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The Tamil literary tradition, like Sanskrit, was primarily oral, and almost all ancient and medieval works in Tamil were in verse, the form most conducive to oral transmission. The coming of the Europeans in the 17th century had a direct and formative impact on Tamil literature, for with them came exposure to new literary forms such as the novel and the short story. But these new forms were not immediately adopted — they did not lend themselves to memorisation and transmission by word of mouth, nor were they suitable for public readings like the epics. But in 1710, Christian missionaries set up the first Tamil printing press in Tranquebar (modern Tharangambadi). Though it was not till almost the end of the century that this technology was applied outside the missionary field, large numbers of books could now be quickly produced. Additionally, the spread of education in the 19th century and the consequent growth in literacy created a demand for reading matter. These various factors came together towards the end of the 19th century leading to a period of literary activity and accomplishment often termed the ‘Tamil Renaissance’. This period saw the emergence and establishment of the novel as a literary form in Tamil. (Asher, 1969).

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The first Tamil novel, Prathapa Mudaliar Charitram ( transl: the life and adventures of Prathapa Mudaliar), was published in 1879. It was written by Samuel Vedanayakam Pillai (1826-1889), an accomplished poet with several earlier books, of non-narrative verse, to his credit.

Vedanayakam Pillai wrote his novel after his retirement from the post of District Munsiff of Mayuram. In his preface to the novel, he states:

My object in writing this work of fiction is to supply the want of prose works in Tamil,…and also to give a practical illustration of the maxims of morality contained in my former works… (Asher, 1969)

The novel tells the life story, in the first person, of the main character, Prathapa Mudaliar. Though the storyline is fairly simple, the novel is long and rambling and begins much before the birth of its protagonist. As the author explains in his preface, the novel depicts human nature not as it is, but as it ought to be. The novel also reflects his belief in the inherent equality of women.

The novel has been translated into English by Meenakshi Tyagrajan as The Life and Times of Pratapa Mudaliar.

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In 1875, four years before the publication of Vedanayakam Pillai’s novel, was published Athiyur Avadhani Charitam (or The Self Made Man, an original Tamil novel, delineating pictures of modern Hindu life) by D.V. Seshaiyangar. Despite its claim to be ‘an original Tamil novel’, it was written in verse. Though it is still sometimes accorded the status of ‘first’, it is Vedanayakam Pillai’s novel that is truly the first Tamil novel. (Asher, 1969).

Opinions? Questions? Insights? Leave a comment via the comment box below!

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SOURCES AND FURTHER READING:

1. Asher, R. E. “The Tamil Renaissance and the Beginnings of the Tamil Novel.” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland, no. 1 (1969): 13–28. http://www.jstor.org/stable/25203090.

2. Parthasarathy, R. “Tamil Literature.” World Literature Today 68, no. 2 (1994): 253–59. https://doi.org/10.2307/40150137.

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JAINENDRA (1905-1988)

Jainendra dominated the Hindi literary scene for most of the 20th century. He introduced the psychological in Hindi fiction and is known for his deep and sensitive exploration of the human mind. He is also celebrated for his crisp but luminous prose. He preferred to dictate rather than write down his novels, essays and short stories, and it is to this practice that some attribute “the extreme economy of words” that characterises his writing (Garg, 2012).

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Jainendra made his first appearance in 1929, with a book of short stories, which was immediately followed by his first novel, Parakh. The novel, hailed by both critics and general readers, was awarded the Hindustani Academy Prize. Parakh was rapidly followed by the novels Sunita (1935) and Tyagpatra (1937), several volumes of short stories and a book of essays. From then on, Jainendra’s rise to fame was meteoric and he became “probably the most talked-of figure in Hindi literature, not only because of the high literary quality of his subsequent work, but also, and possibly more, on the disturbing originality of his creative output” (Agyeya, 1946).

