TALES FROM THE CAPITAL CITY – 154

 When an Image Becomes Evidence

In 1892, in a letter written from Baroda, a young monk wrote to his friend, “Of course, I have seen the library and the pictures by Ravi Varma, and that is about all worth seeing here.” These words of appreciation did not come from an ordinary monk, but from Swami Vivekananda, who, in less than a year, would deliver his iconic address at the Parliament of the World’s Religions in Chicago.

In 1893, Chicago attracted visitors from across the globe for the World’s Columbian Exposition, the event that brought the city into international prominence. Organised to commemorate the 400th anniversary of Christopher Columbus’s arrival in the New World in 1492, the grand exhibition was laid out in specially designed temporary buildings and was widely believed to have been conceived to outshine earlier landmark expositions, such as the Great London Exhibition of 1851 and the Paris Exposition of 1889.

As Swami Vivekananda’s speech resonated across the Western world, spreading the ethos of Hindu spiritual thought, the Kingdom of Travancore made a significant cultural contribution by sending ten artworks by its most renowned artist, Raja Ravi Varma, for display at the exhibition.

The Sri Chitra Art Gallery in Thiruvananthapuram holds two large framed certificates presented to Raja Ravi Varma by the World’s Columbian Exposition, recognising his exhibition of ten oil paintings described as being of “ethnological value.” An early biographer of the artist notes that by the time Ravi Varma reached Bombay towards the end of 1892, he had already completed five of the paintings intended for the exhibition, with the remaining works executed in Bombay. Once all ten paintings were completed, Ravi Varma displayed them publicly in the city before sending them to Chicago.

Accompanying the paintings was a booklet prepared by the artist, listing the titles and details of each work. Although these titles have been reproduced in numerous studies on Ravi Varma, several of the paintings have remained elusive, leaving room for speculation among art historians and connoisseurs, each offering their own interpretations. Of the ten paintings sent to the exhibition, two eventually entered the Sri Chitralayam collection in 1935. However, only one—Gypsies of South India—remains there today. The other, titled Decking the Bride, has been loaned to the Raj Bhavan (the Governor’s residence) in Thiruvananthapuram, where it is currently housed. Other well-known works from this group include There Comes Papa, Bombay Singer, Expectation, and The Begum’s Bath.

Among the works that remain unsettled are four paintings: Disappointing News, At the Well, The Veena Player, and Sisterly Remembrance. While the debate surrounding Disappointing News remains open, it is now possible to move towards a conclusion regarding the other three, as compelling evidence has recently emerged in the form of a photograph offered at auction by Bid & Hammer, a prominent auction house. Titled Hindoo Jugglers’ Room, the image depicts four of the ten paintings displayed in the Indian Tea Room at the World’s Columbian Exposition. The original halftone print was published in 1894 by the Jewell N. Halligan Company.

Hindoo Jugglers’ Room, original halftone print was published in 1894 by the Jewell N. Halligan Company. It depicts four out of the ten paintings displayed by Raja Ravi Varma – From left to right: At the Well, Decking the Bride, Sisterly Remembrance, and The Veena Player © bidandhammer

Left: Hindoo Jugglers’ Room, detail showing At the Well and Decking the Bride.

Right: Hindoo Jugglers’ Room, detail showing Sisterly Remembrance and The Veena Player.

With the help of this photograph, we are perhaps, for the first time, able to glimpse the most elusive painting of the group—Sisterly Remembrance. As the title suggests, the work explores the theme of camaraderie between sisters, in this instance from a Maratha family, who appear to be engaged in conversation. In the background, to the right, an idol of Lord Ganesha is visible. The photograph also lays to rest long-standing confusion surrounding two other paintings—At the Well and The Veena Player—both of which had been misidentified by several researchers.

Left: The possible candidate for Disappointing News – photograph of the original painting (private collection). See Raja Ravi Varma – An Everlasting Imprint (Vol I) by Ganesh V. Shivaswamy for more details.
Right: The Begum’s Bath News – photograph of the original painting (private collection).

