By the first week of November the jathas all arrived in Trivandrum, where a series of promotional public events were successfully organised. Upon application, on 4 November it was also announced that the Maharani had agreed to grant the leaders of the movement, twelve in number and led by the fairly moderate lawyer K. Parameswaran Pillai, an audience a week later on 12 November. This was again a remarkable gesture from Sethu Lakshmi Bayi, for it was quite rare in Travancore for the hallowed monarch to receive political petitions directly from the people; the Dewan was always necessarily the first point of contact, so that the royal family would stay aloof enough and unblemished from whatever the consequences might end up being.43 By agreeing to see the leaders of the Vaikom Satyagraha personally, the Maharani consciously discarded that convenient ring of self-preservation and once again made it known that she was willing to hear their voice and treat their cause with the utmost seriousness. In other words, she became personally involved in the matter.
On the morning of 12 November the twelve men were quietly ushered into the large state room at Satelmond Palace. There, poised in the Regent’s Chair, with her husband standing at a respectful distance, the Maharani first received their customary expressions of fealty and respect, before hearing personally arguments in favour of reform. She also accepted from them a petition signed by thousands of high-caste Hindus, imploring her to do the good that her uncle wouldn’t. With great patience and keenness, she listened to everything they had to say. But if the men expected the Maharani to make a momentous declaration on the spot, they were disappointed. For at the end of their presentation, when asked for her views, Sethu Lakshmi Bayi made no promises at all. An Ezhava leader known as N. Kumaran, she pointed out, had at that time introduced a motion on the topic of road entry in the Legislative Council of Travancore. This was to be taken up for discussion in January 1925 when its next session was due, and so, she said, she was inclined to observe how the legislature considered the issue before taking an arbitrary decision of her own.44 Essentially, she wanted to see what the people’s representatives felt before issuing final orders on the subject. On this note the meeting came to an uncertain conclusion. The satyagrahis left the palace somewhat disappointed by the Maharani’s diplomatic stance, which seemed to contradict her several recent symbolic expressions of support and sympathy. Perhaps, they thought, she had no real intention of being the gallant crusader against caste they expected her to be. The struggle would have to continue and more pressure alone could get the government to act, it was felt.
Indeed, Sethu Lakshmi Bayi had no desire at this point to become a dramatic mascot for social reform; she had more considered designs. She genuinely appreciated the cause and its practical relevance, but while it was within her province at that time to demonstrate her support symbolically, the concrete implementation of her favour required patient engineering over time. She was sensible enough to understand this. The circumstances of the Maharani in November 1924 were complicated and she could not give assurances to anyone, for the simple fact that she was not in full possession of power yet. For unbeknown to the satyagrahis, Sethu Lakshmi Bayi was engaged at this juncture in a delicate struggle for power against the Dewan she had inherited from her uncle. The Vaikom satyagraha was a bone of contention between them and their contrasting ideals, but it had also become a critical battleground insofar as their contest for authority went. For the Maharani the movement was vital to ensure her supremacy in government, while for Mr Raghavaiah it portended the termination of his hitherto unbridled predominance. And the outcome at Vaikom, it was clear, would determine who between the two would finally prevail.
In the months that followed Sethu Lakshmi Bayi’s installation, it became evident that Mr Raghavaiah and she encountered serious differences. Mulam Tirunal had for long behaved like a figurehead, allowing his Dewans (and the Second Favourite, by now packed into retirement) to exercise administrative powers without inhibition. But his successor, it became obvious, wished to play a decisive role in governance and in the formulation of state policy. For a man like Mr Raghavaiah, who was dominating for the very reason that he was confident of his efficiency, this came as an unwelcome surprise. During the start of the Vaikom movement it was he who ordered the arrests, had the satyagrahis tried in court, imprisoned and then eventually ignored. His posture towards the movement was of uncompromising firmness and he had almost succeeded in crippling it when everything went haywire at the whim of a woman. Out of the blue, the very man who stood unyielding before the agitators was forced by sovereign command to release all of them and proclaim the essential validity of their cause. Mr Raghavaiah not only disagreed with this new approach but also felt deeply humiliated before what he considered a mob of delinquents; all of this because a thoughtless woman had now the authority to deem what was and was not right. He was, to state the obvious, seriously unhappy with the turn of events.
