Eloquent Spaces: Meaning and Community in Early Indian Architecture 9780815382096, 9780367225964, 9780367225988

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ELOQUENT SPACES

Eloquent Spaces adopts the twin analytic of meaning and community to write a fresh history of building in early India. It presents a new perspective on the principles and practices of early Indian architecture. Defining it broadly over a range of space uses, the book argues for architecture as a form of cultural production as well as public consumption. Ten chapters by leading archaeologists, architects, historians and philosophers, examining different architectural sites and landscapes, including Sanchi, Moodabidri, Srinagar, Chidambaram, Patan, Konark, Basgo and Puri, demonstrate the need to look beyond the built form to its spirit, beyond aesthetics to cognition, and thereby to integrating architecture with its myriad living contexts. The volume captures some of the semantic diversity inherent in premodern Indian traditions of civic building, both sacred and secular, which were, however, unified in their insistence on enacting meaning and a transcendent validity over and above utility and beauty of form. The book is a quest for a culturally rooted architecture as an alternative to the growing crisis of disembededness that informs modern praxis. This volume will be of interest to scholars and practitioners of architecture, ancient Indian history, philosophy, art history and cultural studies. Shonaleeka Kaul is Associate Professor at the Centre for Historical Studies, Jawaharlal Nehru University: New Delhi, India. Her previous works include The Making of Early Kashmir: Landscape and Identity in the Rajatarangini (2018), Cultural History of Early South Asia: A Reader (2014) and Imagining the Urban: Sanskrit and the City in Early India (2010).

ELOQUENT SPACES Meaning and Community in Early Indian Architecture

Edited by Shonaleeka Kaul

First published 2019 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2019 selection and editorial matter, Shonaleeka Kaul; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Shonaleeka Kaul to be identified as the author of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Disclaimer : The international boundaries, coastlines, denominations, and other information shown in any map in this work do not necessarily imply any judgement concerning the legal status of any territory or the endorsement or acceptance of such information. For current boundaries, readers may refer to the Survey of India maps. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record for this book has been requested ISBN: 978-0-815-38209-6 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-367-22596-4 (pbk) ISBN: 978-0-367-22598-8 (ebk) Typeset in Bembo by Apex CoVantage, LLC

Śrīkṛṣṅārpaṅamastu

For M.N. Ashish Ganju

CONTENTS

List of figures List of contributors Acknowledgements 1 Introduction: towards a semantics of architecture Shonaleeka Kaul

ix xii xiv 1

2 Form, space and consciousness: architectural principles in the Vastushastras Bettina Sharada Bäumer

13

3 Breathing life into monuments of death: the stupa and the ‘Buddha body’ in Sanchi’s socio-ecological landscape Julia Shaw

34

4 Spatial and architectural constructs of tantric Buddhist mandalas: a cognitive approach Pranshu Samdarshi

69

5 The old temple of Basgo, Ladakh: a hypothesis on the superimposition of ‘celestial assembly’ on sculpture and sangha Gerald Kozicz 6 Temple and territory in the Puri Jagannatha imaginaire Manu V. Devadevan

88

105

viii

Contents

7 Stepwells in western India: Ranki Vav at Patan Rabindra Vasavada 8 Outer places, inner spaces: constructing the gaze in Chola Chidambaram Aleksandra Wenta 9 Interpreting public space in the Jaina Basadis of Moodabidri Pratyush Shankar

129

145

166

10 On the water’s edge: tracing urban form in old Srinagar M.N. Ashish Ganju

179

Glossary

197

FIGURES

1.1 1.2 2.1 2.2 2.3 2.4 2.5 2.6 2.7 3.1 3.2 3.3 3.4 3.5 3.6 4.1 4.2 4.3 4.4 4.5 5.1

Ashoka Pillar at Sarnath with Lion Capital atop Inverted Lotus Map of India with architectural sites Shilparatnakosha manuscript Temple as Purusha based on Shilparatnakosha Shriyantra superimposed on the ground plan of Rajarani Temple The parallel between form (rupa) and sound (nada) Konarka Apsaras: ananda rasa Rajarani Temple as Shricakra Meru Rajarani Temple Map of urban and Buddhist sites in early historic India Sanchi Survey Project study area with main type sites Sanchi Stupa 1 Andher Stupa Early historic complex at Sanchi hill Buddhist site types and settlements Kalachakra temple at Tibetan settlement of Dharamshala, Himachal Pradesh Plinth of Lauria-Nandangarh stupa at West Champaran, Bihar Structure of multi-terraced Kesaria stupa at East Champaran, Bihar Mandala design on multi-layered structure of different world-realms Compound of Tabo Monastery, Spiti Valley View from above the Basgo Temple into the hall

8 10 17 18 24 26 27 30 31 35 37 47 48 49 51 74 78 78 79 81 89

x

Figures

5.2 5.3 5.4 5.5 5.6 5.7 5.8 6.1 6.2 6.3 6.4 6.5 7.1 7.2 7.3 7.4 7.5 7.6 8.1 8.2 8.3 8.4 8.5 9.1 9.2 9.3 9.4 9.5 9.6 10.1 10.2 10.3 10.4 10.5

Un-bonded joint Plans, sections, geometric relations and transformation process from diagram to architectural plan Mahavairochana of the Tabo Tsugla khang Comparative f loor plans with areas covered by the sculptures of the Vajradhatu mandala: Tabo, Charang, Basgo Diagrammatic comparison of Type A (Nako) and Type B (Alchi) Completion of the Basgo mandala diagram and shift of Vairochana Tentative reconstruction of the sculptural assembly using the Tabo sculptures to fill the empty medallions Plan of the Jagannath Temple The Conceptualization of Ratha The Jagannatha Temple of Puri The Shatrughneshvara Temple of Bhubaneshwar The Brahmeshwara Temple of Bhubaneshwar Ranki Vav structure Constructive logic of Ranki Vav View of stepped corridor from east Stepwell shaft side view from west View of Stepwell from northeast side corner Lateral structure within the kund Golden roof of Nataraja Chidambaram Temple Inside the Nataraja Chidambaram Temple Shiva performing ananda-tandava, 18th century, Andhra Pradesh: Los Angeles County Museum of Art Shiva as the Lord of Dance, 10th century, Tamil Nadu: Los Angeles County Museum of Art Raja-sabha The Moodabidri settlement in the regional landscape The nonhierarchical public open space The settlement of Sravanbelagora, Karnataka The foreground of Lepad Basadi and Derma Shetty Basadi Section showing the foreground in front of Derma Shetty Basadi Temple Entrance as place-making structures of Derma Shetty and Vikram Shetty (right) temples The course of the River Jhelum through Srinagar city with old bridges (kadal) Section from the river to the bazar House plan and section Srinagar City on both sides of the Jhelum River Old Fateh Kadal with Shah Hamdan in the background

92 93 96 97 98 99 100 109 111 112 113 115 140 141 142 142 143 143 152 152 153 155 160 170 172 173 173 175 176 185 185 186 191 191

Figures

10.6 10.7 10.8 10.9 10.10 10.11

The bazar street running parallel to the river The houses on the river with doongas in the foreground Pinjrakari lattice screen Jhelum riverfront with backdrop of the mountains Floating gardens on the edge of Dal Lake Houses on the canal near Rainawari

xi

192 193 194 195 195 196

CONTRIBUTORS

Bettina Sharada Bäumer is a renowned Indologist, Padmashri, and author of

several works including Abhinavagupta’s Hermeneutics of the Absolute: Anuttaraprakriya An Interpretation of his Paratishika Vivarana. She has taught at several institutions, including Banaras Hindu University and University of Vienna, and is currently Director of Samvidalaya: Abhinavagupta Research Library, Varanasi, India. Manu V. Devadevan is assistant professor of history at the Indian Institute of

Technology, Mandi, India, and author of A Prehistory of Hinduism. M.N. Ashish Ganju is a practising architect and has taught at the School of Planning and Architecture, Indian Institute of Technology, and the University of East London. He was the founding director of the TVB School of Habitat Studies, New Delhi. He is the author of The Discovery of Architecture. Gerald Kozicz received a PhD in architecture at the Technical University of

Graz, Austria, and has led four major research projects on Himalayan architecture funded by the Austrian Science Fund since 2005. Pranshu Samdarshi has received a PhD from the Department of History, Uni-

versity of Delhi, India. His research explores the dynamic relationship between sacred feminine imagery and Buddhist Tantra practice. Pratyush Shankar is an adjunct professor at CEPT University, Ahmedabad,

India, and was Senior Humboldt Fellow at Universitat Bonn, Germany. He is the author of Himalayan Cities.

Contributors xiii

Julia Shaw is Lecturer at the Institute of Archaeology, University College Lon-

don, United Kingdom, and author of Buddhist Landscapes in Central India: Sanchi Hill and Archaelogies of Religious and Social Change and Archaeologies of Well-Being: Environnmental Ethics and Buddhist Economics in Ancient India. Rabindra Vasavada is an architect and conservation expert, and was the founding head of the conservation studies programme at CEPT University, Ahmedabad, India. He has also been a senior research fellow at Heidelburg University, Germany. Aleksandra Wenta is an assistant professor in the School of Buddhist Studies, Philosophy and Comparative Religions at Nalanda University, India.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

As a historian of Sanskrit literature whose sole interest in buildings was in the ancient variety known as ruins, which she quaintly regarded as a means of timetravel(!) to an antique past that she loved, my foray into the discipline of architecture as a serious academic subject would perhaps never have happened but for one man’s insistence: Munishwar Nath Ashish Ganju. Veteran architect and educator with a passion for rediscovering a more meaningful way of building for our times, Ashish ji persuaded me to join his History of Architecture project way back in September 2013 after chancing upon some of my published works. Thematically speaking, I suppose that one of the running threads of my research career has been reading representations of space – urban, sacred, regional and so on – and eliciting built-in meanings and values, using emic Indic interpretive categories and strategies as far as possible. It is perhaps this combination of an interest in the semantics of spaces and in indigenous methodologies appropriate to their analysis that drove Ashishji’s faith in my ability to take forward his vision as the only advising historian to a small group of like-minded architects, a sociologist, and a political scientist. We were to jointly search for culturally rooted models of architecture that could, it was hoped, provide an alternative to the rather more disembedded and directionless state of the field today. What followed were many a memorable meeting of the History group, as we came to call ourselves. At one of these meetings early in 2017, it was decided that we individually conceive and put together volumes, under the broad rubric of ‘Architecture, History and Society’, that would give expression to the different strands of Indian architecture that we each, coming from different loci, perceived were essential to an understanding of it. Eloquent Spaces is the first volume in this series, and it is fitting that it is devoted to the theme of meaning in early Indian architecture. For being the moving force behind the larger project, for the enormous age-defying

Acknowledgements xv

zeal and energy he brought to it, and for the countless inspiring, supportive and comradely conversations I have had with him over the years, I dedicate this book to Ashishji. Others in the History group gave of their friendship, especially Savyasaachi, with his unconventional ways and unsuspecting humour. Among the contributors I must thank Manu Devadevan, Gerald Kozicz and Aleksandra Wenta for their enthusiasm and promptitude, and Rabindra Vasavada and Ashish ji again, for their timely pieces. I would like to particularly draw the reader’s attention to the latter’s chapter on Srinagar, Kashmir, for I have believed, right since the time I began to edit it jointly with the author, that this chapter carries something of the soul of this volume. My thanks are also owed to Padma Shri Bettina Sharada Bäumer for the inimitable, razor-sharp clarity of her scholarship, and to Pranshu Samdarshi, Pratyush Shankar and Julia Smith for their excellent contributions. Shambhu Nath Mahto executed the map of India carried with my introduction. Pranshu Samdarshi offered the stunning visual of the mandala from Tawang for the cover of this volume. My students Aradhana Singh and Harsha Gautam pitched in with quick editorial work. Architect Mayank Pandey provided crucial last-minute help with the images. Last but not least, Shoma Choudhary of Routledge India was a most genial and efficient publisher. How can I conclude acknowledgements of gratitude without mentioning my husband, Nachiketa, for his abundant faith in the work I do? And, of course, my beloved Jim and Kalli, for keeping their mother alive and well, and dear old Buzky, Whitey, Kalu, Tiny, and the late Babu Bhai, Buddoo and Kali for the blessings they have been. I thank God for these people and this book. Shonaleeka Kaul December 2018

1 INTRODUCTION Towards a semantics of architecture Shonaleeka Kaul

Architecture is a constant rediscovery of constant human values translated into space. Aldo van Eyck

