11. Heroes and Villains of the Indus Valley - The Art and Architecture of Hinduism, Buddhism, and Jainism

The Life Story of Ashoka the Great

I was born into power, privilege, and ambition. My name is Ashoka, of the Maurya dynasty, grandson of Chandragupta Maurya, who forged the first great empire of India. My father, Bindusara, was an emperor of great renown, and I was one among many sons in a vast palace of schemes and silent rivalries. From a young age, I showed strength and skill—some said I was too fierce, too ruthless, and my enemies feared my name even before I wore the crown. Though not the heir by birth, I proved myself through battle and strategy. My father appointed me governor of Ujjain, and later of Taxila, where I quelled rebellion and enforced order.

But peace did not follow me. I was ambitious, and when my father died, a bitter succession followed. I fought my own brothers for the throne. In the end, I emerged victorious, not through kindness or compassion, but through cunning and bloodshed. I became emperor around 268 BC, and the subcontinent trembled beneath my banner.

The Conquest of Kalinga

Of all the battles I fought, none stayed with me like Kalinga. That land, proud and independent, resisted my rule. I sent my armies to crush their defiance. The war was brutal. The fields were soaked in blood, the rivers choked with bodies. They say over 100,000 lives were lost, and countless more wounded, orphaned, or broken. I stood on the battlefield after the victory, surrounded by silence and ash. I did not feel triumph. I felt haunted. The sight of the dying and the cries of the grieving awakened something deep within me—something I had never felt in all my years of conquest. Regret.

That moment was my true turning point.

The Path of Dharma

In the years that followed, I turned away from war. I turned inward. I began to study the Dhamma—the teachings of the Buddha—and embraced its message of compassion, restraint, and truth. I did not renounce my throne. I believed a ruler could serve the world better by ruling justly. So I governed, not with the sword, but with moral example. I issued edicts carved on rocks and pillars across my empire, not to boast, but to teach. I spoke of kindness to all beings, tolerance of all faiths, respect for parents, care for prisoners, and the importance of self-control. I appointed officers of Dhamma to ensure the well-being of all my people, from the richest merchant to the humblest villager.

I sent envoys across seas and deserts, not as conquerors, but as messengers of peace. To Sri Lanka, to Hellenistic kings in the West, I shared the message of the Buddha. I planted trees, dug wells, built hospitals for people and animals. My reign became a mirror of the path I had chosen—one of growth through wisdom, not domination.

A Legacy of Compassion

In the twilight of my life, I look upon the stone pillars that carry my words. They are my true legacy, not the battles I won. I cannot erase the harm I once caused, but I transformed that sorrow into a vow to protect life, not destroy it. They now call me Ashoka the Great, but that greatness was not born of conquest. It was born of a single moment of awakening—on a battlefield of horror—that led me toward the path of dharma.

I wish every ruler, every person in power, to know this: Real strength lies not in fear, but in compassion. Real victory is not over lands or people, but over the self. I was once Ashoka the Terrible. I became Ashoka the Just. If I can change, so can the world.

Sacred Spaces: What Is a Temple or Cave Shrine? - Told by Ashoka the Great

When I stood on the blood-soaked fields of Kalinga, my soul stirred in a way it never had before. In that moment of grief, I turned away from conquest and turned toward the teachings of the Buddha. As I walked the path of dharma, I came to understand the importance of places—not just places of governance or defense, but places where the spirit breathes. Sacred spaces, we call them. These are the heart of any faith, where the human soul meets the eternal. Across my empire and beyond, I encountered these sanctuaries in many forms—temples, stupas, and rock-cut caves—each different, yet united by a shared reverence for the divine.

The Hindu Temple: A House of the Divine

Before I followed the Buddha’s path, I grew up in a land woven with Hindu beliefs. The Hindu temple is not merely a building; it is a house for the deity, a place where the infinite makes itself present in a stone image, a flame, or a chant. These temples are often laid out in a sacred geometric design, drawing the visitor from the outer world into the innermost sanctum, the garbhagriha, or "womb chamber," where the god or goddess resides. Worshipers bring offerings, light lamps, ring bells, and bow before the murti, not because the stone itself is sacred, but because it channels the presence of the divine. These temples are places for both ritual and celebration, where festivals echo with music and color, and the community gathers in joy and devotion.

The Buddhist Stupa: A Symbol of Enlightenment

It was through the Buddha’s teachings that I came to commission many stupas across the land. A stupa is not like a temple you enter. It is a mound, sometimes vast, crowned with a spire, enclosing relics of the Buddha or enlightened monks. You do not step inside a stupa—you walk around it in reverence. Each turn is a quiet act of meditation, a reminder that the path to enlightenment is a journey. The shape of the stupa itself—dome, base, and spire—mirrors the cosmic order and the Buddha’s path from life to awakening. When I built stupas, I did not build monuments to power. I built monuments to peace, to wisdom, to the stillness that can exist even in an emperor’s heart.

