Tales of the Sun; or, Folklore of Southern India
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Title: Tales of the Sun; or, Folklore of Southern India
Author: Lucas Cleeve
Pandit Natesa Sastri
Release date: August 7, 2011 [eBook #37002]
Most recently updated: January 8, 2021
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/37002
Credits: Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was
produced from scanned images of public domain material
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES OF THE SUN; OR, FOLKLORE OF SOUTHERN INDIA ***
Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was
produced from scanned images of public domain material
from the Google Print project.)
TALES OF THE SUN
Or
Folklore of Southern India.
Collected by
MRS. HOWARD KINGSCOTE
and
PANDIT NATESA SASTRI.
London:
W. H. Allen & Co. 13 Waterloo Place,
and at Calcutta.
1890.
PREFACE.
In offering these few Indian tales to the public, I cannot refrain from
adding a few words at the beginning to express to Pandit Natesa Sastri
my gratitude for the great assistance he has given me in collecting
them, assistance without which they would never have seen the light in
the shape of a complete volume. When I began writing down these tales,
my only means of collecting them was through my native servants, who
used to get them from the old women in the bazaars; but the fables
they brought me were as full of corruptions and foreign adaptions as
the miscellaneous ingredients that find their way into a dish of their
own curry and rice, and had it not been for Mr. Sastri's timely aid, my
small work would have gone forth to the world laden with inaccuracies.
Mr. Sastri not only corrected the errors of my own tales, but allowed
me to add to them many that he had himself collected, and that had
already been published, either in small volumes or in numbers of
The Indian Antiquary. For this reason I have left several notes which
Mr. Cowper Temple, Mr. Clowston, and others had added to the tales that
had already been printed, as they were too valuable to dispense with,
and may be of service to students of folklore. In conclusion, I would
crave the indulgence of my readers with regard to the style in which
the tales are written, which has been left as nearly as possible in the
form of a literal translation, in order to lend the Stories a "couleur
locale," which is characteristic of the country they spring from.
G. K.
CONTENTS.
Chapter Page
I. The Three Deaf Men 1
II. Why Brahmans cannot eat in the Dark 5
III. The Soothsayer's Son 11
IV. Ranavirasing 36
V. Charity alone Conquers 65
VI. Mr. Won't Give and Mr. Won't Leave 86
VII. Mr. Mighty-of-his-Mouth 93
VIII. The Mother-in-Law became an Ass 102
IX. The Story of Appayya 107
X. The Brahmin Girl that Married a Tiger 119
XI. The Good Husband and the Bad Wife 131
XII. The Good Wife and the Bad Husband 135
XIII. The Lost Camel 140
The Three Calamities 143
The Honest but Rash Hunter 155
The Brahman's Wife and the Mungoose 162
The Faithless Wife and the Ungrateful Blind Man 165
The Wonderful Mango Fruit 171
The Poisoned Food 179
Eating up the Protector 184
XIV. The Monkey with the Tom-Tom 187
XV. Pride goeth before a Fall 190
XVI. Good will grow out of Good 194
XVII. Light makes Prosperity 202
XVIII. Chandralekha and the Eight Robbers 210
XIX. The Conquest of Fate 230
XX. The Brahman Priest who became an Amildar 248
XXI. The Gardener's Cunning Wife 257
XXII. Keep it for the Beggar 262
XXIII. Good Luck to the Lucky One 267
XXIV. Retaliation 274
XXV. The Beggar and the Five Muffins 280
XXVI. The Brahmarakshas and the Hair 285
Notes 290
INTRODUCTION.
It has often struck all lovers of Folklore and National Legends with
wonder, that so many countries should have reproduced in different
imagery and language the same tales. Persia, Arabia, and India give
us the same fables as Italy, France, Norway, and Iceland, except
for slight variations principally arising from difference of custom,
distance of time, idiom and nationality.
Able writers have explained this to us by a theory worthy of
consideration, and admirable in its origin, but nevertheless wholly
their own. They would have us believe that a certain group of
tales belonged to a certain nation, and that through emigration and
immigration, through wars and dispersions, these same tales have been
carried backwards and forwards and dragged from country to country
borrowing the language and peculiarities of the lands they passed
through, just as the seed of some rare plant is borne on the breeze
and bears fruit coarse or more refined according to the soil in which
it at last takes root.
In Germany we have Goedeck, Koehler, Sichecht, and a host of others who
tell us that these tales are Oriental, and that all fable originates
in the East, others again that they are transmitted to us by the
same channel as the Aryan languages from Aryan tradition. I cannot
see why one nation or one country alone should have the intelligence
of producing fables which as a rule are next to religion in their
teaching and intentions. If proverbs are the wisdom of nations, what
are fables and legends but developed proverbs. What is the meaning of
fable? It means an intent to convey moral instruction in a narrative
in which the characters are represented by birds, beasts, or fishes;
and often plants.
Practically a parable is the same thing, and folklore and fairy-tales
are the attempts of intelligent people to inculcate in their children
or other ignorant people the great truths of religion or wisdom, by
means of word-pictures that would bring these truths within the easy
grasp of undeveloped minds, it is the old repeated tale? The Struggle
between Right and Wrong. "Faust and Marguerite." The Wicked Punished,
The Virtuous Rewarded.
Disguise them as you will, there are certain tendons which run
through the world from age to age; cords which no human hand has yet
severed--which no decree of God's has changed--these are love and
death, hate and vengeance, virtue and vice, right and wrong, suffering
and joy; and as long as there is a world, as long as children are
born, parents will invent fables with which to bring these facts
before their offsprings' eyes in an intelligible manner.
In the fables of the East, and especially of India, there is one
peculiarity, namely, that craft and cunning are more generally
rewarded than virtue, and stupidity condemned. This is the national
characteristic. The tales of Southern India are as varied as any
others, either Eastern or European. Magic and supernatural phenomena
play a great part, but are usually assisted by the powers of the
gods. This is again a national Hindoo characteristic. The Hindoo
would shrink from any undertaking that is not under the patronage of
the gods; yet here is a very noticeable feature, namely, that the
divinities are treated as entirely secondary in power, interwoven
only into a man's daily affairs as a sort of backbone or support in
time of need, but to be despised and trampled upon at other times with
impunity. This is a natural feature in a nation which has a deity to
represent every vice and sin, and lends a certain character to the
tales of Southern India different to the folklore of other countries.
Probably further research will lay bare many still hidden treasures
of Hindoo folklore; but this small collection of tales will doubtless
suffice to throw light on Indian tradition, and to bring forward the
natural peculiarities of the Hindoos as well as the assimilation of
the folklore of different nations, an assimilation which I maintain
results from the teaching propensities of each country and not from
appropriation.
Georgiana Kingscote.
FOLKLORE IN SOUTHERN INDIA.
I.
THE STORY OF THE THREE DEAF MEN.
When any awkward blunder occurs from a person acting under a mistaken
notion, there is a common proverb in Tamil to the effect that the
matter ended like the story of the three deaf men--(Muchchevidan
kadaiyay mudindadu). The following is the story told to explain
the allusion:--
In a remote village there lived a husband and wife. Both of them
were quite deaf. They had made this household arrangement, namely,
to cook cabbage with tamarind and soup without tamarind one day, and
cabbage without tamarind and soup with tamarind on the other. Thus
on every alternate day the same dishes were repeated. One day, when
taking his meal, the husband found the tamarind cabbage so very tasty
that he wanted to have it also next day, and gave instructions to
that effect. The deaf wife did not understand the order. According to
the established rule she cooked cabbage without tamarind next day. The
husband, when he sat down to his meal, found his order disregarded and,
being enraged thereat, threw the cabbage against the wall, and went
out in a rage. The wife ate her fill, and prepared tamarind cabbage
for her husband.
The husband went out, and sat down in a place where three roads
crossed, to calm down his anger. At that time a shepherd happened to
pass that way. He had lately lost a good cow and calf of his, and had
been seeking them for some days. When he saw the deaf man sitting by
the way, he took him for a soothsayer, and asked him to find out by
his knowledge of Josyam [1] where the cow was likely to be found. The
herdsman, too, was very deaf; and the man, without hearing what he
was saying, abused him, and wished to be left undisturbed. In abusing
him the husband stretched out his hand, pointing to the shepherd's
face. This pointing the shepherd understood to indicate the direction
where the lost cow and calf would be found. Thus thinking the poor
shepherd went on in that direction, promising to present the soothsayer
with the calf if he found it there with the cow. To his joy, and
by mere chance, he found them. His delight knew no bounds. "That is
a capital soothsayer. Surely I must present him with the calf." So
thought he to himself, and returned with them to the deaf man, and,
pointing to the calf, requested him to accept it.
Now it unfortunately happened that the calf's tail was broken and
crooked. The man thought the herdsman was blaming him unreasonably for
having broken the calf's tail, while he knew nothing about it, and so,
by a waive of his hand, denied the charge. This the shepherd mistook
for a refusal of the calf, and a demand for the cow. The shepherd said,
"How very greedy you are! I promised you only the calf, and not the
cow." The husband said, "Never; I know nothing of either your cow
or calf. I never broke the calf's tail. Some other must have done
it." Thus they quarrelled, without understanding each other, for a
long time, when a third party happened to pass by. Understanding the
cause of the dispute, and, desiring to profit by their stupidity, he
interfered, and said in a loud voice, and yet so as not to be heard
by the deaf husband, "Well, shepherd, you had better go away with
the cow. These soothsayers are always greedy. Leave the calf with
me, and I shall make him accept it." The shepherd, much pleased to
have secured the cow, walked home, leaving the calf with the third
person. When the shepherd had gone, the passenger said to the deaf
man, "You see how very unlawful it is for the shepherd to charge you
with an offence which you never committed. It is always the case with
shepherds. They are the biggest fools in the world! But never mind, so
long as you have a friend in me. I shall somehow explain to him your
innocence, and restore the calf to him." The husband, much pleased,
ran home to escape from the consequences of supposed guilt. At the
expense of the stupidity and deafness of both, the third traveller
walked home with the calf.
The husband, on his return, sat down to his dinner, and his wife served
him the tamarind cabbage. He happened to put his finger to the place
where the cabbage without tamarind had previously been served on the
leaf. On applying it to his mouth, he found it so very sweet that he
demanded that dish again. The wife replied to him that she had already
emptied the pan. "Then at least bring me the cabbage that is sticking
to the saucepan," said the husband; and the wife did accordingly.
Here ends the story. The latter portion is also said to be the
explanation of a proverb that is prevalent in Tamil,--"Sevuru kiraiyai
valichchu podudi sunaiketta muli," meaning, "O thou feelingless
deaf woman, give me at least the cabbage that is sticking to the
saucepan." This proverb is applied to stubborn wives, who will
have their own way, and do not obey their husbands submissively in
unrefined society.
II.
WHY BRAHMANS CANNOT EAT IN THE DARK.
Among Hindus, especially among Brahmans of the Madras Presidency--and I
now see from personal observation that it is the same in the Bombay
Presidency also--there is a custom, while taking their meals,
of leaving their food uneaten when it so happens that from any
cause the light is blown out. Of course this could occur only in the
night-time. Such mishaps now-a-days take place only in poor families,
sitting down to supper with a single light. Hence the following story,
told as the origin of this custom, is beginning to be forgotten. It
runs as follows:--
In a certain village there lived a Brahman who had an only
daughter. She was deeply read in Sanskrit, and was of the most
charming beauty. He procured a husband for her as deeply read as
herself. The betrothal had already taken place; the muhurta or
auspicious time for her marriage was fixed at the tenth ghatika [2]
of that night. On that very evening the son-in-law went to a tank
to perform his Sandhya vandana or evening prayers. It swarmed with
crocodiles. People never went near it. The son-in-law, being quite
new to the village, entered the tank without knowing anything of
the danger. Unfortunately, there was none near to warn him. He had
set his foot in the water when a crocodile caught him by the leg,
and began to drag him into the water. That very night was fixed for
his nuptials, and a crocodile was taking him to feast on his flesh. He
was extremely horrified at his position, and said humbly to his enemy,
"My friend crocodile! Listen to my words first, and then decide for
yourself. A wife, the only daughter of an old Brahman, is waiting for
me to-night. If you eat me now, you take me away without my seeing
her, my father-in-law, and other relatives. Their hearts may break
at the news of my death on the very day of the wedding. They may all
curse you. If, on the contrary, you leave me now, I shall go home,
speak to my wife and others about the sad calamity that has come over
me, and after embracing and taking leave of her will come to you
for your supper at the fifteenth ghatika. Till then leave me." The
cruel crocodile, though very fond of human flesh, and himself dying
of hunger, spared him for a few ghatikas at his humble request. After
extracting several oaths from him that he would return in accordance
to his promise, the crocodile went into the water.
The son-in-law also went home. All his joy vanished; how could he be
happy after his promise to the crocodile. Still, to give no uneasiness
to the aged parents of his wife, he underwent all the ceremonies of
the marriage. Only five more ghatikas remained for him to live in the
world, as he thought. He, in a few words, explained everything to his
wife, and asked her permission to leave her. She showed no sign of
sorrow, preached to him about the iron hand of fate, and that he must
undergo what was written on his forehead. She most willingly gave him
permission to go, and he returned to the tank even a ghatika earlier,
and called the crocodile, who came and seized him.
At this moment a certain light glittered before the eyes of the
crocodile and vanished. It was a woman that did it. The wife, after
consoling her husband, and preaching to him about the supremacy of
fate, had accompanied him unobserved with a lighted lamp concealed
in a vessel. Just when the crocodile applied its teeth to the leg of
her husband, she took the lamp out, flashed it before the crocodile's
eyes, and quenched it. Nor was it without its intended effect. The
crocodile left the husband to himself, and said, "You had better go
now; I will never touch you after seeing a lamp extinguished when
I began my meal to-day." The husband was astonished at the device
of his wife, and still more at the faithful observance of a rule in
an unreasonable beast. From that day it was fixed that men, who are
still more reasonable, should never eat when the lamp is blown out.
Another story is told. In a remote village there lived a poor woman,
who laboured from morning till night in different houses, and returned
to her hut with two measures of rice. That quantity would serve
for ten ordinary persons. Being extremely poor, she used to keep no
lamp, but cook her rice in the dark, only guided by the light of the
fire. When she sat down for her meal even the light of the fire faded;
so she had to eat in the dark. Though she used the full two measures of
rice that she brought away every day, her hunger was never satisfied;
she was always in extreme want.
Now it so happened that she had a younger sister, who was somewhat
richer than herself. The younger came to see her elder sister. The
former never used to be without a light, and so asked her sister to
buy some oil that night and light a lamp. The elder was compelled by
necessity to do so; for that, she devoted a portion of her two measures
of rice, and returned home with great uneasiness and perplexity of mind
as to how less than two measures would furnish their supper that night,
while full two measures were found insufficient on former occasions
for herself alone. The lamp was set for the first time in her house,
and she cooked the remaining rice. The younger sister was astonished
to see her using so much for two. The elder, thinking within herself
that the younger would soon see her mistake, cooked everything. Two
leaves were spread, and they sat down to their supper. [3] Not even a
fourth part of the rice in the pot was consumed, but already they were
satisfied. The younger sister laughed at the foolishness of her elder,
who now said, "I do not know what magic you have in you. Every day I
cook two measures of rice, and fast the whole night, without finding
them sufficient for myself. Now a fourth of less than two measures
has satiated both. Please explain the cause." The younger sister,
who was very intelligent herself, wanted to find out the cause, and
asked next day if she might serve the meals without the lamp. Instead
of eating she stretched out her hand and caught hold of a lock of
hair. She asked the other at once to light the lamp, which, being
done, they found a devil sitting by their side. On being questioned
how he came there, he said that he was in the habit of going to every
one who ate without a lamp, and swallowing his meals fast without
leaving him a morsel. The elder sister perceived her mistake, and used
a lamp from that day. The demon ceased to come. She had abundance
for herself and something to spare. So when the lamp is blown out,
devils are said to come and eat out of our leaves. Hence the custom
of rising whenever such mishaps occur.
III.
THE SOOTHSAYER'S SON.
Janmaprabhriti daridryam dashavarshani bandhanam
Samudratire marenam kinchit bhogam bhavishyati.
Thus a Soothsayer when on his death-bed wrote the horoscope of his
second son, and bequeathed it to him as his only property, leaving
the whole of his estate to his eldest son. The second son pondered
over the horoscope, and fell into the following reflections:--
"Alas, am I born to this only in the world? The sayings of my father
never failed. I have seen them prove true to the last word while
he was living; and how has he fixed my horoscope! Janma parabhriti
daridryam! From my birth poverty! Nor is that my only fate. Dasa
varshani bandhanam: for ten years, imprisonment--a fate harder
than poverty; and what comes next? Samudratire maranam: death on the
sea-shore; which means that I must die away from home, far from friends
and relatives on a sea-coast. The misery has reached its extreme height
here. Now comes the funniest part of the horoscope, Kinchit bhogam
bhavishyati--that I am to have some happiness afterwards! What this
happiness is, is an enigma to me: To die first, to be happy for some
time after! What happiness? Is it the happiness of this world? So it
must be. For however clever one may be, he cannot foretell what may
take place in the other world. Therefore it must be the happiness
of this world; and how can that be possible after my death? It is
impossible. I think my father has only meant this as a consoling
conclusion to the series of calamities that he has prophesied. Three
portions of his prophecy must prove true; the fourth and last is a
mere comforting statement to bear patiently the calamities enumerated,
and never to prove true. Therefore let me go to Banaras, bathe in
the holy Ganga, wash away my sins, and prepare myself for my end. Let
me avoid sea-coasts, lest death meet me there in accordance with my
father's words. Come imprisonment: I am prepared for it for ten years."
Thus thought he, and after all the funeral obsequies of his father were
over, took leave of his elder brother, and started for Banaras. [4]
He went by the middle of the Dakhan, [5] avoiding both the coasts,
and went on journeying and journeying for weeks and months, till at
last he reached the Vindhya mountains. While passing that desert he had
to journey for a couple of days through a sandy plain, with no signs
of life or vegetation. The little store of provision with which he
was provided for a couple of days, at last was exhausted. The chombu,
[6] which he carried always full, replenishing it with the sweet water
from the flowing rivulet or plenteous tank, he had exhausted in the
heat of the desert. There was not a morsel in his hand to eat; nor
a drop of water to drink. Turn his eyes wherever he might he found a
vast desert, out of which he saw no means of escape. Still he thought
within himself, "Surely my father's prophecy never proved untrue. I
must survive this calamity to find my death on some sea-coast." So
thought he, and this thought gave him strength of mind to walk fast
and try to find a drop of water somewhere to slake his dry throat. At
last he succeeded, or rather thought that he succeeded. Heaven threw
in his way a ruined well. He thought that he could collect some water
if he let down his chombu with the string that he always carried
noosed to the neck of it. Accordingly he let it down; it went some
way and stopped, and the following words came from the well, "Oh,
relieve me! I am the king of tigers, dying here of hunger. For the
last three days I have had nothing. Fortune has sent you here. If you
assist me now you will find a sure help in me throughout your life. Do
not think that I am a beast of prey. When you have become my deliverer
I can never touch you. Pray, kindly lift me up." Gangadhara, for that
was the name of the Soothsayer's second son, found himself in a very
perplexing position. "Shall I take him out or not? If I take him out
he may make me the first morsel of his hungry mouth. No; that he will
not do. For my father's prophecy never came untrue. I must die on a
sea-coast and not by a tiger." Thus thinking, he asked the tiger king
to hold tight to the vessel, which he accordingly did, and he lifted
him up slowly. The tiger reached the top of the well and felt himself
on safe ground. True to his word he did no harm to Gangadhara. On
the other hand, he walked round his patron three times, and standing
before him, humbly spoke the following words:--"My life-giver, my
benefactor! I shall never forget this day, when I regained my life
through your kind hands. In return for this kind assistance I pledge
my oath to stand by you in all calamities. Whenever you are in any
difficulty just think of me. I am there with you ready to oblige
you by all the means that I can. To tell you briefly how I came in
here:--Three days ago I was roaming in yonder forest, when I saw a
goldsmith passing through it. I chased him. He, finding it impossible
to escape my claws, jumped into this well, and is living to this
moment in the very bottom of it. I also jumped in, but found myself
in the first storey; [7] he is on the last and fourth storey. In the
second storey lives a serpent half-famished with hunger. In the third
storey lies a rat, similarly half-famished, and when you again begin
to draw water these may request you first to release them. In the same
way the goldsmith also may request. I tell you, as your bosom friend,
never assist that wretched man, though he is your relation as a human
being. Goldsmiths are never to be trusted. You can place more faith
in me, a tiger, though I feast sometimes upon men, in a serpent whose
sting makes your blood cold the very next moment, or in a rat, which
does a thousand pieces of mischief in your house. But never trust a
goldsmith. Do not release him; and if you do, you shall surely repent
of it one day or other." Thus advising, the hungry tiger went away
without waiting for an answer.
