Avatāra as Embodied Practice: Narrative, Performance, Image

Introduction

The concept of avatāra, while often associated with the canonical list of the daśāvatāra—the ten incarnations of Viṣṇu—extends beyond this framework to encompass varied modes of divine embodiment. At a fundamental level, the term denotes the “descent” of a divinity into the human realm, but this process unfolds in multiple ways, raising important questions about the nature of embodiment. Paul Hacker’s (1960) study explores the semantic range of avatāra by examining related terms such as rūpa (form), tanus (body), vapus (physical manifestation), prādurbhāva (appearance), and aṃśāvataraṇa (partial descent), highlighting their distinct nuances. In Vaiṣṇava traditions, for instance, prādurbhāva marks divine manifestations of Viṣṇu as ontologically distinct from cyclical rebirths within saṃsāra. Beyond this distinction, rūpa, tanus, and vapus shift the attention toward the experiential dimensions of descent—not just as a crossing of boundaries between the divine and human realms, but as an act of divine permeation. This notion of permeation entails the deity’s full inhabitation of a body, a suffusion of tejas that imbues it with divine energy and agency.

Building on this discussion of divine embodiment, this article examines the Sanskrit textual tradition of the early Skandapurāṇa2 (c. 6th–7th century CE) and the contemporary ritual performance of Bhūtakola in the Tulu region of South Karnataka. Central to both traditions is the manifestation of the divine through the form of a boar; this thematic convergence provides a productive basis for comparative analysis. By exploring the ways that textual traditions and lived rituals construct and negotiate corporeality, I consider parallels between the textual articulation of embodiment in the early Skandapurāṇa (hereafter “Skandapurāṇa”) and the performative embodiment enacted through possession rituals in Bhūtakola. This study further considers how images and material media shape and mediate these divine embodiments, while also reflecting on the insights and limitations of a comparative approach.

The Embodiment of the Boar in Narrative: Varāha in the Skandapurāṇa

Within ancient Indian cultural and religious contexts, particularly within Brahminical ideology, Varāha emerges as a significant figure, representing an incarnation, or avatāra, of Viṣṇu. Varāha is often portrayed as a hybrid deity incorporating both human and boar attributes in literary and material sources. The Skandapurāṇa uses the term Naravarāha (Man-Boar) to describe this composite nature.3 The text’s narrative of the Varāha manifestation is unique in its attention to the affective dimensions of embodiment. Unlike other accounts of the popular tale, it lingers on the experience of taking this physical form, exploring not just the transformation itself, but the emotional complexities and desires that emerge through embodiment. The narrative highlights the tensions, impulses, and sensory realities that define earthly desires of human and non-human animal forms, portraying corporeality as a vehicle for divine presence as well as a site of affective negotiation, where longing, instinct, and embodied experience condition divine action.

The narrative commences with Hiraṇyākṣa, a daitya (demon) who asserts dominion over the three worlds and disrupts the cosmic order by submerging the Earth (Bhū) into the primordial waters. He expels Fire (Agni) and installs a new Agni in its place, leading to a disruption in the offerings that sustain the deities and depriving the gods of their kingdom. Seeking guidance, they turn to Brahmā, who advises invoking Viṣṇu to manifest as the ‘Man-Boar’ (Naravarāha). In the initial descriptions of the Man-Boar, he is introduced through a language of negation: “not human, not animal, not divine.” This descriptive strategy recalls the Upaniṣadic method of neti neti (“not this, not that”),4 which seeks to articulate the ineffable by delineating what it is not.

This verse does more than describe Varāha’s physical form; it signals his behavioral and ontological ambiguity. The definition positions Varāha as a hybrid, liminal figure—one that challenges established taxonomies of existence. As neither fully a boar, entirely divine, nor purely human, Varāha’s identity straddles the boundaries between these categories. This hybridity cannot be regarded as a mere rhetorical or thematic continuation from the Narasiṃha myth5 (Skandapurāṇa vol. IV, 70.30–32); rather, it conveys a specific classical Hindu notion of metaphysics. Varāha’s hybridity is not just a narrative device, but an assertion of a theology that challenges anthropocentrism. His deliberate liminality challenges strict categorizations, illustrating that divinity manifests in forms that evade human comprehension. This is achieved through textual descriptions of his body and a deliberate ambiguity between animalistic, human, and divine characteristics.

