Ivory Throne

by Manu S. Pillai

  At the time this proclamation was issued, Sethu Lakshmi Bayi was sojourning in Peermade. And when she returned to Trivandrum on 1 June, a number of protest demonstrations and political marches greeted her, voicing their opposition to her policy. Writing to Mr Cotton in England, clearly unmoved, she referred to this ‘burning topic of the hour’. ‘The Newspaper Regulation has been promulgated,’ she informed him, ‘and it has naturally evoked trenchant comments here and in a few outside papers. Meetings are being frantically held all over Travancore and truculent resolutions passed. It is worthy of mention,’ she added, ‘that the agitation is mainly carried on by the party which conducted the Anti-Watts campaign a year ago.’95 Sethu Lakshmi Bayi, in her characteristic style, ignored the disgruntled politicians and their protestations, remaining adamantly impassive. As the Acting Resident Mr H.A.B. Vernon noted, she was conspicuously ‘offering prayers for her safe confinement’ at various temples at the time (for all this had happened when she was pregnant) instead of expressing any alarm at the political turmoil.96 This sustained, deliberate disregard for criticism seemed almost bizarre to many, and once again the finger of suspicion was pointed at the unpopular Valiya Koil Tampuran.

  It was alleged that the Newspaper Regulation was Rama Varma’s brainchild, given his recent troubles with the (largely Nair) press, which had also baited him (‘without an iota of justification’, Mr Cotton had remarked) when many Christians were given high appointments after the Maharani came to power.97 Besides, he was the one to first bring up the issue in 1925 when he wrote in the Microcosm about a ‘hope’ that the press in Travancore, where ‘sobriety of views and moderation in language’ were absent qualities, and which acted more ‘in the light of brigandage than a useful institution in the polity’ would be restrained.98 It did not help that as Sethu Lakshmi Bayi’s accouchement approached and she was increasingly unable to transact too much daily government business, he began to indulge himself once again. In early June when some officers went to visit her, for instance, the Valiya Koil Tampuran asked them to ‘deal directly with him’.99 It was found that owing to her incapacity, he was giving independent orders to the government and ‘in other ways standing between the Maharani and her people’.100 ‘The Maharani in her present state of health,’ Mr Vernon concluded, ‘seems to be entirely in his hands. The position may develop further if he is allowed a little more rope.’101 Rama Varma suddenly had all the heat and hostility turned on him, partly also because nobody believed the gentle, serene Sethu Lakshmi Bayi was capable of behaviour that bordered on the dictatorial.

  In the meantime the Nairs had constituted a ‘Newspaper Regulation Repeal Committee’ that put forth their grievances (and surprise at the Maharani’s attitude) in a resolution in late June:

  Since the Travancore Newspapers Regulation V of 1101 has been promulgated otherwise than through the Legislative Council and kills the liberty of free public opinion, veils the evils of administration, prevents the means of redress of the grievances of the poor and the helpless, and is prejudicial to the welfare of society, this meeting with feelings of regret at the absence of any action on the part of the Government even after noticing the volume of popular agitation against the measure, appeals for the immediate repeal of this Regulation.102

  By this time the crucial budget session of the Legislative Council was about to begin in early August and Mr Watts had returned from London. Different measures were contemplated to compel the government to heed the politicians’ demands. K. Parameswaran Pillai, who had led the Vaikom deputation to the Maharani, suggested that ‘all members should observe complete silence without participating in the general discussion’ to bring the Dewan to his knees.103 But as was characteristic of Travancore politics, there was no consensus and in the end the legislature was allowed to function because of a fragmented opposition. A motion was moved, however, to repeal the regulation and the Dewan, taking a considerable risk, permitted it. He was not obliged to do so, since the Maharani’s diktat was final, but she was certain the government would be vindicated. And to the genuine surprise of all those opposing the Newspaper Regulation, the repeal motion was indeed defeated, and by a non-official majority for that matter.104 Thirty members of the Council supported the Maharani’s action and only sixteen voted for a repeal, delivering a resounding victory to the authorities. The regulation, it became clear, was here to stay until the ruler chose to repeal it.