Far from being a mere visual record, the photograph functions as a critical document that bridges archival gaps, resolves long-standing ambiguities, and reshapes our understanding of lost or misidentified works. In the case of Raja Ravi Varma’s paintings at the World’s Columbian Exposition, the photograph not only corroborates textual sources but also restores visual certainty to titles that had long existed only in lists and speculation.

Sharat Sunder R

08.01.2026.

TALES FROM THE CAPITAL CITY – 153

 

Ravi Varma paintings in Industrial School of Arts, Thiruvananthapuram

This old photograph reveals the interior of the Industrial School of Arts, Trivandrum (College of Fine Arts), where finely crafted ivory objects are displayed in large cabinets. In the foreground stand terracotta heraldic lions—still seen flanking the entrances of old aristocratic houses (Image 02 - from Thekkae Kurumkudy, Perumthanni), locally known as 'simham vecha veedukal.'

Lion figurine from Thekkae Kurumkudy, Perumthanni

A closer look at the array of ivory objects on display reveals an exquisite carving of Mohini seated on a swing— inspired by a popular work by Ravi Varma—suspended from the tips of elephant tusks mounted on a wooden base. This appears to be the same piece seen in a Travancore postcard. Also visible is a framed photograph of the Padmanabha Swamy Temple by D’Cruz, the Government Photographer.

Mohini seated on a swing

What truly stands out is Raja Ravi Varma’s 'Sakunthala' (1898), displayed on the wall. Along with Draupadi at the Court of Virata, Damayanti and the Hamsam, Draupadi and Simhika, and Rugmangatha and Mohini, it formed the nucleus of the art gallery envisioned by Ravi Varma, later evolving into the Sri Chitralayam during the reign of Chithira Tirunal Bala Rama Varma, the last Maharajah of Travancore.

Raja Ravi Varma’s 'Sakunthala' (1898), displayed on the wall.

TALES FROM THE CAPITAL CITY – 152

Structures of Power, Spaces of Memory: 

Agrarian Houses of Southern Travancore 

Nanjilnaadu (now part of Kanyakumari District, Tamil Nadu), once hailed as the “rice bowl of Travancore,” was renowned for its distinctive landscape, culture, and agrarian way of life. A veritable treasure trove of history, the region was also home to the grand timber homesteads known as the arappura veedukal, typically constructed overlooking the fertile farmlands. Today, only a few of these houses survive to recount the ethos of a lifestyle unfamiliar to the modern generation. Architect Sharat Sunder R weaves a compelling narrative around these dwellings—their unique architectural character, family lore, and the lives of eminent personalities who once emerged from within their walls.

Watch the full talk here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WaMOwV3biwc

TALES FROM THE CAPITAL CITY – 151

Memory and Mystery

This fascinating snippet is from my journal dated 2016, where I had recorded an intriguing incident narrated by the late Prof. Sankaran Nair. I felt compelled to share it, as it features not only some well-known personalities of the time but also the historic Panniyarathala Veedu in Jagathy. For those interested in knowing more, I had written two detailed articles for The Hindu—one tracing the history of Panniyarathala Veedu, and the other on K. Janardhanan Pillai, former Headmaster of Model School and father of Prof. Sankaran Nair.

The finely carved eastern mukhappu (gable) of Panniyarathala Veedu, Jagathy.

25.05.2016 - K. Janardhanan Pillai B.A. L.T. (b.1875-d.1965) began his teaching career at a government school in Kollam, where Prof. K. Paramu Pillai M.A. (the first M.A. degree holder in Travancore) served as the headmaster. Recalling his days in Kollam, Prof. Sankaran Nair shared an intriguing story he had heard from his parents.

During his time in Kollam, Janardhanan Pillai and his colleagues often gathered at the residence of Paramu Pillai (b.1871-d.1919). These informal get-togethers were occasionally graced by the presence of the renowned poet K.C. Keshava Pillai, who enlivened the gatherings with his melodious singing. "He sang beautifully, lifting the mood of the evenings," remembered Prof. Sankaran Nair.

