Chapter 10

When Prince Sazádá was about six or seven years old, the fakír Goraknáth came to King Burtal and said, "Now you must give me your son Sazádá, for I want to take him away with me for some years." The Rání, his mother, refused to let him go, but at last she had to do so, and then she became mad and very sick for grief.

Goraknáth took the little prince to Indrásan to be taught by the fairies, and on arriving he married him to Jahúr Rání, who was the daughter of the greatest of the fairy queens. Goraknáth made a grand wedding for the little prince, and all the fairies were delighted that he should be the little Jahúr Rání's husband, for he was such a beautiful child they all fell in love with him the moment they saw him, and they taught him to play on all kinds of instruments, and to sing beautifully, and to read and write, and he grew handsomer and handsomer every day in the fairy kingdom. Goraknáth came often to see him, and the fairies took great care of him.

When Prince Sazádá had grown a fine strong young man, Goraknáth took him and his wife, the Jahúr Rání, and brought them in great state to King Burtal's kingdom. First he took the young prince and presented him to his father and said, "See, here is your son. Now he can read and write, sing and play on all kinds of instruments, for I have had him taught all these things." But they, when they saw him, fell on their faces, for they could not look at him on account of his great beauty. He had grown so handsome in Indrásan, and his cheeks were red. "How can this beautiful boy be our son?" they said, and they did not recognize him. "Stand up," said Goraknáth. "This is your son Sazádá; do not fall down before your son." So they stood up, and the fakír said, "I have married your son to the fairy princess Jahúr Rání, and I will bring her to you." So then he brought the little Rání, and when they saw her they fell down again, for they could not look at her beauty. Her hair was like red gold, her eyes were dark, and her eyelashes black. But Goraknáth made them stand up; and when they really understood it was their son and his wife that he had brought them, they took Prince Sazádá into their arms, and kissed him and loved him, and his Rání too. Goraknáth made a grand wedding-feast for them all, and they were all very happy.

Told by Dunkní.

FOOTNOTES:

[3] Yamuná.

[4] Mahadeva, _i.e._ Siva.

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

XVI.

SOME OF THE DOINGS OF SHEKH FARÍD.

Once there was a Rájá called Hámánsá Rájá. He had a son, named Gursan Rájá, who married Kheláparí Rání, the daughter of Gulábsá Rájá. After the wedding Gursan Rájá brought her home to his father's house.

One day Gursan Rájá came home from hunting, very very tired and thirsty. It was about twelve or one o'clock in the day. He asked Kheláparí Rání to fetch him some water, and while she went for it he fell asleep. When she came back she found him still sleeping, and because he was so tired he slept all the afternoon and all night, and never woke till the next morning. His wife stood by him all the time holding the water in a brass cup. When he woke and found she had stood there all the afternoon and all night he was very sorry, and asked God to forgive him, and to give his wife whatever she wished for, no matter what it might be. So Kheláparí wished that whatever happened in any country, she might know of it at once of herself without any one telling her, no matter how far away the country might be.

One day Kheláparí Rání went to draw water from the tank, and by the tank sat an old man, the fakír Shekh Faríd. He said to the Rání, "Give me a little water to drink." "I will," she said, "only drink it quickly, for my father's house is on fire, and I am going to put it out." "How far off is your father's country?" asked Shekh Faríd. "About twenty miles," answered Kheláparí. "Then how can you know his house is on fire!" said Shekh Faríd; "I have been a fakír for twelve years, and for twelve years neither ate nor drank, and yet I do not know what happens twenty miles away." "But I know," she answered. "Leave your water-jar here," he said, "and go and see if the house really is on fire, and I will not drink till you return to me."

So off went Kheláparí Rání to her father's country, and when she got there his house was burning, and she stayed till the fire was put out, and then returned to the tank where she left the fakír. "Is it true," he asked, "that your father's house was on fire?" "Quite true," she answered. The fakír wondered. "How could she know it when the fire was twenty miles off?" he said to himself, and he determined to go to Gulábsá Rájá's country to see if the Rání had told him the truth.

