To notesONCE there was a Rájá called Mánikbásá Rájá, or the Ruby King, who had seven wives and seven children. One day he told his wives he would go out hunting, and he rode on and on, a long, long way from his palace. A Rakshas was sitting by the wayside, who, seeing the Rájá coming, quickly turned herself into a beautiful Rání, and sat there crying. The Rájá asked her, “Why do you cry?” And the Rakshas answered, “My husband has gone away. He has been away many days, and I think he will never come back again. If some Rájá will take me to his house and marry me, I shall be very glad.” So the Rájá said, “Will you come with me?” And the Rakshas answered, “Very well, I will come.” And then the Rájá took the pretended Rání home with him and married her. He gave her a room to live in. Every night at twelve o’clock the Rakshas got up and devoured an elephant, or a horse, or some other animal. The Rájá said, “What can become of my elephants and horses? Every day either an elephant or a horse disappears. Who can take them away?” The Rakshas-Rání said to him, “Your seven Ránís are Rakshases, and every night at twelve o’clock they devour a horse, or an elephant, or some other creature.”
So the Rájá believed her, and had a great hole dug just outside his kingdom, into which he put the seven Ránís with their children, and then he sent a sepoy to them and bade him take out all the Ránís’ eyes, and bring them to him. This the sepoy did. After a time the poor Ránís grew so hungry that six of them ate their children, but the seventh Rání, who was the youngest of them all, declared she would never eat her child though she might die of hunger, “for,” she said, “I love him a great deal too much.” God was very pleased with the seventh Rání for this, and so every day he sent her a little food, which she divided with the other Ránís. And every day her little boy grew bigger, and bigger, and bigger, until he had become a strong lad, when, as he thought it was very dark in the hole, he climbed out of it and looked all about. Then he came back to his mothers (for he called all the seven Ránís “Mother” now), who told him he was not to clamber up out of the hole any more, for if he did, some one might kill him. “Still, if you will go,” they added, “do not go to your father’s kingdom, but stay near this place.” The boy said, “Very well,” and every day he climbed out of the hole and only went where his seven mothers told him he might go, and he used to beg the people about to give him a little rice, and flour and bread, which they did.
One day he said to his mothers, “If you let me go now to my father’s kingdom, I will go.” “Well, you may go,” they said; “but come back again soon.” This he promised to do, and he went to his father’s kingdom. For some time he stood daily at the door of his father’s palace and then returned to the hole. One day the Rakshas-Rání was standing in the verandah, and she thought, “I am sure that is the Rájá’s son.” The servants every day asked the boy, “Why do you always stand at the door of the palace?” “I want service with the Rájá,” he would reply. “If the Rájá has any place he can give me, I will take it.”
The Rakshas-Rání said to the Rájá, “The boy standing out there wants service. May I take him into mine?” The Rájá answered, “Very well, send for him.” So all the servants ran and fetched the boy. The Rakshas-Rání asked him, “Are you willing to do anything I tell you?” The boy said, “Yes.” “Then you shall be my servant,” she said, and first she told him he must go to the Rakshas country to fetch some rose-water for her. “I will give you a letter,” she said, “so that no harm may happen to you.” The lad answered, “Very well, only you must give me three shields full of money.” She gave him the three shields full of money, and he took them and went home to his mothers. Then he got two servants for them, one to take care of them, and one to go to the bazar. His mothers gave him food for the journey, and he left them the remainder of his money, telling them to take great care of it. He then returned to the Rakshas-Rání for his letter. She told the Rájá she was feeling ill, and would not be quite well until she got some rose-water from the Rakshas country. The Rájá said, “Then you had better send this boy for it.” So she gave him a letter, in which she had written, “When this boy arrives among you, kill him and eat him instantly,” and he set out at once.
He went on and on till he came to a great river in which lived a huge water-snake. When the water-snake saw him it began to weep very much, and cried out to the boy, “If you go to the Rakshas country you will be eaten up.” The lad, whose name was Hírálálbásá, said, “I cannot help it; I am the Rání’s servant, so I must do what she tells me.” “Well,” said the water-snake, “get on my back, and I will take you across this river.” So he got on the water-snake’s back, and it took him over the river. Then Hírálálbásá went on and on until he came to a house in which a Rakshas lived. A Rání lived there too that the Rakshas had carried off from her father and mother when she was a little girl. She was playing in her father the Sondarbásá Rájá’s garden, which was full of delicious fruits, which the Rakshas came to eat, and when he saw Sonahrí Rání he seized her in his mouth and ran off with her. Only she was so beautiful he could never find it in his heart to eat her, but brought her up as his own child. Her name was Sonahrí Rání, that is, the Golden Rání, because her teeth and her hair were made of gold. Now the Rakshas who had carried her off, and whom she called Papa, had a great thick stick, and when he laid this stick at her feet she could not stir, but when he laid it at her head, she could move again.