In these circumstances the Dewan did not quite understand Sethu Lakshmi Bayi and what she was doing. He viewed her, mistakenly he would realise late in the day, as an unrealistic and naive woman, who had neither knowledge nor any comprehension of the practical realities of her time. His political philosophy was that ‘while he conceded the sovereign’s prerogative to appoint her Minister, he would stress that her responsibility for administration would cease the moment the choice was made’.45 In other words, she was expected to delegate everything to him and stay cushioned in the comforts of the palace, much like her predecessor. So when she made it plain that she intended to keep her minister on a tighter leash, and had no intention whatever to park herself as a mere figurehead, Mr Raghavaiah became thoroughly piqued.
The Dewan was a fighter, however, and decided that for the benefit of the government and the state (not to speak of himself), Sethu Lakshmi Bayi had to be kept in her rightful, wholly ceremonial place. The more she got involved, he convinced himself, the more damage she would do. Her alleged condescension towards him by dabbling in delicate matters such as the Vaikom movement was also evidence of her ignorance of statecraft, political finesse and of her lack of knowledge about worldly business. After all, this was a man who had kept an ‘octopian grip’ over the state and, in the words of one critic, had ‘the spirit of a Torquemada—cold, fierce, ruthless’, showing the world that he was ‘strong but not sympathetic’.46 It is not difficult to picture a headstrong and capable man like Mr Raghavaiah finding it impossible in the 1920s to reconcile to the authority of a woman whose principal occupation hitherto was temple ceremony and gentle piety; whose best friends were relatives and a strawberry-blonde spinster; and whose excessive bookishness was only too well known. If she was suddenly asserting herself it was only because power had momentarily turned her head, and she could easily be wrenched back to where she belonged. And so the man who had once publicly proclaimed his ‘absolute ownership of administrative powers’ resolved to teach Sethu Lakshmi Bayi a lesson in realpolitik.47
His methods of doing so were insidious. Information was never given fully, his manner of dealing with the Maharani bordered on the dictatorial (perhaps in the hope that out of fear she would eventually defer to him), and her suggestions and directions were received with the greatest reluctance. All of this, however, was starkly visible to those in the corridors of government, and to Mr Raghavaiah’s greatest surprise and supreme resentment, Sethu Lakshmi Bayi proved to be willing to pay back in kind. One of his innovations, for instance, was to ensure that he, as Dewan, would be her sole contact in the administration, which would leave her cripplingly dependent. It is believed that he sternly ordered all important government officers, who were so far permitted to call on the ruler to pay their respects, from meeting the Maharani. ‘This attempt was interpreted as a veiled effort to keep the ruler out of touch with her subjects and to assail her customary freedom to contact them.’48
But Mr Raghavaiah underestimated Sethu Lakshmi Bayi’s gentle demeanour and erred in presuming she could be bullied into defeat; she had stood up to Sankaran Tampi for year
s and had it in her to stand up to the Dewan as well. Outwardly she maintained an almost deceptive equanimity, never once raising a quarrel. But behind that shroud she retaliated more strongly than he had imagined likely. Since his effort was to keep her at a distance from her officers, she made it a point to do the exact opposite: whoever wished to meet with her was promptly granted an interview. Ostensibly to ‘enrich her store of public information’, Sethu Lakshmi Bayi cordially ignored the Dewan’s efforts and freely conferred with government officials on state business, so that when her minister came she was always perfectly informed already.49 Her unfailing composure and politeness towards him must also have been particularly galling, for though not obvious it was underlined by amusement, sarcasm and a pitiful resignation that a man of his ability should be so insecure. The Maharani, Mr Raghavaiah realised, was tougher than he had first imagined.