The Jain Cave Shrine: A Refuge of Detachment

Not all sacred places rise above the earth. Some are carved into its bones. The Jains, whose discipline and asceticism I came to admire, created shrines and temples inside caves and cliffs. These places are as quiet as a monk’s breath and as clean as a vow of silence. Their rock-cut sanctuaries, like those at Ellora and Udayagiri, contain intricate carvings of the Tirthankaras—the Jain spiritual masters—who gaze with serene detachment upon all who enter. Jain sacred spaces are not for crowds or ceremony; they are for reflection, for inner purification, for the shedding of all ties. To step into one is to step into stillness itself.

The Purpose of Sacred Places

Though these spaces may differ in form and belief, their essence is shared. They are not just structures of stone—they are places where the eternal is remembered. In temples, the heart bows. In stupas, the mind calms. In cave shrines, the self dissolves. Whether you seek blessing, insight, or liberation, sacred spaces offer a doorway inward. As emperor, I governed lands. But through these spaces, I came to understand how to govern the soul.

Let all who visit such places do so with reverence, with humility, and with gratitude. For in these sanctuaries, we remember what is most sacred—not only the divine, but our own capacity for peace.

The Story of the Stupa: Symbolism and Evolution - Told by Ashoka the Great

Long before I embraced the Dhamma, the remains of holy men were buried beneath simple earthen mounds. These were no grand monuments, just modest coverings over the ashes of those who had walked the spiritual path. But after the Mahaparinirvana of the Buddha, his followers gathered his relics and placed them within such mounds. These became more than burial sites—they became sacred points of meditation. When I came to understand the truths of suffering, impermanence, and liberation, I felt it my duty to preserve and share the light of these truths. I took the humble stupa and gave it form, reverence, and permanence. Under my reign, these ancient burial mounds became beacons of peace and centers of devotion.

The Body of the Stupa

To understand the stupa, one must not look with the eyes alone, but with the mind. The great dome, or anda, is more than a rounded structure—it represents the world, the universe, the cycle of life and death. Upon this rests the harmika, a square railing, small but potent, marking the sacred space where the heavens meet the earth. Rising from its center is the yasti, a vertical pillar like the axis of the cosmos, linking the realm of men to the realm of the gods. Crowning the yasti are parasols, symbols of honor and protection. Encircling the stupa, at its base, stands the torana, the gateways carved with scenes of the Buddha’s life, the Jataka tales, and the great wheel of Dharma. These gates are not just entrances—they are teachings in stone.

A Journey in Circles

When a devotee comes to a stupa, they do not enter it as they would a temple. Instead, they walk around it, always clockwise, in a meditative practice called pradakshina. Each step echoes the turning of the Dharma wheel, each circuit a step closer to awakening. The stupa itself teaches silently. It speaks to the soul, reminding it of the path: from the confusion of the outer world, through stillness and understanding, toward enlightenment at the center. It is a map made of stone for the traveler seeking truth.

The Great Stupa of Sanchi

Of all the stupas I helped build, the one at Sanchi still stirs my heart. It began as a modest structure—nothing more than a mound over relics of the Buddha. But over the years, artisans, monks, and devotees transformed it into a monument of grace. The toranas at Sanchi are carved with the finest artistry of the age, filled with scenes of the Buddha's former lives, animals that symbolize virtues, and stories that whisper teachings to those who pause to see. It is a place where devotion, architecture, and the dharma blend into one.

From India to the World

The stupa did not remain confined to Magadha or the boundaries of my empire. As the Dharma spread, so too did the stupa. In Lanka, in the highlands of the Himalayas, across to Central Asia and beyond to the East, stupas rose in many forms—some tall and slender like the pagodas of China, others carved into rock or gilded in gold. Though the shapes changed, the message remained. The stupa stands as a symbol of the awakened mind, a reminder that even the heaviest suffering can be transcended.

Why I Built Them

I built stupas not to glorify myself, but to awaken others. Let the people see not the emperor, but the path. Let the stone teach where words may fail. In times of trouble, confusion, or sorrow, the stupa offers stillness. In times of joy, it offers gratitude. It is a teacher that never speaks, yet always guides.

To the generations after me, I say this: walk around it, look upon it, reflect beside it. You need not carry a sword to be great. To honor life, to seek truth, and to walk the path of peace—that is the greatest conquest of all.

