Folk-Tales of Bengal
by Lal Behari Day · English · Gutenberg #38488 · 419,006 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Folk-Tales of Bengal
Author: Lal Behari Day
Illustrator: Warwick Goble
Release date: January 3, 2012 [eBook #38488]
Language: English
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FOLK-TALES OF BENGAL
By the
Rev. LAL BEHARI DAY
Author of 'Bengal Peasant Life,' etc.
With 32 illustrations in colour
By Warwick Goble
Macmillan and Co., Limited
St. Martin's Street, London
1912
TO
RICHARD CARNAC TEMPLE
CAPTAIN, BENGAL STAFF CORPS
F.R.G.S., M.R.A.S., M.A.I., ETC.
WHO FIRST SUGGESTED TO THE WRITER
THE IDEA OF COLLECTING
THESE TALES
AND WHO IS DOING SO MUCH
IN THE CAUSE OF INDIAN FOLK-LORE
THIS LITTLE BOOK
IS INSCRIBED
PREFACE
In my Peasant Life in Bengal I make the peasant boy Govinda spend
some hours every evening in listening to stories told by an old woman,
who was called Sambhu's mother, and who was the best story-teller in
the village. On reading that passage, Captain R. C. Temple, of the
Bengal Staff Corps, son of the distinguished Indian administrator
Sir Richard Temple, wrote to me to say how interesting it would be to
get a collection of those unwritten stories which old women in India
recite to little children in the evenings, and to ask whether I could
not make such a collection. As I was no stranger to the Maehrchen of
the Brothers Grimm, to the Norse Tales so admirably told by Dasent,
to Arnason's Icelandic Stories translated by Powell, to the Highland
Stories done into English by Campbell, and to the fairy stories
collected by other writers, and as I believed that the collection
suggested would be a contribution, however slight, to that daily
increasing literature of folk-lore and comparative mythology which,
like comparative philosophy, proves that the swarthy and half-naked
peasant on the banks of the Ganges is a cousin, albeit of the
hundredth remove, to the fair-skinned and well-dressed Englishman
on the banks of the Thames, I readily caught up the idea and cast
about for materials. But where was an old story-telling woman to
be got? I had myself, when a little boy, heard hundreds--it would
be no exaggeration to say thousands--of fairy tales from that same
old woman, Sambhu's mother--for she was no fictitious person; she
actually lived in the flesh and bore that name; but I had nearly
forgotten those stories, at any rate they had all got confused in
my head, the tail of one story being joined to the head of another,
and the head of a third to the tail of a fourth. How I wished that
poor Sambhu's mother had been alive! But she had gone long, long ago,
to that bourne from which no traveller returns, and her son Sambhu,
too, had followed her thither. After a great deal of search I found
my Gammer Grethel--though not half so old as the Frau Viehmaennin of
Hesse-Cassel--in the person of a Bengali Christian woman, who, when
a little girl and living in her heathen home, had heard many stories
from her old grandmother. She was a good story-teller, but her stock
was not large; and after I had heard ten from her I had to look about
for fresh sources. An old Brahman told me two stories; an old barber,
three; an old servant of mine told me two; and the rest I heard from
another old Brahman. None of my authorities knew English; they all
told the stories in Bengali, and I translated them into English when
I came home. I heard many more stories than those contained in the
following pages; but I rejected a great many, as they appeared to me
to contain spurious additions to the original stories which I had
heard when a boy. I have reason to believe that the stories given
in this book are a genuine sample of the old old stories told by old
Bengali women from age to age through a hundred generations.
Sambhu's mother used always to end every one of her stories--and
every orthodox Bengali story-teller does the same--with repeating
the following formula:--
Thus my story endeth,
The Natiya-thorn withereth.
"Why, O Natiya-thorn, dost wither?"
"Why does thy cow on me browse?"
"Why, O cow, dost thou browse?"
"Why does thy neat-herd not tend me?"
"Why, O neat-herd, dost not tend the cow?"
"Why does thy daughter-in-law not give me rice?"
"Why, O daughter-in-law, dost not give rice?"
"Why does my child cry?"
"Why, O child, dost thou cry?"
"Why does the ant bite me?"
"Why, O ant, dost thou bite?"
Koot! koot! koot!
What these lines mean, why they are repeated at the end of every
story, and what the connection is of the several parts to one another,
I do not know. Perhaps the whole is a string of nonsense purposely
put together to amuse little children.
Lal Behari Day.
Hooghly College,
February 27, 1883.
CONTENTS
PAGE
1. Life's Secret 1
2. Phakir Chand 16
3. The Indigent Brahman 51
4. The Story of the Rakshasas 61
5. The Story of Swet-Basanta 89
6. The Evil Eye of Sani 104
7. The Boy whom Seven Mothers suckled 113
8. The Story of Prince Sobur 119
9. The Origin of Opium 132
10. Strike but Hear 140
11. The Adventures of Two Thieves and of their Sons 152
12. The Ghost-Brahman 173
13. The Man who wished to be Perfect 178
14. A Ghostly Wife 188
15. The Story of a Brahmadaitya 192
16. The Story of a Hiraman 200
17. The Origin of Rubies 211
18. The Match-making Jackal 217
19. The Boy with the Moon on his Forehead 227
20. The Ghost who was Afraid of being Bagged 247
21. The Field of Bones 251
22. The Bald Wife 269
ILLUSTRATIONS
Facing page
"She rushed out of the palace ... and came to the
upper world" (p. 26) Frontispiece
"The Suo queen went to the door with a handful
of rice" 1
"The prince revived, and, walking about, saw a human
figure near the gate" 9
"She took up the jewel in her hand, left the palace,
and successfully reached the upper world" 22
"He rushed out of his hiding-place and killed the
serpent" 43
"Instead of sweetmeats about a score of demons" 56
"At the door of which stood a lady of exquisite
beauty" 62
"In a trice she woke up, sat up in her bed, and
eyeing the stranger, inquired who he was" 77
The Girl of the Wall-Almirah 90
"On a sudden an elephant gorgeously caparisoned shot
across his path" 95
"They then set out on their journey" 106
"A monstrous bird comes out apparently from the
palace" 117
"Hundreds of peacocks of gorgeous plumes came to the
embankments to eat the khai" 123
"'You would adorn the palace of the mightiest
sovereign'" 138
"He saw a beautiful woman coming out of the palace" 141
"'Husband, take up all this large quantity of gold
and these precious stones'" 145
"They ran away in great fear, leaving behind them
the money and jewels" 162
"The camel-driver alighted, tied the camel to a
tree on the spot, and began smoking" 170
"'How is it that you have returned so soon?'" 174
"At dawn he used to cull flowers in the forest" 181
"The Brahman's wife had occasion to go to the tank,
and as she went she brushed by a Sankchinni" 188
"The moment the first stroke was given, a great many
ghosts rushed towards the Brahman" 194
"The lady, king, and hiraman all reached the king's
capital safe and sound" 210
"'What princess ever puts only one ruby in her
hair?'" 214
"Coming up to the surface they climbed into the
boat" 216
"The jackal ... opened his bundle of betel-leaves,
put some into his mouth, and began chewing them" 218
"A bright light, like that of the moon, was seen
shining on his forehead" 237
"The six queens tried to comfort him" 238
"'Now, barber, I am going to destroy you. Who will
protect you?'" 248
"They approached a magnificent pile of buildings" 259
"Thus the princess was deserted" 266
"When she got out of the water, what a change was
seen in her!" 271
I
LIFE'S SECRET
There was a king who had two queens, Duo and Suo. [1] Both of them
were childless. One day a Faquir (mendicant) came to the palace-gate
to ask for alms. The Suo queen went to the door with a handful of
rice. The mendicant asked whether she had any children. On being
answered in the negative, the holy mendicant refused to take alms, as
the hands of a woman unblessed with child are regarded as ceremonially
unclean. He offered her a drug for removing her barrenness, and she
expressing her willingness to receive it, he gave it to her with the
following directions:--"Take this nostrum, swallow it with the juice
of the pomegranate flower; if you do this, you will have a son in due
time. The son will be exceedingly handsome, and his complexion will
be of the colour of the pomegranate flower; and you shall call him
Dalim Kumar. [2] As enemies will try to take away the life of your
son, I may as well tell you that the life of the boy will be bound up
in the life of a big boal fish which is in your tank, in front of the
palace. In the heart of the fish is a small box of wood, in the box is
a necklace of gold, that necklace is the life of your son. Farewell."
In the course of a month or so it was whispered in the palace
that the Suo queen had hopes of an heir. Great was the joy of
the king. Visions of an heir to the throne, and of a never-ending
succession of powerful monarchs perpetuating his dynasty to the
latest generations, floated before his mind, and made him glad as he
had never been in his life. The usual ceremonies performed on such
occasions were celebrated with great pomp; and the subjects made loud
demonstrations of their joy at the anticipation of so auspicious an
event as the birth of a prince. In the fulness of time the Suo queen
gave birth to a son of uncommon beauty. When the king the first time
saw the face of the infant, his heart leaped with joy. The ceremony
of the child's first rice was celebrated with extraordinary pomp,
and the whole kingdom was filled with gladness.
In course of time Dalim Kumar grew up a fine boy. Of all sports he was
most addicted to playing with pigeons. This brought him into frequent
contact with his stepmother, the Duo queen, into whose apartments
Dalim's pigeons had a trick of always flying. The first time the
pigeons flew into her rooms, she readily gave them up to the owner;
but the second time she gave them up with some reluctance. The fact
is that the Duo queen, perceiving that Dalim's pigeons had this happy
knack of flying into her apartments, wished to take advantage of it
for the furtherance of her own selfish views. She naturally hated the
child, as the king, since his birth, neglected her more than ever,
and idolised the fortunate mother of Dalim. She had heard, it is not
known how, that the holy mendicant that had given the famous pill
to the Suo queen had also told her of a secret connected with the
child's life. She had heard that the child's life was bound up with
something--she did not know with what. She determined to extort that
secret from the boy. Accordingly, the next time the pigeons flew
into her rooms, she refused to give them up, addressing the child
thus:--"I won't give the pigeons up unless you tell me one thing."
Dalim. What thing, mamma?
Duo. Nothing particular, my darling; I only want to know in what your
life is.
Dalim. What is that, mamma? Where can my life be except in me?
Duo. No, child; that is not what I mean. A holy mendicant told your
mother that your life is bound up with something. I wish to know what
that thing is.
Dalim. I never heard of any such thing, mamma.
Duo. If you promise to inquire of your mother in what thing your
life is, and if you tell me what your mother says, then I will let
you have the pigeons, otherwise not.
Dalim. Very well, I'll inquire, and let you know. Now, please, give
me my pigeons.
Duo. I'll give them on one condition more. Promise to me that you
will not tell your mother that I want the information.
Dalim. I promise.
The Duo queen let go the pigeons, and Dalim, overjoyed to find again
his beloved birds, forgot every syllable of the conversation he had
had with his stepmother. The next day, however, the pigeons again flew
into the Duo queen's rooms. Dalim went to his stepmother, who asked
him for the required information. The boy promised to ask his mother
that very day, and begged hard for the release of the pigeons. The
pigeons were at last delivered. After play, Dalim went to his mother
and said--"Mamma, please tell me in what my life is contained." "What
do you mean, child?" asked the mother, astonished beyond measure at
the child's extraordinary question. "Yes, mamma," rejoined the child,
"I have heard that a holy mendicant told you that my life is contained
in something. Tell me what that thing is." "My pet, my darling, my
treasure, my golden moon, do not ask such an inauspicious question. Let
the mouth of my enemies be covered with ashes, and let my Dalim live
for ever," said the mother, earnestly. But the child insisted on being
informed of the secret. He said he would not eat or drink anything
unless the information were given him. The Suo queen, pressed by the
importunity of her son, in an evil hour told the child the secret of
his life. The next day the pigeons again, as fate would have it, flew
into the Duo queen's rooms. Dalim went for them; the stepmother plied
the boy with sugared words, and obtained the knowledge of the secret.
The Duo queen, on learning the secret of Dalim Kumar's life, lost
no time in using it for the prosecution of her malicious design. She
told her maid-servants to get for her some dried stalks of the hemp
plant, which are very brittle, and which, when pressed upon, make
a peculiar noise, not unlike the cracking of joints of bones in the
human body. These hemp stalks she put under her bed, upon which she
laid herself down and gave out that she was dangerously ill. The
king, though he did not love her so well as his other queen, was
in duty bound to visit her in her illness. The queen pretended that
her bones were all cracking; and sure enough, when she tossed from
one side of her bed to the other, the hemp stalks made the noise
wanted. The king, believing that the Duo queen was seriously ill,
ordered his best physician to attend her. With that physician the
Duo queen was in collusion. The physician said to the king that for
the queen's complaint there was but one remedy, which consisted in
the outward application of something to be found inside a large boal
fish which was in the tank before the palace. The king's fisherman was
accordingly called and ordered to catch the boal in question. On the
first throw of the net the fish was caught. It so happened that Dalim
Kumar, along with other boys, was playing not far from the tank. The
moment the boal fish was caught in the net, that moment Dalim felt
unwell; and when the fish was brought up to land, Dalim fell down on
the ground, and made as if he was about to breathe his last. He was
immediately taken into his mother's room, and the king was astonished
on hearing of the sudden illness of his son and heir. The fish was
by the order of the physician taken into the room of the Duo queen,
and as it lay on the floor striking its fins on the ground, Dalim
in his mother's room was given up for lost. When the fish was cut
open, a casket was found in it; and in the casket lay a necklace of
gold. The moment the necklace was worn by the queen, that very moment
Dalim died in his mother's room.
When the news of the death of his son and heir reached the king he was
plunged into an ocean of grief, which was not lessened in any degree
by the intelligence of the recovery of the Duo queen. He wept over
his dead Dalim so bitterly that his courtiers were apprehensive of a
permanent derangement of his mental powers. The king would not allow
the dead body of his son to be either buried or burnt. He could not
realise the fact of his son's death; it was so entirely causeless
and so terribly sudden. He ordered the dead body to be removed to
one of his garden-houses in the suburbs of the city, and to be laid
there in state. He ordered that all sorts of provisions should be
stowed away in that house, as if the young prince needed them for his
refection. Orders were issued that the house should be kept locked
up day and night, and that no one should go into it except Dalim's
most intimate friend, the son of the king's prime minister, who was
intrusted with the key of the house, and who obtained the privilege
of entering it once in twenty-four hours.
As, owing to her great loss, the Suo queen lived in retirement,
the king gave up his nights entirely to the Duo queen. The latter,
in order to allay suspicion, used to put aside the gold necklace at
night; and, as fate had ordained that Dalim should be in the state
of death only during the time that the necklace was round the neck
of the queen, he passed into the state of life whenever the necklace
was laid aside. Accordingly Dalim revived every night, as the Duo
queen every night put away the necklace, and died again the next
morning when the queen put it on. When Dalim became reanimated
at night he ate whatever food he liked, for of such there was a
plentiful stock in the garden-house, walked about on the premises,
and meditated on the singularity of his lot. Dalim's friend, who
visited him only during the day, found him always lying a lifeless
corpse; but what struck him after some days was the singular fact that
the body remained in the same state in which he saw it on the first
day of his visit. There was no sign of putrefaction. Except that it
was lifeless and pale, there were no symptoms of corruption--it was
apparently quite fresh. Unable to account for so strange a phenomenon,
he determined to watch the corpse more closely, and to visit it not
only during the day but sometimes also at night. The first night that
he paid his visit he was astounded to see his dead friend sauntering
about in the garden. At first he thought the figure might be only
the ghost of his friend, but on feeling him and otherwise examining
him, he found the apparition to be veritable flesh and blood. Dalim
related to his friend all the circumstances connected with his death;
and they both concluded that he revived at nights only because the
Duo queen put aside her necklace when the king visited her. As the
life of the prince depended on the necklace, the two friends laid
their heads together to devise if possible some plans by which they
might get possession of it. Night after night they consulted together,
but they could not think of any feasible scheme. At length the gods
brought about the deliverance of Dalim Kumar in a wonderful manner.
Some years before the time of which we are speaking, the sister of
Bidhata-Purusha [3] was delivered of a daughter. The anxious mother
asked her brother what he had written on her child's forehead;
to which Bidhata-Purusha replied that she should get married to a
dead bridegroom. Maddened as she became with grief at the prospect of
such a dreary destiny for her daughter, she yet thought it useless to
remonstrate with her brother, for she well knew that he never changed
what he once wrote. As the child grew in years she became exceedingly
beautiful, but the mother could not look upon her with pleasure in
consequence of the portion allotted to her by her divine brother. When
the girl came to marriageable age, the mother resolved to flee from
the country with her, and thus avert her dreadful destiny. But the
decrees of fate cannot thus be overruled. In the course of their
wanderings the mother and daughter arrived at the gate of that very
garden-house in which Dalim Kumar lay. It was evening. The girl said
she was thirsty and wanted to drink water. The mother told her daughter
to sit at the gate, while she went to search for drinking water in some
neighbouring hut. In the meantime the girl through curiosity pushed
the door of the garden-house, which opened of itself. She then went
in and saw a beautiful palace, and was wishing to come out when the
door shut itself of its own accord, so that she could not get out. As
night came on the prince revived, and, walking about, saw a human
figure near the gate. He went up to it, and found it was a girl of
surpassing beauty. On being asked who she was, she told Dalim Kumar
all the details of her little history,--how her uncle, the divine
Bidhata-Purusha, wrote on her forehead at her birth that she should
get married to a dead bridegroom, how her mother had no pleasure in
her life at the prospect of so terrible a destiny, and how, therefore,
on the approach of her womanhood, with a view to avert so dreadful a
catastrophe, she had left her house with her and wandered in various
places, how they came to the gate of the garden-house, and how her
mother had now gone in search of drinking water for her. Dalim Kumar,
hearing her simple and pathetic story, said, "I am the dead bridegroom,
and you must get married to me, come with me to the house." "How
can you be said to be a dead bridegroom when you are standing and
speaking to me?" said the girl. "You will understand it afterwards,"
rejoined the prince, "come now and follow me." The girl followed the
prince into the house. As she had been fasting the whole day the
prince hospitably entertained her. As for the mother of the girl,
the sister of the divine Bidhata-Purusha, she returned to the gate
of the garden-house after it was dark, cried out for her daughter,
and getting no answer, went away in search of her in the huts in the
neighbourhood. It is said that after this she was not seen anywhere.
While the niece of the divine Bidhata-Purusha was partaking of the
hospitality of Dalim Kumar, his friend as usual made his appearance. He
was surprised not a little at the sight of the fair stranger; and his
surprise became greater when he heard the story of the young lady from
her own lips. It was forthwith resolved that very night to unite the
young couple in the bonds of matrimony. As priests were out of the
question, the hymeneal rites were performed a la Gandharva. [4] The
friend of the bridegroom took leave of the newly-married couple and
went away to his house. As the happy pair had spent the greater part
of the night in wakefulness, it was long after sunrise that they awoke
from their sleep;--I should have said that the young wife woke from her
sleep, for the prince had become a cold corpse, life having departed
from him. The feelings of the young wife may be easily imagined. She
shook her husband, imprinted warm kisses on his cold lips, but in
vain. He was as lifeless as a marble statue. Stricken with horror, she
smote her breast, struck her forehead with the palms of her hands, tore
her hair and went about in the house and in the garden as if she had
gone mad. Dalim's friend did not come into the house during the day,
as he deemed it improper to pay a visit to her while her husband was
lying dead. The day seemed to the poor girl as long as a year, but the
longest day has its end, and when the shades of evening were descending
upon the landscape, her dead husband was awakened into consciousness;
he rose up from his bed, embraced his disconsolate wife, ate, drank,
and became merry. His friend made his appearance as usual, and the
whole night was spent in gaiety and festivity. Amid this alternation
of life and death did the prince and his lady spend some seven or
eight years, during which time the princess presented her husband
with two lovely boys who were the exact image of their father.
