Bankim Chandra Chatterjee : The Composer of the Vande Mataram Song
Nagendranath Gupta
It has been my great good fortune and high privilege to have seen and known Bankim Chandra Chatterji, the master who will be remembered as the creator of a great literature, the Rishi to whom was revealed the Vande Mataram mantra, which will be chanted and sung by a free India for ages to come. Half a century ago no name stood higher in the literature of Bengal than that of Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyaya and his fame has not faded in the years that have passed. Out in the West literature has been recognized as a profession for a considerable time and men and women are making a living out of it ; some have prospered, a few have become wealthy. Perhaps a few people in India now devote their whole tine a literature, but it is only a doubtful and scanty living that can be made out of it. There is a familiar saying in this country that Lakshmi, the Goddess of Wealth, and Saraswati, the Goddess of Learning, do not agree and are sedom found together. It was so even in the West, for the greatest writers in Europe in earlier times were usually very poor. What payment did Homer receive for the Iliad and the Odyssey, what was paid for the Ramayana and the Mahabharata and the immortal works of Kalidas ? How much did Shakespeare receive for the dramas which are the crown and glory of English literature ? For his epic Paradise Regained Milton was paid the magnificent sum of 5 ! There is authority in Holy Writ for the truth that one cannot serve God and Mammon at the same time ; equally it was true that Mammon and the Muses could not be served together.
Bankim Chandra did not derive a living from literature. He was one of the two first graduates of the Calcutta University and almost immediately after obtaining the B.A. degree he was apointed a Deputy Magistrate, which office he held, till nearly the end of his life, for he did not live long after his retirement from service, and he was barely fifty-six years of age at the time of his death. Year in and year out, with the exception of Sundays and the few public holidays, he was in his office for six or seven hours every day. Besides, he was periodically transferred from one place to another and was seldom within reach of a good public library. The work he had to do in his office would have been sufficient occupation for men of average energy, but Bankim Chandra utilized the few hours of leisure every day out of office for literacy work which has enriched the Bengali language and secured for him a permanent place among the immortals.
There is no good likeness of him in existence. He seldom sat for his photograph and no painter or sculptor drew or chiselled his image. After his death the only likeness found in his works represents him with a large Moghul turban on his head. He belonged to a race which generally goes about bareheaded, but Bankim Chandra was photographed in his official dress. The photograph fails to convey an accurate idea of the face and the contour of the head. He was a man of slender build and slightly above the medium height. His head and features were highly intellectual and could not fail to arrest attention anywhere. The forehead was not very high but it was broad and smooth. The eyes were deepseated, grey and keen. Bankim Chandra had a habit of looking through narrowed eyes so that they were rarely wide open, but they gleamed and flashed with humour in conversation and became brilliant in moods of earnestness and exaltation. The nose was prominent, Roman, and curved over the upper lip with sensitive nostrils. The lips were thin and closed firmly over remarkably small teeth, while the strong jaws bore evidence of great strength of mind and character. It was the head, however, that showed a high order of intellect. It was of the finest Brahminical type mentioned by Sir William Hunter. It was not unusually large but perfectly proportioned, a head that a Roman sculptor would have loved to reproduce in plaster and marble. The keen, strong, aquiline face, the splendid head with its curling, ruffled hair which was rarely combed or brushed, stamped Bankim Chandra Chatterji as a man of genius.
Of the greatness of his intellect there cannot be the slightest question. He was profoundly versed in Sanskrit and English literature and the versatality of his genius found scope in various directions. First and foremost, he was a novelist, a romancer whose books display the novelist’s art at its highest. There has been no greater stylist in Bengali prose. Lyrical poetry in Bengal had reached a high level in the time of the Vaishnava poets. Chandidas, was the first great lyrical poet of Bengal and he was a supreme artist, and his language was remarkably simple and musical. Bengali prose, however, was of much slower evolution. Raja Rammohan Roy was the first Bengali prose writer of distinction and he also composed some beautiful hymns. Later on, Akshay Kumar Dutt was an eminent prose writer, though his language was not very elegant and agreeable to the ear. Iswar Chandra Vidyasagar introduced a much smoother and more classical prose, but both these writers translated and adapted their subjects from either Sanskrit or English. They did not display the creative faculty of genius, or introduce an original literature. Bankim Chandra appeared in the literary firmament of Bengal as a dazzling luminary, a star of the first magnitude. He first discovered the potential strength of Bengali prose, and the music and the rhythm that can be found in it. As a youthful aspirant to the favour of the Muses he had served his apprenticeship under Isvara Chandra Gupta, at that time the most popular poet of Bengal and also the Editor of the Bengali newspaper, Sangbad Prabhakar. Bankim Chandra wrote verses of no particular merit, but soon found out that the proper vehicle for his creative faculty was prose. His first novel appeared when he was twenty-seven years of age, and at once made a profound impression.
