Lizards of Hampi: Watchers between Worlds | Evolve Back Hampi

Colossal boulders, rocky landscapes and monumental temples - welcome to the ancient capital of the Vijayanagara kingdom, Hampi.

It was almost as grand as I had expected it to be. But something smaller and more enchanting caught my eye - the lizards! Not only the monitors and agamids but also the geckos; they darted up and across the grey granite walls of the shrines that they called home. Initially I had discarded their presence as “ordinary” but the more I explored the local communities the more it became evident that in Hampi even the tiniest beings carry stories older than time.

My fellow adventurers and I made our way to the Virupaksha temple complex on a fine sunny morning. There was a gentle breeze and it carried a sweet fragrance as it made its way past the pillars.

“They are more than just lizards, child. They are watchers.”, he whispered. It was near the Temple that a frail old priest said these words to me as I was photographing a gecko on the wall. Little did I notice that some wall carvings depicted the lingam being embraced or guarded by lizards. The elderly priest went on to explain a belief that is still alive across South India — a tradition called “Palli Vizhum Palan,” meaning the falling lizard’s omen.

According to this ancient practice, where a lizard falls on one’s body — right shoulder, left arm, or near the head — signifies a message from destiny itself. These interpretations are recorded in palm-leaf manuscripts and still recited by some temple astrologers. For the folk of Hampi, the lizard isn’t a mere creature of stone and shadow — it’s a divine messenger.

Over the years the creature’s ability to defy gravity, cling to vertical walls and exist between light and darkness, has made it a symbol of balance, endurance, and spiritual awareness. For the priests, the presence of lizards in these sanctuaries is not a bother but a sign of sacred harmony between the gods and their guardians.

As I wandered deeper into this mystical world, I found many locals referring to a popular name — Jogulamba Devi, the fierce and mystical form of Goddess Shakti. Though her main shrine stands in Alampur, her legend echoes through the Deccan, even in the stone corridors of Hampi.

Distant Deccan folklore says, Jogulamba sends lizards, snakes, and scorpions as her messengers and protectors. These creatures are not seen as pests or threats, but as extensions of her will — each serving a purpose in maintaining the balance of life and death.

In folklore, Goddess Jogulamba is surrounded by creatures that thrive in the margins, neither feared nor adored but almost always misjudged and accepted as her protectors. Her crown, adorned with reptiles and amphibians, signifies that no aspect of creation is too humble or too frightening to be divine. She represents transformation, death, and renewal — much like a lizard shedding its skin.

One evening, as I watched the twilight settle over the Tungabhadra, a villager shared a story passed down through generations. “The lizards are her eyes,” he said softly, “they see what the goddess sees.” And then he continued. . .

Many moons ago a sage sat deep in meditation near a shrine of the Devi when a lizard quietly crawled up his back and came to rest near his neck. Instead of recoiling, the sage sat still — and then in that state he received a vision of the goddess herself, radiant and terrible, surrounded by reptiles. Since then, devotees have believed that a lizard crossing one’s path near a Jogulamba shrine is a divine sign instead of misfortune.

Villagers believe that when a cobra or viper appears near a shrine or home, it is not by accident — it is Jogulamba’s messenger, often seen as a warning or reminder of her presence. If the snake passes peacefully, it is said to bring blessings and fertility to the land. But if it strikes or shows aggression, people believe it is because some ritual has been neglected, or the goddess’s domain has been disturbed.

The lizards, especially the common wall gecko, are seen as her eyes and ears. They appear suddenly, disappear quietly, and are believed to carry omens and messages from the Devi. In this context a lizard’s sudden call or movement inside a home is often said to mean the goddess has noticed you — either in blessing or warning. At the heart of these beliefs lies the profound ecological and spiritual idea that Goddess Jogulamba governs the forces beyond human control.

Her creatures — the reptiles and amphibians — represent Earth/moisture (frogs), death/transformation (snakes) and awareness/fate (lizards).

By sending them, the Devi reminds people that nature watches, reacts, and balances. When these creatures appear in unusual numbers, it is taken as a message that the land or its people have disturbed the natural order — and rituals of appeasement are performed to restore harmony.

In tantric belief, these creatures are connected to kundalini energy — the primal life force coiled like a serpent within all beings. Thus, Jogulamba sending snakes or lizards is not a punishment, but a way of awakening awareness within an individual and then the community. It is to urge humans to respect the subtle forces of nature.

My journey into this serpentine lore reminded me of my temple tour in Tamil Nadu, a few years ago. Kanchipuram is home to one of the most fascinating symbols of a similar belief — the Golden and Silver Lizards of Varadaraja Perumal Temple.

There, high on the ceiling of a sanctum, two gleaming lizards — one in gold and the other in silver — are enshrined beneath a canopy of intricate carvings. Their origin, I learned, lies in an ancient legend that flows as so. . .

Two disciples of Sage Gautama once made a minor mistake during a sacred ritual and were then cursed to become lizards. They remained so until Lord Vishnu, moved by their devotion, touched them and restored their divine form. The spot of their redemption became sanctified, and the lizards immortalised in metal.

Pilgrims from all over South India travel to Kanchi to touch these golden lizards with reverence. It is believed that doing so washes away sins, grants fortune, and protects them against ill omens. Watching the pilgrims reach upward, I remember being struck by how this simple creature, often rejected as disgusting, had become an eternal emblem of faith.

Back in Hampi, the myths I had gathered seemed to weave themselves into a larger fabric, one of a collective belief. The temples, with their sun-baked pillars and fractured reliefs, felt alive because of the presence of these quick-legged messengers. Every flicker on a wall, every tiny shadow on stone, carried the quiet pulse of something sacred.

As I sat near the Tungabhadra Riverone dusky evening, camera by my side, a small lizard appeared beside me, its throat pulsing with each breath. Earlier that day I had the pleasure of encountering a rather hefty monitor lizard at the fringes of a nearby bill. I sat recounting the moment when our eyes had met. The bells from Virupaksha Temple presently echoed across the water, and for a moment, everything felt connected — faith, nature, stone, and silence.

It struck me then that the lizards of Hampi are more than symbols or superstition. They are keepers of time, witnesses to centuries of devotion and decay, of kingdoms that rose and crumbled. In their stillness, they embody a truth that transcends belief — that even the humblest creatures are part of the divine narrative etched into our world. And the watchers remain.

In Hampi, I didn’t just find architecture or wildlife.
I found the seamless thread between belief and biology, between story and survival. In these sacred lands even the smallest beings tell the greatest stories.

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