Masrur: The ‘Ajanta of North’ lost to time

Nestled amid the rolling hills of Kangra’s Masrur village stands a monument that once rivalled India’s greatest rock-cut legacies, the Masrur Rock-Cut Temple complex, often described as the Ajanta and Ellora of the North. Hewn painstakingly from a single sandstone ridge in the 7th-8th century CE, this architectural wonder remains one of the subcontinent’s most extraordinary, yet least celebrated, testaments to human devotion and artistic genius.

Unlike the subterranean caves of Ajanta or Ellora, Masrur’s temple rises above ground, its sculpted towers piercing the sky, a living mountain of faith. Measuring nearly 160 feet by 105 feet, the monolithic structure was not built stone by stone, but carved directly from the living rock. The temple’s intricate carvings and weathered panels still echo a glorious past, particularly its rare depiction of the coronation of Lord Shiva, believed to be the only sculptural representation of this mythological moment in the world.

Archaeologists identify Masrur as one of just four monolithic rock-cut temples in India, sharing lineage with Ellora’s Kailash, Mamlapuram and Dhamnar. The resemblance to the temple mountains of Angkor in Cambodia is striking, both conceived as sacred cosmic centres linking the human and divine realms.

According to Prof NK Singh, whose seminal research “Coronation of Shiva: Rediscovering Masrur Temple” shed new light on its origins, the complex likely dates back to the reign of King Yashoverdhan, a Shaivite ruler who envisioned it as a Himalayan Kailash. Singh’s findings also dispel the enduring local legend that attributes the site to the Pandavas.

Yet, this once-revered sanctuary now stands isolated, its spiritual silence broken only by the sound of rain eroding its fragile sandstone walls. The 1905 Kangra earthquake dealt a devastating blow, collapsing several spires and leaving deep fissures that time has only widened. Though the Archaeological Survey of India (ASI) undertook limited chemical preservation and structural repairs, experts argue these measures remain inadequate for a monument of such vulnerability.

The irony runs deep. Masrur was formally included in the Swadesh Darshan scheme for heritage tourism, but the promises of development have scarcely reached the site. The road to the temple, battered by monsoon floods, remains nearly impassable. With missing signages, overgrown trails and no interpretation centre or trained guides, visitors often leave more confused than enlightened. Outsourced staff, preoccupied with ticketing, allow unrestricted access to sensitive carvings — accelerating their decay.

Despite official rhetoric of transforming Kangra into Himachal’s tourism capital, Masrur languishes in neglect. Its rain-scarred sculptures and silent sanctums stand as both marvel and metaphor — for India’s uneasy relationship with its ancient heritage.

Still, the temple endures. Scarred, yet steadfast, it remains a stone hymn to devotion and artistry, waiting for a day when reverence will return not just in prayers, but in preservation.