[1] A kind of starling.
THERE was once a she-jackal and a she-kite. They lived in the same tree; the jackal at the bottom of the tree, and the kite at the top. Neither had any children. One day the kite said to the jackal, “Let us go and worship God, and fast, and then he will give us children.” So the jackal said, “Very good.” That day the kite ate nothing, nor that night; but the jackal at night brought a dead animal, and was sitting eating it quietly under the tree. By-and-by the kite heard her crunching the bones, instead of fasting. “What have you got there,” said the kite, “that you are making such a noise?” “Nothing,” said the jackal; “it is only my own bones that rattle inside my body whenever I move.” The kite went to sleep again, and took no more notice of the jackal. Next morning the kite ate some food in the name of God. That night again the jackal brought a dead animal. The kite called out, “What are you crunching there? Why are you making that noise? I am sure you have something to eat.” The jackal said, “Oh, no! It is only my own bones rattling in my body.” So the kite went to sleep again.
Some time after, the kite had seven little boys—real little boys—but the jackal had none, because she had not fasted. A year after that the kite went and worshipped God, asking Him to take care of her children. One day—it was their great day—the kite set out seven plates. On one she put cocoa-nuts, on another cucumbers, on a third rice, on a fourth plantains, and so on. Then she gave a plate to each of her seven sons, and told them to take the plates to their aunt the jackal. So they took the seven plates, and carried them to their aunt, crying out, “Aunty, aunty, look here! Mamma has sent you these things.” The jackal took the plates, and cut off the heads of the seven boys, and their hands, and their feet, and their noses, and their ears, and took out their eyes. Then she laid their heads in one plate, and their eyes in another, and their noses in a third, and their ears in a fourth, and their hands in a fifth, and their feet in a sixth, and their trunks in the seventh, and then she covered all the plates over. Then she took the plates to the kite, and called out, “Here! I have brought you something in return. You sent me a present, and I bring you a present.” Now the poor kite thought the jackal had killed all her seven children, so she cried out, “Oh, it’s too dark now to see what you have brought. Put the plates down in my tree.” The jackal put the plates down and went home. Then God made the boys alive again, and they came running to their mother, quite well. And instead of the heads and eyes, and noses and ears, and hands and feet, and trunks, there were again on the plates cocoa-nuts and cucumbers, and plantains and rice, and so on.
Now the jackal got hold of the boys again. And this time she killed them, and cooked them and ate them; and again God brought them to life. Well, the jackal was very much astonished to see the boys alive, and she got angry, and said to the kite, “I will take your seven sons and throw them into the water, and they will be drowned.” “Very well,” said the kite, “take them. I don’t mind. God will take care of them.” The jackal took them and threw them into the water, and left them to die, while the kite looked on without crying. And again God made them alive, and the jackal was so surprised. “Why,” said she, “I put these children into the water, and left them to drown. And here they are alive!” Then God got very angry with the jackal, and said to her, “Go out of this village. And wherever you go, men will try to shoot you, and you shall always be afraid of them.” So the jackal had to go away; and the kite and her children lived very happily ever afterwards.
Told by Dunkní.
To notesTHERE were a rat and a frog. And the rat said to the frog, “Go and get me some sticks, while I go and get some flour and milk.” So the frog went out far into the jungle and brought home plenty of sticks, and the rat went out and brought home flour and milk for their dinner. Then she cooked the dinner, and when it was cooked she said to the frog, “Now, you sit here while I go to bathe, and take care of the food so that no one may come and eat it up.” Then the rat went to take her bath, and as soon as she had gone the frog made haste and ate up the dinner quickly, and went away.
When the rat came back she found no dinner, and she could not find the frog. So she went out to look for him, calling to him as loudly as she could, and she saw him in the distance, and overtook him. “Why have you eaten my dinner? Why did you go away?” said the rat. Said the frog, “Oh, dear! it was not I that ate your dinner, but a huge dog that came; and I was only a tiny, tiny thing, and he was a great big dog, and so he frightened me, and I ran away.” “Very well,” said the rat; “go and fetch me more sticks while I go for flour and milk.” So the frog went out far into the jungle and brought back plenty of sticks. And the rat went to fetch flour and milk. Then she lit the fire and cooked the dinner, and told the frog to take care of the dinner while she went to bathe. As soon as she had gone, the frog ate up all the dinner, and went away and hid himself. When the rat came back she saw no frog, no dinner. She went away into the jungle and called to him, and the frog answered from behind a tree, “Here I am, here I am.” The rat went to him and said, “Why did you eat my dinner?” “I didn’t,” said the frog. “It was a great big dog ate the dinner, and he wanted to eat me too, and so I ran away.” The rat said, “Very well. Go and fetch me some more sticks, and I will go for flour and milk.” Then she cooked the dinner again and went to bathe. The frog ate up all the dinner, and went away and hid himself. When the rat returned she saw no dinner, no frog. So she went far into the jungle, found the frog, and told him that it was he that had eaten the dinner. And the frog said, “No,” and the rat said, “Yes.” And the frog said, “If you say that again, I will eat you up.” “All right,” says the rat, “eat me up.” So he ate her up and sat behind a tree, and the baker came past. The frog called out, “Baker, come here! come here! Give me some bread.” The baker looked about everywhere, could not see anybody, could not think who was calling him. At last he saw the frog sitting behind a tree. “Give me some bread,” says the frog. The man said, “No, I won’t give you any bread. I am a great big man, and you are only a little frog, and you have no money.” “Yes, I have money. I will give you some pice, and you will give me some bread.” But the man said, “No, I won’t.” “Well,” said the frog, “if you won’t give me bread, I will eat you up first, and then I will eat up your bread.” So he ate up the man, and then ate up his bread. Presently a man with oranges and lemons passed by. The frog called to him, “Come here! come here!” The man was very much afraid. He didn’t know who had called him. Then he saw the frog, and the frog said, “Give me some lemons.” The man wouldn’t, and said, “No.” “Very well,” says the frog, “if you won’t, I’ll eat you up.” So he ate up the man with his lemons and oranges. Presently a horse and his groom went by. The frog says, “Please give me a ride, and I will give you some money.” “No,” said the horse, “I won’t let you ride on me. You are like a monkey,—very little—I won’t let you ride on my back.” The frog said, “If you won’t, I’ll eat you up.” Then the frog ate him up, and his groom too. Then a barber passed by. “Come and shave me,” says the frog. “Good,” says the barber, “I’ll come and shave you.” So he shaved him, and he thought the frog looked very fat, and so as he was shaving him he suddenly made a cut in his stomach. Out jumped the rat with her flour and milk—the baker with his bread—the lemon-seller with his oranges and lemons—the horse and his groom. And the barber ran away home. And the frog died.
