The result was that the Junior Maharani and the Maharajah, who had so far hoped to ‘fight it out’ now sheepishly changed their mind, not least when it became clear that there were those who were capable of making violent attacks on even someone like Sir CP, who inspired such dread and fear. Mountbatten noted with some smug satisfaction then: ‘Shortly after [Sir CP’s] return, he was assaulted with a billhook and very nearly killed. The [Congress] turned the heat full on and Travancore immediately gave in. The Maharajah telegraphed his acceptance of the Instrument of Accession to me personally, and C.P.’s friends have been trying to get Patel to call off the [agitation of the Congress]. He is trying to do this but is having very considerable difficulty, since C.P. had really driven them beyond endurance. The adherence of Travancore after all C.P.’s declarations of independence has had a profound effect on all the other States and is sure to shake the Nizam.’50 The vacillating Nizam would, as it happened, require some military persuasion, and there is every possibility that had Sir CP and the Maharajah remained determined in their previous position, ‘Nehru would have marched the [Indian] army into Travancore’ as well.51
By the end of July Sir CP realised that responsible rule would now have to be implemented, preparing therefore to resign from his position. ‘It is impossible for me to function here as one of several Ministers or what is inevitable under the [expected] Constitution, as a kind of Secretary to H.H.,’ he wrote. ‘By temperament and training, I am unfit for compromises, being autocratic and over decisive. I don’t fit,’ he concluded, finally acknowledging the writing on the wall, ‘into the present environment.’52 In his decline everyone in Travancore abandoned the man, and an exit was his only option. On 19 August 1947, after twelve years of ruling Travancore and undoubtedly taking it to unprecedented levels of prosperity (revenues now stood at Rs 9 crore), Sir CP retired from the Dewan’s office as the most hated premier in all its history. Ever so canny and clever, the man who really made the Junior Maharani and the last Maharajah of Travancore, ultimately failed to choose the right side in his final battle with history. He left for his house in Ooty, and for all his material contributions to the state, its people were delighted to see the back of him.
A fortnight after his departure, the politically chastened Maharajah announced a fresh constitution, inaugurating, at long last, responsible rule in Travancore. A proclamation issued called for ‘a representative body consisting of persons elected on the basis of adult franchise’ in Travancore, to meet no later than 1 January 1948. Only matters pertaining to the royal family, temples, and other such subjects were excluded from its purview, but for the first time the state would have an elected Dewan.53 P.G.N. Unnithan, a senior government official and relative of the royal family, was appointed to lead the state in the meantime.54 After State Congress leaders were released from prison and all negotiations were completed, on 24 March 1948 the state’s first popularly elected government then came to power. The new minister was Pattom Thanu Pillai, and others in his administration included C. Kesavan and T.M. Varghese, all of whom had the unique distinction of not only being Congressmen, but also of having been imprisoned by the very state they now ruled during the regime of their hated predecessor.55
Sir CP, in the meantime, was destined to lead the last two decades of his life in a sort of cushioned obscurity. He now converted into an admirer of the nationalists. ‘May I take this opportunity,’ he wrote to Patel, ‘to convey to you my sincere felicitations,’ adding how be could not ‘refrain from paying my tribute to the consummate talents of leadership manifested by you and Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru’.56 Perhaps having realised belatedly the turn of the tide, Sir CP decided to placate the very men he once cordially despised. By 1958, he would even tell a blatant lie by claiming that what he had advocated for Travancore was not ‘independence’ but ‘autonomy’.57 For all this, Sir CP appears to have left Travancore with a bitter taste in his mouth. Writing to the Maharajah in 1949, he returned titles and honours the latter bestowed on him, because of the ruler’s ‘acquiescence [in] or approval of the removal of the bust in the Legislative Chamber and Your Highness’ silence or inaction in respect of [the declaration of a certain Congress leader] that he knew my assailant and was prepared to produce him’.58
