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History of Bengali Language and Literature c7: Chapter III. Chandidas and Vidyapati

History of Bengali Language and Literature c7

Language
English

Contents

Chapter III. Chandidas and Vidyapati

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I. CHANDĪ DĀS. II. VIDYĀPATI.

I—Chandī Dās

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The Bengali works to which we have referred in the last chapter, scarcely rise to the level of of decent literature. They were composed by peasants and villagers, and these were the people who loved to read them and hear them recited. This fact must be held to account for their somewhat gross turn of humour. Our language, as I have said in the first chapter, was greatly stimulated by the attention it received from the Moslem Sovereigns of Gauḍa with their inevitably anti-Sanskritic culture. But it possessed inherent qualities of its own which were bound to have been recognised in course of time, even if chance had not brought the Mahammadans to this country. With poets like Chandī Dās and Vidyāpati, the vernaculars of Bengal and Behar could not long have been allowed to languish in the cold shade of Brahmanical disdain. These songs revealed its innate stength and gave unmistakable proof of its capacity to express the highest thoughts of the human mind. At the very time when rural folk were amusing themselves by a display of coarse wit in halting rhyme;—when no better themes than the plough, the furrow and the rice-field were to be found for the awakening of poetic inspiration; when the tales of the Siddhas—and their powers were being sung in the villages, and gave the same amusment to illiterate people as fairy tales do to children; at that very period of fantastic and uncouth composition,—now more valued for philological and historical considerations than for any intrinsic poetic merits,—the vernaculars of Bengal and Behar were suddenly lit up by the rays of two brilliant stars, the precursors of an illustrious host who appeared on our literary horizon with the advent of Chaitanya Deva in the sixteenth century.

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The poems of Chandī dās and Vidyāpati contrasted with other vernacular writings of the age.

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In order to understand the subjects treated by these two poets, one should first know what Parakiyā Rasa is.

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Parakiyā Rasa.

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Parakiyā Rasa which is sometimes identified with Madhura Rasa, forms the essence of the Vaiṣṇava theology. It is akin to the Sahajiā cult, which, as explained in a previous chapter, means the romantic worship of a woman other than one's own wife. By a strange combination of circumstances, this form of idialism, though to the Hindu mind it seems lawless and unhallowed, rapidly attained a highly spiritual form in Bengal. In a country where the portals of the Zenanā remain ever closed to the outside world,—where in the words of a Bengali poet, "the rays of the sun may not touch and even the moon is not allowed to see the fair one"—in such an environment as that of the Hindu household, society admits of no opportunity for the free meeting of men and women. Yet human nature is every where the same, and here as elsewhere stringent social rules are ineffective to defeat the impulse of personal choice and romantic love. The greater the opposition, the stronger is the impulse which cries for expression. In this country a blind Providence joins the hands of a mute pair who promise fidelity, often without knowing each other. When the situation grows monotonous, losing colour and poetry, both men and women are treated to lectures on the purity of the nuptial vow, and to promises of rewards in the next world. They fully believe in the sanctity of marriage, and are ready to sacrifice sentiment to stern duty. But human passion cannot be altogether repressed, and where it over-rides the ordinances of the Çastras, it rushes forward with extraordinary strength, all the greater for the attempt at forcible suppression.

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The Parakiya presents insurmountable difficulties in this country. Those who love have scarcely a chance of meeting; they may long for the sight of one another's faces, yet this good fortune not be theirs for days and weeks together. There are numerous descriptions of the romantic feelings which this peculiar situation creates, in the Vaiṣṇava songs. Here are a few short extracts:—

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“If he happens to see a single letter that forms my name, he pores over it in an ecstasy of joy.”*

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“He wanders about like a mad man and kisses the prints of my feet.”†

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∗ “আমার নামের একটি আখর পাইলে হরসে লেয়।” Rāiçekhar.

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† “পদ চিহ্ন চুম্বয়ে কান।” Govinda Dās.

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“If he hears my name incidentally mentioned by any, his face is lit up with strange emotion and in vain does he try to hide the joy.”*

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In cases where this feeling has arisen, and the persons concerned possess noble moral qualities—social and moral barriers continuing to exercise their full power, it is easy to see that the highest romantic idealism is the inevitable result. We then find that the very restrictions imposed, only accentuate the poetry of the passion. There is nothing which the lovers are not prepared to lay on the alter of this their highest dream. Such love is the nearest approach in cammon life to the mystic longings of the devotee’s soul, for the realisation of God; and in fact, in the purity of its sentiment, and in its capacity for devotion and selfsacrifice, it approaches spirituality. Hence Vaiṣṇavism in Bengal adopted Parakīya as a symbol for the representation of divine love. Rādhā, the Princess, daughter of king Vriṣa Bhānu and wife of Āyān Ghoṣa, falls in love with Kriṣṇa—the shepherd boy. But Rādhā is thought of by Vaiṣṇavas as the human soul and Kriṣṇa as the incarnation of the Love of god. From this story every suspicion of grossness is understood to be eliminated, and the drama played out amidst the pastoral scenery of the banks of the Jumna, conveys only the purity and holiness of a hymn of worship.

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* “পরসঙ্গে নাম শুনি দরবয়ে হিয়া, পুলক ঢাকিতে নানা করে পরকার।”

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Chandīdās.

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Chandi Dās and Vidyāpati followed Jay Deva, and took this allegory for the expression in the vernacular of the highest form of the spiritual ideal.

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From a reference* given in one of Chandi Dās’s poems, it appears that before 1403 A.D. he had composed 996 songs. He was born in the village of Chhātnā in the district of Birbhum, but in early life, settled at the neighbouring village of Nānnura, ten miles to the south-east of Bolpur—a station on the East Indian Railway. The site of his home—now reduced to a mere mound—is still to be seen at Nānnura, where he discharged priestly functions in the temple of Vāçulī Devī. This temple collapsed in course of time, and a new one has lately been built on the old site where the goddess Vāçulī is still worshipped.

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Chandi Dās, in the popular estimation was one of those souls who turn love-mad. In Eastern Bengal a man of eccentric tendencies is somtimes called ‘পাগলা চণ্ডী’ or ‘a mad Chandi.’ The word ‘পাগলা’ or ‘mad fellow’ is not rightly translated by the bold English word ‘mad,’—for in Bengali it is tinged with a feeling of tenderness. ‘পাগলা চণ্ডী’ and ‘পাগলা নিমাই’ are adored by the people of Bengal. The epithet ‘পাগলা’ is akin to ‘Dewānā’ in Persian. They imply the poetic excesses of a great genius and are far from being terms of contempt.

