From Vasco to Vaults: Travancore's Wild Ride Through Time

 
Travancore is etched into my very being. My roots wind deep through its earth, drawing life from its history and heart. Its colours dazzle my eyes, its sounds sing to my spirit, and its scents linger like memory—stirring something ancient within me. Echoes of empires linger here. The legacy of kingdoms lives on. The quiet resilience of the people leaves me in awe. Come with me, as I peel back the layers of the past—sharing stories that shaped these lands and moments that stirred my soul.
Long before GPS and Tripadvisor, there was a Portuguese gentleman by the name of Vasco da Gama, who in 1498 sailed around the Cape of Good Hope and—against all odds (and with a generous dose of celestial guesswork)—somehow stumbled upon Calicut. Not to be confused with Calcutta, mind you; that’s an entirely different kettle of colonial fish.
He wasn’t on holiday. He was on a mission—for spices, and pepper in particular—which, at the time, was worth its weight in gold back in Europe. Especially when one’s soup was in dire need of character.
The Portuguese—never exactly known for playing nicely—attempted to seize control of the spice trade with a combination of forts, firefights, and the occasional ship bristling with cannons. They managed to establish a foothold in Cochin, though they met stiff resistance in Calicut and beyond. And while their diplomacy often resembled a forceful shove more than a friendly handshake, they did bring with them something—or rather, someone—extraordinary: St Francis Xavier.
But while the Portuguese arrived with full pageantry, let’s not be mistaken into thinking Christianity first arrived here with the sails and spice ships. This land had been quietly Christian for centuries. The honour of introducing the faith to these shores belongs to St Thomas the Apostle, who made his way to the Malabar Coast as early as 52 AD and founded the famed Ezharappallikal—the Seven and a Half Churches.
I can’t help but recall my visits to some of those ancient churches. Built centuries ago, they stand as living testaments to his faith and mission. As I stood there, I found myself imagining St Thomas walking that very ground, spreading the Gospel with little more than conviction and a handful of followers. The silence inside was almost sacred—a stillness that made me truly appreciate how deep the roots of Christianity run in this land.
The journey from Arapalli to Kodungalloor is just as moving. Walking between these ancient sites, I felt deeply connected to something far older than the modern world surrounding me. These churches have withstood the passage of centuries, quietly holding the prayers and devotion of countless generations.
It was a humbling thought—that this faith has endured through time, weathering change and challenge. Standing there, I couldn’t help but feel a quiet sense of awe at the history beneath my feet, and the sacred continuity that still lives on in these holy places.
So, when St Francis Xavier arrived on the palm-fringed coast of Travancore in the 1540s, he stepped into a unique pastoral landscape. But, true to his saintly zeal, he didn’t rest on the laurels of the apostolic foundations laid centuries earlier. He brought with him a renewed fire—of faith, reform, and, let’s say, enthusiastic missionary work.
St Francis Xavier was more than just a missionary. He was a reformer, a compassionate shepherd who gave himself fully to the people. His legacy in Travancore is one of service, deep connection, and unwavering faith. He didn’t just preach Christ—he lived the Gospel, and in doing so, transformed lives. If he taught us anything, it’s that faith isn’t just something to believe in—it’s something to live out.
His focus was mainly the fishing communities along the coast. These communities had long suffered—caught between Portuguese traders, the harsh caste system, and the unpredictable sea. St Francis Xavier saw more than their spiritual needs; he saw their dignity. To him, they weren’t numbers or statistics—they were people, worthy of care, respect, and the sacraments.
With the heart of a pastor and the precision of a Jesuit, he did what he did best: he listened, he learned, he preached, and he built.
Of course, it wasn’t always smooth sailing. He often wrote passionate letters to the Jesuits back in Europe, pleading for more priests, more resources, and better training. One can almost hear the exasperation in his elegant Latin: “The harvest is plentiful, but the labourers are in Lisbon.”
And he wasn’t shy about telling off the Portuguese authorities when they strayed from Christian values—reminding them that being Catholic wasn’t just about attending Mass, but about treating people with decency.
St Francis Xavier offered the sacraments to those who had been overlooked, challenged the powerful when necessary, and brought Christ not only in word, but in deed.
To this day, his feast on 3rd December is celebrated with great devotion along the coast—marked by prayers, processions, and, naturally, a generous helping of fish.
The Portuguese sailed into the region thinking they could simply waltz into the spice trade. But when they arrived, they found a well-established network of Arab traders who’d been running the show for centuries.
It was a bit like turning up late to a party, assuming you’re the star guest—only to discover everyone’s already having a great time without you. Their grand ships didn’t impress the locals much. The Arab merchants more or less said, “Nice try.”
