Raja Ravi Varma

By Ranjit Desai

A controversial novel based on the life of India's most celebrated painter, Raja Ravi Varma

He was accused of making the gods look like humans and insulting them by portraying them in the nude. He countered that he saw divinity in both gods and humans, and that nudity was the purest form he knew. This is the story of a little boy who grew up  making charcoal sketches on freshly whitewashed temple walls and went on to be titled in the court of Thiruvananthapuram as 'Raja' for his artistic prowess. His painting of a Nair woman who worked in his wife's palace brought him wrath and recognition alike. His deep involvement with Sugandha, the Maharastrian lady, who became Menaka, Damayanti and Urvashi in his most acclaimed works caught the fancy of many critics and admirers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperPerennial
• Release date: Apr 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9789350296622

Ranjit Desai

Ranjit Desai (8 April 1928-6 March 1992) was born in Kolhapur district, Maharashtra. Biographical novels were his forte. His most famous works are Morpankhi Sawalya, Shriman Yogi and Swami, based on the life of Madhavrao Peshwa, the third Peshwa. He won the Maharashtra Rajya Award (1963), Hari Narayan Apte Award (1963), the Sahitya Akademi Award (1964) and the Padmshri from the Government of India (1973).

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Raja Ravi Varma

RANJIT DESAI

TRANSLATED FROM THE MARATHI BY VIKRANT PANDE

NEW YORK • LONDON • TORONTO • SYDNEY • NEW DELHI • AUCKLAND

Contents

The palace of the Varma family of Kilimanoor shone brightly in the soft rays of the morning sun. It was a fortified building built high on a hillock. The leaves of a huge peepal tree fluttered in the courtyard outside the main palace building. The huge expanse of the tree and the clean area surrounding it would catch the eye of every visitor entering the courtyard. Entering through the arched doorway, one would be offered a view of the palace surrounded by courtyards on all sides, and built with elaborate care. One would notice the well near the steps leading to the main palace. Maidservants could be seen standing there, drawing water. Despite the bustling of many servants inside the palace, there was a peaceful silence all around.

The owner of the palace, Raja Varma, had finished his morning pooja and moved to his inner quarters. Chaitanya Shastri had finished his classes on the Vedas and was now free. The meals were ready in the kitchen, while the courtyard in front of the kitchen had been cleaned and made ready for breakfast. Just then, Paachan came into the middle courtyard. Paachan was a dark man in his twenties, and was the head servant of the house. He was wearing a crisp white dhoti and had the traditional vibhooti smeared on his forehead. He stopped suddenly, his eyes wide, as he stared at the walls of the family temple located in the courtyard. Ravi Varma and his sister Mangala were drawing sketches using coal on the clean, whitewashed walls. Paachan stood there transfixed, watching them draw.

The siblings were unaware of Paachan’s gaze. Ravi Varma was engrossed in his sketching, while Mangala watched him with amusement. They both wore simple dhotis. Ravi Varma said excitedly,

‘I will draw a horse for you now.’

Wide-eyed, Mangala asked, ‘Horse?’

Ravi Varma did not answer her question but continued to stare at the wall and said, ‘Give me a fresh piece of coal.’

Mangala gave him a piece of coal lying on the ground. Ravi Varma bent down to sharpen the coal and threw it away in disgust, shouting,

‘You fool! Don’t you know you are supposed to blow away the dust first?’

Mangala, perturbed at her brother’s anger, said, ‘Leave it. I am not interested in your horse.’

She got up angrily and dusted her dhoti, wiping her dusty black palms on the same absent-mindedly. Her face was flushed, but Ravi was busy selecting a sharp piece of coal. She threw an angry glance at him and then turned to walk back to the palace.

She had barely turned when her eyes met Paachan’s angry stare.

Paachan, after all, was the special servant of Raja Varma. As far as the children were concerned, his stature matched that of Raja Varma himself. Mangala blurted, ‘Brother!’

Ravi turned back to see Paachan staring furiously at the walls of the temple. He shouted,

‘Aiyayyo Swami! The temple walls were whitewashed just yesterday. How often have I told you, but you won’t listen. How will the elder Swami react when he sees this?’

‘What would he say?’ asked Ravi Varma a little impertinently.

‘Do you want to know what he would say?’ Paachan was now boiling with anger, and he added, ‘I will go right away and let Swami know of this. Then you will know what he has to say.’

Ravi’s stomach knotted upon hearing those words, but he continued with a brave face, ‘Oh sure! Please go and tell Mama. Do you think I am scared?’

Mangala gave a chuckle at her brother’s bravado, which angered Paachan further. Gritting his teeth, he warned, ‘OK. I will go right away and inform the master. Let us see what happens then.’

