Miss World 2025 contestants visit Victoria Memorial home in Hyderabad, inspire students
The contestants interacted with the children of the government-run Social Welfare Residential School and participated in cultural performances, even joining the students in dance and celebration. The contestants also inaugurated a newly established computer lab aimed at enhancing digital learning for the students. They also presented essential gifts and daily-use items to the children, adding a personal and compassionate touch to their engagement.
The Victoria Memorial Home, founded in 1903 by the sixth Nizam of Hyderabad, Mir Mahbub Ali Khan Bahadur, was originally established as an orphanage in memory of Queen Victoria following her death in 1901. A royal firman issued in 1904 led to its inauguration as the Victoria Memorial Orphanage on February 14, 1905. In 1953, during a visit by Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru, the institution's name was changed from 'orphanage' to 'home' to reflect a more humane and inclusive outlook.
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Time of India
18-07-2025
- Time of India
Meet the Indian royal princess who became Queen Victoria's ‘goddaughter' but forgotten legacy of empire
Source: The Better India At just 11 years old, Princess Gouramma of Coorg became the goddaughter of Queen Victoria, symbolizing what many in Britain viewed as a triumph of empire and civilizing mission. But behind the fanfare was a much darker truth. Her life—rooted in royalty, torn by war, and reshaped by colonial expectations—ultimately became a somber lesson in cultural erasure. Born to the last king of Coorg, Gouramma's journey from South India to Victorian England was filled with symbolic conversions, emotional betrayals, and tragic isolation. Her story remains a powerful case study of how colonialism often demanded the costliest sacrifices from those it claimed to protect. Queen Victoria 's goddaughter Princess Gouramma's journey from Coorg royalty Princess Gouramma, daughter of Chikka Virarajendra, was born into the royal household of the Kodagu (Coorg) kingdom. Her privileged life came to an abrupt end in 1834 when the Coorg War resulted in her father's defeat and the annexation of the kingdom by the British East India Company. Branded a political prisoner, her father spent over a decade in exile in Benaras. In 1852, with dreams of justice and integration, the deposed king traveled to England with Gouramma. by Taboola by Taboola Sponsored Links Sponsored Links Promoted Links Promoted Links You May Like Flexible MBA by SRM—Apply Now! SRM Online Apply Now Undo His aim: to seek restitution and secure his daughter's future. Their arrival marked a historical milestone—they became the first known Indian royals to visit Britain. The king prioritized finding protection for Gouramma in the Christian world, paving the way for her introduction into elite British society. Source: The Better India How Princess Gouramma became part of Queen Victoria's royal circle The young princess caught the attention of Queen Victoria, who formally baptized her and renamed her Victoria Gouramma of Coorg. While this adoption appeared as an embrace, it actually transformed her into a symbol of imperial conquest. Her conversion to Christianity and integration into aristocratic life were seen as the 'civilizing' of an exotic other—a living endorsement of the British imperial agenda. According to scholar Chandrica Barua, Gouramma's life was shaped more by cultural estrangement than courtly affection. Stripped of her language, identity, and heritage, she was groomed to fit Victorian norms. Raised under the guardianship of Major and Mrs. Drummond, she lost touch with Kannada and could no longer speak to her father. Queen Victoria's diaries, often referring to her as the 'poor little princess,' hinted at both affection and underlying racial condescension. Princess Gouramma's lonely marriage and fading royal dream in Victorian England Though celebrated in social circles for her manners and elegance, Gouramma never found true acceptance. Her godmother, Queen Victoria, tried to arrange a marriage between her and Maharaja Duleep Singh, another Indian royal raised under British influence. That union never materialized. Instead, Gouramma married Colonel John Campbell, a man nearly 50 years her senior—an arrangement that later revealed itself as more financial than affectionate. Her