Discovering Lepakshi Together

Just 100 kilometers from home, Lepakshi felt like a world away. This Independence Day, our family road trip led us to its timeless temple, where every sculpture and mural whispered stories of the past. What stayed with us, though, was not just the grandeur of history, but the joy of discovering it together.

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The morning air was cool as we set out, and soon, to our left, Nandi Hills appeared, wrapped in clouds. A stunning distraction that made the early morning drive feel magical.

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A little more chatter, some laughter, and a few songs later, the signboard finally greeted us: Welcome to Lepakshi.

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As we entered the town, the most striking sight awaited us: the massive Jatayu sculpture, wings spread wide as if still guarding the land. Perched on a rock with the tricolor fluttering below, it stood as both legend and landmark. According to mythology, this is where the great bird Jatayu fell after his valiant attempt to rescue Sita from Ravana.

(We’ll come back to Jatayu later in the post, as his presence here deserves a closer look.)

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We parked the car and walked up eagerly, and soon the Veerabhadra Temple stood before us in all its grandeur.

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The golden dhwaja stambha (flag pole) gleamed in the morning sun, standing tall beside the temple entrance like a silent sentinel.

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The Veerabhadra Temple was built in 1530 by the brothers Virupanna and Viranna, governors under the Vijayanagara Empire. Standing before its walls, you can almost feel the weight of five centuries pressing against the stone.

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Every inch of the temple base tells a story: rows of lions, elephants, and mythical creatures carved into granite with such precision that they still hold their form after centuries of wind and sun. These weren’t just decorations; they were symbols of power, protection, and divinity, etched by artisans whose names history has long forgotten.

Pausing here, I ran my hand lightly across the carvings. The stone felt cool, almost whispering its own age-old tales.

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Stepping inside, the temple pillars come alive with figures that seem to leap out of the granite. Each column tells its own tale: dancers frozen mid-movement, divine beings, mythical creatures, and floral motifs woven into the stone.

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One particular carving caught my eye, a graceful celestial maiden (yakshini or apsara) poised in dance, her body curved elegantly, her expression serene yet commanding. At her feet, a lion crouched, symbolizing power under control. The sculptor’s mastery is astonishing: the flowing ornaments, the folds of her attire, and even the suggestion of movement are all brought to life in unyielding granite.

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One of the most fascinating carvings inside the temple is that of Sage Bhringi, who is depicted with three legs. According to legend, Bhringi was so devoted to Lord Shiva that he refused to worship Parvati. Angered, Parvati cursed him, making his body weak. To continue his single-minded devotion, Bhringi took the form of a skeletal figure with three legs, balancing himself without the goddess’s support.

This rare sculpture in Lepakshi captures him in a dynamic pose, richly adorned, yet unmistakably distinct with his unusual stance.

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The hanging pillar drew curious visitors, many slipping scarves beneath to test the marvel.

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Another striking pillar bore the image of Bhikshatana, Shiva in his mendicant form. Tall and graceful, he is shown with flowing locks and ornaments, yet carrying the aura of a wandering ascetic. According to legend, after beheading Brahma’s fifth head, Shiva was cursed to roam the world as a beggar, carrying the skull as his bowl until the sin was absolved. At his side an attendant stands in quiet reverence, and a faithful dog follows close behind, grounding the scene in both divinity and earthly detail. The sculptor has captured the paradox of Bhikshatana beautifully: the supreme god humbled as a wandering mendicant, yet radiant with power, surrounded by companions who embody loyalty, reverence, and love.

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On the other side of the pillar stood Parvati, carved with elegance and poise. Her form is graceful, the curve of her body accentuated by the delicate fall of her attire, her face composed yet touched with quiet emotion. According to the legend, when Shiva wandered as Bhikshatana, he tested her devotion by attempting to disrobe her. This sculpture captures that moment: Parvati offering food, steadfast in her dignity even under trial, her presence radiating both tenderness and unshakable strength. In this role she is often identified with Annapoorna, the goddess of nourishment, embodying not just a devoted consort but also the universal mother who sustains life through her generosity.