This volume has its origins in a project initiated by a small group of architects and social scientists to write a new history of Indian architecture from an indigenous perspective – a collective, multidisciplinary effort to rethink the categories through which the discipline has been approached so far and to integrate the science of architecture with its humanist, animating spirit. Replacing the formalism that has, by and large, predominated in studies of ancient Indian buildings – which are usually analyzed in and of themselves, isolated from their surroundings – the twin analytic this inaugural volume adopts is that of meaning and community. A word about these here to introduce the set of chapters that follow. A project such as the one this volume represents – a new history of indigenous Indian architecture – throws up a host of challenges. Fundamental among these is the problem of definition and that too of terms and concepts crucial to how the project was conceived. In particular, the words ‘indigenous’ and ‘history’ itself are found to be somewhat elusive, if not fraught. While ‘indigenous’ implies originating or occurring naturally in a particular place, in this case native or inherent to India, there could be fears that ‘natural-ness’ or ‘native-ness’ would tend to elide some of the rich diversity in the country that was generated over the centuries by processes including (though not only) immigration and import, as it were, of a number of social groups and non-Indic cultural traditions. However, as this volume will show, while India’s cultural diversity is undeniable, it need not disable any effort to understand unities – recurrent orienting principles of thought or patterns of praxis or symbols of signification that equally characterize Indian history

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and culture. It is tapping in all their richness some of these ideas and practices in the context of Indian architecture that is at the heart of this project. Then, the term ‘history’, quite apart from its philosophical complexities, brought with it a number of questions to be answered or choices to be made. Who or what (or who all and what all) were the objects of the history we intended to write: small groups of people and their creations or communities at large? And who was the intended audience or readership of this story? Was it only academics or also practitioners of architecture? And relatedly, what was the purpose of this history: merely documentary or also pedagogic? Methodologically, how was it to be written? Was it to be a recording of the profusion of architectural forms and techniques that are on display in the Indian subcontinent, accreted over the ages? Was that even possible, given the vastness of the landmass, its 5,000-year long antiquity, and, again, its mindboggling artistic heterogeneity? Or were we in a quest for something deeper, if necessarily more selective? An engagement perhaps with meanings and motives, with ideas and impulses that moved both the creators and consumers of architecture in this country. In the long durèe, the significance of studying, and therefore writing, a history of architecture draws from the centrality of architecture not just to human habitat but to civilization itself. Indeed, the word ‘civilization’ is derived from the Latin ‘civitas’ which means ‘city’. That is because for historians and archaeologists, civilization has been synonymous with urbanization. In an iconic article called ‘The Urban Revolution’ published way back in 1950 but cited to this day, the archaeologist V. Gordon Childe put forth this association between the city and civilization and went on to offer a definition, as it were, of urbanism itself as consisting in ten criteria. Prominent among these criteria or indicators of a city was the presence of monumental architecture, which meant for ancient times palaces, cemeteries, temples, stadia, granaries, waterworks, town halls, marketplaces and the like. The wisdom behind citing architecture as a defining feature of urban civilization was, of course, empirical since all the world’s earliest civilizations – Mesopotamian, Egyptian, Chinese, Indian, Peruvian – in fact possessed highly developed and striking buildings and settlement layouts. But it was more than that. The correlation between civic architecture and civilization that is recognized by historians also carries a deeper significance that deserves to be gone into here. One: the processes and productions of architecture represented the coming together, the mobilization and channelling, of the community’s resources, knowledge and labour on an unprecedented and unmatched scale, thereby signifying and, of course, presupposing foundational social, economic and political forces of the time and place. In other words, architecture was a tangible index of much wider societal processes and phenomena. Two, not just material processes and phenomena but ideational and valuative ones too are indicated by the development of architecture. That is to say, the association between architecture and civilization would also point to the fact that architecture – like all forms of cultural production – was practice through which a society made sense of itself and the world it inhabited, and through which it articulated its humanity. In other words, it was an expression of the important

Introduction

3

and lasting beliefs and ideals shared by members of a culture, of their weltanschauung or worldview, and was typically invested with meaning and not only utility. Especially for a highly public and performative field like architecture, articulating and communicating that meaning, making it manifest to a knowing audience or clientele that constituted its community of response, would have been important. Another way in which to understand this is from within the discipline of building. Space is by definition abstract, so that architecture may be understood, in one view, as a grappling with and shaping of that abstraction into something more intimate and, of course, more tangible in meaning. Shaping space may be analogous to shaping the self for a community; it is the point of interface between a collective and its beliefs. Hence, using the lens of meaning and community, this volume attempts to eke out the centrality of semantics, beyond aesthetics and utility, in premodern Indian conceptions of space-use and building practices. It thereby seeks to explore the ideational content and social presence of architecture in early India. * Consider a paradox. Architecture, from the Greek word architecton meaning ‘prime builder’, is fundamentally articulated space. Or as the architect Aldo van Eyck called it, ‘outlined emptiness’ (van Eyck 1962: 50), the outlining performed via the act of building, which involves enclosing and containing space in some measure or the other. In Indic conceptions, however, right from the first millennium bce, the word for space is akash, which implies vastness, transcendence and an all-encompassing phenomenon – in other words, the very opposite of anything finite, bounded or enclosed. In this understanding, architecture would be the paradoxical attempt to limit the limitless, enclose the unenclosable. Is architecture, then, a contradiction in terms? And yet, humankind has been building and enclosing space for millennia. So what does this transition from the unlimited to the limited, from the transcendent to the contingent, do to space? What are the qualities it brings to space and what perhaps does it take away? In generating an interior and an exterior, does the practice of building or enfolding space not also generate a profound and artificial divide and duality or splitting asunder of experience? In forcing a separation thus between the world within and the world without, and ushering within the built interiors the bulk of our activities, has civilization and its prime force, architecture, contracted and narrowed down rather than expanded our lives and our realities/sense of reality? This is both a question of physics and metaphysics. Ultimately, however, it is perhaps a question of ethics: What is the practice of architecture meant to effect in human terms? A separation or a continuum? A split or equipoise? Alienation or belonging? These are questions that have agitated the minds of modern thinker-architects in the West as much as closer home, people who have perceived a growing crisis of mindlessness and disembeddedness in modern and contemporary architecture and have gone on to exhort a style of building that would feel like a ‘built homecoming’, ‘places where we can be what we really are’, ‘most alive’ and at

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complete equipoise with ourselves (van Eyck 1962: 56, 62), or which tapped into the eternal truth in the ordinary and the every day (Alexander 1979: 39). To quote van Eyck further, he observed: The wonderful thing about architecture is that it is an art. . . . The terrible thing about architects today is that they’re not artists! . . . Far from expanding reality . . . architects have often contracted reality. . . . We must come to terms with the spiritual machinery of art . . . the alchemy of it . . . and allow it to expand our vision of reality, not make it shrink and wither. [Today] there is no room for the imponderable [in building], for that which defies metric measurement. . . . Whence this loathesome habit of ostracizing all human meaning from place? (van Eyck 1962: 58, 66) Both van Eyck and Alexander felt intuitively the connection between the surrounding built environment and the psycho-social life of humans, and the impact of the former on the latter. They both believed in the transformative potential of architecture in both harnessing and mirroring the inner resources of humankind, and aiding and facilitating the overcoming of contradictions that people and indeed societies felt within themselves – and their attainment of a relaxed equipoise instead, where they were most themselves and therefore most at peace. Though founded on individual psychology thus, van Eyck’s and Alexander’s is fundamentally a social or public manifesto for architecture. They both identified and emphasized the overcoming of dualities – the forced separation of the interior from the exterior in man – as the key to successful, wholesome and harmonious buildings and communities. Like these earlier thinkers who were writing in the West in the 1940s – 1970s, we too feel the need in this volume to raise these questions of what ultimately are the ends of architecture, since the answer to this question is far from obvious in the architecture, or should one say constructions, that do surround us in this modern, technocratic, machine age where building is a heedless, profiteering business. If you look at urban architecture in India in the last few decades of the 20th century and the ongoing ones of the 21st, an overwhelming functionalism and monotony, apart from a confused poverty of form, is the predominant impression one gets from the mushrooming jungle of skyscraper-slums that the urban core and peripheries alike are becoming. While there is nothing wrong with function and it is a necessary and often sufficient impetus for building, the question really is what is the nature of function that is aimed at. Is it that of mere utility or is it that of purpose – a lasting human validity (van Eyck 1962: 49, 75)? The two are vastly different in terms of their social, not to say spiritual potential and impact. * Historically, scholars speak of two broad kinds of function performed by public architecture: the sacred and the secular. To these the great shrines of early India

Introduction

5

and their cities and palaces, respectively, can be assigned. Among the chapters in this volume, sacred architecture in stone predominates, not by design but somewhat naturally since these are typically the best-preserved specimens of early buildings which are extant today. In their time, they were also richly invested in – not only financially but ideologically and therefore they present (somewhat circularly) a fertile ground for the kind of investigation we undertake here. The meaning of sacred architecture, however, was not limited to its building site. This volume also investigates sacred landscapes, emanating from, but extending very widely beyond, a built focus of worship, and often marked by a large network of not only sacred but social and political focii ( Julia Shaw on Sanchi). Moreover, the way space was organized within sacred buildings, whether a Hindu temple (Manu Devadevan on Jagannatha-Puri), a Buddhist monastery (Gerald Kozicz on Basgo), or a Jaina basadi (Pratyush Shankar on Moodabidri), ref lected closely on social structures and public spaces outside, and exhibited complex relationships with these. The integration of architecture and its communities is thus everywhere on display. However, was the distinction between sacred and secular held up assiduously in early India? Or is it perhaps an imposition of Western desacralizing thought that disembeds cultures from their philosophical underpinnings in the name of human progress? Indeed, this distinction or binary is, I submit, a separation imposed by Enlightenment-inspired Eurocentric modernity which expects the sacred today to have a minimal role and the secular perhaps minimal soul. I suggest that this is not how the ancients thought. They professed perhaps far more integrated life goals. In early Indian thought, form and consciousness were considered inseparable, regardless of the character of the building, and their union invested with cultural meaning and efficacy. Architecture was not only a self-consciously undertaken project; it was believed, much like a ritual sacrifice or yajna, to be transformational both for its practitioners and clientele. Hence perhaps the attribution of divine origins to architects. All artisans and craftsmen were believed to be the descendants of divine architects Vishvakarma, Maya and Tvashtari, and the texts ordained that the hand of the craftsperson was ritually pure despite their putative low social origins, as it was engaged in the creation of objects of consecration. Thus building, along with all other forms of cultural production, whether art or craft, was invested with value and sanctity in early Indian thought – a culturally specific statement of intent that attests both to the significance of architecture for its times and to the redundance of the sacred-secular opposition. Let us turn, then, a second time to the concept of space in early India, akash, for more insights on the value of architectural space in Indic thought. In the earliest speculative and cosmological texts, while retaining its essential qualities of infinitude and transcendence, akash could be of three different kinds or scales: in the middle, the citakash, mindspace that gave rise to all activity and perception; above it, paramakash, the infinite space of nameless consciousness; and deep below or within, the hrdayakash, the space of the human heart ( Kramrisch 1991:

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102). What’s more, appearing to confound all notions of scale and hierarchy, the paramakash was exactly replicated in the hrdayakash or rather it reposed in, and was to be found only deep within, the hrdayakash, the inner cave-like heart of man – nihitam guhayam parame vyoman, as the Taittiriya Upanishad first put it.1 Here was the microcosmic paradox: the secret of outermost space is to be found in the innermost. As the Chandogya Upanishad described it: ‘Within the city of brahman, the infinite consciousness, is a small lotus f lower. Within that is a still smaller space, the heart of man (hrdayakash). Within that space is the deepest truth’.2 The hrdayakash is so small that it has no measure, making it measureless like the infinite paramakash. Shining through in all this is the principle of microcosm and macrocosm, the enclosed and veiled interior of the individual subject mirroring the vast and transcendent exterior of the universe. In metaphysical terms, the individual atman mirrored the universal brahman and true knowledge was the realization of their unity, or the true nature of reality was their unity (ekarupam of the Vedas). Indeed moksh or liberation prescribed for every individual, was not some otherworldly pursuit but jivan mukti or the realization in the here and now of nondualism – advaita, the philosophy that established itself as hegemonic from very early, finding expression first in the mystical Upanishads circa 1000 bce through the syncretic Bhagavad Gita which brought the spiritual right into the midst of the social, down to Shankaracarya and Vedanta in the 9th century ce. Of course, one does not have to be an advaitavadin (monist) or even a Hindu to see where I’m coming from. The point is simply that it is to attain and make manifest a culturally validated idea of the true nature of reality that all knowledge systems of early India aimed and strove in a great epistemic unison. Architecture or vastu (from the word for matter vastu or that which has reality vastav) was no exception. Vastu texts, also called shilpashastra s, in the midst of the plethora of technical specifications they offer, were ultimately about architecture not as an end in itself but as a means to an end greater than itself – architecture as meditation on the true nature of reality and as its ‘constructed counterform’.3 Thus whether it was building a sacrificial altar (vedi ), a temple (mandara) or an entire city ( pura), architecture at its highest became perhaps an instrument of liberation. * But how did this happen in actual terms? How did architecture hope to achieve this ultimate of effects and transformations, among others, in the life journey of an individual and the community? Several of the chapters in this volume deal in one way or another with this relationship between architecture and its effects on the community which built it or for which it was built. They explore a range of concepts and practices from different regions of early India to explore the ways in which these models of space-use synergistically fused spirit, form, function and community. They explore the why’s as much as the how’s of the built form. The two conceptual papers in particular (Bettina Bäumer on the mandara and Pranshu Samdarshi on mandala) do so explicitly while the two

