This of course brings to the fore the qualifications of Mr Watts that made him, in Sethu Lakshmi Bayi’s view, so eminently suitable for the position. For all the hue and cry about his being a foreigner, he was actually a Travancorean, albeit of the aloof, exclusive variety. The Watts family had a long history in the state going back at least to the eighteenth century when their ancestor, Francis Watts, was a wealthy English merchant at Anjengo. Into the nineteenth century, under his son, Vincent Watts, the family ventured into plantation and had coffee estates in Peermade and vast landed properties in Trivandrum. Mr Watts’s father, Frank Edwards Watts (son of Vincent), was a student of Robert’s School in the capital and for forty-three years had been in service of the Government of Travancore, becoming Chief Secretary in the days of Ayilyam Tirunal. Indeed in 1895 he was believed to have been on ‘the eve of his translation from the Chief Secretaryship to the Dewanship’, but that is when death snatched him away, leaving it for his son to obtain the position he never did.41
Mr Watts himself was born in Trivandrum in 1878 and had completed his schooling from the Maharajah’s High School before going off to Madras for graduate studies at the Presidency College. Upon finishing his education in 1901, he joined the Madras Revenue Board and was quickly promoted to the political section in the governor’s secretariat. Here his work involved looking after the affairs of all the princely states falling under the Government of Madras, including Travancore. By 1911 he was upgraded and sent to the imperial secretariat in Calcutta and in the same year he went to England and completed the first half of the barrister’s course. Upon his return he was assigned to the Imperial Finance Service as Assistant Accountant General, a rank usually reserved for those who passed the Indian Financial Service exam but which was given to him in view of his exceptional service. Working in Delhi, Simla and Calcutta, Mr Watts had drawn a high salary of Rs 1500 per month at this time. When the First World War began, he became District Disbursing Officer for the North-West Frontier Province and by 1919 was made principal Comptroller of Military Accounts for the Government of India. But his health deteriorated at this stage causing a convalescent retreat to London, where he completed his barrister’s course. In 1921, at the age of forty-three, he married Edith Malloch, an attractive woman half his age, and commenced legal practice and a new life. Indeed, during his stint in London, he reportedly became so popular that some even suggested he should contemplate standing for parliamentary elections in the future. He had thus been in England for only about five years when the call from the Maharani came, offering him the Dewanship of Travancore.42
When Mr Watts’s name was forwarded to Delhi for approval, the Government of India performed a detailed background assessment and collected references from his previous superiors. All of them attested to his abilities and expressed confidence in his potential as Dewan of Travancore. Accordingly, the Resident was informed of Delhi’s approval of the selection with the only reservation that Mr Watts should be on probation for the first six months, and his confirmation would depend on satisfactory performance during that period. The Maharani concurred with this, and backed by the Government of India, formally announced him as her next Dewan in May 1925. To everyone’s surprise, the official proclamation received good press from exactly those newspapers that had first condemned the appointment.43 Now that it was obvious that Sethu Lakshmi Bayi would not heed the loud clamour of opposition, the politicians could only hope for the best and seek to get into the good books of the new Dewan for their own interests. It was a humorous revelation of how fickle communal politics could be in Travancore of the 1920s where principles and political stands were abandoned as conveniently as they were championed.
For Sethu Lakshmi Bayi this had been a considerable battle, both political as well as of her ideals. Every morning she woke up to unabashed criticism in the newspapers, to which she could never even respond (though, as will be seen, she did have one or two plans up her sleeve for the press). Some of the papers made rather personal comments and accused her of neglecting her people. ‘The Regent will be making herself open to the charges of being incapable of foresight, clear vision or sound judgment,’ lambasted the Madras States while The People warned her of being toppled from power. ‘Confidence begets confidence,’ it thundered, pointing out that ‘Her Highness cannot have any claim to the confidence of the people of Travancore.’44 Neither the Brahmins in the palace nor the Nairs outside supported her on this one; she was going against the tide, alienating each faction in the country, which was a massive political risk. She could, as most politicians to this day do, easily have aligned herself with the most powerful camp (in this case, the Nairs) and won populist support and acclaim, as her predecessors had been doing. But Sethu Lakshmi Bayi, with all her determined idealism, only knew too well that by supporting one communal group over another, she would become party to an appalling phenomenon the state was better off without. Her intention was to downplay communalism and focus on governance; and with that conviction, she stuck by herself.
