One of the outcomes of Gowri Lakshmi Bayi’s vesting so much power in the Resident was that Col Munro’s successors all began to fashion themselves as chief advisors to the ruler and harbingers of progress in Travancore. While the Rani and then her sister, Gowri Parvathi Bayi (who ruled from 1814 until 1829) implicitly followed the ‘judicious counsels’ of the Residents,9 the two monarchs after them found it rather galling to bear with the constant interference from above.10 One of them was nearly driven to abdicate11 while the other, after shilly-shallying for long, was compelled to bend to their will. This second ruler, called Uthram Tirunal, spent Rs 2.13 lakh on weighing himself in gold (which was then distributed as ‘alms’ to Brahmins so that His Highness might accumulate good karma) and Rs 2 lakh on the festivals in the Sri Padmanabhaswamy Temple at a time when the state was facing financial difficulties and the tribute to the Company was again in arrears. To top it, the government was operating free feeding houses for Brahmins in 1851 at an expense of Rs 3 lakh.12 These amounts combined could have paid the tribute, and their expenditure on what the British saw as wasteful nonsense caused tempers to flare in Madras. On being admonished, the Dewan proudly announced economies of Rs 75,000 in 1852 only to later reveal that these had been ‘effected by discontinuing the engineering office, dismissing 200 pioneers, reducing the number of munsiffs [i.e., lower level judges], and cutting the price of pepper paid to the ryots [agricultural tenants]’. ‘By almost all admissions,’ Robin Jeffrey concludes, ‘Travancore was misgoverned.’13 In 1855, then, the Governor of Madras sternly wrote to Uthram Tirunal of ‘grave abuses’ in his government, of the decaying revenue system, the absence of public works, and more, reviving the threat of annexation for the first time in decades.14 This ‘most dreadful’15 communiqué shook the ruler to his senses and he realised that it was time again to curry favour with the Company and do what they desired—to enable greater efficiency, greater output, and a greater involvement in the international trade and order the Company was shaping.
The outcome was a fresh dose of modernisation in the state, on a scale considerably greater than Col Munro had perhaps envisaged. It was presided over by Uthram Tirunal’s ambitious nephews, none other than Ayilyam Tirunal and Visakham Tirunal, who succeeded him and ruled for a combined twenty-five years. For instance, in 1860 the Public Works Department was officially established and where five years before a sum of Rs 38,000 only was being spent, by 1871 it was Rs 12 lakh.16 All those departments of government that the British considered crucial to a modern state were developed, with the result that the young rulers were showered with praise. Annual reports, showcasing improvements in various sectors and in total revenue, were churned out on a large scale to highlight the ‘progress’ that was taking place in Travancore. But as Jeffrey reminds us, these physical manifestations of modernity (which, to be sure, were successful) were not matched with an eager programme of social change. Both rulers ‘felt a tension between what they knew the British government expected of them’ and the customs and traditions that maintained their exalted place in Travancore’s casteist society.17 And so they continued to modernise the state and its infrastructure, including promoting English education, while going considerably slower on reforming matters of social inequality, which they found somewhat inconvenient to tamper with, passing instead the buck (and the appurtenant headache) to the rulers who followed them.
They knew this was potentially dangerous, and there is a story that when Ayilyam Tirunal laid the foundation stone for the College of Arts in Trivandrum in 1869, he privately remarked to his brother-in-law, ‘Well, Tampi, I have just laid the foundation stone for anarchy.’18 Indeed, the spread of English education (pivoted on the Enlightenment favourites: reason and rationality) without a proportionate removal of social disadvantages caused uncomfortable questions to be asked. If a high-caste candidate were a matriculate and a low-caste one a graduate, shouldn’t the better job go to the latter? Why were Brahmins being perpetually patronised at state expense when they had no educational qualifications and lived off what was now deemed superstitious mumbo-jumbo? And many more disturbing doubts arose. The balance of public life that was hitherto centred on an inegalitarian but stable caste hierarchy began to tilt unpredictably, giving birth, ironically enough, to that great bane of Indian society and politics: communalism.
English education had become a passport to success by the second half of the nineteenth century. Now that feudalism was fading, what degrees and official qualifications an individual acquired decided his employability in government (and the vast bureaucracy was the biggest employer). Competition began to mount for the limited places on offer that supplied social mobility, highlighting the inequalities of Travancore’s society even more forcefully. The substantial Land Revenue Department, for example, was barred to Christians and all low-caste Hindus since it also handled the properties of government temples and shrines. Christians ventured into the plantation business with considerable success but met powerful opposition from Anglo-Indian and British planters. Besides, only very few Christians had the resources to invest in plantation, and the majority vied for state service. When such blatant injustices affected their employment prospects, the educated classes began to associate with their caste kinsmen. As communities they began to lobby and pressurise the government to open up new avenues for them. And sometimes they joined hands for common purposes while normally standing against each other.19 But whichever was the case, in ‘the rush for government appointments’ and the ‘scramble for offices’,20 social cohesion began to dissolve and Travancore slowly became a steaming communal cauldron.