Introduction

7

rather more politically engaged ones (Devadevan on Puri and Aleksandra Wenta on Chidambaram) reveal the multiple layers to the meanings involved. This exercise, it is hoped, will help address our quest for the meaning and purpose of architecture beyond its pragmatic appearance and procedures, as well as demonstrate the need to redefine the ends of modern Indian architecture too in culturally and historically rooted terms. Now, it is not as if the need to investigate architecture for the meaning that inhered – well beyond its morphology which was meant to facilitate the articulation of the meaning – has not been felt before. Among the earliest and staunch votaries of this position were the great Ananda Kentish Coomaraswamy and Stella Kramrisch. While the latter’s brilliant and deeply metaphysical work with Hindu temples is continued, as it were, by Bäumer, who figures in this volume, Coomaraswamy worked with a great breadth of architectural forms from early India, from the peasant hut to the royal palace, from city and city gates to the Hindu temple and the Buddhist caitya, seeing and showing underlying commonalities across them. It is instructive to look at the understanding of early Indian architecture that he arrived at since the premises with which this volume proceeds agree a good deal with it. As early as 1930, Coomaraswamy proposed that the interpretation of any architectural element depended on an implicit knowledge of its cultural context rather than on superficial externalities, such as resemblance with Greek, Persian or other non-Indic architectural forms which were privileged till then in inf luential studies of early Indian architecture like the one authored by Percy Brown (1940). To give one example of Coomaraswamy’s approach, he radically showed that the so-called bell capitals that topped the famous Asokan pillars in stone built all across the length and breadth of India’s first empire (3rd century bce) were not a mere decorative element borrowed from Persepolitan prototypes but in fact represented the inverted lotus and not a bell at all! (See Figure 1.1.) The ripe lotus acted within the Indian philosophical system as an appropriate pedestal to carry symbols of high power. This included gods, what to say of kings. This significance of the lotus, in turn, Coomaraswamy attributed to ‘the oldest Indian cosmology, that of water’, where ‘we meet at once with the idea that water is the source and support of all things, particularly the source of life, and the support of the earth’ (Coomaraswamy 1930: 374 cited in Meister 1992: xviii). Now, it is interesting that we meet with the centrality of water and its symbolism in at least three studies in this current volume as well, that too in contexts as widely varying as the urban form of Srinagar (Ashish Ganju) in the north, the Sanchi stupa (Shaw) in central India, and the basadis at Moodabidri (Shankar) in south India, all at very different historical junctures. This may point to what some perceptive scholars like Devangana Desai and AK Ramanujan have acknowledged as the common ‘cultural substratum’ and ‘continuum’ that underlie the apparent diversity of not only early Indian cultural forms and motifs but also religious beliefs and art styles ( Desai 1975: 30, Ramanujan 1999: 34–51).

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FIGURE 1.1

Ashoka Pillar at Sarnath with Lion Capital atop Inverted Lotus

Source: Courtesy Wikipedia.

Not only this, the evidence is clear that there was also likely to have been a common pool of professional architects (sthapati, sutradhar), carpenters (vardhaki ) and sculptors (shilpi ) in circulation in different time periods, who supplied diverse projects of building across the country (Mishra 1975: 8, 11–12, 15). Witness how the Milindapanho, a 2nd century ce text from North-West India, describes the architect as one who, having once carefully planned and built a city in all its glory, ‘would go away to another land’.4 The remarkable historical phenomenon

Introduction

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of the itinerancy of artisan guilds, including those of architects, in early India was a crucial factor in cultural transmission – in shaping and executing recognizable traditions that we today know as Indic. One would like to believe that all this put together may justify speaking of early Indian architecture as a singularity, and exploring the idea of its unities, despite its many regional variations which were clearly in animated dialogue with one another.5 To stay with Coomaraswamy, some 15 years later (1946), he came out with a clear and passionate affirmation of meaning in art of all kinds, ‘a theory of art as the effective expression of theses’ ( Kaul 2014: 29–54). Further, he suggested regarding art as a language rather than a spectacle, regardless of the medium in which the artist worked. In this language, eloquence or beauty was not an end in itself, nor just to display the artist’s skill. It was essentially a means of effective communication. Communication of what? Coomaraswamy read an unequivocally spiritual meaning into art. He spoke of art as meant to ‘assist the soul’s interior revolution, to restore it to order and concord with itself ’, ‘to adhere to ‘our knowledge of what is good and bad for us’ – a concept of liberating art (vimuktida). Not only did Coomaraswamy thus posit all forms of art as the bridge between the material and the spiritual realms; what is noteworthy is the stunning convergence between the thought of Coomaraswamy, writing on ancient Indic art and architecture, and that of van Eyck and Alexander, practising – and lamenting – 20th-century European and American architecture! Here was the ‘lasting human validity’ that van Eyck prescribed, and here the equipoise and overcoming of dualities and rifts in individuals and societies that he and Alexander craved! If one is allowed a bit of mysticism, does this convergence not suggest a transtemporal or timeless purpose of architecture as old as civilization itself? We do not know if van Eyck was familiar with the writings of Coomaraswamy, much less with Indian architecture from 2,000 years ago, but here is what this modern philosopher-architect wrote nonetheless: Architecture is a constant rediscovery of constant human values translated into space. Man is always and everywhere essentially the same. He has the same mental equipment though he uses it differently according to his social and cultural background. . . . Modern architecture has been harping continually on what is different in our own time . . . to such an extent that it has lost touch with what is not different; with what is essentially the same. (van Eyck 1962: 130) The project of this volume is precisely to reclaim those constant human values translated into architectural space in early India. Furthermore, shining through in Coomaraswamy’s thesis was a fundamental recognition of the union, not separation, of beauty, philosophy and utility in Indian art and architecture. All the chapters in this collection attest the same in their own ways and despite coming from very different disciplinary vantage points.

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FIGURE 1.2

Map of India with architectural sites

Source: Courtesy: Shonaleeka Kaul

Apart from socio-sacred architecture of different traditions, other forms of civic architecture such as an urban settlement on the one hand (Ganju), and waterworks like step wells on the other (Rabindra Vasavada on Patan) are explored in this volume. These chapters point to how the practice of architecture in early India (as with all other knowledge systems) innovated and grew robustly beyond its theory. These two case studies, one from the cool wet climes

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of the Kashmir valley, and the other from the hot and dry plains of Gujarat, offer a glimpse into how the origins of local architectural forms and methods lay in their localized environment and ecology to which they were organically aligned. Even in their differences, however, readers shall see how both the Kashmiri city and the Gujarati step wells performed the common function of bringing together form and communitarian spirit. Needless to say, the choice of architectural sites covered in this volume does not begin to provide a comprehensive coverage of the diverse styles of regional architecture in this country; they are not even intended as representative of their regions, given the enormous architectural output every region and sub-region of this land boasts of in early history. The chapters gathered here aim to be merely illustrative of the semantic-interpretive approach this volume champions, in a few broadly cardinal directions north, east, west, south and central India, as it were (see Figure 1.2). Rather than perform only the function of documentation and description, as most art historical approaches to architecture do, or reduce monuments to instruments of power, hierarchy and domination, as materialist histories see it fit to do, this volume attempts to probe and foreground the meaning(s) that early Indian architectural forms held out for their communities – artisans, patrons, users – and thereby both deepen and widen our sense of a rooted architecture. This is the project of uncovering the semantics of Indian architecture – not teaching us anything new perhaps but only ‘reminding us of what we know already’.6

Notes 1 2 3 4 5 6

Taittiriya Upanisad II.1 cited in Bettina Baumer (1991: 107). Chandogya Upanishad 8.1.1–3 cited in Kramrisch (1991: 102). The phrase ‘constructed counterform’ is van Eyck’s. (1962: 50). Milindapanho I.34 and 330, cited by Coomaraswamy in Meister (1992: 3). See Shonaleeka Kaul’s (2014) introduction for a larger discussion of this. The phrase is borrowed from Alexander (1979: xv).

References Alexander, Christopher. 1979. The Timeless Way of Building, New York: Oxford University Press. Baumer, Bettina. 1991. ‘From Guhā to Ākāśa: The Mystical Cave in the Vedic and Śaiva Traditions’, in Kapila Vatsyayan, edited, Concepts of Space: Ancient and Modern, New Delhi: Indira Gandhi National Centre for the Arts and Abhinav Publications, pp. 105–122. Brown, Percy. 1940 [First edition]. Indian Architecture (Buddhist and Hindu Period), Bombay: Taraporevala. Coomaraswamy, Ananda K. 1930. ‘Origin of the Lotus- (So-Called Bell-) Capital’, The Indian Historical Quarterly, 6, pp. 373–375. Coomaraswamy, Ananda K. 2014 [First published 1946]. ‘Figure of Speech or a Figure of Thought?’, reprinted in Shonaleeka Kaul, edited, Cultural History of Early South Asia: A Reader, New Delhi: Orient BlackSwan, pp. 29–54.

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Desai, Devangana. 1975. Erotic Sculpture of India: A Socio-Cultural Study, New Delhi: TataMcGraw-Hill Publishing Company. Kaul, Shonaleeka, edited. 2014. Cultural History of Early South Asia: A Reader, New Delhi: Orient BlackSwan. Kramrisch, Stella. 1991. ‘Space in Indian Cosmogony and in Architecture’, in Kapila Vatsyayan, edited, Concepts of Space: Ancient and Modern, New Delhi: Indira Gandhi National Centre for the Arts and Abhinav Publications, pp. 101–104. Meister, Michael, edited. 1992. Ananda K. Coomaraswamy: Essays in Early Indian Architecture, New Delhi: Indira Gandhi National Centre for the Arts and Oxford University Press. Mishra, R.N. 1975. Ancient Artists and Art Activity, Simla: Indian Institute of Advanced Studies. Ramanujan, A.K. 1999 [reprint]. ‘Is There an Indian Way of Thinking? An Informal Essay’, in Vinay Dharwadker, edited, The Collected Essays of AK Ramanujan, New Delhi: Oxford University Press, pp. 34–51. van Eyck, Aldo. 1962. The Child, the City, and the Artist: An Essay on Architecture: The Inbetween Realm, SUN.

2 FORM, SPACE AND CONSCIOUSNESS Architectural principles in the Vastushastras Bettina Sharada Bäumer

There are at least two ways of approaching the subject of the relationship between text and artistic expression: from the manifestations of art and architecture1 to their underlying principles, archetypes, concepts and shastras2, or from the shastra s, principles, archetypes and concepts to the manifestations. Both ways are equally valid, because in the Indian tradition, as in most traditions – with the exception that India has such a vast corpus of texts underlying the arts – there is a two-way movement. The artistic expression – in any media, but we shall deal with the architectural-sculptural specifically – is never simply an application of shastric prescriptions and principles; and the shastras are not canons limiting the creativity of the artist. Much has been said and written about the role of shastra s in relation to art which need not be repeated here (Dallapiccola 1989). After having spent about three decades of circumambulating, doing a parikrama of the sacred mountain of Indian Art in its fundamental principles, looking at it from various angles and scriptures, respectfully avoiding to ascend it, because the feet of our thoughts, categorizations and classifications may desecrate its sacred space – and having written on some aspects of so-called aesthetics, I attempt to extract the most important ideas underlying this work.