To the close student it is a fascinating study to note the gradual formation, the growing clarity and strength, and the mannerisms of Bankim’s style. As a romance his first book is excellent reading, but the style is at times stilted, burdened with the elaborations and the long and difficult words then in vogue. There can be no mistaking, however, of the hand of the true artist throughout the book. The story is well sustained and hangs well together, the characters are well developed, and the sense of humour, the hall-mark of the true artist, is often present.
This book is called Durgeshnandini (The Chieftain’s Daughter). The second, Kapalakundala, a name taken from the Sanskrit drama, Malati Madhava, bears vividly on every page the sign manual of the master artist, the wizard who with a wave of his magic wand brings forth, from out of the shadows, shapes that materialize into living, palpitating beings. The book is a prose-poem, a drama in which the actors move as living beings, the poetic touch appearing at every turn, and the story, perfectly proportioned and powerfully conceived, moves onward to sudden and swift tragedy. Kapalakundala, the central figure, is a creation of the finest imagination. She is a spirit-woman, elusive, untouched by life or the world, virginal of body and mind, passing calm and unruffled through the brief span of her life away from the haunts of men.
Shortly afterwards Bankim Chandra founded a monthly Bengali magazine called Bangadarshan (The Mirror of Bengal) which established a new era in the literary history of Bengal. Nothing like it had ever been seen before in any part of India. It was the most scholarly and brilliant periodical ever known in Bengal. For four years it was edited by Bankim Chandra and during that period it afforded full scope for the displaying of his versatile genius. His great social novel Vishabriksha (The Poison Tree) first appeared as a serial in this magazine. This was followed by Chandrashekhar, an epic romance of which the style is representative of Bankim’s marvellous art at its highest, the dramatic development of the story being as effective and impressive as the glowing passages are full of power and poetry, sometimes rising to epic heights. To the pages of the magazine he contributed criticisms of classic Sanskrit works and some important Bengali books showing critical acumen of a high order, unequalled powers of analysis and .a literary judgement beyond praise. He wrote serious and thoughtful articles on many problems ; he exposed the untruthful character of several chapters of modern British Indian history ; he wrote bright humorous papers with an undercurrent of deep feeling. As a controversialist he had no equal and no rival. In argument his razor-like intellect flashed and thrust like a finely tempered Toledo. In his matchless strength he was frequently pitiless, but there was no denying his dazzling brilliance and skill and superiority in controversy. :
At this distance of time it is somewhat difficult to realize to the fullest extent the effect produced by the emergence of Bankim as a force in periodical literature. The literary atmosphere in Bengal at that time was peculiar and artificial. The educated classes despised the Bengali language and literature. They prided themselves on nothing so much as the ability to speak and write English. They invariably discussed British authors and recited British poets. They were ignorant of the great wealth of lyrical poetry to be found among the Vaishnava poets of Bengal. The exquisite lyrics of the Maithil poets Vidyapati Thakur and Govindadas Jha, so widely appreciated by the Vaishnavas of Bengal, was a sealed book to them. Bankim himself was one of the finest scholars and writers of English in his time. Under the assumed name of ‘Ram Sarma’ he once engaged in a controversy in the columns of the Statesman with the Rev, Dr. William Hastie, then Principal of the General Assembly’s Institution in Calcutta, and the ease and perfect command with which he used the English language and showed himself a past master of controversy elicited wide admiration. But Bankim was much greater than a mere scholar. He was a born artist and creator of literature, and the highest literary art invariably finds expression in the language lisped and learned at the mother’s knees. In the creation of all true, imaginative and high literature the heart has as large, if not larger, a share as the head, and the heart has only one language, that in which the child heart speaks to the mother heart.
