A tomb that became a temple. Under the floor of this building lies a teacher, and the man who buried him went on to become the most consequential monk in south Indian history. Around that grave his disciples raised twelve monolithic pillars carved with the signs of the zodiac, set so that the year itself walks across them — and then wrapped the whole thing in a stone skin that cannot decide whether it is Hoysala or Vijayanagara, because it was built at the exact moment one became the other.
The story of Vidyashankara Temple, Sringeri
Almost every temple in India is built for a god. This one was built for a man. The Vidyashankara temple stands over the samadhi — the grave — of Vidyashankara Tirtha, also known as Vidyatirtha, the 10th Jagadguru of the Sringeri Sharada Peetham, and it was raised by his own disciple. That disciple was Vidyaranya, who would become the 12th Jagadguru and, by tradition, the guiding intelligence behind the founding of the Vijayanagara empire. The building you are looking at is a student’s monument to his teacher, and it happens to be one of the most architecturally strange temples in Karnataka.
You notice the strangeness before you notice anything else, because the plan is wrong. Indian temples are square, or a star made of rotated squares. This one is neither. It is apsidal — rounded at both ends, so the outline is close to an ellipse, formed as if two curved halves had been pushed together back to back. Inside, the chambers and the sanctum are laid out on the square principle you would expect; outside, the wall line and the tower run on an almost circular plan. The effect from thirty paces is of a stone ship: a long swelling body under a tall Dravidian tower, ringed the whole way round with sculpture.
The east half of the building is a hall, and in that hall stand the twelve pillars the place is famous for. They are monoliths, each carved with one sign of the zodiac — the rashi stambhas — and set out in the order of the solar year. The math’s own account of them is precise about the claim being made: the pillars are "arranged in such a manner that the rays of the sun fall on each of them in the order of the twelve solar months". The building is, in other words, a calendar. Whichever solar month you are standing in, one pillar is the one the light is on. There is a raised circle set into the floor with lines converging on it, which catches the pillar shadows as the light swings across them.
The sanctum at the west end holds a linga, and the temple is a Shiva temple in that sense. But it is a Shiva temple with company. On the south side of the sanctum are Brahma and Saraswati; on the west, Vishnu and Lakshmi; on the north, Shiva and Parvati. The whole Hindu trinity, with their consorts, arranged around one grave. You can enter from four directions, and a circumambulation passage runs around the sanctum, opening onto smaller shrines to gods and goddesses drawn from several different Hindu traditions. Vidya Ganapati stands on one side of the sanctum entrance and Durga on the other. This is not a sectarian building. It was very deliberately built to include everybody.
That inclusiveness goes further than most visitors realise, and it is carved into the outer wall. Among the reliefs is a Dashavatara panel — the ten incarnations of Vishnu — in which the fourth figure from the right is not a Hindu avatar at all. It is Rishabhanatha, the first Tirthankara of the Jains. Scholarship on Sringeri has long argued, on twelfth-century evidence, that this riverbank was a Jain centre before it was a Hindu one; Paul Dundas puts it bluntly, that Sringeri "was originally a Jain centre that was taken over by Hindus in the fourteenth century". Whatever you make of that argument, someone carving this wall in the fourteenth century put a Jain saint into a Hindu panel and left him there. It is the most honest thing in the building.
The style has confused specialists for a century. The Mysore Gazetteer notes that the Hoysala features are so marked "that it has been seriously set down by some writers as a Hoysala temple" — the raised terrace it stands on, the running bands of animals and Puranic scenes across the outer walls — but concludes that the plan is "plainly Dravidian", and calls it "the most ornate temple in the Dravidian style in the State". It is, in that same source’s phrase, "a veritable museum of sculptures for the study of Hindu iconography". Look for the detail almost everyone walks past: chains of stone rings, carved from single blocks, hanging free from the eaves at several corners.