Rock-Cut Wonders: Ajanta and Udayagiri Caves - Told by Ashoka the Great

In my years as emperor, I roamed the breadth of the subcontinent—from the hot plains of Kalinga to the forests of the Vindhyas. Everywhere I went, I sought ways to carry the message of the Dhamma. But it was not only through words or pillars that this truth found a home. I came to learn of places where faith was not just taught or preached—but carved. Rock-cut caves, shaped by chisel and prayer, became sacred homes to monks, pilgrims, and seekers. These marvels were not raised by piling bricks or stacking timber—they were carved into the very heart of the earth. The quiet of stone became the echo of devotion.

Ajanta: Caves of Light and Devotion

Tucked away in a gorge of the Sahyadri hills, north of my ancestral lands, lie the caves of Ajanta. When I visited the region, these caves were beginning to take shape. Over time, more were carved and adorned by hands guided by devotion and skill. Buddhist monks turned these cliffs into viharas (monastic residences) and chaityas (prayer halls). As you enter, the stone cools the air and the silence humbles the heart. Walls are adorned with paintings so vivid, they seem to breathe—the tales of the Buddha’s past lives, the Jataka stories, unfold in graceful colors and poised gestures. There, stone pillars line the halls like forest trees, and at the center of some caves stands the stupa—silent, simple, eternal. Ajanta is a temple of time, art, and reflection.

Ellora: Harmony in Diversity

Further west, near the ancient trade routes of Maharashtra, the caves of Ellora rise like a hymn to religious unity. Here, in one stretch of stone, are sanctuaries of the three great paths—Buddhism, Hinduism, and Jainism. The Buddhist caves, hewn in the 6th and 7th centuries, contain monastic halls and carved Buddhas seated in meditation. The Hindu caves, bold and majestic, erupt with gods in motion—Shiva dancing, Vishnu reclining, Durga slaying demons. And the Jain caves, added later, display the serene Tirthankaras, perfectly poised in their detachment. The most awe-inspiring of all is Kailasa Temple, a Hindu marvel not built, but carved from the top down—an entire mountain sculpted into a temple. I never saw it in my lifetime, but had I lived to see it, I would have stood in reverence, for such creation is the fruit of devotion beyond all rivalry.

Udayagiri: Footsteps of Dharma

Eastward, in what is now Madhya Pradesh, you will find the caves of Udayagiri. I knew this land well, for it once lay within the reach of my own rule. Udayagiri is older than the others in some parts and deeply sacred to the Hindu tradition, with carvings of Vishnu emerging from cosmic sleep and Shiva poised in calm power. But Jain monks also made homes there—small, sparse, and humble. These caves are less grand, yet no less holy. They remind us that sacredness does not always require splendor. Sometimes, a single figure carved with quiet care, a prayer whispered in the dusk, holds more power than an entire palace.

The Hands That Carved Faith

These caves were not made by kings alone. Though some patrons were rulers like myself or noblemen with wealth, the true creators were the nameless hands of stonecutters, painters, and monks. They worked not for gold, but for merit, for devotion. Monks laid out plans, artists brought legends to life, and craftsmen coaxed gods and Buddhas from cold rock. Each strike of the hammer was a prayer. Each brushstroke a vow. These spaces were not only for beauty or shelter—they were for transformation.

Mapping the Sacred

If you look to a map of the subcontinent, you will find Ajanta in northern Maharashtra, hugging a horseshoe-shaped ravine. Ellora lies just a short journey to the west, near the city of Aurangabad. Udayagiri rests further north and east, near Vidisha. They seem far apart, but they form a triangle of faith that cradles India’s spiritual heart. Across these places, different beliefs found expression not through violence or rivalry, but through stone, color, and silence.

Why These Spaces Endure

Why do these caves still move us, centuries later? Because they were carved not only with tools, but with longing—for peace, for truth, for contact with the eternal. I, Ashoka, who once wielded armies and ruled an empire, found greater power in such spaces than in any battlefield. In these caves, one does not conquer others—one conquers the self.

Let the future remember: the strongest empires crumble, but a cave carved in devotion endures. Let your faith be like these mountains—patient, steady, and filled with light within.

Hindu Temples: Towers and Inner Sanctums - Told by Ashoka the Great

Though I devoted much of my life to the teachings of the Buddha, I was raised in a land where the deities of Hinduism watched over every village, river, and sunrise. I grew up walking the stone steps of temples, where incense danced in the air and chants stirred something ancient in the soul. These temples were not merely buildings—they were maps of the universe carved in stone, reflections of Mount Meru, the cosmic mountain, and homes for the gods who shaped existence. I came to understand that each temple was not built for the eye alone, but for the journey of the soul, guiding it from the outer world into the presence of the divine.

