Ivory Throne
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Sometimes, however, uproarious laughter rang in the palace halls when these customs went spectacularly awry, usually at the irreproachable hands of very young children who hadn’t the faintest clue about the correctness of decorum in the presence of their queen. One recorded instance tells of a little Christian boy who came to pay his respects to Sethu Lakshmi Bayi with his distinguished grandfather. ‘He was told when he saw [the Maharani] he should fold his hands in a greeting form and bow seven times, not six, not eight, since those numbers were not auspicious, and it would be considered an insult.’39 Rehearsals were administered and the child was prepared by his punctilious warden for the grand event. But when eight-year-old Thomas Phillippose actually arrived at Satelmond Palace, he was so awestruck by its stately magnificence that he forgot to count the numerous salutations he had to offer. The result was that he ‘got a little spanking on his buttock with a command, “stop it”, from his grandpa’, right in the little durbar hall. Sethu Lakshmi Bayi ‘found it hilarious’ and was so charmed by the oblivious innocence of the boy that she asked, enthroned in her chair of state, for him to be sent up to her. ‘When grandpa showed some reluctance, [the Maharani] commanded the boy be sent. The good-looking Rani sat him in her lap and embraced him tightly’ (where he reportedly felt ‘the cool comfort of her ample bosom’). Later, when he took her leave, she rewarded him with presents, ‘including a gold sovereign’.40
Living in a world like this, Sethu Lakshmi Bayi was never unescorted, and the perennial presence of obsequious and kowtowing servants added to that picturesque aura about her. ‘She disliked pomp, ostentation, and being in the limelight,’ Princess Indira would remember, ‘but in her position they were hard to avoid.’41 She had eight personal maids, of whom four were in constant attendance, even inside her bedroom. They were the ones who dressed her, got her bath ready, and oversaw all her personal affairs. In turn, to supervise them, there was a Brahmin lady (‘a large, domineering lady called Chella Ayahamma’ and later one Paru Ayahamma),42 who always brought Sethu Lakshmi Bayi her breakfast in bed and remained in attendance while she bathed, dressed and had her hair done. ‘The hair in itself was such a fascinating sight to watch and took quite some time,’ it would later be recalled. ‘Someone would hold up a mirror and there was a peculiar comb, while the other maids stood around. And if they didn’t get it done perfectly, Kochu Thankam used to show them how.’ 43 Her clothes for the morning would be laid out by then. ‘She used to wear these crisp mundus; so crisp that they rustled when she walked. She changed them thrice a day, and every new set had to be fresh and laundered. She’d wear one in the morning, and discard it for the next three hours later by lunchtime. But each one of them was very simple—a plain puliyalakara mundu, with a black-and-gold border. She used to wear pale blouses with these, and it all somehow offset her personality. She seemed to have this dovelike quality, dressed always in white, and we thought she looked stunning; slightly on the plump side, but absolutely stunning.’44
Through all this, the other personal maids merely sat in the anteroom ‘lolling about all day with nothing to do really other than gossip and wait to flirt with their favourite pattakkars as soon as they had a chance’!45 If Sethu Lakshmi Bayi had messages to deliver to the Valiya Koil Tampuran in his part of the palace, she would command one of the anteroom maids to do so, and they would immediately run this and similar errands. When she finally left her apartments for her library or the dining hall, these women were left in charge of her room, arranging her clothes and other belongings and overseeing the sweepers who could only appear when the Maharani was nowhere in sight. ‘There were lots of valuables, no doubt, in her room, but she barely wore jewellery, and expensive clothes were only worn on state occasions.’46 There were cupboards and cupboards full of mundus—‘satin, brocade, silk, and so on, for various occasions’—and one entire section devoted to the gold- or silver-threaded tissue shawls she preferred to use. The shawls were really the only marks of luxury as far as dress was concerned, but as Gandhi had noted in 1925, she did not derive her queenly aura from dress as much as from her natural appearance. Even servants at Kowdiar Palace invented a Malayalam catchphrase—Lakshmi Bayi Maharani, Lakshanam Othoru Tirumeni—essentially praising her impressive countenance.47 As a granddaughter states:
I always thought her the most beautiful woman on earth. She had such a great, regal bearing and she looked every inch a queen, from head to toe. Grandfather always complained that, despite his best efforts, no painting or photograph could do justice to her looks and persona. She seemed almost flawless. She had enormous eyes, heavily lashed, and her long, black tikka. Her lips were beautifully shaped. Her nose was a little prominent, but it didn’t look defective; it’s length actually fit in with the fact that she had once been a ruling monarch. Her movements were all steady and majestic, like she pondered about each and every step. Everything! If she wanted to pick up a book, she would take it in a slow and elegant manner. She had a grace for every single thing she did. This was probably the most amazing thing about her as a woman of presence. I can’t describe it. I have never met anybody like that in all these years.48
When the Maharani moved about in the palace, her four personal maids, and often the head Ayahamma, followed her, albeit at a slight distance, always with their backs somewhat hunched in a half bow, and their hands folded across the chest, with a palm covering the mouth. ‘It was really a procession that trailed around her all day,’49 waiting for instructions and orders. The Valiya Koil Tampuran would call on her at specific times, decided in advance and communicated through their respective valets and attendants. They would discuss affairs related to the Sripadam or any other official business, transact finances, and give relevant orders to their secretaries and others, before returning to their respective routines following lunch. ‘I can remember mother having very many hours of prayers in the day,’ Princess Indira recalls, ‘and she spent a great deal of time in her worship room, praying to the small, silver Krishna figurine that she had inherited from the previous Rani.’50 This was the only time Sethu Lakshmi Bayi could be alone during the day, even though her maids and attendants waited outside, ready for her call. She had these meditations (‘there was no chanting or loud worshiping, and she merely sat in silent prayer for long stretches of time’) in the mornings as well as evenings, with her time in between dedicated to teaching her children. In a letter Princess Lalitha sent her in 1932 aged eight, she says:
My dear Mother, I hope you are quite well. Today my little sister went at the same time when Miss Poulose came to teach. Please I want to [know] whether is there [sic] any lesson at pallivetta [a festive day] with Miss Poulose? She wants to [know] that is there any lessons on Monday. I think today we cannot walk because today is a rainy day. I would be very, very glad if you allow me to walk in the heavy rain. Today I am very glad because I have only two lessons, that with Mister Krishnayer [Krishna Iyer] and with you, but sister has with bhagvathar and with Mister Asan and with Miss Poulose. Today Mister Krishnayer brought a book and it was very good to look at, but really it was very easy to read, and I read it in a few hours. Mister Krishnayer said when he brought it here that it was a very good book, but when I showed it to father, he said that it was a very bad one to teach me, then I showed it to Mister Krishnayer and said it was a very bad one to teach me, then Mister Krishnayer said that it is a very bad one to teach me; ha ha ha! Please allow me to stop my letter now. I am stopping my letter. Your faithful daughter, Lalitamba.51
When Sethu Lakshmi Bayi was in power, much of her time was consumed by affairs of state. Kochu Thankam and a battalion of nannies took care of the girls at the time, and early on Princess Lalitha had formed a habit of writing little notes for her mother. She would even get an obliging clerk to type them up and send them neatly in envelopes along with files and official papers. ‘My dear Mama, I hope you are doing well,’ goes one. ‘I fired a few crackers this morning. Your beloved Lalitamba Bayi.’52 Yet another was more profound: ‘Please pardon