Furthermore, following Brahmā’s advice, the gods offer an elaborate hymn to Viṣṇu, who consents to defeat the demon Hiraṇyākṣa but emphasizes the necessity of their support. Viṣṇu’s body is created by the gods using elements drawn from the seven worlds and is invigorated by the sages. Notably, the initial ambiguity—the boar being described as neither entirely human nor animal—evolves into a detailed depiction of the deity as a composite form. Initially, when the gods consult Brahmā for guidance, he instructs them that only Viṣṇu, appearing in a form neither fully human nor animal, can defeat Hiraṇyākṣa. Subsequently, the narrative describes the gods forming the boar’s body.

The gods prepare his form [i.e. his boar form], with Brahmā as the creator. They fashion his body from the seven worlds. The mountains become his bones; the rivers, his veins; the seven oceans, his blood; the three guṇas, the three humors; the plants, his feces; dharma, his semen; the clouds, his urine. The seven winds enter his abdomen; Brahmā, his head; Rudra, his skull; Dharma, his forehead; Vāyu, his nose; the sun and the moon, his eyes; the directions, his ears; the stars, his eyebrows; day and night, his eyelids; the submarine fire, his mouth; earth and sky, his lips; the snakes, his teeth; the four weapons, his fangs; lightning, his tongue; space, his palate; Umā, his neck; the thunderbolt, his shoulders; the Ādityas, his cheeks; the Rudras, his hands; fame, fortune, success, glory, victory, splendour, strength, beauty, action and inaction, his fingers; all the weapons, his nails; Yamadaṇḍa, Kāladaṇḍa, Mṛtyudaṇḍa and Rudradaṇḍa, his arms and feet; the Sādhyas, his chest; Soma, his heart; the great elements, his belly; Aditi, his navel; Prajāpati, his penis; Mitra, his anus; the Vasus, his ribs; Dharma, his back; Mṛtyu, Kāla and Yama, his palms and soles; the Aśvins, his tail; the pitṛs, his joints; fate, the noose of time, death, quarrel and disease, his sight; Yakṣas, Rākṣasas, Gandharvas and Pannagas, his skin; the chants, the Vedas and the oblations, the pores of his skin; the gifts, the yamas and niyamas, the Mothers, the local deities, the domestic animals and birds, his bristles; the Viśvedevas, the paws of his feet; the Bhṛgus and Aṅgirases, his nails. The sages occupy all the spaces between his bristles. (Bisschop and Yokochi 2021, 56–57)

Varāha, in the above verses, is portrayed as a microcosmic being—a synthesis of the entire cosmos. This act reflects a cosmological worldview that envisions the universe as “a web of relations,” where “things that appear to stand alone and apart are connected to other things” (Olivelle 1998, 24), with each element containing the essence of all others. Varāha’s microcosmic nature positions him as both a savior and a symbol of cosmic unity. His hybrid form integrates all aspects of creation and celestial existence.

The Skandapurāṇa depicts entering and inhabiting bodies as a recurring practice, particularly in the context of yoga and divine intervention. Brahmā instructs the gods to take control of asura bodies to obtain vṛtti (sustenance) through yoga, allowing them to enter their subjects’ bodies at will (SP 96.20–24). This ability extends beyond the gods and is recognized as a yoga siddhi (yogic power). In early Hindu traditions, accomplished yogis (siddhas) were believed to possess the skill of parakāya praveśa—the projection of consciousness into another’s body (Smith 2006, 286).6 The Skandapurāṇa aligns with these broader yogic traditions, framing bodily inhabitation as both a divine power and a cultivated yogic practice. Here, bodies are not passive vessels but fluid sites of occupation, where identity and agency can transfer through yogic mastery. This perspective challenges fixed notions of embodiment, portraying divinity not as bound to a single form but as a force that moves between bodies to fulfill cosmic and ritual functions.