To notesTHERE once lived a poor old widow woman named Hungní, who had a little idiot son called Sachúlí. She used to beg every day. One day when the son had grown up, he said to his mother. “What makes women laugh?” “If you throw a tiny stone at them,” answered she, “they will laugh.” So one day Sachúlí went and sat by a well, and three women came to it to fill their water-jars. “Now,” said Sachúlí “I will make one of these women laugh.” Two of the women filled their water-jars and went away home, and he threw no stones at them; but as the last, who also had on the most jewels, passed him, he threw a great big stone at her, and she fell down dead, with her mouth set as if she were smiling. “Oh, look! look! how she is laughing!” said Sachúlí, and he ran off to call his mother.
“Come, come, mother,” said he, “and see how I have made this woman laugh.”
His mother came, and when she saw the woman lying dead, she was much frightened, for the dead woman belonged to a great and very rich family, and she wore jewels worth a thousand rupees. Hungní took off all her jewels, and threw her body into the well.
After some days the dead woman’s father and mother and all her people sent round a crier with a drum to try and find her. “Whoever brings back a young woman who wears a great many gold necklaces and bracelets and rings shall get a great deal of money,” cried the crier. Sachúlí heard him. “I know where she is,” said he. “My mother took off all her jewels, and threw her into the well.”
The crier said, “Can you go down into the well and bring her up?”
“If you will tie a rope round my waist and let me down the well, I shall be able to bring her up.”
So they set off towards the well, which was near Hungní’s house; and when she saw them coming, she guessed what they came for, and she ran out and killed a sheep, threw it into the well, and took out the dead woman and hid her.
The crier got some men to come with him, and they let Sachúlí down the well. “Has she got eyes?” said Sachúlí. “Of course, every one has eyes,” answered the men. “Has she a nose?” asked Sachúlí. “Yes, she has a nose,” said the men. “Has she got a mouth?” asked Sachúlí. “Yes,” said the men. “Has she a long face?”
“What does he mean?” said the men, who were getting cross. “No one has a long face; perhaps she has, though. Yes, she has a long face,” cried the men.
“Has she a tail?”
“A tail! Why no one has a tail. Perhaps, though, she has long hair. No doubt that is what he calls a tail. Yes, she has a tail.”
“Has she ears?”
“Of course, every one has ears.”
“Has she four feet?”
“Four feet!” said the men. “Why, no one has four feet. Perhaps you call her hands feet. Yes, she has four feet. Bring her up quickly.”
Then Sachúlí brought up the sheep.
The men were very angry when they saw the sheep, and they beat Sachúlí, and called him a very stupid fellow and a great liar, and they went away feeling very cross.
Sachúlí went home to his mother, who, as soon as she saw him coming, ran out and put the woman’s body back in the well, and when he got home she beat him. “Mother,” said he, “give me some bread, and I will go away and die.” His mother cooked him some bread, and he went away.
He walked on, and on, and on, a long way.
Now, some Rájá’s ten camels had been travelling along the road on which Sachúlí went, each carrying sacks of gold mohurs and rupees, and one of these camels broke loose from the string and strayed away, and the camel-drivers could not find it again. But Sachúlí met it, and caught it and took it home.
“See, mother! see what a quantity of money I have brought you!” cried Sachúlí. Hungní rushed out, and was delighted to see so much money. She took off the sacks at once and sent the camel away. Then she hid the rupees and the gold with the jewels she had taken from the dead woman. And, as she was a cunning woman, she went and bought a great many comfits and scattered them all about her house, when Sachúlí was out of the way. “Oh, look! look!” cried Sachúlí, “at all these comfits.” “God has rained them from heaven,” said his mother. Sachúlí began to pick them up and eat them, and he told all the people in the village how God had rained down comfits from heaven on his mother’s house. “What nonsense!” cried they. “Yes, he has,” said Sachúlí, “and I have been eating them.” “No comfits have fallen on our houses,” said they. “Yes, yes,” cried he, “the day my mother got all those rupees, God rained comfits on our house.” “What lies!” cried the people; “as if it ever rained comfits. Why did not the comfits rain down on our houses? Why did they fall only on your house? And what’s all this about rupees?” And then they came to see if there were any rupees or comfits in Hungní’s house, and they found none at all, for Hungní had hidden the rupees and thrown away the comfits. “There,” said they to Sachúlí, “where are your rupees? where are your comfits? What a liar you are! as if it ever rained comfits. How can you tell such stories?” And they beat him. “But it did rain comfits,” said Sachúlí, “for I ate them. It rained comfits the day my mother got the rupees.”