It is superfluous to remark that the king, the two queens, and other
members of the royal household did not know that Dalim Kumar was
living, at any rate, was living at night. They all thought that he
was long ago dead and his corpse burnt. But the heart of Dalim's wife
was yearning after her mother-in-law, whom she had never seen. She
conceived a plan by which she might be able not only to have a
sight of her mother-in-law, but also to get hold of the Duo queen's
necklace, on which her husband's life was dependent. With the consent
of her husband and of his friend she disguised herself as a female
barber. Like every female barber she took a bundle containing the
following articles:--an iron instrument for paring nails, another
iron instrument for scraping off the superfluous flesh of the soles
of the feet, a piece of jhama or burnt brick for rubbing the soles of
the feet with, and alakta [5] for painting the edges of the feet and
toes with. Taking this bundle in her hand she stood at the gate of the
king's palace with her two boys. She declared herself to be a barber,
and expressed a desire to see the Suo queen, who readily gave her an
interview. The queen was quite taken up with the two little boys, who,
she declared, strongly reminded her of her darling Dalim Kumar. Tears
fell profusely from her eyes at the recollection of her lost treasure;
but she of course had not the remotest idea that the two little boys
were the sons of her own dear Dalim. She told the supposed barber
that she did not require her services, as, since the death of her
son, she had given up all terrestrial vanities, and among others the
practice of dyeing her feet red; but she added that, nevertheless,
she would be glad now and then to see her and her two fine boys. The
female barber, for so we must now call her, then went to the quarters
of the Duo queen and offered her services. The queen allowed her to
pare her nails, to scrape off the superfluous flesh of her feet,
and to paint them with alakta and was so pleased with her skill,
and the sweetness of her disposition, that she ordered her to wait
upon her periodically. The female barber noticed with no little
concern the necklace round the queen's neck. The day of her second
visit came on, and she instructed the elder of her two sons to set
up a loud cry in the palace, and not to stop crying till he got into
his hands the Duo queen's necklace. The female barber, accordingly,
went again on the appointed day to the Duo queen's apartments. While
she was engaged in painting the queen's feet, the elder boy set up a
loud cry. On being asked the reason of the cry, the boy, as previously
instructed, said that he wanted the queen's necklace. The queen said
that it was impossible for her to part with that particular necklace,
for it was the best and most valuable of all her jewels. To gratify
the boy, however, she took it off her neck, and put it into the
boy's hand. The boy stopped crying and held the necklace tight in
his hand. As the female barber after she had done her work was about
to go away, the queen wanted the necklace back. But the boy would
not part with it. When his mother attempted to snatch it from him,
he wept bitterly, and showed as if his heart would break. On which
the female barber said--"Will your Majesty be gracious enough to let
the boy take the necklace home with him? When he falls asleep after
drinking his milk, which he is sure to do in the course of an hour,
I will carefully bring it back to you." The queen, seeing that the
boy would not allow it to be taken away from him, agreed to the
proposal of the female barber, especially reflecting that Dalim,
whose life depended on it, had long ago gone to the abodes of death.
Thus possessed of the treasure on which the life of her husband
depended, the woman went with breathless haste to the garden-house and
presented the necklace to Dalim, who had been restored to life. Their
joy knew no bounds, and by the advice of their friend they determined
the next day to go to the palace in state, and present themselves to
the king and the Suo queen. Due preparations were made; an elephant,
richly caparisoned, was brought for the prince Dalim Kumar, a pair
of ponies for the two little boys, and a chaturdala [6] furnished
with curtains of gold lace for the princess. Word was sent to the
king and the Suo queen that the prince Dalim Kumar was not only
alive, but that he was coming to visit his royal parents with his
wife and sons. The king and Suo queen could hardly believe in the
report, but being assured of its truth they were entranced with joy;
while the Duo queen, anticipating the disclosure of all her wiles,
became overwhelmed with grief. The procession of Dalim Kumar, which
was attended by a band of musicians, approached the palace-gate; and
the king and Suo queen went out to receive their long-lost son. It is
needless to say that their joy was intense. They fell on each other's
neck and wept. Dalim then related all the circumstances connected
with his death. The king, inflamed with rage, ordered the Duo queen
into his presence. A large hole, as deep as the height of a man,
was dug in the ground. The Duo queen was put into it in a standing
posture. Prickly thorn was heaped around her up to the crown of her
head; and in this manner she was buried alive.
Thus my story endeth,
The Natiya-thorn withereth;
"Why, O Natiya-thorn, dost wither?"
"Why does thy cow on me browse?"
"Why, O cow, dost thou browse?"
"Why does thy neat-herd not tend me?"
"Why, O neat-herd, dost not tend the cow?"
"Why does thy daughter-in-law not give me rice?"
"Why, O daughter-in-law, dost not give rice?"
"Why does my child cry?"
"Why, O child, dost thou cry?"
"Why does the ant bite me?"
"Why, O ant, dost thou bite?"
Koot! koot! koot!
II
PHAKIR CHAND
There was a king's son, and there was a minister's son. They loved
each other dearly; they sat together, they stood up together, they
walked together, they ate together, they slept together, they got up
together. In this way they spent many years in each other's company,
till they both felt a desire to see foreign lands. So one day they
set out on their journey. Though very rich, the one being the son of
a king and the other the son of his chief minister, they did not take
any servants with them; they went by themselves on horseback. The
horses were beautiful to look at; they were pakshirajes, or kings
of birds. The king's son and the minister's son rode together many
days. They passed through extensive plains covered with paddy; through
cities, towns, and villages; through waterless, treeless deserts;
through dense forests which were the abode of the tiger and the
bear. One evening they were overtaken by night in a region where human
habitations were not seen; and as it was getting darker and darker,
they dismounted beneath a lofty tree, tied their horses to its trunk,
and, climbing up, sat on its branches covered with thick foliage. The
tree grew near a large tank, the water of which was as clear as the
eye of a crow. The king's son and the minister's son made themselves
as comfortable as they could on the tree, being determined to spend
on its branches the livelong night. They sometimes chatted together in
whispers on account of the lonely terrors of the region; they sometimes
sat demurely silent for some minutes; and anon they were falling into
a doze, when their attention was arrested by a terrible sight.
A sound like the rush of many waters was heard from the middle of the
tank. A huge serpent was seen leaping up from under the water with its
hood of enormous size. It "lay floating many a rood"; then it swam
ashore, and went about hissing. But what most of all attracted the
attention of the king's son and the minister's son was a brilliant
manikya (jewel) on the crested hood of the serpent. It shone like
a thousand diamonds. It lit up the tank, its embankments, and the
objects round about. The serpent doffed the jewel from its crest and
threw it on the ground, and then it went about hissing in search of
food. The two friends sitting on the tree greatly admired the wonderful
brilliant, shedding ineffable lustre on everything around. They had
never before seen anything like it; they had only heard of it as
equalling the treasures of seven kings. Their admiration, however,
was soon changed into sorrow and fear; for the serpent came hissing
to the foot of the tree on the branches of which they were seated,
and swallowed up, one by one, the horses tied to the trunk. They
feared that they themselves would be the next victims, when, to their
infinite relief, the gigantic cobra turned away from the tree, and went
about roaming to a great distance. The minister's son, seeing this,
bethought himself of taking possession of the lustrous stone. He had
heard that the only way to hide the brilliant light of the jewel was
to cover it with cow-dung or horse-dung, a quantity of which latter
article he perceived lying at the foot of the tree. He came down from
the tree softly, picked up the horse-dung, threw it upon the precious
stone, and again climbed into the tree. The serpent, not perceiving
the light of its head-jewel, rushed with great fury to the spot
where it had been left. Its hissings, groans, and convulsions were
terrible. It went round and round the jewel covered with horse-dung,
and then breathed its last. Early next morning the king's son and the
minister's son alighted from the tree, and went to the spot where the
crest-jewel was. The mighty serpent lay there perfectly lifeless. The
minister's son took up in his hand the jewel covered with horse-dung;
and both of them went to the tank to wash it. When all the horse-dung
had been washed off, the jewel shone as brilliantly as before. It
lit up the entire bed of the tank, and exposed to their view the
innumerable fishes swimming about in the waters. But what was their
astonishment when they saw, by the light of the jewel, in the bottom
of the tank, the lofty walls of what seemed a magnificent palace. The
venturesome son of the minister proposed to the prince that they should
dive into the waters and get at the palace below. They both dived into
the waters--the jewel being in the hand of the minister's son--and
in a moment stood at the gate of the palace. The gate was open. They
saw no being, human or superhuman. They went inside the gate, and
saw a beautiful garden laid out on the ample grounds round about the
house which was in the centre. The king's son and the minister's son
had never seen such a profusion of flowers. The rose with its many
varieties, the jessamine, the bel, the mallika, the king of smells,
the lily of the valley, the Champaka, and a thousand other sorts
of sweet-scented flowers were there. And of each of these flowers
there seemed to be a large number. Here were a hundred rose-bushes,
there many acres covered with the delicious jessamine, while yonder
were extensive plantations of all sorts of flowers. As all the
plants were begemmed with flowers, and as the flowers were in full
bloom, the air was loaded with rich perfume. It was a wilderness of
sweets. Through this paradise of perfumery they proceeded towards
the house, which was surrounded by banks of lofty trees. They stood
at the door of the house. It was a fairy palace. The walls were of
burnished gold, and here and there shone diamonds of dazzling hue
which were stuck into the walls. They did not meet with any beings,
human or other. They went inside, which was richly furnished. They
went from room to room, but they did not see any one. It seemed to be
a deserted house. At last, however, they found in one room a young lady
lying down, apparently in sleep, on a bed of golden framework. She was
of exquisite beauty; her complexion was a mixture of red and white;
and her age was apparently about sixteen. The king's son and the
minister's son gazed upon her with rapture; but they had not stood
long when this young lady of superb beauty opened her eyes, which
seemed like those of a gazelle. On seeing the strangers she said:
"How have you come here, ye unfortunate men? Begone, begone! This
is the abode of a mighty serpent, which has devoured my father,
my mother, my brothers, and all my relatives; I am the only one
of my family that he has spared. Flee for your lives, or else the
serpent will put you both in its capacious maw." The minister's son
told the princess how the serpent had breathed its last; how he and
his friend had got possession of its head-jewel, and by its light
had come to her palace. She thanked the strangers for delivering her
from the infernal serpent, and begged of them to live in the house,
and never to desert her. The king's son and the minister's son gladly
accepted the invitation. The king's son, smitten with the charms of
the peerless princess, married her after a short time; and as there
was no priest there, the hymeneal knot was tied by a simple exchange
of garlands of flowers.
The king's son became inexpressibly happy in the company of the
princess, who was as amiable in her disposition as she was beautiful
in her person; and though the wife of the minister's son was living in
the upper world, he too participated in his friend's happiness. Time
thus passed merrily, when the king's son bethought himself of returning
to his native country; and as it was fit that he should go with his
princess in due pomp, it was determined that the minister's son
should first ascend from the subaqueous regions, go to the king,
and bring with him attendants, horses, and elephants for the happy
pair. The snake-jewel was therefore had in requisition. The prince,
with the jewel in hand, accompanied the minister's son to the upper
world, and bidding adieu to his friend returned to his lovely wife in
the enchanted palace. Before leaving, the minister's son appointed
the day and the hour when he would stand on the high embankments of
the tank with horses, elephants, and attendants, and wait upon the
prince and the princess, who were to join him in the upper world by
means of the jewel.
Leaving the minister's son to wend his way to his country and to make
preparations for the return of his king's son, let us see how the happy
couple in the subterranean palace were passing their time. One day,
while the prince was sleeping after his noonday meal, the princess,
who had never seen the upper regions, felt the desire of visiting them,
and the rather as the snake-jewel, which alone could give her safe
conduct through the waters, was at that moment shedding its bright
effulgence in the room. She took up the jewel in her hand, left the
palace, and successfully reached the upper world. No mortal caught
her sight. She sat on the flight of steps with which the tank was
furnished for the convenience of bathers, scrubbed her body, washed
her hair, disported in the waters, walked about on the water's edge,
admired all the scenery around, and returned to her palace, where
she found her husband still locked in the embrace of sleep. When the
prince woke up, she did not tell him a word about her adventure. The
following day at the same hour, when her husband was asleep, she paid
a second visit to the upper world, and went back unnoticed by mortal
man. As success made her bold, she repeated her adventure a third
time. It so chanced that on that day the son of the Rajah, in whose
territories the tank was situated, was out on a hunting excursion,
and had pitched his tent not far from the place. While his attendants
were engaged in cooking their noon-day meal, the Rajah's son sauntered
about on the embankments of the tank, near which an old woman was
gathering sticks and dried branches of trees for purposes of fuel. It
was while the Rajah's son and the old woman were near the tank that
the princess paid her third visit to the upper world. She rose up
from the waters, gazed around, and seeing a man and a woman on the
banks again went down. The Rajah's son caught a momentary glimpse of
the princess, and so did the old woman gathering sticks. The Rajah's
son stood gazing on the waters. He had never seen such a beauty. She
seemed to him to be one of those deva-kanyas, heavenly goddesses,
of whom he had read in old books, and who are said now and then to
favour the lower world with their visits, which, like angel visits,
are "few and far between." The unearthly beauty of the princess,
though he had seen her only for a moment, made a deep impression on
his heart, and distracted his mind. He stood there like a statue, for
hours, gazing on the waters, in the hope of seeing the lovely figure
again. But in vain. The princess did not appear again. The Rajah's
son became mad with love. He kept muttering--"Now here, now gone! Now
here, now gone!" He would not leave the place till he was forcibly
removed by the attendants who had now come to him. He was taken to his
father's palace in a state of hopeless insanity. He spoke to nobody;
he always sobbed heavily; and the only words which proceeded out of
his mouth--and he was muttering them every minute--were, "Now here, now
gone! Now here, now gone!" The Rajah's grief may well be conceived. He
could not imagine what should have deranged his son's mind. The words,
"Now here, now gone," which ever and anon issued from his son's
lips, were a mystery to him; he could not unravel their meaning;
neither could the attendants throw any light on the subject. The best
physicians of the country were consulted, but to no effect. The sons
of AEsculapius could not ascertain the cause of the madness, far less
could they cure it. To the many inquiries of the physicians, the only
reply made by the Rajah's son was the stereotyped words--"Now here,
now gone! Now here, now gone!"
The Rajah, distracted with grief on account of the obscuration of
his son's intellects, caused a proclamation to be made in the capital
by beat of drum, to the effect that, if any person could explain the
cause of his son's madness and cure it, such a person would be rewarded
with the hand of the Rajah's daughter, and with the possession of half
his kingdom. The drum was beaten round most parts of the city, but no
one touched it, as no one knew the cause of the madness of the Rajah's
son. At last an old woman touched the drum, and declared that she would
not only discover the cause of the madness, but cure it. This woman,
who was the identical woman that was gathering sticks near the tank
at the time the Rajah's son lost his reason, had a crack-brained son
of the name of Phakir Chand, and was in consequence called Phakir's
mother, or more familiarly Phakre's mother. When the woman was brought
before the Rajah, the following conversation took place:--
Rajah. You are the woman that touched the drum.--You know the cause
of my son's madness?
Phakir's Mother. Yes, O incarnation of justice! I know the cause,
but I will not mention it till I have cured your son.
Rajah. How can I believe that you are able to cure my son, when the
best physicians of the land have failed?
Phakir's Mother. You need not now believe, my lord, till I have
performed the cure. Many an old woman knows secrets with which wise
men are unacquainted.
Rajah. Very well, let me see what you can do. In what time will you
perform the cure?
Phakir's Mother. It is impossible to fix the time at present; but I
will begin work immediately with your lordship's assistance.
Rajah. What help do you require from me?
Phakir's Mother. Your lordship will please order a hut to be raised on
the embankment of the tank where your son first caught the disease. I
mean to live in that hut for a few days. And your lordship will also
please order some of your servants to be in attendance at a distance of
about a hundred yards from the hut, so that they might be within call.
Rajah. Very well; I will order that to be immediately done. Do you
want anything else?
Phakir's Mother. Nothing else, my lord, in the way of preparations. But
it is as well to remind your lordship of the conditions on which I
undertake the cure. Your lordship has promised to give to the performer
of the cure the hand of your daughter and half your kingdom. As I
am a woman and cannot marry your daughter, I beg that, in case I
perform the cure, my son Phakir Chand may marry your daughter and
take possession of half your kingdom.
Rajah. Agreed, agreed.
A temporary hut was in a few hours erected on the embankment of the
tank, and Phakir's mother took up her abode in it. An outpost was
also erected at some distance for servants in attendance who might
be required to give help to the woman. Strict orders were given by
Phakir's mother that no human being should go near the tank excepting
herself. Let us leave Phakir's mother keeping watch at the tank, and
hasten down into the subterranean palace to see what the prince and
the princess are about. After the mishap which had occurred on her
last visit to the upper world, the princess had given up the idea of
a fourth visit. But women generally have greater curiosity than men;
and the princess of the underground palace was no exception to the
general rule. One day, while her husband was asleep as usual after
his noonday meal, she rushed out of the palace with the snake-jewel in
her hand, and came to the upper world. The moment the upheaval of the
waters in the middle of the tank took place, Phakir's mother, who was
on the alert, concealed herself in the hut and began looking through
the chinks of the matted wall. The princess, seeing no mortal near,
came to the bank, and sitting there began to scrub her body. Phakir's
mother showed herself outside the hut, and addressing the princess,
said in a winning tone--"Come, my child, thou queen of beauty, come
to me, and I will help you to bathe." So saying, she approached the
princess, who, seeing that it was only a woman, made no resistance. The
old woman, while in the act of washing the hair of the princess,
noticed the bright jewel in her hand, and said--"Put the jewel here
till you are bathed." In a moment the jewel was in the possession
of Phakir's mother, who wrapped it up in the cloth that was round
her waist. Knowing the princess to be unable to escape, she gave the
signal to the attendants in waiting, who rushed to the tank and made
the princess a captive.
Great were the rejoicings of the people when the tidings reached the
city that Phakir's mother had captured a water-nymph from the nether
regions. The whole city came to see the "daughter of the immortals,"
as they called the princess. When she was brought to the palace and
confronted with the Rajah's son of obscured intellect, the latter
said with a shout of exultation--"I have found! I have found!" The
cloud which had settled on his brain was dissipated in a moment. The
eyes, erewhile vacant and lustreless, now glowed with the fire of
intelligence; his tongue, of which he had almost lost the use--the
only words which he used to utter being, "Now here, now gone!"--was
now relaxed: in a word, he was restored to his senses. The joy of the
Rajah knew no bounds. There was great festivity in the city; and the
people who showered benedictions on the head of Phakir Chand's mother,
expected the speedy celebration of the marriage of the Rajah's son
with the beauty of the nether world. The princess, however, told the
Rajah, through Phakir's mother, that she had made a vow to the effect
that she would not, for one whole year, look at the face of another
man than that of her husband who was dwelling beneath the waters,
and that therefore the marriage could not be performed during that
period. Though the Rajah's son was somewhat disappointed, he readily
agreed to the delay, believing, agreeably to the proverb, that delay
would greatly enhance the sweetness of those pleasures which were in
store for him.
It is scarcely necessary to say that the princess spent her days and
her nights in sorrowing and sighing. She lamented that idle curiosity
which had led her to come to the upper world, leaving her husband
below. When she recollected that her husband was all alone below the
waters she wept bitter tears. She wished she could run away. But that
was impossible, as she was immured within walls, and there were walls
within walls. Besides, if she could get out of the palace and of the
city, of what avail would it be? She could not gain her husband,
as the serpent jewel was not in her possession. The ladies of the
palace and Phakir's mother tried to divert her mind, but in vain. She
took pleasure in nothing; she would hardly speak to any one; she wept
day and night. The year of her vow was drawing to a close, and yet
she was disconsolate. The marriage, however, must be celebrated. The
Rajah consulted the astrologers, and the day and the hour in which
the nuptial knot was to be tied were fixed. Great preparations were
made. The confectioners of the city busied themselves day and night
in preparing sweetmeats; milkmen took contracts for supplying the
palace with tanks of curds; gunpowder was being manufactured for a
grand display of fireworks; bands of musicians were placed on sheds
erected over the palace gate, who ever and anon sent forth many
"a bout of linked sweetness"; and the whole city assumed an air of
mirth and festivity.