The appearance of the Bangadarshan monthly magazine was nothing short of a literary revolution. It was a revelation as well as a revolution. It revealed to the educated Bengalis the potentialities and the fascination of the Bengali language when used by a highly gifted writer. Almost all the subscribers of this periodical were Bengalis who had been in the habit of scoffing at their own language. In spite of their penchant for the English language and literature they could not resist the fascination of this Bengali writer, who used the Bengali lauguge with a power and witchery that held every reader breathless with admiration. Round Bankim had gathered a small select band of writers who, after him, were the most important contributors to the Bangadarshan. Some of them had been in the habit of writing English books and papers, but were very diffident about their ability to write in their own language. Bankim prevailed upon them to overcome their hesitation and they became distinguished Bengali writers. Some of the Sanskrit pandits of the old school, men who favoured the use of long and difficult words in Bengali prose, savagely denounced Bankim for his marked tendency to simplify the Bengali language and to bring it within the easy comprehension of all readers. But this opposition was swept away by the flood tide of popular enthusiasm. If the Bangadarshan had three thousand subscribers, it had thirty thousand readers. Every number of the magazine was awaited with eager impatience and hailed as a literary event. Men and women read it from cover to cover with unabated interest, and keeenly discussed what they read. The finer passages in his novels and essays, were read over and over again, recited and frequently committed to memory. I have heard a Nair gentleman, a native of Malabar, reciting whole passages of the original Bengali text of the novel Vishabriksha, using of course the Sanskrit accent. Bankim’s books, once read, can never be forgotten and have to be read again. ( This is specially true of the best and greatest of his novels, Kapalakundala, Chandrashekhar, Anandamath, Devi Chaudhurani and Sitaram. Any Bengali who confesses ignorance of these books must be considered ignorant of the greatest masterpieces of Bengali literature. They are perfect productions of the novelist’s art and some of the characters, such as Pratap, Chandrashekhar, and the leading figures in Anandamath are worthy of the great ancient Aryan masters. These stories grip the imagination, while many of the dramatic situations and scenes haunt the memory for ever.
In the appearance of the modern novel in Indian literature some people have endeavoured to trace the influence of British fiction. This is certainly true to this extent that the main features of the novel are western, in form, arrangement and execution. English fiction itself is by no means original. Cervantes wrote Don Quixote long before any English novel was written and that masterly and unromantic romance has exercised a powerful influence on all fiction in Europe. The Sanskrit Hitopadesha, Kathasaritsagara, the Pali Buddha Jatakas and many narratives were written long before such a thing as the English language was in existence. As stories those of the Arabian Nights have never been surpassed. There is also a remarkable suggestive parallelism between different literatures. In the ancient polite literature of the Aryans the epics come first and these are followed by the dramas. In Greece it was the same, but any suggestion that this sequence is due to Sanskrit influence must be repudiated. The novel is really the modern form of the epic and the saga, the unfolding of a sustained narrative and the delineation of character. The form is immaterial so long as the stamp of individuality is clear. Take, for example, Chandrashekhar, in which Bankim’s art shows itself at its best. It is unquestionably an epic in prose and characters like Pratap and Chandrashekhar are clearly Aryan in conception and might have stepped out of the pages of the Mahabharata. Again, the patriotism that throbs and rises to heights of devotional exaltation in Anandamath can never be felt or understood out of Aryan India. The greatest writer may owe a great deal to other influences, but only a man of the highest genius can achieve what Bankim has done.
The series of papers called Kamalakanta’s Daptar. occupies a place apart. (There is no other book precisely, like it in any other literature.) Kamalakanta Chakravarti was an opium addict and these papers are supposed to have been written by him in scrap books and on stray sheets of paper. The opium habit faintly suggests De Quincey’s (Confessions of an Opium-eater, but there is no other similarity of any kind. The character of Kamalakanta, the drug-fiend, is that of Bankim himself. Under the veneer of the opium-eater’s humour and apparent absurdities lies a deep, strong, profoundly thoughtful personality, the burning heart of intense patriot, whose passionate, eloquent and pathetic reference to the Motherland cannot be read without the eyes being dimmed with tears. There are papers of sparkling fancy and fine poetic imagination, of flashes of irresistible raillery and bright banter, and then, without an effort, the theme moves to serious purpose and the reader sees the pierced and bleeding heart of the patriot bared before his eyes. The charm of the style never flags ; it bubbles over with humour and is pointed with sarcasm. At the next turn it rises to the sublime heights of passion and attains the note of prophetic fervour. Persiflage and the slinging of wit form the outer crust ; at the core there is the white flame of truth, the ardent devotion of earnest patriotism. Kamalakanta’s Daptar is undeniably a great book.