Now the Rájá who had lost his camel sent round the crier with his drum to find his camel and his money-bags. “Whoever has found a camel carrying money-bags and brings it and the money back to the Rájá, will get a great many rupees,” cried the crier. “Oh!” says Sachúlí, “I know where the money is. One day I went out and I found a stray camel, and he had sacks of rupees on his back, and I took him home to my mother, and she took the sacks off his back and sent the camel away.” So the crier went to find the rupees, and the people in the bazar went with him. But Hungní had hidden the rupees so carefully that, though they hunted all over her house, they could find none, and they beat Sachúlí, and told him he was a liar. “I am not telling lies,” said Sachúlí. “My mother took the rupees the day it rained comfits on our house.” So they beat him again, and they went away. Then Hungní beat Sachúlí, and said, “What a bad boy you are! trying to get me beaten and put into prison, telling every one about the rupees. Go away; I don’t want you any more, such a bad boy as you are! go away and die.” He said, “Very well, mother; give me some bread, and I’ll go.”
Sachúlí set off and took an axe with him. “How shall I kill myself?” said he. So he climbed up a tree and sat out on a long branch, and began cutting off the branch between himself and the tree on which he was sitting. “What are you doing up there?” said a man who came by. “You’ll die if you cut that branch off.” “What do you say?” cries Sachúlí, jumping down on the man, and seizing his hand. “When shall I die?” “How can I tell? Let me go.” “I won’t let you go till you tell me when I shall die.” And at last the man said, “When you find a scarlet thread on your jacket, then you will die.”
Sachúlí went off to the bazar, and sat down by some tailors, and one of the tailors, in throwing away their shreds of cloth, threw a scarlet thread on Sachúlí’s coat. “Oh,” said Sachúlí, when he saw the thread, “now I shall die!” “How do you know that?” said the tailors. “A man told me that when I found a scarlet thread on my jacket, I should die,” said Sachúlí; and the tailors all laughed at him and made fun of him, but he went off into the jungle and dug his grave with his axe, and lay down in it. In the night a sepoy came by with a large jar of ghee on his head. “How heavy this jar is,” said the sepoy. “Is there no cooly that will come and carry my ghee home for me? I would give him four pice for his trouble.” Up jumped Sachúlí out of his grave. “I’ll carry it for you,” said he. “Who are you?” said the sepoy, much frightened. “Oh, I am a man who is dead,” said Sachúlí, “and I am tired of lying here. I can’t lie here any more.” “Well,” said the sepoy, very much frightened, “you may carry my ghee.” So Sachúlí put the jar on his head, and he went on, with the sepoy following. “Now,” said Sachúlí, “with these four pice I will buy a hen, and I will sell the hen and her eggs, and with the money I get for them I will buy a goat; and then I will sell the goat and her milk and her hide and buy a cow, and I will sell her milk; and then I will marry a wife, and then I shall have some children, and they will say to me, ‘Father, will you have some rice?’ and I will say, ‘No, I won’t have any rice.’” And as he said, “No, I won’t have any rice,” he shook his head, and down came the jar of ghee, and the jar was smashed, and the ghee spilled. “Oh, dear! what have you done?” cried the sepoy. “Why did you shake your head?” “Because my children asked me to have some rice, and I did not want any, so I shook my head,” said Sachúlí. “Oh,” said the sepoy, “he is an utter idiot.” And the sepoy went home, and Sachúlí went back to his mother. “Why have you come back?” said she. “I have been dead twelve years,” said Sachúlí. “What lies you tell!” said she. “You have only been away a few days. Be off! I don’t want any liars here.”