marriage brought little comfort. Gouramma, now a mother to a daughter named Edith, was left emotionally and physically alone. Campbell showed little interest in either her or their child. Health complications, particularly tuberculosis, began to take a toll. Historian Dr. Priya Atwal later revealed that Queen Victoria forbade Gouramma from seeing her father, fearing his 'heathen' influence—further severing the few ties she had to her past. Princess Victoria Gouramma's forgotten grave and the rediscovery of her legacy Victoria Gouramma died in 1864 at just 22 years old. Her passing was quiet, her grave in Brompton Cemetery overlooked for decades. Many believed her lineage ended there—until author C.P. Belliappa uncovered that Gouramma's descendants, including Robert Yardley, live on in Australia. Rare family photographs later surfaced, shared by a descendant of Colonel Campbell's first wife, restoring some humanity to a life so often told through colonial lenses. Princess Gouramma's story is not just a tragic tale of a displaced royal—it is a profound commentary on the costs of assimilation, the illusion of imperial acceptance, and the racialized hierarchy masked by politeness. Celebrated as a model of colonial success, she was ultimately abandoned by the very empire that had once championed her. Her legacy is a quiet warning about the price paid by those who are forced to trade identity for acceptance and heritage for survival. Also Read | Kristin Cabot's old LinkedIn post goes viral after Astronomer CEO Andy Byron caught in alleged affair at Coldplay concert; 'I win trust with CEOs…'
Scroll.in
01-07-2025
- Scroll.in
Stephen Alter's novel brings to life an older version of Rudyard Kipling's young hero, Kim, as a spy
Lahore. 18 March 1947. Dusk brings with it stray breezes from the north, dispelling some of the day's oppressive heat. Summer has begun early this year, as if to make up for the cold winter we just had. A wheeling flock of pigeons fills the amber sky. Kicking my motorcycle to life, I can smell wet earth, where a bhishti with his goatskin waterbag has laid the dust in the forecourt of the Masonic Lodge. My worthy companions tried to persuade me to stay for another drink before curfew, but their conversations were full of rumours about Radcliffe's Boundary Commission, cricket, and the cost of a passage home to England, none of which I cared to discuss. The Norton's engine sounds ragged but after I adjust the timing lever, it settles into a steadier, throaty roar. Switching on the headlamp, I circumnavigate a crescent of flower beds bordering the driveway and head out the gate, turning left across Charing Cross and onto the Mall Road. There is no traffic, only an empty tonga going in the direction of the walled city. Those who heed the evening call to prayer are in their places of worship, while followers of other creeds know better than to wander about at this hour, because of the recent violence the city has seen. Studying me with regal omniscience is the late, lamented empress Victoria, beneath a domed pavilion, her statue cast in bronze. Seconds later, a sharp clang of metal rings out and the Norton shudders as I feel a burning sensation crease my thigh. The crack of a .303 follows an instant later. It's true what they say: you'll never hear the gunshot that kills you. Instinctively, I shift gears and give the Norton full throttle, as a second shot is fired. This one passes over my right shoulder, drilling the air just south of my ear. Lowering my head, I swerve back and forth across the empty road. A third bullet comes after me, but by now I am well out of range and all I hear is the distant report of the rifle, fired in frustration. The shooter must have positioned himself behind a hedge to the left of the Victoria Memorial, somewhere in the shrubs and shadows. Heading towards Regal Crossing, I race past a line of European shops. Their display windows are lit up for evening customers, though the road remains deserted. Ranken & Co., Civil and Military Tailors, where I got an ill-fitting suit made some years ago. Cutler Palmer & Co., Wine Merchants, whose prices I can't afford. Smith & Campbell Chemists, offering cures for everything from hangovers to syphilis. And JD Bevan, who sells grand pianos, of which I have no need. They all go by in a blur, as I accelerate away from my would-be assassin, dodging a pariah dog that foolishly tries to cross my path. Nobody is