It is time we should think of the minister's son, who, leaving his
friend in the subterranean palace, had gone to his country to bring
horses, elephants, and attendants for the return of the king's son
and his lovely princess with due pomp. The preparations took him
many months; and when everything was ready he started on his journey,
accompanied by a long train of elephants, horses, and attendants. He
reached the tank two or three days before the appointed day. Tents were
pitched in the mango-topes adjoining the tank for the accommodation of
men and cattle; and the minister's son always kept his eyes fixed on
the tank. The sun of the appointed day sank below the horizon; but the
prince and the princess dwelling beneath the waters made no sign. He
waited two or three days longer; still the prince did not make his
appearance. What could have happened to his friend and his beautiful
wife? Were they dead? Had another serpent, possibly the mate of the one
that had died, beaten the prince and the princess to death? Had they
somehow lost the serpent-jewel? Or had they been captured when they
were once on a visit to the upper world? Such were the reflections of
the minister's son. He was overwhelmed with grief. Ever since he had
come to the tank he had heard at regular intervals the sound of music
coming from the city which was not distant. He inquired of passers-by
what that music meant. He was told that the Rajah's son was about
to be married to some wonderful young lady, who had come out of the
waters of that very tank on the bank of which he was now seated, and
that the marriage ceremony was to be performed on the day following
the next. The minister's son immediately concluded that the wonderful
young lady of the lake that was to be married was none other than the
wife of his friend, the king's son. He resolved therefore to go into
the city to learn the details of the affair, and try if possible to
rescue the princess. He told the attendants to go home, taking with
them the elephants and the horses; and he himself went to the city,
and took up his abode in the house of a Brahman.
After he had rested and taken his dinner, the minister's son asked
the Brahman what the meaning was of the music that was heard in the
city at regular intervals. The Brahman asked, "From what part of
the world have you come that you have not heard of the wonderful
circumstance that a young lady of heavenly beauty rose out of the
waters of a tank in the suburbs, and that she is going to be married
the day after to-morrow to the son of our Rajah?"
Minister's Son. No, I have heard nothing. I have come from a distant
country whither the story has not reached. Will you kindly tell me
the particulars?
Brahman. The Rajah's son went out a-hunting about this time last
year. He pitched his tents close to a tank in the suburbs. One day,
while the Rajah's son was walking near the tank, he saw a young
woman, or rather goddess, of uncommon beauty rise from the waters of
the tank. She gazed about for a minute or two and disappeared. The
Rajah's son, however, who had seen her, was so struck with her heavenly
beauty that he became desperately enamoured of her. Indeed, so intense
was his passion, that his reason gave way; and he was carried home
hopelessly mad. The only words he uttered day and night were--"Now
here, now gone!" The Rajah sent for all the best physicians of the
country for restoring his son to his reason; but the physicians were
powerless. At last he caused a proclamation to be made by beat of drum
to the effect that if any one could cure the Rajah's son, he should
be the Rajah's son-in-law and the owner of half his kingdom. An old
woman, who went by the name of Phakir's mother, took hold of the drum,
and declared her ability to cure the Rajah's son. On the tank where
the princess had appeared was raised for Phakir's mother a hut in
which she took up her abode; and not far from her hut another hut was
erected for the accommodation of attendants who might be required to
help her. It seems the goddess rose from the waters; Phakir's mother
seized her with the help of the attendants, and carried her in a palki
to the palace. At the sight of her the Rajah's son was restored to
his senses; and the marriage would have been celebrated at that time
but for a vow which the goddess had made that she would not look at
the face of any male person till the lapse of a year. The year of the
vow is now over; and the music which you have heard is from the gate
of the Rajah's palace. This, in brief, is the story.
Minister's Son. A truly wonderful story! And has Phakir's mother,
or rather Phakir Chand himself, been rewarded with the hand of the
Rajah's daughter and with the possession of half the kingdom?
Brahman. No, not yet. Phakir has not been got hold of. He is a
half-witted lad, or rather quite mad. He has been away for more
than a year from his home, and no one knows where he is. That is his
manner; he stays away for a long time, suddenly comes home, and again
disappears. I believe his mother expects him soon.
Minister's Son. What like is he? and what does he do when he returns
home?
Brahman. Why, he is about your height, though he is somewhat younger
than you. He puts on a small piece of cloth round his waist, rubs
his body with ashes, takes the branch of a tree in his hand, and,
at the door of the hut in which his mother lives, dances to the tune
of dhoop! dhoop! dhoop! His articulation is very indistinct; and when
his mother says--"Phakir! stay with me for some days," he invariably
answers in his usual unintelligible manner, "No, I won't remain,
I won't remain." And when he wishes to give an affirmative answer,
he says, "Hoom," which means "Yes."
The above conversation with the Brahman poured a flood of light into
the mind of the minister's son. He saw how matters stood. He perceived
that the princess of the subterranean palace must have alone ventured
out into the tank by means of the snake-jewel; that she must have
been captured alone without the king's son; that the snake-jewel
must be in the possession of Phakir's mother; and that his friend,
the king's son, must be alone below the waters without any means of
escape. The desolate and apparently hopeless state of his friend
filled him with unutterable grief. He was in deep musings during
most part of the night. Is it impossible, thought he, to rescue the
king's son from the nether regions? What if, by some means or other,
I contrive to get the jewel from the old woman? And can I not do it
by personating Phakir Chand himself, who is expected by his mother
shortly? And possibly by the same means I may be able to rescue the
princess from the Rajah's palace. He resolved to act the role of Phakir
Chand the following day. In the morning he left the Brahman's house,
went to the outskirts of the city, divested himself of his usual
clothing, put round his waist a short and narrow piece of cloth which
scarcely reached his knee-joints, rubbed his body well with ashes,
took in his hand a twig which he broke off a tree, and thus accoutred,
presented himself before the door of the hut of Phakir's mother. He
commenced operations by dancing, in a most violent manner, to the
tune of dhoop! dhoop! dhoop! The dancing attracted the notice of the
old woman, who, supposing that her son had come, said--"My son Phakir,
are you come? Come, my darling; the gods have at last become propitious
to us." The supposed Phakir Chand uttered the monosyllable "hoom," and
went on dancing in a still more violent manner than before, waving the
twig in his hand. "This time you must not go away," said the old woman,
"you must remain with me." "No, I won't remain, I won't remain," said
the minister's son. "Remain with me, and I'll get you married to the
Rajah's daughter. Will you marry, Phakir Chand?" The minister's son
replied--"Hoom, hoom," and danced on like a madman. "Will you come
with me to the Rajah's house? I'll show you a princess of uncommon
beauty who has risen from the waters." "Hoom, hoom," was the answer
that issued from his lips, while his feet tripped it violently to
the sound of dhoop! dhoop! "Do you wish to see a manik, Phakir, the
crest jewel of the serpent, the treasure of seven kings?" "Hoom,
hoom," was the reply. The old woman brought out of the hut the
snake-jewel, and put it into the hand of her supposed son. The
minister's son took it, and carefully wrapped it up in the piece
of cloth round his waist. Phakir's mother, delighted beyond measure
at the opportune appearance of her son, went to the Rajah's house,
partly to announce to the Rajah the news of Phakir's appearance,
and partly to show Phakir the princess of the waters. The supposed
Phakir and his mother found ready access to the Rajah's palace, for
the old woman had, since the capture of the princess, become the most
important person in the kingdom. She took him into the room where the
princess was, and introduced him to her. It is superfluous to remark
that the princess was by no means pleased with the company of a madcap,
who was in a state of semi-nudity, whose body was rubbed with ashes,
and who was ever and anon dancing in a wild manner. At sunset the old
woman proposed to her son that they should leave the palace and go
to their own house. But the supposed Phakir Chand refused to comply
with the request; he said he would stay there that night. His mother
tried to persuade him to return with her, but he persisted in his
determination. He said he would remain with the princess. Phakir's
mother therefore went away, after giving instructions to the guards
and attendants to take care of her son.
When all in the palace had retired to rest, the supposed Phakir, coming
towards the princess, said in his own usual voice--"Princess! do you
not recognise me? I am the minister's son, the friend of your princely
husband." The princess, astonished at the announcement, said--"Who? The
minister's son? Oh, my husband's best friend, do rescue me from this
terrible captivity, from this worse than death. O fate! it is by my
own fault that I am reduced to this wretched state. Oh, rescue me,
rescue me, thou best of friends!" She then burst into tears. The
minister's son said, "Do not be disconsolate. I will try my best
to rescue you this very night; only you must do whatever I tell
you." "I will do anything you tell me, minister's son; anything you
tell me." After this the supposed Phakir left the room, and passed
through the courtyard of the palace. Some of the guards challenged
him, to whom he replied, "Hoom, hoom; I will just go out for a
minute and again come in presently." They understood that it was
the madcap Phakir. True to his word he did come back shortly, and
went to the princess. An hour afterwards he again went out and was
again challenged, on which he made the same reply as at the first
time. The guards who challenged him began to mutter between their
teeth--"This madcap of a Phakir will, we suppose, go out and come in
all night. Let the fellow alone; let him do what he likes. Who can
be sitting up all night for him?" The minister's son was going out
and coming in with the view of accustoming the guards to his constant
egress and ingress, and also of watching for a favourable opportunity
to escape with the princess. About three o'clock in the morning the
minister's son again passed through the courtyard, but this time no
one challenged him, as all the guards had fallen asleep. Overjoyed at
the auspicious circumstance, he went to the princess. "Now, princess,
is the time for escape. The guards are all asleep. Mount on my back,
and tie the locks of your hair round my neck, and keep tight hold
of me." The princess did as she was told. He passed unchallenged
through the courtyard with the lovely burden on his back, passed out
of the gate of the palace--no one challenging him, passed on to the
outskirts of the city, and reached the tank from which the princess
had risen. The princess stood on her legs, rejoicing at her escape, and
at the same time trembling. The minister's son untied the snake-jewel
from his waist-cloth, and descending into the waters, both he and she
found their way to the subterranean palace. The reception which the
prince in the subaqueous palace gave to his wife and his friend may be
easily imagined. He had nearly died of grief; but now he suffered a
resurrection. The three were now mad with joy. During the three days
that they remained in the palace they again and again told the story
of the egress of the princess into the upper world, of her seizure,
of her captivity in the palace, of the preparations for marriage, of
the old woman, of the minister's son personating Phakir Chand, and of
the successful deliverance. It is unnecessary to add that the prince
and the princess expressed their gratitude to the minister's son in
the warmest terms, declared him to be their best and greatest friend,
and vowed to abide always, till the day of their death, by his advice,
and to follow his counsel.
Being resolved to return to their native country, the king's son,
the minister's son, and the princess left the subterranean palace,
and, lighted in the passage by the snake-jewel, made their way good to
the upper world. As they had neither elephants nor horses, they were
under the necessity of travelling on foot; and though this mode of
travelling was troublesome to both the king's son and the minister's
son, as they were bred in the lap of luxury, it was infinitely more
troublesome to the princess, as the stones of the rough road
"Wounded the invisible
Palms of her tender feet where'er they fell."
When her feet became very sore, the king's son sometimes took her
up on his broad shoulders, on which she sat astride; but the load,
however lovely, was too heavy to be carried any great distance. She
therefore, for the most part, travelled on foot.
One evening they bivouacked beneath a tree, as no human habitations
were visible. The minister's son said to the prince and princess,
"Both of you go to sleep, and I will keep watch in order to prevent any
danger." The royal couple were soon locked in the arms of sleep. The
faithful son of the minister did not sleep, but sat up watching. It so
happened that on that tree swung the nest of the two immortal birds,
Bihangama and Bihangami, who were not only endowed with the power
of human speech, but who could see into the future. To the no little
astonishment of the minister's son the two prophetical birds joined
in the following conversation:--
Bihangama. The minister's son has already risked his own life for the
safety of his friend, the king's son; but he will find it difficult
to save the prince at last.
Bihangami. Why so?
Bihangama. Many dangers await the king's son. The prince's father, when
he hears of the approach of his son, will send for him an elephant,
some horses, and attendants. When the king's son rides on the elephant
he will fall down and die.
Bihangami. But suppose some one prevents the king's son from riding
on the elephant, and makes him ride on horseback, will he not in that
case be saved?
Bihangama. Yes, he will in that case escape that danger, but a fresh
danger awaits him. When the king's son is in sight of his father's
palace, and when he is in the act of passing through its lion-gate,
the lion-gate will fall upon him and crush him to death.
Bihangami. But suppose some one destroys the lion-gate before the
king's son goes up to it; will not the king's son in that case
be saved?
Bihangama. Yes, in that case he will escape that particular danger;
but a fresh danger awaits him. When the king's son reaches the palace
and sits at a feast prepared for him, and when he takes into his
mouth the head of a fish cooked for him, the head of the fish will
stick in his throat and choke him to death.
Bihangami. But suppose some one sitting at the feast snatches the head
of the fish from the prince's plate, and thus prevents him from putting
it into his mouth, will not the king's son in that case be saved?
Bihangama. Yes, in that case he will escape that particular danger;
but a fresh danger awaits him. When the prince and princess after
dinner retire into their sleeping apartment, and they lie together
in bed, a terrible cobra will come into the room and bite the king's
son to death.
Bihangami. But suppose some one lying in wait in the room cut the
snake into pieces, will not the king's son in that case be saved?
Bihangama. Yes, in that case the life of the king's son will be
saved; but if the man who kills the snake repeats to the king's son
the conversation between you and me, that man will be turned into a
marble statue.
Bihangami. But is there no means of restoring the marble statue
to life?
Bihangama. Yes, the marble statue may be restored to life if it is
washed with the life-blood of the infant which the princess will give
birth to, immediately after it is ushered into the world.
The conversation of the prophetical birds had extended thus far
when the crows began to caw, the east put on a reddish hue, and the
travellers beneath the tree bestirred themselves. The conversation
stopped, but the minister's son had heard it all.
The prince, the princess, and the minister's son pursued their journey
in the morning; but they had not walked many hours when they met a
procession consisting of an elephant, a horse, a palki, and a large
number of attendants. These animals and men had been sent by the king,
who had heard that his son, together with his newly married wife and
his friend the minister's son, were not far from the capital on their
journey homewards. The elephant, which was richly caparisoned, was
intended for the prince; the palki the framework of which was silver
and was gaudily adorned, was meant for the princess; and the horse for
the minister's son. As the prince was about to mount on the elephant,
the minister's son went up to him and said--"Allow me to ride on
the elephant, and you please ride on horseback." The prince was not
a little surprised at the coolness of the proposal. He thought his
friend was presuming too much on the services he had rendered; he was
therefore nettled, but remembering that his friend had saved both him
and his wife, he said nothing, but quietly mounted the horse, though
his mind became somewhat alienated from him. The procession started,
and after some time came in sight of the palace, the lion-gate of
which had been gaily adorned for the reception of the prince and
the princess. The minister's son told the prince that the lion-gate
should be broken down before the prince could enter the palace. The
prince was astounded at the proposal, especially as the minister's
son gave no reasons for so extraordinary a request. His mind became
still more estranged from him; but in consideration of the services
the minister's son had rendered, his request was complied with,
and the beautiful lion-gate, with its gay decorations, was broken down.
The party now went into the palace, where the king gave a warm
reception to his son, to his daughter-in-law, and to the minister's
son. When the story of their adventures was related, the king and his
courtiers expressed great astonishment, and they all with one voice
extolled the sagacity, prudence, and devotedness of the minister's
son. The ladies of the palace were struck with the extraordinary
beauty of the new-comer; her complexion was milk and vermilion mixed
together; her neck was like that of a swan; her eyes were like those
of a gazelle; her lips were as red as the berry bimba; her cheeks were
lovely; her nose was straight and high; her hair reached her ankles;
her walk was as graceful as that of a young elephant--such were the
terms in which the connoisseurs of beauty praised the princess whom
destiny had brought into the midst of them. They sat around her and
put her a thousand questions regarding her parents, regarding the
subterranean palace in which she formerly lived, and the serpent
which had killed all her relatives. It was now time that the new
arrivals should have their dinner. The dinner was served up in dishes
of gold. All sorts of delicacies were there, amongst which the most
conspicuous was the large head of a rohita fish placed in a golden
cup near the prince's plate. While they were eating, the minister's
son suddenly snatched the head of the fish from the prince's plate,
and said, "Let me, prince, eat this rohita's head." The king's son was
quite indignant. He said nothing, however. The minister's son perceived
that his friend was in a terrible rage; but he could not help it,
as his conduct, however strange, was necessary to the safety of his
friend's life; neither could he clear himself by stating the reason of
his behaviour, as in that case he himself would be transformed into
a marble statue. The dinner over, the minister's son expressed his
desire to go to his own house. At other times the king's son would
not allow his friend to go away in that fashion; but being shocked at
his strange conduct, he readily agreed to the proposal. The minister's
son, however, had not the slightest notion of going to his own house;
he was resolved to avert the last peril that was to threaten the life
of his friend. Accordingly, with a sword in his hand, he stealthily
entered the room in which the prince and the princess were to sleep
that night, and ensconced himself under the bedstead, which was
furnished with mattresses of down and canopied with mosquito curtains
of the richest silk and gold lace. Soon after dinner the prince and
princess came into the bedroom, and undressing themselves went to
bed. At midnight, while the royal couple were asleep, the minister's
son perceived a snake of gigantic size enter the room through one of
the water-passages, and climb up the tester-frame of the bed. He rushed
out of his hiding-place, killed the serpent, cut it up in pieces, and
put the pieces in the dish for holding betel-leaves and spices. It so
happened, however, that as the minister's son was cutting the serpent
into pieces, a drop of blood fell on the breast of the princess, and
the rather as the mosquito curtains had not been let down. Thinking
that the drop of blood might injure the fair princess, he resolved
to lick it up. But as he regarded it as a great sin to look upon a
young woman lying asleep half naked, he blindfolded himself with
seven-fold cloth, and licked up the drop of blood. But while he
was in the act of licking it, the princess awoke and screamed, and
her scream roused her husband lying beside her. The prince seeing
the minister's son, who he thought had gone away to his own house,
bending over the body of his wife, fell into a great rage, and would
have got up and killed him, had not the minister's son besought him
to restrain his anger, adding--"Friend, I have done this only in
order to save your life." "I do not understand what you mean," said
the prince; "ever since we came out of the subterranean palace you
have been behaving in a most extraordinary way. In the first place,
you prevented me from getting upon the richly caparisoned elephant,
though my father, the king, had purposely sent it for me. I thought,
however, that a sense of the services you had rendered to me had made
you exceedingly vain; I therefore let the matter pass, and mounted
the horse. In the second place, you insisted on the destruction of the
fine lion-gate, which my father had adorned with gay decorations; and
I let that matter also pass. Then, again, at dinner you snatched away,
in a most shameful manner, the rohita's head which was on my plate,
and devoured it yourself, thinking, no doubt, that you were entitled
to higher honours than I. You then pretended that you were going
home, for which I was not at all sorry, as you had made yourself
very disagreeable to me. And now you are actually in my bedroom,
bending over the naked bosom of my wife. You must have had some evil
design; and you pretend that you have done this to save my life. I
fancy it was not for saving my life, but for destroying my wife's
chastity." "Oh, do not harbour such thoughts in your mind against
me. The gods know that I have done all this for the preservation of
your life. You would see the reasonableness of my conduct throughout
if I had the liberty of stating my reasons." "And why are you not
at liberty?" asked the prince; "who has shut up your mouth?" "It is
destiny that has shut up my mouth," answered the minister's son;
"if I were to tell it all, I should be transformed into a marble
statue." "You would be transformed into a marble statue!" exclaimed
the prince; "you must take me to be a simpleton to believe this
nonsense." "Do you wish me then, friend," said the minister's son,
"to tell you all? You must then make up your mind to see your friend
turned into stone." "Come, out with it," said the prince, "or else you
are a dead man." The minister's son, in order to clear himself of the
foul accusation brought against him, deemed it his duty to reveal the
secret at the risk of his life. He again and again warned the prince
not to press him. But the prince remained inexorable. The minister's
son then went on to say that, while bivouacking under a lofty tree
one night, he had overheard a conversation between Bihangama and
Bihangami, in which the former predicted all the dangers that were to
threaten the life of the prince. When the minister's son had related
the prediction concerning the mounting upon the elephant, his lower
parts were turned into stone. He then, turning to the prince, said,
"See, friend, my lower parts have already turned into stone." "Go on,
go on," said the prince, "with your story." The minister's son then
related the prophecy regarding the destruction of the lion-gate,
when half of his body was converted into stone. He then related
the prediction regarding the eating of the head of the fish, when
his body up to his neck was petrified. "Now, friend," said the
minister's son, "the whole of my body, excepting my neck and head,
is petrified; if I tell the rest, I shall assuredly become a man of
stone. Do you wish me still to go on?" "Go on," answered the prince,
"go on." "Very well, I will go on to the end," said the minister's
son; "but in case you repent after I have become turned into stone,
and wish me to be restored to life, I will tell you of the manner
in which it may be effected. The princess after a few months will be
delivered of a child; if immediately after the birth of the infant you
kill it and besmear my marble body with its blood, I shall be restored
to life." He then related the prediction regarding the serpent in the
bedroom; and when the last word was on his lips the rest of his body
was turned into stone, and he dropped on the floor a marble image. The
princess jumped out of bed, opened the vessel for betel-leaves and
spices, and saw there pieces of a serpent. Both the prince and the
princess now became convinced of the good faith and benevolence of
their departed friend. They went to the marble figure, but it was
lifeless. They set up a loud lamentation; but it was to no purpose,
for the marble moved not. They then resolved to keep the marble figure
concealed in a safe place, and to besmear it with the blood of their
first-born child when it should be ushered into existence.
