Chapter 11

Then he set off to the jungle, and in the jungle he found two dead elephants. He tied them to the two ends of a pole, took the pole on his shoulder, and returned to Ajít's house. There he knocked at the door, crying, "Is any one here?" "Yes, I am here," said Ajít. "Has your father come back?" asked the wrestler. "Not yet," said Ajít, who was busy sweeping the room. Now, her father had twelve elephants. Eleven were in the stables, but one was lying dead in the room Ajít was sweeping; and as she swept, she swept the dead elephant without any trouble out of the door. This frightened the wrestler. "What a strong girl this is!" he said to himself. When Ajít had swept all the dust out of the room, she came and gathered it and the dead elephant up, and threw dust and elephant away. The wrestler was more and more astonished.

He set off again to find Ajít's father, and met him pulling the three hundred carts along. At this he was still more alarmed, but he said to him, "Will you wrestle with me now?" "No," said Ajít's father, "I won't; for here there is no one to see us." The other again begged him to wrestle at once, and at that moment an old woman bent with age came by. She was carrying bread to her son, who had taken his mother's three or four thousand camels to browse.

The first wrestler called to her at once, "Come and see us wrestle." "No," said the old woman, "for I must take my son his dinner. He is very hungry." "No, no; you must stay and see us wrestle," cried both the wrestlers. "I cannot stay," she said; "but do one of you stand on one of my hands, and the other on the other, and then you can wrestle as we go along." "You carry us!" cried the men. "You are so old, you will never be able to carry us." "Indeed I shall," said the old woman. So they got up on her hands, and she rested her hands, with the wrestlers standing on them, on her shoulders; and her son's flour-cakes she put on her head. Thus they went on their way, and the men wrestled as they went.

Now the old woman had told her son that if he did not do his work well, she would bring men to kill him; so he was dreadfully frightened when he saw his mother coming with the wrestlers. "Here is my mother coming to kill me," he said: and he tied up the three or four thousand camels in his cloth, put them all on his head, and ran off with them as fast as he could. "Stop, stop!" cried his mother, when she saw him running away. But he only ran on still faster, and the old woman and the wrestlers ran after him.

Just then a kite was flying about, and the kite said to itself, "There must be some meat in that man's cloth," so it swept down and carried off the bundle of camels. The old woman's son at this sat down and cried.

The wrestlers soon came up to him and said, "What are you crying for?" "Oh," answered the boy, "my mother said that if I did not do my work, she would bring men to kill me. So, when I saw you coming with her, I tied all the camels up in my cloth, put them on my head, and ran off. A kite came down and carried them all away. That is why I am crying." The wrestlers were much astonished at the boy's strength and at the kite's strength, and they all three set off in the direction in which the kite had flown.

Meanwhile the kite had flown on and on till it had reached another country, and the daughter of the Rájá of this country was sitting on the roof of the palace, combing her long black hair. The princess looked up at the kite and the bundle, and said, "There must be meat in that bundle." At that moment the kite let the bundle of camels fall, and it fell into the princess's eye, and went deep into it; but her eye was so large that it did not hurt her much. "Oh, mother! mother!" she cried, "something has fallen into my eye! come and take it out." Her mother rushed up, took the bundle of camels out of the princess's eye, and shoved the bundle into her pocket.

The wrestlers and the old woman's son now came up, having seen all that had happened. "Where is the bundle of camels?" said they, "and why do you cry?" they asked the princess. "Oh," said her mother, "she is crying because something fell into her eye." "It was the bundle of camels that fell into her eye, and the bundle is in your pocket," said the old woman's son to the Rání: and he put his hand into her pocket and pulled out the bundle. Then he and the wrestlers went back to Ajít's father's house, and on the way they met his old mother, who went with them.

They invited a great many people to dinner, and Ajít took a large quantity of flour and made it into flat cakes. Then she handed a cake to the wrestler who had come to see her father, and gave one to everybody else. "I can't eat such a big cake as this," said the wrestler. "Can't you?" said Ajít. "I can't indeed," he answered; "it is much too big." "Then I will eat it myself," said Ajít, and taking it and all the other cakes she popped them into her mouth together. "That is not half enough for me," she said. Then she offered him a can of water. "I cannot drink all that water," he said. "Can't you?" said Ajít; "I can drink much more than that." So she filled a large tub with water, lifted it to her mouth, and drank it all up at a draught.

The wrestler was very much astonished, and said to her, "Will you come to my house? I will give you a dinner." "You will never be able to give me enough to eat and drink," said Ajít. "Yes, I shall," he said. "You will not be able to give me enough, I am sure," said Ajít; "I cannot come." "Do come," he said. "Very well," she answered, "I will come; but I know you will never be able to give me enough food."