Paramu Pillai had a deep interest in semi-metaphysical pursuits and had acquired a fair command of hypnotism through extensive reading. On one such evening, when friends had assembled at his home, he hypnotized a young boy—probably aged between 12 and 15—and asked him to mentally travel to Janardhanan Pillai’s residence, Panniyarathala Veedu, in Jagathy, Thiruvananthapuram.

K. Janardhanan Pillai B.A. L.T. & K. Paramu Pillai M.A.

To everyone’s astonishment, the boy, who had never visited Thiruvananthapuram, began vividly describing the Valiyasala region while lying in a trance in Kollam. He went on to narrate what he "saw" during his imagined walk towards Panniyarathala Veedu: sprawling stretches of farmland and a clear stream (Kochar) winding alongside the road. Suddenly, the boy fell silent. When Paramu Pillai gently prompted him, he explained that it had started raining and that he was now taking shelter under a padippura to avoid getting drenched.

Once the rain ceased, he resumed his journey and continued detailing the sights along the way. Finally, he reached the front of the house—an expansive arayum-nirayum structure built predominantly in timber. However, when asked to enter the compound, the boy hesitated. He claimed he saw a commanding elderly figure at the entrance—Kesava Pillai, the karnavar (patriarch) of the house and Janardhanan Pillai’s father—issuing instructions to a group of people.

Encouraged by Paramu Pillai, the boy cautiously "entered" the compound and reported seeing a large iron safe placed in the adichuttupura (adichuttupura = "adichu-koottiya-pura" is a temporary entrance hall/pavilion constructed in the front-yard of the main house) of the house. Listening to this account, Janardhanan Pillai, who was present at the session, was stunned. The description matched his home precisely, including the iron safe, which was normally kept in the inner rooms under the custody of his father. His only confusion was why it was placed outside in the adichuttupura. The boy then added that some men appeared to be scraping the surface of the safe. It occurred to Janardhanan Pillai that it might have been moved out temporarily for its periodic repainting. To verify this, he immediately sent a postcard home, asking if it had rained that day and why the iron safe had been shifted to the porch.

The poomukham (eastern verandah) of Panniyarathala Veedu, Jagathy.

When the boy awoke from the trance, he had no recollection of the episode or of his "visit" to Thiruvananthapuram. However, when Janardhanan Pillai returned home the following weekend, he found his family eagerly awaiting an explanation—curious and amazed by how he had so accurately recounted the events at home from a distance.

• 
  My write-up on K. Janardhanan Pillai:

https://www.thehindu.com/features/metroplus/society/Portrait-of-a-teacher/article14382525.ece

• My write-up on Panniyarathala Veedu:

https://www.thehindu.com/features/metroplus/Those-emerald-fields-of-yore-%E2%80%A6/article14490896.ece

• My write-up on Prof. Sankaran Nair:

https://www.thehindu.com/features/friday-review/history-and-culture/memories-of-a-prince-and-a-gentleman/article6363026.ece

Sharat Sunder Rajeev

01.08.2025.

TALES FROM THE CAPITAL CITY – 150

 In the Studio of Memory: A Tribute to the Court Artists of Travancore

This write-up is based on an interview (2006) with my Periyappan, late Sri Thankaswamy Achari, 

artist (my mother's elder sister's husband), who, through recollections of his association 

with old school artists, had inspired me to research on the court painters of Travancore.

Artist Manacaud K. Ramakrishnan Achari,
portrait painted by his son R. Haridas (1969). Private Collection.

A small boy of hardly ten years once lost his way in the meandering corridors of a vast palace complex. It was his first visit to the town and the Valiya Kottaram in the Fort, Thiruvananthapuram, and as he walked from one room to another, he felt guilty for not listening to his grandfather. 

His grandfather, a humble caretaker of the Maharaja’s ‘Golden Chariot’, had asked him to remain in the old Radhapura (the chariot house). However, the young boy’s innate curiosity got the better of him and he quickly slipped out of his grandfather's sight. He peeked into one of the rooms in a nearby building; the room resembled a dark tunnel with a rectangular pocket of light on the other side. He walked towards the light. One room led to another, and finally, after he had tried in vain to return to his grandfather, the young lad entered a room that was, like the others, dark. 