In process of time the hour of the princess's travail came on,
and she was delivered of a beautiful boy, the perfect image of his
mother. Both father and mother were struck with the beauty of their
child, and would fain have spared its life; but recollecting the vows
they had made on behalf of their best friend, now lying in a corner of
the room a lifeless stone, and the inestimable services he had rendered
to both of them, they cut the child into two, and besmeared the marble
figure of the minister's son with its blood. The marble became animated
in a moment. The minister's son stood before the prince and princess,
who became exceedingly glad to see their old friend again in life. But
the minister's son, who saw the lovely new-born babe lying in a pool
of blood, was overwhelmed with grief. He took up the dead infant,
carefully wrapped it up in a towel, and resolved to get it restored
to life.
The minister's son, intent on the reanimation of his friend's child,
consulted all the physicians of the country; but they said that
they would undertake to cure any person of any disease so long as
life was in him, but when life was extinct, the case was beyond
their jurisdiction. The minister's son at last bethought himself
of his own wife, who was living in a distant town, and who was a
devoted worshipper of the goddess Kali, who, through his wife's
intercession, might be prevailed upon to give life to the dead
child. He, accordingly, set out on a journey to the town in which
his wife was living in her father's house. Adjoining that house there
was a garden where upon a tree he hung the dead child wrapped up in
a towel. His wife was overjoyed to see her husband after so long a
time; but to her surprise she found that he was very melancholy, that
he spoke very little, and that he was brooding over something in his
mind. She asked the reason of his melancholy, but he kept quiet. One
night while they were lying together in bed, the wife got up and
opening the door went out. The husband, who had little sleep any night
in consequence of the weight of anxiety regarding the reanimation of
his friend's child, perceiving his wife go out at that dead hour of
night, determined to follow her without being noticed. She went to a
temple of the goddess Kali, which was at no great distance from her
house. She worshipped the goddess with flowers and sandal-wood perfume,
and said, "O mother Kali! have mercy upon me, and deliver me out of
all my troubles." The goddess replied, "Why, what further grievance
have you? You long prayed for the return of your husband, and he has
returned; what aileth thee now?" The woman answered, "True, O Mother,
my husband has come to me, but he is very moody and melancholy,
hardly speaks to me, takes no delight in me, only sits moping in a
corner." To which the goddess rejoined, "Ask your husband what the
reason of his melancholy is, and let me know it." The minister's son
overheard the conversation between the goddess and his wife, but he
did not make his appearance; he quietly slunk away before his wife
and went to bed. The following day the wife asked her husband of the
cause of his melancholy; and he related all the particulars regarding
the killing of the infant child of the prince. Next night at the same
dead hour the wife proceeded to Kali's temple and mentioned to the
goddess the reason of her husband's melancholy; on which the goddess
said, "Bring the child here and I will restore it to life." On the
succeeding night the child was produced before the goddess Kali,
and she called it back to life. Entranced with joy, the minister's
son took up the reanimated child, went as fast as his legs could
carry him to the prince and princess, and presented to them their
child alive and well. They all rejoiced with exceeding great joy,
and lived together happily till the day of their death.
Thus my story endeth,
The Natiya-thorn withereth, etc.
III
THE INDIGENT BRAHMAN
There was a Brahman who had a wife and four children. He was
very poor. With no resources in the world, he lived chiefly on the
benefactions of the rich. His gains were considerable when marriages
were celebrated or funeral ceremonies were performed; but as his
parishioners did not marry every day, neither did they die every
day, he found it difficult to make the two ends meet. His wife
often rebuked him for his inability to give her adequate support,
and his children often went about naked and hungry. But though poor
he was a good man. He was diligent in his devotions; and there was
not a single day in his life in which he did not say his prayers at
stated hours. His tutelary deity was the goddess Durga, the consort
of Siva, the creative Energy of the Universe. On no day did he either
drink water or taste food till he had written in red ink the name
of Durga at least one hundred and eight times; while throughout the
day he incessantly uttered the ejaculation, "O Durga! O Durga! have
mercy upon me." Whenever he felt anxious on account of his poverty
and his inability to support his wife and children, he groaned
out--"Durga! Durga! Durga!"
One day, being very sad, he went to a forest many miles distant
from the village in which he lived, and indulging his grief wept
bitter tears. He prayed in the following manner:--"O Durga! O Mother
Bhagavati! wilt thou not make an end of my misery? Were I alone in
the world, I should not have been sad on account of poverty; but thou
hast given me a wife and children. Give me, O Mother, the means to
support them." It so happened that on that day and on that very spot
the god Siva and his wife Durga were taking their morning walk. The
goddess Durga, on seeing the Brahman at a distance, said to her divine
husband--"O Lord of Kailas! do you see that Brahman? He is always
taking my name on his lips and offering the prayer that I should
deliver him out of his troubles. Can we not, my lord, do something
for the poor Brahman, oppressed as he is with the cares of a growing
family? We should give him enough to make him comfortable. As the
poor man and his family have never enough to eat, I propose that you
give him a handi [7] which should yield him an inexhaustible supply
of mudki." [8] The lord of Kailas readily agreed to the proposal of
his divine consort, and by his decree created on the spot a handi
possessing the required quality. Durga then, calling the Brahman
to her, said,--"O Brahman! I have often thought of your pitiable
case. Your repeated prayers have at last moved my compassion. Here is
a handi for you. When you turn it upside down and shake it, it will
pour down a never-ceasing shower of the finest mudki, which will not
end till you restore the handi to its proper position. Yourself,
your wife, and your children can eat as much mudki as you like,
and you can also sell as much as you like." The Brahman, delighted
beyond measure at obtaining so inestimable a treasure, made obeisance
to the goddess, and, taking the handi in his hand, proceeded towards
his house as fast as his legs could carry him. But he had not gone
many yards when he thought of testing the efficacy of the wonderful
vessel. Accordingly he turned the handi upside down and shook it, when,
lo, and behold! a quantity of the finest mudki he had ever seen fell
to the ground. He tied the sweetmeat in his sheet and walked on. It
was now noon, and the Brahman was hungry; but he could not eat without
his ablutions and his prayers. As he saw in the way an inn, and not
far from it a tank, he purposed to halt there that he might bathe,
say his prayers, and then eat the much-desired mudki. The Brahman
sat at the innkeeper's shop, put the handi near him, smoked tobacco,
besmeared his body with mustard oil, and before proceeding to bathe
in the adjacent tank gave the handi in charge to the innkeeper,
begging him again and again to take especial care of it.
When the Brahman went to his bath and his devotions, the innkeeper
thought it strange that he should be so careful as to the safety of
his earthen vessel. There must be something valuable in the handi,
he thought, otherwise why should the Brahman take so much thought
about it? His curiosity being excited he opened the handi, and to his
surprise found that it contained nothing. What can be the meaning of
this? thought the innkeeper within himself. Why should the Brahman
care so much for an empty handi? He took up the vessel, and began
to examine it carefully; and when, in the course of examination, he
turned the handi upside down, a quantity of the finest mudki fell
from it, and went on falling without intermission. The innkeeper
called his wife and children to witness this unexpected stroke of good
fortune. The showers of the sugared fried paddy were so copious that
they filled all the vessels and jars of the innkeeper. He resolved
to appropriate to himself this precious handi, and accordingly put in
its place another handi of the same size and make. The ablutions and
devotions of the Brahman being now over, he came to the shop in wet
clothes reciting holy texts of the Vedas. Putting on dry clothes,
he wrote on a sheet of paper the name of Durga one hundred and
eight times in red ink; after which he broke his fast on the mudki
his handi had already given him. Thus refreshed, and being about
to resume his journey homewards, he called for his handi, which the
innkeeper delivered to him, adding--"There, sir, is your handi; it is
just where you put it; no one has touched it." The Brahman, without
suspecting anything, took up the handi and proceeded on his journey;
and as he walked on, he congratulated himself on his singular good
fortune. "How agreeably," he thought within himself, "will my poor
wife be surprised! How greedily the children will devour the mudki
of heaven's own manufacture! I shall soon become rich, and lift up
my head with the best of them all." The pains of travelling were
considerably alleviated by these joyful anticipations. He reached his
house, and calling his wife and children, said--"Look now at what I
have brought. This handi that you see is an unfailing source of wealth
and contentment. You will see what a stream of the finest mudki will
flow from it when I turn it upside down." The Brahman's good wife,
hearing of mudki falling from the handi unceasingly, thought that her
husband must have gone mad; and she was confirmed in her opinion when
she found that nothing fell from the vessel though it was turned upside
down again and again. Overwhelmed with grief, the Brahman concluded
that the innkeeper must have played a trick with him; he must have
stolen the handi Durga had given him, and put a common one in its
stead. He went back the next day to the innkeeper, and charged him
with having changed his handi. The innkeeper put on a fit of anger,
expressed surprise at the Brahman's impudence in charging him with
theft, and drove him away from his shop.
The Brahman then bethought himself of an interview with the goddess
Durga who had given him the handi, and accordingly went to the forest
where he had met her. Siva and Durga again favoured the Brahman
with an interview. Durga said--"So, you have lost the handi I gave
you. Here is another, take it and make good use of it." The Brahman,
elated with joy, made obeisance to the divine couple, took up the
vessel, and went on his way. He had not gone far when he turned it
upside down, and shook it in order to see whether any mudki would
fall from it. Horror of horrors! instead of sweetmeats about a score
of demons, of gigantic size and grim visage, jumped out of the handi,
and began to belabour the astonished Brahman with blows, fisticuffs and
kicks. He had the presence of mind to turn up the handi and to cover
it, when the demons forthwith disappeared. He concluded that this new
handi had been given him only for the punishment of the innkeeper. He
accordingly went to the innkeeper, gave him the new handi in charge,
begged of him carefully to keep it till he returned from his ablutions
and prayers. The innkeeper, delighted with this second godsend, called
his wife and children, and said--"This is another handi brought here by
the same Brahman who brought the handi of mudki. This time, I hope, it
is not mudki but sandesa. [9] Come, be ready with baskets and vessels,
and I'll turn the handi upside down and shake it." This was no sooner
done than scores of fierce demons started up, who caught hold of the
innkeeper and his family and belaboured them mercilessly. They also
began upsetting the shop, and would have completely destroyed it,
if the victims had not besought the Brahman, who had by this time
returned from his ablutions, to show mercy to them and send away
the terrible demons. The Brahman acceded to the innkeeper's request,
he dismissed the demons by shutting up the vessel; he got the former
handi, and with the two handis went to his native village.
On reaching home the Brahman shut the door of his house, turned the
mudki-handi upside down, and shook it; the result was an unceasing
stream of the finest mudki that any confectioner in the country
could produce. The man, his wife, and their children devoured the
sweetmeat to their hearts' content; all the available earthen pots
and pans of the house were filled with it; and the Brahman resolved
the next day to turn confectioner, to open a shop in his house, and
sell mudki. On the very day the shop was opened, the whole village
came to the Brahman's house to buy the wonderful mudki. They had never
seen such mudki in their life, it was so sweet, so white, so large, so
luscious; no confectioner in the village or any town in the country had
ever manufactured anything like it. The reputation of the Brahman's
mudki extended, in a few days, beyond the bounds of the village,
and people came from remote parts to purchase it. Cartloads of the
sweetmeat were sold every day, and the Brahman in a short time became
very rich. He built a large brick house, and lived like a nobleman
of the land. Once, however, his property was about to go to wreck
and ruin. His children one day by mistake shook the wrong handi,
when a large number of demons dropped down and caught hold of the
Brahman's wife and children and were striking them mercilessly, when
happily the Brahman came into the house and turned up the handi. In
order to prevent a similar catastrophe in future, the Brahman shut up
the demon-handi in a private room to which his children had no access.
Pure and uninterrupted prosperity, however, is not the lot of mortals;
and though the demon-handi was put aside, what security was there
that an accident might not befall the mudki-handi? One day, during
the absence of the Brahman and his wife from the house, the children
decided upon shaking the handi; but as each of them wished to enjoy
the pleasure of shaking it there was a general struggle to get it, and
in the melee the handi fell to the ground and broke. It is needless to
say that the Brahman, when on reaching home he heard of the disaster,
became inexpressibly sad. The children were of course well cudgelled,
but no flogging of children could replace the magical handi. After some
days he again went to the forest, and offered many a prayer for Durga's
favour. At last Siva and Durga again appeared to him, and heard how
the handi had been broken. Durga gave him another handi, accompanied
with the following caution--"Brahman, take care of this handi; if you
again break it or lose it, I'll not give you another." The Brahman
made obeisance, and went away to his house at one stretch without
halting anywhere. On reaching home he shut the door of his house,
called his wife to him, turned the handi upside down, and began to
shake it. They were only expecting mudki to drop from it, but instead
of mudki a perennial stream of beautiful sandesa issued from it. And
such sandesa! No confectioner of Burra Bazar ever made its like. It
was more the food of gods than of men. The Brahman forthwith set up
a shop for selling sandesa, the fame of which soon drew crowds of
customers from all parts of the country. At all festivals, at all
marriage feasts, at all funeral celebrations, at all Pujas, no one
bought any other sandesa than the Brahman's. Every day, and every
hour, many jars of gigantic size, filled with the delicious sweetmeat,
were sent to all parts of the country.
The wealth of the Brahman excited the envy of the Zemindar of the
village, who, having heard that the sandesa was not manufactured but
dropped from a handi, devised a plan for getting possession of the
miraculous vessel. At the celebration of his son's marriage he held
a great feast, to which were invited hundreds of people. As many
mountain-loads of sandesa would be required for the purpose, the
Zemindar proposed that the Brahman should bring the magical handi to
the house in which the feast was held. The Brahman at first refused
to take it there; but as the Zemindar insisted on its being carried
to his own house, he reluctantly consented to take it there. After
many Himalayas of sandesa had been shaken out, the handi was taken
possession of by the Zemindar, and the Brahman was insulted and driven
out of the house. The Brahman, without giving vent to anger in the
least, quietly went to his house, and taking the demon-handi in his
hand, came back to the door of the Zemindar's house. He turned the
handi upside down and shook it, on which a hundred demons started up
as from the vasty deep and enacted a scene which it is impossible to
describe. The hundreds of guests that had been bidden to the feast
were caught hold of by the unearthly visitants and beaten; the women
were dragged by their hair from the Zenana and dashed about amongst
the men; while the big and burly Zemindar was driven about from room
to room like a bale of cotton. If the demons had been allowed to do
their will only for a few minutes longer, all the men would have been
killed, and the very house razed to the ground. The Zemindar fell
prostrate at the feet of the Brahman and begged for mercy. Mercy was
shown him, and the demons were removed. After that the Brahman was
no more disturbed by the Zemindar or by any one else; and he lived
many years in great happiness and enjoyment.
Thus my story endeth,
The Natiya-thorn withereth, etc.
IV
THE STORY OF THE RAKSHASAS
There was a poor half-witted Brahman who had a wife but no children. It
was only with difficulty he could supply the wants of himself and his
wife. And the worst of it was that he was rather lazily inclined. He
was averse to taking long journeys, otherwise he might always have
had enough, in the shape of presents from rich men, to enable him
and his wife to live comfortably. There was at that time a king in a
neighbouring country who was celebrating the funeral obsequies of his
mother with great pomp. Brahmans and beggars were going from different
parts with the expectation of receiving rich presents. Our Brahman was
requested by his wife to seize this opportunity and get a little money;
but his constitutional indolence stood in the way. The woman, however,
gave her husband no rest till she extorted from him the promise that
he would go. The good woman, accordingly, cut down a plantain tree
and burnt it to ashes, with which ashes she cleaned the clothes of
her husband, and made them as white as any fuller could make them. She
did this because her husband was going to the palace of a great king,
who could not be approached by men clothed in dirty rags; besides,
as a Brahman, he was bound to appear neat and clean. The Brahman at
last one morning left his house for the palace of the great king. As
he was somewhat imbecile, he did not inquire of any one which road
he should take; but he went on and on, and proceeded whithersoever
his two eyes directed him. He was of course not on the right road,
indeed he had reached a region where he did not meet with a single
human being for many miles, and where he saw sights which he had
never seen in his life. He saw hillocks of cowries (shells used as
money) on the roadside: he had not proceeded far from them when he
saw hillocks of pice, then successively hillocks of four-anna pieces,
hillocks of eight-anna pieces, and hillocks of rupees. To the infinite
surprise of the poor Brahman, these hillocks of shining silver coins
were succeeded by a large hill of burnished gold-mohurs, which were
all as bright as if they had been just issued from the mint. Close
to this hill of gold-mohurs was a large house which seemed to be
the palace of a powerful and rich king, at the door of which stood
a lady of exquisite beauty. The lady, seeing the Brahman, said,
"Come, my beloved husband; you married me when I was young, and
you never came once after our marriage, though I have been daily
expecting you. Blessed be this day which has made me see the face of
my husband. Come, my sweet, come in, wash your feet and rest after the
fatigues of your journey; eat and drink, and after that we shall make
ourselves merry." The Brahman was astonished beyond measure. He had
no recollection of having been married in early youth to any other
woman than the woman who was now keeping house with him. But being
a Kulin Brahman, he thought it was quite possible that his father
had got him married when he was a little child, though the fact had
made no impression on his mind. But whether he remembered it or not,
the fact was certain, for the woman declared that she was his wedded
wife,--and such a wife! as beautiful as the goddesses of Indra's
heaven, and no doubt as wealthy as she was beautiful. While these
thoughts were passing through the Brahman's mind, the lady said again,
"Are you doubting in your mind whether I am your wife? Is it possible
that all recollection of that happy event has been effaced from your
mind--all the pomp and circumstance of our nuptials? Come in, beloved;
this is your own house, for whatever is mine is thine." The Brahman
succumbed to the loving entreaties of the fair lady, and went into the
house. The house was not an ordinary one--it was a magnificent palace,
all the apartments being large and lofty and richly furnished. But one
thing surprised the Brahman very much, and that was that there was
no other person in the house besides the lady herself. He could not
account for so singular a phenomenon; neither could he explain how
it was that he did not meet with any human being in his morning and
evening walks. The fact was that the lady was not a human being. She
was a Rakshasi. [10] She had eaten up the king, the queen, and all
the members of the royal family, and gradually all his subjects. This
was the reason why human beings were not seen in those parts.