The communalisation of competition helped get jobs, to be fair. If a Nair were appointed, he would be expected first to enable members of his extended family secure good positions, and then people from his wider community. So when Sankaran Tampi became a power in the land, even highly cultivated Nair leaders like C.V. Raman Pillai, the distinguished author, acquiesced in his predominance because his influence served their community very well.21 But that said Nairs were not the preferred favourites of the government. The royal family being as orthodox and purity-conscious as it was, had surrounded itself with Brahmins since the times of Martanda Varma. From 1817 until 1914, for almost a century, thus, with a single exception, every Dewan of Travancore had been a Brahmin (all of them were charged with nepotism and none of them were Malayalis).22 Tamil Brahmins, who avidly took up English education and combined the new qualifications with their ritual precedence, dominated higher government appointments in 1891.
Similarly, of the nine seats in the (then small) Legislative Council, five belonged to Brahmins.23 In that same year, therefore, the Nairs organised a mass petition, famously called the ‘Malayali Memorial’, to be presented to the Maharajah, asking for a greater share of jobs for the ‘sons of the soil’.24 Travancore, they asserted, had a 60 per cent Hindu population and jobs ought to be allotted proportionately. This was rather disingenuous, for the low castes did not have as many qualified persons as they did, and by classing them all together as ‘Hindus’, it would be the Nairs who would benefit most. Disappointingly for them, the Ezhavas presented a separate memorial, essentially arguing against being treated as ‘Hindus’ and calling for reservation by community, while the Syrian Christians demanded that only the best should be employed even if they were not Hindus. It was community against community in Travancore by the advent of the twentieth century.
Through the first quarter of the century, Nairs did succeed in wresting a sizable share of higher employment from the Tamil Brahmins. They united most of their sub-castes, used their massive population to win majorities in the Legislative Council, pressed the government to their advantage and made ample use of Sankaran Tampi’s reins on the Maharajah. But in keeping with the jealous communal spirit, they were unwilling to be magnanimous to anybody else, and tensions mounted. The Ezhavas, as a low caste, had several battles to fight, while castes below them were practically miserable with no voice. Among the Christians, th
e Syrian Christians (despite their own internal divisions) dominated while Roman Catholics, Latin Catholics and others had feeble political expression. Muslims and other minorities clamoured to be heard in what was essentially a statewide communal din, so much so that in 1916 the government decided that even students in the Maharajah’s College could not be left to vote for the year’s most outstanding pupil, as ‘caste prejudice played a great part in the elections and … merit was ignored.’25
Mulam Tirunal then made some concessions to the low castes and Christians, most notably by opening the Land Revenue Department to them by removing temple lands from its purview. But his conservatism meant that Brahmins and Nairs (in that order) were still favoured. The former tried in vain to preserve their position by appealing to the ritual sanctity of the royal family, and the latter were determined on showing Brahminism the door. While the attitude of the ruler was imperative to any development, placing one’s supporters in positions of authority could make a world of difference. And so when Mulam Tirunal died, the communities braced themselves for a fresh fight in Trivandrum. For who would reign above the others and secure that most favoured status would depend on who had the ear of the new administration. Like most others, the politicians also presumed Sethu Lakshmi Bayi to be a pliable female who, like Gowri Lakshmi Bayi, would resign the burden of government entirely to her Dewan and take a comfortable back seat as a figurehead. And since it was obvious that Mr Raghavaiah had to go, the selection of the next minister became the big political question of the hour, which would determine the fate of all the factions for the coming years.
Since for over a century Travancore’s premiers had been ‘imported’ from outside (even Sir Krishnan, while a Nair, was from Malabar) the demand for a ‘native’ minister was almost deafening by 1925.26 It was a familiar call in other princely states as well, where rulers preferred loyal outsiders to possibly turbulent locals. The Nairs as the most powerful political lobby in Travancore were especially covetous of success and complete patronage now, having been denied this all these years but of which they had had an appetising slice through Tampi. That the Maharani was known to be religious and orthodox in her personal manners also raised hopes of a preference towards Hindus. If they made enough noise, it was assumed, she might be convinced to forsake the Brahmins and select a Nair.
Sethu Lakshmi Bayi, however, had a very different view on the subject. Years of bookishness, so scornfully dismissed by everybody, had in fact equipped her with a broad mind and an incisive, almost academic understanding of her political surroundings. She sought answers to address the roots of trouble, with very exact views on how to achieve this, instead of attempting to placate its immediate, superficial manifestations. Most importantly, she had no intention of playing by the communal parameters that had become the standard of public life in the state. But transforming entrenched rules was a knotty affair—one that would throw up violent resistance and precipitate intense resentment. And so when her choice of minister was announced, infuriated politicians in Trivandrum went hoarse crying foul.