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If the pillars spoke in stone, the ceilings sang in color. Looming above us was one of Lepakshi’s most celebrated murals, the Kalyāṇasundara Murti, the celestial wedding of Shiva and Parvati. The gods themselves appear as witnesses here: Vishnu giving his sister Parvati’s hand in marriage, Brahma presiding with solemnity, and a host of attendants crowding in with wide-eyed devotion. Painted in vivid ochre, red, and white, the figures still radiate life despite the centuries that have passed, their ornaments and flowing garments rendered with astonishing detail.

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This one is another wedding mural on the Lepakshi ceiling, but notice how it differs in mood and layout.

Here, Shiva and Parvati are the towering central figures, with attendants and gods flanking them. The artist has given Shiva a tiger-skin garment and Parvati a finely detailed sari, both richly ornamented. The red background almost glows, creating a sense of sacred fire, fitting for a marriage witnessed not in a hall but in a cosmic arena.

To the left, Brahma appears again as the officiant, while Vishnu is nearby in his role as Parvati’s brother, giving her hand in marriage. On the right, a row of women, perhaps divine attendants, carry offerings, their white drapery standing out against the crimson wash of the wall.

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A whole procession of women, possibly attendants of Parvati, is captured mid-movement.

Notice how the painter gives them individuality despite the repetition of white drapery: different hairstyles, jewelry, facial tones, and postures. Some lean forward, some look sideways, some carry offerings. The rhythm of their stride almost makes the mural feel like a freeze-frame of a procession moving across the ceiling. The rich ochre-red background contrasts their pale garments, making the group appear lively and celebratory.

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The procession of sages and elders, most likely the Saptarishis, is depicted in their tall conical headgear and distinctive patterned dhotis. Each is shown in slightly varied posture: some with hands folded in anjali mudra, others with arms crossed, giving a sense of individuality while maintaining harmony in the group.

Placed alongside the women’s procession, this panel feels like the male counterpart, almost as if the heavens themselves were split into two honor-guards: one side with Parvati’s attendants and noblewomen, the other with venerable sages. Together, they flank the divine marriage, bearing witness with reverence.

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Now let me bring the heart of the story, the panel of Shiva and Parvati’s celestial wedding. Here, Shiva stands in calm majesty, unmistakable with his tiger-skin drape, his tall crown, and the trishula by his side. To his left, the divine bride Parvati is rendered with grace, her head slightly lowered in modesty, flanked by her attendants who carry lamps, offerings, and ornaments. Notice how the artist captures the bustle: the richly dressed women moving forward with gifts, the gestures of reverence, and the celebratory procession atmosphere.

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This one complements the wedding sequence beautifully. You can see Brahma, Vishnu, and other deities arriving to witness the celestial union. Brahma, with his multiple heads, is unmistakable in the center, while Vishnu appears with his conch and mace. The figures to their side seem to be Gandharvas and attendants, playing music and carrying parasols, ceremonial symbols of divinity and royalty. Notice the sense of movement: the gods are not static, but striding forward, almost as if hurrying so they won’t miss the auspicious moment.

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Next, we walked along the corridors of the temple, a forest of carved pillars. The stone underfoot was cool and smooth from centuries of footsteps.

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A selfie that captures all of us, a little tired but full of smiles.

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Just beyond the corridors, a breathtaking sight awaited us: the colossal Nagalinga. Carved out of a single massive block of granite, this sculpture is said to be the largest of its kind in India.

The black Shiva Linga rises at the center, embraced protectively by the seven hoods of the serpent Adishesha, its coils forming the base and its heads fanning out like a stone umbrella. Standing before it, the scale is humbling: the serpent seems alive, its hood spread wide in eternal vigilance, sheltering the divine.

Legend has it that this monolith was carved by artisans in record time, while their mother prepared lunch nearby. The speed, they say, was born not of urgency but of devotion, a single block transformed into one of the temple’s most iconic wonders.

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Not far from the Nagalinga, tucked against a rocky wall, sits another marvel: the giant monolithic Ganesha.