The Tower: Shikhara, Crown of the Temple

The most striking part of a Hindu temple is its soaring tower—the shikhara in the north, or vimana in the south. Rising high above the sanctum, the shikhara represents the sacred mountain where gods dwell. Just as the Himalayas rise from the earth to meet the heavens, so too does this tower guide the devotee’s gaze and spirit upward. It is a marker of divine presence, an earthly echo of something greater. From afar, it beckons like a lighthouse of the soul, reminding all who see it that the divine is near.

The Hall: Mandapa, Gathering of Devotion

Before reaching the inner sanctum, one must pass through the mandapa, the pillared hall that welcomes worshippers into the heart of the temple. This is where songs are sung, prayers are offered, and rituals unfold in rhythm with the universe. The mandapa serves as a bridge between the outer world and the sacred core. Its ceilings often bloom with carvings of lotus petals, its pillars lined with scenes from sacred texts, from the dances of Shiva to the victories of Vishnu. Here, the community joins together, each person a drop in the river of devotion.

The Sanctum: Garbhagriha, Womb of the Divine

At the center of it all lies the garbhagriha, the womb chamber. It is small, dark, and still—the most sacred part of the temple. This is where the deity resides, usually in the form of a murti, a stone image infused with presence. Unlike the grand outer spaces, the garbhagriha is meant to be quiet, personal, even intimate. The journey to it is symbolic: as one moves inward, shedding noise and distraction, the soul draws closer to the eternal. One does not rush into this chamber. One bows, offers, whispers, and feels.

Temples that Embody the Cosmos

Centuries after my time, the builders of Brihadeshwara in Thanjavur and the sculptors of Khajuraho carried forth the vision of temples as divine maps. Brihadeshwara, with its massive shikhara and long mandapas, honors Shiva with scale and symmetry. Every stone sings his name. At Khajuraho, the temples are carved with a universe of life—gods, humans, animals, love, war, and the sacred cycles of desire and liberation. These temples are not distractions. They are teaching tools, showing the worshipper that all of life—when viewed through the eyes of truth—is sacred.

A Journey from Outer to Inner

Whether one steps into a village shrine or a mountain temple, the design is nearly always the same: from the open to the hidden, from the broad mandapa to the narrow garbhagriha, from many voices to one silence. It is a journey that mirrors the spiritual path—from the distractions of the world to the stillness of union with the divine. The temple is a living structure, a guide, and a host. It teaches through its shape, its symbols, and its silence.

Why Temples Matter

As an emperor, I ruled through roads, walls, and armies. But these temples—so delicately carved, so reverently built—outlast even the strongest empire. They are not monuments to kings but to the truths that lie beyond kingship. Let those who visit a temple remember that it is not the stone that makes it sacred, but the presence that dwells within—and the intention of the heart that enters. The divine, after all, does not reside only in heaven. It waits patiently in the garbhagriha, in the flickering flame, in the silence between two breaths.

Jain Temples: Symmetry, Purity, and Marble - Told by Ashoka the Great

In my later years, as I embraced the Dhamma and walked away from conquest, I came to understand not only the truths of Buddhism but also the deep wisdom within the Jain path. Though our philosophies differ in detail, we share the reverence for non-violence, discipline, and liberation. The Jains, ever firm in their vows, have shaped a tradition of worship that reflects the clarity and restraint of their faith. Their temples are not built to impress the world with power, but to embody inner balance. To step into a Jain temple is to enter a space where the very air is quiet, where marble sings of purity, and where light dances across perfect symmetry.

The Pursuit of Purity

To the Jain, purity is not merely about outward cleanliness, but about the soul shedding karma like dust from a white robe. Their temples, carved from pale marble, reflect this pursuit. The white stone is no accident. It was chosen carefully, because it mirrors the ideals of non-attachment and spiritual clarity. Even the floors are scrubbed until they shine like mirrors, not for pride, but because each speck of dirt is seen as a distraction from the path to liberation. The air in a Jain temple feels untouched. The atmosphere is not heavy with incense or ritual noise—it is crisp, orderly, and sacred in its simplicity.

Symmetry as Devotion

The architecture of Jain temples is governed by precision. Symmetry is not a decoration—it is a form of worship. Every pillar, dome, and corridor is perfectly measured, reflecting the cosmic order the Jains seek to live by. Nothing is random. Nothing is without reason. To create such symmetry requires not only craftsmanship, but an inner calm. The temples stand as maps of the universe, reminders that liberation comes not through chaos but through balance and discipline. Where other temples may overwhelm the senses with grandeur, Jain temples lead the soul inward through quiet geometry.

The Marvel of Dilwara Temples

High upon Mt. Abu in the Aravalli Hills, the Dilwara Temples were built long after my time, but I have seen their likeness and heard the reverent stories. Here, marble flows like silk. Columns are carved with such delicacy that they seem to tremble with breath. Ceilings swirl with lotus flowers, mandalas, and celestial dancers, all shaped from solid stone. The craftsmanship is beyond skill—it is devotion made visible. These temples were not the gift of a king seeking glory, but of Jain patrons seeking merit, offering beauty to the world without expecting anything in return.