Correspondence with the Government of India on how the Maharani intended to run her administration had been on since October 1924. She had already turned down their suggestion to appoint an Executive Council to assist the Dewan, noting that the politicians would insist on elections to these positions; and she was not keen to give the various communities another platform to quarrel.27 Her decision, therefore, was to continue with the old practice of having a Dewan responsible for all affairs, allowing him to delegate authority to his de facto cabinet of the heads of departments as required. She also requested the Government of India to recommend successors to Mr Raghavaiah but none of their proposals were very appealing. So by January 1925 she put forward a name on her own after due consideration, although this was not formally proposed to the authorities until April.
The candidate in question was Maurice Emygdius Watts, a London-based barrister who was, interestingly, the brother of the Maharani’s old tutor, Miss Watts. While correspondence on the subject was still confidential, news leaked out to the press in March and suddenly a whirlwind of criticism hit Satelmond Palace. ‘It is notorious,’ vociferated the Jenmabhoomi, ‘that this consummation is entirely due to back-stair influence,’28 while The People, under the headline of ‘Unfortunate Travancore’ decried the Maharani for casting an ‘unwarranted humiliation’ on her state by ‘this unsympathetic and unwise step’.29 Every paper, except for The Western Star and The Standard registered a protest against the ruler’s choice. Politicians were up in arms against her for even presuming that a foreigner would be acceptable, a man about whom they knew little and whose communal affiliations (more critically) were uncertain. The general picture conveyed was that her old teacher and only friend was wickedly influencing Sethu Lakshmi Bayi to bring in her brother, which the amenable Maharani was foolishly conceding. Some newspapers even attacked Mr Cotton, for they assumed that this import from London was perhaps his idea, although Sethu Lakshmi Bayi had, having anticipated this charge, expressly written to him in February that when in due course any announcement was made, she had no qualms in letting it be known that the selection was entirely hers.30 She would not, she assured him, shirk responsibility.
Alongside allegations of back-door influence, there were also seemingly profound expressions of shock and surprise that in a Hindu state a Christian (and an Anglo-Indian for that matter) should be appointed Dewan. The minister had certain roles to play in the Sri Padmanabhaswamy Temple, for instance, which a non-high-caste Hindu could not perform. So the politicians started offering alternatives themselves from within their respective parties. The Tamil Brahmins wanted someone from their community to be brought in from Madras while the Syrian Christians insisted on either one Mr Mathen or one Mr K. Chandy, both of whom were employed in Mysore.31 The Nairs, who the Resident reported, had been vehemently trying for some time to ‘get rid of Raghavaiah’ hoped, for their part, that ‘Her Highness would appoint a Nair official who would dance to their tune’, and recommended the Chief Secretary Mr K. Krishna Pillai to be promoted as Dewan. Either way, the politicians were ‘working up an agitation against the selection made’ and protests had erupted unanimously from all communal quarters.32
What surprised, and perhaps even impressed the Resident, was the calm and collected manner in which Sethu Lakshmi Bayi met all the opposition, belying once again the fact that she was a new, unseasoned ruler. ‘Her Highness,’ he recorded, ‘regards these alarums and excursions with remarkable indifference. She points out that what Travancore needs at the present moment is an officer who has no recent concern with local politics and is outside any factions, and free from communal bias.’33 Indeed, while she had not anticipated so much trouble over her suggestion, she ‘maintained from the beginning that it is largely artificial and engineered by partisans of those who might have confidentially aspired to the post themselves’.34 Writing from Varkala that summer, Sethu Lakshmi Bayi made her point of view very clear, also expressing her thoughts on how the issue ought to be tackled:
A Travancorean who is an ultra Nair is alone acceptable to the political Nair party. The Brahmin as a political factor is a negligible quantity [for in spite of all the jobs they held, they were a small minority] and is disliked by practically all the other communities. The Christian as such does not exist in politics since the different denominations under Christianity want each to be recognised as a separate community. So much so, the appointment of a Travancorean to whatever party he might belong, cannot and will not give general satisfaction. The only point therefore to be considered is that the holder of the post must be fit for it.35
The Maharani was, therefore, quite firm that in selecting her right-hand man, neither religion nor community could play any role; a ‘non-party man possessing a high order of efficiency and enjoying my confidence’ was whom she preferred, ‘especially at this juncture when I stand in the great need of [communally] disinterested advice and help’.36 That said, she was not und
uly prejudiced against the politicians’ suggestions either. For by the time Mr Watts’s name was formally proposed, the Resident and she had already discussed the possibility of all local candidates. The Chief Secretary was found ‘too amiable and accommodating’, for example, to have the force of a minister, and so too were other candidates evaluated. In the end Mr Cotton ‘entirely concurred’ in her conclusion that there was ‘no one who possessed sufficient force of character or general attainments to warrant his being considered for the Dewanship.’37 As for the argument that Mr Watts was a non-Hindu, the Maharani reminded everyone that if a century ago Travancore could accept Col Munro without qualms, the objections now raised were unwarranted.38 In any case the Resident also consulted the more orthodox neighbouring Government of Cochin, where in recent times two non-Hindu Dewans had served with no difficulty at all,39 and was convinced that the arguments of the opposition were fallacious.40
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