Raja Ravi Varma, Retold for Children
Image courtesy: Red Panda. Illustration by: Rayika Sen
How does one introduce a child to the art of Raja Ravi Varma without being bogged down by the mounds of effusive praise and harsh criticism that have accumulated for over a century? Shobha Tharoor Srinivasan grapples with the question in Prince with a Paintbrush: The Story of Raja Ravi Varma.
The narrator in Shobha Tharoor Srinivasan’s book Prince with a Paintbrush: The Story of Raja Ravi Varma is a child. When their teacher invites students to name any famous artist they know of, a classmate mentions Raja Ravi Varma. The name doesn’t ring a bell, and our narrator is suddenly curious to look for more information. Their mother becomes a happy accomplice in completing the school project.
How does one introduce a young person to the art of Varma (1848-1906) without being bogged down by the mounds of effusive praise and harsh criticism that have accumulated over a century and more? Srinivasan must have seriously grappled with this question while writing Prince with a Paintbrush (published by Red Panda earlier this year).
The author describes Varma’s work as a “fusion of Indian aesthetics with techniques from the West.” She is keen to highlight distinctive features of Varma’s art, and biographical details from the artist’s life, while also encouraging readers to sharpen their visual literacy and critical thinking. In order to fulfil these objectives, she has teamed up with illustrator Rayika Sen, and together, they have created a playful narrative weaving text and image, modelled along the lines of a school scrapbook.
The narrator says,
Amma was excited about the project as well. She remembered some prints of this artist’s work in her Ammamma’s house in Palakkad, in Kerala. When she was young, she thought those pictures were all movie posters. Later, she learnt that those colourful pictures were characters from mythological stories. They were all reprints of paintings by Ravi Varma.
The skillful connection made between the history of art-making and the history of technology is a precious lesson not only for children but also for teachers, because such interdisciplinary connections are often missed out when schools prioritise mastery of collected facts over wonder and curiosity.
Srinivasan is thus able to convey that, in Varma’s own time, his art was widely known, and not restricted only to the royal elite who commissioned it. The narrator learns that those who could not afford expensive canvases were able to possess mass-produced copies thanks to a lithography press called the Ravi Varma Pictures Depot in Maharashtra. It was started by the artist in 1894.
The skillful connection made between the history of art-making and the history of technology is a precious lesson not only for children but also for teachers, because such interdisciplinary connections are often missed out when schools prioritise mastery of collected facts over wonder and curiosity.
In an email interview, Rayika Sen, who graduated from the Srishti School of Art, Design and Technology in Bangalore, tells me, “Indian children grow up knowing Leonardo Da Vinci and Van Gogh but are not exposed to their own Indian gems. This book was supposed to bridge that gap.”
She admires Varma’s work, and wanted to do justice to his paintings. However, at first, she was not sure about the approach to take while creating new illustrations to complement Varma’s art. Engaging with the text repeatedly helped her find a solution. She says, “In many of the pages I've just used the illustrations to highlight aspects of his work, his details—for example, his use of Indian drapery. I wanted children to interact with the paintings and not just flip through them.”
Sen, who makes digital illustrations using a pen-tablet, borrowed elements from Varma’s paintings for visual spreads that featured his masterpieces. She says, “I was making it almost like a game for the children interacting with it, such as, “Can you spot the lotus in the painting?”, “Did you notice the details in his Kaisar-i-Hind gold medal?” The idea was to use the illustrations to help children familiarise themselves with different aesthetics, Indian artists, indigenous art styles.”
Interactive elements also pop up in the form of comments uttered by the narrator who appears on several pages. The utterances appear in speech bubbles, giving a comic-like effect, thus offering a visual style that might appeal to the contemporary tastes of the children this book is targeted at. They also puncture the halo that is created around Varma as “the father of modern Indian art.” The author and illustrator convey that great art and great artists are not beyond critical engagement.
For example, on learning that the artist got married at the age of 18 to a 12-year-old princess, the narrator says, “I’m so glad that times are different now. I wouldn’t want to be married off in four years or ten.” When Amma attributes Varma’s success to his hard work, the narrator says, “I bet he wouldn’t have been so successful if he didn’t have people cooking his meals for him and keeping his house clean.” These appear to be the early stirrings of a feminist and anti-caste consciousness.
Later in the book, it is revealed that Varma had a sister named Mangala Bayi, who assisted him with facial expressions. However, she did not have the opportunities he had. Therefore, she could not earn fame as a professional artist. She had to live in the shadow of her brother.
Though this children’s book does not address how the artist may have treated the people who worked for him, Ketan Mehta’s film Rang Rasiya (2014) does touch briefly upon that aspect. It shows a frustrated Varma looking desperately for a model when his wife refuses to pose. His eyes fall upon Kamini, a woman sweeping the house. He makes her stop her work and pose for him. She is asked to do this on several occasions, and instructed to hold a pose even when her hands hurt.
The film is inspired by the artist’s life but it uses fictional elements, so one cannot conclusively say that everything depicted on screen was indisputable fact. In the film, this woman seduces Varma while she is modelling for him. His wife is aghast when she catches them in a compromising position, especially since the woman her husband is falling for is supposedly-inferior to him in the caste hierarchy. Given the power equation, is it not more likely that Varma may have forced himself upon Kamini?
Prince with a Paintbrush mentions that Varma travelled over India, and “the women he met during his travel became the subjects of his early paintings.” It also draws attention to his portraits of royals, and the painting “There Comes Papa” (1893) that he made featuring his daughter Mahaprabha, holding her son—RM Varma—in her arms. The narrator says, “I love Mahaprabha’s hairstyle! But I think you need very long hair to sweep it up so majestically.”