Gangadhara thought several times of the eloquent way in which the tiger
addressed him, and admired his fluency of speech. His thirst was not
quenched. So he let down his vessel again, which was now caught hold
of by the serpent, who addressed him thus:--"Oh my protector! Lift me
up. I am the king of serpents, and the son of Adisesha, [8] who is now
pining away in agony for my disappearance. Release me now. I shall ever
remain your servant, remember your assistance, and help you throughout
life in all possible ways. Oblige me: I am dying." Gangadhara, calling
again to mind the Samudratire maranam--death on the sea-shore--lifted
him up. He, like the tiger-king, walked round him thrice, and
prostrating himself before him spoke thus:--"Oh, my life-giver, my
father, for so I must call you, as you have given me another birth. I
have already told you that I am Adisesha's son, and that I am the king
of serpents. I was three days ago basking myself in the morning sun,
when I saw a rat running before me. I chased him. He fell into this
well. I followed him, but instead of falling on the third storey
where he is now lying, I fell into the second. It was on the same
evening that the goldsmith also fell down into the fourth storey,
and the tiger whom you released just before me fell down into the
first. What I have to tell you now is--do not relieve the goldsmith,
though you may release the rat. As a rule, goldsmiths are never to
be trusted. I am going away now to see my father. Whenever you are
in any difficulty just think of me. I will be there by your side to
assist you by all possible means. If, notwithstanding my repeated
advice, you happen to release the goldsmith, you shall suffer for
it severely." So saying, the Nagaraja (serpent-king) glided away in
zigzag movements, and was out of sight in a moment.
The poor son of the Soothsayer who was now almost dying of thirst,
and was even led to think that the messengers of death were near
him, notwithstanding his firm belief in the words of his father
let down his vessel for a third time. The rat caught hold of it,
and without discussing, he lifted up the poor animal at once. But
it would not go away without showing its gratitude--"Oh life of my
life! My benefactor! I am the king of rats. Whenever you are in any
calamity just think of me. I will come to you, and assist you. My
keen ears overheard all that the tiger-king and serpent-king told
you about the Svarnataskara [9] (gold-smith), who is in the fourth
storey. It is nothing but a sad truth that goldsmiths ought never
to be trusted. Therefore never assist him as you have done to us
all. And if you do, you shall feel it. I am hungry; let me go for the
present." Thus taking leave of his benefactor, the rat, too, ran away.
Gangadhara for a while thought upon the repeated advice given by the
three animals about releasing the goldsmith, "What wrong would there be
in my assisting him? Why should I not release him also?" So thinking
to himself, Gangadhara let down the vessel again. The goldsmith
caught hold of it, and demanded help. The Soothsayer's son had no
time to lose; he was himself dying of thirst. Therefore he lifted
the goldsmith up, who now began his story:--"Stop for a while,"
said Gangadhara, and after quenching his thirst by letting down his
vessel for the fifth time, still fearing that some one might remain
in the well and demand his assistance, he listened to the goldsmith,
who began as follows:--"My dear friend, my protector, what a deal of
nonsense these brutes have been talking to you about me; I am glad you
have not followed their advice. I am just now dying of hunger. Permit
me to go away. My name is Manikkasari. I live in the East main street
of Ujjaini which is twenty kas [10] to the south of this place, and so
lies on your way when you return from Banaras. Do not forget to come
to me and receive my kind remembrances of your assistance, on your
way back to your country." So saying the goldsmith took his leave,
and Gangadhara also pursued his way north after the above adventures.
He reached Banaras, and lived there for more than ten years, spending
his time in bathing, prayers, and other religious ceremonies. He
quite forgot the tiger, serpent, rat, and goldsmith. After ten years
of religious life, thoughts of home and of his brother rushed into his
mind. "I have secured enough merit now by my religious observances. Let
me return home." Thus thought Gangadhara within himself, and
immediately he was on his way back to his country. Remembering the
prophecy of his father he returned by the same way by which he went to
Banaras ten years before. While thus retracing his steps he reached
the ruined well where he had released the three brute kings and the
goldsmith. At once the old recollections rushed into his mind, and he
thought of the tiger to test his fidelity. Only a moment passed, and
the tiger-king came running before him carrying a large crown in his
mouth, the glitter of the diamonds of which for a time outshone even
the bright rays of the sun. He dropped the crown at his life-giver's
feet, and putting aside all his pride, humbled himself like a pet cat
to the strokes of his protector, and began in the following words:--"My
life-giver! How is it that you have forgotten me, your poor servant,
for such a long time? I am glad to find that I still occupy a corner
in your mind. I can never forget the day when I owed my life to your
lotus hands. I have several jewels with me of little value. This crown,
being the best of all, I have brought here as a single ornament of
great value, and hence easily portable and useful to you in your own
country." Gangadhara looked at the crown, examined it over and over,
counted and recounted the gems, and thought within himself that he
would become the richest of men by separating the diamonds and gold,
and selling them in his own country. He took leave of the tiger-king,
and after his disappearance thought of the kings of serpents and rats,
who came in their turns with their presents, and after the usual
formalities and exchange of words took their leave. Gangadhara was
extremely delighted at the faithfulness with which the brute beasts
behaved themselves, and went on his way to the south. While going along
he spoke to himself thus:--"These beasts have been so very faithful in
their assistance. Much more, therefore, must Manikkasari be faithful. I
do not want anything from him now. If I take this crown with me as
it is, it occupies much space in my bundle. It may also excite the
curiosity of some robbers on the way. I will go now to Ujjaini on my
way, Manikkasari requested me to see him without failure on my return
journey. I shall do so, and request him to have the crown melted,
the diamonds and gold separated. He must do that kindness at least
for me. I shall then roll up these diamonds and gold ball in my rags,
and bend my way homewards." Thus thinking and thinking he reached
Ujjaini. At once he enquired for the house of his goldsmith friend,
and found him without difficulty. Manikkasari was extremely delighted
to find on his threshold him who ten years before, notwithstanding
the advice repeatedly given him by the sage-looking tiger, serpent,
and rat, had relieved him from the pit of death. Gangadhara at once
showed him the crown that he received from the tiger-king, told him
how he got it, and requested his kind assistance to separate the
gold and diamonds. Manikkasari agreed to do so, and meanwhile asked
his friend to rest himself for a while to have his bath and meals;
and Gangadhara, who was very observant of his religious ceremonies,
went direct to the river to bathe.
How came a crown in the jaws of a tiger? It is not a difficult
question to solve. A king must have furnished the table of the tiger
for a day or two. Had it not been for that, the tiger could not have
had a crown with him. Even so it was. The king of Ujjaini had a week
before gone with all his hunters on a hunting expedition. All of a
sudden a tiger--as we know now, the very tiger-king himself--started
from the wood, seized the king, and vanished. The hunters returned
and informed the prince about the sad calamity that had befallen his
father. They all saw the tiger carrying away the king. Yet such was
their courage that they could not lift their weapons to bring to the
prince the corpse at least of his father.
When they informed the prince about the death of his father he
wept and wailed, and gave notice that he would give half of his
kingdom to any one who should bring him news about the murderer of
his father. The prince did not at all believe that his father was
devoured by the tiger. His belief was that some hunters, coveting
the ornaments on the king's person, had murdered him. Hence he had
issued the notice. The goldsmith knew full well that it was a tiger
that killed the king, and not any hunter's hands, since he had heard
from Gangadhara about how he obtained the crown. Still, ambition
to get half the kingdom prevailed, and he resolved with himself to
make over Gangadhara as the king's murderer. The crown was lying
on the floor where Gangadhara left it with his full confidence in
Manikkasari. Before his protector's return the goldsmith, hiding
the crown under his garments, flew to the palace. He went before the
prince and informed him that the assassin was caught, and placed the
crown before him. The prince took it into his hands, examined it,
and at once gave half the kingdom to Manikkasari, and then enquired
about the murderer. "He is bathing in the river, and is of such and
such appearance," was the reply. At once four armed soldiers fly to
the river, and bound the poor Brahman hand and foot, he sitting in
meditation the while, without any knowledge of the fate that hung
over him. They brought Gangadhara to the presence of the prince,
who turned his face away from the murderer or supposed murderer,
and asked his soldiers to throw him into the karagriham. [11] In a
minute, without knowing the cause, the poor Brahman found himself in
the dark caves of the karagriham.
In old times the karagriham answered the purposes of the modern
jail. It was a dark cellar underground, built with strong stone walls,
into which any criminal guilty of a capital offence was ushered to
breathe his last there without food and drink. Such was the cellar
into which Gangadhara was thrust. In a few hours after he left the
goldsmith he found himself inside a dark cell stinking with human
bodies, dying and dead. What were his thoughts when he reached that
place? "It is the goldsmith that has brought me to this wretched
state; and, as for the prince: Why should he not enquire as to how I
obtained the crown? It is of no use to accuse either the goldsmith
or the prince now. We are all the children of fate. We must obey
her commands. Dasavarshani Bandhanam. This is but the first day of
my father's prophecy. So far his statement is true. But how am I
going to pass ten years here? Perhaps without anything to sustain
life I may drag on my existence for a day or two. But how pass ten
years? That cannot be, and I must die. Before death comes let me
think of my faithful brute friends."
So pondered Gangadhara in the dark cell underground, and at that
moment thought of his three friends. The tiger-king, serpent-king,
and rat-king assembled at once with their armies at a garden near
the karagriham, and for a while did not know what to do. A common
cause--how to reach their protector, who was now in the dark cell
underneath--united them all. They held their council, and decided to
make an underground passage from the inside of a ruined well to the
karagriham. The rat raja issued an order at once to that effect to
his army. They, with their nimble teeth, bored the ground a long way
to the walls of the prison. After reaching it they found that their
teeth could not work on the hard stones. The bandicoots were then
specially ordered for the business; they, with their hard teeth,
made a small slit in the wall for a rat to pass and repass without
difficulty. Thus a passage was effected.
The rat raja entered first to condole with his protector on his
misfortune. The king of the tigers sent word through the snake-king
that he sympathised most sincerely with his sorrow, and that he was
ready to render all help for his deliverance. He suggested a means
for his escape also. The serpent raja went in, and gave Gangadhara
hopes of delivery. The rat-king undertook to supply his protector
with provisions. "Whatever sweetmeats or bread are prepared in any
house, one and all of you must try to bring whatever you can to our
benefactor. Whatever clothes you find hanging in a house, cut down, dip
the pieces in water, and bring the wet bits to our benefactor. He will
squeeze them and gather water for drink! and the bread and sweetmeats
shall form his food." Having issued these orders the king of the rats,
took leave of Gangadhara. They, in obedience to their king's order,
continued to supply provisions and water.
The Nagaraja said:--"I sincerely condole with you in your calamity;
the tiger-king also fully sympathises with you, and wants me to tell
you so, as he cannot drag his huge body here as we have done with our
small ones. The king of the rats has promised to do his best to provide
you with food. We would now do what we can for your release. From this
day we shall issue orders to our armies to oppress all the subjects
of this kingdom. The percentage of death by snake-bite and tigers
shall increase from this day. And day by day it shall continue to
increase till your release. After eating what the rats bring you, you
had better take your seat near the entrance of the karagriham. Owing
to the many sudden deaths that will occur some people that walk over
the prison may say, 'How wicked the king has become. Were it not for
his wickedness so many dreadful deaths by snake-bites could never
occur.' Whenever you hear people speaking so, you had better bawl out
so as to be heard by them, 'The wretched prince imprisoned me on the
false charge of having killed his father, while it was a tiger that
killed him. From that day these calamities have broken out in his
dominions. If I were released I would save all by my powers of healing
poisonous wounds and by incantations.' Some one may report this to
the king, and if he knows it, you will obtain your liberty." Thus
comforting his protector in trouble, he advised him to pluck up
courage, and took leave of him. From that day tigers and serpents,
acting under the special orders of their kings, united in killing as
many persons and cattle as possible. Every day people were carried
away by tigers or bitten by serpents. This havoc continued. Gangadhara
went on roaring as loud he could that he would save those lives, had
he only his liberty. Few heard him. The few that did took his words
for the voice of a ghost. "How could he manage to live without food
and drink for so long a time?" said the persons walking over his head
to each other. Thus passed months and years. Gangadhara sat in the
dark cellar, without the sun's light falling upon him, and feasted
upon the bread-crumbs and sweetmeats that the rats so kindly supplied
him with. These circumstances had completely changed his body. He
had become a red, stout, huge, unwieldy lump of flesh. Thus passed
full ten years, as prophesied in the horoscope--Dasavarshani Bandhanam.
Ten complete years rolled away in close imprisonment. On the last
evening of the tenth year one of the serpents got into the bed-chamber
of the princess and sucked her life. She breathed her last. She was the
only daughter of the king. He had no other issue--son or daughter. His
only hope was in her; and she was snatched away by a cruel and untimely
death. The king at once sent for all the snake-bite curers. He promised
half his kingdom and his daughter's hand to him who would restore her
to life. Now it was that a servant of the king, who had several times
overheard Gangadhara's cries, reported the matter to him. The king
at once ordered the cell to be examined. There was the man sitting in
it. How has he managed to live so long in the cell? Some whispered that
he must be a divine being. Some concluded that he must surely win the
hand of the princess by restoring her to life. Thus they discussed,
and the discussions brought Gangadhara to the king.
The king no sooner saw Gangadhara than he fell on the ground. He
was struck by the majesty and grandeur of his person. His ten years'
imprisonment in the deep cell underground had given a sort of lustre
to his body, which was not to be met with in ordinary persons. His
hair had first to be cut before his face could be seen. The king
begged forgiveness for his former fault, and requested him to revive
his daughter.
"Bring me in a muhurta [12] all the corpses of men and cattle,
dying and dead, that remain unburnt or unburied within the range of
your dominions; I shall revive them all," were the only words that
Gangadhara spoke. After it he closed his lips as if in deep meditation,
which commanded more respect than ever.
Cart-loads of corpses of men and cattle began to come in every
minute. Even graves, it is said, were broken open, and corpses buried a
day or two before were taken out and sent for the revival. As soon as
all were ready, Gangadhara took a vessel full of water and sprinkled
it over them all, thinking only of his Nagaraja and Vyaghraraja. [13]
All rose up as if from deep slumber, and went to their respective
homes. The princess, too, was restored to life. The joy of the king
knew no bounds. He cursed the day on which he imprisoned him, blamed
himself for having believed the word of a goldsmith, and offered him
the hand of his daughter and the whole kingdom, instead of half as he
promised. Gangadhara would not accept anything. The king requested
him to put a stop for ever to these calamities. He agreed to do so,
and asked the king to assemble all his subjects in a wood near the
town. "I shall there call in all the tigers and serpents and give them
a general order." So said Gangadhara, and the king accordingly gave
the order. In a couple of ghatikas [14] the wood near Ujjaini was
full of people, who assembled to witness the authority of man over
such enemies of human beings as tigers and serpents. "He is no man;
be sure of that. How could he have managed to live for ten years
without food and drink? He is surely a god." Thus speculated the mob.
When the whole town was assembled, just at the dusk of evening,
Gangadhara sat dumb for a moment, and thought upon the Vyaghraraja
and Nagaraja, who came running with all their armies. People began
to take to their heels at the sight of tigers. Gangadhara assured
them of safety, and stopped them.
The grey light of the evening, the pumpkin colour of Gangadhara, the
holy ashes scattered lavishly over his body, the tigers and snakes
humbling themselves at his feet, gave him the true majesty of the god
Gangadhara. [15] For who else by a single word could thus command vast
armies of tigers and serpents, said some among the people. "Care not
for it; it may be by magic. That is not a great thing. That he revived
cart-loads of corpses makes him surely Gangadhara," said others. The
scene produced a very great effect upon the minds of the mob.
"Why should you, my children, thus trouble these poor subjects of
Ujjaini? Reply to me, and henceforth desist from your ravages." Thus
said the Soothsayer's son, and the following reply came from the
king of the tigers; "Why should this base king imprison your honour,
believing the mere word of a goldsmith that your honour killed his
father? All the hunters told him that his father was carried away by
a tiger. I was the messenger of death sent to deal the blow on his
neck. I did it, and gave the crown to your honour. The prince makes no
enquiry, and at once imprisons your honour. How can we expect justice
from such a stupid king as that? Unless he adopts a better standard
of justice we will go on with our destruction."
The king heard, cursed the day on which he believed in the word of
a goldsmith, beat his head, tore his hair, wept and wailed for his
crime, asked a thousand pardons, and swore to rule in a just way from
that day. The serpent-king and tiger-king also promised to observe
their oath as long as justice prevailed, and took their leave. The
goldsmith fled for his life. He was caught by the soldiers of the
king, and was pardoned by the generous Gangadhara, whose voice now
reigned supreme. All returned to their homes.
The king again pressed Gangadhara to accept the hand of his
daughter. He agreed to do so, not then, but some time afterwards. He
wished to go and see his elder brother first, and then to return and
marry the princess. The king agreed; and Gangadhara left the city
that very day on his way home.
It so happened that unwittingly he took a wrong road, and had to pass
near a sea coast. His elder brother was also on his way up to Banaras
by that very same route. They met and recognised each other, even at
a distance. They flew into each other's arms. Both remained still for
a time almost unconscious with joy. The emotion of pleasure (ananda)
was so great, especially in Gangadhara, that it proved dangerous to
his life. In a word, he died of joy.
The sorrow of the elder brother could better be imagined than
described. He saw again his lost brother, after having given up,
as it were, all hopes of meeting him. He had not even asked him his
adventures. That he should be snatched away by the cruel hand of
death seemed unbearable to him. He wept and wailed, took the corpse
on his lap, sat under a tree, and wetted it with tears. But there
was no hope of his dead brother coming to life again.
The elder brother was a devout worshipper of Ganapati. [16] That was
a Friday, a day very sacred to that god. The elder brother took the
corpse to the nearest Ganesa [17] temple and called upon him. The
god came, and asked him what he wanted. "My poor brother is dead and
gone; and this is his corpse. Kindly keep it in your charge till I
finish worshipping you. If I leave it anywhere else the devils may
snatch it away when I am absent worshipping you; after finishing
your puja [18] I shall burn him." Thus said the elder brother, and,
giving the corpse to the god Ganesa, he went to prepare himself for
that deity's ceremonials. Ganesa made over the corpse to his Ganas,
[19] asking them to watch over it carefully.
So a spoiled child receives a fruit from its father, who, when he gives
it the fruit asks the child to keep it safe. The child thinks within
itself, "My father will forgive me if I eat a portion of it." So
saying it eats a portion, and when it finds it so sweet, it eats
the whole, saying, "Come what will, what can father do, after all,
if I eat it? Perhaps give me a stroke or two on the back. Perhaps he
may forgive me." In the same way these Ganas of Ganapati first ate
a portion of the corpse, and when they found it sweet, for we know
it was crammed up with the sweetmeats of the kind rats, devoured the
whole, and began consulting about the best excuse possible to offer
to their master.
The elder brother, after finishing the puja, demanded his brother's
corpse of the god. The god called his Ganas who came to the front
blinking, and fearing the anger of their master. The god was greatly
enraged. The elder brother was very angry. When the corpse was not
forthcoming he cuttingly remarked, "Is this, after all, the return
for my deep belief in you? You are unable even to return my brother's
corpse." Ganesa was much ashamed at the remark, and at the uneasiness
that he had caused to his worshipper. So he, by his divine power,
gave him a living Gangadhara instead of the dead corpse. Thus was
the second son of the Soothsayer restored to life.