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We have already alluded to Chandi Dās’s love for Rāmi, the washerwoman. At Nānnura there is a spot which is pointed out as the site of Rāmi’s home-stead. The way in which the poet first fell in love, as related by the people of the locality, is curious. By one of those echoes from the future which are heard by the human mind, on that very day in his life when the stars were set for his meeting with Rāmī, he had a foregleam of his coming experiences in love. He had gone to purchase fish in the market. There he offered a certain price to a fish-wife for the fish he wished to buy, but at that very moment she gave a greater quantity for the same price to another; Chandī Dās was struck by this inequality of treatment and asked the fisherwoman's reason. She smiled and said "Oh, but his case is altogether different. We love each other!" Chandī Dās stood silent for sometime, brooding over this reply. The sweetness of such a feeling attracted him, and it so happened that on that very day, Rāmī, the young washerwoman, in all the beauty of her maiden-hood came into his sight and he fell over head and ears in love with her.

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∗ বিধুর নিকট নেত্র পক্ষ পঞ্চবাণ । নবহুঁ নবহুঁ রস ইহ পরিমাণ ॥ Chandidās.

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The result was disastrous from a worldly point of view. He was a Brāhmin and the washerwoman could take only the dust of his feet. Any other relation between them was not to be tolerated by society. Chandī Dās has told us in his songs that his love for Rāmī was pure, there being in it no element of passion. In his devotion to his lady, however, he would not now brook any restraint. He openly avowed his love in songs, and remained absorbed in a sort of reverie, neglecting the duties of his priestly calling. The love of Tasso for Leonara or even of Dante for Beatrice can scarcely lay claim to comparison with the martyrdom endured

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Declared fallen from the Brahminic order.

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by this Bengali poet for the lady of his heart. His songs, though in one of them he addresses Rāmī as "mother," were considered very offensive by Hindu Society, and he was excommunicated, and dismissed from his office in the temple of Vāçulī being proclaimed by beat of drum as fallen from the Brāhmanic order. A Brāhmin in love with a washerwoman! It was monstrous, and as if he had been a putrid corpse, all contact with him was declared unholy.

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Now Chandi Dās had a brother named Nakula, who enjoyed great popularity with the Brāhmin community. By his earnest intervention on behalf of his brother it was settled, though after repeated opposition, that Chandī Dās could be taken back into caste, if he would give an undertaking of good conduct in future and provide a feast for the Brāhmins. Nakula arranged the feast, and when the Brāhmins assembled at the dinner party, information reached Rāmī, the washerwoman, that Chandī Dās was being restored to caste on the promise of deserting her for ever. She fainted at the news, and when consciousness returned, began to weep, in violent paroxysms of grief. In great agony, she went to the Vokul groves where she had so often waited to catch a glimpse of Chandī Dās's face. But she could not by any means control her feeling and rest here; she went onward to the place where the invited party were partaking of the banquet served for them. She gazed at Chandidās and tears flowed from her eyes in unceasing stream. Never before had Rāmī looked in public upon the face of Chandidās!

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Nakul intercedes.

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Rāmī and the wonderful vision about her.

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Chandidās forgot all the promises he had given to the Brahmins and in the worshipful manner of a priest, who approaches his house-hold goddess, appeared before her craving a thousand pardons. It is said that a wonderful vision was at this moment vouchsafed to only a few of the assembled Brahmins. They saw the four arms of the Divine mother of the universe shining forth, behind the supposed washerwoman!

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But the rest oft he Brahmins were very angry, and Chandidās remained an outcast as before. His boldness became far greater now. He openly addressed Rāmi as বেদমাতা গায়ত্রি—Gayatri the mother of the Vedas! Imagine the folly of this comparison! Gayatri the great hymn of the Brahmins is to them the holiest thing on earth or in heaven. For a Brahmin to say, therefore, that a washerwoman was as holy in his eyes as the Gayatri, was an affront to the whole orthodox community, the degree of which can scarcely be conceived by one outside the pale of Hindu society. But Chandidās had meant no more offence than a bird in its warblings; in the fulness of his heart the mouth had spoken. In his dreams of love, thoughts of caste, of Brāhminhood or of any other earthly consideration had no place.*

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Chandidās met with a tragic death. While he was amusing his audience by a recitation of his love-songs in the house of a friend at the village of Kirnahar near Nānnura, the roof of the house is said to have collapsed; and the great poet who had suffered so much because of his love, passed away from the earth.

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∗ For some of Chandī Dās's Songs on Rāmi, see. pp, 43—44.

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I have said that love in its most abstract and refined form was the theme of Candīdās's songs. His poems on Rādhā and Kriṣṇa fall under the classification usual to the love-poems of the Vaiṣṇavas. The Pūrva Rāga or dawn of love; Dautya or message of love; Abhisāra or secret going-forth, and Sambhoga-milana or meeting of the lovers, Māthur or the final separation, caused by Kriṣṇa's going to Mathurā; Bhava-sanmilana or union in spirit, and so forth.

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Kriṣṇa is the Divine Incarnation worshipped by the Vaiṣṇavas. He is represented as having a dark blue complexion. Dark blue suggests the predominating colour of the universe. We find it in the azure, in sky and ocean, in distant landscapes and in the immense verdure of pastoral meadows. On the head of Kriṣṇa is a crown of flowers and a plume of peacock's feathers reminding us of the rainbow. This symbolizes the various colours which adorn the main dark-blue pervading the earth and the sky. He has a flute in his hand, and when he plays on it, the very Jumna bends out of her course signifying that with a person who has heard the call of his God, the result is irresistible, the course of his life is sure to change. The human soul is symbolized in Rādhā, the soul that, with its five finer senses, becomes instinct with new life, the moment God appears to it in all His glory.

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This is how the enlightened Vaiṣṇavas interpret the love of Rādhā and Kriṣṇa. Let us explain this idea a little more elaborately. The devout Vaiṣṇava believes that there is no paradise higher

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The subjects of his poems.

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Kriṣṇa and Rādhā.

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A further analysis of the subject.

