Showing posts with label TravancoreCourt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label TravancoreCourt. Show all posts

Friday, 6 March 2026

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 Painted in 1852, the work is remarkable as an important historical document that captures a significant moment in the history of Travancore and serves as a repository of portraits of nearly a hundred notable figures associated with the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

Monday, 21 April 2025

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.