Fear enveloped the children the moment Paachan left the courtyard. They were aware of the short temper and might of their mama. Mangala was almost in tears, and said, ‘Brother! What now?’

Ravi Varma threw away his charcoal piece and taking her hand, said, ‘Come. Let us go.’

They ran towards the entrance gate of the palace.

Raja Varma was sitting on a coir mat spread on the ground in his bedroom. A fair-skinned man with sharp, penetrating eyes, he was looking at the mud pots lined up before him. The pots were filled with different colours made from various vegetables and coloured soils. He heard a voice calling him,

‘Swami!’

He looked up, a little irritated, and saw Paachan standing reverently at the door. He barked, ‘What is it?’

Paachan stood with his hands folded and said, ‘Swami, I can’t take it any more.’

‘Would you tell me properly what has happened? Speak up!’

‘Maharaj, you might recall that the temple walls inside the courtyard were whitewashed just a few days ago. Please go and have a look. They have been blackened with coal. Same is the state of the family temple.’

‘Who has blackened the walls?’ Raja Varma asked.

‘I did not intend to complain, Maharaj, but they would not listen despite my repeated requests. After all, I am just a servant, and will be berated if I didn’t bring it to your notice. I may be pardoned if I have made a mistake.’

‘Will you please tell me who did this?’

Paachan, wiping his tears with a small napkin, said, ‘Kochu and Mangala.’

‘What? Ravi and Mangala! Did they do this?’

‘Yes.’

Raja Varma’s anger erupted, and he said, ‘Let us go and have a look.’

Raja Varma wrapped a thin cotton shawl over his shoulders and walked behind Paachan, who pointed to the walls as soon as they reached the temple.

‘Swami! Look at the mess they have made of the walls, so beautifully painted with shell powder colours.’

Raja Varma was not listening to Paachan as he continued to complain,

‘I told them many times, but they would not listen. I had to come to you as I had no other recourse.’

Raja Varma continued to stare at the sketches on the walls and raised his hand, gesturing to Paachan to stop. He observed the drawings intently. A mere seven-year-old lad had sketched these! Who had taught him? But then, who had taught his own self to draw and sketch? How had he become a painter? At least the painter at Alagiri Naidu’s court had trained him in the art of water colours. That may be true. But where did this sense of proportion and elegance come from? Raja Varma chuckled looking at the sketches.

Ravi’s mother, Umamba, was an artist. After all, she had choreographed the dance sequence for the Tutaal dance depicting Parvati’s marriage scene. And his father Ezhumavil was a Sanskrit pandit. So it wasn’t surprising that the son born to these great parents was a precocious one.

Raja Varma moved forward, lost in his thoughts, observing each and every sketch. Paachan was confused seeing his master’s reaction, and said,

‘Swami! I complained to you thinking that you would scold the children.’

Paachan’s words broke Raja Varma’s reverie, and he said without turning to look back at him,

‘Paachan, tell Kochu’s mother that I have called her.’

Paachan was a little worried at these words and gently suggested,

‘Swami, warn Kochu, but please do not hit him.’

Raja Varma smiled and said,

‘Don’t worry. Send for Kochu’s mother immediately.’

Paachan ran towards the palace and returned with Umamba in a while. Umamba was aware of her brother’s anger, and her face was tense.

Raja Varma was busy observing the sketches on the wall.

Seeing both of them, he said, without any sign of emotion on his face,

‘Uma, see what your son has done!’

Uma was surprised. She looked at the walls, but did not know what to say. She muttered,

‘I did not expect him to do anything like this.’

‘Then what else did you expect?’ Raja Varma asked. ‘What else do you expect from children who grow up listening to your puranic tales, their father’s Veda lectures, and observing me paint?’

Hearing this, Umamba’s fear grew further, and she said,

‘I will tell them.’

‘What? That they should not sketch?’ Raja Varma asked. ‘Uma, just see the lovely pictures the boy has drawn at this tender age! Amongst all the animals, the horse is the most difficult to sketch. But see how lifelike the horse is! Uma, these children are real artists. They need to be encouraged and praised.’

Her brother’s tone and manner came as a big relief to Uma, and she said,

‘But where did this fellow learn all this?’

‘You ask where?’ Raja Varma said, ‘Uma, you need intelligence and eyes wide open to learn. He sees the horses and elephants in our stables every day.’

‘But where are these two children?’

‘Paachan!’ Raja Varma shouted, ‘Bring them to me.’

Paachan searched the entire palace but was unable to find Ravi Varma and Mangala. He then came down the steps of the main palace and searched the gardens. The maid, Tevi, was filling water from the well at the edge of the garden.

