Prambanan's Hindu past

The last significant heritage site our group visited in Jogjakarta was the Prambanan Temple compounds. We arrived there in the afternoon of our second and final full day, just when the Central Javanese sun seemed determined to test our endurance. After the misty disappointment of Mount Merapi earlier that morning, we found ourselves at the opposite extreme. The heat radiating from the stone pathways was intense and the occasional shadows cast by the soaring temple towers became our brief moments of relief as we wandered through the grounds. 

By then, most of us were visibly tired. Although nearby Candi Sewu is regarded as one of the finest Buddhist temple complexes in Indonesia, time and energy were no longer on our side. We reluctantly gave it a miss and concentrated our attention on the main Prambanan temple complex which is also known as the Candi Rara Jonggrang. That was perhaps the one regret of the day.

After spending so much time among the serene Buddhist monuments of Mendut, Pawon and Borobudur, arriving at Prambanan felt like stepping into a different chapter of Java's past. If Borobudur is a vast stone mandala inviting contemplation, Prambanan reaches skywards with dramatic confidence. Its tall, slender towers seem almost weightless despite being carved from thousands of blocks of volcanic stone.

Built during the ninth century under the Hindu Sanjaya dynasty, Prambanan is the largest Hindu temple complex in Indonesia and one of the grandest in South-east Asia. The central compound of the Candi Roro Jonggrang is dedicated to the Trimurti of Shiva the Destroyer, Vishnu the Preserver and Brahma the Creator. The towering Shiva temple rises nearly 50 metres above the plain.

What absorbed me most were the relief carvings. Running along the galleries are exquisitely detailed panels illustrating the ancient Indian epic known as the Ramayana. Stone dancers, warriors, princes, celestial beings and mythical creatures emerge from the walls with remarkable vitality. Even after more than a thousand years, the carvings retain an elegance and movement that make them feel almost alive.

Elsewhere, one encounters finely carved kalpavriksha or wish-fulfilling trees, lions seated within niches and graceful apsaras. The craftsmanship is extraordinary. Each panel seems to invite visitors to slow down, linger and notice the details.

Yet Prambanan's history has been far from tranquil. For reasons that remain uncertain, the temples were gradually abandoned after political power shifted from Central Java in the 10th century. Earthquakes and volcanic eruptions took their toll and over time the complex fell into ruin, its stones scattered and reclaimed by vegetation. It was only rediscovered by Dutch travellers in the 17th century and systematic restoration began from 1918.

Even in recent times, the work of preservation has continued. The devastating Jogjakarta earthquake of 2006 damaged many structures within the complex, including Candi Sewu, forcing parts of the site to close temporarily while conservation experts assessed the damage and undertook repairs.

Through the decades, Indonesia has remained determined to preserve these monuments despite the enormous challenges involved. Restoring ancient stone structures in an earthquake-prone region is neither simple nor inexpensive. It requires patience, expertise and international cooperation. In recent years, India has pledged assistance in the conservation of Prambanan, recognising the shared cultural heritage that links the two countries across centuries of maritime exchange and civilisation.

Borobudur and Prambanan are reminders that Indonesia's history is diverse. Long before Islam became the faith of the majority, the archipelago was home to powerful Hindu and Buddhist kingdoms whose influence extended across South-east Asia. Modern Indonesia does not shy away from this inheritance. Instead, it embraces it as part of the nation's story. I sensed this in the care devoted to these sites, in the pride of the local guides and in the willingness to invest in their preservation. These monuments are not treated as awkward reminders of an earlier age. They are celebrated as symbols of cultural continuity and national identity.

That, I think, is something worth reflecting upon. There are countries, including our own Malaysia, where ancient Hindu and Buddhist heritage can sometimes be overlooked or regarded as belonging to someone else's past. Yet history does not cease to be ours simply because later generations embraced different faiths or identities. We do not have to feel embarrassed about the many facets of our heritage. We can acknowledge them honestly and face them squarely, recognising that they have all contributed to shaping who we are today. Indonesia, by contrast, seems comfortable acknowledging that history is not a single thread but a tapestry woven from many traditions.

As we trod wearily through the afternoon heat, I could not help but marvel at how remarkable these towers still stand at all. They have endured earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, political change and centuries of abandonment. And perhaps that is what makes places like Prambanan and Borobudur so compelling. Despite civilisations evolving, beliefs changing and societies moving in new directions, the past need not be erased to make room for the present. It can simply be remembered, respected and carried forward.