What relations, if any, he maintained in the years that followed with the Junior Maharani and the Maharajah are not known. But as Louise Ouwerkerk would remark, ‘At no time either at the height of his power or after his fall, did he cast the blame for the disastrous policies where it belonged’, i.e., at the doors of Kowdiar Palace.59 ‘He was not a free agent: he supported their policies—even those that were foolish and impracticable, he announced them as his own—he defended them, worked them out, took the blame for what went wrong, braved the storms of hatred and calumny and the threats to his life. He was indeed a “daring pilot in extremity”.’60 Even in his fall, he remained dignified enough not to vent frustration at his former royal masters in Travancore, though his general opinion about Indian princes seems to offer an insight into his regret. ‘Generally speaking,’ he would dryly observe in 1948, ‘all the great Kshatriya rulers— descendants of the Sun and Moon—behave like mendicants and sycophants and have no more spirit than a parcel of frightened rabbits or sheep. They deserve [their] fate and I congratulate Patel on the brilliant results of his [policy to get princely states to accede to India].’61
Sir CP became, in retirement, an international speaker and served as the vice chancellor of two universities, since Nehru refused to give him any greater role (‘This man’s perfidy is too recent to be overlooked,’ he reportedly remarked).62 In 1966, aged eighty-seven, he went to London to collect material for what would have been his riveting memoirs. But he died there suddenly on the 26 September, sitting in an armchair at the Liberal Club.63 A.G. Noorani says in a description of the man, ‘Friend and foe alike spoke of his gifts in the superlative. An erudite lawyer, gifted advocate, and born administrator, this consummate politician was also deeply interested in the arts, especially Carnatic music, and in literature. Clarity of thought and precision in expression were matched by a sense of humour and gift of repartee. Add to these an impressive personality and you get the measure of a forceful personality admired by most, respected by many, feared by some, but distrusted by a significant number.’64 As one of the conspirators in his assassination attempt would later add: ‘We did not mean to kill him; killing was too good for him. We meant to send him away from the state humiliated and disgraced—and we succeeded.’65 Travancore, an awkward entity created with the devoted assistance of Tamil Brahmins, went down also with one of the greatest Tamil Brahmins who ever lived. And its dynasty’s most loyal adherent became also its ultimate gravedigger.
As war rumbled halfway across the world in Europe, and while Sir CP and the Junior Maharani committed themselves to a battle against communists, life in Satelmond Palace in the 1940s had continued with an isolated, dreamlike tranquillity. Great changes were, it was known, rapidly approaching, indeed occurring with each passing day, and the Senior Maharani was horrified by the repression that had been unleashed in the state. But nobody was certain what precisely the future held in store. A keen eye was levelled on their disintegrating surroundings, growing more and more violent, and on the tottering world at large. Sethu Lakshmi Bayi was by now hors de combat, having surrendered to the Junior Maharani after the Sripadam dispute in 1939. The avenues for harassment were rapidly depleting and by the early 1940s there was little left for the authorities to rake up at her expense. An attempt was made to take over her estate in Peermade, but was foiled by the Resident.66 Then, in 1941, the Maharajah threatened to terminate her pension if she did not pay him regular courtesy calls. But if he was looking to pick a fight, he was treated instead to the uncomplaining obedience of his injunctions by a disappointed woman. Despite being older than his mother, the Senior Maharani yielded to present herself and pay her respects at Kowdiar Palace as and when its masters pleased.67
Having surrendered e
verything she had, whether it was status in the royal family, official duties in the Sripadam, or even the management of her wider ménage, Sethu Lakshmi Bayi found her mind evolving from a feeling of deep hurt and pain to a sense of considerable liberation. It was also a moral victory for her, since the people of Travancore recognised and empathised with her. ‘The general feeling was that the Senior Maharani was not treated the way she deserved to be,’ states one prominent individual from the time,68 and successive Residents also noted that one of the primary causes for the Junior Maharani’s unpopularity was her harassment of her widely respected cousin. But Sethu Lakshmi Bayi did not concern herself with a contest with the Junior Maharani any more. That phase of her life had ended (not due to choice to begin with), and she rose above it all with an almost ascetic determination, which also served as the only moral consolation and historical weapon for one in her position. The pomp and glamour of royal life was maintained around her carefully, but she knew it was a shell devoid of all its meaning. So she cared no longer for that old world, dissolving, much like she had during the unhappy 1910s, into a world of books and family. And indeed, this was a more joyous immersion than dwelling on injustices, past or present.