When the Rájá’s son came up, Sonahrí Rání was lying on her bed with the thick stick at her feet, and as soon as she saw the Rájá’s son she began to cry very much. “Oh, why have you come here? You will surely be killed,” she said. The Rájá’s son answered, “I cannot help that. I am the Rání’s servant, so I must do what she tells me.” “Of course,” said Sonahrí Rání; “but put this stick at my head, and then I shall be able to move.” The Rájá’s son laid the stick at her head, and she got up and gave him some food, and then asked him if he had a letter. “Yes,” he answered. “Let me see it,” said the Sonahrí Rání. So he gave her the letter, and when she had read it she cried, “Oh, this is a very wicked letter. It will bring you no good; for if the Rakshases see it, they will kill you.” “Indeed,” said Hírálálbásá. And the Sonahrí Rání tore up the letter and wrote another in which she said, “Make much of this boy. Send him home quickly, and give him a jug of rose-water to bring back with him, and see that he gets no hurt.” Then the Rájá’s son set out again for the Rakshas-Rání’s mother’s house. He had not gone very far when he met a very big Rakshas, and he cried out to him, “Uncle.” “Who is this boy,” said the Rakshas, “who calls me uncle?” And he was just going to kill him when Hírálálbásá showed his letter, and the Rakshas let him pass on. He went a little further until he met another Rakshas, bigger than the first, and the Rakshas screamed at him and was just going to fall on him and kill him, but the Rájá’s son showed the letter, and the Rakshas let him pass unhurt. When Hírálálbásá came to the Rakshas-Rání’s mother he showed her the letter, and she gave him the rose-water at once and sent him off. All the Rakshases were very good to him, and some carried him part of the way home. When he came to Sonahrí Rání’s house she was lying on her bed with the stick at her feet, and as soon as she saw Hírálálbásá she laughed and said, “Oh, you have come back again? Put this stick at my head.” “Yes,” said the Rájá’s son, “I’ve come back again, but I was dreadfully frightened very often.” Then he put the stick at her head, and she gave him some food to eat. After he had eaten it he went on again, and when he came to the river the water-snake carried him across to the other side, and he travelled to his father’s kingdom. There he went to the Rakshas-Rání and gave her the rose-water. She was very angry at seeing him, and said, “I’m sure my father and my mother, my brothers and my sisters, don’t love me one bit.”
And she said to Hírálálbásá, “You must go to-morrow to the Rakshas kingdom to fetch me flowers.” “I will go,” said Hírálál, “but this time I must have four shields full of rupees.” The Rakshas-Rání gave him the four shields full of rupees; and the Rájá’s son went to his mother’s hole and bought a quantity of food for them, enough to last them all the time he should be away, and he hired two servants for them, and said good-bye to his seven mothers and returned to Mánikbásá’s palace for his letter. This the Rakshas-Rání gave him, and in it she wrote, “Kill him and eat him at once. If you do not, and you send him back to me, I will never see your faces again.” Hírálál took his letters and went on his way. When he reached the river the water-snake took him across to the other side, and he walked on till he came to Sonahrí Rání’s house. She was lying on the bed with the stick at her feet. “Oh, why have you come here again?” she said. “How can I help coming?” said the Rájá’s son. “I must do what my mistress bids me.” “So you must,” said the Sonahrí Rání; “but put this stick at my head.” This he did, and she got up and gave him food, and asked him to let her see his letter, and when she had read it she cried, “This is a very wicked letter. If you take it with you, you will surely die.” Then she tore up the letter and burnt it, and wrote another in which she said, “You must all be very good to this boy. Show him all the gardens and see that he is not hurt in any way.” She gave it to Hírálál, and he begged her to ask the Rakshas, her father, where he kept his soul. Sonahrí Rání promised she would. She then turned Hírálál into a little fly, and put him into a tiny box, and put the box under her pillow. When the Rakshas came home he began sniffing about and said, “Surely there is a man here.” “Oh, no,” said Sonahrí Rání; “no one is here but me.” The Rakshas was satisfied. When Sonahrí Rání and her father were in bed she asked, “Papa, where is your soul?” “Why do you want to know?” said the Rakshas. “I will tell you another day.”
