The last Maharaja

I first set eyes on His Highness when, as a young boy, I went visiting my maternal grandparents. There he stood, resplendent in his royal ro...

I first set eyes on His Highness when, as a young boy, I went visiting my maternal grandparents. There he stood, resplendent in his royal robes, crowned by the traditional headgear of the rulers of Travancore, and looking every inch the proud Kshatriya prince. Beneath the coloured portrait, in golden letters was inscribed, Maj. Gen. His Highness Sri Padmanabha Dasa Bala Rama Varma, Maharaja of Travancore8217;. I was fascinated by this fabulously-attired creature and begged my grandmother to give the picture to me. She did, and for a long time, that portrait was in our ancestral home, high up in the hills of the Meenachil valley in central Kerala.

It was almost three decades later that I actually saw him in person. My friend Raghubir Singh, the well-known photographer, was shooting in Kerala and I accompanied him on the famous Arat procession in Trivandrum. The Maharaja, stripped to the waist, ancestral sword upright in his hand, walked briskly all the way from the Sree Padmanabhaswamy temple to theShankhumugham beach, several kilometres away, while Raghubir and I struggled to keep pace with the royal entourage. It was a moving and almost spiritual experience for me. Strangely enough, the atmosphere and pathos reminded me of the mystical Passion Play at Oberammergau.

A few years later, I had the good fortune to be posted in Trivandrum and my first port of call of course was the palace at Kaudiar. Accompanied by my wife and children, I nervously entered the portals of the palace. At the stroke of the appointed hour, the aide-de-camp ushered us into an inner room where the Maharaja and his sister, the gracious Maharani Karthika Tirunal, were already awaiting. Dressed in the simplest of garments, it was difficult to imagine that this was the same person whose visage had once, not too long ago, adorned every postal stamp, revenue stamp and coin of the realm! A man whose ancestors included the great warrior-king Marthanda Varma, the composer-king Swati Tirunal and the inimitable Raja Ravi Varma! I wasoverawed, but the royals quickly put us at ease and within a short while it appeared as though we had known each other all our lives.

Soon, I began to coincide my morning walks with the time of his departure for the temple. I became adept at identifying the palace cars and would wait anxiously on Kaudiar Avenue for His Highness to pass by. On seeing him, I would bow in respect, and he would responded immediately, inclining his head graciously and smiling. This became quite a ritual, and on the days when I didn8217;t see him, I would anxiously enquire at the palace gates, because I knew that he did not keep in good health. In spite of great differences in age and circumstance, I like to believe that he became quite fond of me. He often called me to the palace and we would spend hours together, discussing matters ranging from Sankaracharya8217;s Advaita to Mario Miranda8217;s cartoons. And once he amazed me by explaining the etymology of my surname 8212; and thereby confirming a long-forgotten family legend! The depth ofhis knowledge and understanding was truly mind-boggling.

Shortly after I received my transfer orders to Madras, I called on him to bid farewell. As I took my leave of him, I request him to give me a photograph of his. He smiled gently and said, 8220;When we are going to meet again in person, where is the need for photographs? I come to Madras quite often, and we will meet there.8221; But something told me that I would never see him again. And sure enough, a few months later, I came to know that he had passed away. That noblest of souls, that humblest of men, was no more. And as I drove down to my office that day along the Esplanade in Madras, I passed his statue and shed a silent tear in salute to the last Maharaja of Travancore.