me. I am very very very very very sorry for vexing you. I hope you did not think that I want to vex you, but do not think that I never think!’53 As she grew, Princess Lalitha became a little bit of a tomboy, who was closer to her father than her mother, in appearance as well as personality. The Valiya Koil Tampuran indulged her, and they spent much of their time together, cracking jokes, playing football, or going rowing, with the former later introducing her to his pet hobby of photography. ‘He was an excellent prankster, and one of his favourites was to craft little cockroaches and leave them around, especially near artefacts he knew visitors were bound to touch,’ Princess Lalitha’s daughter would chuckle, ‘and mother became his natural ally in these practical jokes! They loved seeing people’s reactions, and he often made fun of them without their realising it. Only mother, with glee, spotted his sarcasm, her stomach hurting as she tried to control her laughter.’54 On another occasion, Rama Varma shot a crocodile in a river during one of his hunting expeditions and decided to leave it rolled up in the sleeping mat of one of his attendants. ‘When Iyengar unrolled his mat preparatory to sleeping, he yelped and jumped several feet in the air and forever after that was wary when he approached his mat!’55
Once, at Princess Lalitha’s unbending insistence, Rama Varma yielded and presented her a pair of khaki shorts similar to the hunting attire he wore on his shikars in the jungle. ‘The Maharani was one day holding court for some extremely pious, orthodox guests in the east drawing room, and suddenly they were treated to the bizarre spectacle of the Second Princess of Travancore prancing about in khaki shorts in the corridors, utterly thrilled with this latest addition to her wardrobe! “My god,” she thought, “what has happened to this child’s sense of decorum?”’ On other occasions, she would dress up her maids ‘as all sorts of funny characters and have them accost the footmen and stewards, who would be completely fooled’!56 Princess Lalitha’s letters to the Valiya Koil Tampuran were also remarkably informal. ‘Well now for some home news,’ one of them goes. ‘As I’ve heard somewhere, if aunt’s beautiful new maid takes it into her head to come into our study or any place where there is a clock, I won’t be surprised if the clock stops suddenly! For she is so good looking! Anyone will be enamoured of her for sure. And though she must be surely past forty, she’s still going strong!’57 A discussion followed on the merits of the name Malcolm (‘I can’t believe any stupid blockhead LOVING that awful hideous name’) before she admitted being in a spot of trouble for having taken a calf ‘away from his shed and planted him in the main cowshed. Suppose the little darling benefitted by its change and was glad to be near to mummie?’58 Another letter from ‘yours ever truly loving tiny totty Lalitamba Bayi’59 to her father when he was away warned him to ‘expect a nice family invasion tomorrow afternoon’.60
The Valiya Koil Tampuran did not always, of course, understand or agree with his daughter. Years later, on one amusing occasion, Princess Lalitha, who would go on to become the mother of seven children, found herself served a stern notice of summons from her father, as her daughter recounts:
Grandmother [Sethu Lakshmi Bayi] was ecstatic each time a grandchild was born, while grandfather frowned upon the inordinate number. Mother told me that after the birth of her third child, a shocked and disapproving grandfather ordered her to his presence and admonished her, pointing out that this sort of prolific reproductive habit was normally common to the canine and feline species, which are prone to the litter pattern, and should scarcely be followed by members of august royal families! You can imagine the state of his mind when the seventh baby was born! By then he had probably given up on mother! But in spite of grandfather’s continuous disapproval of mother’s rebellious and unorthodox outlook on life, she remained his favourite. He never stopped censuring her, and she never stopped flouting his orders.61
Princess Indira, on the other hand, was closer in personality and even features to her mother. ‘Very pretty and extremely fair’ in complexion,62 with gentle and quiet manners, she preferred reading to sports like football, and early on began to write poetry and would often put up song-and-dance performances with her maids for her parents. ‘She was always more dignified and reserved, compared to Lalitha’s chummy personality, but had an extremely good sense of humour that could leave even the Valiya Koil Tampuran in splits.’63 Where Princess Lalitha had to be counselled that she ought to behave in a more ladylike fashion (‘No, I want to be a boy!’), Princess Indira was always a very feminine child, and had much of her mother’s grace and aristocratic bearing. Yet she too disclosed a temper now and then. Once, for instance, she took a vehement dislike to her despotic Sanskrit teacher, whom she called asan. Knowing that her ever-enterprising sister would conjure a solution to get rid of him she sought her counsel and Princess Lalitha, then twelve, told her nine-year-old sibling of what was meant to be an infallible strategy.