Seeing her, Paachan shouted,

‘Tevi!!’

Tevi turned back, balancing the bucket on the edge of the well.

‘Tevi, have you seen Kochu and Mangala anywhere?’

She pointed towards the entrance gate of the palace without saying a word.

‘I have told you a thousand times not to work with tobacco in your mouth,’ Paachan said and added with disgust, ‘Why, there is no need to open your mouth at all!’

Paachan slapped his towel on his shoulder and walked rapidly towards the gate.

He stood at the steps of the gate and observed the huge garden in front of the palace. There was no sign of the children. He spotted the guard Challappa walking by and shouted,

‘Challappa!’

‘What is it, Paachan?’

‘Challappa, it is regarding our young master…’

Paachan did not have to finish his sentence as Challappa turned and pointed. Paachan looked in that direction. The green rice fields spread out wide just outside the garden. A ridge ran through the middle of the fields. On one side of the ridge was a clump of coconut trees. The coconut leaves shone in the soft morning light. A Devi temple, whitewashed and sparkling in the sun, stood out amidst the clump. Paachan turned and went back to the temple inside the courtyard. Raja Varma was still there, looking at the sketches.

‘Swami!’

Raja Varma turned back and asked,

‘Have the children come back?’

Paachan shook his head and added, ‘Swami, it seems the young master has gone towards the Devi temple.’

‘Have they had their breakfast yet?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Come, let us go to the temple,’ said Raja Varma.

‘I suggest you have your breakfast first,’ said Umamba.

Raja Varma smiled and said, looking at his sister,

‘The children must be hungry too, and they must be scared seeing Paachan’s anger. Don’t worry. I will get them soon. Paachan, let us go.’

‘Shall I get the umbrella?’ asked Paachan.

‘No.’

Raja Varma moved towards the temple wearing his sparkling clean white dhoti and with a towel slung over his shoulder. He was a tall, handsome, fair, slender man. His eyes, below the sparse eyebrows, had a strange sparkle today. The thick drooping moustache gave an impression of a permanent scowl. He moved ahead, adjusting his sacred thread across his chest.

There was a flurry of activity amongst the servants. A few of them followed him. As soon as he left the courtyard and reached the steps, one of the servants laid his sandals down for him to wear. He slipped them on and walked down the steps.

Raja Varma would visit the temple each morning after finishing his daily ablutions. He enjoyed the soothing sight of green rice fields as he walked along the ridge. But today he hurried past, and did not stop to look at the fields or the coconut trees.

The temple stood in the middle of the courtyard, which had tall walls all around. The priest was surprised to see the master for the second time that morning. He bowed down to greet Raja Varma. Raja Varma went in to first offer his prayers to the Devi, and then walked along the circumference of the temple, observing the sketches on the walls. A faint smile played on his lips. He asked, pointing at the sketches,

‘Who has drawn them?’

The priest, well aware of Raja Varma’s anger, said, trembling with fear,

‘The young master…he drew them. I was planning to inform you, but…’

‘Where are the children?’

‘They were here some time back,’ the priest said.

Raja Varma looked around the temple. There was silence everywhere. Raja Varma’s voice penetrated the silence,

‘Ravi…Kochu…’

His voice reverberated around the temple courtyard and the children, hiding in one corner, began trembling in fear. Mangala started crying at the sound of her mama’s voice calling again,

‘Kochu! Come out fast!’

Ravi Varma looked at Mangala, and rubbing his nose with his finger, said,

‘Let us go. Mama is calling us.’

Mangala wiped her nose with the back of her hand and said,

‘I won’t come. You go.’

Ravi Varma, trying to hide his fear, rebuked her in anger,

‘Then you can sit here and cry. I am going.’

But Mangala got up and followed as soon as she saw Ravi Varma move out of their hiding place. She held his hand and both of them stepped out cautiously. The priest, spotting them in the courtyard, exclaimed, ‘Swami!’

Raja Varma looked at the two children approaching slowly.

As soon as Ravi Varma saw his mama, he lost all his strength and, releasing his sister’s grip, ran and laid his head on his uncle’s feet. Mangala came and stood there, holding his dhoti and sobbing softly.

Raja Varma lifted Ravi Varma tenderly and hugged him. Overwhelmed with emotion, he said,

‘Why are you crying, my dear?’

Ravi Varma did not have tears in his eyes. But with a desperate glance at him, he said,

‘I shall not repeat this again.’

Raja Varma smiled and patted his back, saying,

‘Kochu! If you don’t do this, who else will? Come, let us go. Everyone must be waiting in the palace for breakfast.’