At the beginning of the 20th century, Indian literature began to increasingly reflect the political dreams of the people. Writers across the country were inspired by Gandhi’s ideas of social justice and national identity. Additionally, the ideas of Karl Marx began to gain significance in Indian political thought, and to find expression in literature. Marxian thought and Gandhian idealism combined to give rise to an intellectual outlook that accommodated radical new left-leaning ideas without violent revolution. In Hindi writing, the works of Munshi Premchand came to embody this new spirit. His writings are characterized by his deep understanding of rural Indian society, his sensitive and empathetic portrayal of social concerns, and his vivid characterizations. Jainendra, rather than following the path laid down by Premchand, chose to strike out on his own exploring through his writings the inner conflicts and turmoil of the individual rather than the wider social issues that had been Premchand’s concern.

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In the words of Agyeya,

His thought, his story material, his characters, even his language, was provokingly different, and each new novel seemed to define more clearly a philosophy that was in startling contrast with ideologies of aggressive nationalistic aspirations current at the time. (Agyeya, 1946)

Jainendra, as Mridula Garg says, was “a true exponent of the Jain philosophy, which preached that one could achieve nirvana or redemption, only through renunciation and self-laceration.” In all his novels, “a hankering for renunciation is felt with the same passionate desire that marks the pursuit of pleasure”. (Garg, 2006). Jainendra is intensely preoccupied with moral principles, a preoccupation that marks all his novels, and in particular Tyagpatra.

Perhaps Jainendra was ahead of his times, or perhaps the austere philosophy that underpins his writing, or the very moral world he seeks even as he seems to flout all morality — perhaps all this was too much for the “superficial skepticism” of his contemporaries, who subjected him to “the most sustained campaign of ridicule any Hindi writer has known” (Agyeya, 1946).

Nevertheless, he remains one of Hindi’s greatest writers and his contribution “perhaps the most significant contemporary contribution to Hindi literature” (Agyeya, 1946).

Jainendra passed away in 1988, “after 58 years of creative writing and 83 of reflective living” (Garg, 2012). He left behind a formidable body of work: thirteen novels, ten volumes of short stories and an equal number of volumes of philosophical essays. He was awarded the Sahitya Akademi award in 1966 for his novel Muktibodh, and the Akademi’s highest award, the Sahitya Akademi Fellowship, in 1979. In 1971, he was awarded the Padma Bhushan, India’s highest civilian award.

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TYAGPATRA
BY JAINENDRA

Translated by Rohini Chowdhury; Afterword by Mridula Garg
(Published: Penguin Books India, 2012)

In Tyagpatra, Jainendra tells the story of Mrinal, a young woman “with an immensely strong sense of self-determination” (Snell and Chellini, 1995). Her uncompromising idealism and adherence to what she believes is her dharma, leads to her complete rejection by her family and her husband. Her story is told in the first person by her nephew Pramod, a successful lawyer and respected judge, who, in a series of flashbacks, tells us his aunt’s tragic story and, from his perspective, her equally tragic death.

Mrinal was Pramod’s bua, his father’s sister; several years younger than his father, she is only four or five years older than him. She lives with Pramod and his parents, under the strict and watchful eye of his mother. The two children share a deep affection for each other. Pramod thinks back to their childhood, and we see Mrinal as he saw her then, a lively, vivacious young girl, endowed with exceptional beauty.

One day, she returns from school, strangely restless. Later we realise that she is in love with her best friend Sheela’s brother, a fact that Pramod understands only dimly as a child. Her awakening sexuality, tender and intense and finding an echo in Pramod, is beaten out of her by Pramod’s mother; Mrinal is then hurriedly married off to a rough and boorish man much older than her. She is deeply unhappy, and returns home. But her brother admonishes her, explaining that a woman’s only refuge is her husband’s home, and a husband her life, her duty, even her salvation.

Mrinal returns to her husband. Determined now to be a virtuous wife, she tells him about her love for Sheela’s brother. Furious, he throws her out, leaving her to fend for herself in a hovel. Disowned by her husband and her family, she begins to live with a coal-seller, an uncouth and violent man. Pramod, who is now in college, still thinks of her from time to time and tries to locate her. He finally finds her living with the coal-seller, and pregnant with his child. Pramod is angry, shocked, and repulsed by Mrinal’s condition. He wants to take her back home with him, but Mrinal refuses…

There were many questions in my mind. I could not fully accept that Bua herself was not responsible for the situation she was in today. Even so, even in these circumstances, there was such a naturalness about Bua that I could not, in my arrogance feel pity for her. Then what should I feel? Helplessly, I said, ‘Bua.’

