Thrones are not glorified chairs. They tell remarkable stories
Thrones advertised symbolic power and ended up as a fixed deposit of sorts for weaker sultans. Collecting thrones was also often about showing off one’s success
In the 1360s, the Bahmani sultan of the Deccan received from a rajah the present of a throne. Reportedly six cubits long and two broad, “the frame was of ebony, covered with plates of pure gold, inlaid with precious stones of great value", and with “sky-blue" enamelling. The sultan was delighted—his old silver perch was retired, and this new artefact, the Takht-i-Feroza (Turquoise Throne) became the Bahmani seat of power. For the next century and a half, his successors added gems to the frame, the value of which was said to total one crore gold hoons. It was all meant to advertise monarchical power, of course, but eventually ended up as a fixed deposit of sorts for weaker sultans. For by the 1500s, the last heirs of the dynasty—their power depleted and coffers empty—would strip the Takht-i-Feroza of its valuable metal and stone. As Bahmani power withered, the throne was taken apart, its gems set in “vases and goblets".
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Thrones have never been merely glorified chairs. It is their symbolic power that matters, which is why relatively simple seats too might serve as thrones, if they are warmed by august bottoms. For the same reason, then, destruction, defacing or the seizure of these seats also had political connotations. Well known, for instance, is the shattering of prestige and influence the Mughals faced when the Peacock Throne—a masterpiece that took seven years to construct, and which incorporated in its design some of the world’s greatest diamonds—was appropriated by Nadir Shah of Persia. It is never a good look when one’s imperial regalia is transported overseas by a fearsome invader; that moment, in many ways, inaugurated what is seen as the age of Mughal decline. And in Persia, the throne was dismantled, in tandem with the status of Delhi’s rulers back in India. It also, naturally, made its new owners very, very rich.
The ritual sanctity of thrones also meant that violations could be life-threatening. The Mughal emperor Akbar once emerged earlier than usual from his chambers, and found most of his staff missing. Except for a lamp-lighter curled up mid-nap in the throne room. Akbar had him flung from a tower.
Some decades later in the Qutb Shahi court of Golconda, the king would outsource power to a minister called Mir Jumla. Everyone, an English official recorded, stood “in feare and subjection unto him as to the King himselfe". But 13 years into his term, the minister began to eclipse his master. And when one night, the story goes, Mir Jumla’s inebriated son fell asleep on the Qutb Shahi throne—and vomited all over it—a line was crossed. The minister was sacked, and his property appropriated. Mir Jumla defected to the Mughals, and an invasion followed.
Collecting thrones, especially those that belonged to vassals and fallen enemies, was also often about showing off one’s success. Tipu Sultan of Mysore, for instance, had a preoccupation with the tiger. This motif appeared on his flag, palanquin, the uniforms of his soldiers, and his stationery. And, of course, his throne was called the Tiger Throne, which as the scholar Kate Brittlebank notes, “displayed a massive gold tiger head with crystal teeth", in addition to eight gem-studded tiger finials. When Tipu died during his final battle with the British, as with his other treasure, the throne also fell to the victors. Most of it was broken and thrown to the troops, but the ornate bits were exported to London. The big head ended up with Britain’s royal family, and the finials in private hands. What was meant to proclaim Tipu’s might was turned into museum exhibits and trophies abroad, enshrining colonial triumph.
Some, though, parted with thrones quite willingly, to flatter, show deference and curry favour. In the mid-19th century, Travancore had a charismatic rajah in Martanda Varma. He was an interesting personality, but the British did not approve of his financial management of the state, upon which rested their own tribute. In 1849, Varma was in the process of having a new throne of ivory made for himself, when news arrived of Queen Victoria’s husband planning a great exhibition in London. He decided to ship over the intricately carved throne, with the hope that the queen would “graciously condescend to receive this" present (she did and sent a fancy belt as thanks). Interestingly, what was a “throne" in Travancore was downgraded to a “chair" there. And what was to be a kingly seat in Kerala became an object on display in Windsor Castle: a mark of the unequal dynamic between white and “native" power.
Mythologies also form around thrones over time, lending an air of romance and sanctity. There are a variety of stories around the Golden Throne of Mysore, for example, brought out even now during the annual dassara celebrations. Tradition insists that it originally belonged to the Pandavas of the Mahabharat; that it was found buried at a certain spot by the originators of the Vijayanagara empire from whom it made its way into the hands of Mysore’s rulers.
British officials, however, noted a different provenance for the throne: it was, they wrote, sent with a signet ring by the Mughals to the Mysore rajahs. Since that time, in the hands of successive kings, changes were made and we read, “little remains of the original structure". Either way, according to this sequence of events, the golden throne came not so much from epic heroes but the emperor Aurangzeb around 1699-1700.
The fate of regal seats, however, is generally the same: some lucky ones are ritualised, retaining some value even when political authority dissolves. Others vanish into display boxes, becoming relics gazed upon by tourists. But one way or another, most end up in places where their makers—and initial occupants—little expected them to go. Travancore’s sits on British soil as an exotic “chair"; Tipu’s is in pieces abroad, some publicly visible, others in private “collections"; the broke Bahmanis smashed their own for liquidity, and nobody knows where its fabled gems disappeared; and the Mughals had theirs stolen and demolished.
Power, after all, is slippery, and chairs that embody it naturally confront parallel fates. For all that, they do tell some remarkable stories—and perhaps offer a subtle warning to those in high seats that glory and greatness always come with an expiry date.
Manu S. Pillai is a historian and author, most recently, of Gods, Guns and Missionaries.
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