Sri Swati Tirunal Maharaja

                        -- Shri. Kainikkara M. Kumara Pillai 

  So much has been said of Sri Swati Tirunal Maharaja both in the Press and on the platform, and so often, in the recent past, that it is almost impossible now to say anything about him that has not been said already and said perhaps better by others. So it is with some diffidence and nervousness that I stand here to speak a few words about him. Left to myself I would have avoided this embarrassing responsibility. But there was no avoiding it. There was no request behind it which I could consider and accept or reject. I was presented with a decision which had the compulsive backing of years of trust, regard and friendship. It had, therefore, for me the force of an inviolable mandate. So here I am, compelled by circumstances to repeat what others have already said about that great son of India, and that to an assemblage of enlightened listeners who know as much about him as I do; possibly more. I will therefore try to make my speech, if it could be called one, as short as possible.

  That Swati Tirunal was a genius, a genius who assumed almost the proportions of a prodigy, no one can deny. The range, variety and wealth of the knowledge and skills he acquired even in his nonage are something phenomenal- second only to the boyhood achievements of the other great son of Kerala, Sri Sankara, who a couple of centuries earlier, in a slightly shorter span of life, had astonished the world by mounting the highest pinnacle of wisdom and philosophical enlightenment.

  However much you may search the galaxy of the great men of the world, you will not easily find many whose interests were so ardent and omnivorous or whose talents were so rich and versatile as Swati Tirunal's. His profound scholarship in Sanskrit and mastery of many languages and subjects, his great and vast achievements in the fields of literature music as poet, song writer, composer, musician and musicologist and the extensive and unflagging patronage, as discerning as it was generous, which he extended to all arts - literature, music, dance, painting, sculpture, even sleight of hand and magic - the cumulative splendor of all this has in a sense tended to conceal from the admiring world his greatness and brilliance as a ruler. He was a ruler who dared to look far ahead of his times, and saw clearly what would bring lasting well to his people. Law and justice, modern education, modern medicine, engineering including irrigation, printing press, public library, observatory, marketing, the first firm foundations of every one of these were laid by this imaginative and far-sighted prince. He was proud of the noble traditions of his royal family and of his loyal people. He had great dreams about the little kingdom whose destinies had fallen into his hands. He wanted to make it a paradise of unimpaired prosperity and plenty and all the happiness that intellectual and aesthetic pursuits could vouchsafe to man And he would certainly have fulfilled his dreams if only the Fates had not wantonly willed it otherwise. Of that presently.  In any case, even as it is, his achievements are a marvel alike in their range, quantity and quality. And all this was packed into the short span of hardly 18 years! Here indeed was a human miracle.

  What have impressed me most in this extraordinary prince is his remarkably wide and progressive outlook and his readiness and capacity for synthesis and assimilation, so characteristic of the genius and culture of India. I have al- ready referred to the omnivorous nature of his interest. He was always reaching out as it were, for far off things, for new things, for rare things, and even rare men! Besides people from various parts of India, it is said that he had in his court Arabs, Turks and Negroes and Nepalese and Chinese Of course each one was proficient in something or other, and was expected to make his distinctive contribution to the good of the State, for which he would be amply rewarded, very often beyond his wildest expectations. Here was the ruler of a small State who deliberately wished and worked for her mental and spiritual expansion so that she could take into herself all that was good and beautiful in the whole of India and even from beyond. There was nothing narrow or parochial about him. Again like Sri Sankara, he saw India as one and undivided, and considered the rich and varied culture of India as the birth-right of every Indian. He wanted to take in and absorb everything and every one that was good from anywhere in the world. It was thus that he gathered into his court some of the best specimens and exponents of art and culture from all over India- Here was cultural and emotional integration in a measure and intensity seldom attempted before or alter.

  Why did he attain scholarship in many languages at a time when few other princes took pains to master even one? Why did he compose songs in most of them? Why did he invite great artists and scholars from all over India to come and settle down in his court? Why did be almost empty his coffers in entertaining and patronising them? Why did he ex-periment the various forms, patterns and techniques of literature and music? Why did he go in for modern education, modern medicine and modern engineering? The answer to all this is one and the same. He was not satisfied with the old, the existing, the known, the immediate, only; he stretched his arms out, and went in for new things, distant things, for the mediate, the unknown, the perfect.

  There is something in Swati Tirunal that has considerably exercised my mind, as it must have the minds of many others who have tried to study and understand him, viz., Swati Tirunal the man. We do know many things about him besides his extraordinary gifts and untiring industry, which are too well known. We know of his nobility, goodness, generosity, his deep sense of justice and correctness, his unbounded solicitude for the welfare of his subjects, his insatiate love for music and dance and all other forms of art. All this we know. But do we really know him? Do we know all about the inner life and personality of Swati Tirunal?