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than the home, with all the social relationships which centre there. To take the motherly instinct first; when the child was helpless and entirely dependent on mercy, who gave it food? Who watched over it and protected it with the utmost care? It was the mother. Now a Vaiṣṇava, would say that it was not in the power of a frail woman to undergo such sacrifices; it was God's mercy needed for the protection of the helpless child that manifested itself in her motherly love. So the Vaiṣṇavas see Him in the mother. This is বাৎসল্য-ভাব.’ But this has also another aspect; when a man is made a father, he,—rough, rude-tempered, cruel man, becomes tenderness itself at the sight of the baby. Now such kindness was not inherent in his nature; and the Vaiṣṇava sees in the child, who can evoke these feelings, the love of God Himself. So in friendship also, which is called ‘সখ্য’; in the devotion of a servant, which is called ‘দাস্য’ or in শান্ত that quietness of soul which is attained by the elders of the family, living the life of the religious recluse, we have only other forms of the realization of divinity. Thus, the Vaiṣṇava's environment throbs with a new life as he becomes conscious of divine love, and realizes the presence of God everywhere. His social and domestic ties only bind him with his god and in the voices of affection all around, he discovers the loving call of Him who wants all souls to come near Him, but whose voice is not heard by ears deafened with the tumult of the world.

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‘Vatsalya Bhāba.’

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‘Sakhya’ ‘Dāsya’ and ‘Çānta.’

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Madhur Bhāba

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But higher than any where else is the manifestation of God known to us in the love of man and woman. This embodies in itself the quintessence of all lofty emotions. This is the মধুরভাব which Chandī Dās has expressed so beautifully in his songs. In all this, a clue will be found to the point of view which accepts the love songs of the Vaiṣṇavas—displaying, as these do, every form of intrigue and passionate idealism, between man and woman—as hymns of religious adoration.

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In Chandī Dās's ‘dawn of love,’ Kṛṣṇa appears before the mind of Rādhā as a spritual vision. She has caught a glimpse of his dark-blue complexion. It has acted on her almost like some infatuation. She sits alone—lost in thought. The poet says* :—

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O what pain has overtaken Rādhā! She likes solitude. She sits alone, and will listen to none. Pensive, she looks up to the sky and watches the clouds, her eyes do not move. She wants no food. She wears the yellow garb of a nun and looks like one. She unlooses the garlands from her hair, and pores over the beauty of her own dis-hevelled locks. With longing eyes, she beholds the clouds and stretching out her hands, what

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∗ রাধার কি হৈল অন্তর ব্যথা। সে যে বসিয়া একলে, থাকয়ে বিরলে না শুনে কাহার কথা। সদাই ধেয়ানে, চাহে মেঘ পানে না চলে নয়নের তারা। বিরতি আহারে, রাঙ্গা বাস পরে যেমন যোগিনী-পারা। এলাইয়া বেণী, ফুলের গাথুনি দেখয়ে খসায়ে চুলি।

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does she say to them? Her glance becomes fixed on the neck of the peacock. Love for Kṛṣṇa, says Chaṇḍī Dās, has dawned on her heart.”

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Love for Kṛṣṇa—the shepherd god, who wears the crown of peacock’s feathers,—Kṛṣṇa, whose beautiful dark-blue colour so soothes the eyes! It is this which accounts for her reveries about the clouds, her own hair, and the neck of the peacock, referred to in the poem. All alike remind her of Kṛṣṇa. She drinks deep of their beauty. She is indifferent to her physical comfort. She fasts and lives like a holy maiden—a Yoginī, we find in the lines! It is a strange abstract love, and symbolises also the spiritual love of the Vaiṣṇavas! For this dark-blue complexion, as I have said, is taken to mirror the pervading colour of the Infinite, and, as an emblem of the divine presence, is sacred to all Vaiṣṇavas. Many a time and oft it is told of Chaitanya Deva, the God-man of Nadia that he saw the dark-blue clouds, reminding him of God and swooned away in an ecstasy of love. To him the very contact with matter conveyed a spiritual idea. The objects of the senses were mere signs of the presence of One who was above the senses; form indicated in his eyes the formless, colour, the colourless, and all knowledge of the outword world,—the great Unknowable. This is the

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আকুল নয়নে, চাহে মেঘ পানে
কি কহে দুহাত তুলি ॥
এক দিঠি করি, ময়ূর ময়ূরী
কণ্ঠ করে নিরক্ষণে।
চণ্ডীদাস কয়, নব পরিচয়
কালিয়া বঁধুর সনে ॥

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distinctive characteristic of Indian thought. It has a constant tendency towards idealization. The river Jumnā and the village Vrindāvana will be found on any Indian map. They are sanctified in the eyes of ordinary Vaiṣṇavas. To them Kriṣṇa lived in the flesh and sported with the milk-maids in the groves of Vrindāvana, ever hallowed by the love-making of the Divine shepherd. But the gross aspect changes, the whole matter becomes abstract, in the eyes of an enlightened devotee. To him the human mind is Vrindāvana, and there the enternal play of the Divine love—the ‘নিত্যলীলা’—is ever going on. Rādhā was married to Āyan Ghosh but she belonged to Kriṣṇa, as our souls, though bound to this world, repudiate these bonds on their spriritual awakening, and cling to God alone.

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I may give an instance of this spiritualization of ideas even by rural and illiterate people in Bengal. In 1894, I was residing in Tippera. It was early in June; the clouds had gathered on the horizon, and round the Çataratan Maṭha of Comilla they had made the darkness of night a shade more black. An illiterate Vaiṣṇava devotee, an old man of seventy, was singing the following song of Chandī Dās, playing on a lute made of a long gourd.*

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“Dark is the night and thick are the clouds,
“How could you, my beloved, come by the path in such a night?

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* এ ঘোর রজনী, মেঘের ঘটা, কেমনে আইলা বাটে। আঙ্গিনার মাঝে, বঁধুয়া ভিজিছে, দেখে যে পরাণ ফাটে ॥ “There in the garden, I see him standing in the rain;

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∗ এ ঘোর রজনী, মেঘের ঘটা, কেমনে আইলা বাটে। আঙ্গিনার মাঝে, বঁধুয়া ভিজিছে, দেখে যে পরাণ ফাটে ॥

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“My heart breaks at the sight thereof.

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“I say to you, O maidens, for many virtues of mine, my love has graciously come here to meet me.

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“Within the house there are the elders and my sister-in-law is very cruel; I could not immediately run out to meet him.

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“Alas what anguish and pain have I not caused him by beckoning him to come!