Sachúlí asked her to give him two flour-cakes, which she did, and he went off to the jungle, and it was night. Five fairies lived in this jungle, and as Sachúlí went along, he broke his flour-cakes into five pieces, and said, “Now I’ll eat one, then the second, then the third, then the fourth, and then the fifth.” And the fairies heard him and were afraid, and said to each other, “What shall we do? Here is this man, and he is going to eat us all up. What shall we do to save ourselves? We will give him something.” So they went out all five, and said to Sachúlí, “If only you won’t eat us, we will give you a present.” Now Sachúlí did not know there were fairies in this jungle. “What will you give me?” said Sachúlí. “We will give you a cooking-pot. When you want anything to eat, all you have to do is to ask the pot for it, and you will get it.” Sachúlí took the pot and went off to the bazar. He stopped at a cook-shop, and asked for some pilau. “Pilau? There’s no pilau here,” said the shopman. “Well,” said Sachúlí, “I have a cooking-pot here, and I have only to ask it for any dish I want, and I get it at once.” “What nonsense!” said the man. “Just see,” said Sachúlí; and he said to the cooking-pot, “I want some pilau,” and immediately the pot was full of pilau, and all the people in the shop set to work to help him to eat it up, it was so good. “Oh,” thought the cook, “I must have that pot,” so he gave Sachúlí a sleepy drink. Then Sachúlí went to sleep, and while he slept the cook stole the fairy cooking-pot, and put a common cooking-pot in its place. Sachúlí went home with the cook’s pot, and said, “Mother, I have brought home a cooking-pot. If you ask it for any food you want, you will get it.” “Nonsense,” said Hungní; “what lies you are telling!” “It is quite true, mother; only see,” and he asked the pot for different dishes, but none came. Hungní was furious. “Go away,” she said. “Why do you come back to me? I want no liars here.” “Give me five flour-cakes and I will go,” said her son. So she baked the bread for him, and he set off for the jungle where he had met the five fairies, and as he went along he said, “I will eat one, and I will eat two, and I will eat three, and I will eat four, and I will eat five.” The five fairies heard him, and were terrified. “Here is this bad man again,” said they, “and he will eat us all five. Oh, what shall we do? Let us give him a present.” So they went to Sachúlí, and said, “Here is a box for you. Whenever you want any clothes you have only to tell this box, and it will give them to you; take it, and don’t eat us.” So he took the box and went to the bazar, and he stopped at the cook-shop again, and asked the cook for a red silk dress, and a pair of long black silk trousers, and a blue silk turban, and a pair of red shoes, and the cook laughed and asked how he should have such beautiful things. “Well,” said Sachúlí, “here is a box; when I ask it for the dress and trousers, and turban and shoes, I shall get them.” So the cook laughed at him. “Just see,” said Sachúlí, and he said, “Box, give me a red silk dress and a pair of long black silk trousers, and a blue silk turban, and red shoes,” and there they were at once. And the cook was delighted, and said to himself, “I will have that box,” and he gave Sachúlí a good dinner and a sleepy drink, and Sachúlí fell fast asleep. While he slept the cook came and stole the fairy box, and put a common box in its place. In the morning Sachúlí went home to his mother and said, “Mother, I’ve brought you a box. You have only to ask it for any clothes you may want, and you will get them.” “Nonsense,” said his mother, “don’t tell me such lies.” “Only see, mother; I am telling you truth,” said he. He asked the box for coats and all sorts of things—no; he got nothing. His mother was very angry, and said, “You liar! you naughty boy! Go away and don’t come back any more.” And she broke the box to pieces, and threw the bits away. “Well, mother, bake me some flour-cakes.” So she baked him the cakes and gave them to him, and sent him away. He went off to the fairies’ jungle, and as he went he said, “Now I’ll eat one, then two, then three, then four, then five.” The five fairies were very frightened. “Here is this man come back to eat us all five. Let us give him a present.” So they went to him and gave him a rope and stick, and said, “Only say to this rope, ‘Bind that man,’ and he will be tied up at once; and to this stick, ‘Beat that man,’ and the stick will beat him.” Sachúlí was very glad to get these things, for he guessed what had happened to his cooking-pot and box. So he went to the bazar, and at the cook-shop he said, “Rope, bind all these men that are here!” and the cook and every one in the shop were tied up instantly. Then Sachúlí said, “Stick, beat these men!” and the stick began to beat them. “Oh, stop, stop beating us, and untie, and I’ll give you your pot and your box!” cried the cook. “No, I won’t stop beating you, and I won’t untie you till I have my pot and my box.” And the cook gave them both to him, and he untied the rope. Then Sachúlí went home, and when his mother saw him, she was very angry, but he showed her the box and the cooking-pot, and she saw he had told her the truth. So she sent for the doctor, and he declared Sachúlí was wise and not silly, and he and Hungní found a wife for Sachúlí, and made a grand wedding for him, and they lived happily ever after.
Told by Dunkní.
To notesONCE there lived a barber called Hím, who was very poor indeed. He had a wife and twelve children, five boys and seven girls: now and then he got a few pice. One day he went away from his home feeling very cross, and left his wife and children to get on as best they could. “What can I do?” said he. “I have not enough money to buy food for my family, and they are crying for it.” And so he walked on till he came to a jungle. It was night when he got there. This jungle was called the “tigers’ jungle,” because only tigers lived in it; no birds, no insects, no other animals, and there were four hundred tigers in it altogether. As soon as Barber Hím reached the jungle he saw a great tiger walking about. “What shall I do?” cried he. “This tiger is sure to eat me.” And he took his razor and his razor-strap, and began to sharpen his razor. Then he went close up to the tiger, still sharpening his razor. The tiger was much frightened. “What shall I do?” said the tiger; “this man will certainly gash me.” “I have come,” said the barber, “to catch twenty tigers by order of Mahárájá Káns. You are one, and I want nineteen more.” The tiger, greatly alarmed, answered, “If you won’t catch us, I will give you as much gold and as many jewels as you can carry.” For these tigers used to go out and carry off the men and women from the villages, and some of these people had rupees, and some had jewels, all of which the tigers used to collect together. “Good,” said Hím, “then I won’t catch you.” The tiger led him to the spot where all the tigers used to eat their dinners, and the barber took as much gold and as many jewels as he could carry, and set off home with them.