The Rakshasi and the Brahman lived together for about a week, when
the former said to the latter, "I am very anxious to see my sister,
your other wife. You must go and fetch her, and we shall all live
together happily in this large and beautiful house. You must go early
to-morrow, and I will give you clothes and jewels for her." Next
morning the Brahman, furnished with fine clothes and costly ornaments,
set out for his home. The poor woman was in great distress; all the
Brahmans and Pandits that had been to the funeral ceremony of the
king's mother had returned home loaded with largesses; but her husband
had not returned,--and no one could give any news of him, for no one
had seen him there. The woman therefore concluded that he must have
been murdered on the road by highwaymen. She was in this terrible
suspense, when one day she heard a rumour in the village that her
husband was seen coming home with fine clothes and costly jewels for
his wife. And sure enough the Brahman soon appeared with his valuable
load. On seeing his wife the Brahman thus accosted her:--"Come with
me, my dearest wife; I have found my first wife. She lives in a
stately palace, near which are hillocks of rupees and a large hill
of gold-mohurs. Why should you pine away in wretchedness and misery
in this horrible place? Come with me to the house of my first wife,
and we shall all live together happily." When the woman heard her
husband speak of his first wife, of hillocks of rupees and of a hill
of gold-mohurs, she thought in her mind that her half-witted good man
had become quite mad; but when she saw the exquisitely beautiful silks
and satins and the ornaments set with diamonds and precious stones,
which only queens and princesses were in the habit of putting on,
she concluded in her mind that her poor husband had fallen into the
meshes of a Rakshasi. The Brahman, however, insisted on his wife's
going with him, and declared that if she did not come she was at
liberty to pine away in poverty, but that for himself he meant to
return forthwith to his first and rich wife. The good woman, after a
great deal of altercation with her husband, resolved to go with him
and judge for herself how matters stood. They set out accordingly
the next morning, and went by the same road on which the Brahman had
travelled. The woman was not a little surprised to see hillocks of
cowries, of pice, of eight-anna pieces, of rupees, and last of all a
lofty hill of gold-mohurs. She saw also an exceedingly beautiful lady
coming out of the palace hard by, and hastening towards her. The lady
fell on the neck of the Brahman woman, wept tears of joy, and said,
"Welcome, beloved sister! this is the happiest day of my life! I have
seen the face of my dearest sister!" The party then entered the palace.
What with the stately mansion in which he was lodged, with the most
delectable provisions which seemed to rise as if by enchantment, what
with the caresses and endearments of his two wives, the one human and
the other demoniac, who vied with each other in making him happy and
comfortable, the Brahman had a jolly time of it. He was steeped as
it were in an ocean of enjoyment. Some fifteen or sixteen years were
spent by the Brahman in this state of Elysian pleasure, during which
period his two wives presented him with two sons. The Rakshasi's son,
who was the elder, and who looked more like a god than a human being,
was named Sahasra Dal, literally the Thousand-Branched; and the son
of the Brahman woman, who was a year younger, was named Champa Dal,
that is, branch of a champaka tree. The two boys loved each other
dearly. They were both sent to a school which was several miles
distant, to which they used every day to go riding on two little
ponies of extraordinary fleetness.
The Brahman woman had all along suspected from a thousand little
circumstances that her sister-in-law was not a human being but a
Rakshasi; but her suspicion had not yet ripened into certainty, for
the Rakshasi exercised great self-restraint on herself, and never
did anything which human beings did not do. But the demoniac nature,
like murder, will out. The Brahman having nothing to do, in order
to pass his time had recourse to hunting. The first day he returned
from the hunt, he had bagged an antelope. The antelope was laid in the
courtyard of the palace. At the sight of the antelope the mouth of the
raw-eating Rakshasi began to water. Before the animal was dressed for
the kitchen, she took it away into a room, and began devouring it. The
Brahman woman, who was watching the whole scene from a secret place,
saw her Rakshasi sister tear off a leg of the antelope, and opening her
tremendous jaws, which seemed to her imagination to extend from earth
to heaven, swallow it up. In this manner the body and other limbs of
the antelope were devoured, till only a little bit of the meat was
kept for the kitchen. The second day another antelope was bagged,
and the third day another; and the Rakshasi, unable to restrain her
appetite for raw flesh, devoured these two as she had devoured the
first. On the third day the Brahman woman expressed to the Rakshasi her
surprise at the disappearance of nearly the whole of the antelope with
the exception of a little bit. The Rakshasi looked fierce and said,
"Do I eat raw flesh?" To which the Brahman woman replied, "Perhaps you
do, for aught I know to the contrary." The Rakshasi, knowing herself
to be discovered, looked fiercer than before, and vowed revenge. The
Brahman woman concluded in her mind that the doom of herself, of
her husband, and of her son was sealed. She spent a miserable night,
believing that next day she would be killed and eaten up, and that her
husband and son would share the same fate. Early next morning, before
her son Champa Dal went to school, she gave him in a small golden
vessel a little quantity of her own breast milk, and told him to be
constantly watching its colour. "Should you," she said, "see the milk
get a little red, then conclude that your father has been killed; and
should you see it grow still redder, then conclude that I am killed:
when you see this, gallop away for your life as fast as your horse
can carry you, for if you do not, you also will be devoured."
The Rakshasi on getting up from bed--and she had prevented the Brahman
overnight from having any communication with his wife--proposed that
she and the Brahman should go to bathe in the river, which was at
some distance. She would take no denial; the Brahman had therefore
to follow her as meekly as a lamb. The Brahman woman at once saw from
the proposal that ruin was impending; but it was beyond her power to
avert the catastrophe. The Rakshasi, on the river-side, assuming her
own proper gigantic dimensions, took hold of the ill-fated Brahman,
tore him limb by limb, and devoured him up. She then ran to her house,
and seized the Brahman woman, and put her into her capacious stomach,
clothes, hair and all. Young Champa Dal, who, agreeably to his mother's
instructions, was diligently watching the milk in the small golden
vessel, was horror-struck to find the milk redden a little. He set
up a cry and said that his father was killed; a few minutes after,
finding the milk become completely red, he cried yet louder, and
rushing to his pony, mounted it. His half-brother, Sahasra Dal,
surprised at Champa Dal's conduct, said, "Where are you going,
Champa? Why are you crying? Let me accompany you." "Oh! do not come
to me. Your mother has devoured my father and mother; don't you come
and devour me." "I will not devour you; I'll save you." Scarcely
had he uttered these words and galloped away after Champa Dal, when
he saw his mother in her own Rakshasi form appearing at a distance,
and demanding that Champa Dal should come to her. He said, "I will
come to you, not Champa." So saying, he went to his mother, and with
his sword, which he always wore as a young prince, cut off her head.
Champa Dal had, in the meantime, galloped off a good distance, as
he was running for his life; but Sahasra Dal, by pricking his horse
repeatedly, soon overtook him, and told him that his mother was no
more. This was small consolation to Champa Dal, as the Rakshasi,
before being killed, had devoured both his father and mother; still
he could not but feel that Sahasra Dal's friendship was sincere. They
both rode fast, and as their horses were of the breed of pakshirajes
(literally, kings of birds), they travelled over hundreds of miles. An
hour or two before sundown they descried a village, to which they made
up, and became guests in the house of one of its most respectable
inhabitants. The two friends found the members of that respectable
family in deep gloom. Evidently there was something agitating them
very much. Some of them held private consultations, and others were
weeping. The eldest lady of the house, the mother of its head, said
aloud, "Let me go, as I am the eldest. I have lived long enough;
at the utmost my life would be cut short only by a year or two." The
youngest member of the house, who was a little girl, said, "Let me
go, as I am young and useless to the family; if I die I shall not be
missed." The head of the house, the son of the old lady, said, "I am
the head and representative of the family; it is but reasonable that
I should give up my life." His younger brother said, "You are the main
prop and pillar of the family; if you go the whole family is ruined. It
is not reasonable that you should go; let me go, as I shall not be
much missed." The two strangers listened to all this conversation
with no little curiosity. They wondered what it all meant. Sahasra
Dal at last, at the risk of being thought meddlesome, ventured to
ask the head of the house the subject of their consultations, and
the reason of the deep misery but too visible in their countenances
and words. The head of the house gave the following answer: "Know
then, worthy guests, that this part of the country is infested by a
terrible Rakshasi, who has depopulated all the regions round. This
town, too, would have been depopulated, but that our king became a
suppliant before the Rakshasi, and begged her to show mercy to us his
subjects. The Rakshasi replied, 'I will consent to show mercy to you
and to your subjects only on this condition, that you every night put
a human being, either male or female, in a certain temple for me to
feast upon. If I get a human being every night I will rest satisfied,
and not commit any further depredations on your subjects.' Our king
had no other alternative than to agree to this condition, for what
human beings can ever hope to contend against a Rakshasi? From that
day the king made it a rule that every family in the town should in
its turn send one of its members to the temple as a victim to appease
the wrath and to satisfy the hunger of the terrible Rakshasi. All the
families in this neighbourhood have had their turn, and this night
it is the turn for one of us to devote himself to destruction. We are
therefore discussing who should go. You must now perceive the cause of
our distress." The two friends consulted together for a few minutes,
and at the conclusion of their consultations, Sahasra Dal, who was the
spokesman of the party, said, "Most worthy host, do not any longer be
sad: as you have been very kind to us, we have resolved to requite
your hospitality by ourselves going to the temple and becoming the
food of the Rakshasi. We go as your representatives." The whole
family protested against the proposal. They declared that guests
were like gods, and that it was the duty of the host to endure all
sorts of privation for the comfort of the guest, and not the duty of
the guest to suffer for the host. But the two strangers insisted on
standing proxy to the family, who, after a great deal of yea and nay,
at last consented to the arrangement.
Immediately after candle-light, Sahasra Dal and Champa Dal, with
their two horses, installed themselves in the temple, and shut the
door. Sahasra told his brother to go to sleep, as he himself was
determined to sit up the whole night and watch against the coming of
the terrible Rakshasi. Champa was soon in a fine sleep, while Sahasra
lay awake. Nothing happened during the early hours of the night, but
no sooner had the gong of the king's palace announced the dead hour
of midnight than Sahasra heard the sound as of a rushing tempest,
and immediately concluded, from his knowledge of Rakshasas, that
the Rakshasi was nigh. A thundering knock was heard at the door,
accompanied with the following words:--
"How, mow, khow!
A human being I smell;
Who watches inside?"
To this question Sahasra Dal made the following reply:--
"Sahasra Dal watcheth,
Champa Dal watcheth,
Two winged horses watch."
On hearing this answer the Rakshasi turned away with a groan, knowing
that Sahasra Dal had Rakshasa blood in his veins. An hour after,
the Rakshasi returned, thundered at the door, and called out--
"How, mow, khow!
A human being I smell;
Who watcheth inside?"
Sahasra Dal again replied--
"Sahasra Dal watcheth,
Champa Dal watcheth,
Two winged horses watch."
The Rakshasi again groaned and went away. At two o'clock and at three
o'clock the Rakshasi again and again made her appearance, and made
the usual inquiry, and obtaining the same answer, went away with a
groan. After three o'clock, however, Sahasra Dal felt very sleepy:
he could not any longer keep awake. He therefore roused Champa,
told him to watch, and strictly enjoined upon him, in reply to the
query of the Rakshasi, to mention Sahasra's name first. With these
instructions he went to sleep. At four o'clock the Rakshasi again
made her appearance, thundered at the door, and said--
"How, mow, khow!
A human being I smell;
Who watches inside?"
As Champa Dal was in a terrible fright, he forgot the instructions
of his brother for the moment, and answered--
"Champa Dal watcheth,
Sahasra Dal watcheth,
Two winged horses watch."
On hearing this reply the Rakshasi uttered a shout of exultation,
laughed such a laugh as only demons can, and with a dreadful noise
broke open the door. The noise roused Sahasra, who in a moment
sprung to his feet, and with his sword, which was as supple as a
palm-leaf, cut off the head of the Rakshasi. The huge mountain of a
body fell to the ground, making a great noise, and lay covering many
an acre. Sahasra Dal kept the severed head of the Rakshasi near him,
and went to sleep. Early in the morning some wood-cutters, who were
passing near the temple, saw the huge body on the ground. They could
not from a distance make out what it was, but on coming near they
knew that it was the carcase of the terrible Rakshasi, who had by
her voracity nearly depopulated the country. Remembering the promise
made by the king that the killer of the Rakshasi should be rewarded
by the hand of his daughter and with a share of the kingdom, each of
the wood-cutters, seeing no claimant at hand, thought of obtaining
the reward. Accordingly each of them cut off a part of a limb of the
huge carcase, went to the king, and represented himself to be the
destroyer of the great raw-eater, and claimed the reward. The king,
in order to find out the real hero and deliverer, inquired of his
minister the name of the family whose turn it was on the preceding
night to offer a victim to the Rakshasi. The head of that family, on
being brought before the king, related how two youthful travellers,
who were guests in his house, volunteered to go into the temple
in the room of a member of his family. The door of the temple was
broken open; Sahasra Dal and Champa Dal and their horses were found
all safe; and the head of the Rakshasi, which was with them, proved
beyond the shadow of a doubt that they had killed the monster. The
king kept his word. He gave his daughter in marriage to Sahasra Dal
and the sovereignty of half his dominions. Champa Dal remained with
his friend in the king's palace, and rejoiced in his prosperity.
Sahasra Dal and Champa Dal lived together happily for some time, when
a misunderstanding arose between them in this wise. There was in the
service of the queen-mother a certain maid-servant who was the most
useful domestic in the palace. There was nothing which she could not
put her hands to and perform. She had uncommon strength for a woman;
neither was her intelligence of a mean order. She was a woman of
immense activity and energy; and if she were absent one day from the
palace, the affairs of the zenana would be in perfect disorder. Hence
her services were highly valued by the queen-mother and all the ladies
of the palace. But this woman was not a woman; she was a Rakshasi, who
had put on the appearance of a woman to serve some purposes of her own,
and then taken service in the royal household. At night, when every
one in the palace was asleep, she used to assume her own real form, and
go about in quest of food, for the quantity of food that is sufficient
for either man or woman was not sufficient for a Rakshasi. Now Champa
Dal, having no wife, was in the habit of sleeping outside the zenana,
and not far from the outer gate of the palace. He had noticed her going
about on the premises and devouring sundry goats and sheep, horses and
elephants. The maid-servant, finding that Champa Dal was in the way of
her supper, determined to get rid of him. She accordingly went one day
to the queen-mother, and said, "Queen-mother! I am unable any longer
to work in the palace." "Why? what is the matter, Dasi? [11] How can
I get on without you? Tell me your reasons. What ails you?" "Why,"
said the woman, "nowadays it is impossible for a poor woman like
me to preserve my honour in the palace. There is that Champa Dal,
the friend of your son-in-law; he always cracks indecent jokes with
me. It is better for me to beg for my rice than to lose my honour. If
Champa Dal remains in the palace I must go away." As the maid-servant
was an absolute necessity in the palace, the queen-mother resolved
to sacrifice Champa Dal to her. She therefore told Sahasra Dal that
Champa Dal was a bad man, that his character was loose, and that
therefore he must leave the palace. Sahasra Dal earnestly pleaded on
behalf of his friend, but in vain; the queen-mother had made up her
mind to drive him out of the palace. Sahasra Dal had not the courage
to speak personally to his friend on the subject; he therefore wrote
a letter to him, in which he simply said that for certain reasons
Champa must leave the palace immediately. The letter was put in his
room after he had gone to bathe. On reading the letter Champa Dal,
exceedingly grieved, mounted his fleet horse and left the palace.
As Champa's horse was uncommonly fleet, in a few hours he traversed
thousands of miles, and at last found himself at the gateway of what
seemed a magnificent palace. Dismounting from his horse, he entered
the house, where he did not meet with a single creature. He went from
apartment to apartment, but though they were all richly furnished he
did not see a single human being. At last, in one of the side rooms,
he found a young lady of heavenly beauty lying down on a splendid
bedstead. She was asleep. Champa Dal looked upon the sleeping beauty
with rapture--he had not seen any woman so beautiful. Upon the bed,
near the head of the young lady, were two sticks, one of silver and the
other of gold. Champa took the silver stick into his hand, and touched
with it the body of the lady; but no change was perceptible. He then
took up the gold stick and laid it upon the lady, when in a trice
she woke up, sat in her bed, and eyeing the stranger, inquired who
he was. Champa Dal briefly told his story. The young lady, or rather
princess--for she was nothing less--said, "Unhappy man! why have you
come here? This is the country of Rakshasas, and in this house and
round about there live no less than seven hundred Rakshasas. They
all go away to the other side of the ocean every morning in search of
provisions; and they all return every evening before dusk. My father
was formerly king in these regions, and had millions of subjects, who
lived in flourishing towns and cities. But some years ago the invasion
of the Rakshasas took place, and they devoured all his subjects,
and himself and my mother, and my brothers and sisters. They devoured
also all the cattle of the country. There is no living human being in
these regions excepting myself; and I too should long ago have been
devoured had not an old Rakshasi, conceiving strange affection for
me, prevented the other Rakshasas from eating me up. You see those
sticks of silver and gold; the old Rakshasi, when she goes away in
the morning, kills me with the silver stick, and on her return in
the evening re-animates me with the gold stick. I do not know how
to advise you; if the Rakshasas see you, you are a dead man." Then
they both talked to each other in a very affectionate manner, and
laid their heads together to devise if possible some means of escape
from the hands of the Rakshasas. The hour of the return of the seven
hundred raw-eaters was fast approaching; and Keshavati--for that
was the name of the princess, so called from the abundance of her
hair--told Champa to hide himself in the heaps of the sacred trefoil
which were lying in the temple of Siva in the central part of the
palace. Before Champa went to his place of concealment, he touched
Keshavati with the silver stick, on which she instantly died.
Shortly after sunset Champa Dal heard from beneath the heaps of the
sacred trefoil the sound as of a mighty rushing wind. Presently he
heard terrible noises in the palace. The Rakshasas had come home
from cruising, after having filled their stomachs, each one, with
sundry goats, sheep, cows, horses, buffaloes, and elephants. The old
Rakshasi, of whom we have already spoken, came to Keshavati's room,
roused her by touching her body with the gold stick, and said--
"Hye, mye, khye!
A human being I smell."
On which Keshavati said, "I am the only human being here; eat me if you
like." To which the raw-eater replied, "Let me eat up your enemies;
why should I eat you?" She laid herself down on the ground, as long
and as high as the Vindhya Hills, and presently fell asleep. The other
Rakshasas and Rakshasis also soon fell asleep, being all tired out on
account of their gigantic labours in the day. Keshavati also composed
herself to sleep; while Champa, not daring to come out of the heaps
of leaves, tried his best to court the god of repose. At daybreak all
the raw-eaters, seven hundred in number, got up and went as usual to
their hunting and predatory excursions, and along with them went the
old Rakshasi, after touching Keshavati with the silver stick. When
Champa Dal saw that the coast was clear, he came out of the temple,
walked into Keshavati's room, and touched her with the gold stick,
on which she woke up. They sauntered about in the gardens, enjoying
the cool breeze of the morning; they bathed in a lucid tank which
was in the grounds; they ate and drank, and spent the day in sweet
converse. They concocted a plan for their deliverance. They settled
that Keshavati should ask the old Rakshasi on what the life of a
Rakshasa depended, and when the secret should be made known they would
adopt measures accordingly. As on the preceding evening, Champa, after
touching his fair friend with the silver stick, took refuge in the
temple beneath the heaps of the sacred trefoil. At dusk the Rakshasas
as usual came home; and the old Rakshasi, rousing her pet, said--
"Hye, mye, khye!