  Effects of the restraints had in fact already begun to be felt by now. On 29 June, for instance, the Navashakti published an article about the Dewan claiming he was incapable, inefficient, partial to some communities and disrespectful of the legislature. The Maharani was incensed by the piece. Much like a disciplinarian schoolteacher, she decided to give the paper a chance to ‘express unreserved regret’ at its conduct. An apology was duly published but it was found to be ‘not sufficiently reflecting a repentant attitude’. The Navashakti lost its licence. Indeed, while in 1926 there was a total of fifty-seven newspapers and eighty-nine periodicals circulating in the state, the stern hand of the Maharani cut down the number to forty-four and fifty-six respectively in a matter of twelve months. By 1930 the Travancore Press (Emergency Powers) Act would come to be passed under which newspapers suspected of mischief were asked to deposit Rs 1,000 with the government and pay up to Rs 2,000 for publishing ‘unacceptable’ articles. This was passed through the legislature where once again thirty members supported it against fourteen in opposition. And it was the Prabodhakan that became one of the earliest to fall before the law thereafter when it published a caustic editorial about Sethu Lakshmi Bayi’s regime entitled ‘Heaven or Hell’ in September 1930.105 But the larger purpose of the Maharani was achieved in that journalism became more responsible in its tone, and open communal propaganda was contained. Indeed, despite the loud denunciations of the ‘oppressive’ policy of the government, by 1930 Travancore’s press would be flourishing once again with a record sixty-three newspapers and ninety-five periodicals.106 None of them breached the law and all of them maintained a bare minimum of standards, which included, however, publishing nothing against the royal house.

  Nevertheless, the Newspaper Regulation remains one of the most controversial edicts of the Maharani during the time she held the mantle of power. Many argued that she muzzled the progress of larger, cherished ideals of the freedom of expression, even if she sincerely intended to control unhealthy communal forces. But much like killing two birds with the same stone, it was certainly also designed to protect the monarchy at a time when the royal family was under amplified pressure to give up more and more power. As one historian notes, until the 1920s Travancore’s politicians were in the habit of dishing up elaborate memorandums and proposals to the state as they sought more responsible, democratic governance. Rulers could then generously concede some favours, earning the reputation of constitutional monarchs. But in that decade, ‘which was socially and politically very turbulent’, a new era of ‘agitational politics’ was initiated and politicians lost their patience with wordy memorandums. For the first time it was made clear that communities could wage open war to win their shares of power.107 And, as the Maharani noted, ‘the knowledge that the present administration is only for a specified period’, emboldened many to stand up to the state, without fear of long-term retribution.108 Challenged by a phenomenon unseen so far, Sethu Lakshmi Bayi did what she deemed necessary to exercise control. And curtailing the powers of the press was one considerable step in the direction of keeping the balance of power in the monarch’s autocratic favour.

  Newspapers were a critical part of this ongoing political struggle. As early as the 1890s, officials began to recognise that the press was becoming ‘a power in the land’ that threatened the existing structure.109 The high rate of literacy in Travancore, fashionably showcased for most part by the government, backfired in that by the early twentieth century every village had a handful of people who could sit by the roadside or in local coffee shops and read the news out loud for general be
nefit.110 Editors began to enjoy widespread influence, which they utilized completely in laying pressure upon the government. Needless to say, communal politics seduced the power of journalism into a formidable union; some of Travancore’s firebrand politicians were also journalists. Often this anomalous communal marriage led to curious situations. During the tenure of one Dewan from 1892 until 1898, for example, Syrian Christian papers asserted that the state had gone ‘from bad to worse’ even as their Nair competitors insisted he ruled ‘faultlessly’; all because he had supported the latter community.111 By the 1920s, as Mr Watts put it, there was probably ‘no part of India so given up to public meetings, resolutions, representations, deputations as Travancore’, in all of which newspapers were involved. Whether as ‘vehicles for the expression of views’ or as ‘actual participants’, they were all ‘vigorously engaged’.112 The press was turning into a kind of non-state political actor, causing a good amount of restlessness in the corridors of royal power and of the absolute monarchy that headed it.