Bankim’s writings and style leave a very definite and clear impression on the mind. His range is wide ; he is romancer, critic, humorist, patriot ; later on, he wrote on religious subjects and translated the Bhagavadgita. His Krishnacharitra (The Character of Krishna) is a work of great analytical power and dialectic skill. The precision and perspicacity of expression are everywhere noticeable. In reasoning and controversy the directness and incisiveness of his style are always obvious, but even in narrative he is usually pithy and concise, and it is only in reflective and descriptive passages that his diction flows and sweeps forward in graceful and impassioned periods. But through it all one consciousness never leaves the reader, namely, the strength of the style and of the personality behind it. If a single word could indicate the preponderating characteristic of Bankim Chandra Chtterji’s style it would be strength and again strength. It were as if he wielded the brand Excalibur in one hand and the hammer of Thor in the other. Never was intellect more masculine and virile than his, never were simple words charged with such tremendous strength. Well did Jyotirindranath Tagore, literateur and dramatist, once write that when Bankim met another man in controversy his unlucky opponent realized what it was to be struck by a thunderbolt.
During all these years while Bankim was fashioning with his brain and hands a literature which has ensured for him a place among the immortals he was living the drab and scarcely elevating life of a subordinate magistrate transferred periodically from one district to another, and serving under men generally incapable of forming any idea of his literary genius. He was not always well treated, though towards the end of his service he received titles to which he did not attach the slightest importance. His work in office consisted of trying criminal cases and perhaps attending to some details of the treasury. It was all petty work and he never once spoke of it out of office. It is a sign of no small strength that despite his surroundings and the trivial work that occupied so many hours of his time day after day he could accomplish so much and turn out literary work of such a distinctly high order.
Some of Bankim Chandra’s novels were translated, but the translations were not very good and did not convey the attracti veness of his style. Mrs. Knight’s translation of Vishabriksha, however, was appreciated and the London Punch wrote the following two characteristic lines about it :
“Have you read the Poison Tree
By Bankim Chandra Chatterjee ?”
Bankim’s widest fame does not rest upon his great novels and other brilliant writings, but on the Vande Mataram song, which appeared in the novel called Anandamath (The Happy Monastery). The story is based upon a slight historical foundation, the rebellion of a sect of Hindu monks against the Muhammedan power in Bengal. While the story was appearing as a serial in the Bangadarshan, which had been revived and was being edited by Bankim’s brother, Sanjib Chandra Chatterji, also a Bengali writer of distinction, there was much speculation as to the ulterior purpose and motive of the novel. In all the previous books of Bankim it had been noticed that they were placed on the market without any press notices or extracts from favourable reviews. Bankim was a proud man by nature and he would not permit his books to be advertised backed by the commendations of the Press. His name was sufficient to insure the popularity and sale of his works, though the buyers of books in those days were few. In the case of Anandamath alone Bankim made an exception. To prevent misunderstanding and the attribution of any ulterior motive he attached to Anandamath, when it appeared as a book, the opinion of the Liberal, a newspaper then edited by Krishna Bihari Sen, the youngest brother of Keshab Chunder Sen, and a scholarly, thoughtful writer and critic. It was the only instance in which a book written by Bankim appeared with a press notice.
