Opinion The bitter public debate over the Jagannath Temple in Digha is pointless

It is somewhat trite if not downright mischievous to raise a hue and cry over Lord Jagannath’s dham being replicated in Bengal. The temple sums up a conscious experiment in synthesising India’s diverse religions and religious practices that flourished in the east around the 12th century. With its rich forests, flourishing sea ports, peaceful cities, Odisha has been a precious meeting point for all major Hindu and non-Hindu cults: Buddhism, Jainism, the Nath and Siddha sects and the various tribal religions that pre-dated all of these.

Raja Anantavarman Chodaganga Deva of Odisha, who is said to have built Puri’s Jagannath Temple, also diverged from the tradition of building temples next to holy rivers. He selected an open sea-facing site for a deity whose form spanned the seas from the Arabian Sea to the Bay of Bengal.
According to a 15th-century tale from the Odia epic Mahabharata by Sarala Dasa, the log from which new idols are carved every 12 years comes from a sacred tree that is believed to have grown from the indestructible remains of Lord Krishna, which floated in from Dwarka (often identified as Dwarika Puri) in the west. One tribal legend holds that the body was discovered, brought ashore, and buried by local people. Eventually, a tree is said to have grown on that site, from which a statue resembling the Buddha was later carved. Another legend describes how King Indradyumna, in search of the elusive deity referred to as Neelachal (often associated with Lord Jagannath), meditated upon Lord Narasimha and had a vision of a divine tree emerging from the sea. A celestial carpenter is then said to have fashioned the image of the Lord from that wood.

All these stories about the Lord emerge like bands of colorful butterflies during the monsoon Rath Yatra, each tale fluttering forth from centuries of devotion and belief. Buddhism, too, plays a subtle role in this cultural and spiritual tapestry. The Tibetan Buddhist historian Taranatha wrote that by the 10th century, following repeated challenges to Buddhism from resurgent Hindu traditions — especially under the influence of Adi Shankaracharya —Buddhism began to retreat to regions like Odisha, Bihar, and Bengal. By the time the Ganga dynasty rose to power in Odisha, elements of Buddhist philosophy may have mingled with local religious traditions, such as the Dharma cult of the Savara (Sabar) tribals. These communities worshipped a formless deity known as Niranjan or Neel Madhav. In the Jagannath cult, one of the early names of the Lord is indeed Neel Madhav, believed to have tribal and possibly Buddhist associations. The deity is often described as Shoonya — formless, vast, and beyond material comprehension. As Ramai Pandit of the Munda tribal community wrote in his Shoonya Purana: “A Shoonya, formless and destroyer of a thousand impediments,/ Above everything, the greatest giver of boons,/ Is our Lord Niranjana.”

The mahaprasad of Lord Jagannath — consisting of rice, dal, and vegetables — follows specific and sacred rituals. According to temple tradition, it must always be eaten on leaf plates within the premises of the temple. One of the most remarkable aspects of this ritual is that people of all castes must sit together on the ground and partake of the mahaprasad without any social distinctions — an embodiment of Lord Jagannath’s inclusive spirit. Only a deity like Lord Jagannath could inspire devotion across religious boundaries. Salabega, a 17th-century Muslim devotee, is a well-known example. He was the son of Lalbeg, a Mughal subedar stationed in Cuttack, and his mother was a Hindu Brahmin widow whom Lalbeg had reportedly married. As a Muslim, Salabega was not allowed to enter the temple. However, his deep devotion found expression through the many bhajans he composed and sang in praise of Lord Jagannath. During the annual Rath Yatra, Salabega would stand outside the temple and sing soulfully to his Lord. According to legend, the chariot of Lord Jagannath would halt in front of Salabega as if acknowledging his devotion. Even today, over four centuries later, the three chariots carrying the deities make a brief ceremonial halt near the samadhi of Salabega, honouring the memory of this beloved musical murid (follower). Holiness, in moments like these — when the deity pauses at the grave of a true devotee — feels almost tangible.

We are told that Bengal has agreed to drop the word dham from the temple at Digha. But with such profound expressions of love and inclusion in Jagannath’s tradition, one wonders: Was the bitter public debate truly worth it?

The writer is former chairperson, Prasar Bharati