Ivory Throne

by Manu S. Pillai

  Once this was settled, the durbar astrologers were summoned to determine the dates for the installation of the new Maharajah and the Regent. On 20 August 1924, the Junior Rani’s son performed the relevant ceremonies and took charge of the Sword of State before the shrine of Sri Padmanabhaswamy. Then came the turn of Sethu Lakshmi Bayi. Again, since in Travancore the Regent’s was not merely an administrative office but a de facto monarchy, she too had to go through exactly the same religious rituals as the boy, with the exception that flowers and prasadam replaced the Sword of State. On 1 September the Rani ascended the Sreemukha Mandapam in the temple and was invested with the right to govern Travancore. As with the rulers before her, Sethu Lakshmi Bayi proceeded from the temple to the Chokkatta Mandapam in the fort, wherefrom she gave her first (customary) orders to the Dewan, commanding him to ensure the correct and meticulous management of all the temples in the country. Presents were distributed to an assembly of Brahmins and the principal ceremony was concluded. She returned, then, not to Moonbeam but to Anantha Vilasam in the Valiya Kottaram complex of the Maharajahs, which was to be her official residence now.22 A large crowd of people waited there to pay their respects, carrying with them the nuzzer or tirumulkazhcha that was usually offered to the ruler at an audience. But Sethu Lakshmi Bayi decided to end the custom; the Dewan was ordered to let it be known that the Rani did not want any presents to be offered by her subjects who wished to greet her, opening her reign on a positive note.23

  That afternoon an official durbar was convened to install the minor prince and the Regent. The soldiers of Travancore’s nominal army (as permitted by the British) called the Nair Brigade and the Royal Bodyguard having taken their positions, at 3:45 p.m. the Junior Rani, her younger son, the new Elayarajah, and daughter arrived. The Dewan received and led them in, following which at 3:50 Sethu Lakshmi Bayi drove in a state carriage drawn by four white horses, to the resounding boom of a twenty-one-gun salute. Chithira Tirunal, the minor Maharajah, arrived in similar circumstances at 3:55, after whom the Resident, decked with his many medals and in complete formal uniform, made his appearance at 4.00 p.m. After a preliminary speech, Mr Cotton led the young boy to the Ivory Throne and handed him ‘a turban plumed with the drooping feathers of the bird of paradise, held in place by an aigrette of diamonds and emeralds and two large pendant pearls’. Thereafter, Sethu Lakshmi Bayi took her seat on the right side of the throne, in the ornate Regent’s Chair, and the installation proclamation was read out to all seated in court; the Rani had again broken with tradition and for the first time allowed those present to take a seat in the presence of the royal family.24

  Once the proclamation was rendered, the dignitaries, including Chithira Tirunal and Sethu Lakshmi Bayi, moved to the balcony outside. There, Mr Raghavaiah read out the proclamation once again, and another twenty-one-gun salute heralded the inauguration of the new regime. On their return to the hall, Mr Cotton delivered a speech, announcing at the end that both the Ranis of Travancore would henceforward be styled, at the orders of the Viceroy, as Maharanis. This came as a general surprise and was received with thunderously loyal applause from the assembled nobility and officialdom.25 The Resident’s speech was followed by Sethu Lakshmi Bayi’s inaugural address—a neat, regular affair, lamenting first the demise of Mulam Tirunal, pledging loyalty to the British Crown, and expressing the hope that she would be able to ‘acquit myself of my new duties conscientiously and without passion or prejudice’. With that the durbar came to a conclusion and the Resident departed first, followed by the royal family and the other distinguished persons gathered.

