TALES FROM THE CAPITAL CITY – 160

 Beyond the Durbar: Friendship in the Travancore Court

F.C. Lewis, Grand Durbar of Travancore, oil on canvas (detail). Kuthira Malika Palace Museum collection.

Among the many paintings by the European painter F.C. Lewis in the Travancore royal collection, a large canvas depicting the "Grand Durbar of Travancore" stands out not only for its scale but also for its detailed representation of the ceremonial practices, hierarchies, and protocols associated with the royal durbar. Painted in 1852, the work is remarkable as an important historical document that captures a significant moment in the history of Travancore and serves as a repository of portraits of nearly a hundred notable figures associated with the Travancore court. There are many interesting stories waiting to be told about each of these individuals. Today, however, let us focus on two figures who distinguished themselves during their years of service in Travancore and who—despite the court intrigues and competition that marked the period—remained close friends throughout their lives.

Among them, Sir T. Madhava Rao requires little introduction. Coming from a distinguished line of administrators, Rao served as the Dewan (Prime Minister) of Travancore from 1857 to 1872 and played a crucial role in shaping the administrative and financial reforms of the state.

His close friend T. Vedadreesadasa Moodaliar, however, is not widely known outside Travancore. He was the son of Sulochana Mudaliar, who is still remembered with gratitude in Tirunelveli for his generous contribution towards the construction of a bridge that continues to bear his name. Vedadreesadasa, who later retired as a High Court judge, came to be known as the “grand old man” of Travancore. Quite unusually for those times, he lived to the remarkable age of eighty-six, witnessing the reigns of seven Travancore rulers—from Gowri Parvathi Bayi to Mulam Tirunal Rama Varma.

T. Madhava Rao (left) & T. Vedadreesadasa Moodaliar (right), detail from Lewis's painting.

The warmth of the relationship shared by Rao and Moodaliar can be glimpsed from a few pieces of correspondence between them which, fortunately, have withstood the ravages of time and came to light during the course of my research for my forthcoming work, The Forgotten Atelier. Among these, I was particularly drawn to the following letter written by Madhava Rao in 1889, towards the end of an eventful life. It carries the gentle warmth of shared memories from their youthful days in Travancore.

Mylapore

17th December, 1889

My dear Friend,

It would be difficult for me to state how much pleasure I derived from your kind note of the 10th instant. It was indeed a treat to hear from one whose friendship dates from youthful days. I vividly recall to mind our delightful life at Trivandrum. How we used to talk away and heartily laugh at Bajanapurai in the presence of the Heir Apparent of the time.

Long years have now passed away and we are descending in the valley of life. So far we have to congratulate ourselves that we have achieved a happy life and have nothing to repent of. Yes—I have been unwell. I am now getting better. The weather is just now quite monsoonish. Downright rain is steadily falling. The drooping spirit of man and beast are feeling a reviving influence. I am glad you are settled in beautiful Travancore and amidst old friends.

Many thanks for all your good wishes which I heartily reciprocate.

With kindest regards and affectionate remembrances,

Yours very sincerely,

T. MADAVA ROW

Details such as this remind us that behind the rigid hierarchies of courtly protocol, these personal exchanges reveal a more intimate dimension of Travancore’s history—one shaped not merely by offices and titles, but by enduring human relationships.

06.03.2026

TALES FROM THE CAPITAL CITY – 159

 The Travancore Photograph That Wasn’t the First

Travancore history enthusiasts and scholars of the history of photography would be familiar with this image of Maharajah Ayilyam Tirunal Rama Varma (r.1860-1880) of Travancore with his consort, Panapillai Kalyanikutty Ammachi of Nagercoil Ammaveedu (d.1909), a poet and renowned beauty of her time. The photograph is frequently circulated on social media with an absurd caption that typically reads along the following lines: “The first photo captured in Kerala in 1865 features Maharaja Ayilyam Tirunal of Travancore and his wife, Kalyanikutty Ammachi. In exchange for this historic picture, he rewarded the photographer with 2,001 gold coins, 500 quintals of black pepper, 100 quintals of cardamom, and 100 quintals of dried ginger!”

The comments section is often flooded not only with unkind remarks focusing on the erstwhile ruler’s physique and his supposedly ‘common man’ appearance, but also with responses from individuals who, unfortunately, accept without fact-checking the claim that such an extravagant payment was made to the photographer in cash and in kind.

As someone who has researched the history of photography in the Travancore court, I can state with confidence that this is certainly not the first photograph from Kerala. Nor does it stand any chance of being the first photograph taken of a member of the Travancore royal family. The distinction of being the first Travancore ruler to be photographed belongs to Ayilyam Tirunal’s uncle, Rajah Uthram Tirunal Martanda Varma (r.1847-1860), the younger brother of Rajah Swathi Tirunal Rama Varma.