So the contest between ruler and minister spilled over from petty matters into the critical public issue of the Vaikom Satyagraha. The Maharani was obviously sympathetic while the Dewan stood obdurately against the movement. He actually had an upper hand in this matter, for high-caste conservative men staffed the state’s administrative machinery for most part. They supported his views, which meant Sethu Lakshmi Bayi could find little backing within her own government, not to speak of the palace where also orthodox Brahmin dominance was compelling. Viewed from this context, her positive gestures towards the reform movement assume considerable significance beyond mere symbolic affirmations of her sympathy. They testify to a percipient shrewdness, for through these kind overtures, Sethu Lakshmi Bayi bolstered her own position (moral and political) vis-à-vis her reluctant government.
First by releasing the prisoners she made it clear that she was not going to continue Mulam Tirunal’s policy and that there was definitely backing for the movement at the highest level; then by personally meeting with the satyagraha’s leaders she showed she was serious in her sympathy; and yet, by not committing to anything during that interaction, she passed on the indirect message that she was constrained by her own administration, unable to do anything even when she desired to. What is also noteworthy is that after the jathas arrived in Trivandrum, she gave them an appointment only ten days later instead of wrapping up the whole affair quickly and quietly as any other reluctant leader in the hot seat might have done. This gave the agitators ample opportunity to publicise their cause in the capital, exposing those in power for the first time to the force and passion supporting them. Mr Raghavaiah was increasingly placed between the figurative rock and hard place with the satyagrahis bellowing in his ears. He registered distinctly that the Maharani’s dawdling over the meeting was far from innocent, which might explain why, when the leaders of the movement went to see him after their conference with her, they met with a rebuke.50 He did, however, have to swallow the bitter truth that just like the ruler needed her minister’s support, he needed hers too.
Since Sethu Lakshmi Bayi had pointed out the Legislative Council’s vote on the subject as a determinant in her final decision, attention turned to January 1925 and the proceedings in the house. If here the movement received support, it would mean that the public and its representatives wished to have reforms implemented, and the conservative government would have no alternative but to reconcile to change. The only person who could oppose it then, under the law, would be the monarch, which meant power would finally be in her hands alone. A positive vote would thus endow the Maharani with a clear mandate to go ahead and take an independent decision with the approval of the satyagrahis and growing sections of her people. Simply put, Sethu Lakshmi Bayi would come into her own if the Legislative Council voted for reforms. But then success for the cause would also translate into the reverberating defeat and humiliation of Mr Raghavaiah, which he had no intention of countenancing, just as he did not intend to hand over power on a platter to the ruler. He had to formulate his own strategy to win and reverse the damage the lady had done. And so even as the satyagrahis with the barely concealed encouragement of the Maharani lobbied with legislators to support their cause, the Dewan set out to foil precisely such a development. Victory, he was determined, would be his even if it meant Sethu Lakshmi Bayi falling flat on her royal face.
The Legislative Council of Travancore consisted of fifteen officials, seven nominated non-officials, and twenty-eight elected members from the public, making a total of fifty constituents. Much debate ensued in the house about the Vaikom movement but it appeared that there was enormous support in favour of the reform. However, when votes were cast on 31 January 1925, N. Kumaran’s motion was defeated by twenty-two votes against twenty-one. All fifteen government officials voted against it, as did four nominated members, and three elected representatives.51 The Dewan, it turned out, had used all his clout to ensure he got a majority, even if it was of only one vote. Seven members had either conveniently absented themselves or stood neutral, also apparently at his instigation. ‘It has now become clear,’ lamented a disappointed observer, ‘that the Government is to a large extent acting as the real opposition.’52 Mr Raghavaiah was lambasted openly for his unbecoming attitude and accused of ‘having made himself the leader of a section with vested interests’ as opposed to being ‘the dignified head of all classes’.53 And in the process he inadvertently sounded the beginning of his end in Travancore.