A human being I smell."
Keshavati answered, "What other human being is here excepting
myself? Eat me up, if you like." "Why should I eat you, my darling? Let
me eat up all your enemies." Then she laid down on the ground her huge
body, which looked like a part of the Himalaya mountains. Keshavati,
with a phial of heated mustard oil, went towards the feet of the
Rakshasi, and said, "Mother, your feet are sore with walking; let me
rub them with oil." So saying, she began to rub with oil the Rakshasi's
feet; and while she was in the act of doing so, a few tear-drops from
her eyes fell on the monster's leg. The Rakshasi smacked the tear-drops
with her lips, and finding the taste briny, said, "Why are you weeping,
darling? What aileth thee?" To which the princess replied, "Mother,
I am weeping because you are old, and when you die I shall certainly
be devoured by one of the Rakshasas." "When I die! Know, foolish girl,
that we Rakshasas never die. We are not naturally immortal, but our
life depends on a secret which no human being can unravel. Let me
tell you what it is that you may be comforted. You know yonder tank;
there is in the middle of it a Sphatikasthambha, [12] on the top of
which in deep waters are two bees. If any human being can dive into
the waters, and bring up to land the two bees from the pillar in one
breath, and destroy them so that not a drop of their blood falls to
the ground, then we Rakshasas shall certainly die; but if a single
drop of blood falls to the ground, then from it will start up a
thousand Rakshasas. But what human being will find out this secret,
or, finding it, will be able to achieve the feat? You need not,
therefore, darling, be sad; I am practically immortal." Keshavati
treasured up the secret in her memory, and went to sleep.
Early next morning the Rakshasas as usual went away; Champa came
out of his hiding-place, roused Keshavati, and fell a-talking. The
princess told him the secret she had learnt from the Rakshasi. Champa
immediately made preparations for accomplishing the mighty deed. He
brought to the side of the tank a knife and a quantity of ashes. He
disrobed himself, put a drop or two of mustard oil into each of his
ears to prevent water from entering in, and dived into the waters. In
a moment he got to the top of the crystal pillar in the middle of the
tank, caught hold of the two bees he found there, and came up in one
breath. Taking the knife, he cut up the bees over the ashes, a drop
or two of the blood fell, not on the ground, but on the ashes. When
Champa caught hold of the bees, a terrible scream was heard at a
distance. This was the wailing of the Rakshasas, who were all running
home to prevent the bees from being killed; but before they could reach
the palace, the bees had perished. The moment the bees were killed,
all the Rakshasas died, and their carcases fell on the very spot on
which they were standing. Champa and the princess afterwards found
that the gateway of the palace was blocked up by the huge carcases
of the Rakshasas--some of them having nearly succeeded in getting to
the palace. In this manner was effected the destruction of the seven
hundred Rakshasas.
After the destruction of the seven hundred raw-eating monsters, Champa
Dal and Keshavati got married together by the exchange of garlands of
flowers. The princess, who had never been out of the house, naturally
expressed a desire to see the outer world. They used every day to
take long walks both morning and evening, and as a large river was
hard by Keshavati wished to bathe in it. The first day they went to
bathe, one of Keshavati's hairs came off, and as it is the custom
with women never to throw away a hair unaccompanied with something
else, she tied the hair to a shell which was floating on the water;
after which they returned home. In the meantime the shell with the hair
tied to it floated down the stream, and in course of time reached that
ghat [13] at which Sahasra Dal and his companions were in the habit
of performing their ablutions. The shell passed by when Sahasra Dal
and his friends were bathing; and he, seeing it at some distance,
said to them, "Whoever succeeds in catching hold of yonder shell
shall be rewarded with a hundred rupees." They all swam towards it,
and Sahasra Dal, being the fleetest swimmer, got it. On examining
it he found a hair tied to it. But such hair! He had never seen so
long a hair. It was exactly seven cubits long. "The owner of this
hair must be a remarkable woman, and I must see her"--such was the
resolution of Sahasra Dal. He went home from the river in a pensive
mood, and instead of proceeding to the zenana for breakfast, remained
in the outer part of the palace. The queen-mother, on hearing that
Sahasra Dal was looking melancholy and had not come to breakfast,
went to him and asked the reason. He showed her the hair, and said
he must see the woman whose head it had adorned. The queen-mother
said, "Very well, you shall have that lady in the palace as soon as
possible. I promise you to bring her here." The queen-mother told her
favourite maid-servant, whom she knew to be full of resources--the same
who was a Rakshasi in disguise--that she must, as soon as possible,
bring to the palace that lady who was the owner of the hair seven
cubits long. The maid-servant said she would be quite able to fetch
her. By her directions a boat was built of Hajol wood, the oars of
which were of Mon Paban wood. The boat was launched on the stream,
and she went on board of it with some baskets of wicker-work of
curious workmanship; she also took with her some sweetmeats into
which some poison had been mixed. She snapped her fingers thrice,
and uttered the following charm:--
"Boat of Hajol!
Oars of Mon Paban!
Take me to the Ghat,
In which Keshavati bathes."
No sooner had the words been uttered than the boat flew like lightning
over the waters. It went on and on, leaving behind many a town and
city. At last it stopped at a bathing-place, which the Rakshasi
maid-servant concluded was the bathing ghat of Keshavati. She landed
with the sweetmeats in her hand. She went to the gate of the palace,
and cried aloud, "O Keshavati! Keshavati! I am your aunt, your mother's
sister. I am come to see you, my darling, after so many years. Are you
in, Keshavati?" The princess, on hearing these words, came out of her
room, and making no doubt that she was her aunt, embraced and kissed
her. They both wept rivers of joy--at least the Rakshasi maid-servant
did, and Keshavati followed suit through sympathy. Champa Dal also
thought that she was the aunt of his newly married wife. They all
ate and drank and took rest in the middle of the day. Champa Dal,
as was his habit, went to sleep after breakfast. Towards afternoon,
the supposed aunt said to Keshavati, "Let us both go to the river and
wash ourselves." Keshavati replied, "How can we go now? my husband
is sleeping." "Never mind," said the aunt, "let him sleep on; let me
put these sweetmeats, that I have brought, near his bedside, that he
may eat them when he gets up." They then went to the river-side close
to the spot where the boat was. Keshavati, when she saw from some
distance the baskets of wicker-work in the boat, said, "Aunt, what
beautiful things are those! I wish I could get some of them." "Come,
my child, come and look at them; and you can have as many as you
like." Keshavati at first refused to go into the boat, but on being
pressed by her aunt, she went. The moment they two were on board,
the aunt snapped her fingers thrice and said:--
"Boat of Hajol!
Oars of Mon Paban!
Take me to the Ghat,
In which Sahasra Dal bathes."
As soon as these magical words were uttered the boat moved and flew
like an arrow over the waters. Keshavati was frightened and began to
cry, but the boat went on and on, leaving behind many towns and cities,
and in a trice reached the ghat where Sahasra Dal was in the habit of
bathing. Keshavati was taken to the palace; Sahasra Dal admired her
beauty and the length of her hair; and the ladies of the palace tried
their best to comfort her. But she set up a loud cry, and wanted to be
taken back to her husband. At last when she saw that she was a captive,
she told the ladies of the palace that she had taken a vow that she
would not see the face of any strange man for six months. She was
then lodged apart from the rest in a small house, the window of which
overlooked the road; there she spent the livelong day and also the
livelong night--for she had very little sleep--in sighing and weeping.
In the meantime when Champa Dal awoke from sleep, he was distracted
with grief at not finding his wife. He now thought that the woman,
who pretended to be his wife's aunt, was a cheat and an impostor,
and that she must have carried away Keshavati. He did not eat the
sweetmeats, suspecting they might be poisoned. He threw one of
them to a crow which, the moment it ate it, dropped down dead. He
was now the more confirmed in his unfavourable opinion of the
pretended aunt. Maddened with grief, he rushed out of the house,
and determined to go whithersoever his eyes might lead him. Like a
madman, always blubbering "O Keshavati! O Keshavati!" he travelled
on foot day after day, not knowing whither he went. Six months were
spent in this wearisome travelling when, at the end of that period, he
reached the capital of Sahasra Dal. He was passing by the palace-gate
when the sighs and wailings of a woman sitting at the window of
a house, on the road-side, attracted his attention. One moment's
look, and they recognised each other. They continued to hold secret
communications. Champa Dal heard everything, including the story of
her vow, the period of which was to terminate the following day. It
is customary, on the fulfilment of a vow, for some learned Brahman
to make public recitations of events connected with the vow and
the person who makes it. It was settled that Champa Dal should take
upon himself the functions of the reciter. Accordingly, next morning,
when it was proclaimed by beat of drum that the king wanted a learned
Brahman who could recite the story of Keshavati on the fulfilment
of her vow, Champa Dal touched the drum and said that he would make
the recitation. Next morning a gorgeous assembly was held in the
courtyard of the palace under a huge canopy of silk. The old king,
Sahasra Dal, all the courtiers and the learned Brahmans of the country,
were present there. Keshavati was also there behind a screen that she
might not be exposed to the rude gaze of the people. Champa Dal, the
reciter, sitting on a dais, began the story of Keshavati, as we have
related it, from the beginning, commencing with the words--"There
was a poor and half-witted Brahman, etc." As he was going on with
the story, the reciter every now and then asked Keshavati behind the
screen whether the story was correct; to which question she as often
replied, "Quite correct; go on, Brahman." During the recitation of
the story the Rakshasi maid-servant grew pale, as she perceived that
her real character was discovered; and Sahasra Dal was astonished
at the knowledge of the reciter regarding the history of his own
life. The moment the story was finished, Sahasra Dal jumped up from
his seat, and embracing the reciter, said, "You can be none other
than my brother Champa Dal." Then the prince, inflamed with rage,
ordered the maid-servant into his presence. A large hole, as deep
as the height of a man, was dug in the ground; the maid-servant was
put into it in a standing posture; prickly thorn was heaped around
her up to the crown of her head: in this wise was the maid-servant
buried alive. After this Sahasra Dal and his princess, and Champa
Dal and Keshavati, lived happily together many years.
Thus my story endeth,
The Natiya-thorn withereth, etc.
V
THE STORY OF SWET-BASANTA
There was a rich merchant who had an only son whom he loved
passionately. He gave to his son whatever he wanted. His son wanted
a beautiful house in the midst of a large garden. The house was built
for him, and the grounds were laid out into a fine garden. One day as
the merchant's son was walking in his garden, he put his hand into
the nest of a small bird called toontooni, and found in it an egg,
which he took and put in an almirah which was dug into the wall of
his house. He closed the door of the almirah, and thought no more of
the egg.
Though the merchant's son had a house of his own, he had no separate
establishment; at any rate he kept no cook, for his mother used to
send him regularly his breakfast and dinner every day. The egg which
he deposited in the wall-almirah one day burst, and out of it came a
beautiful infant, a girl. But the merchant's son knew nothing about
it. He had forgotten everything about the egg, and the door of the
wall-almirah had been kept closed, though not locked, ever since the
day the egg was put there. The child grew up within the wall-almirah
without the knowledge of the merchant's son or of any one else. When
the child could walk, it had the curiosity one day to open the door;
and seeing some food on the floor (the breakfast of the merchant's son
sent by his mother), it came out, and ate a little of it, and returned
to its cell in the wall-almirah. As the mother of the merchant's
son sent him always more than he could himself eat, he perceived no
diminution in the quantity. The girl of the wall-almirah used every
day to come out and eat a part of the food, and after eating used
to return to her place in the almirah. But as the girl got older and
older, she began to eat more and more; hence the merchant's son began
to perceive a diminution in the quantity of his food. Not dreaming of
the existence of the wall-almirah girl, he wondered that his mother
should send him such a small quantity of food. He sent word to his
mother, complaining of the insufficiency of his meals, and of the
slovenly manner in which the food was served up in the dish; for the
girl of the wall-almirah used to finger the rice, curry, and other
articles of food, and as she always went in a hurry back into the
almirah that she might not be perceived by any one, she had no time
to put the rice and the other things into proper order after she had
eaten part of them. The mother was astonished at her son's complaint,
for she gave always a much larger quantity than she knew her son could
consume, and the food was served up on a silver plate neatly by her
own hand. But as her son repeated the same complaint day after day,
she began to suspect foul play. She told her son to watch and see
whether any one ate part of it unperceived. Accordingly, one day when
the servant brought the breakfast and laid it in a clean place on the
floor, the merchant's son, instead of going to bathe as it had hitherto
been his custom, hid himself in a secret place and began to watch. In
a few minutes he saw the door of the wall-almirah open; a beautiful
damsel of sweet sixteen stepped out of it, sat on the carpet spread
before the breakfast, and began to eat. The merchant's son came out
of his hiding-place, and the damsel could not escape. "Who are you,
beautiful creature? You do not seem to be earth-born. Are you one
of the daughters of the gods?" asked the merchant's son. The girl
replied, "I do not know who I am. This I know, that one day I found
myself in yonder almirah, and have been ever since living in it." The
merchant's son thought it strange. He now remembered that sixteen years
before he had put in the almirah an egg he had found in the nest of
a toontooni bird. The uncommon beauty of the wall-almirah girl made
a deep impression on the mind of the merchant's son, and he resolved
in his mind to marry her. The girl no more went into the almirah, but
lived in one of the rooms of the spacious house of the merchant's son.
The next day the merchant's son sent word to his mother to the effect
that he would like to get married. His mother reproached herself
for not having long before thought of her son's marriage, and sent
a message to her son to the effect that she and his father would
the next day send ghataks [14] to different countries to seek for a
suitable bride. The merchant's son sent word that he had secured for
himself a most lovable young lady, and that if his parents had no
objections he would produce her before them. Accordingly the young
lady of the wall-almirah was taken to the merchant's house; and the
merchant and his wife were so struck with the matchless beauty, grace,
and loveliness of the stranger, that, without asking any questions
as to her birth, the nuptials were celebrated.
In course of time the merchant's son had two sons; the elder he
named Swet and the younger Basanta. The old merchant died and so
did his wife. Swet and Basanta grew up fine lads, and the elder was
in due time married. Some time after Swet's marriage his mother,
the wall-almirah lady, also died, and the widower lost no time in
marrying a young and beautiful wife. As Swet's wife was older than
his stepmother, she became the mistress of the house. The stepmother,
like all stepmothers, hated Swet and Basanta with a perfect hatred;
and the two ladies were naturally often at loggerheads with each other.
It so happened one day that a fisherman brought to the merchant (we
shall no longer call him the merchant's son, as his father had died)
a fish of singular beauty. It was unlike any other fish that had
been seen. The fish had marvellous qualities ascribed to it by the
fisherman. If any one eats it, said he, when he laughs maniks [15]
will drop from his mouth, and when he weeps pearls will drop from his
eyes. The merchant, hearing of the wonderful properties of the fish,
bought it at one thousand rupees, and put it into the hands of Swet's
wife, who was the mistress of the house, strictly enjoining on her
to cook it well and to give it to him alone to eat. The mistress,
or house-mother, who had overheard the conversation between her
father-in-law and the fisherman, secretly resolved in her mind to
give the cooked fish to her husband and to his brother to eat, and to
give to her father-in-law instead a frog daintily cooked. When she had
finished cooking both the fish and the frog, she heard the noise of a
squabble between her stepmother-in-law and her husband's brother. It
appears that Basanta, who was but a lad yet, was passionately fond
of pigeons, which he tamed. One of these pigeons had flown into the
room of his stepmother, who had secreted it in her clothes. Basanta
rushed into the room, and loudly demanded the pigeon. His stepmother
denied any knowledge of the pigeon, on which the elder brother,
Swet, forcibly took out the bird from her clothes and gave it to
his brother. The stepmother cursed and swore, and added, "Wait,
when the head of the house comes home I will make him shed the blood
of you both before I give him water to drink." Swet's wife called
her husband and said to him, "My dearest lord, that woman is a most
wicked woman, and has boundless influence over my father-in-law. She
will make him do what she has threatened. Our life is in imminent
danger. Let us first eat a little, and let us all three run away
from this place." Swet forthwith called Basanta to him, and told him
what he had heard from his wife. They resolved to run away before
nightfall. The woman placed before her husband and her brother-in-law
the fish of wonderful properties, and they ate of it heartily. The
woman packed up all her jewels in a box. As there was only one horse,
and it was of uncommon fleetness, the three sat upon it; Swet held
the reins, the woman sat in the middle with the jewel-box in her lap,
and Basanta brought up the rear.
The horse galloped with the utmost swiftness. They passed through
many a plain and many a noted town, till after midnight they found
themselves in a forest not far from the bank of a river. Here
the most untoward event took place. Swet's wife began to feel the
pains of child-birth. They dismounted, and in an hour or two Swet's
wife gave birth to a son. What were the two brothers to do in this
forest? A fire must be kindled to give heat both to the mother and
the new-born baby. But where was the fire to be got? There were no
human habitations visible. Still fire must be procured--and it was
the month of December--or else both the mother and the baby would
certainly perish. Swet told Basanta to sit beside his wife, while he
set out in the darkness of the night in search of fire.
Swet walked many a mile in darkness. Still he saw no human
habitations. At last the genial light of Sukra [16] somewhat illumined
his path, and he saw at a distance what seemed a large city. He was
congratulating himself on his journey's end and on his being able to
obtain fire for the benefit of his poor wife lying cold in the forest
with the new-born babe, when on a sudden an elephant, gorgeously
caparisoned, shot across his path, and gently taking him up by his
trunk, placed him on the rich howdah [17] on its back. It then walked
rapidly towards the city. Swet was quite taken aback. He did not
understand the meaning of the elephant's action, and wondered what
was in store for him. A crown was in store for him. In that kingdom,
the chief city of which he was approaching, every morning a king was
elected, for the king of the previous day was always found dead in
the morning in the room of the queen. What caused the death of the
king no one knew; neither did the queen herself (for every successive
king took her to wife) know the cause. And the elephant who took
hold of Swet was the king-maker. Early in the morning it went about,
sometimes to distant places, and whosoever was brought on its back was
acknowledged king by the people. The elephant majestically marched
through the crowded streets of the city, amid the acclamations of
the people, the meaning of which Swet did not understand, entered
the palace, and placed him on the throne. He was proclaimed king
amid the rejoicings of some and the lamentations of others. In the
course of the day he heard of the strange fatality which overtook
every night the elected king of those realms, but being possessed of
great discretion and courage, he took every precaution to avert the
dreadful catastrophe. Yet he hardly knew what expedients to adopt,
as he was unacquainted with the nature of the danger. He resolved,
however, upon two things, and these were, to go armed into the
queen's bedchamber, and to sit up awake the whole night. The queen
was young and of exquisite beauty, and so guileless and benevolent
was the expression of her face that it was impossible from looking
at her to suppose that she could use any foul means of taking away
the life of her nightly consort. In the queen's chamber Swet spent a
very agreeable evening; as the night advanced the queen fell asleep,
but Swet kept awake, and was on the alert, looking at every creek
and corner of the room, and expecting every minute to be murdered. In
the dead of night he perceived something like a thread coming out of
the left nostril of the queen. The thread was so thin that it was
almost invisible. As he watched it he found it several yards long,
and yet it was coming out. When the whole of it had come out, it
began to grow thick, and in a few minutes it assumed the form of a
huge serpent. In a moment Swet cut off the head of the serpent, the
body of which wriggled violently. He sat quiet in the room, expecting
other adventures. But nothing else happened. The queen slept longer
than usual as she had been relieved of the huge snake which had made
her stomach its den. Early next morning the ministers came expecting
as usual to hear of the king's death; but when the ladies of the
bedchamber knocked at the door of the queen they were astonished
to see Swet come out. It was then known to all the people how that
every night a terrible snake issued from the queen's nostrils, how
it devoured the king every night, and how it had at last been killed
by the fortunate Swet. The whole country rejoiced in the prospect
of a permanent king. It is a strange thing, nevertheless it is true,
that Swet did not remember his poor wife with the new-born babe lying
in the forest, nor his brother attending on her. With the possession
of the throne he seemed to forget the whole of his past history.
