Nil Durpan/Biographical Sketch

by Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay

A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF DINABANDHU MITRA
By
Bankimchandra Chattopadhaya.

A few miles north-east of Kanchrapara, a station on the East Bengal Railways, there is a village of the name of Chauberia. A small river of the name of Jamuna flows encircling this small village, and hence is the name of the village, Chauberia. This village belongs to the district of Nadia, and is the birthplace of Dinabandhu. The district of Nadia enjoys a position of special honour for her literature, philosophy and the scriptures. Dinabandhu is one of those sons of hers of whom she may of justly be proud.

Dinabandhu was born in the year 1238 B.S. (1832 A.D.-Tr.) and was the son of Kalachand Mitra. There is not much to be said about his boyhood. Dinabandhu came down to Calcutta, when quite young, and began studying English in Hare School. While studying in that school he set his hand to Bengali literary composition.

During that period he got introduced to Iswarchandra Gupta, Editor of 'Prabhakar'. Bengali literature was then in a very poor state, and 'Prabhakar' was its best journal. Iswar Gupta was then reigning supreme over Bengali literature. Enamoured of his poetry boys would eagerly seek his acquaintance. Iswar Gupta, too, was equally eager to give encouragement to the young writers of the day. Rightly had the 'Hindu Patriot' commented that a good many of the modern writers were once the disciples of Iswar Gupta. It is however difficult to say how lasting or even desirable have been the results of what Iswar Gupta taught them. Like Dinabandhu and such other writers of distinction the humble writer of this article, too, owes a debt to Iswar Gupta. Hence I do not wish to prove myself ungrateful by writing disparagingly about his literary work. Nor can I altogether deny that judging by modern standard the taste of Iswar Gupta would appear to have been neither very elegant nor very high. A large number of his disciples have now taken to new paths, forgetting what Iswar Gupta taught them.

Finishing school, Dinabandhu joined the Hindu College where he studied for a few years, securing a scholarship. He enjoyed the reputation of being one of the best students of his college.

I do not know much about Dinabandhu's student life, for I was not known to him then.

Probably in the year 1855 Dinabandhu left college, and accepted the post of Postmaster, Patna Post Office, on a monthly salary of Rs 150/. During his tenure of office there for a period of six months Dinabandhu worked with reputation. A year and a half after, he was given a lift. He was made the Inspecting Postmaster of the division of Orissa, but though there was a rise in his position there was no rise in his salary. It came later.

Today it seems how better it would have been, had Dinabandhu stayed on as a lifelong Postmaster on a salary of Rs 150/- a month. His promotion to the post of Inspecting Postmaster had not been surely a blessing. Formerly the rules of service required Inspecting Postmasters to tour about ceaselessly in different areas and supervise the work of different Post Offices. Nowadays they may, if they should so desire, stay at the Headquarters for a period of six months. Formerly, however, rules were different, and they had to be on the move all the twelve months of the year, halting at some place for a day, at another for two days, and still another for three days at the most. Years of ceaseless labour break down even an iron physique much as constant running wears out an iron wheel. Dinabandhu failed to bear the strain of his work. His appointment to the post of Inspecting Postmaster had been a great misfortune to Bengal!

This however was not an unmitigated evil. A writer of satirical literature needs a special type of training, which training is provided only by a study of different types of human character. During his tours in many places Dinabandhu came in touch with such varied types of human character! It was by virtue of this training he thus received that he was able to create a variety of humorous characters—a variety rarely to be met with in Bengali literature.

From Orissa division Dinabandhu was first sent out to Nadia division, and thence to Dacca division. Troubles centring round Indigo had already started at that time. By travelling in various places Dinabandhu acquired an intimate knowledge of the tyranny of the Indigo planters, and then came out with his NIL DARPAN, and laid Bengal under an obligation.