The composite nature of Varāha’s body is not only textual, but also finds expression in early Gupta-period imagery. The colossal sandstone Varāha at Eran (c. early 6th century CE, figs. 1 and 2) exemplifies a microcosmic vision, its surface densely carved with sages, celestial beings, and other figures, visually reinforcing the idea that Varāha encompasses and sustains the cosmos within himself.

This colossal Varāha sculpture from Eran, Madhya Pradesh (figs. 1 and 2), embodies the microcosmic essence of the deity while reflecting the ideological and artistic ambitions of the Gupta period. Standing approximately 11 ft. tall, the monumental scale of the figure itself is a statement of Gupta imperial authority and their patronage of art that conveyed their power over a large area and people. This sculpture gives visual expression to a dynamic narrative. The body of the boar incorporates smaller carvings of celestial beings, creating a composite form that unites cosmic elements into a singular empowered entity. As Becker (2010) notes in her detailed study of the sculpture, the smaller carvings represent celestial figures whose collective presence on Varāha’s body symbolizes the universal, all-encompassing nature of Viṣṇu, as well as strengthen the body to slay the asura.

The famous relief from Udayagiri (fig. 3) depicts Varāha standing on two limbs, rescuing the Earth Goddess (Bhū) from the engulfing waters. This large figure (approx. 13 ft. high) lifts the earth on his massive shoulder, his foot subduing a serpent (nāga) who folds his hands in submission and adoration, while gods and sages surround Varāha in recognition of the deed. Technically this image can be attributed as Naravarāha, or Man-Boar, a hybrid that is described in the initial passages of Skandapurāṇa (97.11).

Unlike this hybrid depiction of Varāha at Udayagiri (fig. 3), which combines human and animal characteristics, the Eran sculpture (figs. 1 and 2) adopts a fully zoomorphic form, depicting an animal standing on all four limbs. This deliberate shift in iconography, as Becker (2010) speculates, aligns Varāha with Viṣṇu as the embodiment of Vedic sacrifice (yajña), with the celestial beings carved into the boar’s body, symbolizing the gods’ collective participation in cosmic order and ritual.

Scholars have explored the political and royal motivations behind these sculptures,7 but they also functioned as active sites of ritual practice. The Eran Varāha was more than just a static image; it was animated through darśana (ritual viewing), possible offerings, and circumambulation. Its monumental scale required devotees to walk around it, making engagement with Varāha’s body a physical, embodied act. This ritual interaction reinforced the idea that divine presence was not fixed, but continually experienced through movement and touch.

Similarly, at Udayagiri, carving Varāha into the cave wall integrated his body with the sacred and physical landscape itself; he was not just depicted in stone, but became an extension of it. Willis (2009, 42) notes that, originally, water from a large tank on the western hill flowed through a stepped cascade into a tank in front of the Varāha panel in Udayagiri, reinforcing the imagery of Varāha rising from the waters. Though modern conservation efforts, including road construction and a courtyard enclosure, have altered the site, evidence such as erosion at the sculpture’s base suggests that water once lapped against the relief, especially during the rainy season. The tank may have contained lotuses, visually merging with the carved lotuses in the relief, likely painted originally. Additionally, wavy lines carved into the panel, symbolizing water, would have blended with the actual pond, mirroring the sculpture with the environment.

These interactions between the images, rituals, and environment suggest that the Varāha sculptures were not just representations of divinity but living, interactive spaces with the immediate surroundings. At both Eran and Udayagiri, Varāha’s presence was experienced through movement, water, and landscape, reinforcing a vision of embodiment that was fluid, immersive, and inseparable from ecological processes.

Embodiment, Affect, and Agency in the Varāha Narrative

While the theological paradigm posits the boar as Viṣṇu’s avatāra, the narrative complicates this view by attributing to the form an apparent autonomy and affective presence beyond its instrumental function. This raises critical questions: To what extent does the material body—the physicality of the boar—exert its agency? Does the assumption of a body, even by a divine being, necessarily entail a transformation of perception, desire, and attachment? Or does the body’s agency remain wholly contingent upon the divine force that animates it?

