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On the Wheel/Ajanta and Ellora:A Guest Post by Debasis Roy
A WORD ON DEBASIS ROY
On The Wheel/Ellora (Part 1) - by Debasis Roy
After a short pause following my trip to Giridih and Deoghar, the travel bug struck again. This time, I set out on a month-long journey through South India and Maharashtra, with Bangalore as my base and Aurangabad firmly on my radar.
Bangalore eased me into the journey with its everyday surprises. Zapota—sabeda The coaching of the field, as we Bengalis call it, was delightfully cheap at just Rs 40–50 a kilo. Strawberries from neighbouring Maharashtra were another pleasant shock, far more affordable than back home in Kolkata, though in Maharashtra, it is available at half the price. The only letdown for a fish-loving Bengali like me was the scarcity of fresh sweet-water fish. To make matters worse (or culturally interesting, depending on how you see it), most fish markets shut down on Mondays, the day devoted to Lord Shiva.
On the evening of 27 January, I boarded the Karnataka Express from Bangalore. The overnight journey was smooth, and by noon the next day, we rolled into Manmad. Somewhere along the way, the train crossed the Bhima River—the main tributary of the Krishna—, and I spotted the vast Ujani Dam stretching across it, one of Maharashtra’s largest. At Koregaon, the station just before Manmad, many passengers got down, headed for Shirdi, barely 25 km away, with plenty of onward transport available.
From Manmad, I hopped onto another train and reached Aurangabad in about an hour and a half. Two days later, on the 29th, I hired a car for a full day of sightseeing—Ellora and beyond. A four-seater costs around Rs 1,500–1,600, inclusive of tolls and parking, and covers a packed itinerary: Ghrushneswar Temple, Ellora Caves, Bhadra Maruti Temple, a Himroo silk factory, Daulatabad Fort, and the ever-photogenic Bibi-ka-Maqbara. (I’ve listed a few reliable car operators at the end for fellow travellers.)
Ancient Temples of Aurangabad
My first stop of the day was the Ghrushneswar Temple, about 30 km from Aurangabad—now officially renamed Chhatrapati Sambhajinagar. Built from red volcanic stone, this ancient shrine has endured repeated End. ed destruction, first by the Delhi Sultanate in the 13th century and later during Mughal–Maratha conflicts. It was rebuilt by Maloji Bhosale, Shivaji’s grandfather, in the 16th century and later restored to its present form in 1729 by the remarkable Ahilyabai Holkar of Indore.
The temple opens at 5:30 a.m., and despite arriving early, I was greeted by a sea of devotees. A long queue was unavoidable. Even though I hadn’t come to perform a formal puja, it took nearly an hour to reach the sanctum. Entry required going shirtless—a practice still strictly followed, though photography is allowed outside. The temple’s five-tiered shikhara stands out distinctly against the sky. Before leaving, I sampled rajgira, a local delicacy made from the seeds of "notey shaak", sold just outside the temple complex.
The Bhadra Maruti Temple, however, didn’t quite make the cut for me—architecturally, it felt underwhelming—so I chose to skip it. Those with extra time can also explore the Aurangabad Caves, carved nearly 2,000 years ago by Buddhist monks and located about 8 km from the city on a different route. Another worthwhile detour is the Tomb of Malik Ambar, a fascinating historical figure who rose from slavery to become the de facto ruler and Prime Minister of the Ahmednagar Sultanate in the early 17th century. His tomb lies about 5 km off the road between Ellora and Daulatabad Fort.
With the blessings of Ghrushneswar behind me and the morning crowds still flowing in, I set off once more—Ellora awaited.
ELLORA
Barely a kilometre from the sacred hush of Grishneswar Temple, another world rises from the earth — Ellora. Not merely a monument, but a thunderclap of human imagination frozen in stone. Set against undulating volcanic hills brushed with green, this colossal complex feels less like a destination and more like a revelation waiting behind the ticket counter. The first encounter is Cave 16 — and what an entrance it is. The moment a visitor enters, this cave casts a magical spell on him.
Entry costs a modest Rs 40 for Indian visitors, a sum that feels almost symbolic for stepping into a universe carved from rock. Official guides offer detailed storytelling of a couple of caves for about Rs2500, though private guides linger nearby with softer quotes. Truth be told, even the plaques at the cave entrances — along with a curious mind and a bit of prior reading — can lead you into the depths of Ellora’s layered history. The site opens from 6 am to 6 pm and rests only on Tuesdays, as though even these eternal stones need a day of silence.
Cave 16, the legendary Kailash Temple, is the undisputed monarch of Ellora — a monolithic marvel unmatched anywhere on the planet. Standing there, I wondered why the world had not crowned it the eighth wonder. The caves — locally known as Verul Leni — bear the chiselled signatures of ancient Indian architectural and sculptural heyday across centuries, forming one of the largest rock-hewn monastic–temple complexes ever conceived. Sculpted from the ancient volcanic basalt of the Deccan Trap — a geological tapestry of stepped formations and flat-topped ridges — Ellora is as much a natural wonder as it is a human one.Buddhist and Jain architecture and sculpture also left an unforgettable impression on a few other caves.
