#7: Iconography of philosophical concepts: An experience in Dholera village
A random man stopped me on the road during my cycling tour to Gujarat, he guided me to a 200-year-old temple in a non-descript village. Here is a not-so-short post on the experience & its lessons.
It was on a cold January morning in Ahmedabad that I started my cycling tour of Gujarat three years ago. I was a bit nervous because it was the first time that I had planned a long cycling tour - over forty-five days - and had decided to go alone. What was adding to my uncertainty was the fact that this was unfamiliar terrain for me - far removed from the mountains where I have travelled most of my life. Mentally, the first day of a long tour and the first few kilometers are important, it sort of sets the tone for the rest of the tour. Once you are underway without any hitches, the rest of the things generally fall into place or you problem-solve on the go.
On the first day out of Ahmedabad, I had set an ambitious target of 115kms to reach a village called Dholera. It is a tiny, nondescript village in rural Gujarat that does not prominently feature on any map unless you are looking for it. I had no intention to visit the village except that it was en route to Velavadar National Park - and that I needed a stop-over in between.
On that foggy morning with low visibility, just when I was feeling comfortable on my saddle having come out of Ahmedabad, I heard a man on his bike honking continuously from behind. I looked back at him and gestured to him with a raised eyebrow and a twirl of my hand, asking what he wanted from me. He quickly overtook me and stopped in front, forcing me to brake suddenly. He got down from his bike said something in Gujarati that I did not understand. It did not help that he was wearing a helmet. A lot of people are curious to see a cyclist on the road with large bags tied to the back. Especially in rural areas, people routinely stop us to ask a few questions and I generally do not doubt their intentions. But this was a little too dramatic for me or maybe it was my own doubts that made me circumspect.
All of my concerns proved to be unfounded because the man - who introduced himself as Harshad Patel from Dhandhuka - was incredibly nice to me. When I mentioned that I was heading to Dholera, he quickly called a friend from the village and guided me to the Swaminārayan Temple. He even gave me a contact and quipped “āpko khāna aur sone ka tayyari mandir me kardiya hai, paisa deneka koi zarurat nahin” (I have arranged for your stay and food at the temple, there is no need to give money). When I thanked him profusely for the help and guidance, he said with pride - “Kathiyawad mein koi bhi problem ho toh call karna, waise idhar sab log aapka dekhbāl karenge, koi chinta nahi” (Call me if you have any problem in Kathiyawad, you won’t need it because people here will take good care of you, do not worry). Maybe he sensed my worried face initially. Irrespective, I was amazed by the fact that this guy was so confident of the hospitality that his people would extend to a traveller like me, that he was taking responsibility on behalf of millions of people spread over 60,000sqkms (150% the size of the Netherlands)!
I mention all of this because I had an incredible experience at the Dholera Swaminarayan temple, which was made possible by Harshad Patel, the random man who stopped me on the road. And today’s post is based on the interesting iconography of the murti (sculpted figure) of Krishna at the 200-hundred-year old temple, which piqued my curiosity about the philosophy behind the iconography.
The missing flute
It was day two of my tour and I woke up to a beautiful morning. Ever since I reached the temple the previous evening, I was treated with great respect and was even forced to eat many Bājra-nu-rotlas (thick Rotis made of local millets) for dinner by the Mahant - the chief of the temple. After the complex was closed at night for visitors, he explained to me the history and the prominence of the temple in their community. He also showed me the beautiful murtis up close, which were placed in the sanctum by Swaminārayan himself. (Dholera is one among the original six temples consecrated by the ascetic Swaminārayan in the early 1800s, the community following the saint has now built hundreds of temples across the world, most notable is the Akshardham temple in Delhi.)
When he was showing the murtis, I noticed something peculiar. The flute in Krishna’s hands was not part of the murti itself but was placed externally, even though Krishna’s hands were in a position of playing the flute. So the flute is placed in Krishna’s hands as part of ‘alankāra’ or decoration of the murti. Even though Krishna has his hands lifted up, in a position of playing the flute, the instrument is itself missing from his hands!
This was puzzling to me because, in southern India, Venugopāla, the form of Krishna playing the flute, is depicted with the flute being a part of the murti itself - the instrument is not placed in the empty hands of Krishna as I was seeing in the Dholera temple. When I inquired with the Mahant about the reason for such depiction of the deity, he said this is how it was consecrated and that it was a fairly popular depiction of Krishna. I could not make sense of it and left Dholera with the question. It was intriguing for me because I was a student of the Bānsuri, the Indian bamboo flute, so I really wanted to know the meaning behind the symbolism.
Flute as a metaphor of the human body
While I left Dholera without an answer, the question kept lingering in my mind. I did not find anything meaningful on the subject on the internet or from my Bānsuri Guru. But one random day, I came across an image of Krishna depicted in the same manner as in the Dholera temple. It was a beautiful painting by Keshav Venkataraghavan, a great artist from Hyderabad, who runs a series called Krishna for today. He brings out new paintings of Krishna nearly every day and has been running the series for two decades now!