Neither at the time Anandamath was running as a serial nor on its appearance as a book did the Vande Mataram song attract any particular attention or create any stir. Only one incident, now nearly forgotten, can ; be recalled in this connection. A certain Bengali poet, who owed much of his popularity to Bankim’s appreciation in the Bangadarshan, had a discussion with Bankim about this song. He wanted to know why it had been composed partly in Sanskrit and partly in Bengali. Bankim replied that he saw no objection to such a method considering the peculiar character of the song, but his interrogator persisted with his questions and objections until Bankim abruptly closed the discussion by saying that he composed the song as it occurred to him and there was no more to be said. This mingling of languages was, perhaps, the promise of that far off divine event, the mingling of the various peoples of India into a single and united nation as the children of the same mother, the Motherland !
Anandamath appeared in book form in the early eighties of the last century and the Vande Mataram song lay buried in it for nearly twenty-five years, and was hardly ever sung in private or public. The tune to which it had been originally set was scarcely in keeping with the solemn impressiveness of the words. In 1905 came the Partition of Bengal and then this song leaped into sudden glorious life, electrifying the frenzied and harrowed feelings of Bengal by its exalted adoration of the Motherland, the exquisite beauty of language and expression, the intensity of devotion and the purifying and elevating influence on the mind and the spirit. And from1 Bengal the song and the words passed over all India as a living and unifying force, the rallying call of nationalism. Whenever the national heart is stirred the cry of Vande Mataram is heard. Wherever Indians congregate, whether it is in England or in America, Australia or Japan, the greeting is ever Vande Mataram, and every gathering, political, social or any other ends with shouts of Vande Mataram.
Here, then, is the answer to the perplexed question put to the composer of the song by the Bengali poet who lacked vision. If the song had been composed in Bengali throughout, how could it have been taken up by the whole population of India speaking such a bewildering variety of languages ? There is at present no man, woman, or child in India, who is an Indian by birth, that does not know the first two lines of the Vande Mataram song. How did Bankim himself come, to write it ? A story has come down the years, and some reliable persons have vouched for it, that Bankim had said on one occasion that a time would come when this song would be heard in every mouth. Had he a prophetic intuition of this kind ? To this question no answer can be given. That the song was inspired may be readily believed. Whether the inspiration was conscious or unconscious is beyond our knowledge and understanding. There is a power outside of man that impels him at times to compass some great purpose without any conscious volition on his part. It may be the light of genius, it may be the spirit of prophecy ; whatever it was, the Vande Mataram song was not composed for Bengal alone. The portion composed in Bengali presents no difficulty as regards its universal acceptance throughout India. The Sanskrit is so simple that it can be understood even by those who are ignorant of that classical language. In northern and southern India, to people speaking languages derived from a Sanskrit or Prakrit origin, to others who speak languages derived from the Dravidian stock, this universal song is as simple as their own language. At a given and prearranged signal the millions of India can sing this song throughout the land, neither language nor religion dividing them.
As a national anthem this song is unique. There is an assurance of strength and the vanquishing of an enemy, but there is no note of exultation and defiance usually so characteristic of such compositions. There is a vast difference between invoking the homeland as the Fatherland and apostrophizing it as the Motherland. The first personifies roughness and arrogance, the second is the embodiment of gentleness and sweetness. From the first word to the last the Vande Mataram song is a hymn of adoration, and an offering of love and reverence. The land, the fertile country of Bengal, is saluted as the Mother of seven crores of children. It is glorified as a land of plenty, fruitful and bestowing many blessings upon her sons. The charge of her weakness is repudiated, but still there is no note of vainglory, no wild challenge shouted to the four winds of heaven. The patriot who sang first this immortal song in Anandamath was weeping as he sang it. This is not the proud attitude and mood of defiance, but of utter humility and an overwhelming love. It is a song of devotion, the prayer of the devotee, who worships the image of the Mother. This song exalts patriotism as a religion ; patriotism is not depicted as an aggressive sentiment, but a feeling that fills the heart with love and the spirit with gratitude. The patriots of the Happy Monastery belonged to an order of monks, monks militant but not the less religious on that account. Other patriotic songs in other lands mention the greatness and power of the country, the fearlessness and puissance of the people ; this song celebrates the beauty of the land, the green-clad corn fields, the soft scented breeze from the south, the glad nights with the white moonlight, the flowers everywhere in bloom, the musical notes of the birds, the boons freely bestowed by the loving and prodigal Mother. The ancient Sanskrit saying represents the mother and the Motherland as more exalted than heaven and the singer who first sang the Vande Mataram song reaffirmed this sentiment. The song is in keeping with the tradition and temperament of the ancient people of India. (Bankim is great as the creator of a fine literature of remarkable beauty and power, but he is greater as the high priest of a pure and noble patriotism, the composer of one of the loftiest and most beautiful anthems in the literature of the world.
