Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay

Anandmath

Kapalakundala

মৃণালিনী

Kapalkundala is a Bengali romance novel by Indian writer Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay. Published in 1866, it is a story of a forest-dwelling girl named Kapalkundala, who fell in love and got married to Nabakumar, a young gentleman from Saptagram, but eventually found that she is unable to adjust herself with the city life. Following the success of Chattopadhyay’s first novel Durgeshnandini, he decided to write about a girl who is brought up in a remote forest by a Kapalika (Tantrik sage) and never saw anyone but her foster-father. The story is set in Dariapur, Contai in modern-day Purba Medinipur district, Paschimbanga (West Bengal) where Chattopadhyay served as a Deputy Magistrate and Deputy Collector. Kapalkundala is considered as one of the finest and the most popular of Chattopadhyay’s novels. It has been translated into English, German, Hindi, Gujrati, Tamil, Telugu and Sanskrit. Girish Chandra Ghosh, one of the pioneers of Bengali drama, and Atul Krishna Mitra dramatized the novel separately.

কপালকুণ্ডলা - Kapalkundala

যুগলাঙ্গুরীয়

সীতারাম

In Krishnakanter Will (Krishnakanta's Will, 1878) Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay produced a complex plot. It is a brilliant depiction of contemporary India and its lifestyle and corruption. In that complexity, critics saw resemblance to Western novels.

কৃষ্ণকান্তের উইল - KRISHNAKANTER WILL

কৃষ্ণচরিত্র

চন্দ্রশেখর

ইন্দিরা

Durgeshnandini

Kapalkundala is a Bengali romance novel by Indian writer Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay. Published in 1866, it is a story of a forest-dwelling girl named Kapalkundala, who fell in love with and married Nabakumar, a young gentleman from Saptagram. Eventually, she finds herself unable to adjust to city life.

Kapalkundala

One of the most popular Indian novels of all ages, 'Ananda Math' was translated innumerable times into Indian and English languages. Five editions were published in Bengali and Hindi during the author's lifetime, the first in 1882. The novel has the backdrop of the 18th century famine in Bengal, infamous as "Chhiyattorer Manvantar" (famine of 76th Bengali year, 1276), to narrate the saga of armed uprising of the ascetics and their disciples against the pillaging East India Company rulers. The uprising is historically known as 'Santan Vidroha', the ascetics being the children of Goddess Jagadambe. The saga of 'Ananda Math' is thrilling and best epitomised in the patriotic mass-puller song "Bande Mataram' ('Hail thee, O My Motherland'). The song is still a mantra that stirs imagination of millions of Hindus. The ascetics robbed the tormentors of people — the British rulers and the greedy jamindars — distributed the looted wealth to poverty-stricken people but kept nothing for themselves. Their targets were mostly the Company armoury and supplies. They had a highly organised setup, spread throughout Bengal. It was also India's first battle for freedom, and not the Sipahi Vidroha of 1857.

Ananda Math

ON the bank of the Ganges, there was seated a boy under the green mantles of the mango groves, enjoying the evening melody of the flowing Bhagirathi.* Under his feet lay, on the green bed of grass, a little girl, casting upon his face her lingering glances—silent and motionless. She was gazing untiringly, and turning for a while her eyes towards the sky overhead, the river below, and the trees around, again fixed them upon that face. The name of the boy was Pratap—that of the girl, Shaibalini. Shaibalini was then only a girl of seven or eight—Pratap had scarcely stepped into youth. Overhead, the Papia, in its airy flight, filled the sky with waves of music and smoothly glided off.Shaibalini, in imitation, began to thrill, with her whistles, the mango groves that adorned the bank of the Ganges. The murmuring melody of the river mingled with that mock music in perfect harmony. The girl with her little soft hand plucked some equally soft wild flowers, and making with them a garland, embellished the boy with it. Taking it off, she coiled it round her own braid and again put it on the neck of the boy. She could not decide which of them should wear it. At last she got over the difficulty by throwing it round the horns of a plump, nice-looking cow grazing near by. So it happened with them often. Sometimes the boy, in return for the garland, used to bring down for her from the nest of birds their little ones, and in mango season he would give her sweet mangoes ripe for relish. When the stars appeared in the serene sky of the evening, they began to count them. "Who has seen first?" "Which has first appeared?" "How many do you see?"—"Only four? I see five. There is one, there is another, again there is one, again there is another and lastly mark that." It is a lie. Shaibalini does not see more than three. "Let us count the boats. Can you say how many boats are passing?"—"Only sixteen? Let us bet, I say there are eighteen." Shaibalini did not know to count. Once counting she found nine—counting again she came up to twenty-one. Turning from this, they next fixed their eyes upon a particular boat. "Who is in that boat—whence it came—whither it goes? How glittering is the gold in the waters on the oars!"