Dinabandhu was perfectly aware that great harm would come to him if his authorship of Nil Darpan came to light, for, those Englishmen whom he served were great friends of Indigo planters. Further, in course of one's work at the Post office one had to come in constant touch with Indigo planters and other Englishmen. Their hostility might cause a man constant care and anxiety, if not injure his interests vitally. Dinabandhu knew all this, and yet he did not refrain from giving publicity to his Nil Darpan. True the book did not bear the name of the author, but Dinabandhu too was never anxious about keeping his authorship a secret. Immediately upon the publication of the book the people of Bengal—all of them—came to know by some means or other that the author of Nil Darpan was Dinabandhu Mitra.

Dinabandhu used to be deeply touched by the sufferings of others, and Nil Darpan was the product of this virtue of his character. It was because he could realize with full sympathy the suffering of the ryots of Bengal that Nil Darpan could have been written and published. Dinabandhu was the foremost of those who sorrowed in the sorrows of others. It was an uncommon virtue of his character that Dinabandhu used to feel more deeply the sufferings of a person then the sufferer himself. I myself had been once an eye-witness of a rare instance in this regard. Once he was staying with me in my house in Jessore. One night a friend of his developed the first symptoms of a serious illness. The person who did so woke up Dinabandhu and told him about his fears. Dinabandhu fell into a swoon at once. The person who woke up Dinabandhu for help was now engaged in nursing Dinabandhu himself. This I saw with my own eyes, and that day I came to realize that nobody, how great might be his virtues, would be as much moved as Dinabandhu would by the sufferings of others. Nil Darpan was but the product of this virtue of his character.

Nil Darpan was translated into English and was sent to England. For giving publicity to this book, Rev. Long was sent to gaol by the judgement of the Supreme Court, and Mr. Seton-Karr was put to humiliation. All this is known to us.

Whether because Rev. Long courted imprisonment for the sake of this book or because the book had a special quality of its own, Nil Darpan was translated into many of the European languages and came to be widely read.

No other work of Bengali literature could achieve this rare distinction. Yet howsoever great might be the distinction, all those who were connected with this work had to face some danger or other. It was by giving publicity to this book that Rev. Long courted imprisonment, and Seton-Karr faced insult. It was by translating this book that Michael Madhushudan Dutt was privately reprimanded and humiliated, and had to, it is learnt, give up his means of livelihood—his job in the Supreme Court. The author of the book, however, faced the greatest danger, even though he was neither imprisoned nor dismissed from his job. One night Dinabandhu was crossing the river Meghna by boat, engaged in writing the manuscript of Nil Darpan. When he had gone only a few miles away from the shore, the boat started sinking. The oarsmen, the boatmen—all started swimming, but Dinabandhu did not know how to swim. He sat quietly in the sinking boat with the manuscript of Nil Darpan in hand. Suddenly then one of the swimmers touched ground and called out to the rest: "Oh! there's no more fear now. Water is shallow here. There must be a char nearby." In fact, there was one at hand, and when the boat was pulled in there Dinabandhu went to the top of the boat and sat there quietly. In his hand was the manuscript of Nil Darpan wet all over. The Meghna was at ebb then. Soon the flowtide would come, flooding the char and carrying the wrecked boat nobody knew where. How would they escape with their lives, then? This was what everybody was thinking—the oarsmen, the boatmen and even Dinabandhu himself. It was the dead of night, a pitch darkness hung all around, and the roar of the river was in the ears, interrupted by the cries of night-birds. Failing to find out a means of escape, Dinabandhu was quickly coming to the end of his hopes, when suddenly the beating of oars in water was heard in the distance. Their repeated cries for help found a response from the men on that boat, and they soon came to the rescue of Dinabandhu and his companions.

From Dacca division Dinabandhu again came to Nadia. As a matter of fact it was in Nadia that Dinabandhu was posted for the major part of his life. It was only on special missions that Dinabandhu would be sent to Dacca or other places.

On his return from Dacca division Dinabandhu wrote his 'Nabin Tapaswini' which was printed in Krishnagore. The printing machine was set up by the efforts of Dinabandhu and a few other worthy persons, but it did not work for long.