She said, ‘Go on, why have you stopped?’

Hesitantly, I said, ‘I can’t understand anything. To me this place seems bad, unpleasant.’

‘Who says the place is good? But it is a place. Sometimes it becomes important to just have a place. Pramod, why don’t you say clearly what is bothering you?’ She looked at me strangely with a look I did not like.

I said, ‘You will stay here? In this place? How long will you stay here?’

‘For the moment, I am here. If I don’t stay in this hovel, someone else will. These hovels will remain occupied, there are many who are right for these. I don’t know what my situation will be in the future. Yes, I understand that I won’t be able to live here very long.’

‘Where will you go?’

‘Who knows!’

She continued with a small laugh, ‘Do you think that this man with whom I am living will be able to support me for very long? I know that one day he will leave me and go away. That is when it will also be time for me to leave this hovel.’

The calm and natural manner in which she was saying all this was suffocating me.  I asked. ‘What will you do then?’

‘What I will do then, do I know that right now? Can I know, even if I try to find out?’

Afraid, I asked again, ‘What?’

‘I won’t become a prostitute, rest assured.’

I became flustered.

She continued, ‘How can one take money from someone to whom one has given one’s body? I can’t understand that. I can understand the necessity of giving one’s body. I will be able to give my body, perhaps that will be necessary. But to take in return? A woman’s duty is to give, nothing else. Isn’t that the ideal held up in front of a virtuous woman? She will be asked for her heart, she will also be asked for her body. But to sell that — no, no, that cannot be. If I think that…’

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It did not feel as though she was addressing me; rather, it seemed that she wanted to silence her own imaginings with her answer. I said, ‘Bua, don’t get angry. But I want to know — why did you become this way? Why did you leave your husband?’

Bua looked at me steadily, ‘Do you think it possible that I could ever be angry with you? I did not leave my husband. He left me. I believe in a woman’s duty. I do not believe in her independence. Why should a woman devoted to her husband wish to burden him with her presence when he doesn’t want her? When I understood that he did not even wish to look at me, I removed myself from his sight. He said, “I am not your husband” — after that what right had I to load him with me? This is not the dharma of a woman who is truly devoted to her husband.’

‘Bua, Bua! What are you saying? Why did all this happen?’

‘Why it happened, that is exactly what I shall tell you. After I was married I thought a lot. After much reflection I reached the conclusion that I cannot deceive; deception is a sin. Whatever had happened was over; a married woman must behave towards her husband in the appropriate manner.  And for that the first requisite was that she be true to him. Only then could she surrender herself completely to him. Pramod, you know Sheela’s brother?’

I stared at her, taken aback at the question.

‘I received a letter from him. He had written nothing special in the letter, just that he was a civil surgeon now, that he hadn’t married and wouldn’t; that I was married, and so he wished me happiness; and that if there was anything he could do for me, then I should write. It was that letter which had set me thinking and reflecting. I wrote in reply that I was grateful for his letter, but henceforth he should not write to me and that I was trying to be happy. Before I sent my answer, I felt it necessary to mention both these letters to your Uncle. Upon hearing about the letters, he replied that there had been no need to tell him, that if this other man existed, why had I married him? A little later he said I was wicked and evil. I did not protest. From that day onwards, your Uncle began to shun me. I no longer had the right to be angry. He stopped caring about me. I deserved that — I had no right to expect his caring. I would do the chores I had to, and would eat whatever I was given and stay content within that. Despite that, I felt my presence was still hateful to him, and I could understand why. So one day, rather than continue to offend him with my presence, I went to him and told him that if he wished, he could send me away from the house. He said, “Yes, go! Go back to your own family.” I said, “I have cut all ties to my family and come away from them. I can go to them when you are pleased with me, but I cannot return to them if you are angry with me — that is not my dharma.” He replied that in that case I could do whatever I liked, go wherever I wanted to. I asked, “Where should I go? What should I do?” He answered, “Don’t harangue me! Go away!” A few days passed. I was an impediment, an obstacle in his life. One day he suddenly cried, “Go on, get out of here!” I did not fight to disobey him. He took me to a place far away from the town and, providing me with a few necessities, left me there in a hovel. This is the whole story.’