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“When I see how earnestly he loves me, fain would I bear the load of infamy on my head and set fire to my house!

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সই কি আর বলিব তোরে, বহ পুণ্যফলে, সে হেন বঁধুয়া, আসিয়া মিলল মোরে। ঘরে গুরুজন, ননদী দারুণ, বিলম্বে বাহির হৈনু। আহা মরি মরি, সঙ্কেত করিয়া, কত না যাতনা দিনু। বঁধুর পীরিতি, আরতি দেখিয়া, মোর মনে হেন করে। কলঙ্কের ডালি, মাথায় করিয়া, অনল ভেজাই ঘরে। আপনার দুঃখ, সুখ করি মানে আমার দুঃখের দুঃখী ॥ চণ্ডীদাস কয়, বঁধুর পীরিতি, শুনিয়া জগৎ সুখি ॥ “All the troubles suffered for my sake he takes as happiness and he is only sorry if he sees me sad.

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“The story of this love, says Chaṇḍīdās, will gladden the world.”

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While the old man was singing, I suddenly heard his voice become choked with tears, and he could not proceed any more. On his coming to himself after this display of feeling, I asked him the cause of his tears. He said, it was the song. The song, I said, described a secret love-affair, and where could be the pathos in it that gave occasion for such an out-burst of feeling in an old man?

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He explained to me that he did not consider the song as an ordinary love-song. Here is his interpretation,—“I am full of sins. My soul is covered with darkness. In deep distress I beckoned Him to come to me. The merciful God came. I found Him waiting for me at the gate of my house. It cannot be any pleasure to Him to come to a great sinner like me,—the path is so foul, but by my supreme good fortune the merciful God took it. The world I live in, has left no door open for Him. Relations and friends laugh, or even are hostile, but remembering His great mercy what can a sinner do, except desert his house and all, court any abuse of the world, and turn a sannyāsin!” The thought of His mercy choked my voice—“Oh dark is the night and thick are the clouds, how could you, my beloved, come by the path.” But He exposes Himself to the rain, because in order to help the sinner He is ready to suffer.”

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Tears were still dropping from the eyes of the old man and as with his right hand he was still playing on the lute, he hummed again and again "Dark is the night and thick are the clouds."

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Chandīdās's songs omit no particulars of human sentiments. The longing regret at parting; the pleasure, even ecstasy, of stealthy meetings at odd moments and the devices used for such meetings are described by him in simple and unadorned style, without many classical figures. Indeed the scantiness of these is what strikes the reader. But the descriptions are vividly realistic, at once presenting a picture to the mind. Kṛṣṇa comes to Rādhā in the guise of a woman-physician and touches her hand to feel the pulse. He comes as a magician and the women of the village assemble behind the screens to witness his feats. His labours are rewarded by one stolen glance at Rādhās face. He comes to her as the barber-wife and obtains a minute's interview; as a nun, and on the pretext of giving a blessing, whispers a word of love to her. Rādhā also goes to meet him in the disguise of a shepherd-boy, and the pastoral scenes are enlivened by a poetic touch describing their talk. In all this, as I have said, Chandīdās repudiates classical similes and the language of convention. We quote some extracts from his writings.

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I. *" Of such love no one ever heard. Their hearts are bound to each other by their very nature. Thay are in each other's presence, yet they weep fearing a parting. If one is hidden from the other for half-a-second, they feel the pangs of death. Just as a fish dies, when dragged from the water, so do they, if parted from one an other. Among men such love was never heard of. You say that the sun loves the lily, but the lily dies in the frost, and the sun lives on happily. You say the bird Chātaka and the clouds are lovers, but the clouds do not give a drop of water to the bird before their time. The flower and the bee, it is said, adore each other; but if the bee does not come to the flower, the flower does not go to the bee. It is foolish to describe the bird Chakora as a lover of the moon—their status is so different. There is nothing, says Chandīdās, to compare with this love.''

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∗ I. এমন পীরিতি কভু দেখি নাই শুনি। পরাণে পরাণ বাঁধা আপনা আপনি॥

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দুঁহু কোরে দুঁহু কাঁদে বিচ্ছেদ ভাবিয়া।
আধ তিল না দেখিলে যায় যে মরিয়া ॥
জল বিনু মীন জনু কবহুঁ না জীয়ে।
মানুষে এমন প্রেম কভু না দেখিয়ে ॥
ভানু কমলে বলি সেহ হেন নহে।
হিমে কমল মরে ভানু সুখে রহে ॥
চাতক জলদে কহি সে নহে তুলনা।
সময় না হইলে না দেয় এক কণা ॥
কুসুম মধুপে কহি সে নহে তুল।
না আসিলে ভ্রমর আপনি না যায় ফুল ॥
কি ছার চকোর চাঁদ দুঁহু সম নহে।
ত্রিভুবনে হেন নাহি চণ্ডীদাস কহে ॥

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Parting.

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2. *Such love was never seen or heard of. Moments to them are years. In each others' arms, they yet feel the pangs of the apparaching separation. With the edge of his cloth he fans her, and if she turns her head a little, he trembles with fear apprehending a parting. When the meeting comes to an end, my soul, as it were, leaves my body. My heart breaks to relate to you, O maidens, the pangs of parting. I quite believe you, says Chandīdās."

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3. †‘May I go, now,' he speaks this thrice. O how many kisses and embraces with these words! He proceeds half a step and looks back to gaze at me. He looks at my face in such anguish as I cannot describe. He places his hands in mine and asks me to swear by himself. O how he flatters me to get the promise of another meeting! His love is so deep and his prayers are so earnest, says Chandīdās, let him remain in the heart for ever."

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∗ 2. এমন পীরিতি কভু দেখি নাই শুনি। নিমিখে মানয়ে যুগ কোরে দুর মানি॥ সম্মুখে রাখিয়া করে বসনের বা। মুখ ফিরাইলে তার ভয়ে কাঁপে গা॥ রজনী প্রভাত হৈলে কাতর হিয়ায়। দেহ ছাড়ি যেন মোর প্রাণ চলি যায়॥ সে কথা কহিতে সই বিদরে পরাণ। চণ্ডীদাস কহে ধনি সব পরমাণ॥

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† 3. আমি যাই আমি যাই বলে তিন বোল। কত না চুম্বন দেই কত দেই কোল॥ পদ আধ যায় পিয়া চায় পালটিয়া। বয়ানে নিরখে কত কাতর হইয়া॥

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We are only too conscious of the fact that the beauty of the original is lost in the translation. It is always difficult to translate deep sayings into another language. Underlying the modes, experiences and make-shifts of human love with which these songs apparently deal, there is a mighty current of love divine, which originates here, and streams out along its heavenward course. Some of Chaṇḍīdās's songs sound like hymns to God, Here is one.