The Grandeur of Ranakpur

Ranakpur, nestled in a quiet valley of Rajasthan, is another jewel of Jain architecture. Its temple to Adinatha, the first Tirthankara, rises with 1,444 intricately carved pillars—each one unique, yet perfectly in harmony with the whole. No two are alike, just as no two souls walk the exact same path, but all journey toward the same truth. Light slips through lattice windows, casting patterned shadows across the stone. The space breathes with the rhythm of prayer. Even silence here feels sculpted. It is a place where time seems to pause, where the soul is reminded of its higher purpose.

Lessons in Marble

I, Ashoka, who once ruled with the edge of a blade, came to see the quiet strength in these temples. They do not need towers to touch the sky. They do not need armies to guard them. Their endurance lies in their purity, their balance, and their refusal to shout. In the Jain tradition, every act—whether carving a pillar or sweeping a step—is a chance to practice restraint and earn merit. Their temples are not only homes for the Tirthankaras but mirrors for the soul.

Let all who visit them do so barefoot, both in body and spirit. Let them walk slowly, with reverence, and let the white stone remind them of the clarity that lies within when the noise of the world is set aside. For it is in such places, cool and precise, that even emperors can bow and remember what it means to be truly free.

My Name is Amrapali: Courtesan, Seeker, Disciple

They say I was born beneath the shade of a mango tree in Vaishali, one of the greatest cities of the ancient world. It is from that grove that I received my name: Amrapali, the "mango blossom." There are many tales about my origin—some say I was born miraculously, a gift to the city itself. What is true is that I was raised among dancers and artists, and my beauty, grace, and wit brought me early fame. By the time I came of age, the elders of Vaishali chose me as the nagarvadhu—the royal courtesan—not a wife to one man, but a companion to kings, nobles, and the wise. This was not a mark of shame in our time but a celebrated role, one that gave me wealth, freedom, and influence.

The Life of a Courtesan

As nagarvadhu, I was trained in the seventy-four arts—singing, dancing, conversation, poetry, music, and charm. Men came to me not just for pleasure, but for insight and companionship. I hosted philosophers, generals, and even rival kings. Yet as lavish as my life seemed, something within me stirred with restlessness. Amid the silks and incense, I began to see how fleeting everything was—how admiration turned to jealousy, and joy to longing. I grew weary of hollow praise and shallow affection. Beneath the laughter, I began to ask: Is this all there is?

The Day the Buddha Came

Then came the day that changed my life forever. News spread through Vaishali that a great sage had arrived—a man who had renounced a kingdom, awakened to truth, and gathered thousands who listened to his words with open hearts. Siddhartha Gautama, the Buddha, was his name. I had seen countless holy men before, but this one was different. There was no fire of ego in his eyes, only calm, deep as a forest pool. I went to hear him speak.

He saw me in the crowd. He did not look away, nor did he look with lust or scorn. He saw me—truly saw me—as a human being. When he taught of impermanence, suffering, and the path to liberation, I felt his words like a wind sweeping through a dusty chamber. I invited him to dine at my residence. Though others mocked me or warned him against accepting, the Buddha came, and he treated me as worthy of the Dhamma.

Giving Up the World

That moment opened a door in my soul. I began to see through the glamour of my life. I gave away my jewels and silks, my home and earnings, and renounced the life of a courtesan. I took refuge in the Triple Gem—the Buddha, the Dhamma, and the Sangha—and became a bhikkhuni, a Buddhist nun.

Some ridiculed me. They could not understand why a woman like me, who had everything, would walk away. But I had found something greater: peace. In the Sangha, I practiced mindfulness, compassion, and detachment. I memorized the teachings, chanted the verses, and served the community. Over time, I was recognized for my insight and discipline. I even came to be considered one of the great female disciples of the Buddha.

Reflections at the End of My Life

Now, in my later years, I reflect on the winding path of my life. From dancer to courtesan, from entertainer of kings to servant of the Truth. I have seen the fickleness of beauty, the pain of desire, and the emptiness of status. But I have also seen that a life of meaning is not given by birth or title—it is built, breath by breath, choice by choice.

I wish others to know that no matter their past, they are not bound by it. Even a woman like me, once condemned by some, became a student of the Blessed One and walked the path to freedom. That is the gift of the Dhamma—it welcomes all who are ready to wake up.