Dinabandhu was again transferred from Nadia division to Dacca division, and thence to Orissa and from there to Nadia again. In fact he spent the major part of his life in Krishnagore where he purchased a house, too. Towards the end of 1869 or the early part of 1870 he came away from Krishnagore to Calcutta, appointed to the post of Supernumerary Inspecting Postmaster and as such it was his duty to assist the Postmaster General in his work. With the able assistance of Dinabandhu the Postal Department did satisfactory work for a few years. In 1871 Dinabandhu was sent to Cachhar to make necessary arrangements for postal service during the Lusahi War. After discharging this onerous duty successfully, he came back to Calcutta in a short time.

During his stay in Calcutta he was made a 'Rai Bahadur'. I am not competent to say how much gratified a person feels to receive this honour, but no other honour fell to the lot of Dinabandhu. That was because Dinabandhu was born to the race of Bengalis.

Amongst the officers of the Postal Department two were considered the most efficient—Dinabandhu and Suryanarayan. Suryanarayanbabu stayed in Assam, entrusted with the heavy responsibility of the postal service of that place, and whenever there was a difficult work to perform Dinabandhu would be called on to help. Such work took him to Dacca, Orissa, north-west of India, Darjeeling, Cachhar and several other places. As a result he had been to nearly all the areas of Bengal and Orissa, and a good many areas of Bihar, too. In the Postal Department the labour fell to the lot of Dinabandhu, and the reward, of course, to the lot of others.

If Dinabandhu were not a Bengali, he would have long before his death become the Postmaster General, and then the Director General. Such was his efficiency in work, and so wide was his understanding of things! But just as coal would take no other hue, so also to some people, black skin set off against a thousand and one virtues would yet be black after all! Charity hides a thousand faults, but black skin, a thousand virtues.

Not to speak of reward, Dinabandhu had to suffer many humiliations during the last days of his career. There was a quarrel between the Postmaster General and the Director General. Dinabandhu's fault was that he helped the Postmaster General in his work. He was packed off to some other work—for a certain period, in the Railway Department, and then, in Howrah Division. This was the last change in his service life.

For a long time past Dinabandhu had been suffering from a serious illness owing to excessive strain of work. Some people say diabetes usually turns out fatal. I do not know if it does, but of late I had an idea that Dinabandhu would come round, for ever since he had the disease Dinabandhu had been living a very cautious and temperate life. He took to eating opium in a very small measure, and said that it did him some good. But all of a sudden in the month of Aswin of the year 1280 B. S. (1874 A.D.-Tr) he became bed-ridden with a boil. Details of his death are known to all. There is no need to repeat them here, nor do I feel inclined to do so. May it not be anybody's charge to write about the death of such a friend! This would have been my prayer today, if prayers of man ever bore fruit.

There are few places in Bengal which Dinabandhu did not visit, and wherever he went he gathered friends around him. Whosoever heard about his visit became eager to make his acquaintance, and whosoever made his acquaintance became his friend. I do not know of any person in Bengal today who can rival Dinabandhu as a humorist. Dinabandhu became the very life and soul of an assembly he would join, casting a spell on all by his sweet and humorous conversation. Those who sat listening to his talk would forget the sorrows of their hearts and rolled in laughter. His works are no doubt the best works of humour in Bengali literature but they fail to reveal even an iota of his command of humour. In fact it was his conversation which really revealed his great power of introducing humorous situations. Often he would appear as Humour personified, and we know of many who on several occasions fled from his presence crying, "Oh! we have spent ourselves out laughing." In the field of humour Dinabandhu was indeed an enchanter.

There are a good many people around us who are foolish but very much vain. Dinabandhu was like Death unto them. He never tried to resist their vanity. What was more, he would fan the flame of their vanity as best as he could. This would infatuate the fool, and Dinabandhu would then sit quietly watching his antics. Once in the hands of Dinabandhu such people never had an escape.

For some years past his gift for humour seemed to be on the decline. About a year ago one of his intimate friends said to him, "Dinabandhu, what about your humour? The fountain of your mirth has been drying up now, and you'll not live for long." "How d'ye know that?" were the only words Dinabandhu said, and the very next moment he fell absent-minded. One day it so happened that we spent the night together. On that night Dinabandhu made an effort to rekindle his humour. The effort was not all vain, for he held a good many of his friends under a spell up to about 3 o'clock in the morning. Who knew then it was his last flare ! After that incident we had occasions to spend days together, but never did we see him as lively and cheerful as on that night. His uncommon capacity for satirization, though gradually waning, was never really spent up. Even when he was in his deathbed we could notice it in him. It is known to many that boils brought about his death. The first one appeared on his back, and as soon as he was a little better another appeared on his seat, and then the third and last appeared on his left foot. At that time his friend mentioned above came down from his place to see Dinabandhu. Faintly smiling like the fading lightning of a distant cloud Dinabandhu muttered: "Boil has now fallen at my feet."