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*“Thou art, O Beloved, my very life.
“My body and mind I have offered unto thy service,
“My family prestige, my good name, my caste my honour and all.

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করে কয় ধরি পিয়া শপথি দেয় মোরে।
পুন দরশন লাগি কত চাটু বোলে॥
নিগূঢ় পীরিতি পিয়ার আরতি বহু।
চণ্ডীদাস কহে হিয়ার মাঝারে রহ॥

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* বঁধু তুমি সে আমার প্রাণ
দেহ মন আদি, তোঁহারে সঁপেছি,
কুল শীল জাতি মান।
অখিলের নাথ, তুমি হে কালিয়া
যোগীর আরাধ্য ধন।
গোপ গোয়ালিনী, হাম অতি দীনা,
না জানি ভজন পূজন।
পীরিতি সাগরে, ঢালি তনু মন,
দিয়াছি তোমার পায়।
তুমি মোর গতি, তুমি মোর পতি,
মন নাহি আন তায়।

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“Thou art the lord of the universe, O Kṛṣṇa, adored by the Yogīs.

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“I am but a poor milkmaid and know not how to worship thee!

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“Yet do I offer myself, my soul and body, unto thee as the sacrifice of love.

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“Thou art my lord, thou art my path,—My mind seeks not for any other object.

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“The world scorns me because of this love, yet do I not regret it.

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“Abuse is like a garland of flower about my neck for thy dear sake.

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“Thou alone knowest whether I am pure or impure.

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“I know not even what is good or bad for me.

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“Virtue and vice, says Chaṇḍīdās, are alike to me. I know them not, but know thy feet alone.”

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Some of Chaṇḍīdās’s songs of Bhāvasanmilana (Union in spirit) have been adopted with slight changes by the Brāhmo Sāmāj of Bengal and are sung in their churches during divine service.

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God as lover.

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The paradox that has to be understood is that Kṛṣṇa throughout such passages means God. Yet he is represented as a youth, standing at a gate,

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কলঙ্কী বলিয়া, ডাকে সব লোকে, তাহাতে নাহিক দুঃখ। তোমার লাগিয়া, কলঙ্কের হার, গলায় পরিতে সুখ। সতী বা অসতী, তোমাতে বিদিত, ভাল মন্দ নাহি জানি। কহে চণ্ডীদাস, পাপ পুণ্য মম, তোমার চরণ খানি। trying to waylay the beloved maiden, attempting to entrap the soul, as it were, into a clandestine meeting. This, which is so inconceivable to a purely modern mind, presents no difficulty at all to the Vaiṣṇava devotee. To him God is the lover himself; the sweet flowers, the fresh grass, the gay sound heard in the woods, are direct messages and tokens of love to his soul, bringing to his mind at every instant that loving God, whom he pictures as ever anxious to win the human heart.

2. Vidyāpati

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Vidyāpati is not, strictly speaking, a Bengali poet. He belonged to Mithilā (Dwārbhāṅgā) and composed his songs in the Vernacular of those districts. Yet we include his name in a history of Bengali literature. This will appear anomalous, but our people have established their claims upon this Maithil poet in a manner that leaves no room for disputing our action. Vidyāpati's songs have found a prominent place in all the compilations of the Vaiṣṇavas current in Bengal, and they are sung here by the Vaisnub singers on all occasions. In fact a quarter of a century ago, it was believed by Bengali readers that Vidyāpati was a Bengali poet. Recently, however, when a true account of his life was unearthed by the researches of scholars like Bābu Rāj Kṛiṣṇa Mukherjee and Dr. Grierson, we began to question the propriety of our claim. Vidyāpati's songs, as known to Bengalis, are in many respects different from the versions found in the Maithil language. The days of Vidyāpati were the days of the glory of the Mithila university and at that time there was a great interchange of thought between Mithila and Bengal. Hence Bengali poems dealing with the love of Rādhā and Kriṣṇa found entrance into Mithila and the versions of those poems current there are full of Maithil idioms and expressions. The poems of Govinda Dās, the great Bengali poet, are still known in Behār, although the people there have changed their language by introducing many Maithil words and idioms which sound strange to the Bengali ear. In the same manner, Vidyāpati's poems have passed through changes in the hands of the Bengali poets who recast them. The reader may compare the recensions current in the two countries from a collection of Vidyāpati's poems made by Dr. Grierson. One looks very much like a translation of the other, yet the Bengali recension is sometimes marked by as much genius as the original itself. It not only retains the sweetness but occasionally improves upon it by introducing new sparkling thoughts. Some of the best songs attributed to Vidyāpati—as "জনম অবধি হাম রূপ নেহারিনু" are found only in the Bengali recension and the people of Mithilā have not preserved them in their collection, nor even heard of them. It is the popular belief that Vasanta Rāi, uncle of Rājā Pratāpāditya of Jessore prepared the Bengali recension of Vidyāpati in the 16th century. Vidyāpati's songs in Bengali glow with poetry, colour, and wealth of expression, and, as we have said, are quite equal to their Maithil originals. Under these circumstances Vidyāpati must be counted as Bengali poet, at least in this version, and it would be impossible now to expunge his poems from the compilations current in Bengal, where they have for the last three centuries found a prominent place.

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Vidyāpati was a resident of Visfi—a village in the Sub-division of Sitamari, near Jarail, in the district of Durbhanga. This village he obtained as a grant from Rājā Çiva Simha. Vidyāpati enjoyed the patronage of Çiva Simha, Lacchimā Devī, Viçwās Devī, Narasimha Deva and other sovereigns of Mithilā. The copper-plate grant by which Rājā Çiva Simha is said to have conferred on the poet the title of Nava Jay Deva together with the ownership of the village Visfi is dated 1400 A.D.* Some scholars consider this copper-plate to be forged. The date in the inscription is given in Hijrā era along with other eras, but the Hijrā era was, by the unanimous opinion of historians, introduced at a much later period by the Emperor Ākbar. The characters of the inscription, besides, do not bear the stamp of that early period when the grant is said to have been made. The copper-plate, has been, on these grounds, declared to be unreliable. There is, however, no doubt that the village Visfi was granted by Çiva Simha to Vidyāpati. The poet himself speaks of this grant in one of his poems;† and the descendants of Vidyāpati have for

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† “জনম দাতা মোর, গণপতি ঠাকুর, মৈথিলী দেশে করুবাস। পঞ্চ গৌড়াধিপ শিবসিংহ ভূপ রূপাকরি লেউ নিজ পাশ॥”

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And are now inseparable from Bengali songs.

