Why animal skin is used in temples: A spiritual lesson on purity and purpose

We recently visited a Mandir where we were asked to leave our belts, wallets and leather handbags outside. Inside, a young boy creating magical beats on a Dholki caught my attention. It struck me that both sides of the Dholki were covered with animal leather. Why, then, were my leather belongings lying outside? What explained the paradox?

After the Kirtan, I asked the boy why the leather-covered Dholki was allowed inside the Mandir. He explained that since ancient times, Dholkis have been made from the hollowed-out trunk of Shesham trees, with both ends covered in animal skin. The smaller side is covered with goat skin and the larger with buffalo skin.

“Oh, something technical?” I asked.

Yes, indeed. Goatskin, it seems, produces a high-pitched sound, while buffalo skin creates a deep, resonant thud. When the two are balanced, the bass and treble blend perfectly. And when the rhythms are in sync, music is born.

By now, I was completely absorbed. I asked another question: why is there a black patch in the centre of the larger side of the Dholki? He explained that a paste made of tar and clay is applied to lower the pitch.

Fascinating. But then what was the difference between the leather on the Dholki and the leather of my handbag?

He answered simply: since time immemorial, Dholkis have been made from the hides of animals that died natural deaths. They were not killed for meat.

All who are born must die one day. That is nature’s law. When these animals die, their skin may be used to make Dholkis and Tablas. It struck me then that the animal’s skin had been put to noble use after death, wholly in the service of God. If the soul of that animal could see what its skin had been used for, how content it would be.

I had often wondered why sitting on deer skin was prescribed for meditation. I found my answer there too. The skin of a deer that died a natural death, and was not hunted, is considered pure. Sitting on it symbolises mastery over one’s animal instincts.

This reminded me of an incident from the life of Sri Sathya Sai Baba. An Englishman hunting in the jungles of Andhra Pradesh shot a tigress. Soon after, for no apparent reason, his jeep stopped just outside Puttaparthi village and refused to start.

His driver, a local man, told him about a fourteen-year-old boy named Sathya Sai, who lived nearby and was believed to perform miracles. Perhaps, he suggested, the boy could help start the jeep. The Englishman was amused, but with no other option, they went to seek Baba’s help.

Baba immediately questioned them about the tigress’s carcass in the boot of the jeep. He said her three cubs were crying in the jungle. The hunter was stunned. Baba’s words stirred remorse in him.

He asked what he could do to make amends. Baba told him to bring the cubs out of the jungle and place them in a zoo where they would be cared for. He then gave Vibhuti to sprinkle on the jeep and, miraculously, it started.

The hunter later deposited the orphaned cubs in a zoo in Bangalore. He had the tigress’s skin taxidermied and offered it to Baba, requesting that he use it as a foot mat. To this day, it lies in the inner Mandir at Prashanthi Nilayam in Puttaparthi, beneath the chair where Baba would sit. He would often rest his feet on the tiger’s head, as though blessing it eternally.

In the company of the divine, even animal skins become pure.

Yes, company matters.

(The writer pens a daily blog on Indian mythology)