Indian aesthetics or theory of art? It is important to clarify some of the unavoidable terminology: (1) “aesthetics” is a European term and one has to be conscious of its historical implications; (2) in its narrow sense, it seems to deal mainly with the definition of beauty;3 (3) it has been used and applied in the Indian context to much more than sense-experience (aisthesis) and beauty. I understand it more in the sense of a “pervasive theory of Art.” (4) Having been working with, and sharing the insights of the eminent art historian Kapila Vatsyayan, our approach has always been trans-aesthetic (in the narrow sense) and multidisciplinary in the Indian

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context. Multidisciplinary means also multi-textual. I am keeping all this in the background and will necessarily have to choose some texts and some aspects throwing light on my topic. Before descending to the concrete manifestation of aesthetics in architecture (mainly temple architecture), I want to start from the more basic question of the nature of matter in the philosophies underlying architectural theories. These philosophies are mainly based on the Agamas/Tantras – notwithstanding some Vedic – Upanishadic roots. If aesthetics is supposed to deal with form (rupa), it cannot be separated from an understanding of the material which is given form. There is no space in this chapter to go into an entire cosmology, but I want to draw attention to one verse which, in a way, summarizes the Tantric understanding of matter. It is attributed to the Yoga Vasishtha (but not found there) and quoted by authors of Kashmir Shaivism (Kshemaraja, Jayaratha). ashyanam cidrasasyaugham sakaratvam upagatam, jagad-rupataya vande pratyaksham bhairavam vapuh. (Pratyabhijna Hridayam on Sutra 4) I pay homage to the glorious body of Bhairava, who is visibly manifest in the form of the world, and who has assumed form (akara), being a condensation of the density of the joyful essence of Consciousness. This verse contains three words for “form”: one is the divine form or the “luminous body,” vapus, an important key to the Vedic and Shaiva theo-aesthetics; the second is akara, a concrete, embodied form; the third is rupa, an encompassing term in any of the Indian arts. But not by chance the term rasa is used which underlies all Indian aesthetics, here, however, in a symbolic sense of liquidity which becomes solid by coagulation (as ice from water, or sugar-crystal from cane juice). Though the primary meaning is not aesthetic, but a meditation on the essence of the world as a divine manifestation, however, the implication for any aesthetics of form is very deep. That which from a liquid state becomes coagulated in form is nothing but Consciousness: cit. I would extend this meaning to the very manifestation of the temple as the “essence of Consciousness” frozen in stone, or the taking form (akara) of the divine body (vapus). This has inspired me to title one of my articles on temple architecture “From Stone to God.”4

The scriptural basis for architectural aesthetics The search for a pervasive theory of Indian aesthetics with reference to architecture leads us to the Shilpa and Vastushastras. The adjective “pervasive” may be pretentious, especially when we consider the vastness of the historical and geographical

Form, space and consciousness 15

manifestations, (not confined to India), of temples as well as texts. The only solution to this problem of being unable to cover the whole range is (1) to concentrate on some fundamental principles which can be applied and modified according to the historical and geographical contexts and (2) to give some examples of both, texts and temples, which will obviously be taken from a field on which I have researched and have direct experience, which is Odisha. They can be paradigmatic for other regions and styles.5 These two parts or approaches cannot be separated, because the regional texts and temples also contain universal principles. The second question arising is, as already mentioned, to apply “aesthetic” to Indian architecture, sacred or secular. The texts dealing with temple architecture and sculpture (these cannot be separated) are concerned with the creation of a sacred space and form oriented to ritual, and hence have to follow certain principles conducive to the purpose of the structure and form to be created. We could call this the sacred or religious dimension. They are further concerned with the technique of construction, with all the implied engineering methods. The stupendous achievement of building stone temples of the dimensions of a Kandariya Mahadeva in Khajuraho, or of Surya Deul at Konarka demands skills and precision, planning and organization. These shastras further elucidate some fundamental principles of the entire symbolism of temple and sculpture. Where do we place “aesthetics” among these areas? Is it the overall plan and execution, or its parts, and the effect the creation has on the devotee or visitor? In any case, it is not a separate area, and I personally know of only one text which relates the rasa -theory of the Natyashastra to sculpture, seen from both sides, the artist and the onlooker or devotee. Of course, many Shilpashastra s, particularly the descriptive ones, use adjectives for “beautiful” when describing images on temple walls. But to my understanding, the so-called aesthetics of the temple is a unity of these aspects dealt with in the shastra s: the sacred or ritual, the technical, the conceptual or symbolical and the artistic execution of architecture and sculpture. First, a note on the interrelation between text and temple, or between theoretical and practical knowledge may be necessary. This is illustrated in a relief found at Khajuraho (Bijamandala mound), where there are craftsmen carrying a stone on the left side, on the right side is a religious teacher (bearded, holding a manuscript), and in between is a writer, executing the instructions of the acharya. This shows beautifully the interaction, probably, of the religious acharya, the sutradhara or author of the shastra and the shilpis. I may quote two texts from Western and Eastern India which stress the necessary collaboration between the theoretician and the architect or builder (sthapati ): An architect who has book knowledge but has neglected to apply that knowledge to any construction will faint when called upon to demonstrate his knowledge, “like a cowardly warrior on a battlefield.” On the other hand, one who is proficient as a builder but has not studied the shastras will prove to be a blind guide who leads his followers into a whirlpool. ( SamSut ch. 44 quoted by Desai in Das and Fürlinger 2005:199)

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Without knowledge of the proper divisions and other matters, the temple will become disproportionate. Describing the various parts and elements without the help of the shastras would be vain, like walking blind in the darkness of night. ( ShiPrak 2.397–398) The Shilparatnakosha which describes temple types of Odisha with their component parts, describes shilpa (architecture and sculpture combined) as sarvadarshanalakshanam (1.3), which can be interpreted as the characteristic, the symbol or visible expression of all darshanas, which makes the philosophical views of reality perceptible. The expression also implies that the temple, even if it is dedicated to a particular deity, is not sectarian in essence. And the same verse offers salutation to Vishvakarma as “the embodiment of all standards” (sarvapramanarupya), describing shilpa further as sakaratattvam, “the visible form of the principles.” We may take tattva as the reality or essence of art, but I rather understand it as the principles, categories or levels of reality (25 in Samkhya, 36 in the Agamas). Thus shilpa gives form to the abstract principles, “from earth to Shiva,” as the Shaivagamas often summarize. In verse 5 following the temple is praised: sthapakatattva rupena prasadah mukhyarupatah, prashamsanti karukarah nanabhagamshabhedatah. ( ShiRaKo 1.5) According to architectural theory (sthapakatattva), the temple is most important. The artists praise it according to its various types, with their divisions and subdivisions.

Holistic concept of the temple I would like, first, to give the holistic concept of the temple, second, the elements of form language underlying its aesthetics, to be illustrated later by some examples. In several texts, from the Agni Purana to the Shilparatnakosha, the holistic understanding of the temple is contained in its identification with the Vedic Purusha: The vimana (temple) is in the form of the Purush (Primordial Man), from the pitha (plinth) up to the f lag (on the top). (AgPur 61.11) The symbolic implications are multiple, just as the Purusha has manifold implications in the Indian tradition (including the Buddhist). The temple is thus conceived as a living organism, where all the parts are organically related to the

Form, space and consciousness 17

whole. But Purusha is both, cosmic and divine, and hence the temple contains all the three dimensions: theo-anthropo-cosmic or cosmotheandric. The Shilparatnakosha takes this symbolism literally and identifies all the parts of the temple with parts of the body, which is ref lected in the terminology (Figures 2.1 and 2.2).

FIGURE 2.1

Shilparatnakosha manuscript

Source: Courtesy Bettina Bäumer.

FIGURE 2.2

Temple as Purusha based on Shilparatnakosha

Source: Courtesy Bettina Bäumer.

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The other important holistic concept is the connection with the cosmic elements and the complete scheme of the tattvas. Though mostly ritually applied to the temple, this encompassing principle is expressed in the mangalashlokas or benedictory verses by Abhinavagupta to the 37 chapters of the Natyashastra. They praise every element as a form of Shiva (who is not only ashtamurti but vishvamurti ). To give only one example: vishvabijaprarohartham muladharataya sthitam, dhartrshaktimayam vande dharanirupamishvaram. (Abhinava Bharati ch.1 mangala 3) I salute the Lord in the form of the Earth, the sustaining power, who is the basic substratum [of the macro and microcosm], in order to help the growth of the seed of the world. The temple in its superstructure, rising as the vimana or shikhara above the sanctum, ascends through the different levels, “from earth to Shiva.” Here again, the Odishan Shilpashastras identify the five components of the base, called pancakarma, with the five cosmic elements on which the entire structure stands: This khura is called the great earth, and it represents the element earth (tattva). Just as the world is created from the five elements, so the temple is conceived (from the pancakarma) Above this (the khura) is the kumbha, which has the same height as the khura. The kumbha represents the element water, and it always bestows auspiciousness. ( ShiRaKo 1.84–85, p. 59) The text stresses also the aesthetic aspect of these five components: In this way the pabhaga [foot part] looks beautiful on the shikhara and on the shala. Without the pabhaga the shikhara would look defective. ( ShiRaKo 1.102, p. 63) Although literal “translations” of the concepts into architecture are not always easy, nonetheless the total conception corresponds. This correspondence is also one, as we shall see, between language and form. The Shilparatnakosha establishes a conscious correspondence between alankara in poetry and in the temple. Just as the lower part is the trikarma pindika (base with three mouldings), the upper part is the trikarma mandana (ornamentation with three mouldings), and in the middle is a pilaster with creepers as in a poet’s imagination. ( ShiRaKo 1.110, p. 67)

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And it connects the ornamentation again with cosmic creation: Many types of creepers should be carved on the latajangha. Just as in the beginning (of creation), trees (and plants) were created out of the five elements, So, on the shikhara jangha, creepers and trees are pleasing to the mind. ( ShiRaKo 1.111–112 a, p. 67) This understanding of the vegetal decorations on the pilasters of the wall-part is again an indication of the organic nature of the temple. Of course, many elements of temple sculpture have the functions of protection, auspiciousness and bestowing bliss as, for instance, the conspicuous nagastambhas or serpent-pillars on Odishan temples: evam bhagashcha sarvesamanandashubhadayakah (1.159). In the Indian tradition, beauty and auspiciousness are closely related, as the terminology often suggests: subhaga/saubhagya, shubha/shobha, etc. In this way, one can move from the broad conceptions to their detailed application at the temple. Another archetype which finds expression in temple architecture is the cosmic mountain: Meru and Kailasha. The implications of this symbolic correspondence are cosmological, mythical or theological, but also structural. The very term shikhara meaning “peak” implies the mountain as model, and the repetition of the shikhara in miniature shikharikas or vimanikas has an aesthetic effect, but it is equally based on the cosmological and mythic-structural archetype.6 Apart from the cosmological holistic conception of the temples, there is a spiritual base, when the body of the temple (also called garbha in Odishan texts) also represents the yogic subtle body, where the central line passing from the sanctum through the elevation of the shikhara to the opening at the top is identified with the brahmarandhra, on which the kalasha is placed, conceptually dropping down nectar on the linga or murti in the centre. This vertical axis is then symbolically identified with the sushumna or central channel in the yogic body. We shall see this when we come to the interpretation of a Shakti temple.

Measurement and proportion An important, if not dominant, aspect of temple architecture in theory and practice is the entire area of measurements and proportion (tala, talamana, pramana, etc.). This concerns both the technical and the aesthetic aspect. It is a harmonious, balanced proportion of the elements and components of the temple which lends it both, stability as well as beauty. A major part of the Shilpashastras are precisely concerned with this area, and there is no need to give examples. The proportions in temple architecture correspond to rhythmic structures (tala) in music and dance, and to metre (chhandas) in poetry. The term chhandas is also sometimes found in the shastras, the metrical and rhythmic harmony related

Form, space and consciousness 21

to proportions. A classic example is the Brihadishvara in Tanjore, where the proportions between the parts are perfect; for example, the base of the vimana is 200 feet square, and the rising tower is 100 feet, the garbhagriha inside is 25 feet, and the mahalinga is in proportion to the entire structure, or rather gives it the measure, besides the layout of the entire compound which follows the vastupurushamandala, etc.

Composition: nyasa In this context, the term nyasa is important, which is used in the sense of composition in the shastras (cf. ShiRaKo 2.16, 32–33). It has ritual associations with the imposition of mantras on parts of the body in order to transform it into a divine body and make it worthy to perform the ritual. Nyasa in architecture and image-making is therefore not simply a technical device of composition, but it is connected with the divinity to be represented in the building and in the murti or panel. The Vastusutra Upanishad, which is more concerned with the fundamental principles of image-making, and only by implication architecture, begins its chapter on the “integration of the composition” (sambandha prabodhanam, ch. 6) with the laconic Sutra: nyasadharana shreshtha. ( VSUp. 6.1) The concentration on/conception of the composition is most essential. And the commentary following it immediately identifies dharana with srishti: creation. Cosmic creation is then linked with the artistic creation. lakshanaprakashartham shilpavidya. ( VSUp. 4.3, p. 97) The science of Shilpa is to make manifest the (divine) features (characteristics, symbols). The commentary adds, The Artists (shilpodgitha, lit. the praisers of Art) and the priests ( purohita) make many types of composition (nyasa) in due order. The following Sutra (4) enumerates the nine components of Shilpa (lit. rupanavangam), beginning with nyasa (followed by alankarana, mudra, etc.). Nyasa means here rekhanyasa, the placement of lines on the panel (Sutra 6.4 comm.). This brings us naturally to the second theme, the form elements which are basic to both the shastras and the application in architectural and sculptural

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creation. The form language being universal, some of the brief statements of the Vastusutra Upanishad could well be accepted by modern art (Sen 1997: 119–123). In the beginning, the artist (sthapaka) is described as one who has knowledge of the circle and the line (Sutra 1.4). Then the six disciplines of art are enumerated as knowledge of stones (shailam), compositional diagrams (khilapanjara) . . . , the carving of stones (shailabhedana), the arrangement of the limbs or parts (angaprayoga), the emotional disposition evoked by the composition (nyasabhavana), and the understanding of the integration of the composition (sambandha-prabodhana). ( VSUp. 1.8 comm., p. 49)

Point, circle and line The two most fundamental form elements are thus the line (rekha) and the point (the centre point of the circle), which is either described as marma, the vital point (a term from Ayurveda), or as bindu. The connection is expressed in a Sutra: Sutra 14: The bindu, obtained in the centre is the life-breath of the earth. The shilpakaras call it marma (core). ( VSUp. 2.14) The fundamental forms created by the point and the line are thus connected with cosmic realities. Sutra 6: In the beginning is a circle. The circle is the All (universe). The breath of life ( prana) is (contained) in its form, even as the mind is in Man. The circle is Time, according to the Vastuveda. The movement of the circle is restricted (by its circumference), life the f luctuation of the mind. The support of the circle is the immortal, the bindu is its firm position (station) like the atman (in man). Starting from the bindu, by connecting it with another point arises the circumference (enclosure) surrounding it. He who knows this is the supreme Lord, the Overseer, Union ( yoga), he is intelligence (kratu), he is truth. ( VSUp. 2.6 comm., p. 56) All this symbolism of the lines, basic geometric forms, and their cosmic correspondences, is applied to image-making, which starts from a grid or line-diagram, called panjara. The Vastusutra Upanishad is situated at the transition from Vedic ritual to image-making (and temple building, although this is not explicitly contained in the text), and hence the geometry is derived from the Sulvasutras and their science of making altars and sacrificial platforms (kunda, sthandila, vedi), including the yupa or sacrificial post, which remains a symbolic link to temple architecture.7 The yupa is further the prototype of the human figure.