Then he built a house, and bought his children pretty clothes and good food, and necklaces, and they all lived very happily for some time. But at last he wanted more rupees, so he set off to the tigers’ jungle. There he met the tiger as he did before, and he told him the Mahárájá Káns had sent him to catch twenty tigers. The tiger was terrified and said, “If you will only not catch us, I will give you more gold and jewels.” To this the barber agreed, and the tiger led him to the old spot, and the barber took as many jewels and rupees as he could carry. Then he returned home.
One day a very poor man, a fakír, said to him, “How did you manage to become so rich? In old days you were so poor you could hardly support your family.”
“I will tell you,” said Hím. And he told him all about his visits to the tigers’ jungle. “But don’t you go there for gold to-night,” continued the barber. “Let me go and listen to the tigers talking. If you like, you can come with me. Only you must not be frightened if the tigers roar.”
“I’ll not be frightened,” said the fakír.
So that evening at eight o’clock they went to the tigers’ jungle. There the barber and the fakír climbed into a tall thick tree, and its leaves came all about them and sheltered them as if they were in a house. The tigers used to hold their councils under this tree. Very soon all the tigers in the jungle assembled together under it, and their Rájá—a great, huge beast, with only one eye—came too. “Brothers,” said the tiger who had given the barber the rupees and jewels, “a man has come here twice to catch twenty of us for the Mahárájá Káns; now we are only four hundred in number, and if twenty of us were taken away we should be only a small number, so I gave him each time as many rupees and jewels as he could carry and he went away again. What shall we do if he returns?” The tigers said they would meet again on the morrow, and then they would settle the matter. Then the tigers went off, and the barber and the fakír came down from the tree. They took a quantity of rupees and jewels and returned to their homes.
“To-morrow,” said they, “we will come again and hear what the tigers say.”
The next day the barber went alone to the tigers’ jungle, and there he met his tiger again. “This time,” said he, “I am come to cut off the ears of all the four hundred tigers who live in this jungle; for Mahárájá Káns wants them to make into medicine.”
The tiger was greatly frightened, much more so than at the other times. “Don’t cut off our ears; pray don’t,” said he, “for then we could not hear, and it would hurt so horribly. Go and cut off all the dogs’ ears instead, and I will give you rupees and jewels as much as two men can carry.” “Good,” said the barber, and he made two journeys with the rupees and jewels from the jungle to the borders of his village, and there he got a cooly to help him to carry them to his house.
At night he and the fakír went again to the great tree under which the tigers held their councils. Now the tiger who had given the barber so many rupees and jewels had made ready a great quantity of meat, fowls, chickens, geese, men the tigers had killed—everything he had been able to get hold of—and he made them into a heap under the tree, for he said that after the tigers had settled the matter they would dine. Soon the tigers arrived with their Rájá, and the barber’s tiger said, “Brothers, what are we to do? This man came again to-day to cut off all our ears to make medicine for Mahárájá Káns. I told him this would be a bad business for us, and that he must go and cut off all the dogs’ ears instead; and I gave him as much money and jewels as two men could carry. So he went home. Now what shall we do? We must leave this jungle, and where shall we go?” The other tigers said, “We will not leave the jungle. If this man comes again we will eat him up.” So they dined and went away, saying they would meet again to-morrow.
After the tigers had gone, the barber and fakír came down from the tree and went off to their homes, without taking any rupees or jewels with them. They agreed to return the next evening.
Next evening back they came and climbed into the great tree. The tigers came too, and the barber’s tiger told his story all over again. The tiger Rájá sat up and said, fiercely, “We will not leave this jungle. Should the man come again, I will eat him myself.” When the fakír heard this he was so frightened that he tumbled down out of the tree into the midst of the tigers. The barber instantly cried out with a loud voice, “Now cut off their ears! cut off their ears!” and the tigers, terrified, ran away as fast as they could. Then the barber took the fakír home, but the poor man was so much hurt by his fall that he died.
The barber lived happily ever after, but he took good care never to go to the tigers’ jungle again.
Told by Dunkní.
To notesTHERE was once a bulbul, and one day as he was flying about, he saw a tree on which was a little fruit. The bulbul was much pleased and said, “I will sit here till this fruit is ripe, and then I will eat it.” So he deserted his nest and his wife, and sat there for twelve years without eating anything, and every day he said, “To-morrow I will eat this fruit.” During these twelve years a great many birds tried to sit on the tree, and wished to build their nests in it, but whenever they came the bulbul sent them away, saying, “This fruit is not good. Don’t come here.” One day a cuckoo came and said, “Why do you send us away? Why should we not come and sit here too? All the trees here are not yours.” “Never mind,” said the bulbul, “I am going to sit here, and when this fruit is ripe, I shall eat it.” Now the cuckoo knew that this tree was the cotton-tree, but the bulbul did not. First comes the bud, which the bulbul thought a fruit, then the flower, and the flower becomes a big pod, and the pod bursts and all the cotton flies away. The bulbul was delighted when he saw the beautiful red flower, which he still thought a fruit, and said, “When it is ripe, it will be a delicious fruit.” The flower became a pod, and the pod burst. “What is all this that is flying about?” said the bulbul. “The fruit must be ripe now.” So he looked into the pod, and it was empty; all the cotton had fallen out. Then the cuckoo came and said to the angry bulbul, “You see if you had allowed us to come and sit on the tree, you would have had something good to eat; but as you were selfish, and would not let any one share with you, God is angry and has punished you by giving you a hollow fruit.” Then the cuckoo called all the other birds, and they came and mocked the bulbul. “Ah! you see God has punished you for your selfishness,” they said. The bulbul got very angry and all the birds went away. After they had gone, the bulbul said to the tree, “You are a bad tree. You are of use to no one. You give food to no one.” The tree said, “You are mistaken. God made me what I am. My flower is given to sheep to eat. My cotton makes pillows and mattresses for man.”