Srinivasan’s narrator points out that his “bright and dazzling paintings of India’s past made people feel proud of their history and literature.” Is mythology being clubbed with history here? Does he evoke a Hindu past or a past that can be claimed by all Indians, regardless of faith, religion or spiritual tradition?
While the book certainly evokes laughter here, it does not use the opportunity to talk about the Nair social and cultural milieu that was so central to Varma’s personal and professional life. Contemporary children’s literature published in India in English does engage with questions of caste, class, gender, race and sexual orientation in nuanced ways, so one wonders about this absence.
Gayatri Gopinath, who has engaged with Varma’s art in her book Unruly Visions: The Aesthetic Practices of Queer Diaspora (2018), offers significant historical and sociological insights about this painting that could have perhaps been translated creatively into child-friendly language. She writes, “The portrait depicts an upper-class Nair woman holding her infant son and gesturing to the arrival of the father, who is out of the frame, but around whom the entire scene is organized.”
According to Gopinath, the painting offers an entry point into discussing the “rapidly changing gender and sexual norms of turn-of-the-century Kerala, as the system of matriliny that governed the Nairs and other communities in Kerala up to the mid-19th century gave way to a patriarchal, patrilineal nuclear family structure.” Children should have the opportunity to learn about various family structures: single-parent households, same-sex marriages, joint families, and queer chosen families.
This kind of knowledge can be perceived as dangerous by the powers-that-be, since it questions not only patriarchy and marriage but also heteronormativity, religious scriptures, and the Indian legal system. India’s Supreme Court read down Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code to decriminalise “carnal intercourse against the order of nature” only three years ago. Same-sex marriages do not enjoy legal recognition in India yet, despite the efforts of several petitioners in Indian courts.
Varma, in his wildest dreams, would not have imagined that one day artist David Dasharath Kalal would create a work titled “Not Gonna” (2005) to parody “There Comes Papa”. In Kalal’s version, nobody is waiting with bated breath for the father to arrive. The woman’s gaze is not directed at her son but at the viewer of the image. It could be read as a refusal to buy into compulsory heterosexuality and forced conjugal relations that turn women into baby-producing machines.
An excerpt from Prince With A Paintbrush: The Story of Raja Ravi Varma. Image courtesy: Red Panda. Illustration by: Rayika Sen
This is apt because Varma’s celebration of mythology reinforces heteronormative coupledom, and idealises motherhood—an experience denied to some people who fervently desire it. The question of representation has been addressed quite inventively by artist Tejal Shah in her Hijra Fantasy Series (2006), which takes off from Varma to create a work called “You too can touch the moon—Yashoda with Krishna” (2006) The mother in the image is a hijra, not a cisgender woman.
How would this reinterpretation be taken by Varma, if he ever alive, especially as he specialised in creating images that evoked devotion towards deities? It is hard to tell. Srinivasan’s narrator points out that his “bright and dazzling paintings of India’s past made people feel proud of their history and literature.” Is mythology being clubbed with history here? Does he evoke a Hindu past or a past that can be claimed by all Indians, regardless of faith, religion or spiritual tradition?
Artist Nalini Malani’s video installation “Unity in Diversity” (2003) references Varma’s painting “Galaxy of Musicians” (1889) while bearing witness to the genocide that took place in Gujarat under the watch of Narendra Modi who was serving as the state’s Chief Minister in 2002. The title of the installation also recalls a common essay topic in English language classes, whereby schools urge students to mouth platitudes about a nationalist fantasy that obscures the history of antagonism.
Srinivasan’s narrator clarifies, “He didn’t only paint Hindu gods; he painted people of all faiths.” Her book includes Varma’s painting of Bishop Geevarghese Mar Gregorios of Parumala. That said, Varma is typically associated with images of Hindu gods and goddesses on wall posters, calendars and Amar Chitra Katha (ACK) comics. The narrator is delighted to learn from Amma that Varma did, in fact, work with ACK to paint characters from many of the stories in their comic books.
These stories celebrate valour and virtue. They set up role models for children to emulate. Their objective is to provide a template of desirable citizenship. The narrator informs us that some began to see Varma himself “almost as a God.” Bala Saheb, the Prince of Audh, used to admire him so much that he apparently kept the artist’s photograph in his prayer room.
If Ketan Mehta’s film is to be believed, Varma also got tremendous flak from his contemporaries who felt that he was murdering Indian culture and civilisation by creating nude images of Hindu divinities, thus hurting the sentiments of devotees. Varma, however, was convinced that the mythological stories that found their way into his paintings gave expression to the soul of the nation.
Conversations about artistic freedom can be had with children but The Prince With a Paintbrush may not be the best resource to spark them off. It is more likely to serve the needs of readers looking for a quick introduction to Varma’s affinity for European techniques and Indian subjects. It is, eventually, a book for children to enjoy; not for adults to use as a textbook.
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Chintan Girish Modi has an M.Phil in English Language Education, and has worked with the UNESCO Mahatma Gandhi Institute of Education for Peace and Sustainable Development, the Kabir Project, and the Hri Institute for Southasian Research and Exchange. His writing has appeared in Bent Book: A Queerish Anthology, Fearless Love, Clear Hold Build, Borderlines Volume 1, and more. He can be reached at chintangirishmodi@protonmail.com and found on Instagram: @Chintan_Connect and Twitter: @Chintan_Connect.