He went by a roundabout road, as he did not know the way, so it took him three or four days to get there. When he did, he asked some villagers if there had been a fire at their Rájá's house. "Yes, a few days ago there was," they answered. So the fakír, still more astonished, decided he would go back to Hámánsá Rájá's palace and ask Kheláparí Rání how it came to pass that she was wiser than Shekh Faríd.

As he was returning, he met a bullock-cart laden with bags of sugar, and he asked the driver what the bags contained. The driver was put out because his bullocks would not go on quickly, and he was tired with beating and goading them, so he said crossly, "It's ashes." "Good," said Shekh Faríd, "let it be ashes." When the cartman got to the bazar, and went to make over the sugar to the merchant who had sent him for it, he found all his bags full of ashes, nothing but ashes. He was in a great state of mind, for a good deal of money had been paid for the sugar, and he was a poor man. So he went back to Shekh Faríd and fell down at his feet, saying, "I am a poor, poor man. My sugar is turned to ashes. Do make the ashes sugar again." "Good," said the fakír; "go home, and you will find sugar, and next time you are asked what you have in your cart, tell the truth and not lies." The cartman went home, and when he saw his sugar was sugar once more, and no longer ashes, he was very, very glad.

One of his brother-villagers thought, "How pleasant it would be to become a fakír and do such things myself! I will go to this fakír and learn from him to be a fakír too." So he went after Shekh Faríd and found him walking along the road, and he followed him. Now Shekh Faríd knew at once what this man wanted, so as they passed a heap of clay bricks, he said, "O God, let it be thy pleasure to give me power to turn these clay bricks into gold." Instantly they became gold, and Shekh Faríd walked on; but the villager took up two of the bricks and put one under each arm, and then followed the fakír. Suddenly Shekh Faríd turned round, and said to him, "You have two clay bricks under your arms." The man looked, saw it was true, and threw them away. Then Shekh Faríd said to him, "You steal bricks, and yet wish to be a fakír?" The man was ashamed, and went back to his village.

Shekh Faríd continued his journey and got to Hámánsá Rájá's country; but when he got there he found Kheláparí had gone to another country for a little while, so he never saw her, nor found out how it was that she knew what happened twenty miles off.

In a jungle in Hámánsá Rájá's country he met a man, called Fakír-achand, and his wife, who were very poor. They were going to bury their only son, and were crying bitterly. Shekh Faríd asked them, "Would you like your son to be alive again?" "Yes," they said. "Will you give him to me, and I will bring him to life, and then he shall return to you?" said Shekh Faríd. "Yes," they answered, and gave him their dead son, and went to their home.

The fakír carried the dead boy, who was called Mohandás, a little further on, and then laid him on the ground, and struck him with a long thin bamboo wand he carried in his hand. The boy stood up. Shekh Faríd asked him, "Would you like to go home to your father and mother, or to stay with me?" "To stay with you," said Mohandás. (Had he wished to go home, the fakír would have been very angry.) "Then," said Shekh Faríd, "I will call your mother here." He did so, and when she came, he said to her, "See, here is your son alive. Will you give him to me for twelve years?" The woman said, "Yes," and went home. The fakír gave her and her husband a quantity of rupees and built them a beautiful house. Then he and Mohandás set out on their travels, and wandered about the jungles for one whole year, till they came to a country full of large splendid gardens belonging to a very rich Rájá, called Dumkás Rájá.

This Rájá had a beautiful daughter, Champákálí Rání. She had lovely golden hair, golden eyebrows, golden eyelashes, blue eyes, and her skin was transparent. In Dumkás Rájá's country they had never seen a fakír, so when Shekh Faríd and Mohandás arrived, the Rájá sent to them, and asked Shekh Faríd to come to talk to him. "No," said the fakír, "I will not go to the Rájá: if the Rájá wants me, he must come to me."

Dumkás Rájá was very angry when his messengers returned with this answer, and he ordered Shekh Faríd to leave his country immediately; but the fakír said he would not go until he had married his adopted son, Mohandás, to Champákálí Rání. The people all laughed at him for saying this, and declared such a marriage would never take place. However, the fakír and Mohandás walked about and saw the town, and looked at everything, and everybody stared at them. Then they went to live on the border of Dumkás Rájá's country, and lived there for some time.