Basanta, to whom his brother had entrusted his wife and child, sat
watching for many a weary hour, expecting every moment to see Swet
return with fire. The whole night passed away without his return. At
sunrise he went to the bank of the river which was close by, and
anxiously looked about for his brother, but in vain. Distressed beyond
measure, he sat on the river side and wept. A boat was passing by in
which a merchant was returning to his country. As the boat was not
far from the shore the merchant saw Basanta weeping; and what struck
the attention of the merchant was the heap of what looked like pearls
near the weeping man. At the request of the merchant the boatman took
his vessel towards the bank; the merchant went to the weeping man,
and found that the heap was a heap of real pearls of the finest
lustre: and what astonished him most of all was that the heap was
increasing every second, for the tear-drops that were falling from
his eyes fell to the ground not as tears but as pearls. The merchant
stowed away the heap of pearls into his boat, and with the help of his
servants caught hold of Basanta himself, put him on board the vessel,
and tied him to a post. Basanta, of course, resisted; but what could
he do against so many? Thinking of his brother, his brother's wife
and baby, and his own captivity, Basanta wept more bitterly than
before, which mightily pleased the merchant, as the more tears his
captive shed the richer he himself became. When the merchant reached
his native town he confined Basanta in a room, and at stated hours
every day scourged him in order to make him shed tears, every one of
which was converted into a bright pearl. The merchant one day said
to his servants, "As the fellow is making me rich by his weeping,
let us see what he gives me by laughing." Accordingly he began to
tickle his captive, on which Basanta laughed, and as he laughed a
great many maniks dropped from his mouth. After this poor Basanta
was alternately whipped and tickled all the day and far into the
night; and the merchant, in consequence, became the wealthiest man
in the land. Leaving Basanta subjected to the alternate processes
of castigation and titillation, let us attend to the fortunes of the
poor wife of Swet, alone in the forest, with a child just born.
Swet's wife, apparently deserted by her husband and her brother-in-law,
was overwhelmed with grief. A woman, but a few hours since delivered
of a child--and her first child, alone, and in a forest, far from the
habitations of men,--her case was indeed pitiable. She wept rivers of
tears. Excessive grief, however, brought her relief. She fell asleep
with the new-born baby in her arms. It so happened that at that
hour the Kotwal (prefect of the police) of the country was passing
that way. He had been very unfortunate with regard to his offspring;
every child his wife presented him with died shortly after birth, and
he was now going to bury the last infant on the banks of the river. As
he was going, he saw in the forest a woman sleeping with a baby in her
arms. It was a lively and beautiful boy. The Kotwal coveted the lovely
infant. He quietly took it up, put in its place his own dead child,
and returning home, told his wife that the child had not really died
and had revived. Swet's wife, unconscious of the deceit practised
upon her by the Kotwal, on waking found her child dead. The distress
of her mind may be imagined. The whole world became dark to her. She
was distracted with grief, and in her distraction she formed the
resolution of committing suicide. The river was not far from the spot,
and she determined to drown herself in it. She took in her hand the
bundle of jewels and proceeded to the river-side. An old Brahman was
at no great distance, performing his morning ablutions. He noticed
the woman going into the water, and naturally thought that she was
going to bathe; but when he saw her going far into deep waters, some
suspicion arose in his mind. Discontinuing his devotions, he bawled
out and ordered the woman to come to him. Swet's wife seeing that it
was an old man that was calling her, retraced her steps and came to
him. On being asked what she was about to do, she said that she was
going to make an end of herself, and that as she had some jewels with
her she would be obliged if he would accept them as a present. At the
request of the old Brahman she related to him her whole story. The
upshot was, that she was prevented from drowning herself, and that
she was received into the Brahman's family, where she was treated by
the Brahman's wife as her own daughter.
Years passed on. The reputed son of the Kotwal grew up a vigorous,
robust lad. As the house of the old Brahman was not far from the
Kotwal's, the Kotwal's son used accidentally to meet the handsome
strange woman who passed for the Brahman's daughter. The lad liked
the woman, and wanted to marry her. He spoke to his father about
the woman, and the father spoke to the Brahman. The Brahman's rage
knew no bounds. What! the infidel Kotwal's son aspiring to the hand
of a Brahman's daughter! A dwarf may as well aspire to catch hold of
the moon! But the Kotwal's son determined to have her by force. With
this wicked object he one day scaled the wall that encompassed the
Brahman's house, and got upon the thatched roof of the Brahman's
cow-house. While he was reconnoitering from that lofty position, he
heard the following conversation between two calves in the cow-house:--
First Calf. Men accuse us of brutish ignorance and immorality; but
in my opinion men are fifty times worse.
Second Calf. What makes you say so, brother? Have you witnessed to-day
any instance of human depravity?
First Calf. Who can be a greater monster of crime than the same lad
who is at this moment standing on the thatched roof of this hut over
our head?
Second Calf. Why, I thought it was only the son of our Kotwal; and
I never heard that he was exceptionally vicious.
First Calf. You never heard, but now you hear from me. This wicked
lad is now wishing to get married to his own mother!
The First Calf then related to the inquisitive Second Calf in full
the story of Swet and Basanta; how they and Swet's wife fled from
the vengeance of their stepmother; how Swet's wife was delivered of a
child in the forest by the river-side; how Swet was made king by the
elephant, and how he succeeded in killing the serpent which issued out
of the queen's nostrils; how Basanta was carried away by the merchant,
confined in a dungeon, and alternately flogged and tickled for pearls
and maniks; how the Kotwal exchanged his dead child for the living
one of Swet; how Swet's wife was prevented from drowning herself in
the river by the Brahman; how she was received into the Brahman's
family and treated as his daughter; how the Kotwal's son grew up a
hardy, lusty youth, and fell in love with her; and how at that very
moment he was intent on accomplishing his brutal object. All this
story the Kotwal's son heard from the thatched roof of the cow-house,
and was struck with horror. He forthwith got down from the thatch,
and went home and told his father that he must have an interview
with the king. Notwithstanding his reputed father's protestations
to the contrary, he had an interview with the king, to whom he
repeated the whole story as he had overheard it from the thatch of
the cow-house. The king now remembered his poor wife's case. She
was brought from the house of the Brahman, whom he richly rewarded,
and put her in her proper position as the queen of the kingdom;
the reputed son of the Kotwal was acknowledged as his own son, and
proclaimed the heir-apparent to the throne; Basanta was brought out
of the dungeon, and the wicked merchant who had maltreated him was
buried alive in the earth surrounded with thorns. After this, Swet,
his wife and son, and Basanta, lived together happily for many years.
Now my story endeth,
The Natiya-thorn withereth, etc.
VI
THE EVIL EYE OF SANI
Once upon a time Sani, or Saturn, the god of bad luck, and Lakshmi,
the goddess of good luck, fell out with each other in heaven. Sani said
he was higher in rank than Lakshmi, and Lakshmi said she was higher in
rank than Sani. As all the gods and goddesses of heaven were equally
ranged on either side, the contending deities agreed to refer the
matter to some human being who had a name for wisdom and justice. Now,
there lived at that time upon earth a man of the name of Sribatsa,
[18] who was as wise and just as he was rich. Him, therefore, both the
god and the goddess chose as the settler of their dispute. One day,
accordingly, Sribatsa was told that Sani and Lakshmi were wishing to
pay him a visit to get their dispute settled. Sribatsa was in a fix. If
he said Sani was higher in rank than Lakshmi, she would be angry with
him and forsake him. If he said Lakshmi was higher in rank than Sani,
Sani would cast his evil eye upon him. Hence he made up his mind not to
say anything directly, but to leave the god and the goddess to gather
his opinion from his action. He got two stools made, the one of gold
and the other of silver, and placed them beside him. When Sani and
Lakshmi came to Sribatsa, he told Sani to sit upon the silver stool,
and Lakshmi upon the gold stool. Sani became mad with rage, and said
in an angry tone to Sribatsa, "Well, as you consider me lower in rank
than Lakshmi, I will cast my eye on you for three years; and I should
like to see how you fare at the end of that period." The god then went
away in high dudgeon. Lakshmi, before going away, said to Sribatsa,
"My child, do not fear. I'll befriend you." The god and the goddess
then went away.
Sribatsa said to his wife, whose name was Chintamani, "Dearest, as the
evil eye of Sani will be upon me at once, I had better go away from the
house; for if I remain in the house with you, evil will befall you and
me; but if I go away, it will overtake me only." Chintamani said, "That
cannot be; wherever you go, I will go, your lot shall be my lot." The
husband tried hard to persuade his wife to remain at home; but it was
of no use. She would go with her husband. Sribatsa accordingly told
his wife to make an opening in their mattress, and to stow away in
it all the money and jewels they had. On the eve of leaving their
house, Sribatsa invoked Lakshmi, who forthwith appeared. He then
said to her, "Mother Lakshmi! as the evil eye of Sani is upon us,
we are going away into exile; but do thou befriend us, and take
care of our house and property." The goddess of good luck answered,
"Do not fear; I'll befriend you; all will be right at last." They
then set out on their journey. Sribatsa rolled up the mattress and
put it on his head. They had not gone many miles when they saw a
river before them. It was not fordable; but there was a canoe there
with a man sitting in it. The travellers requested the ferryman to
take them across. The ferryman said, "I can take only one at a time;
but you are three--yourself, your wife, and the mattress." Sribatsa
proposed that first his wife and the mattress should be taken across,
and then he; but the ferryman would not hear of it. "Only one at a
time," repeated he; "first let me take across the mattress." When the
canoe with the mattress was in the middle of the stream, a fierce gale
arose, and carried away the mattress, the canoe, and the ferryman,
no one knows whither. And it was strange the stream also disappeared,
for the place, where they saw a few minutes since the rush of waters,
had now become firm ground. Sribatsa then knew that this was nothing
but the evil eye of Sani.
Sribatsa and his wife, without a pice in their pocket, went to a
village which was hard by. It was dwelt in for the most part by
wood-cutters, who used to go at sunrise to the forest to cut wood,
which they sold in a town not far from the village. Sribatsa proposed
to the wood-cutters that he should go along with them to cut wood. They
agreed. So he began to fell trees as well as the best of them; but
there was this difference between Sribatsa and the other wood-cutters,
that whereas the latter cut any and every sort of wood, the former cut
only precious wood like sandal-wood. The wood-cutters used to bring
to market large loads of common wood, and Sribatsa only a few pieces
of sandal-wood, for which he got a great deal more money than the
others. As this was going on day after day, the wood-cutters through
envy plotted together, and drove away from the village Sribatsa and
his wife.
The next place they went to was a village of weavers, or rather
cotton-spinners. Here Chintamani, the wife of Sribatsa, made herself
useful by spinning cotton. And as she was an intelligent and skilful
woman, she spun finer thread than the other women; and she got more
money. This roused the envy of the native women of the village. But
this was not all. Sribatsa, in order to gain the good grace of
the weavers, asked them to a feast, the dishes of which were all
cooked by his wife. As Chintamani excelled in cooking, the barbarous
weavers of the village were quite charmed by the delicacies set
before them. When the men went to their homes, they reproached their
wives for not being able to cook so well as the wife of Sribatsa,
and called them good-for-nothing women. This thing made the women of
the village hate Chintamani the more. One day Chintamani went to the
river-side to bathe along with the other women of the village. A boat
had been lying on the bank stranded on the sand for many days; they
had tried to move it, but in vain. It so happened that as Chintamani
by accident touched the boat, it moved off to the river. The boatmen,
astonished at the event, thought that the woman had uncommon power,
and might be useful on similar occasions in future. They therefore
caught hold of her, put her in the boat, and rowed off. The women of
the village, who were present, did not offer any resistance as they
hated Chintamani. When Sribatsa heard how his wife had been carried
away by boatmen, he became mad with grief. He left the village, went to
the river-side, and resolved to follow the course of the stream till
he should meet the boat where his wife was a prisoner. He travelled
on and on, along the side of the river, till it became dark. As there
were no huts to be seen, he climbed into a tree for the night. Next
morning as he got down from the tree he saw at the foot of it a cow
called a Kapila-cow, which never calves, but which gives milk at all
hours of the day whenever it is milked. Sribatsa milked the cow, and
drank its milk to his heart's content. He was astonished to find that
the cow-dung which lay on the ground was of a bright yellow colour;
indeed, he found it was pure gold. While it was in a soft state he
wrote his own name upon it, and when in the course of the day it
became hardened, it looked like a brick of gold--and so it was. As
the tree grew on the river-side, and as the Kapila-cow came morning
and evening to supply him with milk, Sribatsa resolved to stay there
till he should meet the boat. In the meantime the gold-bricks were
increasing in number every day, for the cow both morning and evening
deposited there the precious article. He put the gold-bricks, upon
all of which his name was engraved, one upon another in rows, so that
from a distance they looked like a hillock of gold.
Leaving Sribatsa to arrange his gold-bricks under the tree on the
river-side we must follow the fortunes of his wife. Chintamani was a
woman of great beauty; and thinking that her beauty might be her ruin,
she, when seized by the boatmen, offered to Lakshmi the following
prayer----"O Mother Lakshmi! have pity upon me. Thou hast made me
beautiful, but now my beauty will undoubtedly prove my ruin by the loss
of honour and chastity. I therefore beseech thee, gracious Mother, to
make me ugly, and to cover my body with some loathsome disease, that
the boatmen may not touch me." Lakshmi heard Chintamani's prayer; and
in the twinkling of an eye, while she was in the arms of the boatmen,
her naturally beautiful form was turned into a vile carcase. The
boatmen, on putting her down in the boat, found her body covered
with loathsome sores which were giving out a disgusting stench. They
therefore threw her into the hold of the boat amongst the cargo,
where they used morning and evening to send her a little boiled rice
and some water. In that hold Chintamani had a miserable life of it;
but she greatly preferred that misery to the loss of chastity. The
boatmen went to some port, sold the cargo, and were returning to their
country when the sight of what seemed a hillock of gold, not far from
the river-side, attracted their attention. Sribatsa, whose eyes were
ever directed towards the river, was delighted when he saw a boat turn
towards the bank, as he fondly imagined his wife might be in it. The
boatmen went to the hillock of gold, when Sribatsa said that the gold
was his. They put all the gold-bricks on board their vessel, took
Sribatsa prisoner, and put him into the hold not far from the woman
covered with sores. They of course immediately recognised each other,
in spite of the change Chintamani had undergone, but thought it prudent
not to speak to each other. They communicated their ideas, therefore,
by signs and gestures. Now, the boatmen were fond of playing at dice,
and as Sribatsa appeared to them from his looks to be a respectable
man, they always asked him to join in the game. As he was an expert
player, he almost always won the game, on which the boatmen, envying
his superior skill, threw him overboard. Chintamani had the presence
of mind, at that moment, to throw into the water a pillow which she
had for resting her head upon. Sribatsa took hold of the pillow,
by means of which he floated down the stream till he was carried
at nightfall to what seemed a garden on the water's edge. There he
stuck among the trees, where he remained the whole night, wet and
shivering. Now, the garden belonged to an old widow who was in former
years the chief flower-supplier to the king of that country. Through
some cause or other a blight seemed to have come over her garden, as
almost all the trees and plants ceased flowering; she had therefore
given up her place as the flower-supplier of the royal household. On
the morning following the night on which Sribatsa had stuck among
the trees, however, the old woman on getting up from her bed could
scarcely believe her eyes when she saw the whole garden ablaze with
flowers. There was not a single tree or plant which was not begemmed
with flowers. Not understanding the cause of such a miraculous sight,
she took a walk through the garden, and found on the river's brink,
stuck among the trees, a man shivering and almost dying with cold. She
brought him to her cottage, lighted a fire to give him warmth, and
showed him every attention, as she ascribed the wonderful flowering
of her trees to his presence. After making him as comfortable as
she could, she ran to the king's palace, and told his chief servants
that she was again in a position to supply the palace with flowers;
so she was restored to her former office as the flower-woman of the
royal household. Sribatsa, who stopped a few days with the woman,
requested her to recommend him to one of the king's ministers for a
berth. He was accordingly sent for to the palace, and as he was at
once found to be a man of intelligence, the king's minister asked
him what post he would like to have. Agreeably to his wish he was
appointed collector of tolls on the river. While discharging his
duties as river toll-gatherer, in the course of a few days he saw the
very boat in which his wife was a prisoner. He detained the boat, and
charged the boatmen with the theft of gold-bricks which he claimed as
his own. At the mention of gold-bricks the king himself came to the
river-side, and was astonished beyond measure to see bricks made of
gold, every one of which had the inscription--Sribatsa. At the same
time Sribatsa rescued from the boatmen his wife, who, the moment she
came out of the vessel, became as lovely as before. The king heard
the story of Sribatsa's misfortunes from his lips, entertained him
in a princely style for many days, and at last sent him and his wife
to their own country with presents of horses and elephants. The evil
eye of Sani was now turned away from Sribatsa, and he again became
what he formerly was, the Child of Fortune.
Thus my story endeth,
The Natiya-thorn withereth, etc.
VII
THE BOY WHOM SEVEN MOTHERS SUCKLED
Once on a time there reigned a king who had seven queens. He was
very sad, for the seven queens were all barren. A holy mendicant,
however, one day told the king that in a certain forest there grew
a tree, on a branch of which hung seven mangoes; if the king himself
plucked those mangoes and gave one to each of the queens they would
all become mothers. So the king went to the forest, plucked the seven
mangoes that grew upon one branch, and gave a mango to each of the
queens to eat. In a short time the king's heart was filled with joy,
as he heard that the seven queens were all with child.
One day the king was out hunting, when he saw a young lady of peerless
beauty cross his path. He fell in love with her, brought her to his
palace, and married her. This lady was, however, not a human being,
but a Rakshasi; but the king of course did not know it. The king became
dotingly fond of her; he did whatever she told him. She said one day
to the king, "You say that you love me more than any one else. Let
me see whether you really love me so. If you love me, make your seven
other queens blind, and let them be killed." The king became very sad
at the request of his best-beloved queen, the more so as the seven
queens were all with child. But there was nothing for it but to comply
with the Rakshasi-queen's request. The eyes of the seven queens were
plucked out of their sockets, and the queens themselves were delivered
up to the chief minister to be destroyed. But the chief minister was
a merciful man. Instead of killing the seven queens he hid them in a
cave which was on the side of a hill. In course of time the eldest
of the seven queens gave birth to a child. "What shall I do with
the child," said she, "now that we are blind and are dying for want
of food? Let me kill the child, and let us all eat of its flesh." So
saying she killed the infant, and gave to each of her sister-queens a
part of the child to eat. The six ate their portion, but the seventh
or youngest queen did not eat her share, but laid it beside her. In a
few days the second queen also was delivered of a child, and she did
with it as her eldest sister had done with hers. So did the third,
the fourth, the fifth, and the sixth queen. At last the seventh
queen gave birth to a son; but she, instead of following the example
of her sister-queens, resolved to nurse the child. The other queens
demanded their portions of the newly-born babe. She gave each of them
the portion she had got of the six children which had been killed,
and which she had not eaten but laid aside. The other queens at once
perceived that their portions were dry, and could not therefore be
the parts of the child just born. The seventh queen told them that she
had made up her mind not to kill the child but to nurse it. The others
were glad to hear this, and they all said that they would help her in
nursing the child. So the child was suckled by seven mothers, and it
became after some years the hardiest and strongest boy that ever lived.