In order to drive this point home, the Maharani issued orders enunciating the principles by which her administration would consider all appointments. And the guideline was simple: equal and fair opportunity to all. In all government vacancies, candidates were hereafter selected solely on the basis of merit. Preference, however, would be given to ‘unrepresented and poorly represented communities’ in their position as minorities. Moreover, representation would be ‘based more on the number of qualified hands available than on mere numerical strength’. It was also announced that preferential treatment to the minorities would only be in the matter of initial appointment and not for promotions.45 ‘We want our Public Service to be public and a service,’ one Christian intellectual declared, lauding Sethu Lakshmi Bayi for thus terminating the domination of caste Hindus. ‘Under the wise dispensation of Her Highness,’ he added, ‘we are getting out of the wonted rut of inequality. And the signs of the time show that the balance is being redressed. History,’ he concluded, with a hint of going overboard with his admiration perhaps, ‘is fond of cognomen. It speaks of William the Silent, Solomon the Wise, and Bloody Mary, to take a few instances. Let the fitting sobriquet of Her Highness be [Sethu] Lakshmi Bayi the Just.’46
But this was not mere flattery, for indeed the Maharani acted on her promises and opened up the government to marginalised classes. A Christian was for the first time appointed Chief Secretary, a position second only to the Dewan, while another was made a member of the Medical Board. By 1928 an Ezhava was appointed a District Judge and another a Divisional Assistant, both of low caste but now bossing over hundreds of Nair employees. A Muslim official was promoted as a magistrate, another Christian as peishkar, and at lower levels too, hundreds of non-Nairs and non-Brahmins were absorbed into the state services, weakening the upper-caste monopoly.47 As J. Devika notes, ‘In a Nair-Brahmin dominated Hindu state, Sethu Lakshmi Bayi cared to listen to the minorities and seriously take them on board. It was a democratisation, something that was never done before and which would not be done after her time.’48 In the eyes of history, the Maharani has been lauded for this, but at the time she only earned remonstrations and dislike from the leading, entrenched classes of the country.
In the meantime, the new Dewan-elect was delighted by the offer made. It was a singular honour to be appointed chief minister, especially of a state as important as Travancore, with a record of progressive rule and convincing appearances of constitutionalism. It was a glorious culmination of his career, one that was not quite expected. In his moment of elation, he wrote the Maharani a most grandiloquent letter talking of himself as a ‘son of the soil who wandered far afield and is now coming back’. In almost poetic verse he added:
My father and my sisters have given proof to the Crown of Travancore of unswerving loyalty, unstinted fidelity and God fearing integrity. These traditions permeate me; their ideals stimulate me; their devotion will be my devotion … If, under Providence, I succeed in serving as they have serv
ed, I shall feel at the end of the day that I have done my duty by my Sovereign and fellow-citizens of Travancore and thereby have justified Your Highness’ gracious selection of me as your Minister.49
The Maharani was not really one for flattery or honeyed writing. And, perhaps to make it clear that she meant business, she kept her response to him very tempered and clear, warning of what she expected from her minister:
You are assuming the administration of the State at a particularly critical moment. Forces born of modern times and the present day education, accented by an unhealthy spirit of communal consciousness, which lay dormant during the reign of H.H. the late Maharajah, have suddenly been let loose, and no amount of tact and wisdom can be considered too great for the new Dewan to enable him to acquit successfully in the midst of the currents and cross currents peculiar to the Travancore of today.50
Meanwhile, as the new Dewan prepared to arrive, the old one decided to depart early. Mr Raghavaiah, who was previously ‘desperately anxious’ to continue in service,51 had now been offered the presidency of the Council of Regency in Pudukkottai and applied to leave Travancore by the end of April. The Maharani graciously gave her permission and bid him farewell with the traditional gifts of ivory and silks. The Chief Secretary was then asked to officiate as Dewan, following which he was to be promoted as Devaswom Commissioner when Mr Watts arrived. This substantial office was in charge of all the government temples and their properties, and typically the Commissioner was responsible to the Dewan. When Mr Watts’s appointment was confirmed, however, there was a call to make the office temporarily independent, and directly responsible to the ruler. The Maharani initially did not prefer this—after all, it was Col Munro, a Christian, who even created this Hindu department by acquiring 348 major and 1,123 minor private temples in 1810—but eventually sanctioned the proposal on the Valiya Koil Tampuran’s advice.52 It was not wise, he felt, to push the Nairs to the wall. And so a small victory was granted to them as a diplomatic device.