  Sethu Lakshmi Bayi was therefore not merely trying to prevent the menace of communalism from becoming deep-rooted in the minds of the rural masses. While that was a definite goal, a more long-term objective was to prevent politics itself, as it was then practised, from reaching the villages. For if the many literate people in rural Travancore also began to clamour for rights from the royal family, the situation would become very precarious. This was aggravated by the fact that rural Travancore was already producing the vast bulk of educated youngsters, all eager to compete for the limited opportunities the state had on offer. The Unemployment Enquiry Committee the Maharani would appoint in 1928 highlighted this growing danger of unoccupied youths in the state’s villages, all prone to political activism. And it was to forestall the politicians from recruiting a vast army of discontent against the monarchy that she decided to control the most powerful medium of information that carried their propaganda, along with their growing irreverence for royal authority, to the remotest corners of her country. The leaders of the Nair community recognised these larger, strategic implications of the Newspaper Regulation. M. Govinda Pillai, a lawyer of legendary fame, summed up the issue succinctly when he warned that the new law would not merely restrain the press. It would, he warned, ‘crush the Nair community’ and its political aspirations in the process.113

  Previous governments in Travancore had, in fact, readily tolerated communal propensities and cleverly played groups against each other. In fact, P. Rajagopalachari during Mulam Tirunal’s reign had openly declared that there had been ‘a systematic effort to conciliate the Nair community by employing men of that community more largely in the public service’.114 The strategy was to win the most important party on to the government’s side, with the dubious carrot of special rights, while using the stick on the rest if needed. And in this way the last many governments had continued to hold on to all the powers that mattered while keeping the growing political movement conveniently distracted with communal issues. But Sethu Lakshmi Bayi decided, with all her quiet grit and determination, to put an end to such an approach. She would not bribe one community against another and soil her hands; she would not take sides. Instead, she aimed to change the rules of the game entirely. The first step in this direction was taken in 1925 by announcing equal opportunity to everybody regardless of communal affiliations. And a decisive second aimed in 1926 to demolish the power already accumulated by political factions thanks to the short-sighted carrot-and-stick policy of her predecessors.

  It is also likely that given her own idealistic outlook and political conservatism, the urbane Maharani viewed the politicians and their petty communal rivalries with a kind of righteous condescension. A later Resident, for instance, declared most local politicians ‘as lousy a lot’ as possible, who were ‘lying, mean, cowardly, conceited, intriguing, and packed full of envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness. I wish,’ he added, ‘they could be deported en masse to Abyssinia and have a taste of real repression and oppression by a really totalitarian government.’115 Sethu Lakshmi Bayi herself, more tellingly, had a very poor opinion of political journalism in Travancore. She saw it largely as ‘a nefarious trade’ and a ‘newspaper tyranny’ run by ‘men of straw and no education’ for the ‘intimidation and blackmailing’ of the government. No moralistic arguments about the Freedom of Expression could convince her to change her mind because what was at stake here was more serious, in her opinion, than the right of a few to write what they pleased. Indeed, she would stubbornly defend the Newspaper Regulation, happily pointing out some years later that it had had a ‘most salutary effect’ on the ‘moral atmosphere’ in the country, and was lauded by all but a ‘refractory minority’ who were out to make trouble.116

  And so it looked as if the Maharani had declared war against the existing state of affairs. It was a can of worms, however, and she was cautioned to stick to the tried and tested methods of her predecessors instead of stepping on the toes of such powerful factions. P. Rajagopalachari, for instance, warned of how the ‘fanatical’ Nairs ‘once roused, will be difficult to pacify’.117 In the short time she had to rule, others quietly counselled, it would do her better to placate that most potent political group in the land, however unabashedly communal its agenda might be, and win its approval. Problems of a larger, irreversible nature would inescapably emerge in the long run, but they could be addressed at that time by whoever was in charge. Sethu Lakshmi Bayi, however, stuck to her obstinate scheme of political and moral reform. With no compromises, she insisted on the need for local politics to champion values superior to communalism, and with as much single-mindedness, she was determined to preserve the power of the monarch during these years when Travancore increasingly seemed to veer towards the uncertainty that precedes democratic, free rule.