I continued to gaze at Bua — there was no bitterness or anger in her expression. I was amazed — it was as though she had no complaint against what had happened. Thrown into great turmoil, I asked passionately, ‘Why didn’t you come home, Bua? Why did you come here instead with that man?’

She replied, ‘Pramod, how do I explain this to you? I couldn’t go home. I had gone home once and had understood then that it wasn’t right for me to go home in that fashion. A woman is accepted by her own family only as long as she is accepted by her husband. When my ties with my husband broke, my ties with my own family broke automatically.’

I looked at her, perplexed. I couldn’t make much sense of her words — that made me angry and irritable too.

I said, ‘What are you saying? You couldn’t come home! But you could come here and set up house with another man, a stranger? What kind of talk is this?’

‘Yes, true, I could not go home. But I don’t understand your objection to setting up house with “another” man. Besides, why is this man “another”, a stranger, an outsider?’

‘Why is he “another”?’

‘Yes. He isn’t “another”. Do I behave with him as I would with “another”?’

‘Is he your husband?’

‘Husband! I do not know. But my existence is not for me — and yes, undoubtedly at this moment I am engaged in serving him.’

‘Serving him?’

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‘Yes, serving him. Why not? When I was alone in that hole in which your Uncle had left me, I did not die — do you know why? I had expected and I had wanted to die — what was the point of living in that manner? But all at once I understood that He who gave me life, I could accept death on His terms as well. Who was I to choose my death according to the dictates of my own pride? If I had to die of hunger, I could, but how could I knowingly, voluntarily, kill myself? During this time of distress, three days after I had been left there, it was this man who, at considerable risk to himself, had taken the trouble of asking after me. What was so dreadful about that? Perhaps he had been attracted by my beauty, but what blame could I give him for that? He turned a blind eye to all obstacles and came to me. He had his own family, his own circle of friends and acquaintances. But he did not care — he suffered their taunts and their threats and helped me, first secretly, then openly. I had no part in his infidelity. He helped me no more than that, once in a while, he would fetch me a sack of coal, or some provisions, and say a few words of courage and support.  I had already turned away from Death; and when, turning away, I resolved to look Life in the face again, this man appeared before me. Was it fair, was it just, that I should turn away from him? I accepted his help with gratitude…’

I stared at Bua; I was in complete turmoil, I did not know what I felt. This bold and resolute woman who sat there in front of me — did I despise her, or was I grateful to her? That woman was regarding me with a deep love that demanded nothing in return, and she was saying, ‘But I had not dreamt that it would be you who would search for me and find me. I had thought that when I would not be able to bear it, then I would, by my own efforts find you and look at you from a distance, and satisfy the longings of my heart. Pramod, you may hate me, but even so I am your Bua.’

I felt desperately helpless — if I could have run away I would have, but I sat there stiff and rigid, as though bound. My heart was heavy. I could not shout in anger, nor could I weep with love.

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Mrinal is often written off by readers as masochistic, self-indulgent, or even plain stupid. Perhaps she is all these. But she also exemplifies Jainendra’s ascetic philosophy and struggles with questions of morality and dharma. If, as Mridula Garg suggests, we look at Mrinal from this perspective, “we have to concede that she is a woman of singular courage, who succeeds in discounting the mores practised by society.” Finally, she attains “complete freedom” and can, in the end, “sublimate her personal renunciation to identify with the poorest of the poor”, living with them and serving them “not from a sense of duty but as a fulfilling pursuit” (Garg, 2010). It is this Mrinal that I see.

What do you think of Mrinal? Tell us via the comments box below!

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And what of Pramod? Or Sheela’s brother? Or any of the others in the novel? Why not read the novel to find out?