Every man has vanity in him, Dinabandhu had none. Every man has the element of anger in him, Dinabandhu had none. There was nothing about him that I did not know, but never did I find him in an angry mood. On several occasions I reminded him in a disapproving tone of the complete absence of anger in him with the result that he felt embarrassed that it was so. Or on being so reminded he made a great effort to feel angry and gave up, saying, "Well, I fail."

It can be said for certain that Dinabandhu never did one single dishonest act in his life. Not that his personality was particularly strong, and that was why he, at the request of his friends or under the influence of undesirable association, was sometimes led into certain acts of a questionable character. But he never did anything which was wrongful or which might bring harm to others. Many had received the fruits of his bounty, and by his favour a good many people had secured their means of livelihood.

Dinabandhu was particularly kind to his friends, and I may say with conviction that the friendship of a man like Dinabandhu is a rare fortune in life. Those who have lost it would find their sorrow beyond description.

THE ART OF DINABANDHU MITRA

The year 1859-60 was a memorable year in the field of Bengali literature—a year which was the meeting-point of the old and the new. Iswarchandra, the last poet of the old school had then gone down the horizon, and Madhushudan, the first poet of the new school, was coming up. Iswarchandra was essentially a Bengali, and Madhushudan, English from head to foot. Dinabandhu stood bridging the two. Like the year 1859-60 Dinabandhu was the meeting-point of the old school and the new in the field of Bengali poetry.

Dinabandhu was a disciple of the poet Iswar Gupta. Amongst the disciples of Iswar Gupta none acquired the literary quality of the teacher so much as Dinabandhu did. In his command of humour Dinabandhu followed in the footsteps of his master. The intimate relation of Dinabandhu's literature with the everyday life of the Bengali people was, too, reminiscent of his master. Dinabandhu's taste which is often censured is his master's too.

But judging of art, the disciple has to be placed above the master, and this is no shame to the master, either. When I say Dinabandhu's humour imitated the humour of Iswar Gupta, what I mean is that Dinabandhu and Iswar Gupta were satirists of the same school. The technique of satire was of one kind in the past; now we are leaning towards a different kind. People in the past seemed to love broad work; now it is fine work people seem to prefer. The humorist of the past would like a lathial^[1] take up his lathi^[2] and hit his enemy hard on the head, crushing the skull. The humorist of today, like the surgeon, brings out his fine lancet and thrusts it in the delicate spot nobody knows when, but heart's blood gushes out through the wound. Today in the British-dominated society it is the surgeons who are prospering; the lathials are in a sad plight. Not that there is a dearth of lathials in the literary society today. Unfortunately there have been a little too many of them now, but their lathis are moth-eaten, and their arms weak, of course. Their lathis are but burdens to them now; and lacking the necessary education they often miss the mark. No doubt they succeed in making people laugh even today, but they themsleves are the objects of that laughter. Iswar Gupta and Dinabandhu were not lathials of this brand. They wielded lathis which were made of stout, seasoned bamboo; their arms were full of uncommon strength, and their education was many-sided.

Creative art is the chief virtue of an artist. Iswar Gupta lacked this art, but Dinabandhu possessed it in a large measure. Jaladhar, Jagadamba, Nimchand Dutt and such other creations of his are glowing examples of this. But Dinabandhu did not have much control over the subtle, the soft, the sweet, the naive, the pathetic and the placid. His Lilavati, Malati, Kamini, Sorindhri, Sarala and others are not much in favour with the connoiseur. His Binayak, Ramanimohan, Arabinda and Lalitmohan do not appeal to us much. But the broad, the irregular, the incoherent and the confused are at his very bidding. Like ghosts rushing at the sorcerer's call, they come up in an array the moment Dinabandhu conjures them.