Standing in the dark, he scrutinised the surroundings. When his eyes got accustomed to the darkness, he noticed the shadowy images on the walls. Now what? He cursed himself for straying away from his grandfather. He felt an urge to run, to escape from the clutches of the apparitions in the room. At one end of the room was diffused light coming from an unknown space. He jumped across the high thresholds, racing towards the comforting light. A well-lit room was now visible. When the fearful thoughts loosened its clutches, he could make out the image of a man, dressed in white, seated before a strange ‘equipment’. The boy’s heart was pounding, and he was sweating profusely as he approached the room. Surprisingly, the ‘man in white’ had not noticed his presence; he was busy leaning over a table cluttered with glass bottles and several brushes. 

The boy noticed that a few brushes had fallen off the table and were lying scattered on the floor. Now it became clear that the strange three-legged ‘equipment’ was an easel, and on it was a picture, painted in glowing colours. The little boy stood behind the door, silently observing the actions of the 'man in white’. Suddenly, he felt a heavy hand fall on his shoulder; a cold shiver went down his spine. He was sure that it was the ghostly apparitions that caught him. However, as he turned around, he saw the smiling face of his grandfather! “Now you don’t pester him with your mischief,” his grandfather said. It was only then did the 'man in the white’ notice the unexpected visitors at his door. "Ah, Kesavan, so you finally made it to my studio!” he said. “And who is this boy? Is he your grandson?” he asked. Kesavan pushed the little boy to the front. “Yes, he is my grandson. Sorry if he disturbed you.” The little boy who braved the dark corridors was now shy to face his grandfather’s friend. “Come here, my boy,” the man in white said. “He was exploring the palace on his own,” Kesavan said. Reluctantly, the boy looked at the man’s face. He was smiling. “So, did you see the paintings by Raja Ravi Varma? If you haven’t, let me show you around.” Without another word, the ‘man in white’ caught hold of his hand and walked towards the dark rooms. 

The dark rooms were not the same anymore. The ghostly apparitions, which the boy saw clearly, were images of people adorned in state robes and beautiful ornaments. The boy had never in his life seen such beautiful pictures! In the other rooms, he came across several fascinating artefacts. Little did he realise then that he was in an art gallery! 

The ‘man in white’, after he had shown around the place, walked with his visitors to the nearby Radhapura. “My grandson has an aptitude for drawing. It will be a blessing for him if he can learn drawing under your instruction,” Kesavan said. By this time, the boy had gathered that his grandfather’s friend was an artist and that he was employed at the royal art gallery. “Why not? He can come to my home whenever he wishes to,” he said. Before they left, Kesavan directed his grandson to get the artist's blessing. The boy touched the artist’s feet. “My blessings will always be with you,” the boy heard these words ringing in his ears. 

It was many years later that I had the fortune to sit beside Thankaswamy Achari - the ‘little boy’- who was then in his early sixties, and record a detailed narration of his first encounter with his master. The setting for the first meeting was also spectacular; the art gallery the boy had unknowingly entered was the famed Ranga Vilas Art Gallery, maintained by the Travancore royals. The ‘man in white’–Manacaud K. Ramakrishnan Achari - the boy later came to know was one of the most respected artists in the erstwhile Travancore Princely State.

Artist Thankaswamy Achari

Note:
Thankaswamy Achari (d. 2006) was my mother’s elder sister’s husband. His guru, Manacaud K. Ramakrishnan Achari, was my paternal great-grandfather.

A portrait (oil on canvas) by Thankaswamy Achari.

A group portrait (oil on canvas) by Thankaswamy Achari.

TALES FROM THE CAPITAL CITY – 149

Fragments of a Forgotten Atelier: Early Works of Raja Ravi Varma

Despite the considerable corpus of research on Raja Ravi Varma and his oeuvre, relatively little is known about his early career in Travancore, particularly during his tenure as Court Painter under Maharajah Ayilyam Tirunal. Due to the scarcity of surviving records from this period, one of the few ways to trace the evolution of his artistic sensibilities and technique is through a close study of the works he produced during those formative years.