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The date of the copper-plate grant.

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∗ “অঙ্কে লক্ষ্মণসেন ভূপতিমিতি বহ্নিগ্রহদ্ব্যঙ্কিতে,” In 293 of Lakṣmaṇ Sen’s era.

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long years held possession of the village. The tradition prevalent in the country also supports the grant. The probable causes of the anomalies found in the copper-plate inscription may be thus explained. The copper-plate would be naturally in the custody of the eldest member of the family, and the other descendants interested in the endowment would, according to custom, be permitted to retain copies of it. Supposing that the original copper-plate was lost, the descendants were no doubt reduced to the necessity of preparing another from the copies they had with them, in order to satisfy Rājāh Todar Mall who surveyed the lands during Akbar's time. If this supposition is correct, it accounts for the introduction of the Hijrā era into it, and also for the comparatively modern style of the characters used in the inscription.

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The court-register, or Rāj Pañji of Mithilā, records the year of Rājāh Çiva Simha's ascent to the throne as 1446 A.D. This, however, is also open to objection, as in a poem of Vidyāpati we have a mention of the date of Rājāh Çiva Simha's coronation as 1400 A.D. There are also other reasons which make the dates given by the court-register of Mithilā of doubtful authenticity. There

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বিসফি গ্রাম, দান করল মঝে, রহতহি রাজ-সন্নিধান।
লছিমা চরণ ধ্যানে, কবিতা নিকসয়ে বিদ্যাপতি ইহভাণ ॥''

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My father's name is Gaṇapati Ṭhākur, and we are natives of Mithilā. Çiva Simha, the Lord of 'five Indies' took me to his court through kindness. He made a gift of the village Visfi to me, and my poetry flows at the contemplation of the feet of Lacchimā Devī (the Queen).

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are conflicting opinions about these dates. But recently there has come to light another document which refers to a date in regard to Vidyāpati and which we believe to be of unquestionable authenticity. The MS. of an annotated copy of Kāvya Prakāça in Sanskrit lately recovered, shows that it was copied by one Deva Çarmā by the orders of the poet Vidyāpati in November 1398 A.D. The MS. of Bhāgavata in Vidyāpati's own handwriting is also preserved; but the date of the copy given on the last page, has not yet been deciphered. The two pundits, deputed by the Asiatic Society of Bengal for the purpose, disagree in their readings.

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From the various evidences which we have come across, we can declare with certainty that Vidyāpati was born towards the end of the 14th century and lived to a good old age, probably covering the whole of the 15th century. He was a contemporary of Chandīdās and was attracted by his great rival's fame to undertake a journey to meet him. Many of the later Vaiṣṇava poets have described the interview between these two eminent men, which is said to have taken place on the banks of the Ganges in the spring season. The talk in which the poets are said to have indulged was appertaining to love and its higher flights. It is said that Chandīdās made an impression on the Maithil poet which is distinctly traceable in his later poems, chiefly about Bhāba Sammilana. In the biography of Adwaitāchāryya of Çantipur—the vetern saint of the Vaiṣṇava community, written by Içān Nāgara in 1560 A.D., it is related that the saint, while touring in Mithilā, saw Vidyāpati there.

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Adwait met Vidyāpati in 1458 A.D.

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The poet is described as a person of handsome appearance, and an excellent singer. This meeting between Adwaita and Vidyāpati took place about the year 1458 or 27 years before Chaitanya Deva was born. Vidyāpati refers to Giāsuddin Toglak in one of his songs and in another to Nasir Sāha. But with very few exceptions his songs as a whole are dedicated to Rājāh Çiva Simha—his great patron and friend.

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His patron.

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Vidyāpati's ancestors.

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Vidyāpati was a scion of a distinguished family of scholars. His father, Gaṇapati Thākur dedicated his celebrated Sanskrit work ‘Gaṅgā Bhakti Taraṅginī’ to the memory of his deceased illustrious patron Mahārāj Gaṇeçwara of Mithilā. Gaṇapati's father, Jaya Datta was not only a great Sanskrit scholar, but was distinguished also for his piety and saintliness of character. He obtained the title of ‘Yogeçwara’ for these qualities. The father of Jaya Datta and the great grandfather of Vidyāpati was the illustrious Vireçwara who compiled a code of rules for the guidance of every day-life of the Maithil Brāhmins. The Vireçwara Paddhati, as his great work is called, is almost as much revered in Mithilā as the Aṣṭaviṃçati Tattva of Raghunandan in Bengal. Another point showing the social rank of our poet is that for several generations, his ancestors had discharged ministerial functions in the court of the Maithil sovereigns.

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His Sanskrit works.

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Vidyāpati was a voluminous writer. Besides his ballads in the Vernacular, of which nearly 800 are now recovered, he wrote the following Sanskrit works :—

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1. Puruṣa Parīkṣā. 2. Çaiva Sarvaswasāra. 3. Dāna Vakyāvalī. 4. Vivādasāra. 5. Gaya-Pattan. 6. Gaṅgā Vikṣyāvalī. 7. Durgā Bhakti Taraṅginī. 8. Kīrtilatā.

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My own criticism deals however with his Vernacular poems alone.

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Vidyāpati sang much in the strain of Chandīdās; as a Sanskrit poet of eminence, he was held in great admiration in the court of Rājāh Çiva Siṃha. His own heart, however, was in the songs which he composed in the Vernacular. In the brilliance of his metaphors and similes, in the choice of his expressions, and in the higher flights of his poetic fancy, he over-shadows all Vernacular poets; and Chandīdās, the child of nature, is no match for him. When one reads the songs of both the poets, the ordinary ear is charmed with the elegant expressions of the Maithil bard; but to those who dive deeper into the inner yearnings of the human soul, Chandīdās will seem a far greater apostle of love; his simple words will leave a more lasting impression, than all the literary embellishments and poetic flights of Vidyāpati. Yet Vidyāpati also sometimes scales the heights attained by Chandīdās. In the ‘Pūrvarāga,’ ‘Sambhoga Milana,’ ‘Abhisāra’ and ‘Māna’* Vidyāpati is more of a poet than a prophet. There is not much of spirituality, but a good deal of sensuality, in his earlier love songs. He ransacks the whole classical store to find an apt simile and is never weary of applying as much of these as is within his knowledge, like the sound scholar of rhetoric that he is. To give an example;

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∗ Lover's quarrels.