Since that day no bulbul goes near a cotton-tree.
Told by Dunkní.
To notesONCE upon a time there was a Rájá called Jabhú Rájá, and he had a great many wives; at least he had seven wives, but he had no children. Although he had married seven wives, not one of them had given him a child. At this he was greatly vexed and said, “I have married seven wives, and not one of them has given me a child.” And he got very angry with God: he said, “Why does not God give me any children? I will go into the jungle and die by myself.” The Ránís coaxed him to stay, but he wouldn’t; he would go out into the jungle.
So he went out into the jungle very far, and God sent him an old fakír leaning on a stick. The Rájá met him, and the fakír said, “Why do you come into the jungle? If you go far into the jungle you will meet plenty of tigers, and they will eat you. Tell me what you want. Whatever you want I will give you.” “No, I won’t tell you,” said the Rájá. But at last the Rájá told him, “I have seven wives, and none of them has given me any children, and so here I will die by myself.” Then the fakír said, “Take this stick, and a little way off you will find a mango-tree with some mangoes on it. Throw the stick at the mangoes with one hand, and catch them as they fall with the other, and when you have caught them all, take them home and give one to each of your seven wives.” So the Rájá went and knocked the mangoes off the tree and caught them as the fakír had told him. Then he looked about for the fakír, but he could not find him, for he had gone away into another part of the jungle. So he went home and gave the seven mangoes to his wives. But the fruit was so good that six of the wives ate it up, and would not give the youngest wife any. She cried very much, and went into the compound and picked up one of the mango stones which one of the six wives had thrown away, and ate it. By and by each of the six wives had a son; but the one who had eaten the stone had a monkey, who was called in consequence Bandarsábásá, or Prince Monkey. He was really a boy, but no one knew it, for he had a monkey-skin covering him. His six brothers hated him. They went to school every day; and the monkey went under the ground, and was taught by the fairies. His mother did not know this; she thought, as he was a monkey, he went to the jungle and swung in the trees. He was the best and the cleverest of all the boys.
Now, in a kingdom a three months’ journey off by land from Jabhú Rájá’s country, there lived a king called King Jamársá. He had a very beautiful daughter whose name was Princess Jahúran, and as her father wanted a very strong son-in-law, he had a large heavy iron ball made, and he sent letters to all the Rájás and Rájás’ sons far and near to say that whoever wished to marry his daughter, the Princess Jahúran, must be able to throw this heavy ball at her and hit her. So many Rájás went to try, but none of them could even lift the ball. Now, one of these letters had come to Jabhú Rájá, and his six elder sons determined they would go to King Jamársá’s country, for each of them was sure he could throw the ball, and win the princess.
Prince Monkey laughed softly and said to himself, “I will go and try too. I know I shall succeed.”
Off, therefore, the six brothers set on their long journey, and the monkey followed them; but before he did so, he went into the jungle and took off his monkey-skin, and God sent him a beautiful horse and beautiful clothes. Then he followed his brothers and overtook them, and gave them betel-leaf and lovely flowers. “What a beautiful boy!” they said. “Who is it owns such a beautiful boy? He must be some Rájá’s son.” Then he galloped quickly away, took off his grand clothes and put them on his horse, and the horse rose into the air. He put on his monkey-skin and followed his brothers.
When they reached King Jamársá’s palace they pitched their tents in his compound, which was very big. Every evening the princess used to stand in her verandah and let down her long golden hair so that it fell all round her, and then the Rájás who wished to marry her had to try to hit her with the great heavy ball that lay on the ground just in front of where she stood.
King Jamársá’s house had more than one storey, and you had to go upstairs to get to the Princess Jahúran’s rooms which led into the verandah in which she used to stand.
Well, Prince Monkey’s six elder brothers all got ready to go up to the palace and throw the ball. They were quite sure they would throw it without any trouble. Before they went they told their monkey brother to take care of their tents, and to have a good dinner ready for them when they returned. “If the dinner is not ready, we will beat you.”
As soon as they were gone, Prince Monkey took some gold mohurs he had, and he went to a traveller’s resting-house, which was a little way outside King Jamársá’s compound, and gave them to the man who owned it, and bade him give him a grand dinner for his six brothers. Then he took the dinner to the tents, went into the jungle, and took off his monkey-skin. And God sent him a grand horse from heaven, and splendid clothes. These he put on, mounted his horse, and rode to King Jamársá’s compound. There he took no notice of either the king, or his daughter, or of the ball, or of the Rájás who were there to try and lift it. He spoke only to his brothers, and gave them lovely flowers and betel-leaf. Meanwhile, everybody was looking at him and talking about him. “Who can he be? Did you ever see any one so lovely? Where does he come from? Just look at his clothes! In our countries we cannot get any like them!” As for the Princess Jahúran she thought to herself, “That Rájá shall be my husband, whether he lifts the ball or not.” When he had given his brothers the flowers and betel-leaf, Prince Monkey rode straight to the jungle, took off his clothes, laid them on his horse (which instantly went up to heaven), put on his monkey-skin, went back to the tents, and lay down to sleep.
