One cannot help but wonder how self-proclaimed moral guardians of Hinduism reconcile their ultra-prudish worldview with these architectural masterpieces. Their Victorian-era morality sees public displays of affection as an affront to Hindu values. They fume at ‘provocative’ attire, uphold the notion of a ‘chaste Hindu nari’, and police young couples in public spaces. And yet, here stand these temples—unapologetically adorned with erotic sculptures—sanctifying the profane and humanizing the sacred.

It is not difficult to imagine the confusion these temples must have caused among British colonialists. Accustomed to their own rigid morality, they would have seen these sculptures, the voluptuous apsaras in other temples, the raas between Krishna and Radha, and the Kamasutra (particularly its illustrated versions in Kangra and other schools of painting) as evidence of the ‘obscene’ and ‘degenerate’ traditions of the natives—something they, as enlightened rulers, felt compelled to ‘civilize’. Ironically, their ideological heirs today, who claim to be the torchbearers of Hindu revivalism, seem equally clueless about the deep philosophical underpinnings of these traditions.

What they fail to understand is that these erotic sculptures are just one part of the larger visual narrative of Khajuraho and Konark. The temples are structured in layers—at the base, human desire (kama) is depicted without prudery. The central sections typically showcase deities like Shiva with Parvati or Vishnu with Lakshmi, emphasizing divine companionship. And at the shikhara, the pinnacle, stands the supreme trinity—Shiva, Vishnu, and Brahma—symbolizing the ultimate spiritual pursuit.

In this architectural and philosophical scheme, desire is not shunned but acknowledged as an integral part of existence. Hinduism, at its core, never saw the sacred as rigid or exclusionary. Instead, it embraced a vision of life where even the profane had a place within the divine. When tempered by dharma, kama was seen as a pathway to aikya—oneness with the Ultimate.

Coinciding with Khajuraho, the Konark Dance Festival is also scheduled this month (February 19–23). Like its counterpart, it will showcase India’s rich classical dance traditions—Bharatanatyam, Odissi, Kuchipudi, Kathak, Mohiniattam, and Kathakali—alongside select folk performances, discussions, readings, and film screenings. It is unfortunate that the two festivals overlap, forcing visitors to choose between them. A better scheduling decision would have allowed audiences to experience both.

Years ago, I attended an art camp at Khajuraho, organized by impresario Sanjeev Bhargava. Some of India’s finest artists gathered there, spending their days painting, and drawing inspiration from the temples. Evenings were reserved for informal discussions around a bonfire. Among the speakers was the poet and scholar Dr. Ashok Vajpayee; I was the other. I spoke on the love lore of Krishna and Radha, and the tradition of shringara in our literature and arts. The discussion was animated, engaging, and thought-provoking.

One of the great artists present, Manu Parekh, had been unusually quiet. At some point, he disappeared. When he returned, he handed me a gift—a watercolour painting of Khajuraho, created that very day. It was exquisite, but so explicitly erotic that my wife and I have remained in a quandary about where to display it! And yet, it remains one of our most treasured possessions.