  The Nairs, though, had to defend their own objectives against the Maharani’s resolve. In the initial aftermath of the Newspaper Regulation they were somewhat confounded as they went about arranging protest marches and demonstrations. But they recovered soon enough to realise that a strategic policy needed to be met with calculated tact in equal measure. While loudly lamenting the demise of free speech in a language laden with moral rhetoric, they too prepared to hit the Maharani where it hurt most. They knew that all other Regents in India had only limited powers that prohibited them from altering longstanding policies. But Sethu Lakshmi Bayi ruled with the full powers of a sovereign because the Government of India had recognised her as a ‘unique’ Regent. If they withdrew that status, however, she would be reduced to a mere figurehead and all her executive acts could be declared illegitimate, including the latest. And so if they could cripple that basic foundation of her regime and bring her down, the rest of the struggle could be won with ease. In the desperate throes of the times, therefore, the Nairs came together and decided to inflict upon their Maharani a political blow she would never forget.

  While within Travancore its politicians’ patience with memorandums and petitions had long been exhausted after decades of cumbersome dealings with the royal family, in attempting to win over the Government of India they were still prepared to make use of such ostensibly constitutional methods. The feeling of a pan-Indian nationalism, with the British Raj as its sworn enemy, had still not arrived in the state. The result was that local politicians were willing to implore and beseech the powers that be in Delhi instead of going down the path of anti-colonial demonstrations and Gandhian satyagraha that sought to construct an Indian nation. Their agitations were against their monarch and in achieving their goals, which were more local than national, they were happy to pose as the very embodiments of moderate virtue before authorities they knew to be superior to the royal house. Accordingly, on 20 July 1926 a group of Nair politicians, amid considerable fanfare, submitted a lengthy political memorial against the Maharani to Mr Vernon. Ambitiously titled a ‘Representation from the People of Travancore’ it was duly transmitted to the Political Department of the Government of India for their con
sideration and counsel to the Viceroy.118

  The principal objective of this memorial was to strike at the roots of Sethu Lakshmi Bayi’s status as de facto ruler of Travancore. She enjoyed the position of Pooradam Tirunal Maharajah because under matrilineal law she had succeeded as head of the royal house. And in that capacity she was vested with full powers that allowed her to supersede the legislature and command all customary authority. The title of Regent was only one that was imposed by the Government of India, which had no practical relevance in that her authority was internally absolute and unrestricted. But the memorialists decided to challenge this. They conceded that indeed matrilineal law guaranteed uninhibited power to the senior female member of the royal family. However, they argued, Sethu Lakshmi Bayi could not personally claim to benefit from this owing to certain peculiar precedents. She could only, instead, do what appointed Regents in other states were permitted to do. And this was, simply, close to nothing.

  The Government of India was reminded that at the time of the Maharani’s adoption, the then Elayarajah had objected to the proceedings citing his own right to do so according to custom. As per the strict letter of the law, thus, the adoption ought not to have been recognised since there was no consensus in the family. But Mulam Tirunal and the Government of India had brushed aside his protests arguing (a) that the royal family was not an ordinary matrilineal household and so the regular law did not strictly apply and (b) that the adoption was an Act of State that did not require sanction under matrilineal law anyway. If the adoption were an Act of State without connection to matriliny, the memorialists conjectured, the Maharani, as a product of the adoption could surely not claim rights under the law. In other words, the ‘contention that Her Highness the Regent rules by inherent right is opposed to the facts and circumstances of the adoption’. Indeed, they went to the extent of suggesting that ‘any other person’, a complete alien, could have been appointed Regent in Travancore. Similarly, there was nothing to stop the Government of India from instituting a Council of Regency, which they felt ought still to be constituted to check the tyranny of the Maharani.119