Tyagpatra is Jainendra’s finest novel. Almost ninety years after it was written, it still finds relevance in a society that has grown ever more complex and layered. Although it has been previously translated, in 1946 by S.H. Vatsayayana, it is this relevance that made me undertake a fresh translation of Tyagpatra.

My translation was published by Penguin Books India in 2012. The excerpts above have been published here with their permission.

SOURCES AND FURTHER READING

1. Garg, Mridula. “Writing the Self.” India International Centre Quarterly 37, no. 1 (2010): 92–100. http://www.jstor.org/stable/23006458.

2. Garg, Mridula. “The Ascetic as Hedonist: An Under View of Literature.” Indian Literature 50, no. 2 (232) (2006): 161–66. http://www.jstor.org/stable/23340936.

3. Jainendra. Tyagpatra. Translated as The Resignation, by Rohini Chowdhury, with an Afterword by Mridula Garg. New Delhi, Penguin Books India, 2012.

4. KULSHRESTHA, CHIRANTAN. “In Defence of Jainendra Kumar.” Indian Literature 14, no. 2 (1971): 63–73. http://www.jstor.org/stable/23329830.

5. Orman, Stanley. “‘THE RESIGNATION’: A FULLY INDIAN NOVEL.” Mahfil 6, no. 4 (1970): 61–72. http://www.jstor.org/stable/40874392.

6. Snell, Rupert, and Marina Chellini. “THE SNARE OF VIRTUE : JAINENDRA KUMAR’S TYĀG-PATRA AND ANDRÉ GIDE’S LA PORTE ÉTROITE.” Journal of South Asian Literature 30, no. 1/2 (1995): 173–93. http://www.jstor.org/stable/40873584

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CHANDRAKANTA
BY DEVAKI NANDAN KHATRI

Translated by Rohini Chowdhury
(Published: Rupa Publications, 2015)

Part 1, Narrative 1

It is evening. In the waning light, on a lonely plain beneath a hill, can be seen two men; perched upon a rocky outcrop, they are deep in a conversation. The men are Birendra Singh and Tej Singh.

Birendra Singh, who appears to be some twenty-one or twenty-two years of age, is the only son of Raja Surendra Singh, the king of Naugarh. The other, Tej Singh, is Prince Birendra Singh’s closest friend, and the beloved son of Jeet Singh, Raja Surendra Singh’s divan. Tej Singh is quick and alert, and keeps a sharp lookout even while immersed in conversation with the prince; at his waist hangs a dagger, under his arm is slung a small bag, and in his hand he carries a coil of rope. Before them stands a horse, securely tethered to a sturdy tree.

Prince Birendra Singh is speaking.

“Tej Singh,” said the prince, “see what an evil affliction Love is, to have brought me to this state! You have, often enough, brought me Princess Chandrakanta’s letters from Vijaygarh and carried mine to her, and you know that this exchange of letters clearly shows that Chandrakanta loves me as much as I love her.  And even though our kingdom is only five kos distant from hers, we have not been able to come together. Look, even in this letter Chandrakanta beseeches me to meet her soon.”

“I can take you to her easily enough,” replied Tej Singh, “except that these days Chandrakanta’s father, Maharaj Jai Singh, has set a strict guard around the palace. What’s more, his Minister’s son, Kroor Singh the Cruel, has become enamoured of the princess. He is fully aware of your feelings for her, and has instructed his two aiyaars, his spy-magicians, Najim Ali and Ahmed Khan, to keep a close watch on the palace all the time. Though Chandrakanta hates him, and he knows the king will never give his daughter in marriage to a mere minister’s son, Kroor Singh lives on hope and dislikes intensely your attachment to the princess. He has also, through his father, informed the king of your love for Chandrakanta, and it is on account of this that the guard on the palace has been increased. I am not comfortable taking you there right now, not till I have caught those mischief-makers and taken them prisoner.”

“Let me go to Vijaygarh once more,” continued Tej Singh, “and meet Chandrakanta and her friend, Chapala, again. Chapala loves Chandrakanta more than her life. She is also an aiyaara, and except for her, there is no one in Vijaygarh I can depend on to help me. Once I have discovered what our enemies are plotting and seen how far their cunning has taken them, I will return and only then will I give an opinion on whether you should go there or not. We should not do anything in a hurry and without understanding the situation fully. Otherwise, we may end up getting trapped or taken prisoner.”

