'Vande Mataram' is the national song of India is written and composed by Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay in Sanskrit. The slogan "Vande Mataram" means Hail to the motherland. The National song and National Anthem share equal status.

National Song Of India

Vande Maataram
sujalaaM suphalaaM malayaja shiitalaam
Sasyashyaamalaam maataram ||

Shubhrajyotsnaa pulakitayaaminiim
pullakusumita drumadala shobhiniim
suhaasiniim sumadhura bhaashhiniin
sukhadaam varadaam maataram ||

Koti koti kantha kalakalaninaada karaale
koti koti bhujai.rdhR^itakharakaravaale
abalaa keno maa eto bale
bahubaladhaariniim namaami taariniim
ripudalavaariniim maataraM ||

Tumi vidyaa tumi dharma
tumi hR^idi tumi marma
tvaM hi praanaah shariire

Baahute tumi maa shakti
hR^idaye tumi maa bhakti
tomaara i pratimaa gadi
mandire mandire ||

Tvam hi durgaa dashapraharanadhaarinii
kamalaa kamaladala vihaarinii
vaaNii vidyaadaayinii namaami tvaam 

Namaami kamalaam amalaam atulaam
SujalaaM suphalaam maataram ||

Shyaamalaam saralaam susmitaam bhuushhitaam
Dharaniim bharaniim maataram |"


English Translation

Mother, I bow to thee!
Rich with thy hurrying streams,
bright with orchard gleams,
Cool with thy winds of delight,
Dark fields waving Mother of might,
Mother free.

The glory of moonlight dreams,
Over thy branches and lordly streams,
Clad in thy blossoming trees,
Mother, giver of ease
Laughing low and sweet!
Mother, I kiss thy feet,
Speaker sweet and low!
Mother, to thee I bow.

Who hath said thou art weak in thy lands
When the sword flesh out in the seventy million hands
And seventy million voices roar
Thy dreadful name from shore to shore?
With many strengths who art mighty and stored,
To thee, I call Mother and Lord!
Though who savest, arise and save!
To her, I cry who ever her foeman drove
Back from plain and Sea
And shook herself free.

Thou art wisdom, thou art law,
Thou art heart, our soul, our breath
Though art love divine, the awe
In our hearts that conquers death.
Thine the strength that nerves the arm,
Thine the beauty, thine the charm.
Every image made divine
In our temples is but thine.

Thou art Durga, Lady, and Queen,
With her hands that strike and her
swords of sheen,
Thou art Lakshmi lotus-throned,
And the Muse a hundred-toned,
Pure and perfect without peer,
Mother lend thine ear,
Rich with thy hurrying streams,
Bright with thy orchard gleams,
Dark of hue O candid-fair

In thy soul, with jeweled hair
And thy glorious smile divine,
Loveliest of all earthly lands,
Showering wealth from well-stored hands!
Mother, mother mine!
Mother sweet, I bow to thee,
Mother great and free!


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