I quickly wrote to Keshav Ji, asking him the reason behind such a depiction in many of his paintings and if there was any philosophical meaning behind the iconography. His reply was short but fascinating! “The flute is not missing, you are the flute. It is a depiction of Krishna blowing life into our bodies”, he said.
It was a brilliant explanation. Krishna in his Bhagavad-gita tells Arjuna not to worry about the events that would unfold in the war, telling him that what will happen is already willed by Krisha himself. He says in the 33rd shloka of the 11th chapter - ‘mayaivaite nihatāḥ pūrvam eva nimitta-mātraṁ bhava savya-sāchin’ - which translates to - ‘the Kauravas have already been slain by me, you will only be my instrument’. So the analogy makes sense - that we, humans, are considered an instrument in the hands of God. Of course it depends on your own belief but the explanation itself seemed appropriate. I was still not fully satisfied with the answer. Any instrument could have been used to convey the concept, but why just the flute? Of course, Krishna has historically been associated with the instrument. However, the flute was being associated with the human body here. What could be the reason for it?
Nine holes and the city of nine gates
From ‘why was there no flute in Krishna’s hands?’ My question had evolved to ‘why was the Flute being compared to the human body?’ This time too, the answer popped up arbitrarily. On a phone call with a friend who was interested in learning to play the flute, I was trying to explain the difference between the Carnatic bamboo flute and the Hindustani bamboo flute. The former is called the Venu and the later Bānsuri. Just when I was telling him, ‘The Carnatic flute has 7 playing holes and the Hindustāni one has 6 playing holes’ I was instantly reminded of a song that I have been hearing from my childhood, one that compares the human body to a ‘city of nine gates’. It is a Kannada song written by the legendary Purandara Dāsaru which goes - ‘ūra devara mādabekanna’ (Worship the God of your town/city)
The moment I finished that call, I realised that the analogy of flute and the body was based on the number of holes in each ‘instrument’. The total number of holes in the Bānsuri I play was indeed nine - one blowing hole, six playing holes, one tuning hole and one opening at the very end. And the human body too, consists of nine openings or gates. I am sure you can count them yourself. Purandara Dāsaru, the philosopher-poet par excellence, has written an excellent song comparing the human body to a city - ūru. In this city, God is present in the middle of nine dwaaras - nine gates. The line goes - ‘uura devara maadirendu saarutihe shruti irulu hagalu, dvaragalu ombattu mucci nillisi bhrumadhyadalli’ (The shāstras are telling you to worship the God of your city, who is present in the middle, with its nine gates closed). By city, Purandara Dāsaru is referring to our bodies, and the nine gates of the city signify the nine openings in our bodies. And since the flute too has nine holes, it is used as a metaphor to symbolise the human body. The depiction of Krishna blowing into the flute symbolises God putting life into our bodies. Without the air he blows into the ‘instrument’, there is no room for music (life).
Interestingly, there is even an etymological connection between the words ‘city’ and ‘person’. The word used to refer to a person in Sanskrit/Kannada is ‘Purusha’, which is based on the same root form as the word ‘Pura’ which means a city/town. Even to this day, names of hundreds and thousands of towns in India end with ‘Pura/Pur’! Fascinating, isn’t it?
Krishna’s own metaphor
One might question on what basis Purandara Dāsaru has used the metaphor. My philosophy teachers would laugh at me if I used a metaphor to make sense of another metaphor! So on what basis does Dāsaru use the metaphor of the city with nine gates to refer to the human body? The incredible scholar that he was, the analogy he uses is coming from Krishna himself. Krishna says in the 13th verse of the 5th chapter of the Bhagavad-gīta:
‘sarva-karmāṇi manasā sannyasyāste sukhaṁ vaśhī
nava-dvāre pure dehī naiva kurvan na kārayan’‘Discarding all action through his mind, the person who controls his body, the city with the nine gates, remains in happiness. He doesn’t do anything himself. Nor does he cause anyone to do anything.’ (translated by Dr.Bibek Debroy)
This is the reason Purandara Dasa while using this metaphor in his song writes ‘dwaaragalu ombhattu mucci’ - ‘city with its nine gates closed’ to refer to the residence of God. Indicating that one can realise the presence of God (and in turn happiness) in one’s own self if one can shut out external influences (seven out of nine ‘gates’ are external sensory organs) and can focus on what is inside!
So there it is. The reasoning behind the iconography found in the Dholera temple, where Krishna is shown with empty hands in the flute playing position. The flute is a symbol of human body, a hollow object with nine openeings. The music called life is dependant on God who blows life into this body. It is this philosophical position that the image of Krishna signifies. The flute being deliberately left out is meant to remind us that we ourselves are the flutes in the hands of Krishna, to remind the visitors of the reality of life as per this belief of the Vaishnava sampradāya.
You might wonder why I have pondered so much over this subject. But when interesting questions are triggered by rich personal experiences, they have a way to stay with you for longer than questions that arise from reading literature. There is great joy in finding answers to such questions. And this was an incredibly long answer to a question that was triggered by an experience that happened because a random person decided to stop me on the road! If Krishna is indeed playing us, the flutes, he sure plays an interesting tune, no? :)