Mia at the Mattanchery Palace: A Royal Walks Among Royals

The sunlight glinted off my ginger fur—naturally—right as I landed on the wall outside my house. Perfect lighting, perfect timing. The universe knows when I’m making an entrance.

Hello, it’s me—Mia. Your local princess, now also an art critic, palace inspector, and amateur history enthusiast at Cats of Kochi. Since I moved into my lovely new home (quiet, cozy, and refreshingly Bandit-free), I’ve made it my mission to explore the elegant, the mysterious, and the just-plain-fabulous corners of Fort Kochi. And today? Today called for something grand. Regal. With arches and stories and maybe a dramatic hallway or two.

So I went to a palace.

Yes, a real one. Mattancherry Palace, or what the humans like to call the Dutch Palace. Personally, I think they should rename it “Mia’s Summer Estate,” but that’s a conversation for another time.

The palace isn’t too far from my house—just a short stretch down cobbled streets and past a few curious birds (I let them live).

At first glance, it looked simple. White walls, a sloping roof, nothing too showy. But don’t be fooled. This place holds centuries of secrets. And it smells like it, too—wood, dust, ink, and memories.

What (somewhat) pleasantly surprised me was how disability friendly this place was! There was a stairlift at the entrance making it wheelchair accessible. There was even information in braille inside.

Here’s a little gossip: the Portuguese built it in the 1500s (probably to say sorry for being annoying), and gave it to King Veera Kerala Verma of the Kochi dynasty. Later, the Dutch came in and gave it a glow-up. The kings of Kochi used it to do all the important royal things—like getting crowned and possibly being admired by cats (just a guess). Neither the Dutch nor Portuguese lived in it. Very polite of them, honestly.

I stepped into the courtyard and immediately felt something shift. The breeze slowed down. My tail stilled. In the very center sat a temple to Pazhayannur Bhagavathi, the royal family’s goddess. I gave her a respectful nod. The kind of nod you reserve for grandmothers and antique furniture you’re not allowed to scratch.

The architecture was classic Kerala naalukettu—four wings around the courtyard, and every bit of it humming with the quiet confidence of something that has seen it all and is still standing. My paws touched the floor—smooth, shiny, dark. It looked like black marble, but it wasn’t. Turns out it was made from lime, egg whites, plant juices, and burnt coconut shells. I tried to imagine how many eggs that would’ve taken. Probably a few dozen omelets.

Upstairs, the murals started. And oh… marvelous! Some were complete, some incomplete– all speaking volumes.

The Royal Bed Chamber. A bed high up in the air– with human touch prohibited– just my kind of bed.

I stood in front of a giant Ramayana mural, painted sometime in the 17th or 18th century. One hundred square meters of colour and drama. Sita, Rama, Hanuman. Palaces, forests, battles. It felt like being inside a dream, or like curling up inside an epic poem. I tilted my head. Stared long. And I swear—swear—I saw a painted cat in one corner. Ginger, obviously. Ancestor? Artistic license? Cosmic wink? Who’s to say.

In the coronation hall, things got even more deliciously royal. Statues of Kochi kings, dressed in their coronation robes, stared out with that particular human expression that says, “Yes, I’m powerful, but I’m also thinking about snacks.” They were joined by maps of old Kochi, umbrellas made of silk and brass, palanquins with floral carvings, silver-threaded gowns, and swords. Lots of swords. The kind of room that says: we wear pretty things, but we’ll defend ourselves.

The ceiling had wood-carved flowers—lotuses, especially—and one that was upside-down. Bold choice. Unexpected. I admired it. Sometimes elegance lies in doing the unexpected, like refusing pets right after you purr.

Then came the dining hall. My whiskers twitched. I’m sure they used to serve fish here, and not the dry kind either. Above me, the ceiling sparkled with brass cups. I walked across slowly, taking it all in, leaving tiny pawprints in places that had probably only known sandalwood-scented humans until now.

Back downstairs, I explored the royal ladies’ room. A staircase led to a smaller chamber above, and I could already imagine how perfect it would be for naps. The walls here had murals from Kumarasambhavam—Kalidasa’s dreamy tale of gods falling in love. Romance, longing, destiny. Very on brand for me. There were also panels showing Krishna Leela and Shiv Leela—mischief, music, divine dance. Again, I felt seen.

Time didn’t move inside that palace. It just curled up like a cat in a sunny spot and stayed warm and still.

When I finally stepped outside, the light had changed. Softer. Gold-tinged. Like the palace had gifted me a little piece of its magic to carry with me.

If you’re human and reading this (hi, you have great taste), you can visit too. The palace is open every day except Fridays, from 10:00 A.M. to 5:00 P.M. There’s a small ticket fee, but I promise it’s worth every rupee. You won’t just be looking at art—you’ll be walking through memory. Through a time when silk rustled through hallways, gods danced on painted walls, and maybe, just maybe, a little ginger cat wandered through, unseen.

For me, it felt like something clicked.

I may be a modern princess—with indoor privileges and a taste for mango yogurt—but walking those halls, I felt the quiet whisper of kinship. Royalty, across time and species.

I trotted home slower than usual. Head full of murals. Paws soft with old dust. Heart just a little bigger.

Another corner of Kochi explored. Another secret stitched into my ginger coat.

Until the next adventure—
Stay fabulous!