One is surprised to think of the materials out of which Dinabandhu made these creations. His many-sided knowledge of the Bengali society is amazing. A writer who knows all about the daily life of a Bengali is no longer to be found. In this respect, the present-day writers of Bengal are in a very sad plight. Many of them have the right education for writing, and have no doubt the ability to write; only they do not know that thing which, if they knew it, would have brought them success. Many of them love their country and write for the good of the country only without knowing much about her. With a good many of them, knowledge of the country means the knowledge of their own class, in the city of Calcutta. True, some of them have perhaps gone round a few villages and a few towns, but it is the roads and the gardens and the markets they have seen, and never have they been amongst the people. Whatever knowledge they may claim about the country is what they gather from the newspapers. Generally speaking, our journalists, not to speak of the English journalists, are writers of this same class. So whatever information about the country may be had in their writings could just as well be dismissed as an error like—to use a phraseology from Philosophy—the delusion of a rope for a snake. I do not want to say that no Bengali writer has travelled through villages; in fact, many of them have, but they have not been amongst the people, and if they have not, what worth, pray, is the knowledge they have acquired?

In this respect Dinabandhu should be given the foremost place among the writers of Bengal. In discharge of official duty Dinabandhu had to undertake repeated journeys from Manipur to Ganjam, and from the Himalayas on the north to the seas on the south. In course of his travels he not merely saw roads and cities, but had to go from village to village for supervision of work at different Post offices. He possessed an uncommon capacity for being at home with the people, and he did so gladly with its different classes. A daughter of an illiterate rustic like Khetromany, an elderly village woman like Aduri, a ryot like Torapa, a village elder like Rajib, country boys like Nashiram and Rata; and then again a 'cultured drunkard' of the city like Nimchand, a city-roving country gentleman like Atal, a city vampire like Kanchan, spoilt children like Naderchand and Hemchand who are partly of the town and partly of the village, a deputy like Ghatiram, the Dewan of the Nilkuthi, Amins, Oriya bearers, Dule bearers, and Kaorani, the mother of Pencho—Dinabandhu knew all about them, even their innermost secrets. He knew what they did and what they said, and his pen faithfully followed his thoughts. No writer of Bengal could do it so well as he did. I have seen many an Aduri exactly of the type he has created, I have seen many a Naderchand and many a Hemchand who are prototypes of his creations. I have seen many a Mallika, too—each one the same blooming 'Mallika' of Dinabandhu. Like a trained sculptor or painter Dinabandhu would make his characters in the image of living ideals before him. If ever he saw an ape in human shape seated on the tree of the society, he would pick up his brush and portray him from his crown to the end of his tail. So much about his Realism. On the other hand he had considerable capacity for idealization. Keeping a living model before him, he would unlock the chamber of his memory, and lend to the model the virtues and vices of other characters he remembered. He knew what would suit the model, and knew where to set it. In this manner sprang up such human beasts as Naderchand, Ghatiram and Bholachand. When we consider the numerousness of such creations and their variety we cannot help feeling surprised at the width of his experience.

But mere experience takes the artist nowhere. There cannot be any creations without sympathy^[3], the artists's capacity for feeling into a subject. Not only is Dinabandhu's social experience surprising, his sympathy, too, is exceptionally keen. There is none who realizes as much as he did the sorrows of the poor and the miserable. That was why he could create such a Torapa, such a Raicharan, such an Aduri or such a Reboti. Yet his keen sense of sympathy was not for the poor alone. It was all-pervasive. Dinabandhu was a man of faultless character, but he could realize the sorrows of the characterless. Dinabandhu made no display of his purity. For better, for worse, it was this quality of all-pervasive sympathy that took him to all places, amongst all types of people, virtuous or sinful. Like a fireproof stone unburnt by fire he could keep his purity unsullied while sitting in a hellfire of vices. Even though so pure in heart, he could, by virtue of his sympathetic capacity, realize the miseries of a sinner like the sinner himself. He could realize the sorrows of Nimchand Dutt, the despairing drunkard, whose joys of life had been dried up and whose education had proved futile. He could realize the pain of Rajib Mukhopadhya, a man who had lost all hopes of marriage. He could realize the mental agony of Gopinath for his surveillance to the Indigo Planters. I knew Dinabandhu particularly well; all the aspects of his character were known to me. I do doubt if I have ever seen a person who felt into the sorrows of other people in the way Dinabandhu did. His works bear this out.

