Journey to a City Where Stones Breathe
I was being scolded at home for not packing on time. The train would not wait for my laziness, and the mountains I had just returned from earlier this month still lingered in my bones. Yet another journey was calling. There is something restless about me when the road beckons. I hurriedly folded clothes into my bag, touched the feet of my elders, and stepped out with a strange mixture of guilt and excitement.
By the time I reached my destination, it was Dashami tithi. The air itself felt sacred. The next day was Ekadashi, and I knew how I wanted to spend it. After finishing a conference around seven in the evening, I did not allow fatigue to win. My feet carried me towards the ancient heart of the city.
The mighty Lingaraj Temple rose before me, timeless and serene. Built by Jajati Keshari in the eleventh century, though some trace its origins to the seventh with later Keshari additions, it stands like a hymn carved in stone. This is Bhubaneswar, the city of temples, the sacred Ekamra Kshetra.
I have been fortunate to visit this city almost every year since 2021, except for 2022. Each visit feels like a reunion with something ancient within me. Bhubaneswar, once known as Hemachala and Svarnadri Kshetra, the golden mountain, and as Ekamra Kanana, the forest beloved of Lord Shiva, carries layers of myth and memory. It is believed that here, beneath a banyan tree, Shiva narrated the Bhagavata Purana to Parvati. A parrot listening from the branches is said to have been reborn as Sukadeva Gosvami, who later recited the same divine tale to Maharaja Parikshit. When you walk through these lanes, you do not merely walk through history. You walk through stories.
The year is 2026, and I stood there to take darshan at what is often called HariHara Kshetra, where Hari and Hara meet, where Vishnu and Shiva are worshipped in harmony. The sanctum glowed softly. The fragrance of flowers and incense lingered in the air. Bells rang. Priests chanted. Devotees folded their hands with eyes closed in surrender.
I bowed before HariHara Lingaraj and felt an indescribable calm descend upon me. Around the main temple complex, nearly 108 shrines stand, each sculpted in the distinctive Kalinga style of architecture. Every curve, every carving seemed alive. The stones were not cold. They breathed.
Time, however, was not as generous as faith. There were so many temples waiting, and I knew I would not be able to embrace them all.
I made my way to the sacred Ananta Vasudeva Temple, one of the few Vaishnavite shrines in a city dominated by Shaiva devotion. The temple, built in the thirteenth century, carries within its walls inscriptions attributing its construction to Chandrika Devi, daughter of King Anangabhima III of the Eastern Ganga dynasty, during Bhanudeva’s reign. It records the installation of deities on the Bindusagar bank. Standing before the weathered inscription, I felt as if the stone itself was speaking. Names of patrons, echoes of dynasties, a testament that faith once moved not only hearts but kingdoms. It was humbling to realise that centuries ago, hands folded in prayer at this very spot, just as mine did.
From there, I walked to the exquisite Mukteshwar Temple. If Lingaraj is grandeur, Mukteshwar is grace. Its elegant torana arches like a stone garland, delicate and precise. The carvings are intimate, almost playful. It felt less like entering a monument and more like stepping into poetry sculpted in sandstone.
The ancient Parsurameswara Temple stood nearby, one of the earliest surviving temples of the city, dating back to the seventh century. Its simplicity carries a quiet authority. You can sense the beginnings of a style that would later bloom into architectural brilliance.
Get Nishant Kumar Hota’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
I caught a glimpse of the modest yet dignified Bharateshwar Temple and the serene Rameshwar Temple. Each shrine, though smaller in scale, felt like a bead in a vast spiritual rosary. Together they form a sacred geography, each one holding a fragment of devotion, art, and memory.
Yet as the evening deepened, I realised with a twinge of regret that many temples would have to wait for another visit. The city holds nearly four hundred surviving shrines out of the seven thousand that once adorned Ekamra Kshetra. One lifetime feels insufficient.
When I stepped out again into the open streets, joy from the darshan mingled with a quiet ache. Around the majestic temple complex, I noticed smaller shrines in states of neglect. Some bore the scars of invasion. Others seemed worn down by time, weather, and indifference. Cracked walls. Broken sculptures. Shrubs growing through ancient stones. It pained me deeply.
What hurt more than the decay was the indifference. Life moved on around them. Vendors called out. Vehicles passed. Devotees hurried home. The ruins blended into the background, unnoticed.
For a fleeting moment, a thought crossed my mind. Perhaps we are not cursed, but forgetful. Forgetful of the greatness that once shaped our identity. If we remain unaware, one day we may wake up and find even these relics gone.
Yet as I walked through the old quarters of Ekamra Kshetra, I reminded myself of something important. Bhubaneswar is not a necropolis. It is a thriving metropolis with a living soul and a luminous past.
The temples may be weathered, but they are not defeated. They still rise at sunrise. They still echo with mantras. They still gather faith.
As I left that evening, sadness and hope walked beside me. Sadness for what has been lost. Hope for what can still be preserved. A city that has survived centuries of change deserves not our pity, but our participation.
Bhubaneswar does not ask to be mourned. It asks to be remembered. To be cared for. To be revisited.
And I know I will return. For in the city of temples, every journey feels unfinished, and every departure is only a promise to come back.