Beyond his cosmological role in restoring dharma, Varāha exhibits affective traits that humanize him and deepen the complexity of his embodiment. After vanquishing Hiraṇyākṣa, he expresses an affinity for his boar form, articulating a desire to remain in it and experience its unique sensory pleasures (rati):

This moment is striking: rather than relinquishing his earthly body upon the completion of his divine mission, Varāha lingers, compelled by the experiential possibilities of his embodied form. It suggests that the deity experiences embodiment in ways that produce attachment and affective engagement.

If the avatāra is traditionally framed as a response to cosmic disorder, the post-conflict continuation of the embodied form merits further scrutiny. What compels Viṣṇu to remain in his boar form after achieving his objective? Does the experience of embodiment itself generate new forms of subjectivity, independent of divine intent? The text further complicates this question by depicting Varāha’s emotional vulnerability, particularly in the context of his son Vṛka’s impending death. Varāha experiences deep grief, manifesting through corporeal signs such as sweating and trembling—responses that align his affective experience with earthly emotions of loss. His body, once perceived as an instrument of cosmic intervention, is now rendered permeable to sorrow, reinforcing the idea that embodiment entails not just physicality but emotional entanglement as well:

The body in this passage is not merely a passive tool for dharmic restoration, but a site of affective and physiological response. Sweat, trembling, and dripping blood mark Varāha’s grief in terms that are explicitly corporeal, rendering his sorrow legible within human frameworks of emotion. Viṣṇu thus transforms not only in form, but also in affective experience, suggesting that embodiment intensifies subjectivity through sensory and emotional engagement with the material world. Thus, the Skandapurāṇa presents a complex relationship between divine agent and material form, in which the body plays an active role in shaping experience.

This raises several questions: Does assuming a body necessitate an engagement with its sensory and affective dimensions? To what extent does embodiment shape agency, rather than solely serving as its instrument? Can the divine experience attachment, and if so, does that attachment alter its ontological status? I suggest that the Skandapurāṇa understands embodiment as a site of transformation, forging affinities between the divine, non-human, and more-than-human. Viṣṇu, in choosing to linger within the form, engages in a mutual exchange with material existence—one that invites us to rethink avatāra not as a simple teleological event, but as an open-ended process of negotiation between divinity and corporeality.

The Embodiment of the Boar in Performance: Panjurli Daiva in Bhūtakola

How might examining Varāha’s embodiment in textual traditions alongside contemporary ritual practices, often labeled as possession rituals, deepen our understanding of bodily permeability? Malik (2009) explores embodiment rituals in the Central Himalayas, emphasizing how possession operates as a form of embodied experience rather than a purely psychological phenomenon. Expanding on this framework, I turn to Bhūtakola in the Tulu region, where performers enact guardian spirits and deities through ritual embodiment, commonly termed spirit possession. Malik’s approach challenges earlier models that viewed possession primarily as a cognitive or psychological event, arguing instead that an embodiment-centered perspective better aligns with cultural categories of worship. This perspective allows for a more nuanced understanding of both textual and performative traditions, particularly about how deities are experienced as both embodied and embodying agents within Bhūtakola.

The Tulu region, or Tulunadu, comprising the present-day Dakshina Kannada and Udupi districts of Karnataka and the northern parts of the Kasaragod district of Kerala up to the Chandragiri River, has evolved various forms of performance-based rituals invoking the native guardian spirits. Located along the lines of the Konkan Coast, this tropical region is bounded by the Western Ghats and the Arabian Sea. Bhūtakola, a major annual festival of Tulunadu, celebrates the several guardian spirits and tutelary deities (called daivas and bhūtas) who protect their villages. This ritual involves a medium or performer who receives the invoked spirits and answers practical questions, solves quarrels, and thus acts as a judge whose words go unchallenged. These deities manifest during the festivals through ritual objects—in particular, masks, breastplates, and anklets—that are worn by human performers. Thus, Bhūtakola also reflects the interaction between the participants and the dancer who receives the invoked spirit through these objects during the ritual.