When his brothers came home they were talking eagerly about the unknown beautiful Rájá. All the time they were eating their dinner they could speak of nothing else.
Well, every evening for about ten evenings it was just the same story. Only every evening Prince Monkey appeared in a different dress. The princess always thought, “That is the man I will marry, whether he can throw the ball or not.” Then about the eleventh evening, after he had given his brothers the flowers and betel-leaf, he said to all the Rájás who were standing there, and to King Jamársá and to all the servants, “Now every one of you go and stand far away, for I am going to throw the ball.” “No, no!” they all cried, “we will stand here and see you.” “You must go far away. You can look on at a distance,” said the Monkey Prince; “the ball might fall back among you and hurt you.” So they all went off and stood round him at a distance.
“Now,” said Prince Monkey to himself, “I won’t hit the princess this time; but I will hit the verandah railing.” Then he took up the ball with one hand, just as if it were quite light, and threw it on the verandah railing, and then he rode off fast to the jungle.
The next evening it was the same thing over again, only this time he threw the ball into the Princess Jahúran’s clothes.
The next evening the ball fell on one of her feet, and hurt her little toe-nail. Now, Princess Jahúran was very angry that this unknown beautiful prince should have thrown the ball three times, and hit her twice, and hurt her the third time, and yet had never spoken to her father, or let any one know who he was, and had always, on the contrary, ridden away as hard as he could, no one knew where. She was very much in love with him, and was very anxious to find this Rájá who had hit her twice, so she ordered a bow and arrow to be brought to her, and said she would shoot the Rájá the next time he hit her. She would not kill him; she would only shoot the arrow at him. Well, the next evening Prince Monkey threw the ball, and it fell on her other foot and hurt her great toe-nail. When he saw she was hurt, he was very sorry in his heart, and said, “Did I hurt you?” “Yes,” she said, “very much.” “Oh, I am so sorry,” said the prince. “I would not have thrown the ball so hard had I thought it would hurt you.” Then she shot the arrow, and hit him in the leg, and a great deal of blood came out of the wound; but he rode hard away to the jungle all the same, only this time he did not take off his fine clothes, but he drew the monkey-skin over them, and his horse went up to heaven, and he went back to the tents. Then the princess sent a servant into the town, and said, whoever or whatever he should hear crying with pain, he should bring to her—were it a man, or a jackal, or a dog, or a wild beast. So the servant went round the town. The six brothers had gone to sleep, but the poor monkey brother could not sleep, but sat up crying from pain. He could not help it, do what he would, and the servant, as he went round the town, heard him crying. So he took him and brought him to the princess, and the princess said she would marry him.
“What!” cried her father, “marry that monkey? Never! Who ever heard of any one marrying a monkey, a nasty monkey?” But in spite of all the king said, the princess declared marry that monkey she would. “I like that monkey very, very much,” she said. “I will marry him. It is my pleasure to marry him.” “Well,” said the Rájá at last, “if it is your pleasure to marry him, you must marry him; but who ever heard of any one marrying a nasty monkey?”
So they were married at once; and the Monkey Prince wore his monkey-skin for a wedding garment.
That night when they went to bed, the young prince drew off his skin and lay down by Jahúran, and when she saw her beautiful husband she was so glad, so glad. “Why do you wear a monkey-skin?” she asked. He answered, “I wear it as a protection, because my brothers are naughty, and would kill me if they knew what I really am.”
They lived very happily with King Jamársá for six months, and the six elder brothers went on living there too, and hating him more and more for having such a beautiful wife.
But one night Prince Monkey thought of his mother, and he said to his wife, “My mother perhaps is crying for me. Let us go to my father’s kingdom, and see her.” Princess Jahúran agreed; so next morning they spoke to King Jamársá, who said they might go.
The six brothers at once said, “We will go with you;” and they also said, “Let us get two big boats, one for you and the princess, and one for ourselves, and let us go by water, and not by land.” Now by water it took only six days to get to Jabhú Rájá’s kingdom, by land it took three months. The Monkey Prince agreed to all his brothers said.
Princess Jahúran heard them planning to throw the monkey into the water on the journey, and then to take her home to their father as the wife of one of them; so as she was very wise she went to her father and begged him to have six large beautiful mattresses, well stuffed with cotton, made for her.
“What can you want with six mattresses?” said the king. “I want my bed to be very comfortable on board the boat,” said his daughter. Her father loved her dearly, so he had her mattresses made, beautiful mattresses and well stuffed with cotton. The princess had them all carried to her boat.
When everything was ready they went on board the boats with the monkey’s six brothers. Now, the princess had warned her husband of his brothers’ wicked plans, and she said to him, “Never go near your brothers; never speak to your brothers; for they want to kill you.” The first day the six brothers said to the monkey, “Please bring us a little salt.” But the monkey said, “No; my wife will take you some.” “No,” said the brothers, “your wife cannot bring us any. She is a princess. Do you bring us some.” So they threw a rope from one boat to another, and the monkey went on the rope, and the brothers untied it, and the monkey fell into the water. Then the princess cried out, “My husband will be drowned! My husband will be drowned!” And she threw out one of the mattresses; the monkey sat on it; it floated back to his boat, and the crew drew him up.
