Bankim Chandra Chatterjee
Bankim Chandra Chatterjee ,composer of our national song Bande Mataram, one of the finest writers of modern India, who wrote atire, scientific, critical treatises too apart from novels. His pioneering spirit didn’t just give us Vande Mataram—a song that stirred the soul of a nation—but also reshaped Bengali prose itself. With Durgeshnandini (1865), he introduced the very first Bengali novel, blending romance with historical drama. And then came Kapalkundala, Anandamath, Krishnakanter Will—each a milestone in its own right.
What’s remarkable is how he infused his fiction with philosophical depth, satire, and even scientific curiosity. His essays and treatises weren’t just literary exercises—they were instruments of social and intellectual awakening. No wonder he was hailed as Sahitya Samrat—the Emperor of Literature.
He was born in Kanthalpara , located in Bengal’s North Parganas, the youngest of 3 brothers to Yadav Chandra Chattopadhyaya and Durga Devi, in an orthodox Bengali Brahmin family. His ancestors were from Deshmukho village in Hooghly district. His father later became the Dy.Collector of Midnapore, while one of his brothers Sanjib Chandra was also a novelist, known for his work Palamau.
He did his schooling from Hooghly Collegiate School along with his brother where he wrote his first poem. Graduating from Presidency in 1858, he became the first graduate of Kolkata University, and later got a degree in Law too.
His tenure as Deputy Collector of Jessore and later as Sub-Divisional Magistrate of Arambagh placed him in direct contact with the socio-political realities of colonial Bengal. And how poetic that the ruins of Gar Mandaran, steeped in history, would inspire Durgeshnandini, the very first Bengali novel—a fusion of romance, valor, and historical imagination.
Bankim Chandra’s literary journey truly mirrors the evolution of modern Indian prose. Starting with Sambad Prabhakar under the mentorship of Ishwar Chandra Gupta, he honed his early poetic instincts before pivoting to fiction—a shift that would redefine Bengali literature.
His English novel Rajmohan’s Wife (1864), serialized in Indian Field, was indeed his first published work, but it was Durgeshnandini (1865) that electrified Bengali readers. As Debendranath Tagore once said, it “took the Bengali heart by storm.” That novel didn’t just mark the birth of the Bengali novel—it marked the birth of a new literary consciousness.
Durgeshnandini not only pioneered the Bengali novel but also wove together romance, valor, and cultural memory with remarkable finesse. The love triangle between Jagat Singh, Tilottama, and Ayesha, that unfolds against the charged backdrop of Mughal-Pathan tensions, grounding the narrative in both historical and emotional conflict.
The fact that Bankim drew inspiration from oral legends passed down by his great-uncle adds a folkloric authenticity to the tale. And while some conservative critics scoffed at the simplicity of his prose, most contemporary scholars and newspapers lauded the novel for its accessibility and emotional depth.
Its enduring appeal is evident in its adaptations—across Bengali and Hindi cinema, and notably the 2007 television series that reintroduced the story to a new generation.
Shakuntala, Miranda ebong Desdemona (1873) stands as a pioneering work—not just in Bengali literature, but in the broader landscape of comparative literary studies in India. Bankim Chandra’s decision to juxtapose Kalidasa’s Shakuntala, Shakespeare’s Miranda (The Tempest), and Desdemona (Othello) was nothing short of visionary. He wasn’t merely comparing characters—he was opening a dialogue between civilizations, aesthetics, and cultural ideals of womanhood.
What’s remarkable is how he explored the interplay of nature, virtue, and agency in these women, drawing attention to how different literary traditions shaped their portrayal. This essay is still studied in Jadavpur University’s comparative literature curriculum, a testament to its enduring relevance.
Anandamath is more than a novel—it’s a mythic reimagining of resistance, where Bankim Chandra transforms the historical Sanyasi-Fakir Rebellion (1763–1800) and the devastating Bengal Famine of 1770 into a symbolic call for national awakening.
By portraying the Sanyasi rebels as disciplined, spiritually driven warriors who triumph over colonial forces, Bankim offers a redemptive counter-history—one where dharma, sacrifice, and unity prevail. The novel’s emotional crescendo, Vande Mataram, became the heartbeat of India’s freedom struggle, later set to music by Rabindranath Tagore and adopted as the national song.
What’s especially striking is how Bankim uses the three goddess idols—Jagaddhatri, Kali, and Durga—to represent India’s past glory, present suffering, and future resurgence. It’s a literary device that fuses nationalism with spiritual symbolism, making Anandamath both a political and philosophical text.
Anandamath’s journey from the pages of Bangadarshan to the silver screen is a testament to its enduring power. First serialized in 1882, the novel’s serialized format helped it reach a wide Bengali readership, and Vande Mataram soon transcended literature to become the anthem of resistance—especially during the anti-Partition protests of 1905.
The 1952 Hindi film adaptation, directed by Hemen Gupta, brought this revolutionary spirit to life with a stellar cast: Pradeep Kumar, Bharat Bhushan, Prithviraj Kapoor, Ajit, and Geeta Bali. Hemant Kumar’s stirring score, including his rendition of Vande Mataram, added emotional gravitas to the film’s nationalist fervor. It was not just a cinematic retelling—it was a cultural reaffirmation of the ideals Bankim had envisioned.
Bankim Chandra’s intellectual range was truly staggering—he wasn’t just a novelist but a philosopher deeply engaged with India’s spiritual traditions and their socio-political implications.
