Long before the tricycle-riding Prince Asvathi Tirunal memorialized himself in Ravi Varma’s art, there had sat on the throne of Travancore a man called Uthram Tirunal (1814–60). He was in every sense a fascinating character, negotiating a world of orthodoxy alongside the attractions of Western modernity. Born, it would seem, with a curious bent of mind, flattering reviews had piled up around him for decades before he became king. Aged six, at a reception for some British dignitaries, for instance, Uthram Tirunal unselfconsciously took possession of a military man’s knee, demanding to know how ‘all the gentlemen’ in the East India Company’s southern headquarters of Madras were doing. As heir apparent, he met a reverend who left a rapturous recollection: his ‘eagle eye’ and ‘dark, shining, intelligent countenance’, John Abbs wrote, at once conveyed that ‘you stood in the presence of royalty’. But ‘when, after placing his hands on his forehead, he held it out and addressed you in English, you were instantly charmed by his benignant gracefulness’. In the years while his brother was in power, Uthram Tirunal had all the time in the world to pursue interests outside of the typical routine imagined for conservative Hindu princes. He decided, for example, to channel his energies into the study of medicine, taking lessons from a British surgeon. Not long afterwards, he opened a dispensary in the capital, Trivandrum, giving orders to procure hereon any ‘new medicine discovered and advertised in the newspapers’. The public implications of an amateur royal doctor were interesting; as a court chronicler put it,
The Numboory Brahmans, who would not even touch English medicines, under the idea that most of the liquid substances contained spirits, began to take freely from His Highness’ dispensary. His Highness would explain to them the good effects of European medicines and how speedily diseases could be cured by their means. Several of the Hindu gentry came from great distances, not only for the cure of ailments, but also for the purpose of having an opportunity of seeing His Highness while they were under treatment. Trevandrum is seldom without a religious ceremony of some kind being performed there, and the noted men among Numboory Brahmans who constantly resorted to the place, had spread throughout Malabar, among their community, reports regarding His Highness’ medical knowledge and the virtues and efficacy of European medicines.
Thus, we have Uthram Tirunal curing a pilgrim from Benares of colic pain, while treating his brother—the maharajah—for crippling diarrhoea. Now and then, ‘minor surgical operations’ were conducted, with the prince’s servants standing in (voluntarily, one hopes) as nurses and assistants. All the palace establishment was vaccinated by his hands, and soon there was a small laboratory at work, featuring devices ranging from opera glasses and telescopes to an electric machine and ice maker. Indeed, after succeeding to power in 1846, Uthram Tirunal would order even a skeleton made of ivory to continue his lessons in anatomy—as a high-caste Hindu, handling human remains was not an option, so craftsmen who hitherto designed pretty figurines were given the scientific commission of making bones and joints. His palace too was a museum of curios, though the British thought it ‘gaudy’ and inclined towards show more than taste. As one official saw it, Uthram Tirunal’s residence was full of ‘mirrors, ottomans, statuary, clocks, couches, worked chairs, and all the concomitant et-ceteras of glitter and parade’. On another occasion, the same visitor noticed a ‘long room filled with tables covered with all kinds of ornaments and knick-knacks’, its walls ‘crammed’ with pictures. But it was never about taste to begin with, as much as an appetite to collect: anything that was remotely interesting was ordered, especially if it came from Europe. This was not just because the prince was personally besotted with the West—Indian royalty of the day in general liked surrounding themselves with foreign goods as a signal of their international influence. In that sense, a palace stuffed with trinkets and timepieces was precisely about show.
Socially too, Uthram Tirunal was fond of European company. As heir apparent in the 1830s, often, we read, he was ‘the principal figure in a circle of [white] ladies and gentlemen, talking merrily’ and completely at ease. In what was still unusual in his time, the prince appeared in English clothes on occasion, imported from British India’s capital, Calcutta; one visitor even reported seeing him in a ‘really funny’ ‘half Hungarian outfit’. Indeed, well before Ravi Varma depicted Asvathi Tirunal in Western dress, this great-uncle of that ‘B.A. Prince’ had posed in coat and trousers for a miniaturist. In his hand he held a book, while in the background on a desk appears a mantel clock, a lamp, a vase and other articles. So too when a governor of Madras visited the state, Uthram Tirunal disarmed him by going aboard his steamer, throwing off both formality and his turban, and settling into a chat. He did, of course, have an agenda: a tour of the vessel and a demonstration of its engine operations. In general, he loved the ‘European style of living’, and interacted with foreigners ‘without the least show of superstition’. Why, despite caste taboos, he did not hesitate even in ‘approaching tables where fish and animal food were served’. At home, his vegetarian children were tutored in English, and having once made his daughter read to a guest, Uthram Tirunal added, as if to make sure its novelty were not missed, ‘I believe it is very seldom Hindoo females are ever educated [in this style].’ In fact to some, all this anglicization even suggested that the prince might entertain a clandestine inclination to Christianity, or at least break the religious ban on overseas travel to visit Victoria in her imperial capital.
This, however, could not be. For Uthram Tirunal’s fondness for Western culture did not mean a divorce from local tradition and its influence. As with several Hindu princes of the time, his attempt was very much to preserve what was valued at home with the best of the foreign world. The same officer to whom he showed off his English-speaking child, for example, observed how Uthram Tirunal was ‘mad with vexation’ when a rival prince’s partisans stole a ‘celebrated idol’ from one of his temples: the maharajah was ‘furious’ and had ‘abandoned all hopes of future happiness and glory because half-a-dozen crafty Brahmins have removed a piece of stone from one temple to another’. The Englishman, of course, saw only stone and could afford sarcasm, but to his host this was an affront to his power as defender of that deity. In a more everyday sense, as much as the prince enjoyed strutting about in European clothes, his other great passion was to deck up in Kathakali costume and entertain himself. As royalty there was no question of performing on stage, so Uthram Tirunal spent hours admiring his skills in front of sundry mirrors instead. A Kathakali troupe was attached to his palace, not only bringing innovation into this drama tradition but also producing star performers like Raman Unni (1807–65) and Easwara Pillai (1815–74). Help was given in creative ways: in 1858 the latter with his master’s support set up a press, and harnessing Western technology for local purposes, printed Kathakali plays for the first time. Indeed, the anglicised Uthram Tirunal’s reign was a veritable golden age for this old art form, described by an Englishman as that ‘abominable Malabar play’.
On the face of it, Uthram Tirunal seems an amiable dilettante, but the fact that he carried out his medical and sartorial experiments in an extremely orthodox state reveals the heterogeneous influences at work.
Excerpted with permission from 'False Allies: India’s Maharajahs in the Age of Ravi Varma', Juggernaut. You can buy the book here