  In all this what was perhaps most fascinating was Sethu Lakshmi Bayi’s new status as interim ruler. While the Government of India imposed the inferior title of Regent on her, traditionally within the state she was always heralded in a distinctive manner. For one, unlike administrative Regents, she had an elaborate regnal title, equal to that of a male sovereign. However, there was more. In popular parlance she would be the Maharani Regent or the Senior Maharani, similar to her female counterparts in other states. But what was distinct was that in all official documents and proclamations, she held the title of Pooradam Tirunal Maharajah.26 In fact even the Resident had addressed her as Maharajah in his proclamation. This was unprecedented in India, just as the status of the Attingal Rani was also unique. For under the matrilineal system, where the sexes were equal, the monarch’s gender was of little consequence. It was the position and its dignity that mattered and whoever exercised supreme authority in the state and in the royal house was held to be the Maharajah. The Government of India, with its Western outlook and cultural constraints, might have called it a Regency. But to the local people of Travancore, the reign of Mulam Tirunal Maharajah was rightfully succeeded by that of Pooradam Tirunal Maharajah, just as it would one day be relinquished to Chithira Tirunal Maharajah. To the Government of India, thus, the young lady just installed was the Maharani Regent. But to the masses, she was Her Highness Maharajah Pooradam Tirunal of Travancore.27

  Sethu Lakshmi Bayi inherited from her uncle not just a state and a large multitude of people, but also her first political challenge. While the floods were the immediate task at hand when she came to power, her sympathetic outlook and the efficiency of the Dewan closed that chapter to genuine acclaim. But this other bequest of Mulam Tirunal was considerably more delicate, upon the smart and correct resolution of which depended her reputation as ruler. It was a matter of socio-political importance, of the kind that would be celebrated in history and long remembered by the public. In what was initially surprising, it also caught the attention of newspapers across India, propelling it as a matter of national interest. And it was patent to everybody that if the Maharani fumbled here, she would fail to win the confidence not only of her own people but also of progressive sections of society all over India.

  The issue was what is famously called the Vaikom Satyagraha. The crux of the matter was the utterly vicious and deplorable variety of the caste system that was practised in Travancore. Indeed, here caste was taken to its greatest extreme so that beyond the familiar practice of ‘untouchability’, there was also a phenomenon known as ‘unapproachability’. Certain groups were prohibited even from the sight of higher fellows, and none of their ilk had seen daylight without, at one point in history, forfeiting their lives. Brahmins, as elsewhere in India, had a position of primacy incongruous with their minuscule population and the native Nambutiri was treated, to quote the somewhat obsequious Travancore Census Report (1875), as a ‘royal liege and benefactor, suzerain master, household deity’ and ‘god on earth’. Only the next major caste, the Nairs, were permitted to approach these Nambutiris, and all other groups had prescribed distances to maintain, which if accidentally breached would send high castes shrieking about impurity and religious violation. As the Resident had remarked in 1870:

  Roads are public to all good castemen … but certain lower classes are prohibited altogether from using them … lower caste men generally cannot enter—sometimes cannot approach—the courts, cutcherries, registry offices, etc. If the evidence of a low caste man has to be taken by a judge or magistrate, as the witness cannot come to the court, the court must go to the witness. But it must not go too near him, and the frequent result is that the witness’s evidence is taken by the court, or a Goomastah deputed for the purpose, calling the questions to an intermediate peon, and the peon shouting them to the witness and repeating his replies to the presiding officer … however desirous the higher officers may be to keep justice and show mercy, it is simply impossible for them, in such circumstances, to prevent oppression and corruption on the part of their underlings.28

  Thus, for instance, the peasant caste of Pulayas had to keep a distance of 90 feet from Brahmins and 64 feet from Nairs. Low castes were not allowed anywhere in high-caste-dominated public spaces due to fear of ritual contamination, which in effect translated to social exclusion. They had no place in village councils, no entry to temples, no access to markets, or an
y other locations of socio-political importance. They were practically invisible non-entities in a deeply hierarchical society. Indeed, as late as the early twentieth century, Mulam Tirunal (and even Sethu Lakshmi Bayi for that matter) had not once seen large sections of Travancore’s people, for the simple reason that they polluted the royal presence and were prohibited from approaching. Caste was such a ruthless injustice that even Swami Vivekananda was moved to decry, in an uncharacteristic display of indignation, the whole state as ‘a lunatic asylum’.