One day Shekh Faríd bought Mohandás a beautiful horse and fine clothes such as Rájás wear, and told the boy to ride about the fields and high roads. He also told him not to speak to any one unless they spoke to him. Mohandás promised to do as he was bid. As he was riding along, he met the Princess Champákálí, who was also riding. She asked him who he was. "A Rájá's son," he said. "What Rájá?" asked Champákálí. "Never mind what Rájá," said Mohandás. The princess then went home, and so did Mohandás; but every day after this they met and talked together, and the princess fell very much in love with Mohandás.

At last she said to her father, "I wish to marry a young man who rides about on the border-land every day, and is very handsome." The Rájá consented, for it was time his daughter was married, and now no Rájá from another country would come to marry her, as the demons who guarded the princess swallowed all her suitors at one gulp, and had already swallowed many Rájás who had come on this errand.

Shekh Faríd said to Mohandás, "Now go up to the palace, and claim the princess for your wife." "If I do," said Mohandás, "the demons will swallow me." "I will not let them swallow you," said Shekh Faríd. So Mohandás consented and set off for the palace, Shekh Faríd following him. When Mohandás came to the demons, they were going to swallow him; but the fakír, who had his sword in his hand, killed them all, and as he did so, the Rájás and princes who had come as suitors to the Princess Champákálí, and had therefore been swallowed by the demons, all came jumping out of the demons' stomachs and ran off in all directions as hard as they could, from fear not knowing where they went.

Mohandás was greatly frightened at all this; but Shekh Faríd explained everything to him, so he went on to the palace, and the fakír went too. There Mohandás asked Dumkás Rájá to give him his daughter as his wife, and the Rájá consented. So he was married to Champákálí Rání, and her father gave them a great many elephants, and horses, and camels, and a great deal of money and many jewels. And Mohandás and his wife set off with the fakír to his father Fakír-achand's house, and they took all the elephants, camels, horses, money and jewels with them. On the way Mohandás told Champákálí Rání that he was not a great Rájá's son, but the son of poor people. Champákálí's heart was very sad at this; however, she was not angry, only sorry.

When they reached Hámánsá Rájá's country, and had come to Fakír-achand's house, the fakír said to Mohandás's mother, "See, you lent me one child, and I have brought you back two children. Does this please you?" "Indeed it does please me," she answered; "I am very happy."

They built a beautiful palace and all lived in it together. The mother begged Shekh Faríd to stay with them, saying, "Only stay with us; I will give you a bungalow, and you shall have everything you want." But Shekh Faríd said, "I am a fakír, and so cannot stay with you, as I may never stay in one place, and must, instead, wander from country to country and from jungle to jungle." So he said good-bye to them and went on his wanderings, and never returned to them.

Mohandás, his wife, and his father and mother, all lived happily together.

Told by Dunkní.

[Decoration]

XVII.

THE MOUSE.

There was a mouse who wanted something to eat; so he went to a garden, where many kinds of grain, and fruit, and cabbages, and other vegetables were growing. All round the garden the people to whom it belonged had planted a hedge of thorns, that nothing might get in. The mouse scrambled through the hedge, but great thorns pierced his tail, and he began to cry. He came out of the garden again through the hedge, and on his way home he met a barber.

"You must take out these thorns," said he to the barber.

"I cannot," said the barber, "without cutting off your tail with my razor."

"Never mind cutting off my tail," said the mouse.

The barber cut off the mouse's tail. But the mouse was in a rage. He seized the razor and ran away with it. At this the poor barber was very unhappy and began to cry, for he had no pice wherewith to buy another.

The mouse ran on and on until at last he came to another country, in which there were no knives or sickles to cut the grass with. There the mouse saw a man pulling the grass out of the ground with his hands.

"You will cut your hands," said the mouse.

"There are no knives here," said the man, "so I must pull up the grass in this way."

"You must take my razor then," said the mouse.

"Suppose your razor should break? I could not buy you another," said the man.

"Never mind if it does break," said the mouse, "I give it to you as a present."