The brothers had a long talk about each other's adventures. They
both went to Ujjaini, where Gangadhara married the princess, and
succeeded to the throne of that kingdom. He reigned for a long time,
conferring several benefits upon his brother. How is the horoscope to
be interpreted? A special synod of Soothsayers was held. A thousand
emendations were suggested. Gangadhara would not accept them. At
last one Soothsayer cut the knot by stopping at a different place
in reading, "Samudra tire maranam kinchit." "On the sea-shore death
for some time. Then "Bhogam bhavishyati." "There shall be happiness
for the person concerned." Thus the passage was interpreted. "Yes;
my father's words never went wrong," said Gangadhara. The three brute
kings continued their visits often to the Soothsayer's son, the then
king of Ujjaini. Even the faithless goldsmith became a frequent visitor
at the palace, and a receiver of several benefits from royal hands.
IV.
RANAVIRASING.
Once upon a time in the town of Vanjaimanagar, [20] there ruled a
king, named Sivachar. He was a most just king, and ruled so well that
no stone thrown up fell down, no crow pecked at the new drawn milk,
the lion and the bull drank water from the same pond, and peace and
prosperity reigned throughout the kingdom. Notwithstanding all these
blessings, care always sat on his face. The fruit which makes life in
this world sweet, the redeemer to him from the horrible Naraka of Put,
[21] a Putra, [22] he had not. His days and nights he spent in praying
that God might bless him with a son. Wherever he saw pipal trees
(Asvattharajas), [23] he ordered Brahmans to surround them. Whatever
medicines the doctors recommended he was ever ready to swallow,
however bitter they might be. "Eat even dung to get a son," says the
proverb, and accordingly he did every thing to secure that happiness,
but all in vain.
Sivachar had a minister, named Kharavadana, a most wicked tyrant as
ever lived in the world. The thought that the king was without an
heir, and had no hopes of one, awakened in his mind the ambition
of securing for his family the throne of Vanjaimanagar. Sivachar
knew this well. But what could he do. His only care was to send up
additional prayers to frustrate the thoughts of Kharavadana, and to
secure for himself a good position after death, without undergoing
the severe torments of the Put-hell.
At last fortune favoured Sivachar; for what religious man fails to
secure his desire? The king in his sixtieth year had a son. His joy
can better be imagined than described. Lacs (Lakhs) of Brahmans
were fed in honour of the son-birth festival, Putrotsavam, as it
is technically called. The state prisons were opened, and all the
prisoners let loose. Thousands of kine and innumerable acres of
land were offered to Brahmans, and every kind of charity was duly
practised. The ten days of the Sutikagrihavasa (confinement) were
over. On the eleventh day the father saw his much longed-for son's
face, and read on the lines of it great prosperity, learning, valour,
goodness and every excellent quality.
The cradle-swinging, naming, and other ceremonies were duly performed,
and the prince grew up under the great care generally shown to a king's
son. His name the elders fixed as Sundara. [24] The minister whose
only wish was to get the throne for his family, was much disappointed
at the birth of a son to his master. The whole kingdom rejoiced at
the event, and the minister was the only man who was sorry. When one
is disappointed in his high hopes and expectations, he devises plans
to take away the barrier that lies in his way. Even so, Kharavadana
said to himself, "Let me see how affairs progress. The old king is
near his grave. When he dies, leaving a son in his minority I myself
must be his regent for a time. Shall I not then have opportunity
enough of securing for ever for myself and my family the throne of
Vanjaimanagar?" So thought he within himself, and was quiet for a time.
Sivachar, who was a very shrewd man, on several occasions, read the
minister's mind, and knew very well how his intentions stood. "This
cruel devil may murder my only son. I care not if he usurps the
throne. What I fear is, that he may murder him. Na daivam Sankarat
param. No other god but Sankara. And he must have his own way. If it
is so written on the prince's head I cannot avoid it." Thus sighed
Sivachar, and this sorrow (soka), made him leaner day by day. Just
ten years after the birth of Sundara, the king fell ill and lay on
his deathbed.
Sivachar had a servant, named Ranavirasing, whom he had all along
observed to be very honest and faithful. That servant the king called
to his side, and asking all others except Sundara, who was weeping
by his father's pillow, to leave the room, addressed him thus:--"My
dear Ranavirasing! I have only a few ghatikas before me. Listen to my
words, and act accordingly. There is one God above us all, who will
punish or reward us according to our bad or good acts. If by avarice
or greed of money you ever play false to the trust that I am going to
repose in you that God will surely punish you. It is not unknown to
you what great difficulties I had in getting this only son, Sundara;
how many temples I built, how many Brahmans I fed, how many religious
austerities I underwent, &c., &c.. God after all gave me a son." Here
his sorrow prevented him from proceeding further, and he began to cry
aloud, and shed tears. "Do not weep on my account, father. We cannot
wipe off what was written on our heads. We must undergo happiness or
misery as is thereon written by Brahma, cried the prince. Ranavirasing
was melted at the sight. He took the boy on his lap, and with his
own upper garment wiped his eyes. The old man continued, "Thus you,
my faithful Ranavirasing, know everything. I now wish that I had
not performed all that I did to get this son. For when I die at this
moment, who is there to take care of him for the next? Kharavadana may
devise plan after plan to remove my boy from this world, and secure
the kingdom for himself. My only hope is in you. I give him into your
hands." Here the aged father, notwithstanding his illness, rose up a
little from his bed, took hold of his son's hand, and after kissing
it for the last time, placed it in Ranavirasing's. "Care not if he
does not get the kingdom. If you only preserve him from the wicked
hands of the minister whom I have all along seen to be covetous of
the throne, you will do a great work for your old master. I make you
from this moment the lord of my palace. From this minute you are
father, mother, brother, servant, and everything to my son. Take
care that you do not betray your trust." Thus ended the king, and
sent at once for the minister. When he came he spoke to him thus,
"Kharavadana! See what I am now. Yesterday I was on the throne. To-day,
in a few minutes, I must breathe my last. Such is the uncertainty of
life. Man's good acts alone follow him to the other world. Take my
signet-ring. [Here the king took the ring from off his finger, and gave
it to the minister.] Yours is the throne for the present, as long as
the prince is in his minority. Govern well the kingdom. When the prince
attains his sixteenth year kindly give him back the throne. Exercise
a paternal care over him. Find a good and intelligent princess for
his wife." Suddenly, before his speech was quite finished, the king
felt the last pangs of death. The sage-looking minister promised
him everything.
Sivachar breathed his last. After the usual weeping and wailing
of a Hindu funeral, his corpse was burnt to ashes in a sandalwood
pyre. All his queens--and there were several scores--committed sati
[25] with the corpse. The ceremonies were all regularly conducted,
the minister himself superintended everything.
Kharavadana then succeeded to the throne of Vanjaimanagar. Ranavirasing
became the lord of the palace, and true to his promise exercised all
care over his trust. He was always at the side of Sundara. That he
might not lose the sweetness of boyhood in study and play, Ranavirasing
brought to the palace twenty gentlemen's sons of good conduct and
learning and made them the prince's fellow-students. A professor
for every branch of learning was employed to teach the prince and
his companions. Sundara thus received a sound and liberal education,
only he was never allowed to go out of the palace. Ranavirasing guarded
him very strictly, and he had every reason to do so. For Kharavadana,
as soon as he became king, had issued a notice that the assassin
of Sundara should have a reward of a karor [26] mohurs; and already
every avaricious hand was in search of his head. Before the issue of
this notice, Kharavadana found out a good girl and married her to the
prince. She lived with her husband in the palace, and Ranavirasing
strictly watched her, as she had been chosen by the minister. He would
not allow Sundara to speak to her. These strict prohibitions displeased
the prince, even with his faithful servant. But the latter could not
help it till he had full confidence in her. He used to advise Sundara
not even to take a betel-leaf from her hands. But love is blind. So
the prince within himself accused his old guardian; but he could not
help following his orders. Thus passed on a few years.
Sundara reached his sixteenth year. Nothing happened about the
transference of the kingdom; the prince, almost in imprisonment in
the palace, had forgotten everything about the kingdom. Ranavirasing
wished to wait till, as he thought, the prince had acquired better
governing faculties. Thus some time passed.
Full eight years had elapsed from the death of Sivachar. Sundara was
already eighteen, and still he had not received his kingdom. Nothing
was neglected in his education. Though Ranavirasing exercised all
paternal care over him, still it was not to his liking; for he found
in him a great barrier to the pleasures of youth. The only pleasure
for the prince, therefore, was the company of his friends.
One fine evening on the fourteenth day of the dark half of the month of
Vaisakha of the Vasanta [27] season, the prince was sitting with his
companions in the seventh story of his mansion viewing the town. The
dusk of evening was just throwing her mantle over the city. People in
their several vocations were at that time ceasing work, and returning
home. In the eastern division of the town the prince saw a big mansion,
and just to break the silence asked his friends what that was. "That is
the Rajasthanik Kacheri, [28] a place you ought to have been sitting
in for the last two years. The wretched minister, Kharavadana, has
already usurped your seat; for, if he had intended to give you back
the kingdom he would have done it two years ago when you reached your
sixteenth year. Let us now console ourselves that God has spared your
life till now, notwithstanding all the awards promised to the taker
of your head. Even the proclamation is dying out of the memory of
the people now." So said one of his friends and ceased.
These words fell like arrows in the ear of Sundara and troubled
him. Shame that he had been thus treated brought a change of colour
over his face which all his friends perceived, and they felt sorry for
having touched upon the subject. The prince, perceiving that he had
played a woman's part among his friends, resumed or pretended to resume
his former cheerful countenance, and changed the conversation to some
pleasanter topics. They separated very late that night. Before doing
so, Sundara asked them all to present themselves in the durbar hall
[29] early next morning. At the same time he also ordered Ranavirasing
to keep horses ready for himself and his friends for a morning ride
through the town the next day. "I was only waiting to hear such an
order from your own mouth, Mai Bab Chakravarti! [30] I was thinking
from your retired disposition that you were not an energetic man. I
will have the horses ready." Ranavirasing at once issued orders to
his servants to keep ready saddled and decked twenty-one horses for
the prince and his companions. He also appointed a certain number of
his men to ride in front of the party.
The morning came. The friends assembled, as promised the previous
evening. The prince and they, after a light breakfast, mounted their
horses. The horsemen rode in front and behind. The prince with his
friends marched in the middle. Ranavirasing with drawn sword rode
by his side. The party went through the four main streets of the
town. Every one rose up and paid due respect to their old king's
son. When passing through the street where the minister's mansion was,
Ranavirasing perceived that Kharavadana paid no respect to the royal
march. This seemed a most unbearable insult to Ranavirasing. He bit
his lips, gnashed his teeth, and wrung his hands. The prince observed
all the mental pains of his faithful guardian, and laughed to himself
at his simplicity. About mid-day the party returned to the palace. The
friends dispersed, and Sundara after the ceremonies of the new-moon
day had a slight dinner, and retired to rest.
The morning ride was deep in the mind of the prince. Though he laughed
to himself at the simplicity of Ranavirasing when the latter gnashed
his teeth in the morning, the insult had left a stronger and deeper
impression in his heart. The day was almost spent. Sundara took a very
light supper, and shut himself up in his bed-room before the first
watch was quite over. Ranavirasing, as usual, watched outside. The
prince found his wife sound asleep in her bed, and without disturbing
her he went up and down the room. A thread-like substance attracted his
attention in a corner of the bed-chamber. On examination he found it
to be a thread ladder. He had not even time to think how it came into
the bed-chamber. Just then Ranavirasing had retired for a few minutes
to take his supper. "The old fool is off now to eat; and Paramesvara
has thrown this ladder in my way. Let me now escape." Thus thinking,
Sundara came out unobserved by his old guardian, and ascended to the
top of the seventh mansion. From that place he cast his ladder towards
a big tree in the East Main street. On pulling it he found that it was
firmly fixed. "Let me get down, and Paramesvara will assist me." So
praying, before the first watch was over, the prince got down from
his palace, and was in a few minutes in the East street. The severe
watch kept over him by Ranavirasing made it very difficult for him
to go out when he liked, and now by the grace of God, as he thought,
he had escaped that dark new-moon night.
"Life is dear to every one. What can I do if any of the minister's
men find me out now and murder me? Na daivam Sankarat param. No
god but Sankara, and he will now help me." Thus thinking he walked
to the nearest pyal, and lingered there till the bustle of the town
subsided. Nor was it in vain that he stopped there. He overheard while
there the following conversation take place between the master and
mistress of the house at which he lingered:--"Console yourself, my
wife. What shall we do? Fate has so willed it on our heads. May Brahma
[31] become without a temple for the evil that he has sent us. When the
old king was living he appreciated my merits, and at every Sankranti
[32] gave me due dakshina [33] for my knowledge of the Vedas. [34]
Now there reigns a tyrant over our kingdom. I have been lingering
here with the hope that the son of Sivachar would one day come to the
throne and relieve our sufferings. Now that such hope is altogether
gone, I have made up my mind to leave this nasty city, and go to some
good place where there reigns a king who can appreciate our yogyata
(merit)." Of these words Sundara overheard every syllable, and these
supplied the fuel to the fire of shame and anger that was already
burning in his mind. "Let me try to win back my kingdom. If I succeed,
I shall save other lives. If I die, I alone die. May Paramesvara help
me." So saying he walked out of the town, and passed the east gate. The
night was as dark as could be, for it was a new moon night. Clouds
were gathering in the sky, and there were some symptoms of rain.
There was a Ganesa temple on the way. As it was already drizzling,
the prince went inside till the rain should cease. No sooner had he
entered it than he saw two men, who by their conversation appeared to
be shepherds, coming towards that same temple. They seemed to have
been watching their flocks near an adjacent field, and had come to
shelter themselves from the rain in the temple. Sundara when he saw
them, trembled for his life, and crept in. The shepherds sat down on
the verandah, and taking out their bags began to chew betel-nuts. An
idle lizard began to chirp in a corner. To break the silence, one
said to the other, "Well, Ramakon, I have heard that you are a great
soothsayer and interpreter of bird sounds and lizard speeches. Let me
know what these chirps of the lizard that we heard just now mean. Tell
me." Ramakon replied, "This is news which I would never have revealed
at any other time. But as no fourth person is likely to be here at this
time on a rainy night, let me tell you that the prince of the town is
now lingering here in this temple. So the lizard says. Hence I said,
'no fourth person.' I am glad that no evil hand has yet been tempted,
though such a high price has been set upon his head. The very fact
that he has lived up to this time unhurt in a tiger's domain augurs
well for his future prosperity." Ramakon had scarcely finished his
speech when the idle lizard again made its chit, chit, and Ramakon
now asked his friend, Lakshmanakon, for that was the other's name,
to interpret those sounds. "This has rather a sad meaning for the
prince. The Mantri [35] and Pradhani [36] are coming here in a few
minutes (nimishas), to consult on a secret topic. So says the lizard,"
said Lakshmanakon to Ramakon, and at that very moment a light was
seen at a distance. "It is the minister's carriage. Let us be off. God
only must save the prince." So saying, they both ran away.
The feelings of the prince inside were like that of a man who
was being led to the gallows. The bitterest enemy of his life,
the minister himself, was coming to that very place where he was
hiding. "I foolishly accused my old guardian, Ranavirasing, and now
I see his good intentions. How I am to be spared from this calamity
Sankara only knows." Thus thinking, he hurriedly fled to the inmost
part of the temple behind the very image, and sat down there, still
like a stump, without even breathing freely, lest his breath might
reveal him. He had ample time there to admire the sound knowledge of
the shepherds in interpreting the lizard chirps, their simplicity,
their honesty and truthfulness; for, had they been otherwise, they
might at once have caught hold of the prince and made him over to the
tiger minister. True to the interpretation of the second shepherd, a
carriage stopped in front of the Ganesa temple, and there came out of
it the Mantri and the Pradhani. Excepting themselves and, of course,
the carriage driver and, as we know, the prince behind the Ganesa,
there were no others there. Kharavadana and his subordinate chose that
solitary place at the dead of night to hold secret consultations. The
Mantri spoke first, and one could easily perceive from his words that
he was in a fit of anger. "Why should the prince be thus allowed to
ride free through my streets? Of the innumerable servants who eat our
salt was there not one to cut down that impertinent head?" roared the
minister. The Pradhani replied, "My king, my lord, excuse me first
for the humble words that I am going to speak before your honour. We
have taken up a kingdom to which we have no right. If the prince
had demanded the throne two years ago, we ought rightfully to have
returned it to him. He never asked, and we did not restore it. He
never troubles us with demands, but lives like a poor subject of the
crown in his own quarters. Such being the case, why should we kill
him? Why should we murder the only son of our old and much-respected
king Sivachar? What I beg to suggest to your honour is, that we should
no more trouble ourselves about his poor head." The Pradhani, as he
discovered that these words were not to the taste of Kharavadana,
stopped at once without proceeding further, though he had much to
say upon that subject. "Vile wretch! Dare you preach morals to your
superiors. You shall see the result of this, before the morning dawns,"
bawled out the Minister. The Pradhani saw that all his excellent advice
was like blowing a horn in a deaf man's ears. He feared for his own
life, and so at once begged a thousand pardons, and promised to bring
the head of the prince within a week. And as Kharavadana wanted only
that, he spared the Pradhani. They then talked on different subjects,
and prepared to start.
The prince inside, behind the Ganesavigraha, [37] was now almost
stifled to death. The short breaths that he inhaled and exhaled
were themselves enough to kill him. Add to that the horrible
words that fell on his ears. For all that he continued to hide
himself. Kharavadana and the Pradhani finished their conversation
and got into the carriage. Sundara called courage to his assistance,
"Sankara has saved me till now; he may so save me throughout." So
thinking to himself, he boldly came out of the temple without making
the least noise and sat behind the carriage, and, as it rolled on,
thought again within himself: "I will follow these, come what may,
and find out what more plans they devise against my life."
The carriage drove on to the opposite end of the town. It passed the
west gate and entered a big park outside the town. The undaunted prince
followed. In the middle of the park a fine tank was discovered. The
banks looked like day, being lighted up profusely. In the midst of the
tank a small island with a gaudy mansion was seen. Pillars of gold,
sofas of silver and doors of diamonds made it the very Indraloka [38]
itself. A broad road with avenues of sweet smelling flowering trees
connected the island with the bank. It was at that road that the
carriage stopped. The prince, before that was reached, had got down
and hid himself under the shade of a tree, to see unobserved all that
passed in the mansion which he had every reason to believe was the
destination of the minister. Kharavadana descended from the carriage
and sent the Pradhani home. What most astonished the prince was the
absence of male servants in that garden. At the entrance of the road
twenty young females of the most exquisite beauty waited and conducted
Kharavadana through the sweet bower to the mansion. When it was
reached, the minister sat down on a most richly furnished gold couch,
and ordered the females there to bring the queen. Ten females arranged
themselves on each side of an ivory palanquin, and started, apparently,
to bring the queen in it. "These females themselves resemble Rambha,
[39] Urvasi, [39] &c. A woman who has beauty superior to the heads of
these females must, of course, be of the greatest beauty imaginable in
this world. Let me see her." Thus thinking, the prince Sundara
anxiously awaited the return of the palanquin. In a few minutes it
came. A female of the most charming beauty jumped briskly out of it. The
minister came running to give his helping hand to her. Horror of
horrors, what sees the prince! It was his own wife, the very girl that
the minister had married to him a few years before, that got down from
the palanquin. "Are my eyes deceived? Do they perform their functions
aright? Let me look once more." So again and again wiping his eyes to
clear them a little, the prince saw distinctly. It was his very wife
herself. "Oh, I most foolishly accused that grey-headed guardian for
a wicked fool, because he would not allow me to be friends with my
wife. I now see what he saw a long time ago. Perhaps if I had seen
more of her I should have thus been brought in here by some secret
way that these devils seem now to have to the inmost parts of the
palace. If I had taken anything from her hands I should have died
that very day. My poor old man, my Ranavirasing it is, who has saved
me from all these calamities." These thoughts and a thousand more
were passing through Sundara's mind when he saw his wife sitting down
on the same couch with the minister. She accused him of the delay in
murdering her husband, of his letting all opportunities escape during
the morning ride. "Horrible! Did you, Kharavadana, marry me to such
a faithful wife! Thank God and Ranavirasing that I have not fallen
into her snares," thought Sundara to himself. The minister offered
a thousand excuses, related to her all that had taken place between
himself and the Pradhani, and of what the latter had promised. Then
they both retired to bed. At that moment the treacherous owl began
to hoot, and one of the maid-servants, who happened to be a clever
interpreter of owl-hootings revealed, to secure the favour of the
minister, that the prince was lurking behind a tree in that very
garden. Knowing the price set on Sundara's head even female hands
flew to cut it off. All ran with torches to search the garden.