Carved directly into the stone, this massive figure of the elephant-headed god exudes both power and warmth. His round belly, curved trunk, and gentle eyes make him instantly approachable, while the sheer scale of the sculpture leaves you awestruck. At his feet lies his ever-faithful companion, the mouse, rendered with equal care by the sculptor’s chisel.

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As we continued our walk, we entered a section of the temple that felt different: some of the carvings were rough and incomplete, as if the sculptors had suddenly put down their tools and never returned. This was the famous Kalyana Mantapa, the wedding hall that was left unfinished.

The pillars here still hold intricate carvings: celestial beings, musicians, and gods who seem to wait patiently for a celebration that never came. Yet, scattered among these details are bare, half-chiseled forms, silent reminders of work abruptly halted.

According to legend, this hall was meant to depict the celestial wedding of Shiva and Parvati in even greater grandeur than the murals on the ceilings. But before the artisans could complete it, tragedy struck. Virupanna, one of the temple’s chief patrons, was accused of misusing royal treasury funds for its construction. The king ordered him blinded, and in despair, Virupanna is said to have carried out the punishment himself right here at Lepakshi. Work stopped immediately, leaving behind these unfinished pillars as witnesses to a dream interrupted.

Standing among them, it was hard not to feel a quiet poignancy. The carvings seemed to carry both beauty and sorrow: an eternal pause, reminding us that history is not only about what was completed, but also about what remained incomplete.

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And just outside the temple walls, the final note of this ancient symphony was a magnificent, old frangipani tree. Its gnarled branches stretched out, providing a canopy of shade over the sun-drenched courtyard. While history is carved in granite, life continues to flourish, fragrant and full.

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And then, just as the stone and carvings had begun to weigh heavy with their stories, we stumbled upon a patch of green. A little shrub stood quietly against the old wall, surrounded by a bed of white rain lilies swaying in the breeze.

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And the colors continued to pop. Hidden among the green, we found these beautiful little Indian blanketflowers.

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On one of those vibrant red and yellow flowers, I found a pair of tiny bees, meticulously at work.

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Then, in a small, quiet corner, we found a single, delicate wild petunia, its graceful purple form a quiet contrast to all the grandeur.

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On our way out, we stopped at the small flea market near the temple. Alongside the usual souvenirs—fridge magnets and miniature replicas of the temple’s sculptures, one find stood out. My son chose a simple black cord bracelet, strung with a deep blue ‘evil eye’ bead.

As we tied it on his wrist, it felt like more than just a trinket. In a place where every pillar and mural carried tales of gods, guardians, and protection, this little charm seemed to carry forward that same spirit. A quiet reminder of how faith and symbolism transcend time and form.

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Rohan at the flea market

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Next, we walked a short distance to see another striking landmark: the massive sculpture of Jatayu, the mythical bird from the Ramayana. Perched high on a rocky outcrop, wings spread as if still mid-battle, Jatayu looked both majestic and tragic.

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According to legend, it was here that Jatayu fell, wounded while bravely trying to stop Ravana from abducting Sita. The name Lepakshi itself is said to come from Rama’s words to the dying bird: “Le Pakshi”, meaning “Rise, O bird.”

Standing under the shade of trees and gazing up at the sculpture, it felt like we were not just looking at stone and metal, but at a story etched into the very soul of this land.

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As we climbed towards the sculpture, the tricolour fluttered in the wind right beside Jatayu’s mighty wings. The sight was moving: the bird that once fought to protect Sita now seemed to stand guard over the land, alongside the flag that symbolizes our freedom.

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From the rock where the great Jatayu stood, the world unfolded before us.

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As we drove back home, the road felt shorter, though our hearts were fuller. Lepakshi was not just about stone pillars, murals, or legends; it was about how history, mythology, and artistry blend seamlessly with the present. Every carving, every mural, every unfinished pillar seemed to remind us that time is both fleeting and eternal.

What we carried back was more than photographs and souvenirs—it was the feeling of walking through a living story. A story of devotion, imagination, resilience, and beauty, preserved in stone yet alive in spirit. And perhaps, most importantly, it was the joy of discovering it together as a family.

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