Mother told aunt Indira she would find a way to send the man packing, and came up with what she thought was her cleverest plan. When Indira returned after yet another boring class, mother declared that at her next lesson with the asan, she should wear a side parting of her hair, and not a centre parting. The idea was that a curious asan would ask why she had changed her hairstyle. Indira was to stubbornly refuse to tell him, and this, it was hoped, would get him into a rage till he huffed and puffed and left! On the day in question, asan arrived and started dictating grammar and making her write. He didn’t notice anything about aunt’s hair. She was so thoroughly agitated that she literally went and put her head right under his nose. When he still didn’t bother to ask, she stood up and indignantly demanded that he ask her about her hair. The man was so stunned that he asked her what on earth was wrong to which Indira replied imperiously, ineem asan pokko (asan, you may go now)! When mother heard of this she was so afraid the man would really resign, that she found a maid called Kunji, who participated in many of their childhood pranks, and told her to chase down asan and bring him back at any cost. And when he refused to return to class, Kunji went and lay down in his path, refusing to let him leave until he returned!64
For most part, however, Princess Indira was a studious, law-abiding child, as her mother had been, and often sent the Maharani cards and pictures she had drawn for ‘the world’s best mother’.65 She even painstakingly typed up short stories she had written for her mother, whose old-world qualities and refinement she adored and would remember late into her life with almost a degree of awe:
The world knew her variously as a Maharani, as someone who ruled the former state of Travancore for seven years as Regent and brought in many progressive reforms; as a very beautiful, cultured and learned lady who demonstrated by her own life all the virtues of Indian womanhood, and at the same time, held very mature and progressive ideas on many subjects. To me, however, she was just Mother, with all the connotations the word evokes. She was a very warm and loving person, and a very understanding one, so that one could go to her with all one’s problems, sure of a patient hearing and sensible advice. She was broad minded and tolerant. One notable quality of hers was that, though she was scrupulous in her own morals, she never set herself up as a judge of those of other people … She was [a] very gentle person and tried her level best not to hurt anyone’s feelings … but she was not meek. She was spirited in her own way and always refused to yield to injustice.66
The Valiya Koil Tampuran took Princess Indira too along on some of his adventures, and on one occasion Sethu Lakshmi Bayi was thoroughly nettled when she discovered her daughters, after a shikar in the jungle, had been fed breakfast atop a rogue elephant he had just shot. The ‘Breakfast Elephant’ was one of few such incidents, however, and for most part he preferred to involve his children in less dangerous activities on the palace grounds. When they went to their beach resort at Kovalam, he would take them out a great many times. ‘My father insisted on daily morning walks,’ Princess Indira would write, ‘which we enjoyed because we walked all around the grounds, with the sea surrounding us. On these walks we would
visit the cowsheds, which were a delight to us, for often there would be calves frolicking. On these walks father would stop at various places to talk to people working there.’67
Kovalam was in fact a personal retreat for Rama Varma, who foresaw its great potential for tourism in the years to come. Land was purchased here from the Bishop of Quilon and for decades, the beach was practically a private estate of the Valiya Koil Tampuran. Over the course of the years several dignitaries, including Lord Mountbatten, were entertained here, and the Mountbattens held it to be ‘among the best [beaches] they had seen anywhere in the country’.68 Most guests simply sought access to the sea to bathe, but many joined the Valiya Koil Tampuran for tennis, arc lights shining brightly around them. Sethu Lakshmi Bayi and her children spent charming vacations by the sea here, in the privacy of their home. A Romanesque bungalow was constructed, entirely of granite, and it ‘seemed so much a part of the cliffs that it looked as though part of the rocks had risen up to form a house’.69 A tower, with a high-powered telescope atop it, was constructed with the building, and Rama Varma, with his typical tendency to surpass even the British in their Britishness, called it Halcyon Castle. His hunting trophies, favourite books, as well as exquisite rosewood furniture with his personal emblem carved on it, were kept here, and while Sethu Lakshmi Bayi enjoyed long, relaxed stays at her country residence in Vellayini, the Valiya Koil Tampuran often retreated to Kovalam when he felt the need for some ‘alone’ time. As the little Princess Lalitha wrote,