The next day at nine in the morning the Rakshas went away, and Sonahrí Rání took Hírálál and restored him to his human shape, and gave him some food, and he travelled on till he reached the Rakshas-Rání’s mother, whom he called Grannie. She welcomed him very kindly and showed him the garden, which was very large. The Rájá’s son noticed a number of jugs and water-jars. So he said, “Grannie, what is there in all these jars and jugs?” She answered, showing them to him one by one, “In this is such and such a thing,” and so on, telling him the contents of each, till she came to the water-jar in which were his mothers’ eyes. “In this jar,” said the Rakshas, “are your seven mothers’ eyes.” “Oh, grannie dear!” said Hírálál, “give me my mothers’ eyes.” “Very well, dear boy,” said the old Rakshas, “you shall have them.” She gave him, too, some ointment, and told him to rub the eyes with it when he put them into his mothers’ heads, and that then they would see quite well; and he took the eyes and tied them up in a corner of his cloth. His grannie gave him the flowers, and he went back to Sonahrí Rání. She was lying on her bed with the stick at her feet, and when she saw him she laughed and said, “Oh, so you have come back again?” “Yes, I have,” said Hírálál; “and I have got the flowers, and my seven mothers’ eyes too.” “Have you indeed?” said Sonahrí Rání. “Put this stick at my head.” He did so, and she got up and gave him some food, and he told her to ask her father the Rakshas where his soul was. She promised she would, and she changed him into a little fly, and shut him up in a tiny box, and put the tiny box under her pillow. By and by home came the Rakshas, and began to sniff about crying, “A man is here!” “Oh, no,” said Sonahrí Rání; and she gave him some dinner, and when they were in bed she asked him, “Papa, where is your soul?” “I’ll tell you another day,” said the Rakshas. The next day, when he had gone out to find food, Sonahrí Rání took the little fly, Hírálál, and restored him to his human shape, and gave him some food and sent him on his way. When he reached the river, the water-snake took him over to the other side, and he journeyed on till he came to his father’s kingdom. First he went to his mothers’ hole and gave them their fourteen eyes, and he put them into their heads with the ointment which the Rakshas-grannie had given him. Then he went to Mánikbásá Rájá’s palace, and when the Rakshas-Rání saw him she was furious. “I am sure my father and my mother, my sisters and my brothers, do not love me one bit. I will never see their faces again. But I’ll send him to them once more.”
This is what she thought, but she took the flowers and said, “You must go a third time to the Rakshas country.”
“I will,” said the boy: “only I’ll not go till the fourth day from to-day, for I am very tired. And you must give me four shields full of rupees.” “Good,” said the Rakshas-Rání. “This time you must get me a sárí.”[2] And she gave him the four shields full of money. Then he went to his mothers, and bought them a house and got food for them, and stayed with them four days.
At the end of the four days he went to the Rakshas-Rání, who gave him a letter in which she had written, “If you do not kill and eat this boy as soon as he arrives, I will never see your faces again.” The Rájá’s son took the letter and set out on his journey.
When he came to the river, the water-snake took him across; and when he arrived at Sonahrí Rání’s house, there she was lying on her bed with the thick stick at her feet. She said, “Oh, you have come here again, have you?” “Yes,” he said, “I have come for the last time.” “Put the stick at my head,” said she. So he laid the stick at her head. Then she gave him some food, and just before the Rakshas came home, he bade her ask him where he kept his soul. When she saw him coming, Sonahrí Rání turned Hírálálbásá into a little fly, put him in a tiny box, and put the box under her pillow. As soon as she and the Rakshas had gone to bed, she asked him, “Papa, where do you keep your soul?” “Sixteen miles away from this place,” said he, “is a tree. Round the tree are tigers, and bears, and scorpions, and snakes; on the top of the tree is a very great fat snake; on his head is a little cage; in the cage is a bird; and my soul is in that bird.” The little fly listened all the time. The next morning, when the Rakshas had gone, Sonahrí Rání took the fly and gave him back his human form, gave him some food, and then asked to see his letter. When she had read it she screamed and said, “Oh! if you go with this letter you will surely die.” So she tore it up into little bits and threw it into the fire. And she wrote another in which she said, “Make a great deal of this boy; see that he gets no hurt; give him the sárí for me; show him the garden; and be very kind to him.” She then gave Hírálál the letter, and he journeyed on in safety till he reached his Rakshas-grannie’s house.