So they set off to his house. But when they had gone a little way, she said, "I must have my house with me." "I cannot carry your house," said the wrestler. "You must," said Ajít, "if you don't, I cannot go with you." "But I cannot carry your house," said the wrestler. "Well, then," said Ajít, "I will carry it myself." So she went back, dug up her house, and hoisted it on her head. This frightened the wrestler. "What a strong woman she must be!" he thought. "I will not wrestle with her father; for if I do, he will kill me."

Then they all went on till they came to his house. When they got to it, Ajít set her house down on the ground, and the wrestler went to get the dinner he had promised her. He brought quantities of things--all sorts of things--everything he could think of. Three kinds of flour, milk, dhall, rice, curries, and meat. Then he showed them all to Ajít. "That is not enough for my dinner," she said. "Why, that would be hardly enough for my mice!"

The wrestler wondered very much at this, and asked, "Are your mice so very big?" "Yes, they are very big," she answered; "come and see." So he took up all the food he had brought, and laid it on the floor of Ajít's house. Then at once all the mice came and ate it up every bit. The wrestler was greatly surprised; and Ajít said, "Did I not tell you true? and did I not tell you, you would never be able to get me enough to eat?" "Come to the Nabha Rájá's country," said the wrestler. "There you will surely get enough to eat."

To this she agreed; so she, her father, and the wrestler went off to the Nabha Rájá's country. "I have brought a very strong girl," said the wrestler to the Nabha Rájá. "I will try her strength," said the Rájá. "Give me three elephants," said Ajít, "and I will carry them for you." Then the Rájá sent for three elephants, and said to her, "Now, carry these." "Give me a rope," said Ajít. So they gave her a rope, and she tied the three elephants together, and flung them over her shoulder. "Now, where shall I throw them?" she said to the astonished Rájá. "Shall I throw them on to the roof of your palace? or on to the ground? or away out there?" "I don't know," said the Rájá. "Throw them upon my roof." She threw the elephants up on to the roof with such force that it broke, and the elephants fell through into the palace.

"What have you done?" cried the Rájá. "It is not my fault," answered Ajít. "You told me to throw the elephants on to your roof, and so I did." Then the Rájá sent for a great many men and bullocks and horses to pull the elephants out of his palace. But they could not the first time they pulled; then they tried a second time and succeeded, and they threw the elephants away.

Then Ajít went home. "What shall I do with this dreadful woman?" said the Nabha Rájá. "She is sure to kill me, and take all my country. I will try to kill her." So he got his sepoys and guns into order, and went out to kill Ajít. She was looking out of her window, and saw them coming. "Oh," she said, "here is the Nabha Rájá coming to kill me." Then she went out of her house and asked him why he had come. "To kill you," said the Rájá. "Is that what you want to do?" she said; and with one hand she took up the Rájá, his guns, and his sepoys, and put them all under her arm: and she carried them all off to the Nabha Rájá's country. There she put the Rájá into prison, and made herself Rání of his kingdom. She was very much pleased at being Rání of the Nabha country; for it was a rich country, and there were quantities of fruits and of corn in it. And she lived happily for a long, long time.

Told by Karím, 13th January, 1877.

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

XIX.

THE FAKÍR NÁNAKSÁ SAVES THE MERCHANT'S LIFE.

In a country there was a grain merchant who was a very good man. Now a fakír named Nánaksá, who was also a very good man, came constantly to talk with him.

One day he came as usual, and the merchant and his wife were very glad to see him. As they were all sitting together, they saw a goat led away to be killed. The goat escaped from the man who was leading him and hid behind the merchant, but he was caught and marched off to death.

At this the merchant said nothing, but the fakír laughed.

A little later they saw an old woman who had done something wrong, and, therefore, the king had ordered her to be taken to the jungle and there put to death. The old woman escaped from the men who were leading her and took refuge behind the merchant, but she was seized and led away to die.

The merchant said nothing; the fakír laughed, and the merchant's wife saw him laugh.

At this moment the merchant's little daughter woke and began to scream. Her mother took her in her arms; the child was cross and pulled her mother's clothes all awry.

The fakír laughed.

The mother put her dress straight and held her child in her arms and stopped her crying. She then took a knife and went up to the fakír, saying, "Why did you laugh three times? Tell me the truth. What made you laugh three times?" Nánaksá answered, "What does it signify whether I cry or laugh? Ask me no questions, for I am a fakír, and it does not matter in the least whether I laugh or cry." However, the merchant's wife insisted on knowing why he laughed, and she said, "If you do not tell me, I will kill you with my knife." "Good," said Nánaksá; "if you really do wish to know, I will tell you." "I really do wish to know," she answered.

"Well," said Nánaksá, "you remember the goat took refuge behind your husband? That goat in his former life was your husband's father, and your husband would have saved him from death had he given the man who was taking him to be killed four rupees, for the man would then have gone away contentedly without the goat."

