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By:

Someshwar Gurumath

17 December 2024 at 9:53:55 am

The Sacred Speaks for Itself

To understand a Devata requires not just intellectual freedom but familiarity with the traditions and lived experiences through which the sacred is encountered. The term “Devata” evokes bhakti, reverence, ecstasy, surrender, and a profound emotional experience (bhāva) that transcends intellectual understanding. Unlike the Abrahamic conception of “God,” “Son of God,” or “Prophet of God,” the Hindu Devata is inseparable from the land, sacred geography, collective memory, narratives, temples,...

The Sacred Speaks for Itself

To understand a Devata requires not just intellectual freedom but familiarity with the traditions and lived experiences through which the sacred is encountered. The term “Devata” evokes bhakti, reverence, ecstasy, surrender, and a profound emotional experience (bhāva) that transcends intellectual understanding. Unlike the Abrahamic conception of “God,” “Son of God,” or “Prophet of God,” the Hindu Devata is inseparable from the land, sacred geography, collective memory, narratives, temples, and lived experience. Savarkar describes the Hindu civilizational domain as “Ā Sindhu-Sindhu Paryanta”—from the Indus to the seas. Its Devatas are deeply rooted in this sacred terrain: Rāma in Ayodhyā, Kṛṣṇa in Ayodhyā, and Hanumān in Kishkindha, associated with Hampi–Anegundi. Śiva and Śakti likewise permeate Bharat, with the Śakti Pīṭhas preserving sacred memory through geography. In nearly every region of Bharat, one can find a temple, tīrtha, narrative, festival, sacred hill, river, or local tradition linked to Rāma, Kṛṣṇa, Śiva, Śakti, Hanumān, or another Devata. These Devatas are not abstract entities detached from the geography of Hindu civilization; rather, they are tangible personalities of devotion, whose presence is experienced through this geography and the communities that have maintained these traditions over generations. The land itself becomes sacred through layers of memory, worship, pilgrimage, and devotion. Central to this sacred imagination is Bhāratamātā—Bhārata as mother, as sacred land, and as an ancient civilizational presence. A notable strength of Hindu civilization is that the sacred is encountered not solely in an abstract theological domain but throughout the land itself. The Devata resides in the bhāva of the devotee, within the temple, the tīrtha, the narrative, the festival, and the memory of the civilization. Consequently, these Devatas cannot be regarded merely as convenient metaphors for an interpreter's preferred theory. They are integral to a living civilizational world, which must be approached with respect above all else. Unique Integration An additional dimension of the Hindu conception of Devata lies in its diverse ways of divine manifestation and human encounter. Devatas may be experienced through avatāra, darśana, worship, ritual, mystical experience, or intimate relationships with devotees. This does not deny divine encounters in other religions but highlights Hindu civilization’s long coexistence of multiple forms of divine presence. The śaraṇas, Nāyaṉmārs, Āḻvārs, and saints recount deeply personal encounters. Bedara Kannappa’s complete surrender to Śiva is believed to have prompted divine manifestation through the liṅga. Śrī Rāmakṛṣṇa Paramahaṃsa’s experiences with the Divine Mother similarly illustrate Devata as tangible presence, prayer, guidance, and relationship. The Hindu perspective integrates the concept of Devata as both a personal entity and a cosmic force. For example, Śiva and Śakti can be perceived as divine figures and as significant metaphysical entities. In Hinduism, there is no requirement to choose between viewing the Devata as a personal presence or as a cosmic principle. Contemporary discussions on consciousness have examined human experiences of perceived divine or unseen voices. Julian Jaynes's contentious bicameral mind theory suggests that ancient humans might have interpreted internally generated voices as those of gods. Although this theory remains a subject of debate and cannot be considered definitive evidence of divine communication, it highlights the necessity of acknowledging the complexity of human consciousness when evaluating such experiences. Hindu civilization presents a distinctive relationship with Devatas as an ongoing engagement rather than mere remembrance. Devatas are spoken to, sung to, offered food, carried in processions, visited, celebrated through festivals, and remembered across generations. Whether understood as theological truths, mystical experiences, or psychological phenomena, their civilizational significance remains undeniable. The UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples and SDG 11.4 emphasize preserving cultural, religious, and spiritual heritage. This raises a vital question: should enduring traditions first be understood on their own terms before being reinterpreted through external frameworks? The inquiry extends beyond identifying who possesses the authority to interpret a Devata. A more profound question arises: who holds the adhikāra to discuss an ongoing relationship experienced by millions? Forms of Adhikāra To speak of adhikāra is not to deny anyone the freedom to study or critique Hinduism. But can one claim the authority to define a Devata without understanding the philosophical categories, sacred history and lived traditions through which that Devata is experienced? Modern scholarship itself recognizes positionality—that an interpreter’s location and relationship to a community can shape its representation. Likewise, śāstra, sampradāya, sādhana, upāsanā, lived practice and reverence may provide different forms of adhikāra. Freedom of speech gives everyone the right to express an opinion, but freedom to speak is not the same as adhikāra to interpret. We do not own or appoint the Devata, nor decide what the Devata must become to satisfy our theories. If Ayyappa is understood as a Naishṭhika Brahmacāri, that tradition cannot simply be dismissed for convenience.
And perhaps this is where the Hindu understanding of adhikāra takes us to its most profound conclusion. We spend our time asking who has the authority to interpret the Devata, who is qualified to speak about the Devata, and who can claim the right to define the sacred. But in the Hindu understanding, the ultimate adhikāri is the Devata Himself. We do not appoint Him. We do not define Him. We approach Him—with bhakti, with śāstra, with upāsanā and with surrender. And when the Devata chooses, He reveals Himself; when the Devata chooses, He manifests; when the Devata chooses, He speaks. The stories of our saints and devotees are filled with precisely such moments of divine revelation. Therefore, perhaps the true adhikāra is not the confidence to speak over the Devata, but the humility to listen to Him. We may interpret, we may question, we may study—but ultimately, the Devata remains the final authority. And perhaps that is the deepest lesson of a civilization that has lived with its Devatas for millennia: we do not possess the sacred; the sacred possesses us. (The writer is a Bengaluru-based author and scholar. Views personal.)