These words, of course, fell upon the ears of the prince like
thunder. Before the people there began their search he began his race,
jumped over a high wall, and flew like a kite. Before the lady-racers
and the minister had left their sweet road to the tank-bank, Sundara
found himself in the north street of the town. The news that the
prince was out that night spread like a flame from the pleasure-park
outside throughout the whole town, and before long avaricious persons
were searching in the streets for his valuable head. Sundara thought
it dangerous to pass through the streets, and wished to hide himself
in a safe place. Fortune conducted him to one. It was a ruined old
choultry, where food, during the days of his father, was distributed
in charity to the beggars of the town, and which was now only resorted
to by them to sleep, and not to receive rice. The prince entered it,
and laid himself down in the midst of them, fortunately unobserved. He
could hear from where he was the noise of the persons searching
outside. In the garden the minister searched in vain, and accusing
the female for her wrong interpretation as he thought, retired to bed.
Outside the north gate, at a distance of three ghatikas' walk, lived
a robber. He used to start out on a plundering expedition once in
seven years. In the houses and mansions he used to rob he took only
jewels of various kinds, Gomeda, [40] pushparuga, (topaz) vajra, [41]
vaidurya, [42] &c.; gold and silver he rejected as being too mean for
his dignity. As he was a high-caste robber, he used to take a coolie
with him on his way to carry his booty. Of course, that coolie never
returned from the cave. He was put to death after his services were
over, lest he should disclose the secret of the robber.
Unfortunately, that new-moon night happened to be the night of that
cruel robber's plundering expedition. He came out, and when he saw
people in search of the prince, thinking that he was not in his palace,
he wanted to plunder it. Wishing for a coolie, he entered the ruined
choultry, to pick out one among the beggars there. Passing over the
others he came to the prince. He found him stout and strong. "This
beggar will do me good service to-day. I shall break my custom,
and amply reward this man for his services." So thinking to himself,
the gentleman robber tapped Sundara with his cane on the back. The
prince had just closed his eyes. In the short sleep that ensued he
dreamt that the minister's servants were pursuing him, and that
one had caught him. At that very moment the gentleman-robber's
stroke fell upon his back, giving a sort of reality to his dream. He
awoke with horror. "Tell me who you are," asked the unknown person,
"A beggar," was the reply. "How does the night appear to you?" asked
the robber. "As dark as dark can be," replied the prince. The robber
applied a sort of kajjala [43] to the prince's eyes, and asked, "How
does the night appear now?" "As luminous as if a karor of suns were
in the sky," answered Sundara. The robber applied a tilaka [44] to the
intended coolie's forehead and addressed him thus: "I am a robber, now
going to plunder the palace, from which the prince is absent. Follow
me. I shall reward you richly. The kajjala has made the night a day
to you. The tilaka takes you unobserved wherever you wish to go." So
saying, and dragging the coolie or supposed coolie by the hand,
the robber went off to the palace. Wherever he found a door locked,
he applied a leaf that he carried in his hand to the fastening, and
behold, the lock flew back, and the door opened of its own accord. The
prince was astonished. In a few minutes the robber opened one and all
of the gates and boxes, and extracted all the precious stones. He tied
them up in a bundle, and set it on the prince's head, and asked him to
follow. Sundara followed. He assisted in the plunder of his own palace,
and carried the booty behind the robber, who, praised be his stupidity,
never for one moment suspected he was a prince, but admired his coolie
for the beauty of his person, thought of saving his life, and also of
making him his son-in-law. For the robber had a beautiful daughter,
for whom he had long been searching for a suitable husband. So with
this thought he reached the cave, stopped before it, and taking the
bundle from the prince's head ordered him to go into a large cell,
the mouth of which he covered with a big stone, which he lifted up by
pronouncing an incantation over it. The robber went with the bundle
to his wife, and described to her the beauty of the coolie, and what
a fair match he would be for their daughter. The wife did not like it,
and asked her husband to do with the coolie as they usually did, i.e.,
murder him; and the robber, who never in anything acted against the
will of his wife, went in to fetch his weapon.
Meanwhile the robber's daughter, an excellent girl, of the most
charming beauty, overhearing all that took place between her parents,
came running to the cave where the coolie was confined. She pronounced
a single word over the stone lid of the cave, and it opened, and the
prince, who had lost all hopes of recovery, now beheld a beautiful girl
coming towards him. "Whoever you may be, my dear coolie, fly for your
life for the present. You are my husband. My father has so named you,
but as my mother does not like it, he has gone to fetch his weapon to
murder you. Excepting we three, none, not even Brahma, can open the
once-shut gates. After hearing you once called my husband, I must ever
regard you so. Now fly, and escape my father's sharp sword. If you are
a man, marry me in kind remembrance of the assistance rendered. If you
fail to do so you are a beast, and I shall die a virgin." So saying she
conducted out in haste the supposed coolie, who had only time to take a
hasty embrace, whispering in her ear that he was the prince, and that
he would marry her without fail. He now ran for his life. Fearing the
robber would come after him he left the way by which he reached the
cave, and passing through unknown fields reached the south gate of
the town. By that time the search for him had almost abated, and the
prince, praising God for his delivery, reached the south street. The
night was almost spent. Before returning to the palace he wished
to take rest for a few minutes, till he had recovered his breath,
and so he sat down on the pyal of an old and almost ruined house.
That happened to be the house of a poor Brahman, who had not even
sufficient clothes to wear. As the prince sat down in a corner of
the pyal the door of the house opened, and the old Brahman came
out. The old woman, the Brahmani, was standing at the door with a
vessel containing water for her husband. Subhasastri, for that was
the Brahman's name, looked up to the sky for a couple of minutes,
after which he heaved a deep sigh, and said, "Alas, the prince,
the only son of our former protector, Sivachar, is not to remain
for more than two ghatikas. A kalasarpa (black serpent) will sting
him. What shall we do? We are poor. If we could begin Sarpahoma [45]
now we could tie the mouth of the snake, sacrifice it in the fire,
and thus save the prince." So saying the poor Brahman cried. Sundara,
who overheard everything, jumped down in confusion, and fell at the
feet of the Brahman, who asked him who he was. "I am a herdsman of
the palace. Preserve my master's life," was the reply. Subhasastri
was extremely poor. He had no means to procure a small quantity of
ghi even to begin the homa. [46] He did not know what to do. He begged
from his neighbours, who all laughed at his stupidity, and ridiculed
his astrology. The prince in a hopeless state of anguish wrung his
hands, and in wringing them he felt his ring. Drawing it off his
finger he gave it to Subhasastri, and requested him to pawn it. The
latter resorted to the nearest bazar, and awakening the bazar-keeper
procured from him a little ghi, by pawning the ring. Running home and
bathing in cold water the Brahman sat down for the homa. The prince,
fearing the serpent, wished to sit inside the house, but at a distance
from the place of the ceremony. Just at the appointed hour a large
black serpent broke through the sky, fell on the head of the prince,
whom he was not able to bite, and gave up its life in the fire. "This
is no shepherd, but the very prince himself," said the Brahmani. [47]
Sundara rose up, and running surrounded them thrice, spoke to them
thus:--"You alone are my parents and protectors. This night has
been a most adventurous one with me. There was every possibility of
my escaping every other calamity, and so I did. But no other power
except yours could have averted this snake-bite. So my rescue is due
to you alone. I have no time to lose now. Before daylight I must fly
unobserved to the palace, and you shall before long see my reward
for this." So saying, Sundara ran to his palace and entered.
Ranavirasing was almost dead. The rumour that the prince was out
reached him. He was astonished at the way in which Sundara had got
out. He searched the whole palace. To his astonishment all the rooms
had previously been opened and plundered. "Has the prince been stolen
away by some vile tricks from the palace," thought Ranavirasing,
and without knowing what to do he was buried in the ocean of sorrow,
from which he gave up all hopes of recovering. What was his joy,
then, when he saw the prince enter the palace just at dawn. "Mai Bab
Chakravarti, where have you been the whole night, throwing away the
advice of your poor slave? How many enemies you have in this world,
you have yet to know," said Ranavirasing. "I know them all now, only
listen to what I say, and do as I bid. I have won the crown without
a blow. Thank the day that gave me you as my protector, for it was
only yesterday that I had ample reason to verify your statements. My
adventures would make your hair stand on end. Thank God I have escaped
from all of them unhurt. If you have a few men ready now, we have won
the kingdom." So saying, the prince explained to him every detail of
his adventure. "If we catch hold of the minister now, we have done
all." "I could never for one moment think that you in a single night
could have seen and done so much. Now that heaven has shown you the
way, I shall obey you," said Ranavirasing, and Sundara accordingly
issued the orders. He described the house with the pyal at which he
had lingered for a while the previous night, and asked a servant to
bring the owner of that house to the Rajasthanik office. Ranavirasing
brought in the Pradhani, who was extremely delighted at the good
intention of the prince. He was offered the Mantri's place. Two were
sent to the shepherds. Twenty were sent to the pleasure-park to have
the minister and his sweet paramour brought to the court in chains. The
female servants were also ordered to be brought. The robber and his
cruel wife were not forgotten. The prince minutely described the
cave, and asked his servants to catch and imprison the robber by
surprising him suddenly, without giving him time to have recourse
to his vile tricks--lock-breaking kajjala, &c. The palace palanquin
was sent for the robber's daughter, whom the prince had firmly made
up his mind to marry. The palace elephants were decked and sent to
fetch with all pomp Subhasastri and his wife to the court. Thus,
without a single stroke, Sundara won the kingdom. Ranavirasing was
thunder-struck by the excellent and bold way in which the prince in
one night went through the series of calamities, and successfully
overcame them all. The Pradhani's delight knew no bounds. He himself
broke open the court and every one connected with the previous night's
adventure was ushered in. The prince bathed, offered up his prayers,
and attended the council. When Subhasastri came in with his wife the
prince put them on the simhasana, [48] and himself standing before
them, explained to all his previous night's adventures, rewarded
the poor Brahman and the shepherds, punished by banishment the
maid-servant who, knowing that the prince's head was coveted, revealed
his concealment, and ordered his wife, the minister, the robber,
and the robber's wife to be beheaded. He rewarded without limit his
protector, Subhasastri, and married the robber's daughter, being won
over by her sincerity. The Pradhani, as we have said already, he made
his minister, and with his old guardian, the faithful Ranavirasing,
the prince reigned for several years in the kingdom of Vanjaimanagar.
V.
"CHARITY ALONE CONQUERS."
Dharmame jayam.
In the town of Tevai [49] there lived a king called Suguna. He had
an excellent minister named Dharmasila. They ruled for a long time in
prosperity over the kingdom. Both of them had sons. The prince's name
was Subuddhi. He was a noble prince, and quite in keeping with his
name, was always bent upon doing good to the world. The minister's son
was named Durbuddhi, a most wicked boy, whose only delight was teasing
beasts and birds from his infancy, and which ripened into all sorts
of wickedness as he grew to boyhood. Notwithstanding the difference
between their temperaments the prince and the minister's son were the
best of friends. The motto of the prince was Dharmame jayam--Charity
alone conquers. That of the minister's son was Adharmame jayam--Absence
of Charity alone conquers. When rising from their beds, when beginning
their prayers, when sitting down for meals or study, and, in fact,
before beginning to do anything, each repeated his motto. The people
had great hopes in Subuddhi, whom they fully expected to see a good
and benevolent king; but the minister's son all thoroughly hated. Even
the minister himself, his father, hated his son for his vile turn of
mind, which he found impossible to change. His only friend, as we have
already said, was the prince, who, notwithstanding all his faults,
loved him sincerely. Both of them had grown up together from their
very cradle, had played in the same dust, had read their lessons
side by side in the same school under the same teachers. Fortune so
ordained that the prince's mind should take such a bent, while the
mind of the minister's son turned in a crooked way.
Nor was Durbuddhi insensible to the disgust and dislike which every
one manifested towards him. He was well aware of all that was going
on around. Still he would not change.
"I have no friend in this world excepting yourself, my dear Subuddhi,"
exclaimed Durbuddhi one day to his royal friend while they were
riding together.
"Fear nothing. I shall ever stand by you as your true friend,"
replied Subuddhi.
"My very father hates me. Who else would like me then? On the other
hand, every one likes you. You may soon get yourself married to some
beautiful lady, while I must remain a bachelor; for no girl would marry
me. You may soon rise to the place of a king; but I cannot become your
minister, as the people do not like me. What can I do?" So said the
minister's son, and hung down his head, as if conscious for a time
of the utter hatred with which the people regarded him.
Subuddhi replied, "Heed it not, I will make you my minister, give
you everything you want, and see you well provided for."
"If so, will you give me your wife one day, at least, if you happen
to get married before me, and if I remain a bachelor after you,"
were the words which the wretched Durbuddhi shamelessly uttered to
the face of his only friend.
These words were enough in themselves to enrage the prince's mind. But
he was of so good a nature that instead of becoming angry, he smiled
at the stupidity of his companion, and agreed that he would thus give
him his wife one day in case he got married first. Thus took place
an agreement between Subuddhi and Durbuddhi while they were still
quite young.
Several years passed after this agreement, when one day the prince
went to hunt in a neighbouring forest. His inseparable companion,
the minister's son, and several hunters followed him to the wood. The
prince and the minister's son both gave chase to a deer. They rode
so much in advance of the hunters that they lost themselves in a
thick jungle, where the latter could neither see nor follow them. The
hunters returned after dark, and informed the king and the minister
about the disappearance of their sons. They thought that as their
sons were grown-up men they need not fear for their safety.
The two friends chased the deer and found themselves in the midst
of a thick forest in the evening. Except a slight breakfast in the
early morning they had tasted no other food. Hunger was pinching them
severely. The hot chase had awakened a severe thirst, to quench which
they were not able to find a drop of water. In utter hopelessness of
life they resigned themselves to the course of their steeds. The beasts
seemed very well to understand the wants of their royal riders. They
went on trotting, and at last, about midnight, stopped on the banks
of a large tank.
The riders, who were almost dead with thirst, opened their closed eyes
when the horses stopped. All of a sudden, and to their great joy,
they found themselves on the banks of a large tank. Their joy knew
no bounds.
"Surely God takes care of His children. Had it not been for His kind
care how could we have come to this tank, when we had given ourselves
up to the guidance of our horses?" thought Subuddhi to himself,
and got down from his horse.
The minister's son, who had become more exhausted by that time than
his companion, also alighted. Subuddhi, true to the nobility of his
mind, took both the steeds first to water, and, after satisfying their
thirst and loosening them to graze by the side of a grassy meadow,
he went into the water to quench his thirst. The minister's son also
followed. After a short prayer Subuddhi took some handfuls of water,
and returned to the bank. Durbuddhi also returned. They chose a
clean spot, and sat down to rest during the remaining part of the
night. The prince, when taking his seat, pronounced his usual motto,
"Charity alone conquers," and the minister's son also repeated his,
"Absence of Charity alone conquers."
These words fell like venom into the ears of the prince at that
time. He could not control his anger then, notwithstanding his mild
disposition. The hardships of the day, their fortunate arrival on a
tank in the dead of night to have their thirst quenched, were fresh
in Subuddhi's mind, and the prayers that he was offering to God were
not yet over. That the minister's son should never think of all this,
and go on with his own stupid motto even at that time was intolerable
to Subuddhi.
"Vile wretch! detested atheist! have you no shame, to utter your wicked
motto even after such calamities? It is not too late even now. Mend
your character. Think of the God that saved you just now. Believe in
Him. Change your motto from this day." Thus spoke the angry prince
to the minister's son.
Durbuddhi, who was naturally of a wicked and quarrelsome temperament,
flew into a rage at once at the excellent advice of the prince.
"Stop your mouth. I know as well as you do; you cannot wag your tail
here. I can oppose you single-handed in this forest."
Thus saying, the minister's son sprang like an enraged lion at
Subuddhi, who, as he never dreamt of any such thing, was completely
overpowered by the wicked Durbuddhi. The prince was thrown down in the
twinkling of an eye, and the minister's son was upon him. He severely
thrashed his royal master, and, taking hold of a twig that was lying
close by, tore out the prince's two eyes, filled up the sockets with
sand, and ran away with his horse, thinking that he had completely
killed him.
Subuddhi was almost dead; his body was bruised all over; his eyes
were no more; his physical pain was unbearable.
"Is there a God over us all?" thought Subuddhi. The night was
almost over. The cool and sweet breeze of the morning gave him some
strength. He rose up, and, crawling on the ground, felt his way to
the entrance of a temple. He crept in, shut the gates, and fastened
the bolt.
It happened to be a temple of the fierce Kali. She used to go out every
morning to gather roots and fruits, and to return at evening. That
day, when she returned, she found her gates shut against her. She
threatened with destruction the usurper of her temple. A voice,
and we know that it was Subuddhi's, replied from within:
"I am already dying of the loss of my eyes. So, if in anger you kill
me, it is so much the better; for what use is there in my living
blind? If, on the contrary, you pity me, and by your divine power
give me my eyes, I shall open the gates."
Kali was in a very difficult position. She was very hungry, and saw
no other way of going inside than by giving Subuddhi his eyes.
"Open the gates; your request is granted," said Kali. No sooner were
these words uttered than the prince recovered his eyes. His delight
may be better imagined than described. He opened the gates and vowed
before Kali that he would from that day continue in that temple as
her servant and worshipper.
The wretched Durbuddhi, after his horrible act, rode on composedly,
following the footsteps of his horse, and reached the forest where
he had been hunting the day before in company with the prince. He
thence returned home all alone. When his father saw him coming back
he suspected something wrong to the prince, and asked his son what
had become of him.
"We chased a deer, and he rode so much in advance of me that he
was out of sight, and finding all search vain, I returned alone,"
was Durbuddhi's reply.
"This I would have believed from anyone but yourself. Never plant your
feet in these dominions till you bring back the prince again. Run for
your life," was the order of the minister, and Durbuddhi accordingly
ran off, fearing the anger of his father.
Thus the Prince Subuddhi served in the Kali temple; and Durbuddhi,
fully confident that he had killed his friend, roamed about from
place to place, as he saw no possibility of returning to his own
country without the prince.
Thus passed several months. The goddess Kali was extremely delighted
at the sincere devotion of Subuddhi, and, calling him one day to her
side, said:
"My son! I am delighted with your great devotion to me. Enough of
your menial services here. Better return now to your kingdom. Your
parents are likely to be much vexed at your loss. Go and console
their minds." Thus ended Kali, and Subuddhi replied:
"Excuse me, my goddess, my mother, I no more regard them as my
parents. This wood is not a large place if they wished to search
for me. As they were so careless about me, I shall also from this
day disregard them. You are my father and mother. Therefore permit
me to end my days here in your service." So saying, Subuddhi begged
Kali to allow him to stay, and the goddess agreed accordingly, for
some time at least.
After a few more months, Kali called the prince again to her, and
addressed him thus:
"My boy! I have devised another plan. Better not, then, go to your
parents, as you do not wish to go now. At a short distance from this
place, in the Kaveri country, reigns a staunch devotee of mine. His
daughter had small-pox, and as he forgot to do proper respect to me,
I have blinded both her eyes. The king has issued a proclamation that
he will give the whole kingdom and his daughter in marriage to him who
would cure her of her defect. He has hung up a bell (ghanta) at which
every physician who wishes to try the case strikes. The king comes
running as soon as he hears the sound, takes home the doctor and shows
him the case. Several persons have tried in vain; for who could repair
a defect inflicted by the displeasure of the gods? Now I mean to send
you there. That king is a staunch worshipper of my feet. Though I have
punished him, still I pity the sad calamity that has come upon his
daughter. You had better go there and strike the bell. He will take
you and show you the case. For three consecutive days apply my holy
ashes to her eyes. Though fools may deride these ashes, still by them
a true devotee can work wonders. On the fourth day her eyes will be
perfectly restored. Then you will secure her hand, and, what is more,
the country of Kaveri. Reign there, for you are born to reign, being
a prince, and not to spend your time here in this wood. If you do not
do so you will commit a sin, and, what is more, incur my displeasure."