Originally, around 100 caves were carved into these basalt cliffs; today, 34 remain open to visitors. Their creation unfolded in three sweeping historical movements. The earliest phase, Caves 1–12, belongs to Buddhism (5th–8th centuries), with serene chaityas and monk residences believed to be patronised by the Chalukyas. Caves 13–29 reflect the rise of Brahmanical devotion (7th–10th centuries), nurtured first by the Kalachuris and later by the mighty Rashtrakutas. Finally, the Jain caves (30–34), built between the 9th and 12th centuries under the patronage of the Yadavas, add their own austere elegance to the ensemble. Ellora never slipped into oblivion — its position along ancient trade routes ensured a steady stream of travellers and pilgrims across eras.
Stepping into Cave 16 felt like walking into a dream forged from stone dust and devotion. The Rashtrakutas did not carve a temple into the mountain — they liberated one from it, excavating millions of tonnes of basalt from the top downward, sculpting an immense rectangular trench that reveals a self-contained architectural universe. Walls bloom with friezes of astonishing precision, narrating epics and Puranic legends in silent yet vivid motion.
The Kailash Temple, dedicated to Lord Shiva and begun under King Krishna I (c. 757–783 CE), appears as if borne on the backs of colossal elephants — a surreal vision of strength and grace. The two-storey complex gleams like a crown jewel amid the surrounding galleries, where massive deities echo the grandeur of Elephanta. Time and weather have softened some open-air sculptures, yet their presence still humbles the viewer. The tower on one side of the temple has been adopted as the motif of the Rs20 note — a quiet reminder of India’s artistic genius passing through countless hands. During the monsoon, water streams cascade from the cliff’s edge like veils of silver, turning the site into a living painting.
Leaving the magical trance of Cave 16 was no easy feat. For those wishing to explore farther corners without exhaustion, e-carts run for Rs40 per passenger, ferrying visitors between select caves. A wristband marks your entitled rides — a small token that must be returned at the end. The route typically drops the visitor near Cave 30 on one side, then takes him to the celebrated Viswakarma Cave (No. 10) on the other, and eventually returns the visitor to Cave 16 for departure. Among the other remarkable caves are Dumar Lena (29), Dasavatara (15), Rameshwara (21), and the three-storeyed Teen Tal (12). Lighting inside many caves remains dim, so carrying a torch proves wise — shadows often conceal the finest details.
After Ellora’s overwhelming splendour, I set off for lunch before exploring Daulatabad fort. Food, however, failed to match the grandeur of the morning. Breakfast had already been underwhelming despite being pricier than in many other states. Local staples such as poha and pav dominated menus; a small cup of tea cost Rs20 — double what I had grown accustomed to elsewhere — while a simple veg thali ranged between Rs170–190. Lunch, too, left little impression on the palate. Yet Maharashtra’s bounty shone through its fruits. I picked up anjir (fig), its dried cross-sections reminiscent of the Afghan pavilion’s offerings, along with fresh strawberries, ramphal — a creamy fruit akin to custard apple — and guavas from the region’s orchards. The state’s fertile lands also nurture sugarcane, cotton, pulses, millet, rice, wheat and grapes in abundance.
Still, the hunger of the eyes for remaining sightseeing sites far outweighed the hunger of the stomach. As the car rolled onward towards the formidable Daulatabad Fort, the memory of a bland meal dissolved quickly beneath the promise of yet another chapter in stone and history.
Daulatabad
On my way to Daulatabad Fort, I made a brief stop at a Himroo weaving factory and showroom. Himroo—an exquisite blend of silk and cotton—traces its origins to the era of Muhammad bin Tughlaq, when the craft flourished under royal patronage. Watching the looms at work and admiring the intricate patterns offered a fascinating glimpse into a living textile tradition. Carrying the impressions of this delicate artistry with me, I resumed my journey towards the imposing fort.About 15 kilometres from Ellora, on the road to Aurangabad, rises the brooding, basalt citadel of Daulatabad—once Paithan in the Satavahana age and later Devagiri, the glittering capital of the Yadavas. Perched some 200 metres above the Deccan plateau, the fortress appears less built than carved from the very bones of volcanic rock. Its origins trace back to the 12th century, when Yadava ruler Bhillama V transformed this strategic hill into an impregnable stronghold and a thriving seat of power.
The rhythms of history soon converged upon Devagiri. In 1294, Alauddin Khilji swept down from the north, annexing the fort in one of the earliest major incursions into the Deccan by the Delhi Sultanate. By 1318, his general Malik Kafur had extinguished the last Yadava ruler, Harapal, sealing the fate of a dynasty that had once commanded this rugged land. Yet the fort’s most dramatic chapter unfolded under Sultan Muhammad bin Tughluq, who in 1327 audaciously shifted his capital from Delhi to Devagiri, renaming it Daulatabad—“City of Fortune.” Centrally placed and shielded from Mongol and Afghanincursions, it was meant to be the empire’s beating heart. History, however, remembers the move as both visionary and ill-fated; revolts and administrative strain forced the Sultan’s return to Delhi, leaving Daulatabad with a lingering aura of imperial ambition and unfinished dreams.