So, the Portuguese had to bide their time, strike a few deals, and learn a little patience. In the end, they did manage to get their share of the spices—but it was far from the easy conquest they had imagined.
Then came the Dutch in the 1600s, keen to oust the Portuguese and take over the pepper trade for themselves. They managed it in 1663 by capturing Cochin. But when they pressed further south into Travancore, things didn’t quite go to plan.
In 1741, they were soundly defeated by King Marthanda Varma at the Battle of Colachel—a rather rare and deeply embarrassing moment for the Dutch.
The Battle of Colachel—now that was a big deal. It marked the moment when the Kingdom of Travancore, under Marthanda Varma’s sharp leadership, thoroughly trounced the Dutch East India Company. Just imagine: a small Indian kingdom defeating a European naval power on home turf.
One Dutch officer, Eustachius De Lannoy, was captured in the aftermath. But instead of locking him up—or worse—Varma, with remarkable foresight, kept him on. De Lannoy switched sides, trained Travancore’s army, and played a key role in shaping its military for years to come.
And then there’s Devasahayam Pillai—a court official whose encounter with Christianity, possibly through De Lannoy, led to his conversion. It would cost him dearly.
Standing by De Lannoy’s grave at Udayagiri Fort, beside the very walls he once helped raise, I felt as if I’d stepped into the pages of history. The grave itself is plain, modest, and wrapped in a stillness that feels fitting for someone who, in life, was anything but ordinary. You almost expect him to sit up and offer tactical advice: “Ah yes, reinforce that wall—and watch your flanks…”
The fort, too, is quietly impressive. De Lannoy left his mark here—in stone, in structure, and in strategy. Walking its grounds, you’re treading through his legacy. Not many Dutch naval officers end up defending South Indian kingdoms, building forts, and becoming local legends. One imagines his old colleagues back in Holland scratching their heads when the letter arrived: “You’re doing what now, Eustachius?”
As for Devasahayam Pillai, his legacy endures in a different way. There’s a reverence attached to his name—not only among the faithful but among all who admire quiet courage. What he endured, he bore with remarkable dignity. His canonisation by the Catholic Church brought long-overdue recognition.
That miraculous spring—said to have appeared when he was parched and dying—whether or not one believes in miracles, speaks volumes about how deeply his story has taken root in the cultural memory.
What struck me most during my visit was how the lives of these two men—De Lannoy and Devasahayam—intersected across cultures, religions, and battle lines. One a foreign soldier turned statesman; the other, a native courtier turned saint. Both are remembered not just for what they did, but for how they did it—with conviction, resilience, and a quiet touch of grace.
Not to be left out, the British soon followed, arriving with treaties, tea, and a talent for subtle subjugation. Unlike the others, they didn’t conquer Travancore outright; instead, they wove it into the fabric of the British Raj through diplomacy and pressure, allowing the kingdom to retain nominal independence while Britain pulled the strings from behind the curtain.
Now, Travancore wasn’t just any princely state. It was home to the grand and mysterious Sree Padmanabhaswamy Temple, dedicated to the Hindu deity Vishnu. When I visited the Sree Padmanabhaswamy Temple in Trivandrum as a child, I was utterly captivated by it. I remember craning my neck, trying to take it all in – the sheer scale of the temple, the entrance tower reaching towards the sky, adorned with a multitude of intricately sculpted figures that seemed to dance in the sunlight. Inside, the long corridors stretched into what felt like infinity, the air thick with the scent of incense and flowers.
As a child, I was captivated by stories that blurred the lines between the ancient and the modern. For instance, the bustling Trivandrum airport would come to a complete halt—flights paused, engines silenced—just so the temple's procession, with its golden umbrellas and barefoot priests, could cross the runway. It felt like magic: tradition halting time and technology.
Even more extraordinary, I once saw a member of the royal family quietly shopping in the local market. No guards, no fanfare—just a subtle nod of respect from passers-by. That moment stayed with me. The bond between the temple, the royals, and the people of Trivandrum is not just ceremonial; it’s cultural, emotional, and deeply enduring.
 I’ve never cheered for crowns and thrones, but royal drama? Now that’s irresistible. Take Sethu Lakshmi Bayi and her cousin Sethu Parvathy Bayi—two queens, one kingdom, and a whole lot of tension. The Travancore Tussle was no less intense than any Tudor Tiff, just with less blood and more silk. Instead of swords and scandal, they used sharp minds, silent stares, and strategic chats with the British over tea. No beheadings here, but you can bet the palace air was thick with pride, power, and politely disguised rivalry.
And just when you think the saga is all wrapped up, in recent times the temple finds itself once again in the headlines. The vaults of Padmanabhaswamy Temple, long sealed and steeped in legend, were partially opened—and revealed untold treasure. Gold, jewels, ancient artefacts… a treasure trove worth billions, making it the richest temple in the world.