So the man took the razor and began cutting the grass, and as he was cutting, the razor broke.

"Oh, why have you broken my razor?" exclaimed the mouse.

"Did not I tell you it would break?" answered the man.

The mouse snatched up the man's blanket and ran off with it. The grass-cutter began to cry. "What shall I do?" said he. "The mouse has carried away my blanket, and I have not money wherewith to buy another." And he went home very sad.

Meanwhile the mouse ran on and on until he arrived at another country, where he saw a grain merchant chopping up sugar-canes; only as he had no blanket or cloth to lay the canes on, he chopped them up on the ground, and so they got dirty.

"Why do you chop up your canes on the ground?" said the mouse; "they all get dirty."

"What can I do?" answered the man. "I have no pice wherewith to buy a blanket to chop them on."

"Then why don't you take mine?" said the mouse.

"If I took yours it would get cut, and I have no money to buy you another," said the grain merchant.

"Never mind; I don't want another," said the mouse.

So the man took the blanket, and of course he cut it. When he had finished chopping up his sugar-canes, he gave it back to the mouse.

When the mouse saw the blanket was full of holes, he was very angry indeed with the man, and seizing all the sugar-canes he ran away with them as fast as he could. The grain merchant began to cry. "What shall I do?" said he; "I have no more sugar-canes." And he went home very sorrowful.

Then the mouse ran on and on till he came to another country, where he stopped at a sweetmeat-seller's shop. Now in this country there was no salt and no sugar. And the sweetmeat-seller made his sweetmeats of flour and ghee without either sugar or salt, so that they were very nasty.

"Will you give me some sweetmeats for a pice?" said the mouse to the sweetmeat-seller. "Yes," answered the man, and he gave one. The mouse began to eat it and thought it very nasty indeed.

"Why, there is no sugar in it!" exclaimed the mouse.

"No," said the man; "we have no sugar in this country. The few sugar-canes we have are so dear, that poor people like myself cannot buy them."

"Then take my sugar-canes," cried the mouse.

"No," said the man. "Where should I find the money to pay you for them? They would be all used in making sweetmeats."

"Take them," said the mouse; "I give them to you."

The sweetmeat-seller took them and began making sweetmeats of all kinds, so that he used all the sugar-canes.

"Why have you used all my sugar-canes?" cried the mouse.

"Did not I tell you I should do so?" said the man.

"You are a thief!" cried the mouse, and he knocked down the sweetmeat-seller, seized all his sweetmeats, and ran off with them.

"What shall I do now?" cried the sweetmeat-seller. "I have no money to buy flour and ghee to make more sweetmeats with; and if I quarrel with the mouse, he will doubtless kill me."

Meanwhile the mouse ran on and on till he reached a country, the Rájá of which had a great many cows--hundreds of cows. The mouse stopped at the pasture-ground of these cows. Now, the cowherds were so poor they could not buy bread every day, and sometimes they ate bread which was twelve days old. When the mouse arrived, the cowherds were eating their bread, and it was very stale and mouldy.

"Why do you eat that stale bread?" said the mouse.

"Because we have no money to buy any other with," answered the cowherds.

"Look at all these sweetmeats," said the mouse. "Take them and eat them instead of that stale bread."

"But if we eat them, we must pay you for them, and where shall we get the money?" said the cowherds.

"Oh, never mind the money," said the mouse.

So the cowherds took the sweetmeats and ate them all up. At this the mouse was furious. He stuck a pole into the ground, and ran and fetched ropes, and tied the cowherds hand and foot to the pole. Then he took all the cows and ran off with them.

He ran on and on till he got to a country where there were no fowls, no cows, no buffaloes, no meat of any kind; and the people in it did not even know what milk and meat were. The day the mouse arrived was the day the Rájá's daughter was to be married, and a great many people were assembled together. The Rájá's cooks were cooking, but they had neither meat nor ghee.

"Why are all these people assembled together?" said the mouse.

"To-day is our Rájá's daughter's wedding-day, and we are cooking the dinner," answered the cooks.

"But you have no meat," said the mouse.

"No," said the cooks. "There is no meat of any kind in our country."

"Take my cows," said the mouse.