Mr Watts finally set foot on Travancore’s soil on 18 June 1925 when he landed at Cape Comorin. He did not immediately proceed to Trivandrum, since the earliest ‘auspicious date’ for him to take charge was four days later. So it was 22 June by the time he was driven to Trivandrum and presented to the Maharani in the evening. The next morning he received from her the Dewan’s Sword, and officially took over as the new premier of Travancore.53 He moved into Bhakti Vilas, where a staff trained in the European style was placed at his disposal. The Maharani took a personal interest in ensuring he was comfortable, asking the Chief Engineer to make alterations to the building as the Dewan might require and ordering suitable crockery to be sent there, etc. That evening Mr Watts was also honoured with a public reception put together, oddly enough, by all the politicians of the town. ‘All those who were against his appointment at first,’ the Maharani’s brother chuckled, ‘have taken leading parts in the meeting held to welcome him.’54 If the government was astonished at the sudden warmth of the opposition, the latter were to be surprised even more when it turned out that not only was the Dewan charmingly fluent in Malayalam, but also recognised many classmates among them. He additionally spoke Tamil and Hindustani, and had an academic understanding of Sanskrit, making him suddenly seem palatable to even orthodox Hindus.55 An ‘excellent impression’, Mr Cotton endorsed to the authorities in Delhi, and Mr Watts looked like he would do just fine in the muddy waters of political Travancore.56 His probationary period went off satisfactorily and by December that year a three-year term was confirmed by the Government of India. The Maharani had won this battle.
‘The history of civilization,’ wrote Sir Robert Bristow in his Cochin Saga, ‘is written largely in the history of its ports.’ And this was entirely true of Kerala, which owed a tremendous deal to trade and the gifts of prosperity it brought with it, from ancient times. The Book of Kings in the Old Testament refers to the flourishing commerce King Solomon had with the Chera dynasty between 1015 and 996 BC, importing gold, silver, ivory, apes, peacocks, sandalwood, and precious stones from their ports. From 69 BC the celebrated Cleopatra of Egypt sent her ships to Kerala, enjoying such a close alliance that upon her defeat in the Battle of Actium, she prepared to set sail and seek sanctuary here with her son. Kerala’s staple produce of pepper was practically more valuable than gold, and when the king of the Visigoths besieged Rome in the fifth century, he demanded 3,000 pounds of the spice in return for sparing the imperial city a devastating raid (as it happened, he broke his promise). While most sailed hugging the coastlines of Africa and the Middle East, fearful of the open sea and its violent winds, as early as 120 BC the Egyptians were trying to beat the competition by finding a direct sea route to India. Kerala’s exchanges with the East were also prominent and its ancient relations with China went beyond mere trade of goods and embraced the transfer of culture, intellectual knowledge and more. Chinese accounts in the sixth century speak of a Malayali ambassador stationed at the court of the emperor there, and when the fourteenth century Moroccan explorer Ibn Batuta came to Kerala, he discovered close to 12,000 Chinese living in Calicut, of whom about 4,800 were soldiers.57
But before the rise of Calicut, it was the fabled port of Muziris (now identified as Cranganore) that served as the principal gateway to India and one of the greatest commercial centres of the ancient world. The Periplus of the Erythrean Sea described it as being at the ‘height of prosperity’ in its heyday, and it placed the region on the global map so that even in the millennium before Christ, Kerala was recognised in all parts of the maritime world. Even then, it was apparently accessible and seems to have enjoyed a sterling reputation for tolerance and diversity, welcoming Arabs, Jews, Christians and many others of assorted ethnic and cultural backgrounds with open arms to contribute to its prosperity. But Muziris’s vibrant life came to an unhappy termination when, unexpectedly, the River Periyar flooded and changed course in the fourteenth century, choking up all access, and reducing that historic port into a faint residue of what it used to be. One of the greatest cities of the world fell, thus, to the mandates of nature.
