Hidden for centuries in the basalt cliffs, the Ajanta Caves tell India’s forgotten story in stone and colour
It was April 1819, and Captain John Smith of the 28th Cavalry was on the hunt for a tiger, not history. But deep in the dense green foliage near Aurangabad, where vines wrapped around basalt and the Wagora River flowed unnoticed, he stumbled upon something far more enduring: a man-made arch carved into the cliffside, stone pillars, a Buddhist stupa, and a darkness painted with silent, watchful faces.
This was no hunting lodge or abandoned temple. Smith had chanced upon Ajanta, a lost city of caves that had lain in wait for centuries. Moss had consumed the walls, bats had taken up roost, and a thick silence had settled over 31 hand-carved caves that once resonated with prayer and paintbrushes.
Inside, torches flickered against murals that stretched from wall to wall. Octagonal columns, delicate Bodhisattvas, and endless scenes from the Jataka tales—stories from the life of the Buddha—played out in shades of lotus-blue, ochre, and deep jade. The caves didn't just speak of religion; they vibrated with emotion, drama, and bold strokes of life.
The cave Smith entered first, now known as Cave 10, held images that time had nearly erased. But with effort, they stirred again—elephants, kings, ascetics, queens, and warriors. Every scene was carved from devotion and painted with a calm so intense that it stirred the hearts of even colonial soldiers.
The Ajanta Caves were created in two phases. The first occurred in the 2nd century BCE—simple, austere, yet profoundly spiritual. Nearly 600 years later, the second phase unfolded. During the rule of the Gupta dynasty in the 5th century CE, artists transformed the walls into poetry.
Here, we observe love and loss, meditation and mischief. Princesses relax on swings. Dancers shimmer in jewel-toned girdles. Monks sit cross-legged beneath stars we cannot see. It was an India of wisdom and wild grace that left its imprint in every brushstroke and gaze.
Despite the excitement their rediscovery generated, the early Ajanta paintings soon fell silent again. Over the following hundred years, layers of varnish, shellac, soot, and grime dulled their brilliance. Visitors tended to pass by the earlier caves, instead attracted to the clearer works of Caves 1 and 2. By the 20th century, the earliest stories of Indian painting were quite literally sealed away.
But in 1999, ASI conservationist Rajdeo Singh, also known as "Manager Singh," embarked on an ambitious project: to peel back the darkness. Using Japanese technology and meticulous care, Singh and his team removed the layers of centuries — revealing human expressions that had not been seen for generations.
What emerged was nothing short of astonishing. The earliest depictions of the Buddha's life were genuine, breathing portraits from the Satavahana period, their brushstrokes conveying both Indian spirit and subtle Hellenistic influence. These were not mythic gods—they were recognisable, relatable figures.
A guard in profile, an elephant in grief, a queen in quiet rage. Their garments echoed those worn in Maharashtra today. Their faces—startled, focused, alive—felt startlingly close.
Today, Ajanta remains a treasure trove – not just of stone and paint, but of memories. It's one of the few places in the world where art from two thousand years ago still speaks with such raw clarity.
You gaze into those eyes, and they seem to stare right back at you as if wondering what took you so long.