Naturally, this brought the Travancore royal family—long out of power—right back into public view. Suddenly, questions swirled: who owns the treasure? Were the royals overly cosy with the temple’s coffers? Had devotion blurred with dynastic privilege? The media had a field day, and tongues wagged merrily.
Right then, Travancore, my homeland, has its own quirky ways of doing things that made it quite special. Imagine the royals here trying to explain their family tree to someone – "So, the King's heir is his sister's son, not his own? Right you are!" Enough to make one's eyeglass do a little jig of confusion! And our Kings? Fearfully impressive chaps, not afraid to show a bit of backbone. Then we've got these surprisingly well-read locals, probably debating the finer points of Shakespeare while their neighbours elsewhere were still figuring out the alphabet. Our culture, our dances, our lingo – it's all got its own distinct charm. And our women in charge? They were as resilient and steadfast as the mightiest banyan, offering shelter and strength to all around them.
Being right on the coast meant we always had a bit of a worldly air about us, with all sorts of traders popping by. Our connection with St Thomas goes way back, and the legend of his seven and a half churches always brings a twinkle to my eye. Walking in the footsteps of the Apostle, visiting those ancient churches, gave me a strange feeling of being tied to something far older than I ever imagined. His arrival here was like planting a seed that would bloom over centuries into the diverse Christian community we have today.
Then, of course, there’s St. Francis Xavier, whose work in Travancore brought both passion and structure to the Christian faith here. I can’t help but picture him trying to navigate the wonderfully twisty sounds of Malayalam or the smooth, rolling Rs of Tamil! Quite the challenge, no doubt, as his Castilian accent tangled with the lyrical beauty of the Dravidian languages.
And let’s not forget Devasahayam Pillai—his name alone commands deep respect. A man of immense courage and unwavering faith, he stood firm in the face of oppression, embracing a new belief despite the personal toll it took. I often find myself quietly reflecting on his bravery, a reminder of the enduring spirit that has always defined the people of Travancore.
And who could forget when we gave the Dutch a proper hiding? That's a tale we still tell with a bit of a chuckle. Yes, Travancore, my home, a truly special place with its own rhythm and character, it is.
It’s funny how much a name can hold. As a child, I always heard people speak of Trivandrum with a warmth that made it feel like more than just a city—it was a rhythm, a feeling. Now, as we say Thiruvananthapuram, a mouthful perhaps, but elegant once you get the hang of it, I find it even more beautiful. There's something grounding about using names that connect us to our ancestors. While I still have a soft spot for the older names with their sepia-toned charm, I’ve come to love the newer ones even more. They feel like home—rounder, warmer, and full of our own sounds and stories.
The names have changed, yes, but the essence remains. Those old colonial labels, like forgotten blazers in the back of a cupboard, have been folded away. And honestly, I love it. We kept what truly mattered, embraced what was needed, and simply carried on. That’s the Travancorean way—never rushing, never forgetting, and always holding fast to what is good.
Post-independence didn’t erase our royal past; it simply turned it into cherished memory. And what memories they are! Through it all, faith kept pace. Our land, kissed by the sea and held up by the hills, has always found room for devotion. The old church bells, temple drums, and mosque calls to prayer all share the same breeze. It’s a harmony you can’t write into a constitution, but you feel it in your bones if you’ve lived here.
The landscape shifted, as it always does with time. Travancore, once a princely land with its regal palaces and ancient customs, gradually became part of democratic India. The grandeur of its royal history blended with the optimism of a new republic, where the old kings and queens gave way to a fresh vision of equality and progress, and the bustling modern life emerged.
The Western Ghats, once silent witnesses to royal processions, now overlook a more diverse, changing landscape. The backwaters, too, shifted from sacred havens of the elite to symbols of tourism. Yet through it all, something essential remained—a thread that links the past to the present. Travancore’s soul didn’t lose its character; it simply redefined itself.
This land isn’t just home. It’s part of who I am. It’s where saints once walked, where queens ruled with quiet strength, where missionaries gave their hearts, and where ordinary souls still wake each morning to the delicate call of cuckoos, the aroma of curry leaves crisping in coconut oil, and the hum of a community that has long known how to balance grace with resilience.
Well, it’s time for me to pack my bags and say goodbye to the serene backwaters and towering Western Ghats. I’m off to the chaotic symphony of Madras—with its honking and streets that have their own rhythm. My ears will surely need a “recalibration” after all that peaceful silence! But onwards I go, to the land of filter coffee, film stars, and new adventures. More on that in my next blogpost, dear reader—stay tuned!