However, a significant impediment to such inquiry is the limited accessibility of Ravi Varma’s early paintings to art historians and researchers. Most remain in private collections, often undocumented and unseen by the wider public. The documented phase of his artistic career is typically said to begin with the commissions he received in the 1870s from Kizhakkepat Krishna Menon, a Sub-Judge based in Thalassery.

In the course of research for my forthcoming book, I encountered several early works by Varma from the period when he served as a dedicated painter in the royal atelier. Today, I wish to introduce one such painting: a portrait dated to around 1880, depicting Nagan Narayana, also known as Nanoo Pillai (1827–1886), who served as the Dewan (Prime Minister) of Travancore from 1877 to 1880.

Dewan Nanoo Pillai, painted by Ravi Varma c.1880.

Ravi Varma, then a young but already accomplished artist, was widely praised for his ability to capture a striking and often flattering likeness of his subjects. In this portrait, he renders Nanoo Pillai’s face with finesse, attending closely to the rich embroidery of the turban and the detailed textures of the Dewan’s attire. Yet, as the viewer’s gaze moves away from the face, it is drawn to a striking anomaly — a disproportionately elongated arm, with unnaturally long fingers hanging downward.

This curious flaw stands in contrast to the otherwise meticulous execution of the work, offering a glimpse into the complexities and evolving practices of the artist during his early years.

Another noteworthy detail in this painting is the subtle and ingenious way in which Ravi Varma incorporates his signature. The Dewan is depicted holding a small piece of paper—presumably a letter—and inscribed upon it, facing the viewer, are the words: “Wishing you all happiness, I am Yours Very Sincerely, Ravi Varma.” This discreetly embedded signature suggests that the painting may have been intended as a personal gift from the artist to the esteemed minister, whose tenure concluded in 1880, shortly after the passing of Maharajah Ayilyam Tirunal.

It is important to note that 1880 marked a pivotal moment in Ravi Varma’s early career. The death of Ayilyam Tirunal, under whom Varma had enjoyed patronage and prominence, heralded a shift in the court's artistic climate. With the accession of Maharajah Visakham Tirunal Rama Varma, whose disapproval of Ravi Varma was reportedly well known in courtly circles, the artist's position within the Travancore court became increasingly uncertain. This transitional phase thus adds a layer of poignancy to the painting, which may be read as both a farewell gesture to a valued patron and a quiet reflection on changing fortunes at court.

In the 1940s, G.R. Natham, an artist based in Nagercoil, was commissioned to retouch the Dewan’s portrait. What renders this episode particularly noteworthy is that, fully aware of the painting’s provenance, Natham chose to inscribe his own name on the restored work.

Far from being an act of irreverence, this gesture may be interpreted as a conscious assertion of artistic agency. Like many followers and imitators of Raja Ravi Varma, Natham positioned himself within the extended lineage of the master’s legacy—an attempt, perhaps, not merely to restore a revered artwork, but to participate in its ongoing history and to claim a modest place within its narrative.

Sharat Sunder R

21.04.2025.

TALES FROM THE CAPITAL CITY – 148

 Between Two Courts: Art, Identity, and an Unfinished Story

The Kerala Museum @keralamuseum in Edapally houses a distinguished collection of paintings by contemporaries and key followers of Raja Ravi Varma. Among these, one artwork that is particularly compelling is a portrait of a matriarch from the Cochin royal family.

This painting is frequently misattributed as a portrait of Kalyanikutty Ammachi of Nagercoil Ammaveedu, consort of Maharajah Ayilyam Tirunal of Travancore. However, it is, in fact, the work of Mangala Bayi Tampuratti, the younger sister of Raja Ravi Varma. A fine example of Mangala Bayi’s refined artistic sensibilities from the early 1900s, the painting depicts Ikku Amma Tampuran (Subhadra Tampuran), a distinguished scholar and prolific composer in Sanskrit and Malayalam.

