Intro
The monsoon has its own will — it can bless you with misty beauty or stop you in your tracks. That afternoon, as we rode towards Eklingji, the skies chose drama. What followed was a dance of rain, closed temple doors, and a detour into ruins that whispered of a forgotten city.

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The Ride to Eklingji

From Neelkanth Ji, we rode back towards the highway, hoping to reach Eklingji Temple before its 1:30 PM closure. But the monsoon had other plans. Just as we merged onto the highway, the sky cracked open and rain came down in torrents. We darted under an overbridge for our first shelter, waiting as the storm hammered the road.

When the downpour eased into a drizzle, we pressed on. The highway stretched ahead, wet and gleaming, and we rode through bursts of light rain, hoping the weather would spare us. But as we forked off the highway towards Eklingji, the clouds gathered again, darker and heavier. Soon, the storm returned in full force.

This time, we spotted a small tea stall opposite a lake. We ducked under its tin roof just in time. From there, we watched the rain whip across the lake in silver sheets, the wind carrying the scent of wet earth and storm. The tea came hot and sweet, warming our hands as we stood at the edge of the stall, half enjoying the drama of the monsoon, half anxious about the time slipping away.

By the time the skies finally relented and we resumed our ride, it was already too late.

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A Closed Door, A Firm Resolve

By the time we reached Eklingji, the great doors had shut. Disappointment lingered, but my wife was quick to announce that we would return the next morning, no matter what. Her determination left no room for debate.

So instead, we turned towards Nagda, once the proud capital of Mewar before Udaipur was founded.

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Nagda & the Saas-Bahu Temples

In its prime, Nagda was a thriving seat of power—filled with temples, lakes, and fortifications. But repeated invasions, particularly by the Delhi Sultanate in the 13th century, left the city devastated. Today, little remains beyond scattered ruins and memories preserved in stone.

At its heart stand the famed Sahasra Bahu Temples, more popularly called the Saas-Bahu Temples. Built in the late 10th century by King Mahipala of the Nagda kingdom, these twin shrines were dedicated to Vishnu and Shiva.

The larger temple honored Vishnu in his form of Sahasra Bahu—“the one with a thousand arms.” The smaller shrine, commissioned for the queen, was dedicated to Shiva. Over centuries, the name Sahasra Bahu softened into Saas-Bahu—mother-in-law and daughter-in-law.

Even in partial ruin, the artistry is staggering: celestial dancers carved on stone pillars, friezes narrating episodes from the Ramayana and Mahabharata, and elegant spires in the Nagara style, touched faintly by Odisha’s Kalinga influence.

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The Silence of History

But the history here carries a wound. In 1226 CE, Sultan Iltutmish’s armies swept through Nagda, desecrating the shrines. The great idol of Vishnu with a thousand arms was broken. And, in accordance with tradition—where a deity’s broken image is no longer worshipped—the sanctum fell silent. What had once been a great place of devotion slowly slipped into neglect. Centuries later, even the fragments of that idol were stolen, vanishing from the ruins.

All around the premises, scattered in the grass and stones, lay the remains of smaller structures. Perhaps they were once shrines to goddesses, or small mandapas where devotees rested and prayed. Now, their purpose is lost in time—silent, weathered blocks that no one can name, yet still echoing with the devotion they once sheltered.

Walking there, I felt both awe and melancholy. The place carried a stillness that was not emptiness, but memory—the kind of silence that speaks of prayers once offered, of bells once rung, of faith once unbroken. It was as if the stones themselves remembered, even when people had long forgotten.

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A Jain Temple on the Hill

On our way back towards the city, we climbed to a Śvetāmbara Jain Temple perched on a hill. After a steep ascent, a vast courtyard opened before us, dominated by a serene Tirthankar idol. Pigeons flocked in the courtyards, cows and even a couple of horses wandered about. Renovation work was underway, but the peace was unmistakable.

Over another roadside chai afterwards, my wife turned to me with quiet determination: “Tomorrow morning—we go back to Eklingji.” I smiled and nodded. Resistance was useless.

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Outro / Teaser
The rains had kept Eklingji from us, but they had also carried us into Nagda’s haunting ruins. With the promise of returning to the temple the next morning, we set our sights on the city again — where a ropeway, a sunset, and a hilltop shrine awaited us.