His posthumously published Krishna Charitra and commentary on the Bhagavad Gita reflect his admiration for the Gaudiya Vaishnava tradition, especially its devotional fervor and cultural influence during Bengal’s medieval period. He saw in Krishna not just a divine figure but a symbol of dynamic action and dharma rooted in worldly engagement.
His essay on Sankhya Darsan is equally compelling. While he acknowledged Sankhya’s foundational role in shaping Indian philosophical thought—including its influence on Buddhism—he critiqued its emphasis on vairagya (renunciation) as a retreat from worldly responsibility. For Bankim, this inward turn, though spiritually rich, had contributed to India’s political subjugation. He longed for a philosophy that harmonized spiritual depth with civic and national strength.
Kapalkundala is a luminous gem in Bankim Chandra’s literary crown. Published in 1866, it followed the success of Durgeshnandini and deepened his exploration of love, identity, and the clash between nature and civilization. The forest-reared Kapalkundala, raised by a Tantric sage, embodies innocence and instinct, while Nabakumar represents the urbane, rational world she struggles to inhabit. Their tragic arc is as haunting as it is poetic.
Set in Dariapur near Contai—where Bankim served as Deputy Magistrate—the novel draws richly from the local landscape and folklore. Its popularity led to translations in English, Hindi, Tamil, Telugu, Gujarati, German, and even Sanskrit. And its cinematic journey is equally fascinating: it’s been adapted into four films, including the 1981 Bengali version directed by Pinaki Bhushan Mukherji.
Devi Chaudhurani (1884) is indeed a powerful sequel of spirit to Anandamath, and one of Bankim Chandra’s boldest literary statements. Through Prafulla’s transformation—from a wronged daughter-in-law to a fearless leader of dacoits—Bankim not only crafts a gripping tale of resistance but also reimagines the role of women in the nationalist struggle.
What makes this novel especially radical for its time is that the protagonist, a woman, leads an armed rebellion against colonial rule—at a time when most women were confined behind purdah. Under the mentorship of Bhavani Thakur, Prafulla is trained in philosophy, science, and even martial arts, eventually becoming a symbol of justice and empowerment.
The novel was so potent in its message that it was banned by the British for a time. And while some critics have debated the ending—where Prafulla chooses domesticity over continued rebellion—the impact of her journey inspired generations of women to step into public and political life.
Bankim Chandra’s portrayal of women was far ahead of his time. Whether it’s Prafulla’s transformation into a revolutionary leader, Kalyani’s quiet strength and sacrifice, or Kapalkundala’s tragic defiance of societal norms, his heroines weren’t just characters—they were embodiments of moral courage, intellect, and agency. In a literary landscape often dominated by passive female figures, Bankim’s women stood tall, complex, and unforgettable.
His scientific curiosity was equally remarkable. Bijnan Rahasya (1875) is a collection of essays where he explored scientific ideas with clarity and imagination, making them accessible to Bengali readers. It’s a testament to his belief that science and literature could—and should—coexist in shaping a modern, enlightened society.
And then there’s his philosophical corpus: Krishna Charitra, Dharmatattva, Devatattva—each a deep dive into Indian metaphysics, ethics, and theology. His poetry collection Lalita O Manas (1858) reveals yet another facet of his creative spirit, blending lyrical beauty with introspective depth.
He also had a good bonding with Ramakrishna Paramahansa, whom he used to visit regularly. Once Guru Maharaj playing on meaning of his name Bankim(Bent A Little) asked him what made him bent in a rather lighter vein. And Bankim Chandra replied to Ramakrishna Paramahansa, that it was due to being the regular kicks he from the English man’s boot, alluding to the fact that he was a known critic of the British.
Tagore’s tribute to Bankim Chandra as a sabyasachi—master of both pen and spirit—captures the essence of a man who shaped not just literature but the very soul of a nation. And Sri Aurobindo’s distinction between the “poet-stylist” and the “seer-nation builder” reflects Bankim’s own evolution—from crafting romantic tales to forging a philosophical and political vision that stirred generations.
Anushilan-Tattva, though lesser known than his novels, was deeply influential. Its emphasis on self-discipline, moral strength, and national regeneration resonated with thinkers like Pramathanath Mitra, who drew upon its ideals to found the Anushilan Samiti in 1902—a revolutionary organization that trained youth in both physical fitness and patriotic fervor. The very name “Anushilan” (meaning cultivation or discipline) was drawn from Bankim’s work, symbolizing the fusion of inner strength with outward action.
Bankim Chandra Chatterjee’s legacy is etched into the very soul of India’s national consciousness. Vande Mataram, born from the pages of Anandamath, wasn’t just a song—it was a spiritual invocation, a battle cry, and a cultural anthem that galvanized an entire generation. During the Swadeshi movement and the protests against the Partition of Bengal in 1905, it echoed through the streets as a symbol of defiance and unity.
His role in the Bengali Renaissance was equally transformative. At a time when colonial rule sought to erode indigenous identity, Bankim rekindled pride in India’s spiritual and cultural heritage. Through his novels, essays, and philosophical writings, he offered a vision of India that was both rooted in dharma and charged with revolutionary energy.
Even today, his influence reverberates—from the corridors of academia to the silver screen. The recent revival of Devi Chaudhurani in film, launched from his ancestral home, is a testament to how his stories continue to inspire new generations.