  Through the late nineteenth century, under pressure from missionaries and the British, some aspects of caste were relaxed, especially in the new Western-inspired education facilities.29 This opened economic doors for one of the most sizeable low-caste groups, known as the Ezhavas, among whom a small vanguard of educated leaders emerged. The efforts of the reformer Sri Narayana Guru also united the community and made them conscious of their collective rights. By the 1890s they began to agitate for a share in government employment where merit was supposed to be the sole determinant. This battle would continue but by the 1910s, the Ezhavas had also begun to question their communal alienation in stronger ways. Convinced of its injustice, in 1919 a mass of 5,000 Ezhavas met in the village of Kanichikulangara to demand temple entry and the termination of all other social disadvantages. Nothing came of it immediately and some time later, at the Kakinada session of the Indian National Congress in 1923, T.K. Madhavan, an Ezhava leader from Travancore, proposed a movement to wholly eradicate untouchability. This received the blessings of the party and Mahatma Gandhi, and when he came home he decided to initiate the state’s first-ever satyagraha against caste.

  Vaikom with its great Mahadeva temple was chosen as the spot to commence the movement. That town was an important religious centre in south India with its Ashtami festival in October–November attracting up to 50,000 pilgrims every year from outside Travancore. Naturally, it was also a very orthodox place, dominated by Brahmins and other high castes bent on preserving what they perceived as the ritual sanctity of the shrine. The roads around the four outer walls of the temple were therefore prohibited to the low-born and public notice boards had for long stood there to guide polluted groups away from the sacred precincts. And the first goal of the intended satyagraha was to terminate this discrimination and have all the roads opened up to everybody irrespective of caste.30

  The proposed movement was expertly trumpeted and publicised for several weeks so that on 30 March 1924, when it actually started, a frowning government was prepared. The local magistrate issued orders prohibiting the event and barricades were placed at the mouths of the concerned streets. Large numbers of policemen were deployed on the ground to deal with the possibility of violence and even larger crowds gathered to watch the proceedings. It was not especially dramatic, however. That morning three satyagrahis—Kunjappy (Pulaya), Bahuleyan (Ezhava) and Govinda Panikkar (Nair)—walked together towards the barricades, trying to cross on to the controversial roads. The police permitted Panikkar to pass, since he was high caste, but not the others. When they persisted, they were all arrested and carted off to prison. The satyagrahis kept coming, though, in batches of three every day. They would stand at the barricades trying to reason with the law, before being arrested, almost habitually, by lunchtime. After this, in the evenings, public meetings and processions were organised daily, which the press covered in detail.

  Leaders from all communities, including from upper castes, arrived on the scene to lend their support, while others travelled the length and breadth of Travancore promoting the cause.31 The Maharajah was bombarded with petitions to do the right thing and concede the satyagrahis’ requests, but neither he nor his government budged. Perhaps Mulam Tirunal was peeved by some of the more caustic remarks made against him, such as by E.V. Ramaswami Naicker (popularly called Periyar) who dryly observed that the temple roads were ‘not the property of his grandfather’.32 But the government did take cognizance of the bad press it was receiving and cleverly decided to stop arresting the satyagrahis altogether, choosing instead to ignore them. This stole some thunder from the movement, and the agitators had no option but to squat nearby, singing patriotic songs, spinning khadi, and conducting public fasts.33 The crowds began to thin and excitement eroded.

  Then Mulam Tirunal died. This was a welcome development, breathing some fresh air into the movement. ‘Let me hope,’ wrote Gandhi in an emotional appeal in Young India, ‘that Her Highness the Maharani Regent will recognise that untouchability is no credit to Hinduism but it is a serious blot on it.’34 Through all of August the pressure of public opinion and speculation on Sethu Lakshmi Bayi’s likely policy mounted. Being a new ruler and a female (which meant she was supposed to embody warm motherly qualities), there was definitely hope for progress. And the atmosphere was ripe with expectation when the Maharani offered a substantial concession at her installation ceremony; that afternoon, an unenthusiastic Mr Raghavaiah was asked to announce, at Sethu Lakshmi Bayi’s orders, the release of all fifty-six satyagrahis whom Mulam Tirunal (and he) had arrested. The news was met with stirring applause, even as the Dewan’s brow creased, bringing the movement back into the national spotlight. Hopes escalated that the young queen would swiftly resolve the issue to the progressives’ satisfaction and bring about a happy conclusion.