Carvings and Stories in Stone: Narrative Panels - Told by Amrapali of Vaishali

In my youth, I was known for the way I danced, for the way my voice lilted like a veena string, for the beauty I brought into gathering halls and moonlit gardens. But as the years passed, and I turned my heart toward the Dhamma, I came to appreciate another kind of beauty—one carved into stone by hands I would never meet, yet could always admire. The sacred walls of temples and caves, whether Hindu, Buddhist, or Jain, are not bare blocks of granite. They are books. They are paintings made without brush. They are voices frozen in stone, telling stories that have shaped lives for generations.

The Stone Tells Stories

Long before books were bound, sculptors told tales with chisels. On temple walls across Bharatavarsha, gods descend, heroes battle, sages meditate, and celestial dancers whirl. These are not random decorations. They are lessons, memories, and dreams etched into eternity. On the outer walls, one may see Shiva in his cosmic dance, Kali in fierce grace, or Vishnu striding the heavens in his many avatars. Inside, the walls often whisper subtler stories: gods as children, saints in penance, and mortals striving for truth. To walk through these temples is to read without turning a page.

The Past Lives of the Buddha

When I first entered the caves at Ajanta, it felt as if the stone itself breathed. There, the walls unfold the Jataka tales, the many lives of the Buddha before he attained enlightenment. In each panel, I saw the compassion and courage of the Bodhisattva—as a king who gives away his riches, as a deer who risks his life for others, as a prince who walks away from comfort to seek truth. These carvings are not merely art. They are mirrors for the soul. Even a courtesan like me, once draped in silks and surrounded by song, stood quiet and still before them, listening with her heart.

Jain Tirthankaras in Serenity

In the Jain temples I later visited, I saw a different kind of carving—more restrained, more serene. The Tirthankaras are never shown in wild motion or battle. They sit or stand in perfect calm, eyes half-closed, bodies motionless, their faces echoing stillness. Around them, smaller carvings tell of their renunciations, their meditations, their triumphs over temptation. The stone is clean, precise, almost mathematical. This, too, is storytelling, but of a kind that does not stir emotion so much as it silences it.

Epic Tales of Gods and Mortals

The greatest storytellers of stone perhaps reside in the Hindu temples of Khajuraho, Hampi, and the South. There, you will find scenes from the Mahabharata and Ramayana—two epics that every child in my time knew by heart. Arjuna aiming his bow, Hanuman leaping to Lanka, Sita in sorrow, and Ravana in fury—all captured mid-movement, their bodies alive in the quiet of stone. These stories were not hidden in books. They were displayed on the bodies of temples, for even the illiterate to know, remember, and feel. Every wrinkle of the elephant, every swirl of the dancer’s skirt, every muscle of the warrior’s arm—each was carved with care.

The Purpose Behind the Beauty

Why did they carve these stories? Not for wealth, not for fame. The sculptors often remained nameless. But they believed, as I came to believe, that beauty can awaken something deeper. These carvings were offerings, not just to the gods but to the people. They taught dharma, preserved memory, and allowed each visitor to find their place in the story. A farmer might recognize the struggle of a prince. A mother might see herself in the sorrow of Sita. A child might dream of becoming wise, brave, or free.

Stone That Feels Alive

Even now, after leaving behind my old life and dwelling in simpler silence, I sometimes think of those carvings. They are not cold. They are not dead. They are alive in the way a well-told story is alive. They remind us that faith is not only spoken or sung—it is carved, remembered, and passed on through every flake of stone.

So the next time you stand before a temple wall, look closely. Do not rush past. Let the stone speak. You may find yourself in its stories. I once did. And I was never the same.

Religious Symbols in Art: The Lotus to the Swastika - Told by Amrapali of Vaishali

When I was young, before I became a follower of the Buddha, I admired beauty without always understanding it. I adored the colors on temple walls, the delicate jewelry of the gods, the patterns on a priest’s robe. But later, as I left behind the silks and songs of my courtesan life and embraced stillness and the search for truth, I learned that beauty in sacred places often carries meaning deeper than the eye can see. Every shape, every curve, every symbol carved into stone or painted on a wall tells a story. These are not decorations. They are teachings. Let me show you how to read them, as I learned to.

The Lotus Flower: Purity Rising from the Mud

One of the most graceful symbols in Buddhist and Hindu art is the lotus flower. I have seen it bloom in the marshes near Vaishali, its petals white or pink above the dark water. That is its message: purity and spiritual awakening, rising untouched from the mud of the world. In Buddhist art, the Buddha often sits on a lotus or holds one, reminding us that no matter where we begin, we can grow into something serene and full of light. In Hindu stories too, the lotus is sacred. Vishnu lies on a cosmic lotus, and Lakshmi stands upon it, offering prosperity. Even when life feels messy or painful, the lotus whispers, “You can still rise.”