Talikota: An Afternoon that Changed the Deccan

Hussain Nizam Shah I orders the decapitation of Ramaraya (r. 1542-65), the defeated ruler of Vijayanagar. From the manuscript of Ta'rif-i Husain Shahi.
Hussain Nizam Shah I orders the decapitation of Ramaraya (r. 1542-65), the defeated ruler of Vijayanagar. From the manuscript of Ta'rif-i Husain Shahi.

The fall of Vijayanagar was sudden and spectacular. On January 26, 1565, on the plains between the villages of Rakkasi and Tangadi, the last great Hindu empire of South India lost its ruler, its army and its future. Rama Raya, the empire’s all-powerful regent, was captured and beheaded by a confederacy of Deccan sultans.


Within weeks, the imperial capital, one of the richest cities in the early modern world, was given to fire, sword and organised pillage. For nearly six months, Vijayanagar and its hinterland were systematically ravaged. When the invaders departed, they left behind a landscape of ash and broken stone whose ruins linger in Hampi today.


Talikota was no accident of fate but the culmination of a long political unravelling - an implosion brought about as much by Rama Raya’s diplomatic adventurism as by the battlefield treachery that sealed his end.


Founded in the mid-14th century by Harihara I and his brother Bukka, the empire emerged as a response to the relentless Islamic onrush into the Deccan, the “El Dorado of the Mahomedan imagination.” The floodgates were opened when Ala-ud-din Khilji crossed the Vindhyas in 1296 CE to sack Devagiri, (today’s Daulatabad) the capital of the Yadavas of Maharashtra.


As K.A. Nilakanta Sastri observed in his magisterial ‘A History of South India’ (1955), Vijayanagar formed the last great chapter of independent Hindu South India.


Ala-ud-din’s raid dissolved the long-held belief that geography alone could shield the south. As Sultan, he later dispatched his favourite - Malik Kafur – on subsequent incursions into the South. As a counterpoint to these violent expeditions, which brought rich booty while destroying the old royal houses of the South, there was powerful revival of Shaivism in the region, which was at once austere in doctrine and uncompromising in temperament, and infused opposition with moral urgency.