Although it is not known with certainty who photographed the king, a record dated 1037 M.E. (1862) notes the sum of Rs. 440 issued by Maharajah Ayilyam Tirunal for the purchase of twelve photographs, among which was included a photograph of his late uncle, Uthram Tirunal. On another occasion in the same year (1037 M.E.), the Maharajah paid Rs. 310 to Arbuthnot & Co. for a photograph taken of him during a visit to ‘Chennapattanam’. Therefore, before accepting the misinformation circulating on social media, I hope readers will take note of these documented facts.

For further insights into the early history of photography at the Travancore court, including rare photographs of Rajah Uthram Tirunal Marthanda Varma and early Government Photographers such as Zacharias D’Cruz and J. B. D’Cruz, look out for my forthcoming book, The Forgotten Atelier.

25.02.2026

TALES FROM THE CAPITAL CITY – 158

 A Statesman in the Crowd: The Young Madhava Rao in the Travancore Durbar

Sir T. Madhava Rao

This rare mid-nineteenth-century depiction of the Travancore Rajah’s royal court is remarkable for recording the portraits of many distinguished courtiers—both natives of Travancore and the Paradesis who, from the early decades of the nineteenth century, had rooted their lives in its soil. Among the most prominent non-natives in royal service were the Maratha Brahmins, who, aided by their knowledge of the English language, found favour with the British administrators. In Travancore, the coveted post of Dewan (Prime Minister) was held by Maratha Brahmins for more than half a century beginning in 1817.

This detail becomes all the more compelling when we realize that the painting includes the most renowned of these Dewans. Though barely discernible within the crowd, our eyes are instinctively drawn to the handsome face of a young man. In the composition he does not command immediate attention; pressed among senior officials, he stands not far from the Rajah’s throne—the focal point of the scene. At this moment, he serves merely as the Tutor to the young princes, the nephews of Rajah Uthram Tirunal Martanda Varma.

The Durbar of Rajah Uthram Tirunal Martanda Varma, oil on canvas (detail). 

Yet this young man—Tanjore Madhava Rao—scion of a distinguished lineage with a history of service in Travancore, stands on the threshold of an extraordinary career. He is poised to ascend the administrative ladder and to distinguish himself as one of the greatest ministers in Travancore’s history—a statesman whose destiny would eventually carry him far beyond its borders.

But the question remains: is this the earliest painted portrait of him? Though his likeness appears only as a miniature within this vast oil painting of more than sixty faces, he stands out—the brilliance in his eyes unmistakable.

Learn more about this painting and the artist behind it in my forthcoming book, 'The Forgotten Atelier.'

12.02.2026

TALES FROM THE CAPITAL CITY – 157

 When an Artist Turns Photographer

A relaxed moment at C.N. Pillai's wife’s home, where relatives gather at the poomukham to pose for Pillai.

This 1930s photograph from Kottayam, Travancore, shows a Nair matrilineal family. At first glance, it resembles an ethnographic image of the period—but what makes it exceptional is that we know both the photographer and the people portrayed. The photograph was taken by C. Nilakanta Pillai, a noted court painter of Travancore and a disciple of K.R. Ravi Varma, nephew of Raja Ravi Varma. Though celebrated as a portraitist, Pillai’s most important contribution lies in the series of historical paintings he executed in the 1930s for the Padmanabhapuram Palace Museum.

Commissioned by the Travancore royal family, the ten-painting series narrates key episodes from the state’s history, with a special focus on the life and reign of Anizham Tirunal Martanda Varma. To prepare for this project, Pillai travelled extensively across Travancore with his camera, photographing sites and monuments linked to the Maharaja. These images—carefully preserved in albums—later served as visual references for his paintings.

Artist C.N. Pillai beside De Lannoy’s tomb at Udayagiri. Private collection.

C. Nilkanta Pillai, Captain De Lannoy of the Dutch Army Surrenders to Maharaja Martanda Varma, oil on canvas. Padmanabhapuram Palace Museum.

If you visit the Padmanabhapuram Palace Museum, don’t miss Pillai’s remarkable historical paintings—and look out for more information on the artist in my forthcoming book, The Forgotten Atelier.

05.02.2026

TALES FROM THE CAPITAL CITY – 156

The Warriers of Kilimanur: Artists in Ravi Varma’s Shadow

A few years ago, I wrote about Kilimanur R. Madhava Warrier, a scholarly musician and composer closely associated with the Kilimanur royal house. It was C.R. Kerala Varma (Sanyasi Tampuran), the then patriarch of the royal house, who provided valuable insights into his family and its long-standing ties with the local Warrier community. Several male members of the royal family, in fact, married women from nearby Wariyams, and their children maintained close bonds with the Kilimanur palace.

Madhava Warrier was fortunate to have lived at the Kilimanur palace during its golden age, coinciding with the lifetime of the legendary artist Raja Ravi Varma. Warrier’s musical aptitude was recognised early by the royals, who arranged his training under Mullamoodu Bhagavathar R. Samba Bhagavathar. He later found influential mentors within the royal household itself—Goda Varma, the younger brother of Ravi Varma, and his cousin Ittammar Ravi Varma, both respected musicians and composers in their own right. As the custodian of this musical legacy, Madhava Warrier initiated several members of the Kilimanur royal house into the world of music.