The Rakshas-grannie was very good to him; showed him the garden, and gave him the sárí; and he then said his mother, the Rakshas-Rání, was in great trouble about her soul, and wanted very much to have it. So the Rakshas-grannie gave him a bird in which was the Rakshas-Rání’s soul, charging him to take the greatest care of it. Then he said, “My mother, the Rakshas-Rání, also wants a stone such that, if you lay it on the ground, or if you put it in your clothes, it will become gold, and also your long heavy gold necklace that hangs down to the waist.” Both these things the Rakshas-grannie gave to Hírálál. Then he returned to Sonahrí Rání’s house, where he found her lying on her bed with the thick stick at her feet. “Oh, there you are,” said Sonahrí Rání, laughing. “Yes,” he said, “I have come.” And he put the stick at her head, and she got up and gave him some food.
He told her he was going to fetch her Rakshas-father’s soul, but that he did not quite know how to pass through the tigers and bears, and scorpions and snakes, that guarded it. So she gave him a feather, and said, “As long as you hold this feather straight, you can come to no harm, for you will be invisible. You will see everything, but nothing will see you.”
He carried the feather straight as she had bidden him and reached the tree in safety. Then he climbed up it, took the little cage, and came down again. Though the Rakshas was far off, he knew at once something had happened to his bird. Hírálál pulled off the bird’s right leg, and the Rakshas’ right leg fell off, but on he hopped on one leg. Then the Rájá’s son pulled off the bird’s left leg, and off fell the Rakshas’ left leg, but still he went on towards his house on his hands. Then Hírálál pulled off the bird’s wings, and the Rakshas’ two arms fell off. And then, just as the Rakshas reached the door of his house, Hírálál wrung the bird’s neck, and the Rakshas fell dead. Sonahrí Rání was greatly frightened when she heard such a heavy thing fall thump on the ground so close to the house, but she could not move, for the thick stick lay at her feet. Hírálál ran as fast as he could to Sonahrí Rání. When he arrived at the door of her house he saw the Rakshas lying dead, and he went in and told Sonahrí Rání that her Rakshas-father was killed. “Nonsense,” she said. “It is true,” said Hírálál; “come and see.” So he put the stick at her head. “I am sure you are telling a lie,” said Sonahrí Rání. “I should be very glad if he were dead, for I do not like living with him, I am so afraid of him.” “Indeed he’s dead. Do come and see,” said Hírálál. Then they went outside, and when Sonahrí Rání saw her Rakshas-father lying there dead, she was exceedingly happy, and said to Hírálál, “I will go home with you, and be your wife.” So they were married, and then they went into Sonahrí Rání’s Rakshas-father’s house and took all the money and jewels they could find. And Hírálál gave the sárí, the stone, and the necklace to Sonahrí Rání, and he took some flowers for the Rakshas-Rání.
When they came to the river, the water-snake carried them across to the other side, and they travelled on till they came to Mánikbásá Rájá’s kingdom. There Hírálál went first of all to his mothers, and when they saw Sonahrí Rání they wondered who the beautiful woman could be that their son had brought home. He said to them, “This is Sonahrí Rání, my wife. But for her I should have died.” Then he bought a grand house for Sonahrí Rání and his seven mothers to live in, and he got four servants for Sonahrí Rání, two to cook, and two to wait on her. The seven mothers and Sonahrí used all to sit on a beautiful, clean quilted cushion, as big as a carpet, Sonahrí Rání in the middle and the seven mothers round her, while they sewed, or wrote, and talked. Hírálál then went to the Rakshas-Rání and said, “I could not get the sárí you sent me for, so I brought you these flowers instead.” When she saw the flowers she was frantic. She said, “My father, my mother, my sisters, my brothers, don’t care for me, not one bit! not one scrap! I will never see their faces again—never! never! I will send some other messenger to them.”