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The following two terms are significant for the entire aesthetic or artistic theory: tattvarupa and rupatattva. Sutra 2.20: sutrayane rekhah subhaga bhavanti. Lines following the Sutra become harmonious. Here Sutra can mean the measuring thread with which the lines are drawn, as also in a ritual yantra or mandala, or else the Sutra as the textual rule. “Harmonious” is the essence of beauty, implying also the proper proportion of the parts. Sutra 21: The knowledge of the compositional diagram (khilapanjara) is the best. Those who know it, who are knowers of form, create the essential forms (tattvarupani ) according to the principle of form (rupatattva). It should be remembered that without tracing the lines (of the diagram) the form becomes deficient. Sutra 22: Vertical lines have the nature of fire, horizontal lines have the nature of water, diagonal lines have the nature of wind (maruta). With the different lines the differences of characters (of images) arise. That form shines forth as determined by the lines and the form becomes perfect (surupa). By depending on the essential lines (tattvarekha), the soul of form becomes manifest, and also that of the represented image. As by sacrificial offerings rain is produced, thus by a harmonious form the mood of meditation is induced. As from rain food is produced, thus from meditation arises absorption. By absorption men become divinized . . . . Sutra 23: By a harmonious form a meditative mood is induced. ( VSUp. 2.21–22, p. 63–64) No aesthetics of Indian Art can ignore these connections between elemental forms, artistic creation, cosmic and sacrificial implications (Vedic or Tantric), and the mood of devotion and meditation produced, leading to divinization and liberation. It is obvious that the line is fundamental to all visual arts, painting, sculpture and architecture, as well as dance, but the Vastusutra Upanishad, among the other texts emphasizing its importance, is particular in linking it with the nature of divinity. In the process of stone carving: The limbs of the images follow along the lines: Sutra 1: The character (bhava) of the form is essential. From the character arises inspiration, from that inspiration divine vision, the action for this is the science of carving (bhedanavidya). As from highest knowledge arises divine nature, thus men can obtain divine nature through perfect form. In order to manifest the character of the image to the minds of the people, the sthapakas proceed with great care in the creation of forms. ( VSUp. 3.1, p. 67)

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FIGURE 2.3

Shriyantra superimposed on the ground plan of Rajarani Temple

Source: Courtesy Bettina Bäumer.

Yantra What is called panjara, the line-diagram underlying the composition of images, in the Vastusutra Upanishad, is called yantra in the Shilpa Prakasha, obviously reflecting its Tantric tradition. Yantra has here two applications: the ground plan of the temple, or the sacred-symbolic diagram placed beneath the centre of the garbhagriha (and other parts of the temple), depending on the deity to whom the temple is dedicated; and second it is the symbolic outline of images to be carved on the temple walls. At the foundation of a Shakti temple a yogini yantra is placed (Figure 2.3). There is no place here to go into the implied symbolism. Alice Boner writes in her introduction to the Shilpa Prakasha: After the consecration of the Yogini-yantra in the foundation of the garbhagriha, the erection of the temple-walls begins. Symbols, which hitherto were expressed in the form of yantras, reappear in another form in the

Form, space and consciousness 25

constructive and decorative elements of the temple. While the symbolism of yantras is abstract and refers to the essence and nature of creative processes, in the build-up of the temple it is formal and plastic and makes reference to concrete manifestation in the world of forms. ( ShiPrak p. 21) The Shilpa Prakasha is unique as a Shastra on temple architecture describing the yantras underlying the images displayed on the walls. In the discussion on the so-called erotic images on the temples, which is often misunderstood, the text gives a unique key to understanding the different levels of meaning, so typical of Tantric symbolism. The kamakala yantra is drawn containing the integration of the Linga with the kalashakti (ShiPrak 2.508–529), and the mithuna-murti is carved on top, hiding it beneath. The most secret (kamakala) yantra is best for giving protection to all. It is the evident giver of power and the manifest bestower of all perfections (siddhis). In the best temples dedicated to the Shakti or to Rudra this yantra must certainly be placed. Then the monument will stand forever. This yantra is utterly secret. For this reason, a love scene (mithuna-murti ) has to be carved on the lines of the yantra. In the Kaulachara tradition it should be made on the lovely jangha in the upper part of the wall. The kamabandha is placed there to give delight to the people. ( ShiPrak 2.536–539) Here the two levels of understanding of the mithuna murtis are implied: the Tantric initiate sees and contemplates the yantra, whereas the common people are delighted by the representation of the love scene. Devangana Desai, in her thorough study of the Khajuraho Temples, has applied this yantra to some of the mithuna images and groups and found in it the key to their understanding (Desai 2005: 195–196). This has become already a classic example of how the Shilpashastras offer important clues to the interpretation of the temples. Whereas the Vastusutra Upanishad, belonging to a transitional phase, uses Vedic elements, terminology and symbolism (mixed with local popular traditions), the Shilpa Prakasha (dated in the 11th century) belongs clearly to the Tantric Kaula tradition, and hence the yantras are an important element of its meditation on the divinities represented on the temple. But both texts and traditions rely on the same form elements: the point, the line, and the geometrical forms. The texts insisting on the life animating the temple and the image, lead us to an interesting parallelism between form (rupa) and sound (nada). The Vastusutra Upanishad calls the centre point prana, and it also describes the lines radiating as either rays of light (tejamsi ) or as prana. It is from the bindu that, on the one side, the line arises, with the dynamism of life-breath, thus creating form, on the other side, from bindu as the concentrated sound-energy arises nada, again by way of prana, creating the sound-element (mantra, music). Form belongs to the sphere of space, whereas sound belongs to the realm of time ( Figure 2.4).

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bindu

prana

nada FIGURE 2.4

prana

rekha

The parallel between form (rupa) and sound (nada)

Source: Courtesy Bettina Bäumer.

Rasa No discussion on aesthetics in any field of the arts would be complete without the evocation of rasa. This concerns both, the artist and the spectator or devotee (since we are in the domain of sacred art). The Vastusutra Upanishad, after dealing with the technical, the formal, symbolic and other aspects of art, emphasizes the central importance of the expression of moods and sentiments (bhava and rasa). Sutra 5.1: bhavasyaropanam rupakarmani vidheyam. In image-making the infusion of feeling is enjoined. After the dhyana which is based on the description of and meditation on the divinity represented, it is the bhavarupa which brings forth the expression leading to experiencing the rasas.8 The eight or nine rasas are applied to image-making and put in a psychological sequence as, for instance, the transition from shringara and hasya to karuna (Sutras 6–10). The bhavas and rasas are expressed by stress on different lines, in bodily actions, but mainly in the facial expression (5.6–16). It is interesting how from the sentiment of disgust (bibhatsa) the shanta-rasa arises: When desires are given up (due to disgust) a divine sentiment arises, this is the last means. Due to realization one becomes detached. Sutra 16: The sentiment of peace is the eighth (actually ninth) rasa. In this way by the eight transformations of a living being the eight emotional states (bhavah) are produced. I have tried to apply these rasas to the temple in the case of the Konarka Sun Temple. Most prominent is the display of shringara rasa in the mithuna murtis, showing love in all its aspects, from the delicate to the gross uninhibited sexual poses. Not only at the human level but also the naga couples display the love sentiment. Hasya or the sense of humour is evoked by grotesque ascetics and playful

Form, space and consciousness 27

FIGURE 2.5

Konarka Apsaras: ananda rasa

Source: Courtesy Bettina Bäumer.

monkeys; vira or heroism and even raudra or anger are evident in the royal and battle scenes; adbhuta, wonder or surprise is produced by many of the composite or virala figures, some of which also evoke bibhatsa, revulsion, or bhayanaka, fear. Karuna rasa, sorrow or pathos, is not easily found, except in some minor scenes (as for ex. an old lady taking final leave of her family). But the final rasa, shanta, is visible in the serene, peaceful divine images of Surya. The overall dominant emotion brought about by the total imagery of the temple is ananda: joy or bliss, as also expressed by the monumental Apsaras on the roof, and the music and dance scenes on the Nata Mandira. But rasa is not only applied to individual sculptures or groups but also it is a matter of the overall “aesthetic” effect of the temple (Figure 2.5). One could also consider the entire temple, conceived as the chariot of Surya, as an expression of wonder: adbhuta, the wonder of such a heavy monument being drawn by speeding horses and moving on 24 wheels. This is just a brief survey of the sculptural programme on the Sun Temple in terms of the rasas represented.

Rajarani temple identified The last example I want to present to show the importance of combining text and temple in order to arrive at a comprehensive understanding of the monuments is the Rajarani Temple of Bhubaneswar. In this case, I could appreciate the expression of Michael Meister: “Reading monuments and seeing texts” ( Dallapiccola 1989: 167–173).

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The Shilpashastras describe temple types and not individual temples, and the identification between the two has to be done on the basis of a detailed comparison. The Shilparatnakosa describes, among different types, the Manjushri temple, which had been brief ly mentioned by the earlier Shilpa Prakasha (10th–11th century). The author of the Shilparatnakosha seems to have been fascinated by this temple and fully aware of its symbolical-metaphysical significance. He himself gives a hint at the best example for this type: what is now called Rajarani Temple at Bhubaneswar, dated ad 1025. In the middle of the description, he says that this temple “is built in the shape of the Shricakra” (1.377). This phrase provided the clue for identifying the temple. The artistically exceptional Rajarani Temple has suffered a number of misinterpretations. Since its mukhashala or front hall collapsed and the cult image in the garbhagriha was removed when worship ceased, its tradition has been forgotten, and it became the object of a number of speculations. To mention only a few of them: An article described this as a “temple without a deity” and concluded that it was the only temple in Odisha “dedicated not to its deity but to art” ( Parija 1990). One could not imagine a greater ignorance about the tradition! Another fanciful interpretation, based on the name, stated that it was not a temple but the pleasure resort of a king and his queen. Even an archaeologist like K.C. Panigrahi ( Panigrahi 1961: 94–98) derived the name from “the very fine-grained yellowish sandstone called Rajarania in common parlance,” ignoring the fact that it is the temple which gave the name to the stone and not vice-versa! Other speculations based on the local Sthalapurana identified the temple with Indreshvara, mentioned in the Purana to the East of Mukteshvara. Even the art historian Thomas Donaldson (1985: 319) found this theory convincing, though without any further proof except the assumption that it was constructed by the king Indraratha. Debala Mitra of the Archaeological Survey of India (ASI), in her guide book on Bhubaneswar, leaves the identification equally vague, indicating only the “Shaiva association” of the temple (Mitra 1978: 51–54). Let us pursue the argument of the text. Taking the clue from the identification of the temple with the Shricakra, we proceeded in our research by identifying all the parts of the vimana or shikhara (spire). The other clue was given in the following verses indicating the deity: Such a temple is built for Tripura or Bhuvaneshvari. ( ShiRaKo 1.376) Above this is another niche, one fourth the width of the (whole) nisha. In these the associate goddesses (upadevis) should be placed, beginning with Anangamekhala. (1.383) This part of the raha is particularly meant for the shadangayuvatis. The goddess Rajarajeshvari, the presiding deity of the Shricakra, is at the centre. (1.384)