Chandra Shekhar

'Durgeshnandini' is the first novel of Bankim Chandra. It refers to the beloved daughter of the master of Fort Mandaran, Birendra Singh. Fort Mandaran was an estate near Bishnupur of United Bengal, constructed by Pathan Sultan Hussain Shah's commander-in-chief Ismail Ghazi. After the Pathans were driven away by Mughal Emperor Akbar, by turn of historical events, the estate came under the control of Hindu commander Jaidhar Singh. Birendra was his natural heir, who before taking it over, had served in Akbar's army as a commander himself. The novel unfolds a saga of Pathan Sultan Katlu Khan's repeat attempts to enter and conquer the Banga province. To crush him and his ambition, Emperor Akbar had sent his most trusted and valiant courtier Raja Man Singh to take charge of Banga and rescue people from Pathans' tyrannious atrocities. Raja Man Singh sent his valorous son Jagat Singh to crush the Pathans. While growingly successful at the job in many small guerrilla-type battles, by turns of events, Jagat Singh encounters Tillottama and both fall in love at first sight. How, due to an inadvertent move, both of them came under captivity of the marauding Pathan Sultan and later earned their freedom, have been described in a captivating style of desanskritised idioms.

Nagendra Natha Datta is about to travel by boat. It is the month Joisto (May—June), the time of storms. His wife, Surja Mukhi, had adjured him, saying, "Be careful; if a storm arises be sure you fasten the boat to the shore. Do not remain in the boat." Nagendra had consented to this, otherwise Surja Mukhi would not have permitted him to leave home; and unless he went to Calcutta his suits in the Courts would not prosper. Nagendra Natha was a young man, about thirty years of age, a wealthy zemindar (landholder) in Zillah Govindpur. He dwelt in a small village which we shall call Haripur. He was travelling in his own boat. The first day or two passed without obstacle. The river flowed smoothly on—leaped, danced, cried out, restless, unending, playful. On shore, herdsmen were grazing their oxen—one sitting under a tree singing, another smoking, some fighting, others eating. Inland, husbandmen were driving the plough, beating the oxen, lavishing abuse upon them, in which the owner shared. The wives of the husbandmen, bearing vessels of water, some carrying a torn quilt, or a dirty mat, wearing a silver amulet round the neck, a ring in the nose, bracelets of brass on the arm, with unwashed garments, their skins blacker than ink, their hair unkempt, formed a chattering crowd. Among them one beauty was rubbing her head with mud, another beating a child, a third speaking with a neighbour in abuse of some nameless person, a fourth beating clothes on a plank. Further on, ladies from respectable villages adorned the gháts (landing-steps) with their appearance—the elders conversing, the middle-aged worshipping Siva, the younger covering their faces and plunging into the water; the boys and girls screaming, playing with mud, stealing the flowers offered in worship, swimming, throwing water over every one, sometimes stepping up to a lady, snatching away the image of Siva from her, and running off with it. The Brahmans, good tranquil men, recited the praises ofGanga (the sacred river Ganges) and performed their worship, sometimes, as they wiped their streaming hair, casting glances at the younger women. In the sky, the white clouds float in the heated air. Below them fly the birds, like black dots. In the cocoanut trees, kites, like ministers of state, look around to see on what they can pounce; the cranes, being only small fry, stand raking in the mud; the dahuk(coloured herons), merry creatures, dive in the water; other birds of a lighter kind merely fly about. Market-boats sail along at good speed on their own behalf; ferry-boats creep along at elephantine pace to serve the needs of others only: cargo boats make no progress at all—that is the owners' concern.

The Poison Tree: A Tale of Hindu Life in Bengal

It was hot at Padachina even for a summer day. In this village were many houses, but not a soul could be seen anywhere. The bazaar was full of shops and the lanes were lined with houses built either of brick or of mud. Every house was quiet. The shops were closed, and no one knew where the shopkeepers had gone. Even the street beggars were absent. The weavers wove no more. The merchants had no business. Philanthropic persons had nothing to give. Teachers closed their schools. Things had come to such a pass that children were even afraid to cry. The streets were empty. There were no bathers in the river. There were no human beings about the houses, no birds in the trees, no cattle in the pastures. Jackals and dogs morosely prowled in the graveyards and in the cremation grounds. One great house stood in this village. Its colossal pillars could be seen from a distance. But its doors were closed so tight that it was almost impossible for even a breath of air to enter. Within the house a man and his wife sat deeply absorbed in thought. Mahendra Singh and his wife were face to face with famine. The year before the harvests had been below normal. So rice was expensive this year and people began to suffer. Then during the rainy season it rained plentifully. The villagers at first looked upon this as a special mercy of God. Cowherds sang in joy, and the wives of the peasants began to pester their husbands for silver ornaments. All of a sudden, God frowned again. Not a drop of rain fell during the remaining months of the season. The rice fields dried into heaps of straw. Here and there a few fields yielded poor crops, but government agents bought these up for the army. So people began to starve again. At first they lived on one meal a day. Soon, even that became scarce, and they began to go without any food at all. The crop was too scanty, but the government revenue collector sought to advance his personal prestige by increasing the land revenue by ten per cent. And in dire misery Bengal shed bitter tears. Beggars increased in such numbers that charity soon became the most difficult thing to practise. Then disease began to spread. Farmers sold their cattle and their ploughs and ate up the seed grain. Then they sold their homes and farms. For lack of food they soon took to eating leaves of trees, then grass and when the grass was gone they ate weeds. People of certain castes began to eat cats, dogs and rats.

Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay

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