  However, Sethu Lakshmi Bayi’s gesture of support and understanding for the cause was not met with approval either by her minister or the powerful conservative lobby. Travancore, in the words of one of its previous Maharajahs, was India’s most priest-ridden country.35 And its royal family was its most priest-ridden household. Owing to their quasi-religious character, it was not surprising that the orthodoxy was in a position of overwhelming preponderance here. To them all these modern notions of caste equality were nothing short of sacrilege. As they saw it, if today they yielded to blasphemous nonsense in Vaikom, tomorrow the clamour would inevitably reach the gates of Trivandrum Fort. And if Sri Padmanabhaswamy in the capital’s great temple were exposed to ‘impure’ elements (and if their age-old casteist policies challenged in conjunction), it would destroy everything that was so cherished about the Brahmin paradise that was the Hindu state of Travancore.

  The Dewan, for his part, was no admirer of the Congress, which was backing the movement. He saw the satyagraha as an attempt to dragoon the government into accepting the diktats of a bunch of radicals, which was not a precedent he intended to swallow.36 What was happening in Vaikom, in his opinion, was the use of satyagraha as ‘an instrument for the coercion of the government’, which was absolutely unacceptable. He also stressed that it was ‘the paramount duty of every government not to interfere with religious beliefs and the usages based upon them’, which meant things ought to be left as they were.37 It appears that the Valiya Koil Tampuran too had little sympathy for the Congress and concurred with Mr Raghavaiah in the first part. Being seen as succumbing to political arm-twisting and emotional blackmailing was unwise for any government, not to speak of his opinion that interfering in religious matters was completely unnecessary.38 And yet, Sethu Lakshmi Bayi, who had manifestly strong views of her own, decided to release the prisoners and make it known that she was not against the spirit of the movement. Given that she was surrounded by people who stood convinced in opposition, this was a move of considerable courage and resolve.39

  But once it was done, she could not but tread with caution. Her inexperience necessitated this, besides the fact that she could not alienate others (her husband and minister included) beyond a reasonable point. So a push and pull of divergent views and opinions ensued in the palace for some time, while in Vaikom the movement simmered. The Ezhava community’s leadership was proving to be exceptional, and even a number of their women came out to work hard for the cause. ‘How Gandhiji would rejoice,’ exhorted a participant called P.K. Kalyani, ‘that the Hindu women of Kerala were piloting the Vaikom Satyagraha!’40 These women devised some very interesting means to support the movement, such as through the pidiyari
initiative. The word literally means ‘a handful of rice’, and volunteers would go from house to house, collecting grain from Ezhava women in an effort to feed those gathered at Vaikom.41 Such innovative efforts proved very useful in spreading word about the movement even in faraway villages, so that by the end of October a fabulously sensational event could be orchestrated with public support to end the vacillation of Travancore’s hesitant government.

  On 31 October, with expert coordination, a number of jathas or processions, not dissimilar to but perhaps less glamorous than Gandhi’s later Dandi March, set out on foot for Trivandrum.42 From Vaikom it was heralded by Mannathu Padmanabhan, who is best known for his efforts in unifying the Nair community, while from Suchindram in the south, it was Emperumal Naidu who led a band; and so too came regional leaders with thousands from other parts of Travancore. What is most interesting is that these jathas were of high-caste Nairs and even a few Brahmins, their intention being to demonstrate that privileged society was equally in favour of reform (with the added incentive of a Hindu consolidation, about which more will be said later). This tactic was brilliant. As the jathas passed, hundreds joining on the way, the countryside was electrified. For centuries the miserable lot of peasants and others had toiled upon the land, their invisible efforts feeding the arrogant presumptions of their caste superiors. And here was a band of those very overlords singing slogans of equality, freedom and a happier future, on their way to seek redress in the court of a compassionate queen.