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Here the clue is complete, regarding the different layers of the temple: Goddess Rajarajeshvari is at the centre, i.e. she was worshipped in the sanctum. The Rajarani was always famous for its graceful female figures on the spire, called kanya or alasa (graceful maiden) in the Odishan Shilpashastras. But far from being merely decorative, they are here identified with the upashaktis or upadevis of the main deity, her associate powers. Since the entire temple structure is identified with the Shricakra, their placement and number had to be tallied with the shaktis of the Shricakra.9 Not only the female figures, the miniature spires or vimanikas are also related to the elements of the Shricakra: Covering the whole garbha there is a circle (mandala) of vimanas (miniature spires). They are twenty-four in number, and they represent the twenty-four Upashaktis. (1.391) The female association of the temple is stressed in other cases too. At the top of the spire, below the amalaka, Bhairavas of impressive form are placed on Odishan temples for male divinities such as Shiva or Surya. Here the text explicitly says: Four Bhairavis of pleasing form (should be situated) on top, at the place of the Bhairavis. No male (Bhairava) should be placed there. (1.389) Another aspect of the Mother Goddess is the description of the double raha projection, calling them mother and child (1.370). Very brief ly the Shilparatnakosha makes the distinction between male and female temples clear, by declaring, “The rekha temple has the form of purusha, whereas Manjushri is a yantra temple” (1.393). Yantra has the neutral meaning of ground plan in the Shilpa texts, but here the meaning more specifically refers to the Shriyantra, the embodiment of the Goddess Herself ( Kaviraj 1975).10 The name Manjushri then assumes its full significance: the beautiful temple for Mother Shri, whose other names in the Shrividya tradition are: Tripura (the Goddess ruling over the three cities), Bhuvaneshvari (the Goddess as ruler over the worlds or universe), Lalita (the lovely or graceful Goddess), and, as mentioned already, Rajarajeshvari and Maharajni. It is not difficult to arrive at the original meaning of the name of the temple which has been so well preserved in popular tradition: Rajarani (Figures 2.6 and 2.7). The Shricakra or Shriyantra, belonging to the esoteric tradition of Shrividya, can be worshiped in the mere outline, in a two-dimensional drawing or painting, or in an elevated three-dimensional form, called Meru prastara. Thus the entire shikhara could be identified with the elevated Shricakra, not as the “house of the

FIGURE 2.6

Rajarani Temple as Shricakra Meru

Source: Courtesy Bettina Bäumer.

FIGURE 2.7

Rajarani Temple

Source: Courtesy Bettina Bäumer.

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Goddess” (devalaya, Odia Deula), but as the body of the Goddess. The integration of the Shiva and Shakti trikonas received further confirmation by the reliefs at the base (khura griha), where we find a worship of the Shivalinga at the northern base, and at the corresponding southern griha I could identify a worship of the Shriyantra meruprastara. In the centre, in the western niche at the pitha level, we find the scene of the marriage of Shiva and Parvati, thus making the integration complete. These condensed examples, which can be multiplied with monuments from different times and regions, show sufficiently that the aesthetics of temple architecture is inseparable from the totality of meaning, the symbolism, the ritual traditions, and the attitude of the worshippers participating in all these dimensions, consciously or unconsciously. They also clearly prove the expression in the Shilparatnakosha, that shilpa is sarvadarshanalakshana.

Notes 1 “Art” here refers to all the arts in their inter-connectedness. 2 Diacritical marks have not been used in this chapter and, in fact, in the entire volume to make it more accessible for the general reader. 3 See for a discussion Dehejia and Paranjape (2003). 4 “Unless even the gross matter such as stone has the inherent nature of divinity, it cannot become an instrument and expression of divinity, as in a murti or temple” (p. 28). 5 A similar methodology is followed by Devangana Desai (2005). 6 Cf. ShiRaKo 1.291: Especially on the Meru Kailasha temples, there are shikharas on the shikhara. 7 Cf. the yupa installed near the temple as a “witness” to the temple, example. Konarka, Parashurameshvara, etc. 8 VSUp. ch. 5. 9 For a detailed comparison see the Introduction to Shilparatnakosha, pp. 5–10. 10 This article is based on the traditions of Kashmir Shaivism and Shrīvidya, but, unfortunately, it does not contain any textual references.

References Bäumer, Bettina, with Rajendra Prasad Das, ed. and transl. 1994, Śilparatnakośa, a Glossary of Orissan Temple Architecture, New Delhi: IGNCA and Motilal Banarsidass. Abbreviation: ShiRaKo. Boner, Alice, Sadashiva Rath Sarma and Bettina Bäumer. 1982 (4th edn 2000). Vastusutra Upaniṣhad, the Essence of Form in Sacred Art, New Delhi: Moti Lal Banarsi Dass. Abbreviation: VSUp. Boner, Alice, and Sadashiva Rath Sharma, ed. and transl. 2005. ‘Rāmacandra Mahāpātra Kaula Bhaṭṭāraka’, Śilpa Prakāśa, revised edition, New Delhi: IGNCA and Motilal Banarasidass. Abbreviation: ShiPrak. Dallapiccola, A.L., ed. 1989. Shastric Traditions in Indian Arts, 2 vols., Wiesbaden/Stuttgart: Steiner. Dehejia, H.V. and M. Paranjape, eds. 2003. Saundarya, the Perception and Practice of Beauty in India, New Delhi: Samvad India. Desai, Devangana. 2005. The Religious Imagery of Khajuraho, Mumbai: Franco Indian Research Private Limited.

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Desai, Devangana. 2005. ‘Relevance of Textual Sources in the Study of Temple Art’, in Das, Sadananda and Fürlinger, Ernst (eds.), Sāmarasya, Studies in Indian Arts, Philosophy and Interreligious Dialogue in Honour of Bettina Bäumer, New Delhi: D.K.Printworld, pp. 199–222. Donaldson, T. 1985. Hindu Temple Art of Orissa, vol. 1, Leiden: Brill. Kaviraj, Gopinath M. M. 1975. “The Temple of Mother Śrī”, Bharata Manisha Quarterly, Vol. 1, No. 1, April, pp. 5–15. Mitra, Debala. 1978. Bhubaneswar, New Delhi: Archaeological Survey of India. Panigrahi, K.C. 1961. Archaeology of Orissa. Bhubaneshwar: Archaeological Survey of India. Parija, Raja. 1990. “Temple Without a Deity”, The Times of India, 12 May. Sen, Geeti. 1997. Bindu: Space and Time in Raza’s Vision, Media Transasia Ltd.

3 BREATHING LIFE INTO MONUMENTS OF DEATH The stupa and the ‘Buddha body’ in Sanchi’s socio-ecological landscape1 Julia Shaw

Introduction This chapter focuses on the stupa and the associated relic cult as a complex architectural manifestation of the Buddha body ( Walters 2002), its potency enhanced by a range of older, intersecting Indic mortuary traditions and religio-cosmogonic symbologies. Drawing on epigraphical and textual evidence for corporeal relics as retainers of ‘vital breath’ ( prana), it will examine the relevance of this material and related scholarship on stupa s as monuments that are ‘infused with life’ or as repositories of the Buddha’s ‘essence’ (Schopen 1997a, 126–128) for understanding the dynamics of the stupa cult in central India. Death is central to, and indivisible from, Buddhist ontologies of life (Cuevas and Stone 2007, 1–2), and this seeming contradiction is mirrored fittingly by the stupa whose associated relic deposit acts as the force that literally breathes life into landscapes marked by structures which on the face of things appear to be inert monuments of death. Buddhist doctrines of impermanence and non-attachment to life fit with the ideal of life as preparation for a death ‘without fear’. This preoccupation with death preparation is ref lected in certain esoteric meditational practices (Schopen 1996), the sangha’s involvement with lay mortuary rites, and the practice of placing stupa s containing corporeal relics of the Buddha and important monks directly within residential monastic compounds (Shaw 2015). This situation may be contrasted with the orthodox Brahmanical tradition in which cremation grounds are kept away from settlement zones because of the negative and polluting associations of the physical remains of the dead. The key questions here, therefore, are how and why did a mortuary-oriented stupa cult become so central to the early spread of Buddhism, and how did it relate to wider mortuary traditions, and underlying multi-religious ontologies of life and death in ancient India? The key case study in this respect is the Sanchi Survey Project (henceforth SSP), a multiphase landscape-based assessment of the socio-ecological basis of

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religious and economic change in the late centuries bc, as urbanism and related phenomena spread westwards from the Gangetic valley (Shaw 2007, 2013b, 2016, 2017) (Figure 3.1). The study covers approximately 750 km 2 around the UNESCO World Heritage, Buddhist site of Sanchi, and the ancient city of Vidisha several kilometres further north, with site types documented throughout the hinterland ranging from stupas and monasteries to habitational settlements, land-use and ‘non-site’ data such as rock-shelters and important ‘locales’ (Shaw 2017; Figure 3.2). Research themes include the history of patronage and religious change, monastic governmentality, land and water management, and the development of new forms of food production and environmental control as responses to socio-ecological environmental stress on the one hand, and as agents of new cultural attitudes towards food, ‘nature’ and the body on the other (Shaw 2016).

FIGURE 3.1

Map of urban and Buddhist sites in early historic India

Source: Courtesy Julia Shaw.

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This chapter will focus primarily on the development of stupa networks as indicators for Buddhist attitudes towards death and associated ontologies, and the dynamics of the relic cult which, in turn, provide a starting point for examining elements of the broader socio-ecological setting of Buddhist propagation in the late centuries bc. It will describe the main monuments at Sanchi from 3rd century bc to 12th century ad and then, focussing on the dynamics of seeing (Pali: dassana), assess the impact of stupa construction and the establishment of relic networks across central India on the localisation of early Buddhism. In addition to the ritual dynamics of the Buddhist relic cult, the economic implications of stupa construction in relation to early formulations of ‘monastic governmentality’ (Chatterjee 2015; Shaw 2016) are also considered, against a broader appraisal of scholarly discourse on the entwined histories of monasticism, urbanisation and emerging courtly urban ideologies (Ali 1998). In doing so, I will draw on broader landscape patterns relating to monastery, habitational settlement and land-use data in the Sanchi-Vidisha hinterland, as well as less well-known datasets relating to monastic rock-shelters whose associations with hunter-gatherer, forest populations and economies help to paint a more heterogeneous, and less urban-oriented picture of the social context in which the earliest monastic communities grew up. Here I focus on the gradual and long-term process of monumentalisation and human entanglement between monks and their socionatural environment, arguing that the sangha’s involvement with environmental control was central to the eventual development of sedentary monasticism (Shaw 2016).

The stupa The stupa has been the subject of much scholarly discussion, ranging from its architectural, artistic and symbolic aspects (Hawkes and Shimada 2009; Dallapiccola 1980) to epigraphical analyses of patronage networks (Singh 1996) and monastic lineages ( Willis 2001; Hinüber and Skilling 2013; Salomon and Marino 2014). Insights into its historical origins have drawn on morphological parallels with protohistorical funerary monuments in the south and northern traditions described in the Vedas and later Brahmanical literature ( Bakker 2007; Shaw 2015). However, there are enduring uncertainties as to how early Buddhist mortuary traditions related on the one hand to orthodox practices known from Brahmanical texts but which lack convincing archaeological correlates in North India, and on the other, to various regional traditions such as the Southern Megaliths whose accompanying epistemologies remain poorly understood due to a lack of textual sanction (Bakker 2007; Shaw 2015; Schopen 1997b). Further, the question as to how the Buddhist stupa as repository of corporeal relics was received by local communities who may have, through the inf luence of orthodox principles of purity and pollution, been offended by the widespread monumentalisation of the dead, requires focussed interdisciplinary research of the kind promoted in several recent landscape projects discussed later (Shaw 2007; Fogelin 2004, 2006; Coningham and Gunawardhana 2013).

Sanchi Survey Project study area with main type sites

Source: Courtesy Julia Shaw.

FIGURE 3.2

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With regards etymology, infrequent occurrences of the term thupa in the Pali canon all embody the mundane meaning of ‘something that is piled up’ (Cousins 2018). Similarly, earlier occurrences of the Sanskrit stupa in the Rig Veda (1.24, and 7.21) refer literally to a topknot of hair, the upper part of the head, or to crest, top, summit. The canonical warrant for the construction of stupas specifically to house the Buddhist relic is provided by the Mahaparinibbana sutta (v. 12), the Pali version of which deals with Ananda’s questioning of the Buddha during his final weeks of life. The Buddha gives instructions as to how his body should be treated after death, specifying that the funeral of a cakravartin’ (‘World Emperor’) should provide the guiding model. Notwithstanding disagreements over the dating of this passage, there then follows the earliest explicit reference to stupa worship within the Buddhist tradition: ‘Those who offer a garland [. . .] that will be to their benefit’. Two closely related examples occur in the Anguttara Nikaya (III.62; I.77) a text purported to have been composed during the Buddha’s lifetime: the first describes how a king, who is about to preserve his recently deceased queen’s body in a barrel of oil, is advised to cremate her instead and have her ashes placed in a thupa, and the second states that there are two categories of people worthy of being placed in a thupa (thuparaha): the Buddha and a cakravartin (Cousins 2018; see also Bronkhorst 2011, 200). We may infer from these examples that the Buddha’s funeral was modelled on existing royal mortuary rites, while acknowledging also the strong Buddhist underpinnings of the cakravartin model of kingship in its earliest usage. To date, none of these inferred prototypical royal stupas have been identified archaeologically, despite various claims to the contrary ( Bakker 2007; Shaw 2015, 387). Further, as illustrated by Jain stupa research (Flügel 2010) and an inscription from Nigali Sagar in Nepal that describes the past Buddha Kanakamuni’s stupa, not all early stupas were connected with Buddha Sakyamuni ( Bakker 2007). Further, not all Buddhist cremations were interred in reliquaries and stupas, as illustrated by textual and archaeological evidence for urn burials and charnel grounds ( Bakker 2007; Shaw 2015), which may have inf luenced later Tibetan traditions involving the deposition of relics directly in the ground (Mayer 2007), or the deposition of bones in the open air (Crosby 2003; Crosby and Skilton 1998, footnote 8.30).

