Copying errors and ancient memory: The untold story of Kullu’s temples

In the early hours, as the valley’s hush is broken only by crickets, distant cowbells, and the melodious strain of a Pahari flute, I set out along the winding dirt path above Naggar, a town suspended between myth and memory in the heart of Kullu. Climbing to Thawa, the second capital of the Kullu kings, I breathe in the fragrance of pine and ancient deodars as morning light fractures across the forest floor. The path curves upward until suddenly, the valley sprawls below: lush terraces of apple trees and mist, impossibly alive.

Here, the air is bracing, tinged with citrus, pine, and a faint promise of snow. On the edge of Thawa, the Muralidhar Krishna Temple emerges like a secret — the shikhara rising with unhurried grace, crowned by a canopy that hints at dynastic pride and antiquity. Its plinth bears late Gupta motifs, resilient through centuries. This sanctuary, originally constructed as a shrine to Shiva by patrons unknown in the early medieval period, became a central site of devotion in the Kullu valley. Over the centuries, it received restoration and royal patronage from the Kullu kings. During the Bhakti movement, its rituals and devotional focus gradually shifted, culminating in its rededication to Krishna and reshaping its place in the valley’s spiritual landscape.

The Kathkuni architecture, timber and stone wedded together in perpetuity, leads to a bright red wooden door, opening onto a porch where kettle drums wait patiently for the next festival’s rhythm. At the courtyard’s center, a tulsi plant stands rooted under the sun, while the main entrance, half-veiled by lemon-laden branches, bows before Krishna’s glory. Inside, mud-smeared floors surrender to the deity’s yellow garments, flooding the garbagriha — the sanctum sanctorum — with radiance. Krishna sits enthroned, flute poised, enchanting all who enter. The hush within is deep and inviting, cloaked in shadow.

Walking a slow circumambulation, I drink in the tight-fisted dwarpals and fluted pillars. The temple’s outer walls are dense with reliefs: deities, dancers, musicians — scenes expected in Shiva temples, not Krishna's. These motifs hint unmistakably at the site’s origins. A makara-mukh waterspout and, above the lintel, the weather-worn Bhadramukh — Shiva’s tri-faced visage, symbol of creation, preservation, and dissolution—bear witness to this layered history.

A woman, arms full of apples, enters the courtyard. Drawn by curiosity and clues in stone, I ask if she’s noticed these relics of creation — the world of Shiva lingering in plain sight. She is aghast, eyes flashing with fierce protectiveness, insisting with unshakable certainty that it has always and only been Krishna’s temple. To question this history, I sense, is to probe something more than fact — almost as if by lifting the veil on Shiva’s legacy, I risk unmaking a part of her very identity, trespassing on the sanctuary of her memory. In that instant, weaving past and present feels perilously intimate; her resistance, sharp with inherited devotion, reveals the deep roots of belonging.

Before silence claims the courtyard, a frail voice comes from within. The old priest, confined to bed, whispers, “It was Shiva’s, she is right.” The woman retreats abruptly, leaving the space heavy with revelations and unspoken loyalties.

It was then that my inner Agatha Christie awoke. Over stones and fragmented memory, I pieced together a Himalayan whodunit, half expecting a magnifying glass and dramatic flourish just before Miss Marple names the culprit. Heritage detective work rarely promises a grand reveal, but to connect these clues, drama and all, is its own reward.

A few days later, I cross the Beas via the old Patlikuhl iron bridge, move through bustling market lanes, and follow the winding Hindustan-Tibet Road until I reach a clearing where, in the 1980s, a Vishnu temple was raised at Duwara. The modern wooden roof gleams, yet as I walk its circuit, I’m struck by echoes: its layout, elevation, and the script of its stones all recall the Krishna temple at Thawa. The drama peaks — there on the wall, Shiva’s Bhadramukh stares from within the Vishnu temple itself. It is not a subtle reference but a bold, direct transplant. Even the original mistakes are carefully preserved, as if the stonemasons winked knowingly across time. Only the third eye is now a Vishnu tilak, the old symbolism never fully erased.

In that moment, the thrill of discovery, of a sacred clue burned into plain sight — is breathtaking, and I nearly expect the villagers to burst into collective applause.

On a patch of grass near the temple, conversation turns to creation and imitation. Two men, candid and matter-of-fact, tell me: “We copied what we saw.” The Thawa Krishna temple was their only template, every detail — including errors — faithfully carried forward. Thus, the act of replication, flaws intact, becomes a local legacy. The Bhadramukh, originally for Shiva, appears again on a Vishnu shrine, quietly upending the classical rules of temple architecture.

It is here, amid mountains and stone, that the entanglement of materiality and memory feels most profound. These walls of timber and stone are not just structures; they are repositories of the community’s soul. To question the stories carved in them, or to reveal what lies beneath, is to risk unsettling not only a monument, but a collective sense of self. Quiet inquiry, deliberate or accidental, can bring the past crashing into the present — leaving people exposed, identities vulnerable. Material heritage is intimate. It anchors belonging, encodes ritual, enshrines pride, and resists easy unraveling. Challenge it, and you risk stripping away layers of memory, affection, and certainty, sometimes evoking fierce defensiveness, sometimes a raw assertion of whose story this truly is.

Through such acts of adaptation, Kullu’s temples weave together centuries of devotion with modern memory, refusing to remain static. Every carved detail — deliberate or mistaken — threads into the living tapestry of the mountains, echoing the valley’s journey from Shiva to Krishna, from Thawa to Duwara, and from error to cherished meaning.

Kullu’s small details remind us that heritage is not a frozen artifact but a living, shape-shifting force. It endures not only through preservation but also through every adaptation and “mistake” carried forward by faith and the persistent acts of memory. Can we still honour what stone remembers after people have forgotten? Can we revere a history not because it is pure, but because it survives—unexpected, whimsical, strangely beautiful? Here in Kullu, even the errors endure—lovingly held in the language of mountains, and in the unhurried ways of those who continue to move, thoughtfully, through living history.

The copying error reveals how heritage survives not only through careful preservation, but in altered, adapted, and sometimes delightfully mistaken forms. Because here in Kullu, even the errors are carved in stone.

— The writer, an anthropological archaeologist, is president & co-founder, Himalayan Conservation & Preservation Society, USA, and director & founder, Himalayan Institute of Cultural & Heritage Studies, India. The views expressed are personal