One day the Rájá’s son came to Mánikbásá and said, “Would you like to see a grand sight?” Mánikbásá Rájá said, “What sight?” Hírálál said, “If you would like to see a really grand sight you must do what I tell you.” “Good,” answered Mánikbásá, “I will do whatever you tell me.” “Well, then,” said his son, “you must build a very strong iron house, and round it you must lay heaps of wood. In that house you must put your present Rání.” So Mánikbásá Rájá had a very strong iron house built, round which he set walls of wood. Then he went to his Rakshas-Rání and said, “Will you go inside that iron house, and see what it is like?” “Yes, I will,” answered she. The Rájá had had great venetians made for the house, and only one door. As soon as the Rakshas-Rání had gone in, he locked the door. Then Hírálál took the little bird, a cockatoo, in which was the Rakshas-Rání’s soul, and showed it to the Rakshas-Rání from afar off. When she saw it she turned herself into a huge Rakshas as big as a house. She could not turn in the iron house because she was so huge. Mánikbásá was dreadfully frightened when he saw his Rání was a horrible Rakshas. Then Hírálál pulled off the bird’s legs, and as the Rakshas was breaking through the iron house to seize Hírálál, he wrung the cockatoo’s neck, and the Rakshas died instantly. They set fire to the walls of wood, and the body of the wicked Rakshas was burnt to fine ashes.
The Rájá’s Wazír turned to the Rájá and said, “What a fool you were to marry this Rakshas, and at her bidding to send your seven wives and your seven sons away into the jungle, taking out your seven wives’ eyes, and being altogether so cruel to them! You are a great, great fool!” The poor Rájá wept, and then the Wazír, pointing to Hírálál, said, “This is your seventh and youngest Rání’s son.” The Rájá then embraced Hírálálbásá and asked his forgiveness. And Hírálál told him his story, how he and his mothers had lived a long, long time in the hole; how six of the Ránís had eaten their children; how his mother had not had the heart to eat him; how he had got his seven mothers’ eyes from the Rakshas-grannie; and lastly, how he had married Sonahrí Rání. Then the Rájá ordered seven litters for his seven Ránís, and a beautiful litter with rich cloth for Sonahrí Rání. The Rájá and his Wazír and his attendants, and his son, all went with the litters to Hírálál’s house; and when the Rájá saw Sonahrí Rání he fell flat on his face, he was so struck by her beauty. For she had a fair, fair skin, rosy cheeks, blue eyes, rosy lips, golden eyelashes, and golden eyebrows, and golden hair. When she combed her hair, she used to put the hair she combed out in paper and to lay the paper on the river, and it floated down to where the poor people caught it, and sold it, and got heaps of money for it. Her sárí was of gold, her shoes were of gold, for God loved her dearly. Then the Rájá rose and embraced all his wives and Sonahrí Rání, and the seven Ránís walked into the seven litters; but Sonahrí Rání was carried to hers, for fear she should soil her feet, or get hurt. Then Mánikbásá Rájá gave Hírálál’s house to his Wazír, while his seven Ránís and Hírálál and Sonahrí Rání lived with him in his palace. And they lived happily for ever after.
Told by Dunkní at Simla, 26th July and 1st August, 1876.
[2] A long piece of stuff which Hindú women wind round the body as a petticoat, passing one end over the head, like a veil.
To notesONCE there was a very poor man who had a wife and twelve children, and not a single rupee. The poor children used to cry with hunger, and the man and his wife did not know what to do. At last he got furious with God and said, “How wicked God is! He gives me a great many children, but no money.” So he set out to find his fate. In the jungle he met a camel with two heavy sacks of gold on its back. This camel belonged to a Rájá, and once it was travelling with other camels and with the Rájá’s servants to another country, and carrying the sacks of gold. Every night they encamped and started again early in the morning; but one morning the servants forgot to take this camel with them, and the camel forgot the road home, and the sacks were too tightly strapped for it to get rid of them. So it wandered about the jungle with the sacks on its back for twelve years. The camel asked the poor man where he was going. “I am going to seek my fate, to ask it why I am so poor,” he answered. The camel said, “Ask it, too, why for twelve years I have had to carry these two sacks of gold. All this time I have not been able to lie down, or to eat, or to drink.” “Very well,” said the man, and he went on.
Then he came to a river in which he saw an alligator. The alligator took him across, and when he got to the other side it asked him where he was going. The man said, “I am going to seek my fate, to ask it why I am so poor.” “Then,” said the alligator, “ask it also why for twelve years I have a great burning in my stomach.” “I will,” said the man.
