Now, now, politicians, don’t you dare dream of coronation dramas!

With Britain’s first coronation in over 70 years just having passed, what could be a better time to look at the grand spectacle that was the Indian royal coronation? Innumerable Sanskrit dramas wax eloquent about the necessity for a king, and the utter chaos that ensues in an anarchy. When Rama accepts his exile and retires to the forest, a whole retinue follows him, requesting him not to abandon the kingdom to a state of doom. And, of course, we all know of how Bharata refuses to take the throne and instead places elder brother Rama’s sandals on the throne to symbolise the latter’s continuing royal status and Bharata’s subservience to him. But what exactly did a coronation entail?

We all know about the Ashwamedha sacrifice, which involved letting a horse wander and battling any king who took on the challenge. We also know about the Rajasuya sacrifice, which involved establishing one’s supremacy over all the kings of the realm, followed by grand announcements and rituals. However mythical these events sound, royal coronations were celebrated by Indian kings until fairly recently. For instance, we know that the Vijayanagara king Krishnadevaraya had a grand coronation, even commissioning a mandapa and gopura for the Virupaksha temple as part of the celebrations.

Another interesting and relatively recent source of historical information is Gagabhatta, a scholar from Kashi, who was invited by the Maratha king Shivaji to resolve some disputes in the Deccan. Gagabhatta’s Sri Shiva Rajabhisheka Prayoga describes how the coronation of Shivaji was organised in great detail. For instance, one of the most difficult tasks of the coronation was to organise a royal throne made of specific wood, and adorned with gold and jewels of various kinds. Then, priests had to be summoned from across the country to recite the correct mantras and perform the rituals, the most important one being the bathing of the king with sacred waters. And this was no easy task, considering these waters had to be collected from holy rivers across the country. Then came the arrangements for the various sacrifices to be performed. And last but not the least, the visitors had to be treated to a grand feast, and gifts were to be given away to Brahmin recipients who could take on the sin of the donor through the transfer of the gift. Gagabhatta also has a list of other works to his name, including the Shivarkodaya, or the Rise of the Sun called Shivaji.

In case you were starting to think that coronations and corresponding poetry was always a nationalist enterprise, you should know that only a century ago, Sanskrit poets composed verses in honour of coronations in Britain. Dhireswar Bhattacharyya Kaviratna composed the Shokaprakasha and Harshaprakasha to mourn the death of Edward VII and celebrate the ascension of George V respectively. Raja Sourindro Mohun Tagore composed the Srimad Victoria Mahatmyam, which, exactly as it sounds, celebrated the 60-year reign of Queen Victoria.

But now, I am afraid I am giving our politicians some new ideas for the upcoming election—what if they decide to celebrate, or worse, campaign, with a Sanskrit-styled rajyabhisheka, replete with thrones and gold and gems and sacred waters? Or even recruit poets for verses announcing their victory? The long spate of yatras by both sides has been tiring enough! So, here is a parting thought from a lovely Sanskrit verse: In the forest, no one performs rituals or coronates the lion. The lion is simply the king—it wins the title with its valour.