It is also still a working temple, not a monument with a ticket desk. The Archaeological Survey of India looks after the fabric; the math conducts the worship. Its own chariot festival, the Vidyatirtha Rathotsava, runs for seven days in the month of Kartika. And when the light is right and there is nobody about, you can stand in the mandapa with twelve stone months around you and understand exactly what was being attempted here — which is not decoration, and not even really commemoration, but a machine for keeping time over a teacher’s grave.
Legend & myth
Sringeri’s name is a legend before it is a place name. It is properly Rishyashringa-giri, the hill of Rishyashringa — the horned sage of the Ramayana, born to Vibhandaka and raised in the forest without ever having seen a woman. The Bala Kanda tells how the kingdom of Anga lay under drought, and how its king was advised that only the untouched Rishyashringa could bring rain. The 1930 Mysore Gazetteer retells the rest with some relish: a band of young women were sent in the disguise of hermits, arrived at Narve near Sringeri, waited in the woods for the fearsome father to be absent, and drew the boy out with their "sports and gambols" until he followed them onto a raft made to look like an island and was floated away. Rain followed him to Anga. This is told as scripture, not as history; the hill and the hermitage are shown, but nothing dates them.
The founding legend of the math itself is the one every guide tells, and it is worth hearing properly. Adi Shankara, walking the bank of the Tunga, is said to have seen a cobra with its hood spread — not to strike, but to shade a frog that was in labour. Reading that as a sign that a place where natural enemies suspend their instincts must be holy ground, he stayed twelve years and founded his first matha here. Again: this is hagiography. Historians point out that the earliest firm evidence for the math is fourteenth-century, and Paul Hacker observed that until the fifteenth century the recorded terms of Sringeri’s heads run to sixty and even a hundred and five years, which is not how human beings work — after 1386 they abruptly become normal.
A third legend attaches to the temple itself, and it is a legend about a legend. The tradition that Vidyaranya inspired Harihara and Bukka to found Vijayanagara in 1336 — that he converted them back from Islam, blessed them, and effectively made the empire — is repeated on every signboard in this district. Modern scholarship on the sources is unkind to it. Filliozat, Kulke and Wagoner argue that Vidyaranya was not involved in the founding at all, and that the story is a "political foundation myth" composed perhaps two hundred years later. Vidyaranya is not named in any inscription before 1374. The point is not that the legend is worthless — it is the reason this temple was built and endowed as richly as it was — but that it is a legend about power, written by people who needed it to be true.
Read the full history of Vidyashankara Temple, Sringeri 1040 more words
History
The site is old and its earliest religion is disputed. Hermann Kulke records that the earliest historical evidence for Sringeri, from the twelfth century, shows it as a centre of Jainism; Paul Dundas states that it was a Jain centre taken over by Hindus in the fourteenth century. The math’s own tradition traces the establishment to Adi Shankara in the eighth century. The two accounts have never been reconciled and we do not pretend otherwise. The Dashavatara relief on this temple’s own wall, with the Jain Tirthankara Rishabhanatha standing in the line of Vishnu’s incarnations, is the physical residue of whatever actually happened.
The fourteenth century is where the record becomes solid, and it becomes solid because of money. A Sringeri stone grant dated Saka 1268 — 1346 CE — records the gift of nine villages by Harihara I, his four brothers, his son-in-law Ballappa-Dannayaka and prince Sovanna-Odeyar to the forty Brahmans of Sringeri, so that the ascetics could continue their austerities. It invokes the blessings of Vidyatirtha, who was plainly alive when it was cut. From this point on the inscriptions come thick and fast and the history of the math can actually be written.
The temple’s own date is contested three ways and we print all three. The math itself gives 1338 CE, and that is the figure repeated by almost every guidebook and travel page. The Mysore Gazetteer of 1930 gives 1356 CE, twice, and captions its own photographic plate "Vidyasankara Temple, Sringeri, 1356 A.D.", assigning it to the reign of Bukka I. The earliest inscription that actually names the deity is dated 1389 CE — E.C. X, Mulbagal 11 — recording a gift by Iramadi-Bukka, son of Harihara II, "to the god Vidyasankara set up in the name of Vidyasankara, the predecessor and guru of Vidyaranya at Sringeri", with a second grant following in 1392 (E.C. VI, Sringeri 22).