in pursuit and the gunman must have escaped in the opposite direction, though I'm not taking any chances. By now, I can feel blood on my trousers and, glancing down, see a dark wet patch, six inches above my knee. The bullet grazed my leg and struck the air filter mounted on the Norton's petrol tank. All of this, I will confirm later, but for now I am grateful to be alive and happy to be heading into the familiar labyrinths of Anarkali Bazaar. Here the shops are busier, as people hurry to buy provisions before the 7 pm curfew. Unlike the larger, European shops with their bright windows and neatly painted signs, most of the stalls are open to the street and lit by kerosene lanterns. Selling dry goods out of gunny sacks and heaps of vegetables, the merchants haggle with their customers. A goat's carcass, flayed and partially dismembered, hangs from the rafters of a butcher's shop while the aroma of roasting kebabs wafts out of the shadows where a charcoal brazier glows and sends up clouds of fragrant smoke. Gearing down, I weave through the cyclists and pedestrians, as well as a few stray cows. Though some of the people glance in my direction with hostility in their eyes, I feel safer here than anywhere else in the world. Up ahead, an arched gateway is plastered with Congress posters bearing pictures of Mr Gandhi, appealing for peace. An advertisement for a magician, The Great Mustafa, is also pasted there, and other notices offering the best prices for dried fruit and nuts from Kabul. A colourful hoarding announces a new film at Imperial Talkies – Abida, starring Noor Jehan. I drive through the gateway, manoeuvring between a handcart piled high with onions and a woman in a faded black burqa, who seems to be deaf to the insistent carping of my horn. A few electric bulbs glimmer inside open doorways and a subtle yet cloying perfume fills the air, the mingling odours of incense, opium, and tobacco. Turning into a narrow gulley, I circle around to the back of a decaying brick building and park the Norton beneath a canvas awning. As I swing my leg off the motorcycle, a stabbing pain makes me wince, though I know I'm not badly hurt. Blood trickles down the inside of my thigh, while I fumble with my cigarette case and find a match. Lighting a Cavender's Navy Cut, I can see that my hand is shaking, the flame wavering in the dusty gloom at the foot of the stairwell. I've been shot at three times before and wounded twice but never like this, without any warning, an anonymous bullet at twilight. Lahore has always had its dangers but until recently, it was a peaceful city. Ever since last August, when Mr Jinnah put out a call for direct action, the troubles started and now it's hard to know whom you can trust. Of course, there's always been resentment towards the British, and anarchists of all stripes have targeted policemen, army officers, and other officials. As I make my way painfully up the stairs, favouring my injured leg, I wonder who the shooter could have been and whether his motives were personal or political. Champa is in her chambers, curled up on a divan and painting her toenails a livid pink. When I enter through the curtained doorway, she smiles indulgently but her expression changes as soon as she sees the wound on my leg. 'Hai bhagwan! What happened?' she cries, swivelling around and getting to her feet. 'Someone tried to shoot me,' I reply, the cigarette still clamped between my lips, as Champa calls out for help and lowers me onto her divan. 'Bring another lantern,' she instructs the two young women who appear, 'and a chilamchi of water.' After pulling off my shoes, unbuckling my belt, and opening the buttons on my fly, she removes my trousers. 'Slowly, slowly,' I try to reassure her. 'It's not that serious.' Holding a lantern in one hand, Champa examines the wound, where the bullet has ploughed a neat furrow through meat and skin. Blood is seeping out and several drops fall on the patterned floor tiles. Before I've finished my cigarette, however, Champa has cleaned me up. Taking a small glass vial, she breaks the neck and pours a yellowish liquid into the wound. The pain makes me curse and for a moment my head spins like a phonograph. Folding a wad of cotton wool inside layers of gauze, she presses it down on the wound and tightly wraps another roll of gauze around my thigh. Then straightening the injured leg, she places my foot on a silk cushion and makes me lie back.
