The figure of Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay, author of fourteen novels, strides over Bengali – and Indian – literature like a colossus. And yet many readers are not familiar with his very first novel, which was written not in Bengali but in English.

Like that other great Bengali writer, Michael Madhusudan Dutt, Bankim began writing in English before switching over to his “mother tongue.” Rajmohan’s Wife, published in 1684, is widely regarded as being the first Indian novel written in English. Some have even claimed that it is the first Asian novel in English.

This slim 125-page book is set in feudal, rural Bengal and contains within its pages all the elements of a modern-day potboiler – burglaries, abductions, old houses with secret passageways, thwarted romance, and betrayals all round. The story is told with tongue-in-cheek humour and poetic descriptions are woven throughout along with some commentary on the plight against women in 19th century Bengal.

The perfect man

The story revolves around three families in the village of Radhaganj on the banks of the Madhumati. Those of the Ghose cousins – Mathur and Madhav – who are from a zamindari background and could not be more different from one another, and the family of Rajmohan, whose wife is Madhav’s sister-in-law. Bankim, who was among the first to graduate from Calcutta University (in 1858) may well have modelled the “hero” – Madhav Ghose – after himself.

Madhav is a handsome young man, newly returned from Calcutta. In one scene, he reclines on a sofa with a number of English books scattered around him. His erudition and progressive ways set him apart from the rest of the characters. He is also more honourable than any of the other men.

In fact, he’s completely beyond reproach and – perhaps frustratingly for us reading the book now – never does anything wrong. No wonder his young wife, Hemangini, is happily married, unlike her unfortunate sister.

The beautiful (and blue-eyed!) Matangini on the other hand is trapped in an unhappy marriage with the cruel and unscrupulous Rajmohan. She nurses a broken heart because of her doomed love for someone else – a secret that no one knows of except her confidante, the maid Kanak. Through her (and the other women) Bankim highlights some of the injustices then prevalent against women especially those from orthodox upper-caste families.

Matangini, who is known only as someone’s wife in the title, is miserable from the start not only because she is in love with someone else but also because of her husband’s controlling, ruthless ways. He forbids her to step out of the house even to go to the well to fetch water, something his sister is allowed to do freely, and threatens to beat her the one time she disobeys.

The spirited woman

Throughout the book we catch glimpses – that now seem quite outdated – of the strict boundaries within which women were expected to live their lives. They could not own property but instead lives as pensioners on their husbands’ estates when widowed. Meeting a man alone for any reason was frowned upon. The female characters quickly draw their saris over their faces in the presence of men other than their husbands. The young Hemangini shyly retreats from the room her husband is in whenever someone else appears.

And yet, Matangini is not a submissive woman. She is spirited, courageous, and at times quite bold. One night she overhears through the small window in her room a group of dacoits and her husband plotting a burglary in Madhav’s house. They plan to steal the will that his childless uncle made before he died, bequeathing all his property and wealth to Madhav. The burglary, orchestrated by a mysterious employer, would destroy Madhav and his wife.

Matangini resolves to make the treacherous hike across the woods to warn her brother-in-law even though it means endangering her life. However, as the narrator reminds us in a chapter heading later, “Some women are the equals of some men.” And in a situation as complicated and fraught with peril as this one, they would have to be.

The serial mystery

The history of the publication of this book is quite interesting if a bit convoluted. The story was first published in serial form in the English-language weekly Indian Field. Several years after the author’s death, when it was almost impossible to find any copies of the periodical, editor and archivist Brajendra Nath Banerjee somehow managed to recover all the serialised chapters except the first three.

He then discovered that later in his life Bankim had started to write a Bengali version of this same novel but had not got past the first seven chapters. (The fragment was completed by Bankim’s nephew, who did not know it was a translation of Rajmohan’s Wife.)

Banerjee and the other publishers translated the first three chapters from the Bengali version and added them to the original English chapters written by Bankim. I should add here I found the tone to be quite different from the fourth chapter onwards, when the writing becomes a lot more authoritative.

In any case, one of the requirements for a serialised novel is that the chapters end on cliffhangers, keeping readers in suspense until they get the next instalment. Rajmohan’s Wife does exactly this. It is, in short, a page turner.

Will Matangini get to her sister’s house on time? Will Rajmohan discover her betrayal? Will the dacoits get hold of Madhav’s will? Who are they actually working for? Whom is Matangini secretly in love with?

Even though the answers to some of these questions may seem quite obvious, that does not spoil the fun. I found myself quite engrossed as I was reading. Chapter titles like “Midnight Plotting” are just the clues you need to figure out where the book is headed. It’s full of Gothic mystery elements such as unexpected shrieks, hidden rooms, and of course dark, stormy nights.

Most of the dramatic events – unlike the domestic quarrels – take place on tempestuous nights when flashes of lightning, pouring rain and very timely crashes of thunder make everything more suspenseful. And let’s not forget the sexual tension between characters who can never end up together that only adds to the drama.

And yet somehow the novel never descends into melodrama. Its poetic and elaborate descriptions of mat-walled houses with their mud floors and earthen lamps transported me back to the zamindari houses of Bengal with their courtyards and zenanas (including separate sleeping apartments for each wife.)

Other aspects of the setting such as people’s attire and the rural landscape are also described in meticulous detail and lyrical prose. Whether it’s the “overspreading boughs of a large tamarind” or the vast mango groves on the riverbank, the atmospheric setting is both evocative and at times suitably sinister.

The humorous touch

Sometimes the prose is too flowery and sounds a bit archaic but instead of being annoying the effect is actually quite funny. Bankim uses tongue-in-cheek humour to describe the domestic dramas within the households. In one scene Madhav tries to find his aunt but instead finds himself in the midst of household chores being performed by the various maids.

The narrator, who often addresses the reader directly in the book, describes the scene in a way that makes it both bewildering for Madhav and delightful for us. Upon seeing him, the woman cutting fish or “the destroyer of the finny tribe,” musters up enough courage to resume her task, while “she of the broomstick threw away the formidable weapon as if stung by an adder.”

Elsewhere we are informed that Madhur Ghose “had the good fortune or misfortune of being blessed or incommoded by double ties of matrimony.” Such ironic comments keep the story light despite the darker elements. The humour is maintained in the exaggerated descriptions that some of the chapter headings come with such as this one: “Between Rival Chambers: Containing a dissertation on connubial warfare – A siege and a dubious capitulation.”

I confess I may have found some of the more serious sections hilarious too, but that is part of the book’s charm when you read it now. And it’s very important when reading this not to skip the “Conclusion,” which is just as entertaining as the rest.

That this book has not yet been adapted to a movie (to my knowledge) is surprising, for it has all the ingredients of a commercial blockbuster. Bankim’s storytelling skills are all too apparent in this, his first, novel. It’s quite the romping adventure tale, but not one without literary merit. As a harbinger of all that was to come later in his work, it’s a significant book.

But I recommend reading it for itself, for pure entertainment, preferably on a night when the rain is clattering on your windows and the wind is howling outside, threatening to knock all the books off your bottom shelf.