From The Latest Issue: How One Archaeologist Brought Bateshwar Back To Life

It began with a cigarette. It was 2004 and I was at the ancient Bateshwar temple complex near Morena, Madhya Pradesh, when I spotted a man smoking in the sacred premises. Unaware of his identity, I rebuked him. Moments later, I would discover that he was Nirbhay Singh Gujjar, a dreaded dacoit with over 250 cases against his name, who held significant influence in the region.

At that time I was the ASI Bhopal region's Superintendent Architect, in charge of restoring the Bateshwar temples.

I apologised and made light of the situation by suggesting that the gods had sent him to protect these temples. After all, his surname suggested a link to the Gurjara–Pratihara dynasty that had once built them. He was taken aback, but smiled. Something shifted. And that strange, fateful meeting became, what I call, our "Jab We Met" moment!

Of Guns And Gods

Bateshwar is a complex of about 200 Shiva and Vishnu temples built between the 9th and 11th centuries. Located in the badlands of Morena, 35 km from Gwalior, this is a region where dacoits roamed and kattas (unlicensed guns ) still rule the roost. The Chambal region, of which Morena is a part, is spread over Uttar Pradesh, Madhya Pradesh, and Rajasthan and is infamous for dacoities and criminal activities. In those days, even a farmer travelling on a cycle to the village market or his plot of land, would hang a gun on his shoulder in fear.

However, in this land marred by turbulence and turmoil, a few spiritual asylums still endure—Nareshwar, Bateshwar, Padavali, Mitawali, Sanichar, and Kakanmath—offering a stark contrast to the surrounding unrest.

Interestingly, these places of peace are not entirely detached from the region’s darker undercurrents. Is there a connection between spirituality and criminality?

Perhaps, there is.

At the fag end of their lives, many criminals seek solace in spirituality, attempting to atone for past deeds. Malkhan Singh, a notorious dacoit who surrendered in 1982, once told me he became a daku to protect temple lands from encroachment by local Brahmins—a cause that, in his eyes, blurred the line between crime and dharma.

He hugged me warmly and said we were both working to save and rebuild temples—referring to the Ayodhya temple and the restoration at Bateshwar.

Mission Impossible

Many people helped me get permission from the dacoit gangs, especially Nirbhay Singh Gujjar, for the reconstruction of the temples at Bateshwar. A very decisive role was played by IPS Vijay Raman, who had shot dead Paan Singh Tomar in 1981 in an encounter that lasted for 14 hours.

When the ASI started work at the Bateshwar site, it was in a highly ruinous condition, with thousands of temple parts such as pillars, pedestals, pilasters, beams, spires and amalaka, lying scattered across several acres of the sprawling area. As an archaeologist, I had earlier seen several such ruined sites, but never one with so much devastation. I presumed a huge earthquake must have caused the entire temple town to tumble like a pack of cards.

After much deliberation, we began the reconstruction from the entrance gate and the four adjacent temples, whose fragments lay scattered around the site. Fortunately, no one had dared to loot or smuggle out any of the pieces, perhaps out of fear, as the area remained under the watchful presence of dacoit gangs. The greatest challenge was to reassemble the temples using only the original fragments, guided by the ancient architectural treatises like "Manasara," "Mayamata," and "Samarangana Sutradhara."

Our confidence soared when we successfully restored the gateway and the first four temples with meticulous care. It was a promising prelude to what we now believed was achievable: the rebirth of a lost temple town from its ruins.

Temples And Tensions

When illegal mining threatened the fragile heritage site of Bateshwar, I tried the usual route. I wrote to Laxmikant Sharma, then Minister for Mining and Culture—there was no response. With no other option, I broke protocol and wrote directly to the RSS chief, K.S. Sudarshan. It was risky, but it worked. The state was forced to act. Police moved in. Mining equipment was seized. There were even gunfights between the mafia and police. The issue reached Delhi, where former Union Culture Minister Ambika Soni raised it with the then MP Chief Minister Shivraj Singh Chouhan. He admitted the problem and promised action.

On the ground, things turned dangerous. My team faced threats. Two officers narrowly escaped death. In another district, IPS officer Narendra Kumar was crushed by a mining truck—proof of how deadly this fight was.

Yet, we continued. In four years, 70 temples were restored. To former dacoits in the region, the rising spires stood for renewal. After my transfer, work slowed—until the Infosys Foundation stepped in. Thanks to Sudha Murty and a skilled ASI team, progress resumed. Murty's support mattered because she saw heritage not as stone and rubble, but as living history worth preserving with care and commitment.

But Bateshwar is still incomplete. Stones lie scattered, stories untold. What we need now is not just funds, but boldness, vision, and the will to finish what we started.

A Personal Pilgrimage

Why did I take such risks—putting my job and even my life in danger—for the sake of temple conservation? The answer is more than professional duty. Yes, as an archaeologist, I value heritage. But my commitment came from something deeper: shaped by history, faith, and personal reflection.

As a student of Indian history, I couldn’t ignore what lay in front of me. During medieval invasions, hundreds of temples were destroyed, and thousands of Hindus were killed. In many places, mosques were built on temple ruins. These are not assumptions. I’ve seen the evidence myself during my work in the field.

I don’t defend these acts like religious hardliners. Nor do I ignore them like some Marxist historians who reduce everything to economics. I believe the main reason was religious. The exclusivist beliefs found in Semitic faiths like Judaism, Christianity, and Islam often saw others as infidels or pagans. In medieval times, this mindset led to violence and forced conversions.

India’s landscape still carries these wounds. We must face this history honestly. Denial only deepens the damage. As a Muslim, I have often asked myself how to respond to this past. My answer is through action. Rebuilding temples and viharas became my way of repenting—not in words, but in stone.

As an archaeologist, I was given a rare opportunity to restore what had once been destroyed. That alone gave me the strength to carry on, even in the face of danger.

Bateshwar is not just a place of temple reconstruction. It is a space for reflection, a quiet act of healing. It stands for the idea that we must face history with humility, not hostility—and build, not destroy, in the name of faith.

K.K. Muhammed is an archaeologist and former Regional Director of the ASI, known for his work on temple conservation and heritage preservation

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