Dinabandhu's sympathy, was however not for sorrow alone, he had an equal degree of sympathy for all sentiments: happiness, sorrow, anger or hatred. His sympathy was for Aduri's happiness in her bauti^[4] and paicha^[5]; his sympathy was for the fury of Torapa; his symyathy was for Bholanath's joy in the glad cause that prevented him from visiting his father-in-law's house. All artists must have this keen sympathy, else none can aspire to an artistic height. But there is a distinction between Dinabandhu and the other artists. Sympathy is essentially a product of imagination. Only if a person can place himself in the position of another, he will feel sympathy for him. If that be so, it may be contended here, then the most cruel and heartless of men may, by virtue of his imaginative power, if he has any, very well serve the ends of art by compelling within himself a feeling of sympathy for the suffering. True, but there is yet another class of people in whom the tender feeling of pity and other similar feelings are already so strong that sympathy is the innate virtue of their character, and does not call for the aid of imagination. Psychologists hold that even in such cases imagination goes on functioning, unseen, but the functioning is so much intuitive and so very quick that one fails to realize its persence. Yet there is a distinction between these two classes of people. The sympathy of persons belonging to the former class is under their control, whereas the sympathy of the people of the latter class only overpowers them instead of being under their control. To the people of the former class Sympathy serves as a handmaid, and makes her appearance only when called upon, or she is powerless to appear at all. As to the people of the latter class, Sympathy holds them in her thrall. Whether they want her or no, she will come of her own and possess them, instal herself in their hearts and reign there. With the class of people it is imagination which is dominant, with the latter class it is feelings like love and pity that are the strongest.

Dinabandhu belonged to the latter class. He did not hold Symapthy in his power, Sympathy held him in hers. He would go wherever she led him, and would do whatever she asked him to do. Now perhaps it will be easier for us to know why his works sometimes betray lapses of taste. He was himself well educated, and bore a spotless character, yet his works often reveal such lapses. The very keen and strong sympathy of his character would perhaps explain this incongruity. Whenever he sat down to portray the character of one with whom he had sympathy, the entire character would come up in his mind and he would draw it whole. He had not the power to choose and discard, for Sympathy was his mistress, and not he, the master of Sympathy. It has been already said that he used to portray a character, keeping a living ideal before him, and just because he felt sympathy for that living ideal he could use it as the ideal. But it held him so strongly in its power that he failed to discard any part of it. While portraying Torapa he could not describe his fury excepting in the words of Torapa himself. While portraying Aduri he could not set down the jokes she cracked excepting in her own language. While portraying Nimchand he could not help using the very words which he said in his drunken Mate. Any other artist would have made a compromise with Sympathy saying, "Just give me a full estimate of Torapa, Aduri, and Nimchand, but the language will be mine, not yours." But Dinabandhu could never come to such a compromise. On the contrary, it is as if Sympathy said to him: "I want you to take all that I give you, yes, even the language. Don't you see that once you leave out Torapa's language, the fury of Torapa will not be Torapa's any longer, that once you leave out Aduri's language, the jokes of Aduri will not be Aduri's any longer, and that once yon leave out Nimchand's language, the drunken brawls of the tipsy Nimchand will surely not be Nimchand's any longer. So you mustn't leave out anything." Dinabandhu had not the power to say, "No, I can't do that." That is why we have before us Torapa, Nimchand and Aduri—each one complete cap-a-pie. If Dinabandhu had to abide by the claims of literary taste, we would have found before us the broken torsos of Torapa, Nimchand and Aduri.

