Just four kilometer from the Ajanta Caves, near the visitor center, stands a replica of the ancient marvel. Its purpose is noble — reduce the tourist burden on the fragile originals. But here’s the problem: the serious visitor will still trek to the real caves, and the casual tourist, having come this far, won’t turn back for just a kilometer more. If it’s not reducing footfall, what exactly is it offering?

Instead of copying the caves in their present, weathered state, why not reimagine them as they were 2,000 years ago — in their full glory? That would be a real tribute. Yet, we keep repeating the odd choice of faithfully reproducing decay. In Bhubaneswar, for instance, the Ellora replica even recreated an elephant’s broken trunk! The original artist carved it with devotion; some vandal destroyed it. Why must our modern artists honor not the creator, but the vandal?

Our tradition is clear: if a murti breaks — remake it. If a temple crumbles — rebuild it. Scriptures promise that he who restores earns eight times the punya of the one who first built it. Yet today, we follow Western preservation norms that whisper: “Freeze it in ruin. Do not rebuild.” We ignore our ancestors’ call to jīrṇoddhāra — revival, rejuvenation, reconstruction.

In doing so, we become karma-daridra — poor in action. Even in replicas, we choose to replicate the ruin, not the radiance. Why walk through a museum of destruction when we can be inspired by the magnificence of our ancestors?

Let us not replicate the broken.
Let us recreate the beautiful.