TALES FROM THE CAPITAL CITY – 165

Travancore Through European Eyes: The Court Portraits of August Theodor Schoefft

August Theodore Schoefft, Young Rajah Swathi Tirunal Rama Varma with his aunt (Regent Rani Gowri Parvathi Bayi) and elder sister (Rugmini Bayi). Oil on canvas (1839). Kuthiramalika Palace Collection.

Among the European painters associated with the kingdom of Travancore, Theodor Jensen is perhaps the best-known, his name frequently mentioned alongside that of the celebrated Raja Ravi Varma. Jensen’s visit to the Travancore court may well have marked a turning point in the early artistic development of the young Ravi Varma. Yet, alongside Jensen’s influence, the young artist—during his formative years in Thiruvananthapuram—would undoubtedly have been exposed to the rich collection of European paintings housed within the palace.

Among the many European artists who worked for the Travancore royals, August Theodor Schoefft stands apart, both for the subjects he chose to depict and for the remarkable technical brilliance evident in his work. Schoefft arrived in Travancore in 1839 and was commissioned to paint seven portraits of members of the royal family, along with several prominent courtiers. His extraordinary gift for portraying children is particularly evident in his imaginative portraits of Swathi Tirunal Rama Varma as a child.

Perhaps the most celebrated among Schoefft’s Travancore works is the painting depicting the young prince as a toddler, seated beside his aunt, the Regent Gowri Parvati Bayi, accompanied by his elder sister, Rukmini Bayi. The painting remains one of the finest visual records of nineteenth-century Travancore court portraiture.

To learn more about Schoefft’s Travancore commission, as well as the other itinerant European artists who found patronage in the kingdom, look out for my forthcoming book, The Forgotten Atelier.

Schoefft's signature and date (1839) in the painting (detail).

TALES FROM THE CAPITAL CITY – 162

 Architectural Memory and Commercial Art in a Travancore Print

Advertisement for Rally Cycles by K.R.K. Achari (early 20th century).

Artist K. Ramakrishnan Achari (1888-1969) is remembered within the lineage of Travancore-associated artists, belonging to a broader tradition of skilled painter-craftsmen who moved fluidly between the royal court and commercial practice. The image presented here is an evocative early 20th-century print, derived from one of his paintings, and representative of the rich visual culture of Indian commercial art—where fine-art idioms were adapted to promote emerging consumer goods, in this case, bicycles.

Produced as an advertisement for Rally Cycles, the composition unfolds within a dreamlike, almost theatrical pastoral setting. Two women—idealised figures—occupy the foreground, arranged in a languid, reclining pose atop a stone parapet. One lie stretched out, her body elegantly aligned along the parapet, her head resting on her hand in a gesture of quiet contemplation. The other sits upright near her feet, her outward gaze suggesting alertness or anticipation. Beneath them, prominently placed and rendered with notable mechanical clarity, is a bicycle—the central object of advertisement.

The background opens into a softly rendered European-style garden landscape, with a fountain at its centre, reinforcing a sense of symmetry and refinement. A lone cyclist in the distance subtly reiterates the theme of cycling as a leisurely pursuit. The artist has carefully incorporated architectural elements to evoke an imagined cosmopolitan milieu. While these details may appear generic to the untrained eye, closer inspection reveals more specific visual references.

The mansion depicted on the right bears a striking resemblance to Belhaven Mansion, the sprawling bungalow located along Vellayambalam–Kowdiar Road. Although the artist has not attempted a faithful reproduction of all its features, the cylindrical tower capped with a shallow dome appears to be clearly inspired by Belhaven. This association is further strengthened by the structure visible on the left, which recalls the Gothic Revival turret of the nearby Kanakakunnu Palace—distinguished by its sharply pointed roof—situated to the south-west of Belhaven.

Belhaven Mansion and its tower. Image courtesy: Ar. T.M. Cyriac.

Kanakakunnu Palace (1970s). Image courtesy: Sharat Sunder R.

Another detail that lends weight to this interpretation is K. Ramakrishnan Achari’s association with Belhaven Mansion. The residence was home to Pānapillai Karthyayini Pillai Kochamma (also known as Vadasherri Ammachi), the consort of Moolam Tirunal Rama Varma, Maharaja of Travancore. Karthyayini Pillai was herself a talented artist and is known to have sought Achari’s guidance in reviewing her works. The mansion later passed to her daughter, Bhagavathi Pillai Kochamma (also known as Thankam), and subsequently to her son, V. Padmanabhan Tampi—popularly known as the ‘Belhaven Tampi’—who served as Honorary A.D.C. to Chithira Tirunal Bala Rama Varma. Tampi, an amateur artist and avid photographer, further fostered artistic activity at the residence. It was during his time that Achari was appointed as an official art tutor at the mansion.

Artist K. Ramakrishnan Achari (1888-1969)

Left: Pānapillai Karthyayini Pillai Kochamma with her daughter Thankam
Right: V. Padmanabhan Tampi

Bringing these strands together, it may be reasonably concluded that the artist drew upon actual architectural references while composing this scene.

This artwork features in my first book, The King’s Craftsmen. To learn more about K. Ramakrishnan Achari and his role as a court painter, look out for my forthcoming book, The Forgotten Atelier.

05.04.2026.

TALES FROM THE CAPITAL CITY – 161

Dharma Rajah and the Beginnings of Court Portraiture

This is perhaps one of the most challenging AI-enhanced images I have created from old paintings—yet also among the most satisfying, despite the skewed perspective and the constricted posture of the subject. Here we see the revered “Kizhavan Rajah” of Travancore, Karthika Tirunal Rama Varma (r.1758-1798), better known as Dharma Rajah. He is widely remembered in historical circles for his resolute resistance to the threat of invasion from Mysore and for his role in the Anglo-Mysore Wars.

What is less often acknowledged, however, is his generous patronage of the arts. The formal court art tradition of Travancore is generally understood to have taken shape in the early to mid-nineteenth century, particularly during the reigns of Swathi Tirunal Rama Varma and Uthram Tirunal Martanda Varma. Yet it would be an oversight to ignore the political circumstances of the late eighteenth century, which brought artists from the Deccan into frequent contact with the Travancore court.

This cross-cultural exchange resulted in a small but highly intriguing group of paintings—portraits of Karthika Tirunal—that offer valuable insight into the early roots of royal portraiture in Travancore. The present image is a photorealistic AI rendering based on one such eighteenth-century portrait of the Rajah, depicting him in the attire of a devotee.

It may well represent one of the earliest examples of the royal portrait genre in Travancore, often referred to as “temple-attire portraits.”

For further insights into the early history of court portraiture in Travancore, do look out for my forthcoming book, The Forgotten Atelier.

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 – 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