Earlier studies on the ritual performances of Tulunadu (Brückner 1995) identify multiple terms used to describe the embodiment of spirits by performers. These rituals are often categorized under the broad framework of “possession” cults and have been historically compared to the Teyyam traditions of Kerala and Coorg (Brückner 1995). However, the terminology for possession in Tulu exhibits significant variation. Claus (1984) notes the use of darśana, as in the phrase arugu darśana atundu (“a darśana occurred to so-and-so”), alongside expressions such as bhūta pattundu (“the bhūta caught [the person]”) and maytu battundu (“entered the body”). These locutions align with broader linguistic patterns found in South Asian traditions of spirit possession, suggesting a shared conceptual framework for divine manifestation across the region (Smith 2006, 138).

One prominent example of a guardian deity is Panjurli Daiva, a spirit manifest as a wild boar. The early twentieth-century bronze mask from the Kanara district (fig. 4), now housed in the National Museum of Asian Art, Washington, D.C., depicts Panjurli with a prominent snout, almond-shaped eyes, earrings, and a crown of rearing cobras (nāgas). This elaborate iconography captures Panjurli’s dual nature as both untamed and protective. During the nema or kola ceremony, the performer dons this mask, along with a breastplate, anklets, and a headdress (ani) made from areca and palm leaves. These objects mediate divine essence, rendering the human body a hybrid entity—simultaneously mundane and transcendent.

The Objects and Ritual Process of Bhūtakola8

The objects in the Bhūtakola performance play an integral part in the ritual process and a vital role in embodying the deity. The ritual process through which the human performer comes to be animated by the deity is marked by three distinct phases, punctuated by the incorporation of particular objects and adornments such as anklets, masks, and headdresses (ani). The performance here is a mediated one, in which there are attendants (patri) to intervene and assist the performer in his every step. This is described by Brückner (1995) as “movement,” which includes sudden jumping, walking, rhythmic dancing, etc. There is no set repertoire. These movements are maintained over a long period by the embodied figures of the deities within the framework of a largely fixed choreography, which involves a sequential adornment of ritual objects.

Gaggaradechidu: Phase 1 is marked by the adornment of the anklet (gaggara, as shown in fig. 5), also known as gaggaradechidu, when the deity enters the performer’s body through the anklet. In this phase, the anklet is the focus. It is traditionally made of silver and has hollow tubes with metal balls inside that produce a clunking sound as the performer moves. This phase is marked by many rapid movements, gestures, and dance. We often see the dancer rocking and swinging the anklet by hand to produce different rhythms. The deity does not speak in this phase, but motions through the object. These movements last for about one or two hours. Sometimes, we also see the performer jump and flip around the festival area, while the participants sit around him in a circle. There is no preset manual or rule for what sort of music accompanies these movements; instrumental music of random songs from films or popular devotional songs from anywhere can be played. Percussion instruments and local pipes play the melody.

Manidecchidu: This is when the performer is bestowed with objects such as breastplates (fig. 6), silver belts, bells, and/or swords. Among these, the bell (ghante or mani) is often kept in the shrines and used for day-to-day offerings, as well as for special occasions such as annual festivals. The other two objects, rather larger than the bell, are the sword and the silver belt. They are meant to be used only during festivals by the performer or the priest, and are kept in the landlord’s house or guttumanes for safekeeping. They are held in the same respect as an image of a deity, and are ceremonially worshipped during the annual festivals. According to the Special Study Report on Bhūta Cult in South Kanara District under the Census of India, 1971, these locations are administered by the temple management or the landlord himself (Padmanabha 1976). These administrative powers and duties of the landlord are also translated to his authority as the festival supervisor. These festivals are, in a way, justifications for the social power he holds. The festival reinforces these social relationships and the hierarchy.