Hindustan Times
28-06-2025
- Hindustan Times
The scenic root: A look at the ancient and modern history of the garden
Heaven is a well-laid garden. Or at least, the Ancient Persians thought so. A 17th-century tile panel from Isfahan, Iran, representing the Persian chahar-bagh. (Grant Anderson) The word paradise is derived from the Persian paradaijah, literally, 'walled enclosure'. As far back as 6th century BCE, the paradaijah was organised as a chahar-bagh, a set of its four swathes of green, each meant to embody one of the vital elements of the universe: earth, fire, water and air. Long, long before this, c. 1000 BCE, royal gardens in China featured intricately designed landscapes that often sought to marry myth with idealised forms of nature. How did such ideas evolve over time, to yield the neighbourhood parks of today? An intriguing exhibition at the Victoria & Albert Museum in Dundee (the first V&A outside London) traces the history of these miniature worlds. Garden Futures: Designing with Nature is on view until January. Through exhibits that range from ancient and contemporary paintings to photographs, tools, plant specimens, and interactive multimedia installations, the show traces how the idea of the garden goes all the way back to, well, one idea of the start of it all. In the Abrahamic faiths of Christianity, Judaism and Islam, the Garden of Eden represents the beginning of life itself. Exhibits at the show explore how these spaces have always served as sanctuaries; attempts, in increasingly dense, urban built environments, to let a bit of nature back in. In this role, they have acquired social, political and environmental connotations. Even today, or perhaps more so today, they are a statement of access, luxury, power, wealth. So how have our gardens grown, around the world? * China, c. 1000 BCE A 16th-century painting of scholars in a Chinese garden. (Getty Images) Myth and nature merge in the earliest signs of royal gardens here, dating to 1000 BCE. By the 3rd century BCE, there are records of the Qin emperor Shi Huang building a park with a lake and an island at the centre, inspired by legends of an island of immortals. In the Han dynasty that succeeded the Qin, rare plants and animals were housed in royal parks, in a template that spread as noblemen began to design their grounds on similar lines. Through the centuries, scaled-down waterways, rockeries, dwellings, bridges and plants sought to represent the whole of creation, in miniature scale. Over time, the precursor to the zen garden took shape, built around gongshi or scholar's rocks (essentially, boulders shaped by nature in such intriguing ways that one could spend hours in their contemplation). At V&A Dundee, a watercolour titled A Painting of a Chinese Garden, Guangzhou (c. 1820-1840) bears testament to this past. * France, in the 1500s A view of a parterre at the Palace of Versailles. (Adobe Stock) By the 1500s (civilisation dawning considerably later in the West), the French were designing intricate parterre (literally, 'on the ground') flowerbeds meant to be viewed from a height — essentially, from the terrace or higher floors of a chateau. Surviving parterres such as those at the Palace of Versailles reflect Renaissance ideals of beauty, symmetry and order. Also, luxury, via precise ornamentation. Some of the designs were so intricate, they were referred to as broderie sur la terre or 'embroidery on the ground'. At the V&A exhibit, this style is showcased via a fine-art reproduction of a sketch by the renowned 17th-century landscape architect Claude Mollet. His best-known work is still painstakingly maintained, at the Palace of Versailles. * England, in the 1700s John Gendall's depiction of a hermitage at the British royal family's Frogmore Estate in Windsor. (Getty) By the 18th century, pioneers such as Lancelot 'Capability' Brown were looking to contemporary art for inspiration. Inspired by the Picturesque Movement (a mid-18th-century style that sought to 'represent the ideal'), gardens designed by Brown and others sought to mimic idealised natural landscapes using cedar, beech and linden trees and sweeping lawns. These parks were marked by a near-total absence of flowers. Some of these gardens featured 'hermitages', whimsical retreats meant for rest and contemplation. In some cases, eccentric lords of the manor even hired a 'hermit' to play out the life of a romantic recluse and complete the picture. Engraved prints by artists of the time such as John Gendall and JP Neale offer intricate views of such gardens, complete with hermitages (but not hermits) * USA, in the 20th century Artist J Howard Miller's poster for the Victory Gardens initiative. (V&A Dundee) In the early 1940s, Victory Gardens produced up to 40% of America's fruits and vegetables, according to data from the US National WWII Museum. A government campaign that urged residents to grow their own food amid critical shortages, trade disruptions and broken supply chains was so successful that 20 million such gardens grew up across America, the museum data states. A poster that reads Plant a Garden for Victory!, by the artist J Howard Miller, is part of the V&A Dundee exhibit, inviting the viewer to reconsider a proven model in our current times of need. * India: Then and now While India does not form part of the V&A exhibit, it is interesting to note that the entire arc represented in the four-room display at the museum is visible in a number of our cities today. In northern India, parks and monuments still bear the mark of the ornate Mughal-era designs that were influenced by the Persian chahar-bagh — think rectilinear walled sections, large pools, canals, fountains and flowers. Alongside, we have the colonial-era import of the botanical gardens, in which the British originally attempted to recreate English shrubbery, and then began to preserve and showcase specimens of local varieties too. . Artistic and cultural movements continue to influence the way gardens look. These spaces can also be agents of change, says exhibition co-curator James Wylie. One actionable way to redraw the norm would be 'to look into our immediate environments and ask: Are there ways to encourage pollinators, or different modes of wildlife? To reach beyond manicured lawns and hedges, to create a wild, rich environment that encourages diversity of life?' Wylie adds. 'Because the ideal garden, in our times, is one in which our influence is negligible.'