Then he went on and on till he came to a tiger, who was lying on the ground with a great thorn sticking in his foot. This tiger had gone out one day to hunt for food, and not looking where he was going, he put his foot on the thorn, and the thorn ran into his foot. And so God grew very angry and said, “Because you are such a careless, stupid fellow, and don’t look where you are going, for twelve years this thorn shall remain in your foot.” “Where are you going?” the tiger asked the man. “I am going to seek my fate, to ask it why I am so poor. Some one told me that my fate was far, far away, a twelve years’ journey from my own country, and that it was lying down, and that I must take a thick stick and beat it with all my might.” “Ask it, too,” said the tiger, “why for twelve years I have had this thorn in my foot and cannot get it out, though I have tried hard to do so.” “Yes, I will,” said the man.
Then he came to the place where every one’s fate lives. The fates are stones, some standing and others lying on the ground. “This must be mine,” he said; “it is lying on the ground, that’s why I am so poor.” So he took the thick stick he had in his hand, and beat it, and beat it, and beat it, but still it would not stir. As night was approaching he left off beating it, and God sent a soul into the poor man’s fate, and it became a man, who stood looking at the poor man and said, “Why have you beaten me so much?” “Because you were lying down, and I am very poor, and at home my wife and my children are starving.” “Oh, things will go well with you now,” said the fate, and the man was satisfied. He said to his fate, “While coming here I met a camel who for twelve years has had to wander about with two heavy sacks of gold on its back, and it wants to know why it must carry them.” “Oh,” said the fate, “just take the sacks off its back and then it will be free.” “I will,” said the poor man. “Then I met an alligator who for twelve years has had a great burning in its stomach.” The fate said, “In its stomach is a very large ruby, as big as your hand. If the alligator will only throw up the ruby, it will be quite well.” “Next I met a tiger who has had for twelve years a great thorn in his foot which he cannot take out.” “Pull it out with your teeth,” said the fate; and then God withdrew the soul, and the fate became a stone again which stood up on the ground.
Then the man set out on his journey home, and he came to the tiger. “What did your fate say?” said the tiger. “Give me your foot and I will take out the thorn,” said the poor man. The tiger stretched out the foot with the thorn in it, and the man pulled out the thorn with his teeth. It was a very large thorn, as big as the man’s hand. The tiger felt grateful to the poor man, and as he was very rich, for he had eaten a great many Rájás and people, and had all their money, he said to the man, “I will give you some gold in return for your kindness.” “You have no money,” said the man. “I have,” said the tiger, and he went into his den, and the poor man followed. “Give me your cloth,” said the tiger. The man laid it on the ground. Then the tiger took quantities of gold and jewels and filled the cloth with them. And the poor man took up his cloth, thanked the tiger, and went his way. Then he met the alligator who took him across the river. The alligator said, “Did you ask your fate why there is such burning in my stomach?” “I did,” said the man. “It is because you have a very large ruby in your stomach. If you will only throw it up, you will be quite well.” Then the alligator threw the ruby up out of its mouth, and that very instant the burning in its stomach ceased. “Ah,” said the alligator, looking at the ruby, “I swallowed that one day when I was drinking.” And he gave the ruby to the man, saying, “In return for your kindness I will give you this ruby. It is a very precious stone.” (In old days every Rájá possessed such a ruby; now very few Rájás, if any, have one.) The poor man thanked the alligator, put the ruby into his cloth, and went on his way till he came to the camel, who said, “Did you ask your fate why I have to carry these two sacks of gold?” “I did,” said the man, and he took the sacks off the camel’s back. How happy and grateful the camel felt! “How kind of you,” he said to the man, “to take the sacks off. Now I can eat, now I can drink, and now I can lie down. Because you have been so kind to me, I give you the two sacks of gold, and I will carry them and your bundle home to your house for you, and then I will come back and live here in the jungle.” Then the poor man put the two sacks of gold and his bundle on the camel, who carried them to his house. When he got there, he took the sacks and his bundle off the camel, who thanked him again for his kindness and went back to his jungle, feeling very glad at having got rid of his heavy burthen.
When the poor man’s wife and children saw the gold and jewels and the ruby, they cried, “Where did you get these?” And the man told them his whole story. And he bought food for his wife and children, and gave them a beautiful house, and got them clothes, for now he was very rich.