The Dharma Wheel: The Path That Turns

When I first saw the wheel carved above a temple door, I thought it was simply a pattern. But then I heard the Buddha speak of the Dhamma, the truth that frees us from suffering, and I came to understand. The Dharma Wheel—also called the Dharmachakra—has eight spokes, representing the Noble Eightfold Path: right view, right intention, right speech, and so on. It is a symbol of the Buddha’s first teaching, when he “set the wheel of Dhamma in motion.” Every time I see this wheel, I remember that truth is not something we keep still. It must turn, move, guide us forward.

The Sacred Sound of Om

In my youth, the sound Om was often chanted at dawn and dusk in the homes of Brahmins and temples of the gods. Later, I learned it was not just a sound—but a symbol, a whole universe wrapped in a single syllable. In Hinduism, Om represents the essence of the universe: creation, preservation, and dissolution. It is often written in a curling, beautiful shape that carries quiet power. Even in Buddhist meditation, the sound Om appears as part of mantras. When carved above a temple entrance or painted in prayer scrolls, Om reminds the soul of what lies beyond words.

The Swastika: Auspicious and Ancient

There was a time when I saw the swastika as a simple good-luck mark painted on thresholds or temple walls. In Jainism, it is sacred—a symbol of the four states a soul may pass through: heavenly, human, animal, or hellish. In Hinduism, it represents the sun’s movement and cosmic order. In all these traditions, it speaks of balance and auspiciousness. The symbol was once as common as a smile, wishing peace and well-being upon a home. Though it was misused many centuries later in distant lands, its original meaning remains—a sign of harmony, a turning point in the cycle of existence.

The Jain Hand with the Chakra

Once, I met a Jain monk who showed me a symbol I had not seen before: a palm raised in blessing, with a wheel carved in its center. This is the Jain hand, a message as clear as it is powerful—“stop.” The hand calls us to practice ahimsa, non-violence toward all living beings. The wheel in its palm, known as the dharmachakra, reminds us that this vow is not passive—it is active, guiding the soul toward liberation. Every time we choose not to harm, we turn that wheel. The hand is gentle, but firm. It says: let no anger pass through me. Let no cruelty grow from me.

Learning to See with the Heart

When you walk through a temple, a cave, or a sacred hall, look beyond the colors and shapes. Look with your heart. These symbols are not just art—they are guides for your journey. They speak of purity, truth, balance, sound, and compassion. Even I, who once lived in palaces and danced for kings, found my truest lessons in these silent teachers carved in stone.

Symbols are a language without words. Learn to read them, and you will carry wisdom with you wherever you go—even when your hands are empty and your lips are silent. That is the kind of beauty that never fades.

Murals and Cave Paintings: Ajanta and Beyond - Told by Amrapali of Vaishali

When I was a young woman, praised for my beauty and trained in dance, I thought I knew all there was to know about elegance, color, and expression. My silks shimmered with dye from distant lands. My anklets rang in rhythm with music from finely tuned instruments. But it was not until I stood before a painted wall inside a stone cave that I felt true wonder. In the cool darkness of Ajanta, I saw walls that breathed with life—not through voice or movement, but through color, line, and story. These paintings, hidden in the rock, taught me what beauty could become when it served the spirit.

Ajanta: Walls that Whisper Tales

The caves of Ajanta were carved into a quiet horseshoe-shaped ravine, and within their shadows, artists brought the teachings of the Buddha to light. These murals do not simply decorate. They teach. They guide. They speak. One panel shows a prince, gently giving away his wealth to the poor. Another shows a golden deer, eyes full of kindness. There are bodhisattvas draped in fine silks, their faces soft with compassion. The colors—reds, greens, blues, and ochres—have faded over time, but even now, they shimmer with feeling. These were not painted quickly. Each stroke came from a calm hand and a mind deep in devotion. These caves became my teachers, even more than the sermons I once heard in crowded halls.

Emotion Carved in Color

What moved me most about these paintings was not just their skill, but their emotion. In one cave, I remember the eyes of a queen filled with sorrow as she watches her husband leave to seek truth. In another, the calm serenity of monks walking beneath a tree, each step painted with stillness. These walls held not only gods and heroes, but the fears, hopes, and joys of ordinary people. There was a sense that every painted face belonged to someone we might know—or even to ourselves. That is what makes these murals sacred: they invite us to feel, to reflect, and to remember.

Badami: Bold Colors and Hindu Gods

Far to the south, in the caves of Badami, the brush met stone in a different but no less powerful way. Here, it was the gods of the Hindu pantheon who filled the walls. Shiva danced with divine energy. Vishnu reclined in cosmic calm. The colors were bold and expressive, with deep reds and warm yellows. Unlike the quieter, more meditative tone of the Ajanta murals, Badami’s paintings were filled with movement, power, and majesty. And yet, even here, emotion was not forgotten. One could see the tender gaze between a goddess and her consort, or the fierce sorrow of a demon’s final moment. These were not lifeless idols—they were divine dramas in full color.