The next day the six brothers begged Prince Monkey to bring them water, and they threw a plank from their boat to his for him to cross on. The prince set off with the water, in spite of all his wife’s entreaties, and his brothers tilted the plank into the water. The prince would have been drowned had not the Princess Jahúran thrown him a mattress. And the same thing happened during the next four days. The brothers wanted something to eat or drink, and their monkey-brother brought it them across a rope or plank, which they cut or dropped into the water, and he would have died but for the mattresses which his wife threw to him one by one.
When they reached Jabhú Rájá’s kingdom, the eldest son went on shore up to his father’s palace. Each of the Rájá’s seven wives had a house to herself in his compound. He went to his mother’s house and said, “Give me your palanquin, mother, for I have brought home a most lovely wife, and want to bring her to the palace.”
At this news his mother was delighted, and she told it to the other Ránís, and said, “My son has brought home such a lovely wife! I am so glad! oh, I am so glad!” The youngest Rání began to cry bitterly. “My son,” she said, “is nothing but a monkey; he will never be married; he will never have a wife at all.”
Then the palanquin was got ready, and the seven Ránís and the prince went with it to the boat. The Princess Jahúran came on land with her monkey, and when the Ránís saw her, they all cried, “How lovely she is! how beautiful!” And the eldest Rání was gladder than ever, and the youngest cried still more. The princess got into the palanquin with her monkey. “What are you doing with that horrid monkey?” said the eldest prince. “Put him out of the palanquin directly.” “Indeed I will not,” said the princess. “He is my husband, and I love him.” “What!” cried all the Ránís, “are you married to that monkey?” “Yes,” said the princess. “Then get out of my palanquin at once,” said the eldest Rání. “You shall not ride in my palanquin with that nasty monkey.” The youngest Rání was very glad her son had such a beautiful wife. So the princess got out, and took her monkey in her arms and walked with him to the youngest Rání’s house, and there they all lived for some time. Now the little Rání did not know her son was really a beautiful man, for the princess never told her, as her husband had forbidden her to tell any one.
One evening Jabhú Rájá’s servants had a grand nautch in the Rájá’s compound, and the Rájá and his sons and the neighbouring Rájás all came to see it. Prince Monkey said to his wife, “I, too, will go and see this nautch.” So he took off his monkey-skin, folded it up and laid it under her pillow. Then he put on the clothes God had sent him from heaven the last time he threw the ball, and which he had not laid on his horse’s back when he put his monkey-skin on again, and when he came among all the Rájás and people who were looking on at the nautch, they all exclaimed, “Who is that? Who can it be?” He was very handsome, and he had beautiful hair all gold. When he had stayed some time, Prince Monkey went quickly back to his wife, and in the morning he put on his monkey-skin again.
Now the little Rání, his mother, though she was very glad her monkey son had such a wife, could never understand how it was that her daughter-in-law was so happy with him. “How could you marry him?” she used to say to her. “Because it pleased me to marry him,” the princess used to answer. “How can you be so happy with him?” said the mother. “I love him,” said the princess; and the poor Rání used to wonder at this more and more.
Well, one day there was another nautch, and Prince Monkey went to it; but he left his skin under his wife’s pillow. As soon as he had gone, she called the little Rání, and said, “See, you think my husband is a monkey; he is no monkey, but a very handsome man. There is no one like him, he is so beautiful.” The Rání did not believe her. Then the princess took the skin from under her pillow. “See,” she said, “when your son puts this on, then he is a monkey; when he takes it off he is a beautiful man. And now, I think I will burn this skin, and then he must always be a man. What do you say?” “Are you sure it won’t hurt him if you burn his skin?” said his mother. “Perhaps he may die if it is burnt.” “Oh, no, he won’t die,” said the princess. “Shall I burn it?” “Burn it,” said the little Rání. Then the princess threw the skin on the fire and burnt it quite up.
Prince Monkey was sitting looking on at the nautch when suddenly his heart told him his wife had burnt his skin. He jumped up directly and went home, and when he found his heart had told him true, he was so angry with his wife, that he would say nothing to her but “Why did you burn my skin?” and he was in such a rage that he went straight to bed and went to sleep.
In the morning, while he slept, the princess went to the little Rání, and said, “Come and see your beautiful son.” “I am ashamed to do so,” said the Rání. “Ashamed to look at your own son? What nonsense! Come directly,” said Princess Jahúran. Then the little Rání went with her, and when she saw her beautiful son she was indeed glad, and the prince opened his eyes and saw her, and then he kissed her, and they were very happy.
The news spread through the compound, and Jabhú Rájá and his sons and everybody came at once to see if it were true. When they saw the beautiful young prince, with his hair all gold, they could not stand, but fell down. Prince Monkey lifted his father and loved him, and put his arms round him, and said, “I am your son, your own son; you must not fall down before me.” “Why did you wear that monkey-skin?” asked his father. “Because,” he said, “my mother ate the mango stone instead of eating the mango, and so I was born with this skin, and God ordered me to wear it till I had found a wife.” His brothers said, “Who could have guessed there was such a beautiful man inside that monkey-skin? God’s decrees are good!” And they left off hating their brother, Prince Monkey.
There were great rejoicings and feasts now, and all were very happy. The six elder brothers lived always with their father and Prince Monkey, but none of them ever married.
Told by Dunkní.