Ikku Amma Tampuran, portrait by Mangala Bayi Tampuratti,
Kerala Museum Collection.

Ikku Amma Tampuran (1844–1921) was the daughter of Kunjipilla Amma Tampuran and Kunju Namboothiripad of Koodalattupuram Illam. While the precise circumstances surrounding the commission remain unclear, this portrait—along with another of Ikku Amma’s daughter, Manku Tampuran (held in a private collection), painted by K.R. Ravi Varma (Mangala Bayi’s son)—suggests a close relationship between the Kilimanur and Cochin royal families.

An old group photograph from Ravi Varma’s studio further highlights this connection. It features Ikku Amma Tampuran seated at the center, with her daughters on either side (Manku Tampuran seated to her left) and her two sons standing behind her. Among them, the young man positioned behind her to the left is Kerala Varma VII, popularly known as Aikya Keralam Tampuran, the Maharaja of Cochin (r.1946–1948). A visionary ruler, he was a leading proponent of the unification of Kerala, advocating for the merger of British Malabar, Cochin, and Travancore into a single state for Malayalam-speaking people.

 Ikku Amma Tampuran with her sons and daughters, c. 1915
© The Diary of C. Raja Raja Varma, OUP.

Despite these connections, one question remains: why did Ravi Varma, the most celebrated artist of his era, never paint a single portrait of the Cochin royals? Was his formal affiliation with the Travancore court as the ‘Court Painter’ a constraint that prevented him from accepting commissions from the Cochin royals? Or was there another, unknown reason lost to history?

Sharat Sunder R

07.04.2025.

TALES FROM THE CAPITAL CITY – 147

 A Hidden Gem: Uncovering Forgotten Photographs

In 2013, I received a precious gift—an album of old photographs—from a descendant of a Travancore court painter. Moved by my passion for researching the legacy of the old-school painters, she entrusted me with her dear father's papers and documents, believing that they would be safe in my care. The album was a true treasure, filled with images of Travancore landmarks, portraits of the late artist’s family, and several Buddhist archaeological sites from Sri Lanka. Yet, while the photographs themselves were captivating, only a handful of pages bore any annotations—brief, notes that merely mentioned the name of a building or location.

With considerable effort, I identified some of the buildings and sites, only to discover that many of these images were far more significant than I had first realized. For example, the previous owner’s connection to the royal atelier meant that several photographs had come from the royal collection itself. One such gem was a photograph taken by Elayarajah Chatayam Tirunal—an amateur photographer and the nephew of the Maharajah of Travancore. This discovery was nothing short of a revelation.

I have many stories to share on how I identified some of the photos and the stories behind those images, but today, as I was glancing through the pages, I was reminded of a stunning 'discovery' I made in 2020. Fortunately, I made a note of it in my journal.

28.07.2020: "Today, as I was going through the individual pages of the album, I noticed that the last page was much thicker and stiffer than the others...saw that the two pages had been stuck together... Gently pulled away the outer leaf and to my surprise found that there was a beautiful photograph (titled 'Beach Palace' (Shangumugham), and dated '29.11.1929') hidden inside!"

It wasn't until much later that I came to realize the photograph had remained unseen for the past fifty years, hidden away in time's shadow.

Note: On the far left of the image, a group of anglers can be seen hauling in their catch from the sea.

13.01.2025.

TALES FROM THE CAPITAL CITY – 146

 Echoes of Renaissance: The Influence of 'Madonna Litta' on Raja Ravi Varma's 'Mother and Child'

'Madonna Litta,' a fifteenth-century painting by Leonardo da Vinci, has always been one of my personal favourites. While the enigma of the Mona Lisa often captivates many, I have always been drawn to the tender, motherly gaze of the Madonna as she looks down at the chubby infant Christ, who suckles at her breast. 

The intimate connection between the Virgin Mary and the infant Christ in Leonardo's masterpiece evokes a similar sentiment found in another painting by an artist close to my heart. Raja Ravi Varma's 'Mother and Child' (also known as 'Nair Lady with Her Child') shares a striking similarity in its composition, with both works evoking the universal bond of motherly love. The mother's gaze in both paintings radiates protection and deep emotional connection, reinforcing the sanctity and beauty of motherhood.