The relic cult Although Buddhist commemorative practices are traditionally contrasted with orthodox Brahmanical funerals based around the disposal of ashes in a river, references to funerary monuments do occur in early Brahmanical texts ( Tiwari 1979; Pant 1985; Sayers 2006). And despite the revulsion expressed within later Hinduism towards Buddhist funerary practices, by the mid first millennium bc, cremation, with exceptions (Shaw 2015; Bakker 2007 ), has become a common denominator of both Buddhist and Brahmanical funerals. Bakker (2007) thus cautions against overstressing the differences, while also highlighting the

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fundamental contrasts between the two traditions’ ritual aims and objectives. While Brahmanical cremation is geared towards the disposal and destruction of the corporeal body, the principal aim of the same act within Buddhist contexts is the creation of relics: the by-products of cremation are not ‘just’ ashes, but rather transformative substances akin to jewels or gemstones (Strong 2007). Before being deposited in a stupa, these substances are placed inside a reliquary, often together with other ‘relics of use’ such as fragments of cloth, coins, precious stones or pearls (see Rienjang et al. 2017). The inclusion of precious objects may ref lect their role as currency within lay-monastic exchange networks, as well as the prominence of jewel terminology (as in, for example, triratna – ‘the triple gem’) in early monastic thought, possibly as an inversion of aspects of urban courtly culture (Ali 1998). Gemstones may also have referred symbolically to the corporeal relic’s transformative power; the strong medical associations of later underground ‘treasures’ in Tibet, for example, where buried substances reputedly act on the surrounding soil in ways akin to agricultural fertiliser (Mayer 2007), are also of potential relevance here (Shaw 2019). As for reliquaries, these are usually made of stone or ceramic, following forms already known from contemporary pottery vessels ( Willis 2000b). While the practice of placing funerary ashes in a pot may represent a continuation of ancient urn burials, with or without an above-ground structure (Shaw 2015), the Buddhist relic cult represents a novel departure from older Indian traditions, on the one hand, through the idea that relics represent the ‘essence’ or ‘life-force’ ( prana) of the deceased (Schopen 1997a, 126–128), and on the other, through their division and distribution between more than one monument, which allowed for their perceived inf luence to be propelled over extensive areas. Possible external inf luences for the latter idea have been suggested, including the older Hellenistic and Near Eastern practices of venerating the corporeal remains of royalty so as to benefit the places in which they were buried, as illustrated by the cities associated with Alexander the Great’s various burial sites (Strong 2007, 32–33, cit. Przyluski 1927; Nilakanta Sastri 1940). However, possible Indian antecedents include the Brahmanical navasraddha ritual, a ten-day event following death, during which ten rice balls ( pinda) are created in order to provide a new body for the deceased who might otherwise be in danger of becoming a ‘ghost’ ( preta). Possible parallels with the division of the Buddha’s relics during the Mauryan period have been drawn, especially in relation to later Gandharan depictions of this scene, wherein the relics are almost indistinguishable to the pinda rice balls of the navasraddha ritual, as though being fashioned into a ‘new body’ for the Buddha (Strong 2007, 4). Further Walters’ (2002) model of relics comprising an ever-expanding Buddha corpse that spread out over the Buddhist world as the sangha and dharma moved into new areas is not dissimilar to later conceptualisations of Hindu sacred space, with pan-Indian pilgrimage networks arranged according to the distribution of specific deities’ body parts, as in the case of the sakti pitha and jyotirlinga site-networks (Fleming 2009). However, important questions remain regarding the precise chronological relationship

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between Buddhist and Hindu dispensations of sacred geography and need to be assessed through concerted collaborative archaeological and historical research (Shaw 2016). Notwithstanding the multivariant sectarian inf luences behind the development of the Buddhist relic cult, the rather instinctive human desire to respond to the death of loved ones through the preservation of tangible mementos whether corporeal or associative embodiments of personhood, can transcend formal religious affiliation and sanction. The contradiction, for example, posed by the fact that the Buddha, having reached nirvana has left this world for good and yet continues to be present in some way through his relics continues to vex Theravada theologians, and challenges fundamental Buddhist ideals of non-attachment (Crosby 2005). However, similar uncertainties as to how the dead body relates to its former ‘personhood’ once the biological indicators of life have expired, are central to the universal human conundrum. Although modern science has little to add to such ontological mysteries, potentially interesting new perspectives on the efficacy, relevance and identity of relic deposits at a comparative religious level are offered by DNA and genome analysis ( Busby 2017). Returning to the role of stupa and relic worship within early Buddhist monastic circles, notwithstanding recent revisionist theories regarding the historicity of the ‘Theravada’ tradition (Gethin 2012), the canonical view is that relic worship had no legitimate place in monastic life; ritual and devotion ref lect lay concerns whereas meditation, as the exclusive domain of monks, leads to enlightenment irrespective of belief, thus rendering devotion useless. As argued by Strong (2007 ), the Buddha’s death is not a transition from the realm of the living to the realm of the dead in the recognised anthropological sense ( Van Gennep 1960), but rather a transcendence of the very cycle of life and death. This view contrasts with later Mahayana Buddhism with its array of ever-present Buddhas; hence, the canonical position that relic worship, like the development of institutionalised and socially engaged monasticism, discussed later, represents a late deterioration of ‘true’ or ‘original’ Buddhist values based on peripatetic mendicancy. Gregory Schopen (1997a, 1997b, 1997c) and Kevin Trainor (1997) have helped to dispel this idea of an exclusively laity-oriented relic cult, to some extent a product of Protestant-inf luenced scholarly discourse as well as conservative elements within the ‘Theravada’ tradition itself. Both scholars have broken ground by integrating archaeological evidence into their critical textual analyses. Their approach is not without problems, however, as the general lack of direct coordination between active archaeological research and textual scholarship, coupled with a generally uncritical use of 19th-century archaeological reports, and lack of engagement with more recent datasets and changing methodological and theoretical paradigms within archaeology, has meant that many received models of Buddhist history have gone unchallenged. This applies particularly to received theories, discussed later, regarding the history and chronology  of

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institutionalised monasticism, with recent landscape-based analyses having allowed for more integrated models regarding the economic background of early monasticism (e.g. Shaw 2007, 2011, 2016; Fogelin 2004 , 2006; Coningham  et al. 2007; Coningham and Gunawardhana 2013; Gilliland et al. 2013; Olivieri et al. 2006). Schopen’s (1991) oft-cited argument is that the apparent lack of references to stupa worship in the Pali Vinaya is because they were edited out due to the problematic issue of devotion within Theravada scholarship. That this was unlikely to have been accidental, is supported by the liberal scattering of passages dealing with stupa -ritual throughout later renditions of the Vinaya. Schopen (1991) argues that even in the earliest texts the Buddha was seen as being ‘present’ in stupas, and that the traditional idea of a laity-dominated relic cult ref lects largely the mistranslation of the term ‘sharira-puja’ that dominates the latter part of the conversation between Buddha and Ananda in the Mahaparinibbana sutta (v.10–12) (Schopen 1997c). Ananda here is instructed to treat the Buddha’s corpse in the same way as the body (sharira) of a cakravartin, on the basis that this is what the ‘wise men .  .  . among the nobles, among the brahmins, among the heads of houses’ are to do, and with which Ananda should not be ‘overly concerned’. He then describes how the body of a cakravartin is cremated and placed in a stupa at a crossroads. Only after the funeral, does the word sharira come to be used in the plural (sharire). Schopen argues that sharira-puja refers to the funerary rite alone, and specifically to the preparation of the body prior to the cremation and the construction of the stupa. The argument, therefore, is that the Buddha was simply advising Ananda not to be overly concerned with the anointment of his dead body, rather than prohibiting monks from participating in relic worship (sharire). Strong (2007, 50), however, urges caution over assuming that sharira-puja was completely divorced from relics; ‘the sharira-puja may not be a “cult of relics”, but it is certainly possible to think of it as a “cult productive and predictive of relics”’, in a situation which, as discussed earlier, contrasts with Brahmanical funerary rites aimed predominantly at the disposal and annihilation of the body. Schopen’s idea that the Mahaparinibbana sutta verse provides evidence for monks and nuns’ active participation in stupa and relic worship from early periods, however, is strengthened by two sets of material evidence that are of key relevance here: i) epigraphical records from post-Mauryan stupa sites in north and central India that record donations of individual architectural components by actual members of the sangha; and b) largely 19th-century archaeological evidence for a ‘cult of the monastic dead’ comprising burials of ‘large bones’ rather than relic deposits, and mediated through the siting of junior monks’ stupas close to those of revered, more senior personages, in order to maximise spiritual benefit in a manner similar to burial ad sanctos traditions in medieval Christian contexts (Schopen 1997c). As discussed later, the SSP dataset suggests that similar inter and intra-site dynamics were being played out through both visual and material interconnections across the monastic landscape (Shaw 2000, 2009).

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Stupa as ‘image’ Some later texts describe the relic as a manifestation of Buddha’s ‘essence’ (prana) (Schopen 1997a), and the Theravadin explanation for this is that relics do not contain the Buddha in a real sense, but rather are powerful because of Buddha’s intention during his lifetime. Just as Buddha lives on through his teaching (dharma), so too relics have (often miraculous) power because he intended it that way: Buddha taught that the dharma should guide the monastic community after his death, within the context of the triratna (‘the triple gem’): Buddha, dharma and sangha. The latter two terms are represented by the Canon and the monastic community respectively, but for some scholars (Trainor 1996), the apparent ‘absence’ of the Buddha image prior to the early centuries ad can be explained through the mechanism of the relic cult. Some scholars (Bronkhorst 2011, 200, cit. Lancaster 1974) maintain that the earliest Buddha images were viewed as manifestations of the Buddha’s physical body rather as than symbols of his personhood, an association which persists into the ‘afterlife’ of sculptures whereby ‘dead’ or damaged images become relic deposits themselves (Bronkhorst 2011, 200, citing Schopen 1990, 276). Thus for later periods, Buddha images arguably replicate the role hitherto played by his physical relics but without the negative connotations of the relic cult (ibid.). The stupa as repository for the relic may thus be viewed as the first ‘image’ for Buddhist worship. With a few exceptions, mainly within the yaksha and naga traditions (Shaw 2004; De Caroli 2004), anthropomorphic representations of any deity during the late centuries bc are few and far between (Thompson 2011); the stupa possibly fills this gap; later on, many stupas contain actual Buddha images or inscribed tablets representing the Buddha’s teachings (dharma), reinforcing the aforementioned argument that such objects embody similar power as that of their corporeal prototypes. Theologically, the Buddha has gone, but his relics continue to represent his body, without which the shasana (collective Buddhist teachings) cannot spread. Relics act thus as dynamic agents for propelling the transmission of the Buddhist dharma, just as the relic altar provided the legitimising focus for the spread of medieval Christianity. An oft-quoted example relates to Ashoka’s son, Mahinda’s introduction of Buddhism to Sri Lanka, and his realisation that without relics his mission was unlikely to succeed (Trainor 1997, 173–174). The idea of stupa -as-image is reinforced by the history and chronology of the Indian temple, the earliest known examples of the Mauryan period all following an apsidal or elliptical form. The earliest levels of a 3rd-century-bc temple at Vidisha, dedicated to the Bhagavata, proto-Vaishnava deity, Vasudeva, follow this plan (Shaw 2007, 53–55; Khare 1967), as did the earliest levels of Temples 18 and 40 at Sanchi, and a recently excavated example at Satdhara (Shaw 2007, 112). Recent excavations on the western slope between Stupas 1 and 2 have revealed two additional apsidal temples (IAR 1995–1996 (2002): 47–48), with similar evidence at Mawasa (Shaw 2011) and several other newly documented SSP sites (Shaw 2007, 110–130). This temple plan transcends sectarian boundaries, with the cult object installed in the apse, instead of the innermost sanctum ( garbha

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griha) of later square-oriented temples such as Temple 17 at Sanchi, datable to the Gupta period. It is difficult to identify the cult object housed within the earliest Buddhist temples, but the post-Mauryan rock-cut shrine type (caitya) of the Deccan which usually houses a monolithic stupa as the focus for worship and circumambulation, may be instructive in this regard (Mitra 1971). By the late centuries bc, Brahmanical literature distinguishes between buildings that house ‘images’ and those that contain mortuary remains. An oft-cited example from the Mahabharata (3.188), whose composition is generally dated to the 1st or 2nd century bc, equates the end of the Kali Yuga (the current era) with the replacement of temples (devakula) by charnel houses (eduka) ( Bakker 2007, 15; Allchin 1957, 1). The term devakula means literally ‘family seat of god’ ( Bakker 2007), and as used in early texts and inscriptions is taken to imply the idea of a ‘temple’ containing images of gods (Olivelle 2009). There is some uncertainty, however, as to whether this was always the intended meaning, and at Mat, near Mathura, where one of the earliest epigraphical instances of the term occurs (early centuries ad), a closer approximation may be a kind of statue gallery ( pratimagriha), a term which figures in a contemporary inscription at Naneghat in the Deccan. Such galleries formed one of several categories of symbolic Brahmanical funerary monuments that housed commemorative images of the dead rather than of gods ( Bakker 2007; Shaw 2015). Whichever the case, the Mahabharata verse makes quite explicit the distinction between those monuments that contain images of gods or deceased mortals with a possible god-like status ( Fussman 1989, 199) and charnel houses whose corporeal remains placed them beyond the orthodox pale. All the more interesting in light of suggestions that stupa worship was akin to image worship of a type that does not become fully manifest in the Hindu tradition until the early to mid-first millennium ad with the development of the temple puja cult ( Willis 2009a), more on which later.