Taking advantage of the vacuum, the Bahmani Sultanate captured the citadel, embellishing it with the soaring Chand Minar in 1445 under the inspiration of Kutub Minar—an elegant, red-hued tower erected by Ala-ud-din Bahmani to commemorate military triumphs. Later, the fort passed into the hands of the Nizam Shahis of Ahmadnagar, whose celebrated statesman Malik Ambar shifted his administrative centre to Khadki—later renamed Aurangabad when Mughal prince Aurangzeb served as viceroy of the Deccan. As the tides of empire changed, Daulatabad came under Mughal authority; Aurangzeb imprisoned the last Qutb Shahi ruler within the Chini Mahal here after the fall of Golconda in 1687. In time, Marathas and then the Nizams of Hyderabad claimed the fort, each leaving faint echoes of their dominion in its layered walls.
Architecturally, Daulatabad is a masterclass in medieval military ingenuity. Three concentric fortifications—Ambarkot, Mahakot, and Kalakot—wrap the hill in stone like armour. Attackers were forced to traverse a single, narrow bridge and navigate pitch-dark, zigzag passages hewn into rock. False gates, sudden turns, steep climbs, and iron-spiked doors—designed to thwart elephant charges—turned every step into a deadly gamble. Within these ramparts lie stepwells, reservoirs, royal baths, audience halls, and the ruins of palaces that once resonated with courtly life. Sufi influences also flourished here, carried along the trade and military routes that converged upon this crossroads of the Deccan.
The entry fee for this fort is Rs 25 per person. My own ascent—negotiating nearly 700 steep steps—felt like walking through centuries layered upon one another. The Chand Minar rose like a sentinel on the path; moats and rock-cut passages whispered tales of sieges long past, while a very ordinary Ganesh shrine stood as a quiet reminder of the fort’s plural past. At the summit, the remnants of royal quarters opened to sweeping views of the plateau—vast, sunburnt, and timeless.
And yet, despite its formidable history and ingenious design, I found myself reflecting that the three-tiered Golconda Fort of Hyderabad had impressed me more with its scale and grandeur. Daulatabad, however, remains unforgettable—not merely as a fortress, but as a palimpsest of ambition, conquest, and resilience etched into stone.
With the shadows lengthening, I left this hill of many empires and steered towards the final destination of my first day’s journey—Bibi ka Maqbara. (To be continued…)
Bibi ka Maqbara
Hardly 16 kilometres from the formidable ramparts of Daulatabad, in the historic heart of Aurangabad, stands Bibi ka Maqbara—a quiet yet poignant echo of Mughal splendour. Built in the late 17th century, this mausoleum was commissioned by Emperor Aurangzeb in memory of his beloved wife Dilras Banu Begum, though many historians note that its execution and completion were overseen by his son, Prince Azam Shah. Conceived in the image of the Taj Mahal, it has earned the affectionate epithet “Deccan’s Mini Taj,” yet its identity is distinctly its own.
Approaching through manicured gardens and symmetrical pathways, the monument reveals the familiar Mughal grammar of domes, minarets, and geometric harmony. But a closer gaze unveils subtle divergences from its Agra counterpart. While the Taj Mahal rises in an elegant octagonal plan—reflecting the symbolic resonance of the number eight in Islamic cosmology—Bibi ka Maqbara rests on a more grounded square base, giving it a restrained, almost contemplative character. The Taj dazzles with its expanse of luminous white marble; here, marble is used sparingly, with much of the structure rendered in finely polished plaster—an artistic compromise shaped by Aurangzeb’s austere tastes and the fiscal constraints of his reign.
The monument breathes a quieter grace, its beauty lying not in overwhelming opulence but in gentle symmetry and historical resonance. The central chamber houses the tomb, while delicate “jali” work and arched corridors allow filtered sunlight to play across the interior—a subtle dance of shadow and silence that invites reflection.
Entry to the monument costs Rs25 per person, and an online ticket purchased through QR code often brings a modest Rs5 concession—an encouraging step toward digital convenience across heritage sites. One welcome aspect for travellers in all sites so far visited was the freedom to photograph even within the inner precincts using mobile phones without additional charges, though professional cameras incur an extra fee.
As the brightness of the sun started fading across Aurangabad’s skyline, my visit to this evocative memorial marked the close of the first day’s journey. With memories steeped in stone, symmetry, and centuries-old whispers, I returned for rest—ready to rise again next morning with renewed vigour and anticipation. The next dawn would carry me towards yet another timeless marvel-- the amazing ancient caves of Ajanta.
(To be continued…)
Photo credit: Debasis Roy
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| Grushneswar Temple Aurangabad |
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Biwi ka Maqbara Aurangabad |
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ELLORA -Temple cut out from the hill |
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ELLORA-the chiselled crown of Aurangabad |
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Ellora Cave 16, where the Kailash Temple is located |
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