An elderly Madhava Warrier with his disciples from the Kilimanur royal house. Private collection.

However, following the untimely demise of the artist C. Raja Raja Varma, who had served as assistant and private secretary to his elder brother, the young Madhava Warrier briefly assumed a different role and accompanied Ravi Varma on his travels. The artist, known for selecting models from among his family members and close associates, once asked Warrier to pose for a painting. Little did Warrier know that he was being cast as Sree Krishna in Sree Krishna as Envoy, painted for the Mysore royal collection.

Ravi Varma. Sree Krishna as Envoy, oil on canvas. Mysore royal collection

A lesser-known detail is that Madhava Warrier was also the nephew of two accomplished artists closely associated with Ravi Varma’s studio—Kilimanur Sekhara Warrier and his brother Madhavan Warrier. Unfortunately, only fragmentary information survives regarding their lives and artistic contributions, making it difficult for historians to reconstruct their careers and fully appreciate their place within the Ravi Varma atelier.

My upcoming book, titled 'The Forgotten Atelier,' seeks, for the first time, to document the histories of these lesser-known contemporaries of Ravi Varma.

Why is it essential to document artists such as Sekhara Warrier and Madhava Warrier? One reason lies in the present state of the art market, which is rife with misattributions and outright forgeries attributed to Ravi Varma. Some paintings—executed with remarkable technical finesse—are, in fact, likely the works of the Warriers, artists who came remarkably close to achieving the mastery of their celebrated mentor. Systematic documentation of their lives and works will help contextualise such paintings and correct mistaken attributions.

K. Sekhara Warrier, Lady (detail), c.1880. Kerala Museum, Kochi.

Equally important is the fact that these artists were exceptionally talented in their own right. Their stories, long overshadowed by the brilliance of Ravi Varma, deserve to be told and preserved as integral chapters in the history of modern Indian art.

26.01.2026

TALES FROM THE CAPITAL CITY – 155

Tracing the Painters of the Travancore Court 

It was on April 18, 2025, that I completed the manuscript of my latest work, ‘The Forgotten Atelier,’ which documents the painters, patrons, and artistic legacy of the Travancore court. It was a journey that spanned more than a decade. The seed of this research was sown on January 1, 2012, during a New Year visit to a friend’s house. There, I chanced upon a large painting of a lioness with her cubs prominently displayed in the living room of the ancestral home. To my surprise, I was told that it had been painted by an ancestor of the family, N. Sivarama Pillai, a prominent court painter and a contemporary of Raja Ravi Varma. Pillai’s was a familiar name to me, as I owned a striking state portrait of Maharajah Mulam Tirunal which, according to my grand-uncle, had been painted by “Thavottu Sivarama Pillai.” Pillai was also a contemporary of my great-grandfather, Manacaud K. Ramakrishnan Achari, who served as a painter in the court atelier during the reign of Maharajah Chithira Tirunal Bala Rama Varma. 

N. Sivarama Pillai. Lioness with Cubs, oil on canvas. Private collection.

Coming from an artistic background, I was naturally drawn to these works, and the inquisitive mind of a history enthusiast had long urged me to unearth the stories behind them. Thus, I can say that my research for this book truly began on January 1, 2012, with the gathering of information on Sivarama Pillai. My journal entries reveal that the very next day I returned to the Fort area, interviewing people on related topics. With a full-time job and given the paucity of information on court painters, the research and writing extended well over a decade—a process that I thoroughly enjoyed. Now, as the book is about to materialise, I feel it is an apt moment to share a few interesting snippets encountered during this journey. 

On April 18, 2025, I took the manuscript to Kilimanur, to Ravi Varma’s Chitrasala (the studio), where, along with my daughter and my dear friend and well-wisher Sri Rama Varma of Kilimanur Palace I placed it before the lit nilavilakku. I was there seeking blessings from Ravi Varma, but I also conveyed that the work was not entirely focused on him. “You are undeniably the bridge that connects the early phase of courtly art produced in Travancore with the later era of followers of the ‘Ravi Varma style’,” I told him, “but this work is primarily aimed at bringing to light the lives and contributions of the many artists who worked around the royal institution, producing fine examples of miniature portraiture and later becoming masters in executing paintings in the Western academic style.” 

As I sat on the plinth beneath the banyan tree in the palace front yard, I was reminded of an entry made by C. Raja Raja Varma in his journal dated Thursday, 1903: “I have often wondered, on looking at the two gigantic banyan trees—the one growing in front of our place and the other before the temple of Vetta Karuman—who planted them and at what time…” 

In the course of my research, I have often encountered Ravi Varma being compared to a grand banyan tree, with an expansive crown and roots that run deep into the aesthetic sensibilities of most Indians. Yet I have always been aware of the problem inherent in this metaphor. The banyan tree offers generous shade, but it also inhibits the growth of other trees beneath it. Can the same be said of Ravi Varma’s contemporaries and followers? Were they handicapped by his brilliantly shining artistic genius, or did Ravi Varma actively support his fellow artists? Stay tuned for many such reflections and intriguing snippets on the painters of Travancore’s yore.

17.01.2026