“Do what you think is possible. I rely only on my strength, but you have both your strength and the skills and cunning of your aiyaari,” replied Birendra Singh.

 “I have also learnt that Kroor Singh’s two aiyaars, Najim and Ahmed, came here recently and paid a visit to our king. I wonder with what cunning scheme in mind they had come…” mused Tej Singh.  “It’s a pity I wasn’t here at the time.”

 “Here you are trying to trap the two aiyaars of Kroor Singh, while they are scheming to capture you!  May God look after you! Anyway, go now, and somehow make it possible for me to meet Chandrakanta,” said Birendra Singh.

Tej Singh stood up at once, and leaving Birendra Singh there, left on foot for Vijaygarh. Birendra Singh untied the horse from the tree, and mounting it, left for his fort.

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Thus begins Chandrakanta, Babu Devaki Nandan Khatri’s extraordinary first novel. Khatri began writing Chandrakanta in 1887. He was all of twenty-six years old at the time, and this was his first foray into fiction. As he explains in the preface to the first edition, “I have never written a book before, this is my first attempt, so if there be errors and mistakes, it is not a matter for surprise…”. The first part of his novel was published in 1888 in Banaras, by his friend, Babu Amir Singh, owner of the Hariprakash Yantralay. Khatri wrote his novel in four parts, his fans welcoming each new part with unabated eagerness and enthusiasm. At almost 300 pages, and with a total of 93 chapters across the four parts, Chandrakanta became the longest Hindi novel of the nineteenth century. All four parts were published separately in 1891, and then together in one volume, in 1892.

Chandrakanta was so successful that by 1894, Khatri was able to set up his own press, the Lahari Press, and start his own monthly fiction magazine, ‘Upanyas Lahari’. He also began publishing Chandrakanta Santati (‘Chandrakanta’s Descendants’), the sequel to Chandrakanta; he wrote the sequel in twenty-four parts, completing the final part in 1905. Khatri also published Urdu editions of Chandrakanta, and at least one edition in Nepali (Gorkhabhasha)1. Khatri continued to publish Chandrakanta and Chandrakanta Santati in various editions, Hindi and Urdu, to suit every pocket, under his own imprint of the Lahari Press, though printed by other presses. As Chandrakanta and its sequels continued to grab the popular imagination, readers would mob the premises of the Lahari Press whenever a new part of the novel was expected.

Khatri capitalized on his success by continuing the story in a second sequel, Bhutnath; this was based on a character from Chandrakanta Santati. He wrote and published six parts of this sequel between 1907 and his death in 1913.  After his death, his son Durga Prasad Khatri took over the management of the Lahari Press; he also continued and completed Bhutnath, writing another fifteen parts of the story between 1915 and 1935. The novels continued to sell so well that Durga Prasad Khatri further continued the story in a third, six-part, sequel called Rohtasmath.

Though never accepted as ‘literature’ by the Hindi literary establishment due to the levity of its subject matter, the very popularity of Chandrakanta makes it a landmark event in the history of Hindi literature, and particularly so, in the history of the Hindi novel. From the point of view of commercial Hindi publishing, which was still in the early stages of development at the time, Chandrakanta (and its sequels) managed to create in readers the habit of reading novels in Hindi2, introducing them to the conventions of the modern novel, a habit that later, more ‘literary’ writers in Hindi were able to exploit. Chandrakanta’s success also gave birth to a whole new sub-genre of Hindi fiction — that of the tilismi and jasusi detective novels (to which Khatri himself contributed several works), which became hugely popular as well.

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Khatri drew heavily on the Persian-Arabic tradition of the dastan and qissa for his novel.