The Artists Behind the Brush

Who painted these wonders? Not kings. Not priests. But humble artists—some monks, some laypeople—guided by both skill and faith. They used brushes made of fine hair, colors ground from stones and plants, and applied them to wet plaster so the pigment would sink deep into the wall. Their names are lost, but their work speaks still. They worked not for fame, but for merit. Not for gold, but for the joy of creating beauty that helps others walk the path to truth.

Why Painted Caves Still Matter

Long after the laughter of royal courts fades and the silk of dancers turns to dust, the walls of these caves still stand. They remind us that sacredness is not always found in gold or in temples that rise to the sky. Sometimes, it lives quietly in the heart of a rock, waiting to be seen. They tell us that art is not just decoration—it is devotion. It is teaching. It is memory preserved in color.

When I became a disciple of the Buddha, I let go of many things. But I never let go of my love for beauty. I simply learned to see it more clearly. In the painted caves of Ajanta and Badami, I saw beauty transformed into wisdom. And I knew I had found something eternal. Let your eyes be open when you look upon these walls. And let your heart listen—for the stone still speaks.

Comparing Architecture and Beliefs through Art - Told by Amrapali of Vaishali

In the days of my youth, I was surrounded by the glitter of jewels, the echo of music, and the soft rustle of silk. But all of that beauty was fleeting. When I began my journey inward, drawn by the teachings of the Buddha, I discovered a different kind of beauty—one carved in stone, painted on cave walls, and lifted in towering spires. I saw temples, shrines, and sacred halls not just as places of worship, but as reflections of the beliefs that gave them life. Hinduism, Buddhism, and Jainism may differ in their teachings, but each one speaks through its architecture and art, allowing the faithful to see their truths made visible.

Hinduism: Towers of the Cosmos and Dancing Divinities

In Hindu temples, I saw the world turned into a sacred map. Every part of the structure is meant to mirror the universe. The great tower above the sanctum, the shikhara, rises like Mount Meru, the center of the cosmos. The floor plans follow a mandala, guiding the devotee from the outer world to the divine center. The gods are many, each with their own stories, powers, and forms. So too are the walls filled with carvings and sculptures—Shiva in his cosmic dance, Vishnu in his many incarnations, Lakshmi with her elephants, Durga riding her lion. The temples burst with motion, color, and energy. This is the world as the Hindus see it: full of divine activity, order within chaos, and the eternal dance of creation and destruction.

Buddhism: Stillness in Form and Mind

When I first stood before a Buddhist stupa, I was surprised by its simplicity. No gods with weapons or thrones, no battle scenes or celestial processions. Just a mound, a dome, a spire reaching upward, and a path to walk in silence. The stupa itself is a symbol of the Buddha’s journey—from birth to enlightenment to final liberation. Inside the cave monasteries like Ajanta, the paintings tell stories—not to entertain, but to teach. Scenes from the Buddha’s past lives are painted with gentle faces and graceful hands. Even when the walls are richly decorated, they do not overwhelm. Everything in Buddhist art points toward calm, mindfulness, and release from desire. The goal is not to glorify the world, but to rise above it.

Jainism: Precision, Purity, and Quiet Perfection

Jain temples, I came to learn, are unlike any others. Built with spotless marble and carved with unmatched care, they reflect the Jain vow of non-violence, discipline, and spiritual purity. There are no fierce battles on the walls, no divine dances or roaring beasts. Instead, the Tirthankaras sit or stand in silent meditation. Their faces are serene, their posture perfect. The architecture is symmetrical, balanced, and clean. Every pillar, every ceiling, every pattern is crafted with devotion and order. Even the air feels lighter in a Jain temple, as if purified by centuries of silent prayer. These are not places to impress the world—but to escape it. The temples invite the soul to become as still and unblemished as the white stone from which they are made.

What the Walls Teach

Each of these traditions uses stone and brush to share its deepest truths. Hindu temples remind us that the divine can take many forms and that the universe itself is sacred. Buddhist structures lead us inward, to the quiet truth beneath all the noise. Jain temples show that liberation comes through restraint, clarity, and non-harming.

Though I was once celebrated for my voice and movement, it is in the stillness of these sacred spaces that I found lasting understanding. As I walked their halls and traced their carvings with my eyes, I saw not just religion, but the longing of the human heart to connect with something eternal.

So when you step into a temple or gaze upon a painted wall, do not ask only what it shows. Ask what it believes. For faith can be read in stone, felt in silence, and seen in the way light falls on a carved lotus or a painted gaze. That is the kind of beauty that never fades.