Nemadecchidu: The third and final phase is when the performer is bestowed with the ani (a half-halo-like structure made of metals, as well as areca, cloth, or tender leaves of coconut palm hooked to the back of his head) and the mask (muga, as shown in fig. 7), marking the complete possession of deity. The display of the ani and muga marks the final stage in the manifestation of the deity. Now the deity is present in the adorned performer and ready to speak to the devotees assembled at the festival. In short, it is the object that initiates the manifestation of deities. More than just costume pieces, these ritual objects have an agency of their own, facilitating Panjurli’s embodiment of the human body. Gell (1998) argues that ritual objects have agency in the sense that they actively mediate and extend the divine into the human realm. The mask does not simply represent the deity—the mask embodies the deity. In particular, it functions as both a literal and symbolic opening that enables divine access while ensuring containment. Its material durability, akin to the āyudhapuruṣas, reinforces the idea that divine agency is not only metaphysical but inscribed within materiality itself. Āyudhapuruṣas, or “weapon-persons,” are a feature of early Hindu mythology and temple iconography.9 These divine weapons—such as Viṣṇu’s discus (Sudarśana Cakra) or Śiva’s bow (Pināka)—are sometimes depicted as anthropomorphic beings, illustrating that objects wielded by gods are not just instruments of power but possess independent divine agency. This concept emphasizes that sacred objects are not inert but participate in divine action, a principle that extends to ritual artifacts like masks in Bhūtakola. The mask and ani are not passive accessories; they mediate embodiment, allowing the deity to manifest and interact with devotees.

Conclusion: A Comparative Perspective on Embodiment

The processes of embodiment in both the Varāha avatāra narrative of the Skandapurāṇa and Bhūtakola ritual illustrate the fluidity of deity, challenging fixed distinctions between the sacred and the material. In both traditions, the idea of the deity permeating the body is an assertion of agency through embodiment. This shifts the focus from the familiar binaries of heavenly and earthly beings to an interwoven, co-constitutive process involving the embodied and the embodying. This process is mediated through objects, gestures, and affective attachments that shape the experience of embodiment. The Varāha avatāra, as depicted in the Skandapurāṇa, disrupts rigid ontological boundaries by demonstrating how divine embodiment generates lingering attachments, while Bhūtakola enacts a ritualized and cyclical performance, where Panjurli Daiva’s presence is ephemeral, structured, and socially regulated.

In addition, Bhūtakola foregrounds movement as both a performative and affective experience. The performer’s gestures, strides, and speech enact divine presence, aligning with theories of embodied practice where movement is not only representational but felt experience—“the ultimate intimacy, a doing while being with oneself” (Sklar 2000, 72). Unlike Viṣṇu, whose Varāha body produces affective residue that complicates his return to transcendence, the Bhūtakola performer does not retain the deity’s presence beyond the ritual. The controlled temporality of possession ensures that embodiment remains a collective, socially embedded phenomenon rather than an individual transformation.

In the Varāha avatāra, Viṣṇu’s embodiment is not singularly self-contained—it is constituted by various ritual actors, elemental components drawn from the macrocosm, and ecological signifiers. In Bhūtakola, this permeability is further reinforced by the assistance of the patri (accompanying priest), whose ritual interventions structure and stabilize the possession. The patri’s role in guiding divine entry parallels the collaborative formation of Varāha’s body, suggesting that divine embodiment—whether in myth or ritual—relies on networks of mediation rather than a singular act of incarnation.

The Eran and Udayagiri Varāha sculptures reflect ecological interconnectedness, with lotus flowers on Varāha’s head (Eran) and behind him (Udayagiri) symbolizing fertility, renewal, and auspiciousness rather than mere decoration. At Udayagiri, Varāha’s placement within a sacred landscape and water system suggests that the sculpture interacts with its environment rather than serving as a static representation. Similarly, in Bhūtakola, organic materials like the areca-leaf headdress integrate ecological elements on a smaller scale. The ritual objects, like the sculptures, act as sites of ritual enactment and mediums through which embodiment is negotiated.

Bringing these traditions into conversation allows us to move beyond categorizations of avatāra as either a corporeal descent or a symbolic restoration of dharma. Whether through Viṣṇu’s unresolved attachment to the boar form or the ritualized embodiment of Bhūtakola, these traditions reveal how the permeation of deity into a body is negotiated through movement, materiality, and affective intensities that bind gods, humans, animals, and objects in complex networks of agency.

Works Cited