The Irish political theorist Benedict Anderson postulated that nations are “imagined” communities. It is important to note that even the kingdoms and empires of antiquity are “imagined” entities. Arguably, Scotland exists because Walter Scott, Robert Louis Stevenson and Robert Burns imagined Scotland for their readers. Rajasthan can pretty much be seen as the creation of Colonel James Tod. Our imagined Maharashtra comes from Govind Sardesai, Jadunath Sarkar, Dattatray Balwant Parasnis and the Britons Grant Duff and Dennis Kincaid. Where do the Cholas, who have recently drawn national attention fit, into the world of our collective imagination?
Between Thiruvaduthurai Sengol and Mani Ratnam’s Ponniyin Selvan, we now have an imaginative portrayal of Chola that warrants deeper understanding. The question at hand is not whether the Cholas would hold such significance in our minds if Kalki Krishnamurthy hadn’t written his classic novel or if Nehru hadn’t received a “golden stick”. The more intriguing question is why the Cholas are an emphatic and enduring presence in our collective imagination. I recall Israeli scholar David Shulman once telling me that all South Indian art after the Cholas represents an attempt to flatter the Cholas through imitation and variation. It’s an insidious idea that captivates us. What did the Cholas leave behind that compels us to revisit them again and again?
Significance of Kaveri and Tamil
The first thing, of course, is the Kaveri Delta, the core heartland of the Cholas. My ancestors from Coimbatore believed that it was a self-evident truth that the Siruvani, Amaravati, and Bhavani rivers were among the best in the world. Yet, in moments of weakness, which were quite frequent, they had to abandon their parochial patriotism and acknowledge the pre-eminence of the Kaveri, of which our rivers were mere tributaries.
Even in this jaded 21st century, just driving around from Tiruchirappalli down to Thanjavur and all the way to the Bay of Bengal remains one of the most enchanting experiences for humankind. The Kaveri does not run through a vast plain. Instead, she presents an immediate intimacy that is quite unmatched. Paddy fields, coconut palms, banana groves and ubiquitous temples everywhere.
Most villages start with “Tiru”, clearly indicating the immense sacredness that permeates the region. The Tamil word “tiru” is difficult to translate. “Holy” is a weak equivalent. If you love the Kaveri, and no one who sees her at Mettur or the Grand Anicut (Kallanai dam) can fail to love her, you must love the Cholas. The Kaveri and the Cholas are so intertwined that they are like Parvati and Shiva in an eternal embrace. As long as the Kaveri flows, we will stay obsessed with the Cholas.
The second factor is Tamil—the language and its literature. I know, I know, Tamil for all traditionalists is about the Pandyas and Madurai, and not about the Cholas and Thanjavur. But let us not forget that the Sangam epic Silappadikaram starts in the Chola port city of Poompuhar, which is also known as Kaveripoompattinam, clearly establishing the connection with the ever-present maternal delta.
More importantly, Tamil Bhakti literature, which represents the zenith of our cultural achievement, has ties to Chola lands that are too numerous to be downplayed. The ubiquitous Shulman in his luminous Tamil: A Biography talks about the recurring theme of loss, usually of manuscripts, and rediscovery that haunts the history of our language and its products.
According to tradition, the texts of the great Thevaram were rediscovered by the Cholas in Chidambaram. This set off a grand renaissance that extended beyond literature, encompassing temple-building, dance, music, and festivals. The theme of rediscovery after a “loss” was re-enacted in the early 20th century when UV Swaminatha Iyer brought to light the lost texts of antiquity. Kumbakonam, which is at the heart of the Chola Kaveri Delta, features strongly here. Iyer himself was born near Kumbakonam, and it was here that Ramaswami Mudaliar gave Iyer a rare manuscript of the Jivaka Chintamani. The rest, as they say, is history.
Clearly, our repetitive patterns of manuscripts disappearing and then being found, which is at the very heart of Tamil sensibility, had a distinct Chola connection in the distant past and another one in the recent past.
Size matters
The third point, which really is the central feature of Chola art is “size”. The Brihadisvara Temple in Thanjavur, also known as the Big Temple, is just that. It is big. And so are the temples at Darasuram, Gangaikonda Cholapuram and many other places. The Cholas’ commitment to magnificence and scale is impressive.
The accoutrements of grandeur are simply in front of us. No arguments there. All subsequent ruling dynasties—the Vijayanagara sovereigns, the Nayakas, and the Marathas were perforce seduced by the Cholas’ love for size. When the Vijayanagara emperor Achuta Raya was renovating the Srirangam temple, he consciously set out to imitate the Cholas. And here again, there was an element of loss and rediscovery. Phoenix-like, the Srirangam temple had risen after the depredations and destruction wrought by Malik Kafur. When the Nayakas added the outer prakarams of the Rajagopalaswamy temple in Mannargudi, clearly their architects and masons were instructed to study and draw inspiration from the Cholas. The present Thanjavur palace, which houses the Saraswati Mahal library, has the Maratha signature all over it. You can almost see Sarfoji walking around. And yet, there is that pervasive whiff of Chola aesthetics about the environment that simply won’t go away.
Size is taken seriously, if for no other reason than it implies an earnestness of purpose and the husbanding of large chunks of resources.
However, the Cholas’ concern with size is not confined to architecture alone. It extends to their bronze sculptures as well. The magnificent Nataraja in the Konerirajapuram temple is really big. The shrine chamber must have been built after the statue was installed. That is the only possible explanation. And of course, there must have been a divine hand in the fashioning of this exquisite image of the dancing Lord. I have spoken to contemporary sculptors who unanimously agree that even today, our lost wax process is unlikely to produce a masterpiece like this one.