‘Dastan’ and ‘qissa’ both mean ‘story’ in Persian, and belong to a narrative genre that may be traced to medieval Iran. There is little difference between the two, except perhaps of length (dastans are longer) and the terms are often used interchangeably. The dastan was oral in nature, and usually recited by a dastan-go or professional storyteller. In India, dastans acquired even greater popularity under the Mughal emperor, Akbar. One of the most popular of the dastans of the time was the Dastan-e-Amir Hamzah, relating the life and adventures of Amir Hamzah, the Prophet’s uncle. Akbar not only memorized large sections of this dastan, but also commissioned an illustrated version of it which, known as the Hamzahnama, is regarded as one of the crowning achievements of Mughal art. Despite their popularity under the Mughals, dastans really came into their own in India in the nineteenth century, when they began to be composed in Urdu. By the middle of the nineteenth century, a few dastans had also appeared in print, including Ghalib Lakhnawi’s hugely popular Urdu version of Amir Hamzah.

Like Amir Hamzah and other Urdu dastans of the time, Khatri’s novel is set in the courtly world of princes and princesses, magnificent palaces and gracious gardens, where love and beauty rule the day and chivalry and honour are valued above life itself, where the beautiful Princess Chandrakanta, imprisoned in an ancient tilism or enchantment, must wait for rescue, while her lover, the valiant Prince Birendra Singh, must battle jealous rivals and break the ancient enchantment in order to reach her. Yet, as in the dastans, the real protagonists of the story are not the prince and the princess, but their secret agents, the ‘spy-magicians’ known as aiyaars.  Both the prince and the princess have their own cohort of aiyaars and aiyaaras, and, as in most dastans, it is really the aiyaars who determine the direction and set the pace of the story. Thus, Khatri’s tale has all the elements of a traditional dastan: descriptions of war, and battles that help the prince to prove his valour; elaborate enumerations of royal splendour and details of courtly gatherings; beauty as embodied in women and love; ancient enchantments, and clever and ingenious aiyaars with their inventive, and sometimes cunning, tricks and plans (aiyaari). A virtuoso dastan-go would often ‘stop’ the dastan in order to offer his listeners long lists and detailed descriptions of ‘dastan-mandatory’ items. Khatri, too, offers his readers detailed descriptions of nature, feminine beauty, and battles and often gives lists of plants and trees, royal treasure and other items, but unlike the traditional dastan-go, he keeps his descriptions short, never allowing his narrative to pause or flag.

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Khatri was also was influenced by the writings of the Bengali poet and novelist, Bankim Chandra Chatterjee, and the English novelist W.J. Reynolds. In Chandrakanta, Khatri brings together all the narrative elements of a dastan; at the same time, he successfully makes the leap from the traditional, oral forms of storytelling to the modern conventions of the novel, so that even those critics who refuse to accept Chandrakanta as a work of literary merit, accept Khatri’s role in introducing readers to the new literary form of the novel.3

Chandrakanta and its sequels together rival the length of the Dastan-e Amir Hamzah (one version of which is reputed to have taken took up 46 volumes, each a thousand pages long!). Yet Devaki Nandan Khatri claimed that he wrote his tale ‘in brief’; in my opinion, by this he was referring not to the length of Chandrakanta and it sequels, but the manner in which he wrote them. Khatri did not write Chandrakanta in one sitting or even in one location — he wrote it in bits and pieces, wherever it was he found himself when the urge to write came upon him. He kept no notes, never needed to refer back to what he had written before, or to ever re-read or correct his first draft.  He wrote Chandrakanta and its sequels over a twenty-year period, from 1887 to 1913, and not once did he need his memory to be refreshed, which made his memory even more stupendous than his imagination!

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DEVAKI NANDAN KHATRI (1861 - 1913)

Babu Devaki Nandan Khatri was born in 1861 in Pusa, in the home of his maternal grandfather, Babu Jivanlal Mahato. His mother was Babu Jivanlal’s only daughter. His father, Lala Ishvardas, came from an old and illustrious family of Punjab; unrest in Lahore during the reign of Maharaja Sher Singh had caused him to leave that city in the 1840s for Kashi (Banaras), where he had settled. In accordance with Babu Jivanlal’s wishes that his son-in-law come to live in Pusa with him, Lala Ishvardas had moved to Pusa after his wedding, and lived there for several years. Babu Jivanlal, a wealthy landowner, enjoyed the status and lifestyle of a minor raja, so that the young Devaki Nandan spent his childhood in royal courts and palaces, watching and learning the ways of kings and princes up close, a familiarity that peeps through in Chandrakanta.