‘The day at Satelmond Palace,’ the Maharani’s nephew would recall, ‘began at around 6:30 in the morning. It was always the Valiya Koil Tampuran who was up first because he had to have breakfast before seven o’clock. And while his meal was served, he would listen to Soviet news on the radio! Of all the channels, he preferred the English broadcast from Russia, since it was wartime and he wanted to hear the “other angle” to the story. He had an old, loud radio with a valve and Exide batteries. Every few days it would have to be carried to the garage and recharged. It was so blaring that we could hear it even in our part of the grounds. And when the Russian broadcast began, everyone knew it was time to wake up and get on with the day!’ Rama Varma would then stroll around the gardens, and sit down to read a formidable stack of newspapers. ‘He spoke Tamil well, but he couldn’t read it, and one of his menservants used to read the Tamil papers from the stack, loud, from end to end, for him. It was fascinating to watch this activity every day, and to observe the Valiya Koil Tampuran sit there, his eyes shut, absorbing all the information.’69
By this time Sethu Lakshmi Bayi would be dressed, and ready to start her day. ‘She no longer had those long hours of prayers, and spent most of her time in her enormous bedroom. There was on one side an exquisite canopied four-poster bed, which she used as her night bed and slept in. But once she got ready in the morning, she would not sit there and instead used her day bed, with bolsters and cushions for support. She could sit and read like this for hours, and if she tired, she would recline and continue.’70 At some point in the morning the Valiya Koil Tampuran would, as usual, arrive to pay his respects. ‘It was so wonderful to watch them,’ Princess Rukmini recalls. ‘They had such a formal marriage. Grandfather always addressed her as “Your Highness”, but she didn’t call him anything in particular. He never took a seat in her room till she asked one of her maids to bring in a chair. And while they were together, all these women would wait in the anteroom.’71 It was a curious situation and whether, by now, husband and wife maintained conjugal relations is not known.
Though the Maharani’s lunches remained elaborate affairs, she only hosted banquets on festive occasions, preferring to eat in the privacy of her room ordinarily. Everyone else also had their own personal kitchen arrangements into the 1940s, with their own menus and requirements, all guided, however, by a member of the palace staff who informed ‘concerned members of the family of their obligations on special days in the Hindu calendar’.72 Rama Varma had a simple meal of his own. ‘He only ever ate toast, roasted vegetables and something they called karipatti, which was made from jaggery of the palmyra tree.’73 Up on the first floor, Princess Lalitha and Kerala Varma, who had started something of an innovation by sharing a bedroom, ate their meals separately, since their timings varied from those of the parents. Princess Indira, similarly, dined independently in her own apartments, because her husband Kuttan was perpetually unwell right from the time of their wedding, and could not move about too much. The happiest and most delighted beneficiaries of this system and the delicious variety it offered were the children. ‘We could join grandfather if we liked,’ remembers Princess Parvathi, ‘but we had to let him know in advance so that he could instruct his cooks. Or we could eat with our parents who enjoyed very relaxed meals. Grandmother’s were the grandest, and we all sat on silk mats and ate, and aunt’s were rather quiet and dignified, though I remember her frequently eating with grandfather too.’74
After lunch everyone resumed their various activities. The Maharani would go back to read or enjoy an afternoon siesta. If she were in the library, the girls often joined her. ‘We would all sit down around her, and she would read to us from English books or from Malayalam novels. My sister Uma could never sit for too long, and she used to run off at the first opportunity she got! Grandmother never said anything, but when she later asked us questions from the book we were reading and debriefed us about the story, Uma would be in a fix. She would try her best to persuade us to tell her the stories, but we wouldn’t tell her!’75 Princess Uma, as it happened, preferred spending the afternoons with her grandfather. ‘At around three o’clock he used to drink some coconut water, and then prepare for his walk, when I would join him,’ she remembers. ‘He had a wonderful collection of jokes and loved a laugh. I used to be a handful in those days, and one of my favourite afternoon activities was to hide his belongings in all sorts of curious places. He had a lovely collection of walking sticks, with engraved silver tops. I used to sneak into his place to cart these out, and then find some forgotten chandelier somewhere and hang them there. He always knew who had done it, but he humoured me.’76