In the meantime the Rakshasi-wife of the king was doing infinite
mischief to the royal household and to the capital. What she ate at
the royal table did not fill her capacious stomach. She therefore,
in the darkness of night, gradually ate up all the members of the
royal family, all the king's servants and attendants, all his horses,
elephants, and cattle; till none remained in the palace except she
herself and her royal consort. After that she used to go out in
the evenings into the city and eat up a stray human being here and
there. The king was left unattended by servants; there was no person
left to cook for him, for no one would take his service. At last the
boy who had been suckled by seven mothers, and who had now grown up to
a stalwart youth, volunteered his services. He attended on the king,
and took every care to prevent the queen from swallowing him up, for
he went away home long before nightfall; and the Rakshasi-queen never
seized her victims except at night. Hence the queen determined in
some other way to get rid of the boy. As the boy always boasted that
he was equal to any work, however hard, the queen told him that she
was suffering from some disease which could be cured only by eating a
certain species of melon, which was twelve cubits long, but the stone
of which was thirteen cubits long, and that that fruit could be had
only from her mother, who lived on the other side of the ocean. She
gave him a letter of introduction to her mother, in which she requested
her to devour the boy the moment he put the letter into her hands. The
boy, suspecting foul play, tore up the letter and proceeded on his
journey. The dauntless youth passed through many lands, and at last
stood on the shore of the ocean, on the other side of which was the
country of the Rakshasis. He then bawled as loud as he could, and
said, "Granny! granny! come and save your daughter; she is dangerously
ill." An old Rakshasi on the other side of the ocean heard the words,
crossed the ocean, came to the boy, and on hearing the message took the
boy on her back and re-crossed the ocean. So the boy was in the country
of the Rakshasis. The twelve-cubit melon with its thirteen-cubit stone
was given to the boy at once, and he was told to perform the journey
back. But the boy pleaded fatigue, and begged to be allowed to rest
one day. To this the old Rakshasi consented. Observing a stout club
and a rope hanging in the Rakshasi's room, the boy inquired what
they were there for. She replied, "Child, by that club and rope I
cross the ocean. If any one takes the club and the rope in his hands,
and addresses them in the following magical words--
"O stout club! O strong rope!
Take me at once to the other side,"
then immediately the club and rope will take him to the other side
of the ocean." Observing a bird in a cage hanging in one corner of
the room, the boy inquired what it was. The old Rakshasi replied,
"It contains a secret, child, which must not be disclosed to mortals,
and yet how can I hide it from my own grandchild? That bird, child,
contains the life of your mother. If the bird is killed, your mother
will at once die." Armed with these secrets, the boy went to bed that
night. Next morning the old Rakshasi, together with all the other
Rakshasis, went to distant countries for forage. The boy took down
the cage from the ceiling, as well as the club and rope. Having well
secured the bird, he addressed the club and rope thus--
"O stout club! O strong rope!
Take me at once to the other side."
In the twinkling of an eye the boy was put on this side of the
ocean. He then retraced his steps, came to the queen, and gave her,
to her astonishment, the twelve-cubit melon with its thirteen-cubit
stone; but the cage with the bird in it he kept carefully concealed.
In the course of time the people of the city came to the king and said,
"A monstrous bird comes out apparently from the palace every evening,
and seizes the passengers in the streets and swallows them up. This
has been going on for so long a time that the city has become almost
desolate." The king could not make out what this monstrous bird
was. The king's servant, the boy, replied that he knew the monstrous
bird, and that he would kill it provided the queen stood beside
the king. By royal command the queen was made to stand beside the
king. The boy then took the bird from the cage which he had brought
from the other side of the ocean, on seeing which she fell into a
fainting fit. Turning to the king the boy said, "Sire, you will soon
perceive who the monstrous bird is that devours your subjects every
evening. As I tear off each limb of this bird, the corresponding limb
of the man-devourer will fall off." The boy then tore off one leg of
the bird in his hand; immediately, to the astonishment of the whole
assembly, for the citizens were all present, one of the legs of the
queen fell off. And when the boy squeezed the throat of the bird,
the queen gave up the ghost. The boy then related his own history
and that of his mother and his stepmothers. The seven queens, whose
eyesight was miraculously restored, were brought back to the palace;
and the boy that was suckled by seven mothers was recognised by the
king as his rightful heir. So they lived together happily.
Thus my story endeth,
The Natiya-thorn withereth, &c.
VIII
THE STORY OF PRINCE SOBUR
Once upon a time there lived a certain merchant who had seven
daughters. One day the merchant put to his daughters the question:
"By whose fortune do you get your living?" The eldest daughter
answered--"Papa, I get my living by your fortune." The same answer
was given by the second daughter, the third, the fourth, the fifth,
and the sixth; but his youngest daughter said--"I get my living by my
own fortune." The merchant got very angry with the youngest daughter,
and said to her--"As you are so ungrateful as to say that you get
your living by your own fortune, let me see how you fare alone. This
very day you shall leave my house without a pice in your pocket." He
forthwith called his palki-bearers, and ordered them to take away the
girl and leave her in the midst of a forest. The girl begged hard to
be allowed to take with her her work-box containing her needles and
threads. She was allowed to do so. She then got into the palki, which
the bearers lifted on their shoulders. The bearers had not gone many
hundred yards to the tune of "Hoon! hoon! hoon! hoon! hoon! hoon!" when
an old woman bawled out to them and bid them stop. On coming up to
the palki, she said, "Where are you taking away my daughter?" for she
was the nurse of the merchant's youngest child. The bearers replied,
"The merchant has ordered us to take her away and leave her in the
midst of a forest; and we are going to do his bidding." "I must go with
her," said the old woman. "How will you be able to keep pace with us,
as we must needs run?" said the bearers. "Anyhow I must go where my
daughter goes," rejoined the old woman. The upshot was that, at the
entreaty of the merchant's youngest daughter, the old woman was put
inside the palki along with her. In the afternoon the palki-bearers
reached a dense forest. They went far into it; and towards sunset
they put down the girl and the old woman at the foot of a large tree,
and retraced their steps homewards.
The case of the merchant's youngest daughter was truly pitiable. She
was scarcely fourteen years old; she had been bred in the lap of
luxury; and she was now here at sundown in the heart of what seemed
an interminable forest, with not a penny in her pocket, and with no
other protection than what could be given her by an old, decrepit,
imbecile woman. The very trees of the forest looked upon her with
pity. The gigantic tree, at whose foot she was mingling her tears
with those of the old woman, said to her (for trees could speak in
those days)--"Unhappy girl! I much pity you. In a short time the wild
beasts of the forest will come out of their lairs and roam about for
their prey; and they are sure to devour you and your companion. But
I can help you; I will make an opening for you in my trunk. When you
see the opening go into it; I will then close it up; and you will
remain safe inside; nor can the wild beasts touch you." In a moment
the trunk of the tree was split into two. The merchant's daughter
and the old woman went inside the hollow, on which the tree resumed
its natural shape. When the shades of night darkened the forest the
wild beasts came out of their lairs. The fierce tiger was there; the
wild bear was there; the hard-skinned rhinoceros was there; the bushy
bear was there; the musty elephant was there; and the horned buffalo
was there. They all growled round about the tree, for they got the
scent of human blood. The merchant's daughter and the old woman heard
from within the tree the growl of the beasts. The beasts came dashing
against the tree; they broke its branches; they pierced its trunk with
their horns; they scratched its bark with their claws: but in vain. The
merchant's daughter and her old nurse were safe within. Towards dawn
the wild beasts went away. After sunrise the good tree said to her two
inmates, "Unhappy women, the wild beasts have gone into their lairs
after greatly tormenting me. The sun is up; you can now come out." So
saying the tree split itself into two, and the merchant's daughter
and the old woman came out. They saw the extent of the mischief done
by the wild beasts to the tree. Many of its branches had been broken
down; in many places the trunk had been pierced; and in other places
the bark had been stripped off. The merchant's daughter said to the
tree, "Good mother, you are truly good to give us shelter at such
a fearful cost. You must be in great pain from the torture to which
the wild beasts subjected you last night." So saying she went to the
tank which was near the tree, and bringing thence a quantity of mud,
she besmeared the trunk with it, especially those parts which had
been pierced and scratched. After she had done this, the tree said,
"Thank you, my good girl, I am now greatly relieved of my pain. I am,
however, concerned not so much about myself as about you both. You
must be hungry, not having eaten the whole of yesterday. And what can I
give you? I have no fruit of my own to give you. Give to the old woman
whatever money you have, and let her go into the city hard by and
buy some food." They said they had no money. On searching, however,
in the work-box she found five cowries. [19] The tree then told the
old woman to go with the cowries to the city and buy some khai. [20]
The old woman went to the city, which was not far, and said to one
confectioner, "Please give me five cowries' worth of khai." The
confectioner laughed at her and said, "Be off, you old hag, do you
think khai can be had for five cowries?" She tried another shop,
and the shopkeeper, thinking the woman to be in great distress,
compassionately gave her a large quantity of khai for the five cowries.
When the old woman returned with the khai, the tree said to the
merchant's daughter, "Each of you eat a little of the khai, lay by
more than half, and strew the rest on the embankments of the tank all
round." They did as they were bidden, though they did not understand
the reason why they were told to scatter the khai on the sides of the
tank. They spent the day in bewailing their fate, and at night they
were housed inside the trunk of the tree as on the previous night. The
wild beasts came as before, further mutilated the tree, and tortured
it as in the preceding night. But during the night a scene was being
enacted on the embankments of the tank of which the two women saw the
outcome only on the following morning. Hundreds of peacocks of gorgeous
plumes came to the embankments to eat the khai which had been strewed
on them; and as they strove with each other for the tempting food
many of their plumes fell off their bodies. Early in the morning the
tree told the two women to gather the plumes together, out of which
the merchant's daughter made a beautiful fan. This fan was taken into
the city to the palace, where the son of the king admired it greatly
and paid for it a large sum of money. As each morning a quantity of
plumes was collected, every day one fan was made and sold. So that
in a short time the two women got rich. The tree then advised them
to employ men in building a house for them to live in. Accordingly
bricks were burnt, trees were cut down for beams and rafters, bricks
were reduced to powder, lime was manufactured, and in a few months
a stately, palace-like house was built for the merchant's daughter
and her old nurse. It was thought advisable to lay out the adjoining
grounds as a garden, and to dig a tank for supplying them with water.
In the meantime the merchant himself with his wife and six daughters
had been frowned upon by the goddess of wealth. By a sudden stroke of
misfortune he lost all his money, his house and property were sold,
and he, his wife, and six daughters, were turned adrift penniless into
the world. It so happened that they lived in a village not far from the
place where the two strange women had built a palace and were digging
a tank. As the once rich merchant was now supporting his family by
the pittance which he obtained every day for his manual labour, he
bethought himself of employing himself as a day labourer in digging
the tank of the strange lady on the skirts of the forest. His wife
said she would also go to dig the tank with him. So one day while
the strange lady was amusing herself from the window of her palace
with looking at the labourers digging her tank, to her utter surprise
she saw her father and mother coming towards the palace, apparently
to engage themselves as day labourers. Tears ran down her cheeks as
she looked at them, for they were clothed in rags. She immediately
sent servants to bring them inside the house. The poor man and woman
were frightened beyond measure. They saw that the tank was all ready;
and as it was customary in those days to offer a human sacrifice when
the digging was over, they thought that they were called inside in
order to be sacrificed. Their fears increased when they were told to
throw away their rags and to put on fine clothes which were given to
them. The strange lady of the palace, however, soon dispelled their
fears; for she told them that she was their daughter, fell on their
necks and wept. The rich daughter related her adventures, and the
father felt she was right when she said that she lived upon her own
fortune and not on that of her father. She gave her father a large
fortune, which enabled him to go to the city in which he formerly
lived, and to set himself up again as a merchant.
The merchant now bethought himself of going in his ship to distant
countries for purposes of trade. All was ready. He got on board,
ready to start, but, strange to say, the ship would not move. The
merchant was at a loss what to make of this. At last the idea occurred
to him that he had asked each of his six daughters, who were living
with him, what thing she wished he should bring for her; but he had
not asked that question of his seventh daughter who had made him
rich. He therefore immediately despatched a messenger to his youngest
daughter, asking her what she wished her father to bring for her on
his return from his mercantile travels. When the messenger arrived
she was engaged in her devotions, and hearing that a messenger had
arrived from her father she said to him "Sobur," meaning "wait." The
messenger understood that she wanted her father to bring for her
something called Sobur. He returned to the merchant and told him that
she wanted him to bring for her Sobur. The ship now moved of itself,
and the merchant started on his travels. He visited many ports,
and by selling his goods obtained immense profit. The things his
six daughters wanted him to bring for them he easily got, but Sobur,
the thing which he understood his youngest daughter wished to have,
he could get nowhere. He asked at every port whether Sobur could be
had there, but the merchants all told him that they had never heard
of such an article of commerce. At the last port he went through the
streets bawling out--"Wanted Sobur! wanted Sobur!" The cry attracted
the notice of the son of the king of that country whose name was
Sobur. The prince, hearing from the merchant that his daughter wanted
Sobur, said that he had the article in question, and bringing out a
small box of wood containing a magical fan with a looking-glass in
it, said--"This is Sobur which your daughter wishes to have." The
merchant having obtained the long-wished-for Sobur weighed anchor,
and sailed for his native land. On his arrival he sent to his youngest
daughter the said wonderful box. The daughter, thinking it to be a
common wooden box, laid it aside. Some days after when she was at
leisure she bethought herself of opening the box which her father
had sent her. When she opened it she saw in it a beautiful fan,
and in it a looking-glass. As she shook the fan, in a moment the
Prince Sobur stood before her, and said--"You called me, here I
am. What's your wish?" The merchant's daughter, astonished at the
sudden appearance of a prince of such exquisite beauty, asked who he
was, and how he had made his appearance there. The prince told her
of the circumstances under which he gave the box to her father, and
informed her of the secret that whenever the fan would be shaken he
would make his appearance. The prince lived for a day or two in the
house of the merchant's daughter, who entertained him hospitably. The
upshot was, that they fell in love with each other, and vowed to
each other to be husband and wife. The prince returned to his royal
father and told him that he had selected a wife for himself. The
day for the wedding was fixed. The merchant and his six daughters
were invited. The nuptial knot was tied. But there was death in the
marriage-bed. The six daughters of the merchant, envying the happy
lot of their youngest sister, had determined to put an end to the
life of her newly-wedded husband. They broke several bottles, reduced
the broken pieces into fine powder, and scattered it profusely on the
bed. The prince, suspecting no danger, laid himself down in the bed;
but he had scarcely been there two minutes when he felt acute pain
through his whole system, for the fine bottle-powder had gone through
every pore of his body. As the prince became restless through pain,
and was shrieking aloud, his attendants hastily took him away to his
own country.
The king and queen, the parents of Prince Sobur, consulted all the
physicians and surgeons of the kingdom; but in vain. The young prince
was day and night screaming with pain, and no one could ascertain
the disease, far less give him relief. The grief of the merchant's
daughter may be imagined. The marriage knot had been scarcely tied
when her husband was attacked, as she thought, by a terrible disease
and carried away many hundreds of miles off. Though she had never seen
her husband's country she determined to go there and nurse him. She
put on the garb of a Sannyasi, and with a dagger in her hand set
out on her journey. Of tender years, and unaccustomed to make long
journeys on foot, she soon got weary and sat under a tree to rest. On
the top of the tree was the nest of the divine bird Bihangama and
his mate Bihangami. They were not in their nest at the time, but two
of their young ones were in it. Suddenly the young ones on the top
of the tree gave a scream which roused the half-drowsy merchant's
daughter whom we shall now call the young Sannyasi. He saw near
him a huge serpent raising its hood and about to climb into the
tree. In a moment he cut the serpent into two, on which the young
birds left off screaming. Shortly after the Bihangama and Bihangami
came sailing through the air; and the latter said to the former--"I
suppose our offspring as usual have been devoured by our great enemy
the serpent. Ah me! I do not hear the cries of my young ones." On
nearing the nest, however, they were agreeably surprised to find
their offspring alive. The young ones told their dams how the young
Sannyasi under the tree had destroyed the serpent. And sure enough
the snake was lying there cut into two.
The Bihangami then said to her mate--"The young Sannyasi has saved
our offspring from death, I wish we could do him some service in
return." The Bihangama replied, "We shall presently do her service,
for the person under the tree is not a man but a woman. She got married
only last night to Prince Sobur, who, a few hours after, when jumping
into his bed, had every pore of his body pierced with fine particles
of ground bottles which had been spread over his bed by his envious
sisters-in-law. He is still suffering pain in his native land, and,
indeed, is at the point of death. And his heroic bride taking the garb
of a Sannyasi is going to nurse him." "But," asked the Bihangami, "is
there no cure for the prince?" "Yes, there is," replied the Bihangama:
"if our dung which is lying on the ground round about, and which is
hardened, be reduced to powder, and applied by means of a brush to
the body of the prince after bathing him seven times with seven jars
of water and seven jars of milk, Prince Sobur will undoubtedly get
well." "But," asked the Bihangami, "how can the poor daughter of the
merchant walk such a distance? It must take her many days, by which
time the poor prince will have died." "I can," replied the Bihangama,
"take the young lady on my back, and put her in the capital of Prince
Sobur, and bring her back, provided she does not take any presents
there." The merchant's daughter, in the garb of a Sannyasi, heard
this conversation between the two birds, and begged the Bihangama
to take her on his back. To this the bird readily consented. Before
mounting on her aerial car she gathered a quantity of birds' dung
and reduced it to fine powder. Armed with this potent drug she got
up on the back of the kind bird, and sailing through the air with the
rapidity of lightning, soon reached the capital of Prince Sobur. The
young Sannyasi went up to the gate of the palace, and sent word to
the king that he was acquainted with potent drugs and would cure the
prince in a few hours. The king, who had tried all the best doctors
in the kingdom without success, looked upon the Sannyasi as a mere
pretender, but on the advice of his councillors agreed to give him
a trial. The Sannyasi ordered seven jars of water and seven jars of
milk to be brought to him. He poured the contents of all the jars on
the body of the prince. He then applied, by means of a feather, the
dung-powder he had already prepared to every pore of the prince's
body. Thereafter seven jars of water and seven jars of milk were
again six times poured upon him. When the prince's body was wiped,
he felt perfectly well. The king ordered that the richest treasures
he had should be presented to the wonderful doctor; but the Sannyasi
refused to take any. He only wanted a ring from the prince's finger to
preserve as a memorial. The ring was readily given him. The merchant's
daughter hastened to the sea-shore where the Bihangama was awaiting
her. In a moment they reached the tree of the divine birds. Hence
the young bride walked to her house on the skirts of the forest. The
following day she shook the magical fan, and forthwith Prince Sobur
appeared before her. When the lady showed him the ring, he learnt with
infinite surprise that his own wife was the doctor that cured him. The
prince took away his bride to his palace in his far-off kingdom,
forgave his sisters-in-law, lived happily for scores of years, and
was blessed with children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.
Thus my story endeth,
The Natiya-thorn withereth, etc.
IX
THE ORIGIN OF OPIUM [21]
Once on a time there lived on the banks of the holy Ganga a Rishi,
[22] who spent his days and nights in the performance of religious
rites and in meditation upon God. From sunrise to sunset he sat on the
river bank engaged in devotion, and at night he took shelter in a hut
of palm-leaves which his own hand had raised in a bush hard by. There
were no men and women for miles round. In the hut, however, there was a
mouse, which used to live upon the leavings of the Rishi's supper. As
it was not in the nature of the sage to hurt any living thing, our
mouse never ran away from him, but, on the contrary, went to him,
touched his feet, and played with him. The Rishi, partly in kindness to
the little brute, and partly to have some one by to talk to at times,
gave the mouse the power of speech. One night the mouse, standing on
its hind-legs and joining together its fore-legs reverently, said to
the Rishi, "Holy sage, you have been so kind as to give me the power
to speak like men. If it will not displease your reverence, I have one
more boon to ask." "What is it?" said the Rishi. "What is it, little
mousie? Say what you want." The mouse answered--"When your reverence
goes in the day to the river-side for devotion, a cat comes to the
hut to catch me. And had it not been for fear of your reverence, the
cat would have eaten me up long ago; and I fear it will eat me some
day. My prayer is that I may be changed into a c
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