The Buddha’s death and the materiality of the relic cult According to textual sources, the Buddha’s cremated remains were distributed amongst eight polities of the Gangetic valley region, with each share deposited in its own stupa. Several centuries later, the Mauryan emperor Ashoka is attributed with having had these remains disinterred and redistributed in 84,000 newly built stupas. Although there are claims to the contrary (Singh 1970), none of the original pre-Ashokan stupas have been identified with any certainty, possibly because they were simple earthen mounds that either did not survive or were elaborated upon in later years (Shaw 2015). Identification is further hampered by destructive excavations in the 19th century, aimed primarily at relic retrieval (Cunningham 1854). The first clearly datable stupas belong to the Mauryan period, albeit in limited numbers. In most cases, as at Sanchi, their original appearance is obscured by post-Mauryan embellishment (2nd to 1st centuries bc), although recent excavations of Stupa 1 at nearby Satdhara provide crucial insights into the architectural

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manifestations of this transition (Shaw 2007, 112–113, fig.  63). Known as the ‘second propagation’ of Buddhism ( Willis 2000a), the post-Mauryan period is when the tradition truly takes root in the landscape, with stupas (and monasteries) appearing throughout the Indian subcontinent in the kind of numbers suggested by the Ashokan legend. With very few exceptions, the majority of relic deposits are not those of the Buddha, but of saints, senior monks (and occasionally, ordinary people), whose inscribed reliquaries can only sometimes be linked to a particular school, time and place. Examples of such instances include the inscribed reliquaries of the Hemavata school in the Sanchi area ( Willis 2000a, 2001, 2009b), and the more recently documented evidence from Deokothar, connected to the Bahushrutiya school (Hinüber and Skilling 2013; Salomon and Marino 2014). The earliest and strongest datable reference to a relic of the historical Buddha comes in the form of two similarly worded inscriptions on the Shinkot reliquary from Bajaur, Afghanistan (Schopen 1997a, 126–127). Both inscriptions, issued during the reign of the Indo-Greek king Menander (2nd century bc), refer to the relics of the ‘blessed Sakyamuni which are endowed with life ( prana)’. The term prana is well-known from established Vedic ontologies of life and death, central to which is the crucial notion, adapted in later Yogic and Ayurvedic dispensations, of prana as universal organic energy or ‘vital breath’, cessation of which is the defining feature of death (Zysk 1993, 200). Its particular usage in the Shinkot reliquary represents, therefore, a rather radical departure from longer-term Brahmanical norms, and supports Schopen’s (1991, 1997a) arguments, discussed later, that relics were regarded as manifestations of the Buddha’s essence or ‘life-force’. However, most surviving stupas have yielded neither relic, reliquary, or associated inscription. In such cases, historical identifications can sometimes be inferred from aspects of landscape data such as inter- or intra-site relationships, or individual stupas’ placing within broader interlinked networks (Shaw 2000, 2007, 2011). As argued in relation to the SSP discussed next, stupas often form part of discernible hierarchies whereby the central monument or site acts as a magnet for stupas whose lower or peripheral ritual status mirrors the relative rank during the life of the person with which they are associated. Some such ‘burial ad sanctos’ stupas (Schopen 1997a, 1994a) contain not formal relic deposits but rather ‘large bones’ (Cunningham 1854) that are more similar to ‘burials’ than relic deposits. Such stupas may be associated with what Schopen (ibid ) refers to as a ‘cult of the monastic dead’, whereby the burials of junior monks or laypersons are placed in deference to revered relic stupas in ways that mirror the saintly traditions of medieval Christian Europe.

Case study: Sanchi Survey Project The Sanchi area of Madhya Pradesh, occupies a key place in the archaeology of Buddhism (Figure 3.2). Sanchi itself is one of India’s best-preserved, and most studied Buddhist sites, with a continuous constructional sequence from the 3rd

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century bc to the 12th century ad (Marshall et al. 1940; Shaw 2007, Table 10.1, 2013b). Four other well-preserved Buddhist sites, Sonari, Satdhara, Morel khurd, and Andher, all situated within ten kilometres of Sanchi, were first documented by Cunningham (1854), with a sixth site Bighan, three km northwest of Vidisha, published some years later (Lake 1910b). Apart from Satdhara (Agrawal 1997; IAR 1995–1996, 1996–1997, 1997–1998, 1999–2000), these sites have received limited archaeological or conservational attention since Cunningham’s time. The city mounds of Vidisha, situated 8 km to the north of Sanchi, represent the earliest phase of urbanism in central India (IAR 1963–1964, 16–17; 1964–1965, 18; 1965–1966, 23; 1975–1976, 30–1; 1976–1977, 33–34). While fortified state capitals in the Gangetic valley formed the backdrop to the Buddha’s life and teachings between the 6th and 5th centuries bc, similar developments, with limited exceptions, in central and south India are not attested archaeologically until at least the 3rd century bc. Vidisha is also home to some of the earliest archaeological evidence for the Pancaratra system of the Bhagavata cult, a prototypical form of Vaishnavism which became prominent during the late centuries bc (Lake 1910a; Bhandarkar 1914, 1915; Khare 1967; IAR 1963–1964, 17, 1964–1965, 19–20; Shaw 2004, 2007, 53–55). The importance of orthodox Brahmanism continued throughout Vidisha’s history, as illustrated by the mid first millennium-ad-rock-cut temples at Udayagiri (Willis 2009a), while the distribution of sculptural and architectural fragments across Vidisha’s hinterland has enabled a diachronic analysis of inter-cult dynamics at a landscape level (Shaw 2007, fig. 12.1, 2013b). Until recently, little was known about how these sites related to each other or to areas beyond their formal boundaries, and many questions remained regarding the entwined histories of religious change, urbanisation and socio-ecology in central India. The SSP was initiated in 1998 with the aim of filling some of these gaps, particularly with regard the factors that fuelled the transmission of Buddhism from its base in the Gangetic valley (Shaw 2007; See Hawkes 2008; Skilling 2014, 2015, for comparative studies elsewhere in central India; and Fogelin 2004, 2006 further south). The survey, covering 750 km2 around Sanchi (Figure 3.2), resulted in the systematic documentation of 35 Buddhist sites (Shaw 2007, 2009, 2011, 2013b), 145 habitational settlements (Shaw 2007, 2013b), 17 irrigation dams (Shaw and Sutcliffe 2001, 2003, 2005; Shaw et al. 2007; Sutcliffe et al. 2011); over 1,000 temple and sculpture fragments associated with Brahmanical, Jain, Buddhist, and ‘local’ traditions (Shaw 2004, 2007, 2013b), and various ‘non-site’ data including rock-shelters, ‘natural’ cult spots and ‘memory’ sites (Shaw 2017). Before considering these wider patterns, I will first describe the distribution of stupas, arguing that maximising their visual presence was a major inf luencing factor in their spatial positioning, both as a proselytising mechanism, as well as a means of projecting and protecting the relic as the sacred ‘life-force’ ( prana) of the personage which they were built to house. The project was informed in part by theoretical shifts in archaeology which, amongst other things, have led to the recognition of entire landscapes as foci of archaeological enquiry. Accordingly, sites or monuments are viewed not in

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isolation but as components of larger and often continuous site groupings (Shaw 2017 ). Thus, clusters of interrelated ‘Site Groups’, containing sites at varying scales and resolutions, constitute what I describe as archaeological or early historic ‘complexes’ (Shaw and Sutcliffe 2001; Shaw 2007, 2017 ). The Sanchi complex, for example, provides a ‘microcosmic’ model for delineating similar patterns throughout the study area, including as it does, the hilltop Buddhist monuments, as well as habitational settlements at Kanakhera and Nagauri, the reservoir to the south and various rock-shelters and non-Buddhist cult spots ( Figure 3.5). By treating these individual elements as interrelated parts of dynamic but spatially bounded complexes we were able on the basis of the broader SSP data to situate Buddhist monuments and associated ritual practices within their wider ritual and socio-ecological landscape. Despite residing within apparently dislocated monastic centres, textual and epigraphical evidence from Sri Lanka and South-East Asia demonstrates that by the late centuries bc, the sangha was part of an interdependent economy mediated through a system of ‘monastic landlordism’ (Gunawardana 1971). In considering the applicability of such models to the Sanchi dataset, our principal argument is that while lay support of the sangha was essential to the latter’s survival, practical services provided by the monastery, in particular water for domestic and agricultural use, formed the backbone to changing social and economic conditions including urbanisation and agricultural ‘involution’ (Shaw 2007, 2013a, 2016; Shaw and Sutcliffe 2001, 2003, 2005; Sutcliffe et al. 2011). More recently, survey and excavation-based evidence for devolved centres of monastic power in Sri Lanka has supported the idea of a ‘theocratic’ hydraulic landscape in Anuradhapura’s hinterland (Coningham et al. 2007; Coningham and Gunawardhana 2013; Gilliland et al. 2013), with similar conclusions being drawn for eastern India (Sen 2014, 67), Bihar ( Rajani 2016), and the Northwest (Olivieri et al. 2006, 131–133). Fogelin’s (2006, 152–153, 165) ceramics-based study at Thotlakonda and nearby settlements in Andhra Pradesh also attests to a high level of localised exchange between monks and local populations, while an abundance of storage jars within the monastic zone supports the view that food was stored and prepared on site (by non-monastic staff ), rather than acquired through begging rounds. A key argument developed elsewhere (Shaw 2013a, 2016) is that the sangha’s close relationship with environmental control was an important instrument of lay patronage in the Sanchi area, but was also closely related to Buddhism’s deeper preoccupation with human suffering (dukkha) and the means of its alleviation. One of the key messages that arose from the Buddha’s Enlightenment was that we suffer if we do not live correctly. While the SSP landscape data have helped to build a socially engaged model of Buddhism in relation to the sangha’s involvement with water and land management as a practical means of tackling such erroneous living and consequent suffering, similar approaches can also illuminate how Buddhist perspectives on death and its impact on human well-being and suffering are played out at a landscape level.

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Stupa typologies The typological framework for assessing newly documented stupas was informed by excavation data from Sanchi (Marshall 1940) and the four outlying sites (Cunningham 1854; Willis 2000a). Sanchi’s stupas can be divided into four main morphological and chronological groups: i) Mauryan (Phase I), as represented by the brick core of Stupa 1 at both Sanchi and Satdhara (Agrawal 1997; Shaw 2007; 2009) (Figure 3.3); ii) post-Mauryan (Phase II), as represented by Stupas 2 and 3 at Sanchi, and similar examples at Sonari, Satdhara, Morel khurd and Andher (Figure 3.4): these stupas, often enclosed by a carved balustrade, consist of a core of heavy stone blocks interspersed with chippings, and faced with a single course of dressed stone blocks (Marshall et al. 1940, 41). Recent excavations of Stupa 1 at Satdhara are useful for revealing the relationship between the Mauryan and post-Mauryan construction methods and materials (Shaw 2007, 112–113, fig. 63); iii) somewhat smaller stupas of the Gupta (phase IV: 4th–6th centuries ad) and post-Gupta periods (phase V: 7th–8th centuries) such as those clustered around Sanchi Stupa 1, all set on square or circular platforms, and without railings (Marshall et al. 1940: 46); iv) even smaller stupas, with diameters of