The children were pleasantly surprised at their mama’s words. Raja Varma, looking at both Paachan and the priest, said,

‘Don’t rub off the sketches. Please ensure that nobody touches them.’

Ravi Varma walked along, looking at the whitewashed walls of the palace and the steps leading up to it when Mangala interrupted his thoughts and said,

‘Brother, look over there!’

Everyone turned to look in that direction. Bells could be heard tinkling from behind the peepal tree. Within moments, there emerged three majestic elephants, their grey bodies swaying gently as they moved, while the bells hung around their necks made a melodious tinkling sound. The second elephant, a mother, walked behind the male, while her calf followed holding her tail in its trunk. Ravi and Mangala rushed forward on seeing the elephants. The mahout slid down the trunk when he saw the children running towards him. Ravi Varma shouted ‘Gajendra!’ and stood in front of the big elephant. He patted his trunk, and Mangala petted the mother walking behind. Raja Varma asked, ‘Did they finish their bath?’

The mahout, Kasam, said, ‘Yes, sir.’

The mahout’s clothes were wet. He saw that Ravi Varma had noticed this, and said,

‘Sir, Gajendra is a quiet fellow, but this Kashi is very naughty.’

‘What happened?’

‘She does not come out of the water despite repeated requests. She enjoys the bath to her heart’s content and if I shout at her, she sprays me with water from her trunk.’

Ravi Varma and Mangala laughed out loudly imagining the scene, and Raja Varma said,

‘Come on, children. We are getting late for breakfast.’

Ravi Varma said, ‘Kasam, when we come here in the evening, get the young queen. We would like to play with her. And don’t forget to call us when you take them for a bath tomorrow. We would like to watch the fun.’

Raja Varma came into the palace with the children and washed his feet. There was a huge verandah next to the kitchen where breakfast had been laid out on the clean floor. Raja Varma, Ravi Varma’s father Ezhumavil, Ravi and Mangala sat in their respective places as per the protocol. The Brahmin servant Vyanku came out to serve hot steaming idlis along with fresh butter.

Raja Varma closed his eyes and folded his hands in prayer, and the children and their father followed suit. Ezhumavil, a Sanskrit pandit, chanted the mantras. As soon as the prayer was over, Umamba came out with a vessel containing sambhar.

Raja Varma’s elderly sister, Lakshmibai, stood at the corner near a door, supervising the breakfast activities. Raja Varma addressed her, saying,

‘Valiamma, our Kochu is going to be a big painter,’ and turned towards Ravi Varma, adding, ‘Isn’t that true, Ravi?’

This praise from his mama was reason enough for Ravi Varma to forget his hunger. He looked at Mangala, who gave a chuckle.

The children were their chirpy selves the moment the elders left, and Ravi Varma teased Mangala, saying,

‘You cry baby! Did I not tell you that mama would not say a thing?’

‘Oh, is that so? You would have learnt a lesson had you been thrashed.’

Umamba smiled hearing the children’s affectionate banter.

The next day, Raja Varma went to his painting studio and sent for Ravi Varma after some time. When Ravi Varma came into the room, Raja Varma was sitting on a coir mat. He had a few mud pots, small and big, lined up in front of him. A row of brushes made of squirrels’ tail hair lay neatly on one side. Raja Varma looked up,

‘Come in, Kochu.’

Ravi Varma had never been to the studio, although he lived in the same palace. No one other than Paachan was permitted to enter the studio.

Raja Varma selected a few brushes and kept them on the same side. He opened a cupboard. There was a stack of his paintings inside. He selected a few of them and handed them over to Ravi Varma, saying,

‘The other side of these papers is blank. The colours I have separated are for your use. I have also kept a few charcoal pieces in that corner. You may come here whenever you wish, and sketch and paint whatever you desire.’

Ravi Varma was thrilled to the core and stared at his uncle wide-eyed. He knelt down and placed his head reverently on Raja Varma’s feet.

Raja Varma was pleased to see such good manners in the young lad and lifted him up. Hugging him affectionately, he said,

‘Ravi, learning alone is not enough. You need to be born with some traits. I will teach you how to make and mix colours. These colours are made from leaves, flowers, roots, chemicals and different types of soils. But the painter needs to discover his own colours. Your eyes are not enough. You need to have vision.’

‘Vision?’

‘Yes, vision! Your eyes can merely see, but vision can comprehend what is being seen. I have given you permission to paint and sketch here, but there are a few conditions. You need to adhere to them. Are you ready?’

Ravi Varma answered immediately, without waiting to find out what the conditions were. ‘Yes.’

‘The first condition is that you will not ignore your school and your Veda classes.’