The Nataraja at Uthirakosamangai in the distant south is made of jade and is remarkably large, especially given the unusual nature of the medium. Once again, it is noteworthy that the Setupati monarchs, who built so much of the Uttarakosamangai and the Rameshwaram temples, were inspired by the Cholas, who were quite distant both in time and space.
If the Cholas had relied only on size, they would be a minor footnote in history. It is their commitment to sophisticated aesthetics, beauty, and grace that continues to captivate us. If you wish to witness sculptural elegance firsthand, all you have to do is visit the Nageshwara temple in Kumbakonam.
The early Chola statues rival the best of Maurya and Gupta sculptures and point to the shared cultural symbols that span the entire sub-continent, which clearly go back centuries and perhaps even millennia.
Incidentally, this is not true only of sculpture. It is true also in the realms of philosophy and mysticism. One of the great Gurus of the Adheenams, who recently received some publicity, is Meykandar. The parallels between Meykandar’s Shaivism and the insights of Abhinavagupta from distant Kashmir are uncanny but not surprising, for after all our puzzling peninsula has had a common cultural strand even in the absence of administrative unity.
The anonymous Chola artists rank with Phidias and Michelangelo in the rich history of sculpture that is the legacy of all humans. And when it comes to the Cholas, we can never run away from their lost-wax bronzes. (As an aside, the lost wax process has been in our land for a very long time. The Dancing Girl from Mohenjo-Daro was made by this technique as are the modern sculptures of Jaidev Baghel from Bastar.)
In the not-so-well-organised museum at Thanjavur, there is a bronze sculpture of a standing Shiva, in his role as a cowherd and Pashupata, the lord of the animal kingdom. One can stand and stare at this statue for hours. The face has a gentle, divine aura. The headdress, or the turban as we call it today, is brilliant beyond all measure. Clearly, the Chola sculptors were classy fellows who knew a thing or two about grace. No wonder after a thousand years, we still remain in awe.
Also read: Chola period wasn’t golden age of Tamils. Modern obsession with their glory is misplaced
Resurgence of the Cholas
My one quarrel with Mani Ratnam’s Ponniyin Selvan is that it emphasises a little too much the war-mongering elements of Chola history. We needed more attention devoted to their aesthetic and administrative achievements. But let me not be churlish. Ratnam captures one of the most important elements associated with Chola traditions—their commitment to the sacred and the sacral. Ratnam focuses on the steps leading up from the Kaveri not just in the brilliant Kamsa dance, but also in the slow march of putative royalty up the steps. And as this is happening, he has in the background, and even in the foreground, recitations from the Rudra Prashna of the Yajur Veda and from Adi Shankara’s Nirvana Shatakam.
The Cholas ruled their domains as viceroys of Peruvudaiyar Brihadisvara. Shiva has been with us from the days of our collective childhood. Bridget and Raymond Allchin told us some 70 years ago that Pashupata (the same one whose bronze image is in the Thanjavur museum) was our friend in Harappan days. And the blue-throated Nilagriva is all over the famous Yajurvedic hymn. And we have our great poets. Thirunavukkarasar, Sundarar, Thirugnanasambandar and Manikkavacakar—all names ignored by the Marxist erstwhile editors of NCERT texts. To this day, we relate to Shiva and the Chola domain through these matchless minstrels. Modern technology has helped us. The otherwise controversial YouTube has been a boon. Pa Sargurunathan and Sivasri Skandaprasad have, through their musical renditions, given back to us our amniotic memories. I am also grateful to Jaggi Vasudev, who has made sure that the auditory paradise of the Thevaram is not denied to us in contemporary times.
The Cholas will stay with us as long as we keep the faith not just in Shiva, but also in Narayana Perumal. The enchanting Chola temple dedicated to Sarangapani, where the walls have Bharatanatyam dance poses sculpted in relief, is testimony to the Chola faith in the lord with different names. The great goddess too was not ignored. The Pattiswaram Durga temple is verily the abode of Shakti (divine power). Once again, the sculptures on the walls are breathtaking. The Cholas will stay with us as long as the Kaveri flows. The Cholas will stay with us as long as Tamil is spoken and loved. The Cholas can never die as long as we love sculptures and dance. The Cholas will stay with us as long as we keep the faith in Peruvudaiyar. They are simply a persistent presence far exceeding their military achievements.
I am not making the argument that the Cholas were the greatest. That would be both foolish and unsustainable. In fact, there is a case to be made for parallels in human affairs. Thanks to the Marxist domination of the NCERT, our school children have never heard of Kulottunga Chola. The students might find it intriguing to know that Kulottunga commissioned a detailed land survey of his dominion around the same time that the English monarch William the Conqueror undertook a similar survey of his lands, which he published in the well-known Domesday Book. If that is not synchronicity, then what is?
I must end with a reference to the Sengol controversy, which has brought the Cholas to centre stage. As I see it, the real villain is the curator in Prayagraj Leftist journalists have been shrill that this great curator never called the Sengol a walking stick. Apparently, he only called it a “golden stick”, which supposedly exonerates him. One wonders if the Allahabad curator would have had similar problems deciphering inscriptions in other languages. But somehow, there were no readers of modern Tamil in that great city. O great curator: the Sengol is not a mere stick. It is a sacred symbol. And if you can’t understand the penumbra of meaning surrounding the word “sacred”, then the loss is yours. Today we are satisfied that the Thiruvavaduthurai Desika Swamigal has re-established a Chola connection.
Clearly, the Cholas prevail.
Jaithirth Rao is a retired businessperson who lives in Mumbai. Views are personal.
(Edited by Theres Sudeep)