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Radha's eyes compared to lotus and to bee.

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the eyes of Rādhā are compared to a lotus,—to a bee. These are commonplace and stereotyped similes; but the poet observes for himself in what aspect the comparison holds good and makes his descriptions greatly interesting.

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"The pupil of her eye is like a bee resting on the lotus, the breeze driving it into a corner,"†—this refers to the sidelong glances of Rādhās playful eyes.

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† জনু ইন্দীবর পবনে ঠেলল, অলি-ভরে উলটায় ।

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"The pupil of her eye is like a bee, so intoxicated with the honey of the lotus that it can not fly away,"‡—this refers to the absorbed looks of Rādhā while brooding over her love.

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‡ লোচন জনু থির ভৃঙ্গ আকার, । মধুমাতল কিয়ে উড়ই না পার ॥

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"Her eyes beautified with Kajjala, have assumed a purple hue, they look like the petals of lotus coloured with vermilion,"§—this is a picture of Rādhā just after bathing when the eyes grow reddish. The Indian poets are lavish in using metaphors to indicate the beauty of the eyes,—of those glances which bear messages to lovers, for their subjects can hardly find an opportunity to speak or write to each other. The stolen glances are the only means of intercourse of soul, they are the speech of love, and are minutely watched by the poets—চঞ্চল নয়নে বন্ধ নেহারনী is a significant point in all such stories.

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§ নীরে নিরঞ্জন লোচন রাতা । সিন্দুরে মণ্ডিত জনু পঙ্কজ পাতা ॥

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Vayas Sandhi or Dawn of youth.

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The poet begins with Rādhā's বয়সন্ধি or dawn of youth. This is the time when she is to fall in love with Kṛṣṇa. She has reached an age when one would not mistake her for a child, yet would hesitate to call her a women. If at times she moves with the blithe steps of a child, she immediately mends her motion and walks slowly, with the grace of a maiden. The merry ring of her laughter may remind one of a child's voice, but she controls herself quickly, and a sweet smile such as befits a modest damsel is displayed in the soft curve of her coral lips. The beauty that has come so newly to her person is a surprise to herself. The freedom of childhood is gone; and her eyes become downcast if a whisper is heard. While busy with her toilet, in the company of her maidens, she silently listens to their talk of love; and if any of them notices this, she rebukes her, with mingled smiles and tears.

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Vidyāpati's Rādhā is a special creation of beauty. She is a dream seen in the flesh. Where her gentle steps may tread, water-lilies spring up at the touch of her feet. The charms of her person are a revelation; she can hardly hide the joy, that a consciousness of it brings to her mind. Her smile is like the nectar which gives life and immortality. Her glances are Cupid's own arrows, not five, but a hundred thousand—shot forth on all sides!

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When she goes on Abhisāra to meet her lover, the poet creates a wilderness of lavish metaphors. The idea is here overloaded with classical and conventional figures. Yet through this cloud of imagery, appears a vision of beauty. She is, says the poet, like a luminous wand, created by the lightning; like a golden tendril; the rich clusters

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Radha a creation of beauty.

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of her hair fall loose behind, black as the clouds or as the bees, but soft and curling like the tender Çaibala (moss.) Her eye-brows are bent, in the graceful curves of a bow, and her forehead beams with the lustre of the moon. The playfulness of her eyes reminds one of the bird Khañjana; her beautiful nose is like the Tila flower; her lips have the hue of coral, and so on. Rādhā's lovely form glows with shy happiness at the thought of this first meeting. She goes out in the dark night to meet her lover, covering herself with a Sāḍi of dark silk. She trusts to her guides, but when brought to the bower made by the maidens for the interview, she hesitates; she fears to enter; her heart is full of tenderness and love, but a feeling of shyness and delicacy holds her back. The maidens lead her in, inspite of her gentle protests, and she finds herself face to face with Kṛṣṇa. Her eyes droop; she dares not lift them even to see that beautiful face at which she could never be weary of gazing. The tenderness of the meeting is indescribable. The delicate maiden cannot say one word in response to the many, with which she is greeted; and when she comes back she is overwhelmed with remorse at the recollection of her own failure. By degrees, however, all this is changed. In a subsequent canto she is found relating to her maidens the manœuvres adopted by Kṛṣṇa in order to meet her, such as at the moment when her sister-in-law was asleep, resting her head on her lap, and he came gently from behind her, to steal a kiss. In these descriptions, as I have said, there is an exuberance of sensuousness, and songs of Vidyāpati would never have passed for religious writings, if in the last canto he had not suddenly risen high above such sentiments and repeatedly given to the whole story a spiritual interpretation. Of this, I may give a few specimens. Rādhā describes Kṛṣṇa. He is, she says, a flower to be placed upon her head; he is the collyrium (অঞ্জন) that makes her eyes beautiful; he is a precious necklace clinging about the neck; she cannot, she says, conceive of life without him,—he is to her what water is to the fish, or wings to a bird—the very breath of her being and the only object of her life. By a torrent of such similes which arise spontaneously, but are bound to lose their beauty in translation, she describes herself as altogether merged and lost in the consciousness of her love. Alas, she has told all, but, though loving with all her might, she has failed to grasp him; giving all that her soul is capable of offering, she feels that Kṛṣṇa remains unrevealed to her, as ever. In the last line she turns suddenly, with the cry, ‘Tell me, O Kṛṣṇa, what art thou?’ This touching cry “তুঁহুঁ কৈছে মাধব কহবি মোয়” is wholly spiritual and mystic, it is the agonised expression of the infinitely little in presence of the infinitely Great.

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In the songs called Māthurā, Vidyāpati creates tender pathos by describing Kṛṣṇa’s desertion of Gokula. The shepherd has left the groves of his childhood.

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*“Kṛṣṇa has gone to Mathurā. Alas, Gokula is deserted.

