A casual remark on a podcast has done what decades of guidebooks often struggle to achieve. It has stopped millions mid-scroll and sent their curiosity racing back through time. When American podcaster Joe Rogan recently watched a video on the Kailasa Temple, his reaction was unfiltered awe. The symmetry, the scale, the sheer audacity of its construction, he said, “blew his mind”. For many international listeners, it was a first introduction to one of India’s most staggering architectural achievements.
"This blows my mind. It's so beautiful and so symmetrical," he said. Joe Rogan kept wondering how the structure could have been carved with the technology available at the time, adding, "They carved this thing from the top down out of one giant rock!"
The temple he was reacting to is the Kailasa Temple, carved not brick by brick, but mountain by mountain. It stands at the heart of the Ellora Caves in today’s Sambhaji Nagar district of Maharashtra. The 8th-century rock-cut monument is just 350 km from Mumbai. Unlike most temples that are assembled piece by piece, Kailasa was extracted from a single mass of volcanic basalt. Architects began at the very top of the cliff and carved their way downward, removing an estimated 400,000 tonnes of rock to reveal a free-standing temple complex where there had once been solid stone.
The result is less a building and more a revelation. Rising 32.6 metres from the courtyard floor, the temple towers over visitors with a confidence that feels almost impossible for something sculpted entirely by hand. The entire complex is dedicated to Lord Shiva and is named after Mount Kailasa, the mythical Himalayan abode of the deity. Even after more than 1,200 years of wind, rain, and human contact, the monument retains a gravity that is difficult to ignore.
Kailasa Temple remains the largest single monolithic rock excavation in the world and was designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1983. The Archaeological Survey of India (ASI) continues to maintain and conserve the site.
The Kailasa Temple, also known as Cave 16 of the Ellora Caves complex in Maharashtra, was carved out during the reign of Rashtrakuta king Krishna I, who ruled from 756 to 773 CE. The construction of the Kailasa Temple is estimated to have begun around 760 CE and continued for approximately 18–20 years.
Historians largely attribute the construction to the Rashtrakuta king Krishna I, who ruled in the eighth century. The project would have taken years, possibly decades, requiring not only artistic mastery but logistical coordination on a scale that still confounds modern engineers. There are no surviving blueprints, no detailed records of workforce numbers or daily methods. What remains is the stone itself, patiently holding its secrets.
The architecture reflects a meeting of regional styles. Scholars note strong influences from the Virupaksha Temple and the Kailasanatha temple at Kanchipuram. Pallava and Chalukya traditions shape its contours, while local Deccan artisans left their own distinct marks. The result is not imitation, but synthesis. A north-south conversation in stone.
The approach to the temple sets the tone for what lies ahead. A modest gopuram leads into a vast U-shaped courtyard measuring 82 metres by 46 metres. Along its edges runs a three-storey arcade, once connected to the main shrine by flying stone bridges that have since collapsed. Massive sculpted panels depict deities, sages, and mythic figures frozen in mid-motion. Shaivaite figures dominate the left side. Vaishnava imagery claims the right. Even the spatial arrangement reflects cosmic balance.
At the centre stands the main shrine, crowned by a Dravidian-style shikhara. Inside rests a massive stone lingam, the formless symbol of Shiva. Facing it across a rock bridge is Nandi, the sacred bull, seated in dignified stillness. Both structures rise on two storeys, with the lower levels carved to resemble elephants seemingly carrying the weight of the temple on their backs. It is illusion layered upon illusion, each demanding both mechanical precision and poetic imagination.
The walls of the temple hall unfold India’s great epics in high relief. Scenes from the Mahabharata and the Ramayana ripple across the stone, packed with movement, battle, devotion, and loss. One of the most arresting sculptures depicts the demon king Ravana attempting to lift Mount Kailasa itself, while Shiva calmly subdues him with a gentle press of his toe. The scene is part theology, part visual drama, part philosophical statement about the limits of brute force.
Scattered across the courtyard are five smaller shrines, three dedicated to the river goddesses Ganga, Yamuna, and Saraswati. Two towering dwajasthambams, or flagstaff pillars, stand like sentinels. Every surface seems alive with intent. Nothing appears accidental, even after centuries of erosion.
Adding to the temple’s mystique is a medieval legend that speaks to its improbable method of construction. According to the story recorded in later Marathi texts, a queen vowed to fast until she could glimpse the shikhara of a new temple if her ailing husband recovered. An architect named Kokasa promised to fulfil this within a week, not by building upward but by carving downward from the rock’s summit. Whether folklore or faint memory of real events, the tale mirrors the logic of the temple itself: inversion as innovation.
What makes Joe Rogan’s reaction so telling is not just the surprise of a Westerner encountering Indian antiquity. It is the reminder that even in an age of satellites and steel, human ingenuity from a thousand years ago still feels radical. The Kailasa Temple was not produced by machines, algorithms, or digital simulation. It emerged from chisels, ropes, geometry, and faith. Each error would have been permanent. Each decision irreversible.
In recent years, India’s ancient monuments have found renewed visibility through social media, streaming platforms, and global travel. Yet visibility does not always translate into understanding. The Ellora Caves are not just picturesque backdrops. They represent a rare moment in history when Hindu, Buddhist, and Jain traditions coexisted along the same cliff face. Thirty-four monuments, carved side by side, narrate a long experiment in cultural coexistence.