And this man, so great, so gifted, so highly inspired, never stood in the limelight and consistently and resolutely shunned the light of publicity. From his quiet study he exercised a power of which he was fully conscious and he dominated the literature of Bengal with his genius and virile strength, but he was rarely, if ever seen in public. He disliked all demonstrations and his countrymen, in his time, were not so demonstrative as they are now. To the last he followed the course of Bengali literature with unabating vigilance, and every new writer of promise received cordial encouragement from him. Many were not admitted to his intimacy, but he was always accessible to young aspirants in literature. The profound thoughtfulness of his nature was concealed underneath a light exterior. He was a man of superb silences, of long solitary hours spent in profound thought. The little room outside his ancestral residence at Kanthalpara, a few miles from Calcutta on the Eastern Bengal Railway, was the scene of many night vigils, much thought and high literary work. Numbered by years his life was not long ; he was born in 1838 and died in 1894, and was fifty-six years of age at the time of his death. He died as he had lived and no crowd followed his re-’ mains to the cremation ground at Nimtola Ghat in Calcutta. I was present. The sun was setting and the river Hooghly was flowing silently. On his countenance was the solemn majesty of death and the stamp of an ineffable peace. It was the final and beautiful slumber that knows no awakening. The setting sun lighted up the features in perfect repose and cast a halo around the splendid head which had finished its triumphant work.
In a country like India, a land of diverse peoples and many tongues, the inspired genius of Bankim created a common bond of nationhood with the Vande Mataram song. Over every man, woman and child who utters or sings Vande Mataram hovers the spirit of the Master who had linked a whole nation together with the words of a song, a song that will be heard as the hymn of a free India in the centuries to come. Those who have not read the book Anandamath in the original may be interested to learn how the song is introduced in the novel. A householder named Mahendra met Bhavananda, one of the fighting monks of the Happy Monastery, in circumstances which made Mahendra believe that the other man was a free-booter. While they were together Bhavananda sang the first bar of the song. Mahendra was rather surprised and somewhat perplexed—who was this Mother possessed of sweet water and sweet fruits, fanned by the san-dal-scented breeze from the south, clad in green corn? He asked, who is the Mother?
Bhavananda gave no reply, but sang the second bar of the song. Astonished, Mahendra exclaimed. ‘But this is the country, not the’mother’.
Thereupon Bhavananda burst out in words that thrilled with feeling and fervour, ‘We know no other Mother—Janani janmabhumishcha swargadapi gareeyasi, the mother and the land of birth are more exalted than heaven. We declare that the land that gave us birth is the only Mother—we have no mother, no father, no brother, neither have we wife, son, hearth or home, we have only the sujala, suphala, malayaja-shitala, shasya-shyamala—’
Then Mahendra understood and said, ‘Sing it over again’. Bhavananda sang and as he sang he wept :
Vande Mataram !
Sujalam, suphalam, malayaja shitalam,
Shasyashyamalam, Mataram !
Shubhrajyotsna pulakitayaminim,
Phullakusumita drumadala, shobhinim,
Suhasinim, sumadhura bhashinim,
Sukhadam, varadam, Mataram !
Saptakotikantha kalakala ninada karale
Dwisaptakoti bhujaidhrita-khara-karavale
Abala kena ma eta bale !
Bahubala dharinim, namami tarinim,
Ripudalavarinim Mataram !
Tumi vidya, tumi dharma,
Tumi hridi, tumi marma,
Twam hi pranah sharire !
Bahute tumi ma shakti,
Hridaye tumi ma bhakti?
Tomaraipratima gari mandire mandire !
Twam hi Durga dashapraharana dharini,
Kamala, Kamaladalabiharini,
Vani, vidyadayini, namami twam,
Namami, Kamalam, amalam, atulam,
Sujalam, suphalam, Mataram,
Vande Mataram !
Shyamalam, saralam, susmitam, bhushitam,
Dharanim, bharanim, Mataram !
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