The new Shaivism, egalitarian among its adherents, offered an ideological counterweight to the universalism of Islam and helped explain why Tughlaq authority (which followed the Khiljis), despite its reach, failed to take root across large parts of the Deccan. When Muhammad bin Tughlaq withdrew northwards in 1329, the ground was already prepared for defiance.


The founders of Vijayanagar - Harihara and Bukka (two of the five sons of Sangama), had served the Kakatiya ruler of Warangal before fighting alongside the chieftain of Kampili. Taken to Delhi after Kampili’s fall in 1327, it is said the brothers embraced Islam briefly and expediently, earning the Sultan’s trust before being dispatched south to restore order among rebellious Hindu subjects. What followed is unclear, but as things turned out, the brothers renounced their adopted faith, rallied local elites and established an independent Hindu state on the banks of the Tungabhadra.


Harihara I fashioned an administrative system adapted from the Kakatiyas, organised territory into sthalas and nadus, regularised land revenue, reclaimed wasteland, and created a trained civil service dominated by Brahman officers whose families served the state across generations. These officials were the empire’s spine.


At its apogee under Krishnadeva Raya in the early 16th century, Vijayanagar married this administrative solidity with strategic realism.


While Krishnadeva Raya cultivated Portuguese friendship to secure horses and firearms, he refused to underwrite their political ambitions.


This judgement faltered after Krishnadevaraya’s death. By the time Sadasiva Raya ascended the throne in 1542, power had slipped into the hands of Krishnadeva’s son-in-law, Aliya Rama Raya. While Sadasiva formally remained king, he was in practice, a prisoner in a gilded cage.


Though he never formally deposed Sadasiva, Rama Raya assumed royal titles, governed in his name, and once a year performed the hollow ritual of prostration before the nominal sovereign.


But to secure that power, Rama Raya broke the institutions that constrained him. The trained civil service, long the empire’s bulwark, was systematically purged of its Brahman officers who had opposed his ambitions.


Families that had served Vijayanagar since its foundation vanished abruptly after 1550. Even the Saluvas, once dominant under earlier dynasties, were excluded as loyalty to the state was replaced by loyalty to a man.


The fraying of Vijayanagar’s authority was visible even along the Coromandel coast as well where Portuguese missionaries - Franciscans and Jesuits alike - were demolishing temples and building churches in coastal cities. St. Francis Xavier’s converts on the pearl-fishery coast of the Gulf of Mannar transferred allegiance to Portugal while Martin Afonso de Sousa, the rapacious Portuguese governor of Goa, plundered ports like Bhatkal.


As the Spanish-Jesuit historian Father Henry Heras notes in his ‘The Aravidu Dynasty of Vijayanagara’ (1927): “The Franciscan Friars, who from the beginning were established at St. Thome and at Negapatam, caused several Hindu temples to be desecrated, and idols destroyed, building in their stead many Christian churches and chapels. In the year 1542, they had built at Negapatam [Nagapattinam] two churches... and about three thousand people embraced the Catholic Faith. The Jesuits who came shortly after, followed the examples of the Franciscans.”


While these disturbances were fraying an overextended empire, Rama Raya compounded troubles by courting danger within Vijayanagar’s army.


While Vijayanagar had long employed Muslim contingents recognising their utility, earlier kings like Devaraya I of the Sangama dynasty had limited their influence. They were kept numerically modest and excluded from sensitive commands.


In his anxiety to consolidate his power, Rama Raya abandoned such caution. He recruited Muslim mercenaries and adventurers in large numbers, granting them access that gave them intimate knowledge of the empire’s internal workings which would prove fatal on Vijayanagar’s day of reckoning.


Rama Raya was the first Vijayanagar ruler to entangle himself deeply in the inter-state politics of the Deccan sultanates. Well versed in Muslim statecraft from his earlier service in Golconda, Rama Raya saw opportunity in division. He allied with one sultan against another, switched sides and imposed settlements. And for years, this strategy worked. Vijayanagar recovered lands lost during earlier turmoil, establishing a commanding hegemony over the Deccan.


The premium placed on Rama Raya’s favour was revealed by the lengths to which the Deccan sultans went to secure it. When one of Rama Raya’s sons died, Ali Adil Shah of Bijapur undertook the extraordinary step of travelling to Vijayanagar with a small escort to offer condolences in person. Rama Raya’s wife formally adopted the Sultan as her son, a calculated gesture meant to bind alliance with kinship. Such was the leverage Rama Raya wielded in the internecine politics of the Deccan.