Meanwhile, Lala Ishvardas, unable to get along with his father-in-law, moved back to Kashi, where he set up a successful business supplying gold and gold ornaments to various royal courts. When he was old enough, Devaki Nandan joined his father in Banaras, becoming actively involved in his father’s business. Lala Ishvardas conducted business with several small kingdoms, including the tiny kingdom of Tekari in Gaya, where he had a large warehouse and office. Devaki Nandan learnt the business quickly, so that very soon he was given sole charge of the Gaya office, dealing directly with the Raja of Tekari. Here he enjoyed an independent lifestyle, with a good income and plenty of money at his command. His was a colourful personality, and the story goes that on one occasion he spent Rs 5000, a minor fortune in those days, on flying kites! Soon, though, his youth and impetuosity landed him in trouble, and incurring the displeasure of the Raja of Tekari, he returned home to his father in Kashi.

His father, greatly displeased, forbade him to leave the city. Raja Ishvariprasad Narayan Singh was king of Kashi in those days. As it happened, the Raja’s sister was married to the ruler of Tekari, and through his association with Tekari, Devaki Nandan’s father had become a close associate of the Raja of Kashi. Hearing of Devaki Nandan’s troubles, the Raja offered him a place in his court at Kashi. But Devaki Nandan did not want the life of a courtier, which would have bound him to the city and the court. He therefore asked that he be given the contract to farm the surrounding forests. The Raja agreed, and he was awarded the contract for the forests of Naugarh and Chakia. Devaki Nandan embraced his new occupation with great enthusiasm, roaming the forests with a merry band of friends. Unfortunately for him, one of his friends shot and killed a tiger, a sport strictly banned by the Raja of Kashi. As a consequence of this irresponsible act on the part of his friend, Devaki Nandan lost his contract and was sent home by the Raja in disgrace. His father, Lala Ishvardas, was furious, and berated him for being a good-for-nothing who messed up every opportunity that came his way. Devaki Nandan, upset and despairing, decided to attend the Rath Yatra that year; clinging to the giant wheels of the chariot he wept and asked the god Jagannath for guidance. He returned home and sitting down at his desk, pulled out a sheet of paper and scrawled a single word across the top — ‘Chandrakanta’. He wrote furiously through the night, and next morning showed his writing to his friend, Badrinath. “A young man gave me this,” he said. “What do you think? Should he keep writing?” he asked his friend. Badrinath read the chapters through, and recognized Devaki Nandan’s stamp and style. “Of course your friend should keep writing,” he replied, and declared that he had recognized this as Devaki Nandan’s own work. Thus encouraged, Devaki Nandan continued writing Chandrakanta — and the rest, as they say, is history.

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Chandrakanta continues to enjoy great popularity even today.

It is worth noting that the novel has remained in print continuously for a hundred and thirty-four years, that is, since it first appeared in 1888. The family copyright on Chandrakanta expired in 1964, when the novel came into the public domain. Since then, it has been brought out by several leading Hindi publishers; Lahari Press, now headed by Babu Devaki Nandan’s grandson, Shri Vivek Khatri, continues to print and sell some 2,500 copies a year as well. The family tradition of writing sequels to Chandrakanta is being continued by Vivek Khatri, who has added more novels to the saga, including Heeron ki Ghati (‘The Valley of Diamonds’) and Shersingh.

Television

Several television shows have been inspired by Khatri’s novel. Though they have taken considerable liberties with the original, they have attracted a large viewership in India.

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Translations

Chandrakanta had been translated more than once into English: In 2004, by Manju Gupta as In the Mysterious Ruins, and in 2008, for children, by Deepa Agarwal.

The enduring charm of the novel, as well as its landmark place in Hindi literature, made me venture another translation. Devaki Nandan Khatri’s language, the spoken Hindi of his times, fast-paced, simple and very effective, was both a delight and a challenge to translate.

My translation was published by Rupa Publications in 2015. The excerpts above have been published here with their permission.

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