"Good," said the woman. "Why did you laugh the second time?"

"Well," said Nánaksá, "that old woman who hid herself behind your husband was his grandmother in her former life. Had your husband given the men who were taking her to the jungle twenty rupees, they would have given her up to him, and he would have saved her from death. Should a wild beast or a man ever take refuge behind us, it is our duty to save his life."

"Well," said the merchant's wife, "you have told me why you laughed the first two times. Now tell me why you laughed the third time."

"Listen," said Nánaksá. "You remember your husband's sister whom you tormented so much? She died, but then God caused her to be born again as your daughter, that she might torment you and punish you for having been so unkind to her in her former life when she was your sister-in-law."

"Is that true?" said the woman.

"Quite true," answered the fakír, "and that is why I laughed the third time. But now would you like to hear something I wish to tell you? If you promise not to cry, I will tell it you."

"I promise not to cry, so tell me," she said.

"Then listen," said Nánaksá. "God has decreed that your husband shall die to-morrow morning at ten o'clock. He will send four angels to fetch him."

At this the poor woman began to cry bitterly.

"Do not cry," said the fakír. "I will tell you something more. Listen to me. To-morrow morning at four o'clock you must get up, and make your house quite clean and neat. Then buy new dishes and make all the nicest and most delicious sweetmeats you can."

"I will do so," she answered.

When it was yet night she rose, and did all the fakír had bidden her. Then she went to him and said, "The sweetmeats are ready." "Now," said Nánaksá, "go and get a fine, clean cloth; take it and the sweetmeats with you, and set out and walk on and on till you come to a plain which is a long way from this. But you must go on till you reach it, and on it you will see a tank and a tree. By the tank and the tree you must spread your cloth and lay out your sweetmeats on it. At nine o'clock you will see four men, who will come and bathe in the tank. When they have bathed they will come towards you, and you must say to them, 'See! you are four angels, therefore you must eat some of my sweetmeats.'"

The woman set out for the plain and did all Nánaksá had told her to do; and everything happened as he had foretold. When the four men had bathed, they came towards the woman, and she said to them, "See! you are four angels, and therefore you must eat some of my sweetmeats." The chief of the four angels, who was called Jabrá'íl, and the three other angels answered, "We have no money, wherewith to buy your sweetmeats, so how can we eat any of them?" "Never mind the money," said the woman; "you can pay me another day. Come now and eat some." So the four angels sat down and ate a great many of her sweetmeats.

When they had finished they stood up and said to each other, "Now we must go to the village and fetch the merchant." Then the woman made them a great many salaams and said, "That merchant is my husband. Still, if it is your pleasure to take him away, take him away."

At this the angels were sad, and said to her, "How can we take your husband's life now that we have eaten your food? But stay under this tree till we return, and then we will pay you for your sweetmeats."

So the angels left her, and the wife waited under the tree. She was very sad; and after some time she thought, "Now I will go home: perhaps these angels are gone to take his life;" and then she cried bitterly and remained under the tree.

Meanwhile the four angels had gone back to God, who asked them, "Have you brought the merchant?" They were sorry not to have brought him, and told God all that had happened. And God was very angry; but he said to them. "Never mind. I know the fakír Nánaksá is with the merchant and his wife just now, and it is he who has played you this trick."

Then God wrote a letter in which he promised the merchant twenty years more life, only at the end of the twenty years he was really to die and not to be allowed to live any longer. This letter he gave to the angels, and bade them take it to the merchant's wife and tell her to have a silver box made, into which she was to put the letter, and then hang it round her husband's neck, so that he should live for twenty years more.

The four angels came down to earth again, and went to the tree under which they had left the woman. They found her waiting for them, and gave her the letter saying, "You must get a silver box made and put this letter in it; then hang it round your husband's neck, so that he may live for twenty years more."

The woman thanked them, and was very happy. She took the letter and went home. There she found her husband quite well, and with him was Nánaksá. She gave Nánaksá the letter and told him what the angels had bidden her do with it. Nánaksá read the letter, and was very much pleased. Then he said to her, "Call a silversmith here, and let him make you the silver box. Then you must get a great dinner ready, and ask all your friends, rich and poor, to come and eat it."

All this she did, and when the dinner was ready and all their friends had come, the fakír said, "None who are here, men, women, or children, must eat, till they have put their hands before their faces and worshipped God." Everybody hid his face in his hands at once and worshipped God: while they did this the fakír stole away from them, so when they uncovered their faces he was nowhere to be seen. No one knew where he had gone, and no one had seen him go. Some of the men went to look for him, but they could not find him, and none of them ever saw him again.

But the merchant and his wife lived happily together.

Told by Múniyá.

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

XX.

THE BOY WHO HAD A MOON ON HIS FOREHEAD AND A STAR ON HIS CHIN.