However, the purpose of this write-up is not to merely compare the similarities between the two artworks. It is more likely that, during his formative years at the Travancore court, Ravi Varma studied copies and prints of European Renaissance masterpieces in the royal collection. While his work reflects certain elements of Madonna Litta, Ravi Varma successfully reinterprets these influences to align with the aesthetic sensibilities of the native Travancoreans in the late nineteenth century.

The 'Mother and Child' is undoubtedly a masterpiece from Ravi Varma’s early years in Travancore, when he served as a court painter to Maharajah Ayilyam Tirunal. Evidence for its attribution to this period comes not from the painted surface itself, but from the verso of the canvas, which contains valuable information in the form of a handwritten note. This note provides the title of the painting as well as the date it was completed or added to the royal collection.

The title, or rather the legible portion of the note, reads as follows: 

“A Sudra Lady with an infant in her hands……with her sister…………….of the child”

By Ravi Vurmah

Koil Thambooran

23rd July 1877.

TALES FROM THE CAPITAL CITY – 145

Unveiling Misattribution: The True Identity of the Subjects in the Kuthiramālika Palace Double Portrait

The misattribution of old portraits can often be traced back to a lack of detailed records or documentation surrounding the identities of the sitters and the artists who painted them. In many cases, these portraits have been passed down through generations or displayed in collections with little to no supporting information, leading to confusion about their true subjects.

A significant example of this issue is the double portrait in the Kuthiramālika Palace collection (Fort Palace complex, Thiruvananthapuram), which has been mistakenly identified as depicting Swathi Tirunal Rama Varma, the Maharaja of Travancore, and his younger brother Uthram Tirunal Marthanda Varma. For years, this portrait was associated with the royal family of Travancore due to their prominence and the likeness to known portraits of the two brothers. However, further research has revealed that the artwork, by F.C. Lewis, a European itinerant painter, actually depicts Sri Padmanabhan Tampi and Sri Nilakantan Tampi, sons of Maharajah Uthram Tirunal Marthanda Varma, from Nagercoil Ammaveedu.

Colonel Heber Drury, a famed botanist and a British army officer stationed in Travancore, provides a valuable glimpse into the private life of the Maharajah in his book ‘Reminiscences of Life and Sport in Southern India,’ where he describes his meeting with the Maharajah and his children. Drury, like many Europeans of the time, mistakenly identifies the children of the Maharajah—who are simply ‘Tampis’, ‘Tankachis’, or ‘Kochammas’—as ‘Prince’ and ‘Princess’. He writes, “A messenger was forthwith despatched [by the Maharajah] to the nursery to ask mamma [Nagercoil Ammachi, consort of Maharajah Uthram Tirunal Marthanda Varma] to let the little ones come down, and in a few moments the small fry made their appearance. I may say without exaggeration that I seldom met a more interesting-looking youth than the eldest boy, a lad of about ten years old. He is very fair, with an intelligent countenance. He seemed so good and amiable, and talked English exceedingly well. He was dressed in a scarlet frock, embroidered with gold lace, on his head was a brocaded cap, beneath which his jet-black hair made a striking and beautiful contrast with his charming features. The next was a boy about four or five years younger, and the third, a little girl, in whom papa [the Maharajah] seemed to take especial interest and pride.”

The successful identification of the subjects in the portrait can be traced back to the careful examination of another painting (in the same collection) by F.C. Lewis—his large canvas depicting the reception of Queen Victoria’s presents by Maharajah Uthram Tirunal (more on this later). In this grand work, the sons of Maharajah Marthanda Varma, namely Sri Padmanabhan Tampi and Sri Nilakantan Tampi, are prominently featured, alongside the royals and other distinguished courtiers.

The proper identification of the sons of Maharajah Marthanda Varma, after all these years, not only gives a face to figures who were prominent in the social and political circles of their time but also restores their rightful place in historical narratives.

10.02.2025