"No," said the cooks; "our Rájá could not pay for them; he is too poor." (He was only a petty Rájá.)

"It does not matter," said the mouse. "I don't want money."

So the cooks took the cows and the sheep and killed them, and dressed their flesh in different ways; made pilaus and curries; they roasted some and boiled some, and gave it to the people to eat. In this way they made an end of all the cows.

"Why have you made an end of all my cows?" cried the mouse.

"Did not we tell you we should make use of them all?" said the cooks.

"Give me my cows," said the mouse.

"We can't. The people have eaten them all up," said the cooks.

The mouse was in a great rage. He ran off to the bridegroom, who was walking near the kitchen, saying to himself, "Now I will go and fetch my bride."

"Give me the money for my cows," cried the mouse to him. "Your people have eaten them all up, and your cooks won't pay me, so you must."

"What have I to do with your cows?" said the bridegroom. "I won't pay you for them."

"Then if you won't pay me, your wife's father must," said the mouse.

"Oh, _he_ is too poor to pay for your cows," said the bridegroom, "and I won't."

"Then if I am not paid, I will take away your bride," said the mouse; and he ran off and carried away the bride.

The Rájá was very angry at this; but the mouse ran on and on with his wife (so he called the Rájá's daughter) till he came to another country.

Now, on the day he arrived in it there were going to be grand sights and fun to please its Rájá. Some jugglers and rope-dancers were going to perform.

"Take my wife and let her walk on the rope; she is young, and your wives are old," said the mouse to the rope-dancers.

"No," they answered, "for she does not know how to walk on a rope and carry at the same time a wooden plate on her head. She would fall and break her neck."

"But you must take my wife," said the mouse. "She won't fall; she is young, and your wives are old. You really must take her."

So the rope-dancers took her, much against their will, and when she began to walk on the rope with the wooden plate on her head, she fell and died.

"Oh, why have you killed my wife?" cried the mouse.

"Did we not tell you she would fall and kill herself?" answered the rope-dancers.

The mouse seized all the jugglers' and rope-dancers' wives, and the things they used in dancing and juggling, and ran off with them. Then the rope-dancers and jugglers began to cry, and said, "What shall we do? Our wives and our property are all gone!"

Meanwhile the mouse ran on and on until he came to another country, where he got a house to live in. And he ate a great deal, and grew so fat that he could not get through the door of his house.

"Send for a carpenter," said he to the rope-dancers' and jugglers' wives, "and tell him to cut off some of my flesh. Then I shall be able to get into my house."

The women sent for a carpenter, and when he came the mouse said to him, "cut off some of my flesh, then I shall be able to go into my house."

"If I do," said the carpenter, "you will die."

"No, I shan't die," said the mouse. "Do as I bid you."

So the carpenter took his knife, and cut off some of the mouse's flesh.

"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" cried the mouse; "how it does hurt! What can I do to make it stop paining me?"

"You must go to a certain place, where a particular kind of grain grows, and rub the grain on your wounds. Then they will get quite well," said the carpenter.

So the mouse ran off to the place to which the carpenter had told him to go, and rubbed his wounds with the grain. This gave him such pain that he fell down and died.

The rope-dancers' and jugglers' wives went home to their husbands with all the things the mouse had carried away, and they all lived happily ever after.

Told by Karím.

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

XVIII.

A WONDERFUL STORY.

Once there lived two wrestlers, who were both very very strong. The stronger of the two had a daughter called Ajít; the other had no daughter at all. These wrestlers did not live in the same country, but their two villages were not far apart.

One day the wrestler that had no daughter heard of the wrestler that had a daughter, and he determined to go and find him and wrestle with him, to see who was the stronger. He went therefore to Ajít's father's country, and when he arrived at his house, he knocked at the door and said, "Is any one here?" Ajít answered, "Yes, I am here;" and she came out. "Where is the wrestler who lives in this house?" he asked. "My father," answered Ajít, "has taken three hundred carts to the jungle, and he is drawing them himself, as he could not get enough bullocks and horses to pull them along. He is gone to get wood." This astonished the wrestler very much. "Your father must indeed be very strong," he said.