Another poor man who was not quite, but nearly, as poor as this man had been, asked him where he had got his riches. “I got them out of a river,” answered the man. “I drew the water with a bucket, and in every bucketful there was gold.” The other man started off to the river and began drawing up water in a bucket. “Stop, stop!” cried an alligator, who was the king of the fishes; “you are taking all the water out of the river and my fishes will die.” “I want money,” said the man, “and I can find none, so I am taking the water out of the river in order to get some.” “You shall have some in a minute,” said the alligator, “only do stop drawing the water.” Then a great wave of water dashed on to the land and dashed back into the river, leaving behind it a great heap of gold, which the man picked up joyfully. The next day he came again, and night and day he drew water out of the river. At last the alligator got very angry, and said, “My fishes will all die for want of water. Once I gave the man a heap of gold, and yet he wants more. I won’t give him any,” and the alligator thrust up his head out of the river, and swallowed the man whole. For four days and four nights the man lived in the alligator’s stomach. At the end of the fourth night the king of the fishes said to him, “I will let you get out of my stomach on condition that you tell no man what has happened to you. If you do, you will die instantly.” The man jumped out of the alligator’s mouth and walked towards his house. On his way he met some men and told them what had happened to him, and as soon as he got home he told his wife and children, and the moment he had done so he became mad and dumb and blood came out of his mouth, and he fell down dead.
Told by Dunkní.
To notesTHERE was a great Mahárájá whose name was Harchand Rájá, and he had an only son called Mánikchand. He was very rich and had a great deal of money, and he also had a very large garden full of lovely flowers and fruits which he prized greatly. Every morning before he bathed he used to give some poor fakír two pounds and a half of gold. Now Harchand Mahárájá used to pray a great deal to God, and God was very fond of him, so he said one day, “To see if Harchand Mahárájá really loves me, I will make him very poor for twelve years.” And at night God came down in the shape of a great boar, and ate up everything that was in Harchand Mahárájá’s garden. The boar then ran away into the jungle. Next morning the gardener got up and looked out into the garden, and what was his astonishment when he saw it was all spoilt. Nothing was left in it; it was not a garden any more. He went quickly to the Mahárájá and said, “Oh, master! oh, Mahárájá! your garden is quite spoilt. Last night a boar came and ate up everything in it.” “Nonsense,” said the Mahárájá, who would not believe him. “It is quite true,” said the gardener; “you can come and see for yourself.” So the Rájá got up at once and put on his clothes, and went into the garden, and found it all empty. He went back to the house very melancholy. Then as usual he gave a fakír his two pounds and a half of gold. After breakfast he went out hunting. The boar which had run away into the wood changed himself into a very old fakír, who shook from old age. As Harchand Mahárájá passed, the old fakír held out his hand, saying, “Please give me a few pice, I am so poor and hungry.” The Mahárájá said, “Come to my palace and I will give you two pounds and a half of gold.” “Oh, no,” said the fakír, “surely you would never give me so much as that.” “Yes, I will,” said the Mahárájá. “Every morning before I bathe I give a fakír two pounds and a half of gold.” “Nonsense,” said the fakír, “you don’t give away your money in that way.” “Really, I do,” said the Mahárájá, “and I promise to give you two pounds and a half of gold.” So the fakír followed Harchand Mahárájá home, and when they reached the palace, the Mahárájá told his treasurer to give the old fakír two pounds and a half of gold. The treasurer went into the treasury, but all the Mahárájá’s gold and silver and jewels had become charcoal! The treasurer came out again to the Mahárájá saying, “Oh, Mahárájá, all your gold and silver and jewels are turned into charcoal!” “Oh, nonsense,” said the Mahárájá. “Come and see, Mahárájá,” said the treasurer, who was in a great fright. The Mahárájá went into his treasury, and was quite sad at the sight of the charcoal. “Alas!” he said, “God has made me very poor, but still I must give this fakír his money.” So he went to the fakír and said, “All my gold and silver and jewels are turned into charcoal; but I will sell my wife, and my boy, and myself, and then I will give you the money I promised you.” And he went and fetched his wife and son, and left his palace, his houses, servants, and possessions.