‘I won’t.’

‘The second condition is that you will not henceforth sketch on any wall.’

Ravi Varma suppressed his smile and said, ‘I won’t.’

‘And you will diligently learn in the dance classes after dinner as per your mother’s instructions.’

‘Yes.’

‘If you don’t follow even one of the conditions, you will be barred from entering the studio.’

As soon as Raja Varma had left, Ravi Varma sat eagerly on the coir mat looking at the materials given to him. He picked up one of the paintings. He lay prone on the mat and observed the paints available to him in the pots. He selected a fine-tipped brush and dipped it into a pot of saffron colour. He gently touched the brush to the paper and felt the brush glide on the surface. His hand curved as the brush moved gracefully across the paper. Within a few minutes, a beautiful saffron leaf appeared on the white paper.

Ravi Varma would come to his mama’s studio each morning after Veda classes and breakfast. He would lose himself in the world of colours, and he derived immense joy from mixing the colours his mama had given him. Raja Varma would observe these sketches minutely, but would not comment.

In the evenings, Raja Varma would take Ravi Varma to the courtyard outside the palace. Umamba would sing bhajans and kirtans in the kirtan hall. That would be followed by dances in the dance hall. Ravi Varma had to participate in the dances. Very soon, four years had passed.

One day Raja Varma took some of the paintings Ravi Varma had made to Umamba. Ravi Varma’s father Ezhumavil, too, was present.

‘Uma, see your child’s work. Look at the finesse at this young age. It is difficult to get this colour combination. Your son is talented and he will become a great painter, but he needs the right opportunity to learn.’

Hearing this, Ezhumavil was visibly upset. He was not happy with the kind of education Ravi Varma was getting in his mama’s house. But he dared not speak against Raja Varma. He lost his patience and asked,

‘And what would be his future according to you if he does become a painter?’

‘The possibilities are immense, aren’t they?’ Raja Varma retorted.

‘Oh, I am sure!’ Ezhumavil said sarcastically. ‘He would have to stop his Veda classes. He would lose his daily routine and there would be no meaning in life.’

Till then, no one had dared to talk to Raja Varma in his house with such audacity. Umamba was surprised at her husband’s bold retort. Raja Varma’s anger was boiling over and he said, trying to contain his temper,

‘I am aware that you are a learned Veda scholar. I am aware that you have read all the big books. I quite respect you for all that. But I want to ask you one thing: How has this knowledge, these daily rituals, helped you in your life?’

‘What exactly are you trying to say?’ challenged Ezhumavil.

‘See, there is no bigger enemy than idle time. People occupy themselves with some work as they cannot be idle twenty-four hours a day. People thus become addicted to some activity or the other.’

‘Are you saying that I am addicted?’

‘You are mistaken. I am not referring to you. And even if that is what you think, there is nothing wrong in that. Your reading of the Vedas, your poojas, etc., are but ways to while away time. You probably will not agree that this is an obsession and an addiction. Had you spent time writing a book from the knowledge you have gained, it would have been much more productive.’

‘Write a book? Do you think writing a book is that easy?’ Ezhumavil asked.

‘I mean precisely that. You need to imagine and interpret new meanings, and your knowledge will have to be seen in a new light. But you will not be able to do that. Writing a book requires independent thought.’

‘Are you lecturing me on this?’

‘No, I am just putting forth my views in front of a learned scholar. If there is any fallacy, you may point that out and let me know.’ He then looked at Umamba and said,

‘Uma, the Maharaj of Trivandram has invited me. They suggested that if we have a suitable young boy in our household, I should get him along. I am proposing that I take Kochu along. If you disagree with my thoughts, you may say so. I am not forcing you.’

‘But can’t he continue to learn here?’

‘No, Umamba. I understand my limitations. He cannot become a great painter even if he continues to mix colours on this palette for the rest of his life. A fish in a pond cannot grow beyond a point. But those who fight the currents in a river and some day manage to reach the ocean by battling the waves are the ones who achieve greatness.’

Umamba did not reply. Everyone knew that Raja Varma’s request was an order and would be carried out.

One evening, Ravi Varma’s mother said,

‘Kochu, you will be going to Thiruvananthapuram with your mama tomorrow.’

‘Thiruvananthapuram?’

‘Yes, he is taking you to meet the Maharaj. Please behave well there.’

Umamba had tears in her eyes as she spoke, and she pulled him close, saying,

‘Would you like to go?’

‘Yes,’ said Ravi Varma with pleasure.

‘Won’t you miss us there?’ Umamba could not hold back her tears now. Seeing this, Ravi Varma hugged her tightly.

That night, Ravi Varma could not