Thus ended Kali, and the prince could not refuse; for he feared the
anger of the goddess. Agreeing to her words, and with her manifold
blessings, he started and reached the kingdom of Kaveri.
He struck the bell. The king came running to welcome the new
doctor. All the previous physicians had tried by medicines external
and internal. The new doctor--Prince Subuddhi--proposed to treat the
case by mantras--incantations. The old king, who was very religious,
fully believed that the new doctor might effect the cure, and, just
as he expected, on the fourth day his daughter's sight was completely
restored. The king's joy knew no bounds. He enquired into the parentage
of the doctor: and when he came to know that he had princely blood
in his veins, that he was as honourably descended as himself, his
joy was greatly increased. He sent up a thousand prayers to the
god for giving him a royal son-in-law. As promised in his notice,
he would have to give his daughter to anyone, whatever he might be,
who effected the cure. The lowest beggar, the lowest caste-man, if
he had only succeeded in curing her, would have had as much claim to
her hand as the prince-physician. So when the person that effected
the cure proved to be a prince, the king was extremely delighted,
and at once made all arrangements for the marriage of his daughter,
and gave her to Subuddhi: and, himself being very old, he gave the
kingdom also to the prince at the same time.
Thus by the favour of Kali, Subuddhi had a princess for his wife and a
kingdom to govern. Subuddhi, as we know, was an excellent man. Though
he became king now, he consulted his father-in-law in all matters,
and, in fact, acted only as manager for the old man. Every evening he
used to consult him for an hour or two before disposing of intricate
cases. The duty of signing, too, he reserved for the old man. Thus
even on those days when there were no cases he used to go to his
father-in-law to get papers signed. Thus passed on a couple of years
or so.
One evening, while sitting in company with his wife in the loftiest
room of his palace after the duties of the day, he cast his eyes to
the east main street and contemplated the bustle of that part of the
town. Carts creaking under the load of merchandise, the flourish
with which the goods and wares were exposed for sale, fashionable
gentlemen in their fanciful evening costumes walking to and fro,
the troublesome hawkers that stand by the roadside questioning every
one as to what they would buy, and several other things interested
him, and for a time made him somewhat proud even, that he ruled over
such a rich country. But sweetness is not always unaccompanied with
bitterness. He saw in that same street a man whose face was very
familiar to him, but whom he could not at once make out. A black
man was sitting on a projecting pyal of a corner of a shop, and was
mending some torn gunny bags. Subuddhi looked at him carefully.
"Is it the minister's son, Durbuddhi? No; he is not so black; rather
was not when I saw him last," thought Subuddhi with himself, and
examining his face, he at last exclaimed, "It is he! It is he! It is my
friend and companion." "Who is it?" exclaimed the princess, and rushed
at once to his side. She had most carefully watched her husband's face
for the past few minutes while he was in deep contemplation. "It is
my friend, the minister's son, by name Durbuddhi. We were companions
from our birth; we played in the same dust, read in the same school,
and were ever inseparable companions. I do not know what has brought
him to the condition in which I see him now," said Subuddhi, and
sent some one to fetch him. Of the wicked and base act of the vile
Durbuddhi he did not care to inform his gentle wife, who now retired
to her inner apartments, as decorum did not allow her to be in company
with her husband when he was receiving others.
The persons sent brought in Durbuddhi. Whatever might have been the
cruelty that he had received from the hands of the minister's son,
the prince began to shed tears when he saw his old companion ushered
in, not in that blooming cheerful red complexion in which he had seen
him last, but in a weather-beaten dark skin and dejected colour of
a coolie in which he saw him a few minutes ago.
"I excuse you all your faults, my dear Durbuddhi. Tell me quickly
what has brought you to this wretched plight," asked Subuddhi, and
while asking he began to cry aloud. The minister's son also shed
tears copiously, and cried or pretended to cry; for be it known that
he was a perfect scoundrel, born to no good in the world.
"My own mischief has brought me to this plight. When I returned to our
country, after putting out your eyes and thinking that I had killed
you, my father banished me from our dominions, and ordered me never
to plant my feet within their limits without bringing you back. As I
thought I had put an end to your life I never came back to that tank
in search of you. I engaged myself as a coolie in the streets of this
town after trying several other places without success, and I now
stand before you." Thus ended Durbuddhi, and the prince quite forgot
his cruelty to him. He ordered his servants to get the minister's
son bathed, and attired in as rich robes as he himself wore. Then
he related to him his own story, without omitting a single point,
and at once made him his minister.
The whole story of Durbuddhi, excepting the single point of his
having put out his eyes, the prince related to his wife, father,
and mother-in-law.
Thus was Durbuddhi again restored to his high position, through the
liberal kindness of Subuddhi. Subuddhi did not stop even at this. He
began to send him with papers and other things to the old king for
signature. This went on for some months. All the while Durbuddhi was
as obedient as might be, and by his vile tricks had completely won
over the heart of the old king.
One evening, after the signatures were over, Durbuddhi stopped for
a while as if desirous to speak. "What do you want?" said the old
king. "Nothing but your favour," was the only reply, after which he
retired. Thus he went on for some days and weeks. Every day he stopped
for a few minutes after the state business was over, and when the
old king asked the reason for it went on giving evasive answers. At
last one evening the old king was extremely provoked. The cunning
Durbuddhi had purposely intended this.
"What a big fool are you to stop every day as if wishing to speak
and never to utter a word," broke out the old king.
"I beg pardon of your honour; I was thinking all the while whether I
should let out my secret or not. At last, I have come to the conclusion
that I will keep it to myself," replied the diabolical Durbuddhi.
"No, you shall let it out," roared the old king, whose curiosity
was more roused than abated by the words, purposely obscure, of
the minister's son. Durbuddhi, after simulating much reluctance at
disclosing the supposed secret, loudly began his harangue:
"My lord, ever since I came here I have been making enquiries about
the nobility of your family, about the sacrifices that you and your
ancestors have performed, about the purifications that you and your
elders have undergone, and about a thousand other particulars, each
of which is enough to secure you and your descendants the place of
Achyuta (Achyutapada) himself. These delighted me for a time--I say
for a time--for listen, please, to what follows. When I compared with
the pure fame of your famous family, that of your son-in-law, my heart
began to pain me. Indeed the pain which began at that moment has not
yet ceased. Know, then, that your son-in-law is not a prince. No doubt
he has royal blood in his veins, which makes him look like a king. How
came he to be so skilful in medicine. Just enquire the cause. To be no
more in the dark, the king of my country--over which my father is the
minister--set out one day on savar. While passing a barber's street he
saw a beautiful damsel of that caste. Bewitched by her beauty the king
wanted to include her in his harem, notwithstanding her low position
in society. The child of that woman, is your son-in-law. He being the
son of a barber-mother acquired thus easily the art of medicine. That
a king was his father makes him look like a prince. If he had been of
pure birth why should he leave his kingdom, and come here to effect
the cure of your daughter? Except this prince, or supposed prince,
all those that came here were mere doctors by caste." Thus ended the
vile Durbuddhi, and taking in his hand the papers, vanished out of
the room quickly, like a serpent that had stung.
The sweet words in which the minister's son clothed his arguments,
the rising passion at the thought that he had been falsely imposed
upon by a barber's son, the shame--or rather supposed shame--that he
thought had come over his family, and a thousand other feelings clouded
for a time the clear reason of the old king. He saw no other way of
putting an end to the shame than by the murder of his dear daughter and
son-in-law first, and of his own self and queen afterwards. At once he
sent for the executioner, who came in. He gave him his signet-ring,
and commanded him to break open the bed-room of his son-in-law that
midnight, and murder him with his wife while asleep. The hukums, or
orders given with signet-rings, can never be disobeyed. The executioner
humbled himself to the ground, as a sign of his accepting the order,
and retired to sharpen his knife for his terrible duty.
Neither Subuddhi nor his affectionate wife had any reason to suspect
this terrible mandate. The old queen and the treacherous Durbuddhi
had equally no reason to know anything about it. The old man, after
issuing the hukum, shut himself up in his closet, and began to weep
and wail as if he had lost his daughter from that moment. Durbuddhi,
after kindling the fire, as says the Tamil proverb, by means of his
treachery, came back with the papers to the prince. A thought occurred
in his mind that Subuddhi's fate was drawing near. He wanted to carry
out the agreement between himself and the prince about the latter's
wife. The excellent Subuddhi, who always observed oaths most strictly,
was confused for a time. He did not know what to do. To stick to the
oath and surrender his wife to another; or to break it and preserve
the chastity of his own wife. At last, repeating in his own mind,
"Charity alone conquers," and also thinking that Heaven would somehow
devise to preserve his wife, he went to her, explained to her how
the matter stood, and ordered her to go to the minister's son. She
hesitatingly consented; for, as a good wife, she could not disobey
her husband's commands. Subuddhi then told Durbuddhi that he might
have his wife as his own.
The princess went to her mother, crying that her husband had turned
out mad. "Or else who would promise to give his wife to another. What
does he mean by that?"
"My daughter! fear nothing, perhaps, in his boyhood, he made this rash
promise without thinking. The promise once made now pains him. Unable
to break it, and leaving it to yourself to preserve your chastity,
he has so ordered you. And he would, nay must, excuse you, if you
by some means or other save yourself, and apparently make good
your husband's promise also. A thought just comes to me how to do
that. There is your foster-sister, exactly resembling you. I shall
send her in your place." So consoling her daughter, the old queen at
once made all the requisite arrangements. And, of course, Subuddhi
had no reason then to know anything about them.
In the middle of the night his door is forced open, and a ruffian
with a drawn sword, blazing like lightning, rushes in, and murders
the pair. Thus in that very night in which Durbuddhi had reached the
topmost point of his vice, he was cut down by the supreme hand of
God. For, it is said, that when crime increases, God himself cannot
tolerate it.
The morning dawned. Subuddhi rose from his couch, and after his morning
prayers was sitting in the council hall. The princess and her mother
rose from their beds, and were attending to their business. A servant
just at that time came running to the old queen, and said:
"Our king is weeping in his room that his daughter is now no more. I
think that there is something wrong with his majesty's brains
to-day. Come and console him."
The queen, who knew nothing of what had happened, ran to her husband's
room, quite astonished at the change. The husband reported everything
to her--the sage-looking minister's son, the barber's son-in-law,
and everything, and then concluded that their daughter and son-in-law
were no more.
"What! compose yourself. Our son-in-law is sitting in his durbar. Our
daughter is just adorning herself in her dressing-room. Were you
dreaming? Are you in your right senses?" said the queen.
The king ordered the executioner to bring the heads, which, on
examination, proved to be those of the minister's son and of the
foster-sister. The queen told everything of the one-day-wife-giving
engagement, and her own arrangements about it. The old king could not
understand what all this meant. He drew out his sword and ran to the
durbar like a maddened lion, and stood armed before his son-in-law.
"Relate to me your true origin, and everything respecting
yourself. Speak the truth. How came you to learn medicine? If you are a
prince why should you leave your own dominions and come down here? What
about this wicked agreement of giving your wife to another? Who is
this minister's son?"
Subuddhi, without omitting a single point, related everything that
had taken place, even to the putting out of his eyes. The old man
threw down his sword, took his son-in-law in his arms almost, for so
great was his joy at the excellent way which fate had prepared for
his escape, and said:
"My son, my life, my eye. True it is, true it is. Dharma alone
conquers, and you that hold that motto have conquered everything. The
vile wretch whom, notwithstanding the series of rogueries that
he practised upon you, you protected, has at last found out that
his Adharmam never conquers. But he never found it out. It was his
Adharmam that cut him off on the very night of his supposed complete
conquest by it."
Letters were sent at once to Tevai, inviting Suguna and Dharmasila
to the happy rejoicings at the prince and princess's delivery, and
a re-marriage was celebrated with all pomp, in honour of their lucky
escape. Dharmasila, as he disliked his son, never shed a single tear
for his loss. Subuddhi lived for a long time, giving much consolation
to his own and his wife's parents. Through the blessings of Kali they
had several intelligent sons.
VI.
VIDAMUNDAN KODAMUNDAN.
MR. WON'T-GIVE AND MR. WON'T-LEAVE.
In a certain town there lived a clever old Brahman, named
Won't-Give. [50] He used to go out daily and to beg in all the houses
round, under the pretence that he had to feed several Brahmans in
his own house. Good people, that believed in his words, used to give
him much rice and curry stuffs, with which he would come home, and
explain to his wife how he had deceived such and such a gentleman
by the imposition of feeding in charity many persons at home. But
if any hungry Brahman, who had heard of his empty boast of feeding
Brahmans at home, came to him, he was sent away with some excuse or
other. In this way Mr. Won't-Give brought home a basketful of rice and
other necessaries every day, of which he only used a small portion for
himself and his wife, and converted the remainder into money. And thus,
by imposition and tricks, he managed to live well for several years.
In an adjoining village there lived another very clever Brahman, named
Won't-Leave. [51] Whenever he found any man reluctant and unwilling
to give him anything that he begged of him, he would persist in
bothering him until he had wrung from him a dole. This Mr. Won't-Leave,
hearing of the charity of Mr. Won't-Give, and his benevolent feeding
of Brahmans, came to see him one day, and requested him to give him
a meal. Mr. Won't-Give told him that for that day ten Brahmans had
already been settled, and that if he came the next day he would have
his meal without fail. Mr. Won't-Leave agreed to this, and left him
for that day. Mr. Won't-Give had, of course, told him the very lie
he was accustomed to tell all that occasionally begged meals of him.
Now Mr. Won't-Leave was not so stupid as to be thus imposed upon. He
stood before Mr. Won't-Give's door precisely at the appointed ghatika
(hour) the next day, and reminded the master of the house of his
promise. Mr. Won't-Give had never before been taken at his word,
and determined to send away the impertinent guest by some stronger
excuse than the first, and so he spoke to him thus:--
"Sir, I am very sorry to say that my wife fell ill last night of a
strong fever, from which she has not yet recovered. Owing to this
unforeseen accident I have had to postpone my charitable feedings
(samaradhana) till her recovery, so do not trouble me, please, for
some days more."
Mr. Won't-Leave heard these words with an expression of sincere,
or rather, seemingly sincere, sorrow in his face, and replied:--
"Respected sir, I am very sorry for the illness of the mistress of the
house, but to give up charitable feeding of Brahmans on that account
is a great sin. For the last ten years I have been studying the art
of cooking, and can now cook for even several hundreds of Brahmans; so
I can assist you now in preparing the necessaries for the samaradhana."
Mr. Won't-Give could not refuse such a request, but he deceitfully
determined in his mind to get Mr. Won't-Leave to cook for him, and
then to drive him away without giving him his rice. And so he said:--
"Yes, that is a very good idea. I am much obliged to you for your
kind suggestion. Come in; let us cook together."
So saying, the master of the house took Mr. Won't-Leave inside and
they both went into the kitchen, while the mistress of the house,
at the command of her husband, pretended to be ill.
Now Mr. Won't-Give was a good liver, and prepared, with the assistance
of Mr. Won't-Leave, several good dishes. And then the difficulty was
to drive the fellow out, for the long-maintained rule of never feeding
a single Brahman must not be broken that day. So, when the cooking
was all over, the master of the house gave to Mr. Won't-Leave a kasu
(copper coin), and asked him to bring some leaves from the bazar
(for plates), and he accordingly went. Mr. Won't-Give, meanwhile,
came to his wife, and instructed her thus:--
"My dearest wife, I have spared you the trouble of cooking
to-day. Would that we could get such stupid fools as this every day
to cook for us! I have now sent him out to fetch us some leaves,
and it won't look well if we shut our doors against him or drive him
away; so we must make him go away of his own accord. A thought has
just come into my mind as to how we can do it. As soon as he comes
you shall commence to quarrel with me. I shall then come to you
and beat you, or, rather, the ground near you, with both my hands,
and you must continue your abuse and cries. The guest will find this
very disgusting, and will leave us of his own accord."
Mr. Won't-Give had just finished when he saw Mr. Won't-Leave returning
with the leaves. The wife, as pre-arranged, abused her husband right
and left for his great imprudence and over-liberality in feeding the
Brahmans. Said she:
"How are we to get on in the world if you thus empty the house of
everything we have in feeding big-bellied Brahmans? Must you be
so particular as to invite them, even when I am sick?" These, and
a thousand similar expressions, were now launched at the husband's
head. He pretended not to hear it for a time, but at last, apparently
overcome by anger, he went in and with his hands gave successive
blows on the floor. At every blow on the floor the wife cried out
that she was being murdered, and that those who had mercy in their
hearts should come to her rescue.
Mr. Won't-Leave, from the court-yard of the house, listened to what
was taking place inside, but not wishing to interfere in a quarrel
between husband and wife, left matters to take their own course,
and got into the loft, where he hid himself, fearing that he would
be summoned as a witness to the quarrel.
After a time Mr. Won't-Give came out of the room where he had been
beating the floor, and to his joy he could not find the guest. He
cautiously looked round him and saw no signs of Mr. Won't-Leave. Of
course, having had no reason to think that his guest would be sitting
in the loft, he did not look up there; and even if he had done so,
he would not have found him, for he had hidden himself out of sight.
Mr. Won't-Give now carefully bolted the door, and his wife came out
and changed her dirty cloth for a clean one. Said her husband to her:
"At last we have succeeded in driving him out; come, you too must be
hungry; let us have our dinner together."
Two leaves were spread on the ground, and all the dishes were equally
divided into them. Meanwhile Mr. Won't-Leave was watching all that took
place below him and, being himself very hungry, was slyly watching
for an opportunity to jump down. Mr. Won't-Give, gloating over his
trickery, said to his wife:
"Well, my love, did I not beat you without hurting you?" to which
she replied:
"Did I not continue to cry without shedding tears?" when suddenly
there fell on their ears:
"And did I not come to have my dinner without going away?" and down
jumped Mr. Won't-Leave, from the loft, and took his seat in front of
the leaf spread by Mr. Won't-Give for his wife. And Mr. Won't-Give,
though disappointed, was highly pleased at the cleverness of his guest.
This story is cited as the authority for three proverbs that have
come into use in Tamil.
"Novamal aditten."
"Oyamal aluden."
"Pokamal vanden."
which represent the exchanges of politeness between the husband,
the wife, and the guest, quoted in the foregoing paragraphs.
VII.
VAYALVALLAN KAIYAVALLA.
MR. MIGHTY-OF-HIS-MOUTH AND MR. MIGHTY-OF-HIS-HANDS.
In two adjoining villages there lived two famous men. The one
was called Mr. Mighty-of-his-mouth [52]--one that could accomplish
wonders with words alone. The other was called Mr. Mighty-of-his-hands
[53]--one who could make no use of that glib instrument the tongue, but
was able to bear burdens, cut wood, and perform other physical labour.
It so happened that they agreed to live together in the house of
the Mr. Mighty-of-his-mouth, to try and see which of them was the
superior. They accordingly kept company for several months, till the
great feast of the nine nights (navaratri) came on. On the first day
of the feast Mr. Mighty-of-his-hands wanted to sacrifice a goat to
the goddess Kali. So he said to Mr. Mighty-of-his-mouth,
"My dear friend, we both are mighty in our way, and so it would be
shameful for us to buy the goat, that we want to sacrifice, with
money. We should manage to get it without payment."
"Yes, we must do so, and I know how," replied Mr. Mighty-of-his-mouth,
and he asked his friend to wait till that evening.
Now there lived a shepherd at one ghatika's (hour's) distance from
their house, and the two friends resolved to go to his fold that
night and steal away one of his goats. Accordingly, when it was dark,
they approached his fold. The shepherd had just finished his duties
to the mute members of his flock, and wanted to go home and have
his rice hot. But he had no second person to watch the flock, and he
must not lose his supper. So he planted his crook before the fold,
and throwing his blanket (kambali) over it, thus addressed it:
"My son, I am very hungry, and so must go for my rice. Till I return
do you watch the flock. This wood is rich in tigers and goblins
(bhutas). Some mischievous thief or bhuta--or kuta [54] may come
to steal away the sheep. Watch over them carefully." So saying the
shepherd went away.