  To me he has always remained wrapped in sombre mystery. In spite of all his poetical and musical effusions and his free and constant mingling with innumerable scholars and artists. I somehow can not escape the impression that this great man had been lonely all along, that he had built for himself a cell in the inner- most recesses of his soul into which he retired, occasionally even in the earlier years continually later on, and almost completely in the last phase of his life. He would not take anybody into his confidence. He retired into the privacy of that inviolate cell not only from his heartless and notorious tormenter, the Resident Cullen, but even from his own Dewan, nay even from his own devoted brother and loving aunt who had mothered him from his infancy. And at the time of his death there was no one about him except his ultimate protector and refuge, Sri Padmanabha to whom he had dedicated the majority of his beautiful compositions and the entirety of his noble but afflicted soul. What let him to this spiritual self-incarceration?

  It was with feelings of genuine fear and mistrust that the East India Company watched the reign of the sixteen year old royal stripling; especially since they had not yet fully recovered from the terrific shock the patriot and martyr, Dewan Velu Thampy had administered through his heroic and historic, though ill-fated, battle for freedom. But even on close examination they could not find any fault in the young Maharaja either as man or as administrator. In fact they were compelled to acknowledge his extraordinary talents and attainments and his very good intentions. He belied their suspicions, disarmed their opposition and won their admiration. He was only sixteen then!

The start was surprisingly good. Swati Tirunal went ahead with confidence and hopes to improve the Governmental machinery and promote the welfare of his people in all possible ways. It was smooth sailing for the first eight years, and he was able to do much good within that short period. But then an ill wind began to blow and it grew steadily in strength, till at last it began to blight the buds of promise and warp and stunt all progress. 

  An evil Fate found in Mr. Cullen, the now Resident, an effective instrument for thwarting the noble aspirations of the young ruler and permanently embittering his entire life Cullen seems to have been the last word in rough-shod arrogance and mulish obstinacy. He began to interfere constantly in the internal affairs of the State, even in the affairs of the palace. It is said that he even went to the outrageous length of himself pronouncing judgements in cases pending in the Appeal court. The Maharaja was harassed, baulked and humiliated at every step. He lost all faith in British justice and fair play. Proud, fearless and self-willed by nature, he tried to resist these wholly unjustifiable inroads into his legitimate freedom and powers. But resistance was of-no avail. His helples mess and sense of utter frustration embittered his entire life, gave a sad twist to his super-sensitive nature and under mined his health. He began to lose interest in administration, in all worldly things-of course he attended to his duties, but in a spirit of cold detachment. He turned more and more to the solace of the spirit. He clung more and more devotedly and desperately to the lotus feet of Sri Padmanabha.

  I often ask myself: What was the nature of his inner life in those dark days? How did he react to that purgatory which he so zealously concealed from all inquisitive eyes? What bearing had it on that gorgeous world of literature and music and dance and painting that he built around him? If only we had sufficient factual evidence to co-relate chronologically and psychologically the varying moods and tones of his songs and their ever-increasing tempo of devotional fervour with the stresses and strains and pangs and sorrows of that mysterious - world, what a grand, Promethean drama of endless acute suffering and silent  heroic struggle and victory might it not unfold! Was his world of artistic beauty an escape, a refuge, from the secret horrors of the other, or a proud challenge flung at its grinning face-a converse, a compensatory fulfillment? Would he have left us even a fraction of this invaluable and imperishable heritage if Cullen had been sympathetically helpful and co-operative and not doggedly antagonistic and obstructive as he was? I wonder. I for one am disposed to believe that Swati Tirunal’s tragedy was his triumph, that it was because he burnt himself into a cinder in that secret furnace that he shed such glorious luster about him. That it was the crown of thorns that Cullen and a cruel fate set on his kingly head that kind Providence transmuted into the im- perial diadem of the world of music.

Swati Tirunal, the one time Maharaja of Travancore is no more, though he is still remembered for the many good things that he did for his people. But even that may fade into oblivion in course of time. Be that as it may, Swati Tirunal,

the undisputed monarch of music, will live and reign for all time, and generations and after generations of music lovers will pay homage to him as you and I do today in profound gratefulness and reverence.

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*Text of speech delivered by Shri. Kainikkara M. Kumara Pillai at the inaugural meeting of the 150th  birth anniversary Celebrations of Swati Tirunal Maharaja, held under the auspices of the Sri Swati Tirunal Sangeetha Sabha, Trivandrum on 5th May 1963.

Swati Thirunal, the man

- - K.M.K.P

  Each individual plays several roles in his life. I am not referring to the universal phenomenon described so graphically, and so dolefully by Shakespeare's melancholy philosopher of the Forest of Arden the seven roles played in seven successive stages by every individual. I am referring to the several roles played successively or, more often, simultaneously by each individual, the number and variety depending on the complexity of his nature and the strength and diversity of the forces that impinge on him from without. In many, one role dominates all the others; in some, they function in agreement, or at least coexist without disagreement; in others, they clash and create internal tensions and even ruptures. It is in the play of the inner currents and cross-currents that create this monocracy, or concord or coexistence, or discord and disruption, that the real man reveals himself. It is not always easy to get at the whole truth of a man, to get the complete picture of him. Swati Tirunal presents a very intriguing problem in this respect.