The girls also, however, went their own way later in the afternoon. Rukmini was the Maharani’s pet and perpetual companion. ‘Though she was our grandmother too,’ tells Parvathi, ‘Uma and I found the Maharani a little awe-inspiring and even unapproachable sometimes. She always had so many people around her, and such an aura. But Rukmini was always with her. While we played outside, she would be inside, right next to grandmother, playing board games with her, or reading a book, or having long conversations on some childish subject or the other.’77 Indeed, Sethu Lakshmi Bayi evolved an unusual fondness towards her eldest granddaughter, which was to last all her remaining life, singling out Princess Rukmini to receive her emotional as well as financial largesse. ‘She was always a very smart, attractive child,’ tells Princess Indira, ‘and she was mother’s first grandchild. So she became attached to her and doted on her, to the extent that my sister used to worry the Maharani would spoil the girl.’78 ‘I think,’ tells Sethu Lakshmi Bayi’s nephew, ‘she looked at Rukmini as heiress to the Attingal lineage. Even in terms of features and complexion, they were similar.’79 Rukmini herself admits her special treatment.
I remember once breaking a fabulous marble statue at Kovalam. I ought to have got a real whack but grandmother scolded the servants instead! In fact when father scolded me now and then for some mischief or the other, I would run and tell grandmother, and she would then tell father off for scolding me! Another time I remember sitting in a chair near her and reading, and by accident I dropped the book from my hands. She wouldn’t let me pick it up, and summoned one of her maids instead! She didn’t do this for the others, or even for herself. But for some reason, she pampered me till my parents were worried it would all go to my head. Whatever I did, grandmother never scolded me. That was one of the things my sisters resented. She would reprimand them for things but I could get off scot-free no matter what!80
But even Rukmini could not always have her way. Miss Watts, now quite old, was a regular visitor at Satelmond Palace, calling at least once a week. ‘She was a tall lady—rather plump, with curly hair and twinkling hazel eyes, behind round, gold-rimmed glasses,’ Princess Lakshmi would later say. ‘She wa
s a very jolly woman, and we used to look forward to her visits because she would bring the most delicious guava toffee I have ever eaten.’81 On one particular visit, however, Miss Watts brought with her not only her usual toffee, cake or other presents she always carried for the Maharani, but also a pig! ‘She presented the pig to me,’ laughs Princess Rukmini, ‘and I was so very overjoyed at my new pet. I think Uma and Parvathi had mixed feelings about it, but I was certain grandmother would let me keep it in my room. You can then imagine how crestfallen I was when she said, “Nothing doing, and you had better leave that animal outside.” She pampered me, but grandmother had not the remotest inclination to allow a pig to trot about her palace halls!’82
While Rukmini, thus, spent her time with Sethu Lakshmi Bayi, Uma would be running around with restless energy. ‘She couldn’t sit in one place for more than a few minutes,’ laughs Princess Parvathi, ‘and before you knew it, she was in the next room, trying to climb onto something or wriggling into a giant bison skull, and god knows what! I had no alternative but to run after her, and often when she played a prank, I was punished for it as a reluctant accessory to the crime.’83 One of the favourites of all the children was troubling, rather unmercifully, the soldiers at the gate. As per custom, every time these guards encountered a member of the royal family, normally on entering or leaving the palace premises, they had to stand up, present arms, blow the trumpet, and play the state anthem. ‘Uma would stealthily evade all our servants and pattakkars, with me in tow, and walk up and down the drive ten times, so these poor men couldn’t get a moment’s rest! And then, just when they sat down, glad to see our backs, she would jump out of a bush somewhere, and the soldiers would be back on their tired feet—trumpets, drums, and all! It was quite entertaining for us girls though we did harass those poor souls a great deal, now that I think of it.’84
Ivory Throne Page 65