The episode in the legislature had a deleterious influence on the peace of the movement and reports began to be heard that there were people advocating ‘direct action’ now.54 Many were asking why they could not force entry into temples, instead of trying these non-violent techniques with a government that seemed positively unprincipled. Such disquieting suggestions gave Gandhi, not surprisingly, a few jitters, but they also seem to have had an effect on the Dewan. He issued a nervous call to ‘both sides’ to change their ‘angle of vision’, assuring the people that the government was ‘prepared to do everything in their power to explore the avenues’ of peaceful negotiation.55 But it was too late, for the die was cast. The satyagrahis did not repose confidence in Mr Raghavaiah any more and neither did vast sections of the masses. Sethu Lakshmi Bayi too decided that the Dewan’s going out of his way to impose his policy contrary to hers was intolerable. She was willing to entertain his personality so far, but it was time now to exercise her powers and show him she meant business. Even before the vote in the Legislative Council, she had discussed with the Resident the idea of retiring the Dewan, which option was now confirmed. Citing his tendency to check her authority as absolutely unacceptable and lamenting his dictatorial practices, Sethu Lakshmi Bayi asked Mr Raghavaiah to revert to British service by June that year. His otherwise impressive career in Travancore came, thus, to a somewhat embarrassing termination for the simple reason that he refused to adapt himself to the changing tide and to his new monarch.56
In the meantime, after the debacle in the legislature, in February 1925 it was announced that Gandhi had decided to come to Travancore in person to resolve the deadlock (and presumably to maintain peace). He arrived with his followers, including his secretary Mahadev Desai, his son Ramdas, C. Rajagopalachari, and some others at Vaikom on 10 March. A massive crowd of 10,000 people received them there at a public function where the leaders of the Ezhava community presented an address and where he vocally expressed his complete endorsement of the movement. The very next day he commenced discussions with some of the orthodox Brahmins in the locality, which were not especially fruitful or satisfying, before driving down south to meet the Maharani and the Dewan.
At that time Sethu Lakshmi Bayi was sojourning with her family on the coast at Varkala and it was at the bungalow there that she prepared to receive the man the world called Mahatma, a Great Soul. She had made yet another positive gesture by inviting him to meet her and placing at his disposal an official car, treating him also as a state guest. Excitement was on a high and all the members of her family waited in eager anticipation, watching curiously from the windows for the car to drive up. None of them coul
d interact with him, since the visit was official, except for Rama Varma who was present at the meeting. He was a hesitant admirer of sorts at this time, ironically, given his Western tastes and temperament. He considered Gandhi ‘one of the greatest living men’ with a phenomenal ‘soul stirring appeal’. In The Microcosm, a journal edited by the Valiya Koil Tampuran for exclusive circulation, we find reflections of not only his views but also what was perhaps being discussed in the palace at the time. ‘Mahatma Gandhi has at long last decided to visit Vaikom,’ he announced in the February issue. ‘There can be no doubt that his visit to Travancore at this time is eminently desirable in the interests of all parties. The Satyagraha movement has been mainly carried on at his instance and it is up to him to find out how much genuine support it has in the country. The caste Hindus too might get an opportunity to explain their point of view to him … It is hoped that the Mahatma will find out the true significance of the fight. If, however, he makes up his mind in favour of the Satyagraha movement, most probably similar movements will be started in many other centres in this country such as Mavelikkara, Harippad, and Ambalapuzha.’57
Sethu Lakshmi Bayi was therefore perfectly aware that by welcoming Gandhi, she was courting the risk of aggravating the situation as much as the possibility of a final resolution. Still she went ahead with the plan, confident that something positive would come out of it. And when they actually met that day, it became clear that they had more to agree about than first believed. No minutes seem to have survived of that meeting but the Maharani explained herself quite clearly (and convincingly for that matter) to Gandhi, so that he left the conference as something of an ambassador for her. To the reverberating cheers of crowds in Varkala, the next morning he positively announced:
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