The friends had heard what the shepherd said. Of course,
Mr. Mighty-of-his-mouth laughed within himself at this device of the
shepherd to impress upon would-be robbers that he had left some one
there to watch his sheep, while really he had only planted a pole
and thrown a blanket over it. Mr. Mighty-of-his-hands, however, did
not see the trick, and mistaking the stick to be an actual watchman
sitting at his duty before the fold, spoke thus to his friend:
"Now what are we to do? There is a watchman sitting in front of the
fold." Thereon, Mr. Mighty-of-his-mouth cleared away his doubts by
saying that it was no watchman, but a mere stick, and entered the
fold with his friend.
It had also so happened that on that very night a bhuta (goblin) had
come into the fold to steal away a sheep. It shuddered with fear on
hearing the shepherd mention the kuta, for having never heard of the
existence of kutas, it mistook this imaginary being to be something
superior in strength to itself. So thinking that a kuta might come
to the fold, and not wishing to expose itself till it knew well what
kutas were, the bhuta transformed itself into a sheep and laid itself
down among the flock. By this time the two Mighties had entered the
fold and begun an examination of the sheep. They went on rejecting
one animal after another for some defect or other, till at last they
came to the sheep which was none other than the bhuta. They tested it,
and when they found it very heavy--as, of course, it would be with
the soul of the bhuta in it--they began to tie up its legs to carry
it home. When hands began to shake it the bhuta mistook the Mighties
for the kutas, and said to itself:--
"Alas! the kutas have come to take me away. What am I to do? What
a fool I was to come into the fold!" So thought the bhuta as
Mr. Mighty-of-his-hands was carrying it away on his head, with his
friend following him behind. But the bhuta soon began to work its
devilish powers to extricate itself, and Mr. Mighty-of-his-hands
began to feel pains all over his body and said to his friend:
"My dear Mighty, I feel pains all over me. I think what we have brought
is no sheep!" Mr. Mighty-of-his-mouth was inwardly alarmed at the words
of his friend, but did not like to show that he was afraid. So he said:
"Then put down the sheep, and let us tear open its belly, so that we
shall each have only one-half of it to carry."
This frightened the bhuta, and he melted away on the head of
Mr. Mighty-of-his-hands, who, relieved of his devilish burden, was
glad to return home safe with his friend.
The bhuta, too, went to its abode and there told its fellow-goblins
how it had involved itself in a great trouble and how narrowly it
had escaped. They all laughed at its stupidity and said, "What a
great fool you are! They were not kutas. In fact there are no kutas
in the world. They were men, and it was most stupid of you to have
got yourself into their hands. Are you not ashamed to make such a fuss
about your escape?" The injured bhuta retorted that they would not have
made such remarks had they seen the kutas. "Then show us these kutas,
as you choose to call them," said they, "and we will crush them in
the twinkling of an eye." "Agreed," said the injured bhuta, and the
next night it took them to the house of the Mighties, and said from
a distance: "There is their house. I cannot approach it. Do whatever
you like." The other bhutas were amazed at the fear of their timid
brother, and resolved among themselves to put an end to the enemies
of even one member of their caste. So they went in a great crowd
to the house of the Mighties. Some stood outside the house, to see
that none of the inmates escaped, and some watched in the back-yard,
while a score of them jumped over the walls and entered the court-yard.
Mr. Mighty-of-his-hands was sleeping in the verandah, adjoining the
courtyard, and when he heard the noise of people jumping about,
he opened his eyes, and to his terror saw some bhutas in the
court. Without opening his mouth he quietly rolled himself along
the ground, and went to the room where Mr. Mighty-of-his-mouth was
sleeping with his wife and children. Tapping gently at the door he
awoke his friend and said:
"What shall we do now? The bhutas have invaded our house, and will
soon kill us."
Mr. Mighty-of-his-mouth told him quietly not to be afraid, but to go
and sleep in his original place, and that he himself would make the
bhutas run away. Mr. Mighty-of-his-hands did not understand what his
friend meant, but not wishing to argue rolled his way back to his
original place and pretended to sleep, though his heart was beating
terribly with fright. Mr. Mighty-of-his-mouth now awoke his wife,
and instructed her thus:
"My dearest wife, the foolish bhutas have invaded our house, but
if you act according to my advice we are safe, and the goblins will
depart harmlessly. What I want you to do is, to go to the hall and
light a lamp, spread leaves on the floor, and then pretend to awake
me for my supper. I shall get up and enquire what you have ready to
give me to eat. You will then reply that you have only pepper water
and vegetables. With an angry face I shall say, 'What have you done
with the three bhutas that our son caught hold of on his way back
from school?' Your reply must be, 'The rogue wanted some sweetmeats
on coming home. Unfortunately I had none in the house, so he roasted
the three bhutas and gobbled them up.'"
Thus instructing his wife Mr. Mighty-of-his-mouth pretended to go to
sleep. The wife accordingly spread the leaves and called her husband
for his supper. During the conversation that followed, the fact that
the son had roasted three goblins for sweetmeats was conveyed to the
bhutas. They shuddered at the son's extraordinary ability, and thought,
"What must the father do for his meals when a son roasts three bhutas
for sweetmeats?"
So they at once took to their heels. Then going to the brother they
had jeered at, they said to him that indeed the kutas were their
greatest enemies, and that none of their lives were safe while they
remained where they were, as on that very evening the son of a kuta
had roasted three of them for sweetmeats. They therefore all resolved
to fly away to the adjoining forest, and disappeared accordingly. Thus
Mr. Mighty-of-his-mouth saved himself and his friend on two occasions
from the bhutas.
The friends after this went out one day to an adjoining village and
were returning home rather late in the evening. Darkness fell on them
before half the way was traversed, and there lay before them a dense
wood infested by beasts of prey: so they resolved to spend the night in
a high tree and go home next morning, and accordingly got up into a big
pipal. Now this was the very wood into which the bhutas had migrated,
and at midnight they all came down with torches to catch jackals
and other animals to feast upon. The fear of Mr. Mighty-of-his-hands
may be more imagined than described. The dreaded bhutas were at the
foot of the very tree in which he had taken up his abode for the
night! His hands trembled. His body shook. He lost his hold, and down
he came with a horrible rustling of leaves. His friend, however, was,
as usual, ready with a device, and bawled out:
"I wished to leave these poor beings to their own revelry. But you
are hungry and must needs jump down to catch some of them. Do not
fail to lay your hands on the stoutest bhuta."
The goblins heard the voice which was already very familiar to their
ears, for was it not the kuta whose son had roasted up three bhutas
for sweetmeats that spoke? So they ran away at once, crying out:
"Alas, what misery! Our bitter enemies have followed us even to
this wood!"
Thus the wit of Mr. Mighty-of-his-mouth saved himself and his friend
for the third time.
The sun began to rise, and Mr. Mighty-of-his-hands thrice walked
round Mr. Mighty-of-his-mouth and said:
"My dear friend, truly you only of us two are mighty. Mere physical
strength is of no use without skill in words. The latter is far
superior to the former, and if a man possess both, he is, as it were,
a golden lotus having a sweet scent. It is enough for me now to have
arrived at this moral! With your kind permission I shall return to
my village." Mr. Mighty-of-his-mouth asked his friend not to consider
himself under any obligation, and, after honouring him as became his
position he let him return to his village.
The moral of this short story is that in man there is nothing great
but mind.
VIII.
THE MOTHER-IN-LAW BECAME AN ASS.
Little by little the mother-in-law became an ass--vara vara mami
kaludai pol anal, is a proverb among the Tamils, applied to those
who day by day go downwards in their progress in study, position,
or life, and based on the following story:--
In a certain village their lived a Brahman with his wife, mother,
and mother-in-law. He was a very good man, and equally kind to all
of them. His mother complained of nothing at his hands, but his wife
was a very bad-tempered woman, and always troubled her mother-in-law
by keeping her engaged in this work or that throughout the day, and
giving her very little food in the evening. Owing to this the poor
Brahman's mother was almost dying of misery. On the other hand, her
own mother received very kind treatment, of course, at her daughter's
hands, but the husband was so completely ruled by his wife, that he
had no strength of mind to oppose her ill-treatment of his mother.
One evening, just before sunset, the wife abused her mother-in-law with
such fury, that the latter had to fly away to escape a thrashing. Full
of misery she ran out of the village, but the sun had begun to set,
and the darkness of night was fast overtaking her. So finding a ruined
temple she entered it to pass the night there. It happened to be
the abode of the village Kali (goddess), who used to come out every
night at midnight to inspect her village. That night she perceived a
woman--the mother of the poor Brahman--lurking within her prakaras
(boundaries), and being a most benevolent Kali, called out to her,
and asked her what made her so miserable that she should leave her
home on such a dark night. The Brahmani told her story in a few
words, and while she was speaking the cunning goddess was using her
supernatural powers to see whether all she said was true or not, and
finding it to be the truth, she thus replied in very soothing tones:--
"I pity your misery, mother, because your daughter-in-law troubles
and vexes you thus when you have become old, and have no strength
in your body. Now take this mango," and taking a ripe one from out
her waist-band, she gave it to the old Brahmani with a smiling
face--"eat it, and you will soon become a young woman like your
own daughter-in-law, and then she shall no longer trouble you." Thus
consoling the afflicted old woman, the kind-hearted Kali went away. The
Brahmani lingered for the remainder of the night in the temple, and
being a fond mother she did not like to eat the whole of the mango
without giving a portion of it to her son.
Meanwhile, when her son returned home in the evening he found his
mother absent, but his wife explained the matter to him, so as to throw
the blame on the old woman, as she always did. As it was dark he had no
chance of going out to search for her, so he waited for the daylight,
and as soon as he saw the dawn, started to look for his mother. He
had not walked far when to his joy he found her in the temple of Kali.
"How did you pass the cold night, my dearest mother?" said he. "What
did you have for dinner? Wretch that I am to have got myself married
to a cur. Forget all her faults, and return home."
His mother shed tears of joy and sorrow, and related her previous
night's adventure, upon which he said:--
"Delay not even one nimisha (minute), but eat this fruit at once. I
do not want any of it. Only if you become young and strong enough to
stand that nasty cur's troubles, well and good."
So the mother ate up the divine fruit, and the son took her upon his
shoulders and brought her home, on reaching which he placed her on the
ground, when to his joy she was no longer an old woman, but a young
girl of sixteen, and stronger than his own wife. The troublesome
wife was now totally put down, and was powerless against so strong
a mother-in-law.
She did not at all like the change, and having to give up her habits
of bullying, and so she argued to herself thus:--
"This jade of a mother-in-law became young through the fruit of the
Kali, why should not my mother also do the same, if I instruct her
and send her to the same temple."
So she instructed her mother as to the story she ought to give to
the goddess and sent her there. Her old mother, agreeably to her
daughter's injunctions, went to the temple, and on meeting with the
goddess at midnight, gave a false story that she was being greatly
ill-treated by her daughter-in-law, though, in truth, she had nothing
of the kind to complain of. The goddess perceived the lie through her
divine powers, but pretending to pity her, gave her also a fruit. Her
daughter had instructed her not to eat it till next morning, and till
she saw her son-in-law.
As soon as morning approached, the poor hen-pecked Brahman was ordered
by his wife to go to the temple and fetch his mother-in-law, as he
had some time back fetched away his mother. He accordingly went, and
invited her to come home. She wanted him to eat part of the fruit, as
she had been instructed, but he refused, and so she swallowed it all,
fully expecting to become young again on reaching home. Meanwhile her
son-in-law took her on his shoulders and returned home, expecting,
as his former experience had taught him, to see his mother-in-law
also turn into a young woman. Anxiety to see how the change came on
over-came him, and half way he turned his head, and found such part
of the burden on his shoulders as he could see, to be like parts of an
ass, but he took this to be a mere preliminary stage towards youthful
womanhood! Again he turned, and again he saw the same thing several
times, and the more he looked the more his burden became like an ass,
till at last when he reached home, his burden jumped down braying
like an ass and ran away.
Thus the Kali, perceiving the evil intentions of the wife, disappointed
her by turning her mother into an ass, but no one knew of it till
she actually jumped down from the shoulders of her son-in-law.
This story is always cited as the explanation of the proverb
quoted above--vara vara mami kaludai pol anal--little by little
the mother-in-law became an ass, to which is also commonly added ur
varumbodu ulaiyida talaippattal--and as she approached the village,
she began to bray.
IX.
The Story of Appayya. [55]
Apupena hatah chorah
Hata khadgona kesari
Turamgena hatam sainyam
Vidhirbhagyanu sarini
In a remote village there lived a poor Brahman and his wife. Though
several years of their wedded life had passed, they unfortunately had
no children, and so, being very eager for a child, and having no hope
of one by his first wife, the poor Brahman made up his mind to marry
a second. His wife would not permit it for some time, but finding
her husband resolved, she gave way, thinking within herself that she
would manage somehow to do away with the second wife. As soon as he
had got her consent the Brahman arranged for his second marriage and
wedded a beautiful Brahman girl. She went to live with him in the same
house with the first wife, who, thinking that she would be making the
world suspicious if she did anything suddenly, waited for some time.
Isvara himself seemed to favour the new marriage, and the second wife,
a year after her wedding, becoming pregnant, went in the sixth month of
her pregnancy to her mother's house for her confinement. Her husband
bore his separation from her patiently for a fortnight, but after
this the desire to see her again began to prey upon his mind, and
he was always asking his first wife when he ought to go to her. She
seemed to sympathise fully with his trouble, and said:--
"My dearest husband, your health is daily being injured, and I am glad
that your love for her has not made it worse than it is. To-morrow
you must start on a visit to her. It is said that we should not go
empty-handed to children, a king, or a pregnant woman; so I shall
give you one hundred apupa cakes, packed up separately in a vessel,
which you must give to her. You are very fond of apupas and I fear
that you will eat some of them on the way; but you had better not do
so. And I will give you some cakes packed in a cloth separately for
you to eat on your journey."
So the first wife spent the whole night in preparing the apupa cakes,
and mixed poison in the sugar and rice-flour of those she made for
her co-wife and rival; but as she entertained no enmity against her
husband the apupas cakes for him were properly prepared. By the time
the morning dawned she had packed up the hundred apupas in a brass
vessel which could be easily carried on a man's head.
After a light breakfast--for a heavy one is always bad before a
journey on foot--the Brahman placed the brass vessel on his head,
and holding in his hand the kerchief containing the food for himself
on the way, started for the village of his second wife, which happened
to be at a distance of two days' journey. He walked in hot haste till
evening approached, and when the darkness of night overtook him the
rapidity of his walk had exhausted him, and he felt very hungry. He
espied a wayside shed and a tank near his path, and entered the water
to perform his evening ablution to the god of the day, who was fast
going down below the horizon. As soon as this was over he untied his
kerchief, and did full justice to its contents by swallowing every cake
whole. He then drank some water, and being quite overcome by fatigue,
fell into a deep slumber in the shed, with his brass vessel and its
sweet, or rather poisonous, contents under his head.
Close by the spot where the Brahman slept there reigned a famous
king who had a very beautiful daughter. Several persons demanded her
hand in marriage, among whom was a robber chieftain who wanted her
for his only son. Though the king liked the boy for his beauty, the
thought that he was only a robber for all that prevented him from
making up his mind to give his daughter in marriage to him. The
robber chief, however, was determined to have his own way, and
accordingly despatched one hundred of his band to fetch away the
princess in the night without her knowledge while she was sleeping,
to his palace in the woods. In obedience to their chieftain's order
the robbers, on the night the Brahman happened to sleep in the shed,
entered the king's palace and stole away the princess, together with
the bed on which she was sleeping. On reaching the shed the hundred
robbers found themselves very thirsty--for being awake at midnight
always brings on thirst. So they placed the cot on the ground and
were entering the water to quench their thirst; just then they
smelt the apupa cakes, which, for all that they contained poison,
had a very sweet savour. The robbers searched about the shed, and
found the Brahman sleeping on one side and the brass vessel lying at
a distance from him, for he had pushed it from underneath his head
when he had stretched himself in his sleep; they opened the vessel,
and to their joy found in it exactly one hundred apupa cakes.
"We have one here for each of us, and that is something better than
mere water. Let us each eat before we go into it," said the leader
of the gang, and at once each man swallowed greedily what he had in
his hand, and immediately all fell down dead. Lucky it was that no
one knew of the old Brahmani's trick. Had the robbers had any reason
to suspect it they would never have eaten the cakes; had the Brahman
known it he would never have brought them with him for his dear second
wife. Lucky was it for the poor old Brahman and his second wife,
and lucky was it for the sleeping princess, that these cakes went,
after all, into the stomachs of the villainous robbers!
After sleeping his fill the Brahman, who had been dreaming of his
second wife all night, awoke in haste to pursue the remainder of his
journey to her house. He could not find his brass vessel, but near the
place where he had left it he found several men of the woods, whom
he knew very well by their appearance to be robbers, as he thought,
sleeping. Angered at the loss of his vessel he took up a sword from
one of the dead robbers and cut off all their heads, thinking all
the while that he was killing one hundred living robbers, who were
sleeping after having eaten all his cakes. Presently the princess's
cot fell under his gaze, and he approached it and found on it a most
beautiful lady fast asleep. Being an intelligent man he perceived that
the persons whose heads he had cut off must have been some thieves,
or other wicked men, who had carried her off. He was not long in doubt,
for not far off he saw an army marching up rapidly with a king at its
head, who was saying, "Down with the robber who has stolen away my
daughter." The Brahman at once inferred that this must be the father
of the sleeping princess, and suddenly waking her up from her sleep
spoke thus to her:--
"Behold before you the hundred robbers that brought you here a few
hours ago from your palace. I fought one and all of them single-handed,
and have killed them all."
The princess was highly pleased at what she heard, for she knew of
all the tricks the robbers had previously played to carry her off. So
she fell reverently at the Brahman's feet and said:--
"Friend, never till now have I heard of a warrior who, single-handed,
fought one hundred robbers. Your valour is unparalleled. I will be
your wife, if only in remembrance of your having saved me from falling
into the hands of these ruffians."
Her father and his army was now near the shed, for he had all along
watched the conduct of the robber chieftain, and as soon as the
maid-servants of the palace informed him of the disappearance of the
princess and her bed, he marched straight with his soldiers for the
woods. His joy, when he saw his daughter safe, knew no bounds, and
he flew into his daughter's arms, while she pointed to the Brahman
as her preserver. The king now put a thousand questions to our hero,
who, being well versed in matters of fighting, gave sound replies, and
so came successfully out of his first adventure. The king, astonished
at his valour, took him to his palace, and rewarded him with the hand
of the princess. And the robber chieftain, fearing the new son-in-law,
who, single-handed, had killed a hundred of his robbers, never troubled
himself about the princess. Thus the Brahman's first adventure ended
in making him son-in-law to a king!
Now there lived a lioness in a wood near the princess's country,
who had a great taste for human flesh, and so, once a week, the king
used to send a man into the wood to serve as her prey. All the people
now collected together before the king, and said:--
"Most honoured king, while you have a son-in-law who killed one hundred
robbers with his sword, why should you continue to send a man into
the wood every week. We request you to send your son-in-law next week
to the wood and have the lioness killed."
This seemed most reasonable to the king, who called for his son-in-law,
and sent him, armed to the teeth, into the wood.
Now our Brahman could not refuse to go, for fear of losing the fame
of his former exploit, and, hoping that fortune would favour him, he
asked his father-in-law to have him hoisted up into a big banyan tree
with all kinds of weapons, and this was done. The appointed time for
the lioness to eat her prey approached, and as she saw no one coming
for her, and as sometimes those that had to come used to linger for
a short time in the tree in which the Brahman had taken refuge, she
went up to it to see that no such trick has been played upon her this
time. This made the Brahman tremble so violently that he dropped the
sword he held in his hand. At that very moment the lioness happened
to yawn, and the sword dropped right into her jaws and killed her. As
soon as the Brahman saw the course which events had taken, he came
down from the tree, and invented a thousand stories of how he had
given battle to the terrible lioness and overcome her. This exploit
fully established his valour, and feasts and rejoicings in honour of
it followed, and the whole country round blessed the son-in-law of
their king.
