. The young man, his elongated eyes both brooding and reverential, a lotus in his hand, seems
both of this world and beyond it. The cave carvings and paintings are positioned to catch natural light at
certain moments of the day, and if one had all day one could have waited to see how different rays of
sunlight might have illuminated different aspects of the face and figure portrayed. But even five minutes
under electric light told us we were in the presence of a work of genius.
The womb-shaped caves served Buddhist monks as monasteries and seats of learning. The paintings of
tales from the Buddhist Jatakas and the nondevotional images of princesses and nymphs suggest the
caves were also intended to attract lay visitors. Our guide had an attentive eye for signs of modern life in
ancient art, pointing out figures carrying such items of daily use as Coke-shaped bottles, glass tumblers
and playing cards. (''Ancient India had Coke,'' he grinned proudly.) But when he suggested that a hanger-
on in one Buddhist painting was actually wearing blue jeans, I called a halt to his appropriations of the
past. The truth was remarkable enough: Many of the paintings testified to an amazing degree of
international contact and trade. The ceiling in cave 2, for example, is covered with seventh-century
portraits of visiting princes, including a Persian monarch and his consort, while Hellenic influences are
reflected in bacchanalian figures wearing stockings and hats.
The art of Ajanta has a standing comparable in the history of Asian art to that of the frescoes of Siena
and Florence in European art. The Ajanta painters used a tempera technique, applying their colors onto
a thin layer of dry plaster rather than directly onto the walls themselves. The plaster was composed of
organic material, including vegetable fibers and rice husks, mixed with fine sand. The paints themselves,
in vivid chromatic colors, were derived from locally available minerals, though the blue is believed to
have come from lapis lazuli imported from Central Asia.
Apart from the Padmapani figure in Cave 1, I was most struck by a painting in Cave 16 portraying the
conversion of Prince Nanda by the Buddha, as his princess swoons, realizing she is to lose her husband
to the world-renouncing faith of his preceptor. The narrative painting, depicting the mournful
messenger bearing the news, an attendant bringing the prince's rejected crown, and melancholy ladies-
in-waiting consoling the grieving princess, is an extraordinary evocation of the price of faith, rendered
with exquisite sensitivity. In a different mood is a flying apsara (celestial nymph) in Cave 17, a figure of
joy and glitter, her necklace studded with diamonds and sapphires that glint 15 centuries after she was
painted, her ribbons trailing gaily as she swings forward.
In all the caves, the paintings reveal a high level of technical skill, with a subtle use of shading and
highlighting to achieve a three-dimensional effect. There are curiosities: the women in the pictures are
all dark, the men all fair, and it is not clear whether this was an artistic convention or the reflection of
some ancient colonizing sensibility. With their varied themes, their sophisticated execution and their
vivid depictions of human and animal forms, the painting of Ajanta made a tremendous impact across
Asia, becoming a model for artists throughout the Buddhist world.
We returned to Aurangabad after five hours, having consumed the Taj's packed offerings in a gazebo a
hundred steps below the cave level. Our patient porter had sensibly waited downstairs, rather than dog
our footsteps as we climbed, and he laid claim to the gazebo before anyone else had the same idea.
Oddly enough, there is no concession stand, let alone a restaurant, in the complex; while there is no
shortage of peddlers offering everything from postcards to samples of local rock, you have to bring your
own food.
Before boarding the aircraft for Bombay, I asked D. M. Yadav, the senior tourism official in Aurangabad,
about the threatened closure of the caves. He seemed puzzled. ''Why would we do that?'' he asked.
''People have been coming daily to Ellora for 2,000 years, to Ajanta for somewhat less. Why stop them
now?''
''Never believe everything you hear at diplomatic parties,'' the twins chimed in. But I was grateful for the
misinformation, which had sent us scurrying here in the monsoon. We had seen the caves, encountered
no crowds and stuck to our schedule. What's more, not a single flight was canceled because of the
weather. And we didn't even really get wet