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*“হরি কি মথুরাপুর গেল। অব গোকুল শূন্য ভেল। রোদিতু পিঞ্জরে শুকে, ধেনু ধায়ব মাথুর মুখে। “The bird Çuka weeps in its cage.

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“The cows look up wistfully, and all their gestures point to Mathurā.

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“No longer do shepherds and milkmaids meet on the banks of the Jumnā.

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“O maids, how can I go to those banks again and bear to see the pleasant bowers without him!

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“The beloved groves where he and the maidens played amongst the flowers, how do they rise before me and yet I bear to live!”

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The maidens speak of Kṛṣṇa's return, but Rādhā feels that she is about to die, and says:—

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“If the lily has been withered by the cold rays of the winter-moon, what joy can it have in the coming of the spring!

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অব সহ যমুনারি কুলে, গোপ গোপী নাহি বুলে।”
“কৈছন যাওব যমুনা তীর, কৈছে নেহারব কুঞ্জকুটীর।
সহচরী সঞে যাঁহা কয়ল ফুল খেরি।
কৈছনে জীয়ব তাহি নেহারি।”

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“হিমকরকিরণে নলিনী যদি জারব, কি করব মাধবী মাসে।
অঙ্কুর তপনতাপে যদি জারব, কি করব বারিদ মেহে।
সিন্ধু নিকটে যদি কণ্ঠ শুখায়ব, কো দূর করব পিয়াসা।
চন্দনতরু যদি সৌরভ ছোড়ব, শশধর বরখিব আগি।
* * * কি মোর করম অভাগী।
শ্রাবণ মাহ ঘন, বিন্দু না বরখব, দুরতর বাঁঝ কি ছান্দে।
গিরিধর সেবি, ঠাম নাহি পাওব, বিদ্যাপতি রহু ধন্দে।”

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“If the seeds have been destroyed by the summer sun, what will it avail that there be showers afterwards!

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“Dying of thirst I came to the ocean. Alas! not a drop had I to quench my thirst!

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“Weary, I came to the sandal tree, but the sweet scent ceased.

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“I came for soothing to the light of the moon, and it began to scorch me with fire.

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“The month of Śrāvaṇa with its raining floods had not a drop for me.

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“The Kalpataru* is barren for me.

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“O Kṛṣṇa, O Lord of my soul! I sought refuge in thee, but found it not.

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“The poet Vidyāpati is silent from wonder.”

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Though Rādhā speaks in the language of despair, she is nevertheless conscious of the all-pervading mercy of God. The images here are all similes for Kṛṣṇa himself. He is the ocean, the sandal-tree, the moon-light &c.

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The mourner is about to die of her longing for the return of Kṛṣṇa. Here are a few beautiful familiar lines :—

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†“I shall surely die, says Rādhā, but to whom can I trust my Kṛṣṇa?

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∗ The Tree of Plenty in Indra’s Heaven.

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† “ মরিব মরিব সখি, নিশ্চয় মরিব, কানু হেন গুণনিধি কারে দিয়ে যাব। তোমরা যতেক সখী আছ মঝু সঙ্গে। মরণ-কালে কৃষ্ণ নাম লিখ আমার অঙ্গে ॥

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The touching appeal when death seems near

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“O ye maidens, my companions, cover me, in my last hour, with the name of Kṛṣṇa (lit., write on me the name of Kṛṣṇa.)

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“O Lalitā, friend of my heart, let the last sound, I hear, be the name of Kṛṣṇa.

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“Burn not my body, O maidens, nor float it on the stream; but bind it on the boughs of a Tamāla-tree; and let me rest for ever in its dark blue colour.

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“If it should sometime chance that Kṛṣṇa come to these groves again, I shall be called back to life at the sight of him.

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“Sing in my ears, O maidens, the name of Kṛṣṇa, that hearing it, I may expire.”

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The writing of the name of Kṛṣṇa on the body may be a strange idea to my foreign readers, but those who have visited India will perhaps have seen the name of Kṛṣṇa inscribed on the forehead, breast and arms of many Vaiṣṇavas. At the

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ললিতা প্রাণের সখি মন্ত্র দিহ কানে। মরা দেহ পড়ি যেন কৃষ্ণ নাম শুনে ॥ না পুড়িও রাধা অঙ্গ না ভাসাইও জলে। মরিলে বাঁধিয়া রেখ তমালের ডালে ॥ সেই ত তমাল তরু কৃষ্ণ বর্ণ হয়। অবিরত তনু মোর তাহে যেন রয় ॥ কবহু সো পিয়া যদি আসে বৃন্দাবনে। পরাণ পায়ব হাম পিয়া দরশনে ॥ শ্রবণহ শ্যাম-নাম করু গান। শুনইতে নিকসউ কঠিন পরাণ ॥ ”

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moment of death, it is a duty always observed by the relatives to recite the name of Kṛṣṇa in the ears of the dying. These love songs, therefore, as I have said, cannot be dissociated from their pervading religious idea.

Chandīdās and Vidyāpati compared

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Of Chandī Dās and Vidyāpati, it may be said that the one sings as impelled by nature,—his is a cry from the depths of the soul; literary embellishments are lost sight of; poetry wells up like a natural fountain, whose pure flow contains no coarse grain of earth. The other is a conscious poet, and a finished scholar, whose similes and metaphors are brilliant poetical feats; they at once captivate the ear, and the boldness of colour in the pictures, presented to the mind, dazzles the eyes. The scenes of sensuality, and lust are redeemed by others which are platonic and spiritual,—a strange combination of holy and unholy, of earthly and heavenly. His earlier poems are full of sensualism,—his later, of mystic ideas. Chandī Dās is a bird from the higher regions, where earthly beauties may be scant, but which is nearer heaven, for all that. Vidyāpati moves all day in the sunny groves and floral meadows of the earth, but in the evening rises high and overtakes his fellow poet.∗

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∗ Complete editions of the love-songs of Vidyāpati and Chandīdās are expected shortly to be published with copious annotations by two Bengali scholars. Vidyāpati is being edited by Babu Nagendra Nath Gupta under the patronage and directions of Babu Sarada Charan Mitter, late Judge of the Calcutta High Court and the credit of collecting a large number of hitherto unknown poems of Chandīdās belongs to Babu Nilratan Mukherjee, Head Master, Kirnahār School in the district of Bīrbhum. Each of the two compilations will contain about a thousand poems or padas. This is far ahead of the number of padas hitherto extant in the country.

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