In a country were seven daughters of poor parents, who used to come daily to play under the shady trees in the King's garden with the gardener's daughter; and daily she used to say to them, "When I am married I shall have a son. Such a beautiful boy as he will be has never been seen. He will have a moon on his forehead, and a star on his chin." Then her playfellows used to laugh at her and mock her.

But one day the King heard her telling them about the beautiful boy she would have when she was married, and he said to himself he should like very much to have such a son; the more so that though he had already four wives he had no child. He went, therefore, to the gardener and told him he wished to marry his daughter. This delighted the gardener and his wife, who thought it would indeed be grand for their daughter to become a princess. So they said "Yes" to the King, and invited all their friends to the wedding. The King invited all his, and he gave the gardener as much money as he wanted. Then the wedding was held with great feasting and rejoicing.

A year later the day drew near on which the gardener's daughter was to have her son; and the King's four other wives came constantly to see her. One day they said to her, "The King hunts every day; and the time is soon coming when you will have your child. Suppose you fell ill whilst he was out hunting and could therefore know nothing of your illness, what would you do then?"

When the King came home that evening, the gardener's daughter said to him, "Every day you go out hunting. Should I ever be in trouble or sick while you are away, how could I send for you?" The King gave her a kettle-drum which he placed near the door for her, and he said to her, "Whenever you want me, beat this kettle-drum. No matter how far away I may be, I shall hear it, and will come at once to you."

Next morning, when the King had gone out to hunt, his four other wives came to see the gardener's daughter. She told them all about her kettle-drum. "Oh," they said, "do drum on it just to see if the King really will come to you." "No, I will not," she said; "for why should I call him from his hunting when I do not want him?" "Don't mind interrupting his hunting," they answered. "Do try if he really will come to you when you beat your kettle-drum." So at last, just to please them, she beat it, and the King stood before her.

"Why have you called me?" he said. "See, I have left my hunting to come to you." "I want nothing," she answered; "I only wished to know if you really would come to me when I beat my drum." "Very well," answered the King; "but do not call me again unless you really need me." Then he returned to his hunting.

The next day, when the King had gone out hunting as usual, the four wives again came to see the gardener's daughter. They begged and begged her to beat her drum once more, "just to see if the King will really come to see you this time." At first she refused, but at last she consented. So she beat her drum, and the King came to her. But when he found she was neither ill nor in trouble, he was angry, and said to her, "Twice I have left my hunting and lost my game to come to you when you did not need me. Now you may call me as much as you like, but I will not come to you," and then he went away in a rage.

The third day the gardener's daughter fell ill, and she beat and beat her kettle-drum; but the King never came. He heard her kettle-drum, but he thought, "She does not really want me; she is only trying to see if I will go to her."

Meanwhile the four other wives came to her, and they said, "Here it is the custom before a child is born to bind its mother's eyes with a handkerchief that she may not see it just at first. So let us bind your eyes." She answered, "Very well, bind my eyes." The four wives then tied a handkerchief over them.

Soon after, the gardener's daughter had a beautiful little son, with a moon on his forehead and a star on his chin; and before the poor mother had seen him, the four wicked wives took the boy to the nurse and said to her, "Now you must not let this child make the least sound for fear his mother should hear him; and in the night you must either kill him, or else take him away, so that his mother may never see him. If you obey our orders, we will give you a great many rupees." All this they did out of spite. The nurse took the little child and put him into a box, and the four wives went back to the gardener's daughter.

First they put a stone into her boy's little bed, and then they took the handkerchief off her eyes and showed it her, saying, "Look! this is your son!" The poor girl cried bitterly, and thought, "What will the King say when he finds no child?" But she could do nothing.

When the King came home, he was furious at hearing his youngest wife, the gardener's daughter, had given him a stone instead of the beautiful little son she had promised him. He made her one of the palace servants, and never spoke to her.

In the middle of the night the nurse took the box in which was the beautiful little prince, and went out to a broad plain in the jungle. There she dug a hole, made the fastenings of the box sure, and put the box into the hole, although the child in it was still alive. The King's dog, whose name was Shankar, had followed her to see what she did with the box. As soon as she had gone back to the four wives (who gave her a great many rupees), the dog went to the hole in which she had put the box, took the box out, and opened it. When he saw the beautiful little boy, he was very much delighted and said, "If it pleases God that this child should live, I will not hurt him; I will not eat him, but I will swallow him whole and hide him in my stomach." This he did.

After six months had passed, the dog went by night to the jungle, and thought, "I wonder whether the boy is alive or dead." Then he brought the child out of his stomach and rejoiced over his beauty. The boy was now six months old. When Shankar had caressed and loved him, he swallowed him again for another six months. At the end of that time he went once more by night to the broad jungle-plain. There he brought up the child out of his stomach (the child was now a year old), and caressed and petted him a great deal, and was made very happy by his great beauty.