  We know a great deal of Swati Tirunal. He is not a legend but a historical figure of imposing stature, not of the distant past but of a relatively recent period; a great soul endowed with such an astonishing wealth of noble qualities and superior talents that he has left his distinctive impress on every aspect of the life and history of his times. He has left permanent and positive proofs in plenty of the remarkable versatility of his genius and his unremitting application and industry. We know of his nobility, goodness, generosity; his high sense of justice and correctness; his unbounded solicitude for the welfare of his subjects; his burning passion for literature and music, for all forms of art. We know him as a man of very progressive ideas, a man of great vision and imagination. His was a searching, daring, creative spirit. His eyes roamed the far distance; his thoughts explored the unknown. He yearned and strove for what was novel, beautiful, perfect, and permanent.

All this we know about him. But do we know all about him? How much do we know about the real man, of his inner life and personality?

  He took on the actual governance of the State of Travancore when he was just sixteen. He died when he was hardly thirty four. As a popular and benevolent Ruler, and as a great artist and munificent and knowledgeable patron of arts, all these eighteen years he was perpetually exposed to the garish spotlight of public observation. And yet, I cannot escape the impression that a considerable part of him, in fact, the most significant part of him, still remains shrouded in impenetrable mystery. He seems to have built for himself a secret and secure cell in some remote corner of his being and sought its undisturbed seclusion during the last ten years of his life, occasionally in the beginning, continually later on, and almost completely in the sombre finale. No other mortal had any access to it, not even his own Dewan, not even his own brother, not even his most beloved and revered aunt, who had tenderly mothered him from his very infancy. And at the time of his death, there was no one about him, except of course his Lord and ultimate refuge, Sri Padmanabha!

  That was a strange, self inflicted spiritual incarceration. We know only too well what drove him to it. Proud, fearless and self willed by nature, he strongly resented the outrageous conduct of the then British Resident, and desperately tried to defend his legitimate freedom and powers from the aggressive incursions of that alien dignitary. But it was of no avail. His helplessness and sense of utter frustration embittered his entire life, warped his super-sensitive nature and undermined his health. His interest not only in administration but in all wordly matters waned rapidly. He did, as a matter of course, attend to his duties; but his heart was not in them. He became recklessly lavish. He turned more and more to the pleasures of art, to the solace of the spirit, and the profound peace of mystic communion with Lord Padmanabha

  If only we could have a glimpse of the strange drama that was enacted in those ill-fated years within the inscrutable secrecy of his soul! What were his experiences? What were his thoughts? How did he feel? How did he die? We wonder, even as his grief-stricken brother and aunt did at the time. They just stood outside and wondered and wept!

  It is really unfortunate that we do not have sufficient factual evidence to correlate chronologically and psychologically the mysterious happenings and developments in that secret world of his with the changing moods and tones of his compositions of the time and the mounting tempo of their devotional fervour. For that alone could bring us face to face with the real Swati Tirunal As it is, we can only indulge in surmises which cannot be verified.

  There is no doubt that he suffered, and suffered acutely, in those days. There is also no doubt that he shared his anguish with no one on earth, the proud un- bending prince that he was! He bore his heavy cross all by himself; drained his bitter cup to the last fell drop There is something really Promethean not only in the fierce intensity of his prolonged suf fering but also in the silent grim fortitude and indomitable heroism with which he bore it. There was a halo round that tragedy. He created light out of that darkness, beauty out of that horror, joy out of that agony! And therein I see the true Swati Tirunal, the supreme Artist, invincible and immortal! The artist dominated the entire domain of his ego. We do not find in him the slightest symptoms of the schizophrenic dichotomy that afflicts many an artist, the sharp cleavage between the artist and the man. In Swati B Tirunal, even the Prince bows to the artist; the man is completely merged in him: the man and the artist are one and indivisible.

  Even though the artist, like any other f man, is elated by joys and depressed by sorrows, he reacts on both with the same ecstatic thrill of creative ardour. To him the ultimate value of any experience depends on how far it inspires artistic endeavour and lends itself to artistic treatment. Give him smiles, he will make pearls; give him tears, he will make diamonds. Tears are as useful to him as smiles.

  Out of the horrid inferno that engulfed him, he built a heaven of beauty. He wrought harmony out of its terrific turbulence; struck bright flames from its flinty darkness; raised strains of exquisite melody from his tortured heart-strings. He shamed the evil fate that pursued and persecuted him. He made his tragedy, his triumph; his crown of thorns his imperishable diadem!

  An artist of the purest strain, of the highest calibre, alone could have performed that miracle. When I look for Swati Tirunal the man, it is the majestic figure of this matchless miracle-worker that rises before me.