Near this kingdom there also reigned a powerful emperor, who levied
tribute from all the surrounding countries. To this emperor the
father-in-law of our most valorous Brahman, who, at one stroke,
had killed one hundred robbers, and, at another, a fierce lioness,
had also to pay a certain amount of tribute; but, trusting to the
power of his son-in-law, he stopped the tribute to the emperor, who,
by the way, was named Appayya Raja, and who, as soon as the tribute
was stopped, invaded his dominions, and his father-in-law besought
the Brahman for assistance.
Again the poor Brahman could not refuse, for, if he did, all his
former fame would have been lost; so he determined to undertake
this adventure also, and to trust to fortune rather than give up the
attempt. He asked for the best horse and the sharpest sword, and set
out to fight the enemy, who had already encamped on the other side
of the river, which flowed at a short distance to the east of the town.
Now the king had a very unruly horse, which had never been broken in,
and this he gave his son-in-law; and, supplying him with a sharp sword,
asked him to start. The Brahman then asked the king's servants to
tie him up with cotton strings tight on to the saddle, and set out
on the expedition.
The horse, having never till then felt a man on its back, began to
gallop most furiously, and flew onwards so fast that all who saw it
thought the rider must lose his life, and he too was almost dead
with fear. He tried his best to curb his steed, but the more he
pulled the faster it galloped, till giving up all hopes of life he
let it take its course. It jumped into the water and swam across to
the other side of the river, wetting the cotton cords by which the
Brahman was tied down to the saddle, making them swell and giving
him the most excruciating pain. He bore it, however, with all the
patience imaginable. Presently the horse reached the other side
of the river, where there was a big palmyra tree, which a recent
flood had left almost uprooted and ready to fall at the slightest
touch. The Brahman, unable to stop the course of the horse, held
fast on to the tree, hoping thus to check its wild career. But
unfortunately for him the tree gave way, and the steed galloped on
so furiously that he did not know which was the safer--to leave the
tree or to hold on to it. Meanwhile the wet cotton cords hurt him so
that he, in the hopelessness of despair, bawled out appa! ayya! [56]
On went his steed, and still he held on to the palmyra tree. Though
now fighting for his own life, the people that were watching him
from a great distance thought him to be flying to the battlefield,
armed with a palmyra tree! The cry of lamentation, appa ayya, which he
uttered, his enemy mistook for a challenge, because, as we know, his
name happened to be Appayya. Horror-struck at the sight of a warrior
armed with a huge tree, his enemy turned and fled. Yatha raja tatha
prajah--"As is the king so are the subjects,"--and accordingly his
followers also fled. The Brahman warrior (!) seeing the fortunate
course events had again taken pursued the enemy, or rather let his
courser have its own furious way. Thus the enemy and his vast army
melted away in the twinkling of an eye, and the horse, too, when it
became exhausted, returned towards the palace.
The old king had been watching from the loftiest rooms of his palace
all that had passed on the other side of the river, and believing his
son-in-law had, by his own prowess, driven out the enemy, approached
him with all pomp. Eager hands quickly cut the knots by which the
victorious (!) Brahman had been held tight in his saddle, and his old
father-in-law with tears of joy embraced him on his victory, saying
that the whole kingdom was indebted to him. A splendid triumphal
march was conducted, in which the eyes of the whole town were directed
towards our victorious hero.
Thus, on three different occasions, and in three different adventures,
fortune favoured the poor Brahman and brought him fame. He then sent
for his two former wives and took them into his palace. His second
wife, who was pregnant when he first started with the apupa cakes to
see her, had given birth to a male child, who was, when she came back
to him, more than a year old. The first wife confessed to her husband
her sin of having given him poisoned cakes, and craved his pardon;
and it was only now that he came to know that the hundred robbers he
killed in his first adventure were all really dead men, and that they
must have died from the effects of the poison in the cakes, and, since
her treachery had given him a new start in life, he forgave her. She,
too, gave up her enmity to the partners of her husband's bed, and
all the four lived in peace and plenty for many a long day afterwards.
X.
THE BRAHMIN GIRL THAT MARRIED A TIGER.
In a certain village there lived an old Brahmin who had three sons and
a daughter. The girl being the youngest was brought up most tenderly
and became spoilt, and so whenever she saw a beautiful boy she would
say to her parents that she must be wedded to him. Her parents were,
therefore, much put about to devise excuses for taking her away from
her youthful lovers. Thus passed on some years, till the girl was
very nearly grown up, and then the parents, fearing that they would
be driven out of their caste if they failed to dispose of her hand
in marriage before she came to the years of maturity, began to be
eager about finding a bridegroom for her.
Now near their village there lived a fierce tiger, that had attained to
great proficiency in the art of magic, and had the power of assuming
different forms. Having a great taste for Brahmin's food, the tiger
used now and then to frequent temples and other places of public
refreshment in the shape of an old famished Brahmin in order to share
the food prepared for the Brahmins. The tiger also wanted, if possible,
a Brahmin wife to take to the woods, and there to make her cook his
meals after her fashion. One day, when he was partaking of his meals
in Brahmin shape at a satra [57], he heard the talk about the Brahmin
girl who was always falling in love with every beautiful Brahmin boy.
Said he to himself, "Praised be the face that I saw first this
morning. I shall assume the shape of a Brahmin boy, and appear as
beautiful can be, and win the heart of the girl."
Next morning he accordingly became in the form of a great Sastrin
(proficient in the Ramayana) and took his seat near the ghat of the
sacred river of the village. Scattering holy ashes profusely over
his body he opened the Ramayana and began to read.
"The voice of the new Sastrin is most enchanting. Let us go and hear
him," said some women among themselves, and sat down before him to
hear him expound the great book. The girl for whom the tiger had
assumed this shape came in due time to bathe at the river, and as
soon as she saw the new Sastrin fell in love with him, and bothered
her old mother to speak to her father about him, so as not to lose
her new lover. The old woman too was delighted at the bridegroom
whom fortune had thrown in her way, and ran home to her husband,
who, when he came and saw the Sastrin, raised up his hands in praise
of the great god Mahesvara. The Sastrin was now invited to take his
meals with them, and as he had come with the express intention of
marrying the daughter, he, of course, agreed.
A grand dinner followed in honour of the Sastrin, and his host began
to question him as to his parentage, &c., to which the cunning
tiger replied that he was born in a village beyond the adjacent
wood. The Brahmin had no time to wait for further enquiries, and as
the boy was very fair he married his daughter to him the very next
day. Feasts followed for a month, during which time the bridegroom
gave every satisfaction to his new relatives, who supposed him to be
human all the while. He also did full justice to the Brahmin dishes,
and swallowed everything that was placed before him.
After the first month was over the tiger-bridegroom bethought him of
his accustomed prey, and hankered after his abode in the woods. A
change of diet for a day or two is all very well, but to renounce
his own proper food for more than a month was hard. So one day he
said to his father-in-law, "I must go back soon to my old parents,
for they will be pining at my absence. But why should we have to
bear the double expense of my coming all the way here again to take
my wife to my village? So if you will kindly let me take the girl
with me I shall take her to her future home, and hand her over to
her mother-in-law, and see that she is well taken care of."
The old Brahmin agreed to this, and replied, "My dear son-in-law,
you are her husband, and she is yours, and we now send her with you,
though it is like sending her into the wilderness with her eyes tied
up. But as we take you to be everything to her, we trust you to treat
her kindly."
The mother of the bride shed tears at the idea of having to send her
away, but nevertheless the very next day was fixed for the journey. The
old woman spent the whole day in preparing cakes and sweetmeats for
her daughter, and when the time for the journey arrived, she took care
to place in her bundles and on her head one or two margosa [58] leaves
to keep off demons. The relatives of the bride requested her husband
to allow her to rest wherever she found shade, and to eat wherever she
found water, and to this he agreed, and so they began their journey.
The boy tiger and his human wife pursued their journey for two or
three ghatikas [59] in free and pleasant conversation, when the girl
happened to see a fine pond, round which the birds were warbling their
sweet notes. She requested her husband to follow her to the water's
edge and to partake of some of the cakes and sweetmeats with her.
But he replied, "Be quiet, or I shall show you my original shape."
This made her afraid, so she pursued her journey in silence until she
saw another pond, when she asked the same question of her husband,
who replied in the same tone.
Now she was very hungry, and not liking her husband's tone, which
she found had greatly changed ever since they had entered the woods,
said to him,
"Show me your original shape."
No sooner were these words uttered than her husband's form changed
from that of a man. Four legs, striped skin, a long tail, and a
tiger's face came over him suddenly and, horror of horrors! a tiger
and not a man stood before her! Nor were her fears stilled when the
tiger in human voice began as follows:--
"Know henceforth that I, your husband, am a tiger--this very tiger
that now speaks to you. If you have any regard for your life you must
obey all my orders implicitly, for I can speak to you in human voice,
and understand what you say. In a couple of ghatikas we shall reach
my home, of which you will become the mistress. In the front of my
house you will see half-a-dozen tubs, each of which you must fill up
daily with some dish or other, cooked in your own way. I shall take
care to supply you with all the provisions you want." So saying the
tiger slowly conducted her to his house.
The misery of the girl may more be imagined than described, for if
she were to object she would be put to death. So, weeping all the
way, she reached her husband's house. Leaving her there he went out
and returned with several pumpkins and some flesh, of which she soon
prepared a curry and gave it to her husband. He went out again after
this and returned in the evening with several vegetables and some
more flesh, and gave her an order:--
"Every morning I shall go out in search of provisions and prey,
and bring something with me on my return; you must keep cooked for
me whatever I leave in the house."
So next morning as soon as the tiger had gone away she cooked
everything left in the house and filled all the tubs with food. At
the tenth ghatika the tiger returned and growled out,
"I smell a man! I smell a woman in my wood." And his wife for very
fear shut herself up in the house.
As soon as the tiger had satisfied his appetite he told her to open
the door, which she did, and they talked together for a time, after
which the tiger rested awhile, and then went out hunting again. Thus
passed many a day, till the tiger's Brahmin wife had a son, which
also turned out to be only a tiger.
One day, after the tiger had gone out to the woods, his wife was
crying all alone in the house, when a crow happened to peck at some
rice that was scattered near her, and seeing the girl crying, began
to shed tears.
"Can you assist me?" asked the girl.
"Yes," said the crow.
So she brought out a palmyra leaf and wrote on it with an iron nail
all her sufferings in the wood, and requested her brothers to come
and relieve her. This palmyra leaf she tied to the neck of the crow,
which, seeming to understand her thoughts, flew to her village and
sat down before one of her brothers. He untied the leaf and read the
contents of the letter and told them to his other brothers. All the
three then started for the wood, asking their mother to give them
something to eat on the way. She had not enough rice for the three,
so she made a big ball of clay and stuck it over with what rice she
had, so as to make it look like a ball of rice. This she gave to the
brothers to eat on their way, and started them off to the woods.
They had not proceeded long before they espied an ass. The youngest,
who was of a playful disposition, wished to take the ass with him. The
two elder brothers objected to this for a time, but in the end they
allowed him to have his own way. Further on they saw an ant, which
the middle brother took with him. Near the ant there was a big palmyra
tree lying on the ground, which the eldest took with him to keep off
the tiger.
The sun was now high in the horizon and the three brothers became very
hungry. So they sat down near a tank and opened the bundle containing
the ball of rice. To their utter disappointment they found it to be
all clay, but being extremely hungry they drank all the water in the
pond and continued their journey. On leaving the tank they found a big
iron tub belonging to the washerman of the adjacent village. This they
took also with them in addition to the ass, the ant, and the palmyra
tree. Following the road described by their sister in her letter sent
by the crow, they walked on and on till they reached the tiger's house.
The sister, overjoyed to see her brothers again, ran out at once to
welcome them.
"My dearest brothers, I am so glad to see that you have come here
to relieve me after all, but the time for the tiger's coming home is
approaching, so hide yourselves in the loft, and wait till he is gone."
So saying, she helped her brothers to ascend into the loft. By this
time the tiger returned, and perceived the presence of human beings
by the peculiar smell. He asked his wife whether any one had come to
their house. She said, "No." But when the brothers, who with their
trophies of the way--the ass, the ant, and so on--were sitting upon
the loft, saw the tiger dallying with their sister, they were greatly
frightened; so much so that the youngest, through fear, began to quake,
and they all fell on the floor.
"What is all this?" said the terrified tiger to his wife.
"Nothing," said she, "but your brothers-in-law. They came here a watch
[60] ago, and as soon as you have finished your meals they want to
see you."
"How can my brothers-in-law be such cowards," thought the tiger
to himself.
He then asked them to speak to him, whereon the youngest brother put
the ant which he had in his hand into the ear of the ass, and as soon
as the latter was bitten, it began to bawl out most horribly.
"How is it that your brothers have such a hoarse voice?" said the
tiger to his wife.
He next asked them to show him their legs. Taking courage at the
stupidity of the tiger on the two former occasions, the eldest brother
now stretched out the palmyra tree.
"By my father, I have never seen such a leg," said the tiger, and
asked his brothers-in-law to show their bellies. The second brother
now showed the tub, at which the tiger shuddered, and saying, "such
a harsh voice, so stout a leg, and such a belly, truly I have never
heard of such persons as these!" He ran away.
It was already dark, and the brothers, wishing to take advantage
of the tiger's terror, prepared to return home with their sister
at once. They ate up what little food she had, and ordered her to
start. Fortunately for her her tiger-child was asleep. So she tore it
into two pieces and suspended them over the hearth, and, thus getting
rid of the child, she ran off with her brothers towards home.
Before leaving she bolted the front door from inside, and went out
at the back of the house. As soon as the pieces of the cub, which
were hung up over the hearth, began to roast, they dripped, which
made the fire hiss and sputter; and when the tiger returned at about
midnight, he found the door shut and heard the hissing of the fire,
which he mistook for the noise of cooking muffins. [61]
"I see," said he to himself, "how very cunning you are; you have
bolted the door and are cooking muffins for your brothers. Let us
see if we can't get your muffins."
So saying he went round to the back door and entered his house, and
was greatly perplexed to find his cub torn in two and being roasted,
his house deserted by his Brahmin wife, and his property plundered;
for his wife, before leaving, had taken with her as much of the
tiger's property as she could conveniently carry.
The tiger now discovered all the treachery of his wife, and his heart
grieved for the loss of his son, that was now no more. He determined
to be revenged on his wife, and to bring her back into the wood, and
there tear her into many pieces in place of only two. But how to bring
her back? He assumed his original shape of a young bridegroom, making,
of course, due allowance for the number of years that had passed since
his marriage, and next morning went to his father-in-law's house. His
brothers-in-law and his wife saw from a distance the deceitful form
he had assumed, and devised means to kill him. Meanwhile the tiger
Brahmin approached his father-in-law's house, and the old people
welcomed him. The younger ones too ran here and there to bring
provisions to feed him sumptuously, and the tiger was highly pleased
at the hospitable way in which he was received.
There was a ruined well at the back of the house, and the eldest of
the brothers placed some thin sticks across its mouth, over which
he spread a fine mat. Now it is usual to ask guests to have an oil
bath before dinner, and so his three brothers-in-law requested the
tiger to take his seat on the fine mat for his bath. As soon as he
sat on it, the thin sticks being unable to bear his weight, gave way,
and down fell the cunning tiger with a heavy crash! The well was at
once filled in with stones and other rubbish, and thus the tiger was
effectually prevented from doing any more mischief.
But the Brahmin girl, in memory of her having married a tiger, raised
a pillar over the well and planted a tulasi [62] shrub on the top of
it. Morning and evening, for the rest of her life, she used to smear
the pillar with sacred cowdung, and water the tulasi shrub.
This story is told to explain the Tamil proverb, "Summa irukkiraya,
suruvattai kattattuma," which means--
"Be quiet, or I shall show you my original shape."
XI.
THE GOOD HUSBAND AND THE BAD WIFE.
In a remote village there lived a Brahmin whose good nature and
charitable disposition were proverbial. Equally proverbial also were
the ill-nature and uncharitable disposition of the Brahmani--his
wife. But as Paramesvara (God) had joined them in matrimony, they
had to live together as husband and wife, though their temperaments
were so incompatible. Every day the Brahmin had a taste of his wife's
ill-temper, and if any other Brahmin was invited to dinner by him,
his wife, somehow or other, would manage to drive him away.
One fine summer morning a rather stupid Brahmin friend of his came
to visit our hero and was at once invited to dinner. He told his
wife to have dinner ready earlier than usual, and went off to the
river to bathe. His friend not feeling very well that day wanted a
hot bath at the house, and so did not follow him to the river, but
remained sitting in the outer verandah. If any other guest had come,
the wife would have accused him of greediness to his face and sent
him away, but this visitor seemed to be a special friend of her lord,
so she did not like to say anything; but she devised a plan to make
him go away of his own accord.
She proceeded to smear the ground before her husband's friend with
cowdung, and placed in the midst of it a long pestle, supporting
one end of it against the wall. She next approached the pestle most
solemnly and performed worship (puja) to it. The guest did not in the
least understand what she was doing, and respectfully asked her what
it all meant.
"This is what is called pestle worship," she replied. "I do it as a
daily duty, and this pestle is intended to break the head of some human
being in honour of a goddess, whose feet are most devoutly worshipped
by my husband. Every day as soon as he returns from his bath in the
river, he takes this pestle, which I am ordered to keep ready for him
before his return, and with it breaks the head of any human being
whom he has managed to get hold of by inviting him to a meal. This
is his tribute (dakshina) to the goddess; to-day you are the victim."
The guest was much alarmed.
"What! break the head of a guest! I at any rate shall not be deceived
to-day," thought he, and prepared to run away.
The Brahmin's wife appeared to sympathise with his sad plight,
and said:--
"Really, I do pity you. But there is one thing you can do now to save
yourself. If you go out by the front door and walk down the street
my husband may follow you, so you had better go out by the back door."
To this plan the guest most thankfully agreed, and hastily ran off
by the back door.
Almost immediately our hero returned from his bath, but before he
could arrive his wife had cleaned up the place she had prepared for
the pestle worship, and when the Brahmin, not finding his friend in
the house inquired of her as to what had become of him, she said in
seeming anger:--
"The greedy brute! he wanted me to give him this pestle--this very
pestle which I brought forty years ago as a dowry from my mother's
house, and when I refused he ran away by the back-yard in haste."
But her kind-hearted lord observed that he would rather lose the
pestle than his guest, even though it was a part of his wife's dowry,
and more than forty years old. So he ran off with the pestle in his
hand after his friend, crying out,
"Oh Brahmin! Oh Brahmin! Stop please, and take the pestle."
But the story told by the old woman now seemed all the more true to
the guest when he saw her husband running after him, and so he said,
"You and your pestle may go where you please. Never more will you
catch me in your house," and ran away.
XII.
THE GOOD WIFE AND THE BAD HUSBAND. [63]
In a remote village there lived a man and his wife, who was a stupid
little woman and believed everything that was told her. Whenever
people wanted anything from her they used to come and flatter her;
but this had to be done in the absence of her husband, because he
was a very miserly man, and would never part with any of his money,
for all he was exceedingly rich. Nevertheless, without his knowledge
cunning beggars would now and then come to his wife and beg of her, and
they used generally to succeed, as she was so amenable to flattery. But
whenever her husband found her out he would come down heavily upon her,
sometimes with words and sometimes with blows. Thus quarrels arose,
till at last, for the sake of peace, the wife had to give up her
charitable propensities.
Now there lived in the village a rogue of the first water, who had many
a time witnessed what took place in the rich miser's family. Wishing
to revive his old habit of getting what he wanted from the miser's
wife he watched his opportunity and one day, when the miser had gone
out on horseback to inspect his land, he came to his wife in the
middle of the day and fell down at the threshold as if overcome by
exhaustion. She ran up to him at once and asked him who he was.
"I am a native of Kailasa," said he, "sent down by an old couple
living there, for news of their son and his wife."
"Who are those fortunate dwellers on Siva's mountain?" said she.
On this the rogue gave the names of her husband's deceased parents,
which he had taken good care, of course, to learn from the neighbours.
"Do you really come from them?" said she. "Are they doing well
there? Dear old people. How glad my husband would be to see you, were
he here! Sit down please, and take rest awhile till he returns. How
do they live there? Have they enough to eat and to dress themselves?"