I do not mean to say that we should just cry out, "Well done" to whatever Dinabandhu did. There is no doubt every author should by all means guard against lapses of taste. The few words 1 have said about him are meant neither to eulogise him nor to censure him. They are meant to hold up before all Dinabandhu, the man. Dinabandhu was not responsible for the lapses of taste noticed in his works; they have been occasioned by his keen sense of sympathy. Everything good has its bad side too. This perhaps helps call up before us Dinabandhu, the man. Whatever might be the quality of his literary works, Dinabandhu was a man to be loved. In fact I haven't heard of a single Bengali who enjoyed the love of others as Dinabandhu did. His all-pervasive feeling of sympathy would perhaps explain this.

The two chief traits of Dinabandhu's character, namely, his experience of the society, and his keen and wide feeling of sympathy, were the sources from which sprang the merits and faults of his works. It is this fact which I have sought to establish in this article of mine. Whenever there has been a lack of either of these two virtues, Dinabandhu's art has proved a failure. This tells us why his chief heroes and heroines have failed to become really attractive characters. Aduri and Torapa are living characters, but not so his Kamini, Lilavati, Vijay and Lalitmohan. In the cases of Aduri and Torapa, Sympathy, as it were, conveyed to the writer everything about them, including the language they spoke. But why does one find the characters and speeches of Kamini, Vijay, Lilavati and Lalit so much distorted? The question may well arise why his sympathy, if natural and universal, did fail him in his portrayal of these characters. 'Want of experience in respect of such characters' is the easy answer. Let us first think of his heroines. The writer had no experience of such characters as Lilavati and Kamini. Indeed there were no such characters at all in the society of Bengal...Since there were no such living ideals before him, his sympathy failed him in these cases. For, even an all-pervasive sympathy pervades only the living and not the lifeless. It is clear to the readers, therefore, that in these cases Dinabandhu lacked both experience and sympathy...hence in these cases his art proved a failure.

The same could be said about the heroes of Dinabandhu. The heroes of Dinabandhu—Bengali youths—are the epitomes of virtues having no work to do. Some of them are engaged in philanthropic activities and some others, in courting. Living ideals of such characters are not present in the society of Bengal, so, in respect of these characters too, Dinabandhu lacked both experience and sympathy. The result was his art proved a failure in these cases too. It would have proved a success if he had, in portraying these characters, adopted the same method as he had done in portraying the characters of Jaladhar, Jagadamba and Nimchand...

Dinabandhu's first drama was the result of his uncommon experience of the society, and his keen sense of sympathy. He had undertaken extensive journeys in the areas where Indigo was produced, and acquired a first-hand and detailed knowledge of the tyranny of the Indigo planters over the ryots. Nobody knew it better than he did. His keen sense of sympathy turned the sorrows of the ryots into his own sorrows and made him take up his pen and unlock his heart. Nil Darpan is the Uncle Tom's Cabin of Bengal. 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' freed the negroes of Africa from their state of slavery. 'Nil Darpan' went a long way in freeing the Indigo slaves from their bondage. When Dinabandhu wrote his Nil Darpan, there was a complete fusion of his experience and sympathy, and that is why of all his dramas this seems to be the most powerful one. His other dramas might claim many other virtues, but not the power which Nil Darpan can claim. None of his dramas can so much overpower the readers or the spectators as Nil Darpan. Many a drama have been written in Bengal with the idea of remedying social ills. Most of them are pieces of bad art. The chief purpose of art is the creation of beauty. If the purpose of social reform is allowed to dominate a literary work the purpose of art itself is foiled.

But Nil Darpan, even though its chief purpose is social reform, excels even as a piece of art. That is because the enthralling sympathy of the writer has lent a tender sweetness to everything in that work.

Translated by: Sailesh Sen Gupta

Notes:

1. Lathial: (Bengali word) one wielding a lathi.
2. Lathi: a stout bamboo-stick, native weapon of defence in India.
3. Sympathy: the word used in this context means the artist's capacity for 'feeling into a subject.' The word used in modern art-criticism is 'Empathy' instead of 'Sympathy.'
4. Bauti: a piece of ornament worn in the past by the womenfolk of Bengal. It resembles a bangle.
5. Paicha: a piece of ornament, usually of silver, worn around the waist by the womenfolk of Bengal in the past.