JOIN USWhat might you have learnt at Dewan Purnaiya’s Yelandur home?
As every researcher of history learns very quickly in India, scorpions and snakes, rather than trained archivists or cataloguers, are often in charge of archives that remain unexplored -- disinterest, masked as fear or superstition, effectively preserves the material from all but the most persistent scholars. So, when Tahsin Ahmed, the tahsildar of Yelandur in 1987, decided to risk entering the locked and neglected white building in the centre of Yelandur town, to track down an old file from the then Taluk Cutcherry, he was taking on an old fear of a hairy snake that purportedly guarded Purnaiya’s long-lost treasure.
What he stumbled on went far beyond the greedy fantasies of bounty hunters. The hairy snake remained elusive, and may have been no more than an overactive imagination that had encountered cobwebs. Medium-sized grey trunks did hold treasure, and coins, Ahmed recalls, but it was the black cloth manuscripts covered with chalk writing that were the sensational archival find. The records – as material objects – were themselves unusual, each one a black cloth-covered board measuring 15 feet in length, and folded in an accordion style for easy storage. Inscribed in white chalk were the meticulous records of the transactions of the Yelandur Jagir, an inam of 46 villages that was gratefully given in 1807 to Dewan Purnaiya by the British. For serving his new masters well, paying the subsidy on time and accumulating a surplus in the treasury. The kadathas (as the black books were called) of the Yelandur Jagir, were donated in two jeep-loads to the Mysore Divisional Archives Office, attracting the attention of a handful of scholars.
Purnaiya’s residence in Yelandur is a dignified colonial building, with an arched doorway replete with Corinthian columns, flanked by two similarly ornamented doorways, this time with pediment and entablature as well. The upper storey is simpler, with a series of arched and pilastered windows flanking a deep verandah, with arched openings. The two clockfaces on either end of the building publicly announce the arrival of modern clocktime. Since Ahmed’s bold entry (which regrettably earned him no laurels but only a ‘show cause’ notice!), the house fell once more into neglect until recently renovated by the heritage commissioner to become a historical museum.
One searches in vain for an engaging encounter with one of Mysore’s important statesmen and administrators, and above all with a formative period of Mysore history. Purnaiya was among Tipu Sultan’s senior-most and trusted administrators, after having served Haider Ali; he transitioned to serve the (initially) minor Krishnaraja Wodeyar III until 1811 as the Dewan of princely Mysore, under the watch of the British. The museum, however, reveals no sign of this critical transition, and Purnaiya’s unique place in it. What we have is an eclectic collection of images – ironically, largely of the 20th century Wodeyars -- some historical records (largely, copies of typed 20th century official documents from the Karnataka State Archives), random images of Mysore monuments, sculptures, and some inscriptions pertaining to Chamarajanagar district. Another surprising inclusion is the copies of traditional Mysore paintings.
Only small remnants remain of the beautiful original tiling, vigorously replaced by bright spartek tiles. The two-storeyed structure reveals no trace of that treasure trove of kadatha records, and what they might tell us about the socio-economic and cultural frameworks that Purnaiya himself may have shaped. Imaginative museology would not only have engaged with historical writing on this period, but also possibly have brought this structure into conversation with another structure from another time, serving quite another purpose, which nestles just below this stately mansion. It is the ornate 16th century Gaurishwara temple at Yelandur, whose darker stone offsets the white of the Purnaiya museum. It is a late Vijayanagar monument, in which the mahadwara seems to have traded the
gopura for the large interlocked (and monolithic, jointless) stone rings that give it its name – bale mantapa. The much simpler temples within the courtyard speak of multiple layers of building over the 16th and 17th centuries.
At first sight, nothing links the two structures, in either form, materials used or in their communication of power – one thickly encrusted with reference to Hindu myths and scriptures, the other marking a secular modernity. That link can only be the result of a creative museologist, who is interested not just in conservation, or in undiluted regional pride, but in what visitors can be made to critically think about. How do these texts of power relate to the rich agricultural landscape of which they are a part? What were the diverse local commercial, political, religious and cultural interests that waxed and waned over four centuries, to which these monuments have been witness? How, above all, do the people of Yelandur themselves remember these histories, and relate to these important historical monuments? This is an approach that will yield unexpected and delightful results, which will reward and stimulate the visitor to Yelandur.