These and a thousand other questions she put to the rogue, who, for
his part, wanted to get away as quick as possible, as he knew full
well how he would be treated if the miser should return while he was
there, so he said:--
"Mother, language has no words to describe the miseries they are
undergoing in the other world. They have not a rag to cover themselves,
and for the last six days they have eaten nothing, and have lived on
water only. It would break your heart to see them."
The rogue's pathetic words fully deceived the good woman, who firmly
believed that he had come down from Kailasa, sent by the old couple
to her.
"Why should they suffer so?" said she, "when their son has plenty to
eat and to dress himself, and when their daughter-in-law wears all
sorts of costly ornaments?"
With that she went into the house and came out with two boxes
containing all the clothes of herself and her husband, and gave
the whole lot to the rogue, with instructions to take them to her
poor old people in Kailasa. She also gave him her jewel box for her
mother-in-law.
"But dress and jewels will not fill their hungry stomachs," said he.
Requesting him to wait a little, the silly woman brought out her
husband's cash chest and emptied the contents into the rogue's coat,
[64] who now went off in haste, promising to give everything to the
good people in Kailasa. Our good lady in accordance with etiquette,
conducted him a few hundred yards along the road and sent news of
herself through him to her relatives, and then returned home. The
rogue now tied up all his booty in his coat and ran in haste towards
the river and crossed over it.
No sooner had our heroine reached home than her husband returned
after his inspection of his lands. Her pleasure at what she had done
was so great, that she met him at the door and told him all about the
arrival of the messenger from Kailasa, and how she had sent clothes,
and jewels, and money through him to her husband's parents. The anger
of her husband knew no bounds. But he checked himself for a while,
and asked her which road the messenger from Kailasa had taken, as he
said he wanted to follow him and send some more news to his parents. To
this she willingly agreed and pointed out the direction the rogue had
gone. With rage in his heart at the trick played upon his stupid wife,
our hero rode on in hot haste, and after a ride of two ghatikas he
caught sight of the departing rogue, who, finding escape hopeless,
climbed up into a big pipal tree. Our hero soon reached the bottom
of the tree and shouted to the rogue to come down.
"No, I cannot, this is the way to Kailasa," said the rogue, and
climbed up on the top of the tree.
Seeing no chance of the rogue's coming down, and as there was no
third person present to whom he could call for help, our hero tied
his horse to an adjacent tree and began climbing up the pipal tree
himself. The rogue thanked all his gods when he saw this, and waited
till his enemy had climbed nearly up to him, and then, throwing down
his bundle of booty, leapt quickly from branch to branch till he
reached the bottom. He then got upon his enemy's horse, and with his
bundle rode into a dense forest in which no one was likely to find him.
Our hero being much older in years was no match for the rogue. So
he slowly came down, and cursing his stupidity in having risked his
horse to recover his property, returned home at his leisure. His wife,
who was waiting his arrival, welcomed him with a cheerful countenance
and said:--
"I thought as much, you have sent away your horse to Kailasa to be
used by your father."
Vexed as he was at his wife's words, our hero replied in the
affirmative to conceal his own stupidity.
Thus, some there are in this world, who, though they may not willingly
give away anything, pretend to have done so when, by accident, or
stupidity, they happen to lose it.
XIII.
THE LOST CAMEL AND OTHER TALES.
FIRST PART.
There was a city called Alakapuri, famous for all the riches that
sea and land can yield, and inhabited by people speaking different
languages. In that city reigned a king named Alakesa, who was a
storehouse of all excellent qualities. He was so just a king that
during his reign the cow and the tiger amicably quenched their thirst
side by side in the same pond, the cats and the rats sported in one
and the same spot, and the kite and the parrot laid their eggs in the
same nest, as though they were "birds of a feather." [65] The women
never deviated from the path of virtue, and regarded their husbands
as gods. Timely rain refreshed the soil, and all Alakesa's subjects
lived in plenty and happiness. In short, Alakesa was the body, and
his subjects the soul of that body, for he was upright in all things.
Now there was in Alakapuri a rich merchant who lost a camel one day. He
searched for it without success in all directions, and at last reached
a road which he was informed led to another city, called Mathurapuri,
the king of which was named Mathuresa. He had under him four excellent
ministers, whose names were Bodhaditya, Bodhachandra, Bodhavyapaka,
and Bodhavibhishana. These four ministers, being, for some reason,
displeased with the king, quitted his dominions, and set out for
another country. As they journeyed along they observed the track of a
camel, and each made a remark on the peculiar condition of the animal,
judging from the footsteps and other indications on the road. [66]
Presently they met the merchant who was searching for his camel, and,
entering into conversation with him, one of the travellers inquired if
the animal was not lame in one of its legs; another asked if it was not
blind of the right eye; the third asked if its tail was not unusually
short; and the fourth inquired if it was not suffering from colic. They
were all answered in the affirmative by the merchant, who was convinced
that they must have seen the animal, and eagerly demanded where they
had seen it. They replied that they had seen traces of the camel,
but not the camel itself, which being inconsistent with the minute
description they had given of it, the merchant accused them of having
stolen the beast, and immediately applied to king Alakesa for redress.
On hearing the merchant's story, the king was equally impressed
with the belief that the travellers must know what had become of the
camel, and sending for them threatened them with his displeasure if
they did not confess the truth. How could they know, he demanded,
that the camel was lame or blind, or whether the tail was long or
short, or that it was suffering from any malady, unless they had it
in their possession? In reply, they each explained the reasons which
had induced them to express their belief in these particulars. The
first traveller said:--
"I noticed in the footmarks of the animal that one was deficient,
and I concluded accordingly that it was lame of one of its legs."
The second said:--"I noticed that the leaves of the trees on the left
side of the road had been snapped or torn off, whilst those on the
right side were untouched, whence I concluded that the animal was
blind of his right eye."
The third said:--"I saw some drops of blood on the road, which I
conjectured had flowed from the bites of gnats or flies, and I thence
concluded that the camel's tail was shorter than usual, in consequence
of which he could not brush the insects away."
The fourth said:--"I observed that while the forefeet of the animal
were planted firmly on the ground the hind ones appeared to have
scarcely touched it, whence I guessed that they were contracted by
pain in the belly of the animal."
When the king heard their explanation he was much struck by the
sagacity of the travellers, and giving 500 pagodas to the merchant who
had lost the camel; he made the four young men his principal ministers,
and bestowed on each of them several villages as free gifts.
XIII.
THE THREE CALAMITIES.
From that time these four young men became the confidential advisers
of king Alakesa in all important affairs of state, and, as night is
the house of sins, they in turn kept a regular watch in the city of
Alakapuri, each patrolling the streets during three hours of the
night. Thus they continued to faithfully serve king Alakesa, till
one night, the First Minister, when his watch was over, proceeded
as usual, to see whether the royal bedchamber was properly guarded;
after which he went to the temple of the goddess Kali, where he heard
what seemed to him the voice of a woman, lamenting and sobbing in
great distress. Concealing himself behind the vad-tree of the temple,
he called out:--
"Who are you, poor woman? and why do you thus weep?"
At once the cries ceased, and a voice from the temple inquired:--
"Who art thou that thus questionest me?"
Then the minister knew that it was Kali herself who wept; so he threw
himself on the ground, and, rising up, exclaimed:--
"O, my mother!--Kali!--Sambhavi!--Mahamayi! [67] Why should you thus
weep?" quoth Kali.
"What is the use of my revealing it to thee? Canst thou render any
assistance?"
The minister said that, if he had but her favour, there was nothing
he could not do. Then the goddess told him that a calamity was about
to come upon the king, and fearing that such a good monarch was soon
to disappear from the world, she wept.
The thought of such a misfortune caused the minister to tremble;
he fell down before the goddess, and with tears streaming from his
eyes besought her to save him. Kali was much gratified to observe
his devotion to his master, and thus addressed him:--
"Know, then, that your king will be in danger of three calamities
to-morrow, any one of which will be sufficient to cause his
death. First of all, early in the morning, there will come to the
palace several carts containing newly-reaped paddy grains. The king
will be delighted at this, and immediately order a measure of the
paddy to be shelled and cooked for his morning meal. Now, the field
in which that paddy grew is the abode of serpents, two of which
were fighting together one day, when they emitted poison, which has
permeated those grains. Therefore, the morning meal of your king will
contain poison, but only in the first handful will it take effect and
he will die. Should he escape, another calamity is in store for him
at noon. The king of Vijayanagara will send to-morrow some baskets of
sweetmeats; in the first basket he has concealed arrows. King Alakesa,
suspecting no treachery, will order the first basket to be opened in
his presence, and will meet his death by that device. And even should
he escape this second calamity, a third will put an end to his life
to-morrow night. A deadly serpent will descend into his bed room,
by means of the chain of his hanging bed, and bite him. But, should
he be saved from this last misfortune, Alakesa will live long and
prosperously, till he attains the age of a hundred and twenty years."
Thus spake Kali, in tones of sorrow, for she feared that the king
would lose his life by one of these three calamities. The Minister
prostrated himself on the ground, and said that if the goddess would
grant him her favour he was confident he could contrive to avert all
the threatened evils from the king. Kali smiled and disappeared;
and the Minister, taking her kind smile as a token of her favour,
returned home and slept soundly.
As soon as morning dawned, the First Minister arose, and having made
the customary ablutions, proceeded to the palace. He took care to
reveal to no one the important secret communicated to him by the
goddess--not even to his three colleagues. The sun was not yet two
ghatikas [68] above the horizon when several carts containing the
finest paddy grains, specially selected for the king's use, came
into the courtyard of the palace. Alakesa was present, and ordered
a measure of it to be at once shelled and cooked. The coming in of
the carts and the king's order so exactly coincided with Kali's words
that the Minister began to fear that he was quite unequal to the task
of averting the fatality; yet the recollection of the smile of the
goddess inspired him with fresh resolution, and he at once went to
the palace-kitchen and requested the servants to inform him when the
king was about to go to dinner. After issuing orders for the storing
of the grain, king Alakesa retired to perform his morning ablutions
and other religious duties.
Meanwhile a carriage containing the jars of sweetmeats sent by the
king of Vijayanagara drove up to the palace, and the emissary who
accompanied the present, told the royal servants that his master
had commanded him to deliver it to king Alakesa in person. The
First Minister well understood the meaning of this, and, promising
to bring the king, went into the palace, caused one of the servants
to be dressed like Alakesa, and conducted him to the carriage. The
officer of the Vijayanagara king placed the first jar before the
supposed Alakesa, who at once opened it, when lo! there darted forth
several arrows, one of which pierced his heart, and he fell dead on
the spot. [69] In an instant the emissary was seized and bound, and
the officers began to lament the death of their good king. But the
fatal occurrence spread rapidly through the palace, and soon the real
Alakesa made his appearance on the scene. The officers now beheld
one Alakesa dead and fallen to the ground, pierced by the arrow,
and another standing there alive and well. The First Minister then
related how, suspecting treachery, he brought out a servant of the
palace dressed like the king, and how he had been slain in place of his
royal master. Alakesa thanked the Minister for having so ingeniously
saved his life, and went into the palace. Thus was one of the three
calamities to the king averted by the faithful Bodhaditya.
When it was the hour for dinner, the king and his courtiers all sat
down, with the exception of the First Minister, who remained standing,
without having taken a leaf for his own use. The king, observing this,
with a smile pointed out a leaf to him, [70] but Bodhaditya would not
sit; he wished to be near the king and to abstain from eating on that
occasion. So the king allowed him to have his own way. The food having
been served on the leaves, the hands of all, including the king, were
mingling the rice, ghi, and dhal for the first course. Near the king
stood his faithful Minister Bodhaditya, and, when the king raised the
first handful to his mouth, "Stop, my master," cried he, "I have long
hoped for this handful as a present to me from your royal hands. I pray
you give it to me, and feast upon the rest of the rice on your leaf."
This was uttered more in a tone of command than of request, and the
king was highly incensed at what he naturally considered as insolence
on the part of the Minister. For such a request, especially when made
to a king, is deemed nothing less than an insult, while to refuse it
is equally offensive. So, whatever thoughts may have passed through
Alakesa's mind, recollecting how the Minister had that morning saved
his life, he gave him the handful of rice, which Bodhaditya received
with delight, feeling grateful for the favour of the goddess in being
the means of averting this second calamity.
Far different, however, were the sentiments of the king and the
assembled company. One and all declared Bodhaditya to be an insolent,
proud fellow; but the king, while secretly blaming himself for having
allowed him to use so much familiarity, suppressed his anger, in
consideration of the important service the Minister had rendered him.
On the approach of night the heart of the First Minister throbbed
violently, for the third calamity predicted by the goddess was yet
to be encountered. His watch being ended, before retiring to rest,
he went to examine the royal bedroom, where he saw the light burning
brightly, and the king and queen asleep side by side in the ornamented
swing cot, which was suspended from the roof by four chains. Presently,
he perceived, with horror, a fierce black snake, the smell of which
is enough to kill a man, slowly gliding down the chain near the head
of the queen. The Minister noiselessly went forward, and with a single
stroke of his sharp sword, cut the venomous brute in two. Bodhaditya,
to avoid disturbing any person at such an hour of the night, threw the
pieces over the canopy of the bed, rejoicing at having thus averted
the third and last calamity. But a fresh horror then met his eyes;
a drop of the snake's poison had fallen on the bosom of the queen,
which was exposed in the carelessness of slumber.
"Alas, sacred goddess," he muttered, "why do you thus raise up new
obstacles in my efforts to avert the evil which you predicted? I have
done what I could to save the king, and in this last attempt I have
killed his beloved queen. What shall I do?"
Having thus briefly reflected, he wiped off the poison from the queen's
bosom with the tip of his little finger, and, lest the contact of the
venom with his finger should endanger his own life, he cut the tip
of it off and threw it on the canopy. Just then the queen awoke, and
perceiving a man hastily leaving the room, she cried: "Who are you?"
The Minister respectfully answered: "Most venerable mother! I am your
son, Bodhaditya," and at once retired.
Upon this the queen thought within herself: "Alas! is there such
a thing as a good man in the world? Hitherto I have regarded this
Bodhaditya as my son; but now he has basely taken the opportunity
of thus disgracing me when my lord and I were sound asleep. I shall
inform the king of this, and have that wretch's head struck off before
the morning."
Accordingly she gently awakened the king, and with tears trickling
down her beauteous face, she told him what had occurred, and concluded
with these words:--"Till now, my lord, I considered that I was wife to
you alone; but this night your First Minister has made me doubt it,
since to my question, 'Who are you?' he answered, without any shame,
'I am Bodhaditya,' and went away."
On hearing of this violation of the sanctity of his bedchamber,
Alakesa was greatly enraged, and determined to put to death such
an unprincipled servant, but first to communicate the affair to his
three other Ministers.
XIII.
SECOND PART.
When the Second Minister's watch was over, he went to inspect the
guard at the royal bedchamber, and Alakesa hearing his footsteps
inquired who was there.
"Your servant, Bodhachandra, most royal lord," was the reply.
"Enter, Bodhachandra," said the king; "I have somewhat to communicate
to you."
Then Alakesa, almost choking with rage, told him of the gross offence
of which his colleague the First Minister had been guilty, and demanded
to know whether any punishment could be too severe. Bodhachandra
humbled himself before the king, and thus replied--
"My lord, such a crime merits a heavy requital. Can one tie up fire
in one's cloth and think that as it is but a small spark it will
do us no harm? How, then, can we excuse even slight deviations from
the rules of propriety? Therefore, if Bodhaditya be really guilty,
he must be signally punished. But permit me to represent to your
Majesty the advisability of carefully inquiring into this matter
before proceeding to judgment. We ought to ascertain what reasons he
had for such a breach of the harem rules; for should we, carried away
by anger, act rashly in this affair, we may repent when repentance is
of no avail. As an example, I shall, with your Majesty's permission
relate a story." The king having at once given his consent, the Second
Minister began to relate the
STORY OF THE HONEST BUT RASH HUNTER AND HIS FAITHFUL DOG.
There dwelt in a certain forest a hunter named Ugravira, who was lord
of the woods, and as such, had to pay a fixed sum of money to the king
of the country. It happened once that the king unexpectedly demanded
of him one thousand five hundred pons. [71] The hunter sold all his
property and realised only a thousand pons, and was perplexed how
to procure the rest of the required amount. At length he bethought
him of his dog, which was of the best kind, and was beloved by him
more than anything else in the whole world. He took his dog to an
adjacent city, where he pledged him to a merchant named Kubera for
five hundred pons, at the same time giving the merchant his bond
for the loan. Before going away, the hunter with tears in his eyes,
thus addressed the intelligent animal:--
"Mrigasimha, [i.e., lion among beasts] O my faithful friend, do not
leave thy new master until I have paid him back the money I have
borrowed of him. Obey and serve him, even as thou hast ever obeyed
and served me."
Some time after this, the merchant Kubera had to leave home and
proceed with his merchandise to foreign countries: so he called the
hunter's dog to his side, and bade him watch at his doors and prevent
the intrusion of robbers and other evil-disposed persons. The dog
indicated, both by his eyes and his tail, that he perfectly understood
his instructions. Then the merchant, having enjoined his wife to
feed the dog three times every day with rice and milk, set out on
his travels. The dog kept his watch outside the house, and for a few
days the merchant's wife fed him regularly three times a day. But this
kind treatment was not to continue. She had for her paramour a wicked
youth of the Setti caste, who, soon after the departure of Kubera,
became a constant visitor at the merchant's house. The faithful dog
instinctively surmised that his new master would not approve of such
conduct; so one night, when the youth was leaving the house, Mrigasimha
sprang upon him like an enraged lion, and seizing him by the throat,
sent the evildoer to the other world. The merchant's wife hearing
the scuffle, ran to the spot to save her lover, but found him dead.
Though extremely grieved at the loss of her paramour, she had the
presence of mind to immediately carry the body to the garden at the
back of the house, where she concealed it in a great pit, and covered
it with earth and leaves, vainly thinking that she had thus concealed
her own shame. All this was not done, however, without being observed
by the watchful dog; and, henceforward, the merchant's wife hated
him with a deadly hatred. She no longer gave him food, and the poor
creature was fain to eat such grains of rice as he found adhering to
the leaves thrown out of the house after meals, still keeping guard
at the door.
After an absence of two months the merchant returned, and the dog,
the moment he saw him, ran up to him and rolled himself on the ground
at his feet; then seizing the merchant's cloth he dragged him to the
very spot in the garden where the youth's body was hidden, and began
to scratch the ground, at the same time looking into the merchant's
face and howling dismally, from which Kubera concluded that the dog
wished him to examine the place. Accordingly he dug up the spot and
discovered the body of the youth, whom, indeed, he had suspected
of being his wife's paramour. In a great fury he rushed into the
house and commanded his wife, on pain of instant death, to relate the
particulars of this affair without concealing anything. The wretched
woman, seeing that her sin was discovered, confessed all, upon which
her husband exclaimed!--
"Disgrace of womankind! you have not a fraction of the virtue possessed
by this faithful brute, which you have, out of revenge, allowed to
starve. But why should I waste words on thee? Happy am I in having no
children by thee! Depart, and let me see thy face no more." So saying,
he thrust her out of the house. Then the merchant fed the dog with
milk, rice and sugar, after which he said to that lion of beasts
(Mrigasimha, as he was called)--
"Thou trusty friend, language fails to express my gratitude to
thee. The five hundred pons which I lent thy old master the hunter
are as nothing compared with thy services to me, by which I consider
the debt as more than paid. What must be the feelings of the hunter
without thy companionship? I now give thee leave to return to him."
The merchant took the hunter's bond, and tearing it slightly at the
top as a token that it was cancelled, he placed it in the dog's mouth
and sent him back to his former master, and he at once set off towards
the forest.
Now by this time the hunter had contrived to save up the five
hundred pons, and with the money and the interest due thereon, he
was going to the merchant to redeem his bond and reclaim his dog. To
his great surprise he met Mrigasimha on the way, and as soon as the
dog perceived him he ran up to him to receive his caresses. But the
hunter immediately concluded that the poor brute, in his eagerness to
rejoin him, had run away from the merchant, and determined to put him
to death. Accordingly he plucked a creeper, and fastening it round the
dog's neck tied him to a branch of a tree, and the faithful creature,
who was expecting nothing but kindness from his old master, was by
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