By now the Chera dynasty that once ruled over most of Kerala had perished and the land was divided between many quarrelling principalities claiming descent of competing legitimacies from those old kings of yore; and all of them vied to win the favour of foreign traders. Calicut emerged as an alternative to Muziris in a matter of years, establishing several centuries of dominance, both commercial and economic, over its rivals along the coast, till the Portuguese arrived and upset the local balance of power. This provoked generations of political sparring, with Cochin allowing itself to become a client state of various foreign powers, and in the process rising as a rival to Calicut in an international system increasingly being redefined by European powers as opposed to the old Arabs and Egyptians. The Dutch and the English succeeded the Portuguese as masters of the seas and of Cochin, but the whole region was reduced to a zone of military unrest. All the ports from Calicut to Trivandrum managed at best decent business in the process but none could match the sheer opulence of ancient Muziris or even the recent successes of pre-colonial Calicut. It appeared that Kerala would never again have that one major port that could make its mark on the world as a thriving cornerstone of international commerce. The princes were all battling it out, but it was a violence of desperation in an unfamiliar world and time. Commercial greatness, it seemed, was a thing of the past for Kerala.
By the nineteenth century, however, things began to look optimistic. The British were assured of their power in the land after ousting other European rivals and the bloody warfare that had characterised recent history ceased. India was united under one banner, and stability (albeit imperial) took root. The northern portion of Kerala, once dominated by the Zamorins, became the Malabar district of the Madras Presidency, while Cochin and Travancore retained their independence as tributaries. The three governments worked in peace with each other, giving rise to hopes for the first time in centuries that perhap
s Kerala could resume its place as one of the great trading centres of the world. It was the Government of Madras, in fact, that first saw potential in developing a major port on the coast here at Cochin, though of course in order to augment colonial interests rather than to resurrect India’s lost maritime splendour. But their ambition and imagination were not met with feasibility, and so when the idea was initially proposed in 1880 it was declared unviable. The problem was that there was a wide bar of sand out at sea which blocked access to the port for all but ships of shallow draft. Dredging was, in those days, a rather rudimentary affair and there was no way a 3-mile channel, which is what was required for deep-sea ships to sail in, could be opened. Cochin, it was regretfully concluded, would have to reconcile to continuing as a small port after all.
But into the early twentieth century more and more ships started passing by the shores of Kerala, which also acquired considerable strategic significance during the First World War. In 1914 the proposal was then re-examined, aided by the fact that recent developments in dredging technology meant that what had been rejected as impossible was now, in fact, quite possible even if still susceptible to the risk of failure. The Government of Madras began correspondence with the state of Cochin to take plans forward, and movement, at a snail’s pace, finally began. Sir Robert, who was by then already a distinguished engineer with considerable experience on international harbours, was commissioned to develop the project and arrived on the scene by 1920 to commence basic preparations. He was to dedicate twenty-one years of his life to the new venture, leaving a lasting mark of glory behind.
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