Towards the close of the 19th century the English educated Indians were getting organized politically and in 1885 the first political party, the Indian National Congress, was born. It was 9 years old when in 1894 Bankimchandra died. There is nothing to show that he had any relationship with this organization or wrote anything about it. Nor have I come across anything he wrote about politicians as a ‘species’. But his opium-addict creation, Kamalakanta, being requested by the editor of Bangadarshan, wrote something about politics. He did it very reluctantly somewhat under duress, only to ensure that the source of supply of his opium doesn’t dry up.

Without mincing words he called the politicians mongrels! Was it a criticism of the contemporary politicians and their party? Was this also Bankim’s view? Instead of being beggars meekly begging for small pittances from the foreign rulers did he expect the politicians of his day to be militants like the Santans of his Anandamath? 

Had Bankim been alive today what would he write about the thieving politicians of our time? Did he visualize them to be like the Santans who sacrificed everything for the service of their motherland? 

Here follows in my free translation Kamalakanta’s amusing letter to the editor.    

The Second Letter

Politics

With due respect I acknowledge the receipt of the opium. You have sent a lot of it, my respected sir. I would pray at your feet for more.

But I fail to understand why of all people you have ordered Kamalakanta to do such a difficult task. You have written that under Act IX at present there will be less of politics and hence I should give a discourse on the subject. What wrong have I done to deserve such a punishment – I have to produce brick-bats in the form of political dissertations to rain on your readers’ heads? I am a small fry of a Brahmin – why have you ordered me to write on politics? Kamalakanta is not a selfish creature, except some opium I have no need of anything else in this world. Why are you putting this political pressure on me? I am neither a king nor a courtly crony, nor am I a swindler or a beggar or an editor. You have read my Daptar, have you found anything in it that shows I am an idiot? Then why do you ask me to write on politics? I have flattered you for opium – there is no doubt about it. But how could you conclude from this that I have become that kind of a selfish flatterer who can write on politics? Fie on your editorship, fie on your charity to me! You have failed to understand that Kamalakanta is a man of high ideal, a poet and not a mean creature like a politician.

After receiving your orders my spirit was very much deflated. Sitting on the branch of a fallen tree I was wondering about this lack of understanding of the editor of Bangadarshan. Having nothing else to do I gulped a lump of opium. In my front was the house of Shibu the oil-man (Kolu) – two to three bulls tied to a post in the compound were munching oil-cake mixed straw from an earthen vat with their eyes half-closed in great pleasure. Seeing that there was no politics here I somewhat got over the agitation of my mind. I felt very happy indeed! From this vat the bulls were getting pure pleasure unadulterated by politics. I also got great pleasure from the opium I had taken and began to think about men’s infatuation with politics. A song from the play Vidyasundar came to my mind –

The dumb wants to talk
The lame wants to walk
You also want some wit in your head ……

We want politics – every day of every week. But such a wish, like the wish of the dumb to talk, of the lame to walk, of the blind to see etc. is ridiculously meaningless – it can never be realized. So, all my friends who deal in politics know it from Kamalakanta Chakraborty – even a petty peon has a father-in-law, but the nation which loses its freedom to as few as 17 horsemen has no politics. Like some shiftless beggars their politics is of door to door begging. The tree that bears fruits of other kinds of politics has no chance of taking roots in this country.

When I was thus thinking I found that Shibu’s ten year old grandson came out of the house with a plateful of rice and started eating sitting in the compound. From a distance a mongrel saw this. In greed it restlessly shifted its positions and postures and its lolling tongue came out of its watering mouth. Its starving belly had caved in. The boy’s plate was full as if with a heap of white flowers. Waiting and waiting the dog began to yawn. The dose of opium had given me a divine power of vision and I saw that here there was politics. This dog was an expert politician. To attract the boy’s attention it adopted various ruses – now it approached the boy, now it receded and ultimately sat near him spreading its paws. Seeing the lean hungry dog gasping with an open mouth the oil-man’s son became kind and gave it a well-cleaned fish bone. Mad with joy the mongrel ate it with great relish. This proved to be an appetizer – now it desired more. And like a politician it kept on wagging its tail and looking at the boy’s face. It however observed that the boy was now absorbed in eating the rice mixed with delicious items like molasses and tamarind and was paying no attention. Like an expert politician it adopted a ‘bold move’ and moved closer and yawned. This also failed to produce the desired result. It began to make some indistinct sound – probably trying to say that its hunger had not been fully satisfied. This time the boy looked up and as there was no more fish gave some rice. It gave the dog great pleasure, as great as the pleasure the king of gods gets from his heavenly drinks or Cardinal Wolsey got from wearing the cardinal’s cap. At that very moment the oil-man’s wife came out of the house and found the mongrel relishing its meal. With her eyes red in anger she threw brickbats at the dog with great force. Sustaining injuries the dog with its tail between its hind legs squeaking and squealing in pain fled away in great speed.

Here something else also came to my notice. A big wandering bull was eating straw from the vat of the compound. Being afraid of its big and sharp horns the oil-man’s bulls had left the vat and were helplessly staring at the stranger. After chasing the dog when she saw this the oil-man’s wife became greatly enraged. Waving a bamboo club she ran at the bull which in its turn waved its big sharp horns and stood its ground. Fearing a counter attack from a powerful adversary the lady retired to her own house. The big bull left in style only after finishing the vat clean at great leisure.

This was also politics. Two types of politics I found – one was in the style of Bismarck and the other was in the style of Wolsey and our Muchiram – the bull’s style and the dog’s style.