There is no doubt about Rama Raya’s considerable abilities. But his brilliance bred hubris. Where earlier Vijayanagar rulers had balanced power cautiously, Rama Raya sought mastery through manipulation, reportedly treating the ambassadors of the Deccani Sultans with contempt.


That said, the concocted versions of later Muslim chroniclers (including Ferishta), who cite Rama Raya’s alleged insults to Islam and outrages against Muhammedan civilians as the casus belli for the Deccan Sultans forming a confederacy against Vijayanagar, are demonstrably false.


In fact, Rama Raya, far from persecuting Muslims, went to great lengths to accommodate them. According to the contemporary Muslim writer Rafiuddin Shirazi, whose ‘Tazkiratul Muluk’ is the most invaluable contemporary source on the conflict, Rama Raya had assigned a special quarter known as ‘Turkavada’ for the Muslim residents in Vijayanagar.


He permitted the construction of a mosque and allowed cow sacrifice despite protests from Brahmans and his nobles. He even placed a copy of the Qur’an near his throne so Muslim officers might salute it rather than commit the sin of saluting an “infidel master.”


As observed by K.A. Nilakanta Sastri in his ‘Further Sources of Vijayanagar History’ (1946): “The formation of the confederacy of the Muhammadan kings of the Deccan against Rama Raya was not prompted by a desire to avenge the offended dignity of Islam; nor was it due to a feeling of resentment against his unjust aggressions upon their dominions. The real cause of the formation of the confederacy was the fear engendered in the minds of the Deccani Sultans by the rapid growth of Rama Raya’s power.”


Eventually, the five Deccan sultans set aside their old rivalries. Dynastic marriages sealed reconciliation between Ahmednagar and Bijapur. Hussain Nizam Shah gave his gifted daughter, Chand Bibi in marriage to Ali Adil Shah.


By late 1564, the combined armies marched south. Rama Raya knew the trial of strength was coming. On Vijayadashami, September 15, he summoned his nobles and ordered full mobilisation. He remained supremely confident.


The armies met near the Krishna River. Confusion over the precise site persists. Robert Sewell in his ‘A Forgotten Empire: Vijayanagar’ (1900), says while Muhammadan historians place it near Talikota; Hindu records locate it on the plain between Rakkasi and Tangadi, south of the river.


Initial fighting favoured Vijayanagar. The Nizam Shah and Qutb Shah were driven back under fierce assault.


Then, the Deccani sultans they resorted to stratagem. As given in the ‘Keladinrpavijayam,’ they feigned retreat, reopened negotiations, and spread rumours of peace. Chroniclers record that Rama Raya was taken in. Believing his enemies were suing for terms, he relaxed precautions. At the same time, the sultans quietly tampered with the loyalty of Muslim officers in Vijayanagar’s service.


The combined Muslim armies then launched a sudden, coordinated attack. Rama Raya, taken by surprise, nonetheless fought with conspicuous courage.


For a moment, victory still seemed possible. Then came the betrayal. Two prominent Muslim commanders – the Gilani brothers - in Rama Raya’s service, commanding vast contingents, defected in the thick of battle. Their men turned their guns on Vijayanagar’s ranks. Disorder spread instantly as the army broke.


What ensued was total slaughter. The destruction of the Vijayanagar forces was total and the road to Hampi was littered with corpses and no force remained to defend the capital. Ferishta, who gives a graphic account of Rama Raya’s capture by Hussain Nizam Shah, says the latter immediately had him beheaded on the field. Rama Raya’s head was displayed on a pike.


The sack of Vijayanagar that followed ranks among the great urban catastrophes of world history. Palaces, markets and temples were looted and burned. Poets and village records alike testify to the devastation. The victors halted in and around the capital, ravaging the countryside with methodical thoroughness. Not a village in Rayalaseema escaped. When they finally withdrew, Vijayanagar was a smouldering ruin with its smashed temples and broken idols.


Empires often fall when they confuse personal power with state survival. Vijayanagar’s apocalypse was born in its court long before it was enacted on the battlefield.

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