⚠ There is a specific difficulty with the popular 1338 date. The Gazetteer shows from epigraphy that Vidyatirtha — the guru this temple memorialises — was still alive in 1356, when Bukka I came to Sringeri, made obeisance and endowed the math (M.A.R. 1916, para 93), and it states directly that the Sringeri list’s own death date of 1333 for him "is not correct". A memorial raised over a man’s grave cannot be finished eighteen years before he dies. On the epigraphic evidence the building belongs to the second half of the fourteenth century, not 1338. We are not in a position to settle it, and neither is anyone else without new evidence; what we can do is not repeat one date as though the others did not exist.
George Michell’s reading adds a further complication that visitors should know: what stands today reflects sixteenth-century additions, so the fabric is not all of one date even if the core is. The small gopuram is much later still — built under the 33rd Jagadguru, Sacchidananda Shivabhinava Narasimha Bharati, and consecrated by the 34th, Chandrasekhara Bharati, in 1916.
The worst day in the temple’s history came in 1791. After the Third Anglo–Mysore War, a body of Pindaris attached to the Maratha forces passed through Sringeri, looted the math’s temples of gold and copper, damaged images and killed some of the Brahmin priests. What makes the episode famous is the correspondence it produced: Tipu Sultan, the Muslim ruler of Mysore, wrote to the Sringeri Jagadguru, sent funds for repair and restoration, and in one letter asked the Jagadguru to perform rituals for "good showers and crops". Scholars read the letters differently — Leela Prasad as evidence of religious tolerance and of Maratha irregulars acting outside orders; A. K. Shastri emphasising the reconciliation that followed, recording that the pontiff protested by fasting on the bank of the Tunga and that the Peshwa ordered the stolen goods recovered and returned with compensation. Prasad notes, against that, that the culprits were never identified and no record of compensation being paid survives.
The temple is today a protected monument in the care of the Archaeological Survey of India, while worship continues under the math. The land settlement that funded all of this for six centuries ended in the 1960s and 1970s, when Indian land-reform law redistributed the estates the Vijayanagara grants had created.
Why visit
Go for the plan, which you will not see anywhere else. An apsidal temple — rounded at both ends, square inside, near-circular outside — is genuinely rare, and this is the finest example of it in Karnataka. Walk the whole way round the outside before you go in. The building only makes sense once you have seen that it has no corners.
Go for the twelve zodiac pillars, and give them the ten minutes they need. Work out which solar month you are in, find that pillar, and look at where the light is. Whether or not the alignment performs exactly as claimed on the day you visit, the intention behind it is unmistakable and it is not a thing you meet in other temples.
Go for the carving. The Mysore Gazetteer called this "a veritable museum of sculptures for the study of Hindu iconography" and "the most ornate temple in the Dravidian style in the State", and that is a nineteen-thirties government publication, not a tourist brochure. Look for the chains of stone rings hanging from the eaves at the corners, cut from single blocks, and for the Dashavatara panel with the Jain Tirthankara standing in it.
Go because it is two minutes’ walk from the Sharadamba temple and most people give it five. The crowd at Sringeri is here for the goddess and for the darshan of the Jagadguru, and it flows past this building on the way. Early morning, before the queue builds, you can have a fourteenth-century royal monument more or less to yourself.
And go for the Tunga. The river runs along the foot of the complex, its fish are protected and famously unafraid, and the whole place sits in the wet green of the Western Ghats at about 640 m. Sringeri is a long way from anywhere — 87 km of ghat road from Chikkamagaluru, 79 km from Udupi — and that remoteness is a large part of why it is still worth the drive.