He then went to a merchant, who bought from him his Mahárání, who was called Hírálí, that is, the diamond lady, for she was very beautiful, and her face shone like a diamond. Her hands were very small, and so were her feet. The merchant gave the Mahárájá a pound of gold for the Mahárání. Next, Harchand Mahárájá went to a cowherd and sold him his son Mánikchand. The cowherd gave him for the boy half a pound of gold. Then he went to a dom, that is, a man of a very low caste, who kept a tank into which it was his business to throw the bodies of those who died. If it was a dead man or woman, the dom took one rupee, if it was a dead child he was only paid eight annas. To this dom Harchand sold himself for a pound of gold, and he gave the two pounds and a half of gold to the fakír, who then went home. The dom said, “Will you stay by the tank for a few days while I go home and do my other work, which is weaving baskets? If any one brings you a dead body you must throw it into the water. If it is the body of a man or woman, take one rupee in payment; if it is a dead child, take eight annas; and if the bearers have got no money, take a bit of cloth. Don’t forget.” And the dom went away, leaving Harchand sitting by the tank.
Well, Harchand Mahárájá sat for some days by the tank, and when any one brought him dead bodies he threw them into it. For a dead man or woman he took one rupee, for a dead child eight annas, and if the bearers had no money to give him, he took some cloth. Some time had passed, and Mánikchand, the Mahárájá’s son, died; so Hírálí Rání went to the cowherd to ask him for her dead child. The cowherd gave him to her, and she took him to the tank. Harchand Mahárájá was sitting by the tank, and when Hírálí Mahárání saw him she said, “I know that man is my husband, so he will not take any money for throwing his child into the water.” So she went up to him and said, “Will you throw this child into the tank for me?” “Yes, I will,” said Harchand Mahárájá; “only first give me eight annas.” “You surely won’t take any money for throwing your own son into the tank?” said the Mahárání. “You must pay me,” said Harchand Mahárájá, “for I must obey the dom’s orders. If you have no money, give me a piece of cloth.” So the Mahárání tore off a great piece of her sárí and gave it him, and the Mahárájá took his son and threw him into the tank. As he threw him in he cried out to the king of the fishes, who was an alligator, “Take great care of this body.” The king of fishes said, “I will.” Then the Mahárání went back to the merchant.
And the Mahárájá caught a fish, and cooked it, and laid it by the tank, saying, “I will go and bathe and then I will eat it.” So he took off his clothes and went into the tank to bathe, and when he had bathed he put on fresh clothes, and as he took hold of his fish to eat it, it slipped back alive into the water, although it had been dead and cooked. The Mahárájá sat down by the tank again, very sad. He said, “For twelve years I have found it hard to get anything to eat; how long will God keep me without food?” God was very pleased with Harchand for being so patient, for he had never complained.
Some days later God came down to earth in the shape of a man, and with him he took an angel to be his Wazír. The Wazír said to God, “Come this way and let us see who it is sitting by the tank.” “No,” said God, “I am too tired, I can go no further.” “Do come,” said the Wazír; “I want so much to go.” God said, “Well, let us go.” Then they walked on till they came to the place where Harchand Mahárájá was sitting, and God said to him, “Would you like to have your wife, and your son, and your kingdom back again?” “Yes, I should,” said the Mahárájá; “but how can I get them?” “Tell me truly,” said God, “would you like to have your kingdom back again?” “Indeed I should,” said the Mahárájá. Then Mánikchand’s body, which had never sunk to the bottom of the tank like the other bodies, but had always floated on the water, rose up out of the water, and Mánikchand was alive once more. The father and son embraced each other. “Now,” said God, “let us go to the dom.” Harchand Mahárájá agreed, and they went to the dom and asked him how much he would take for Harchand Mahárájá. The dom said, “I gave one pound of gold for him, and I will take two pounds.” So they paid down the two pounds of gold. Then they went to the merchant and said to him, “How much will you take for Hírálí Rání?” The merchant said, “I gave a pound of gold for her; I will take four pounds.” So they paid down the four pounds of gold, took Hírálí Rání, and went to the cowherd. “How much will you take for Mánikchand?” said they to him. “I gave half a pound of gold for him,” answered the cowherd; “I will take one pound.” So they paid down the pound of gold, and Harchand Mahárájá went home to his palace, taking with him Hírálí Rání and Mánikchand, after thanking the strange man for his goodness to them. When they reached the palace, the garden was in splendid beauty; the charcoal was turned back into gold, and silver, and jewels; the servants were in waiting as usual, and they went into the palace and lived happily for evermore.
Told by Dunkní.
To notesONCE there was a king called King Dantál, who had a great many rupees and soldiers and horses. He had also an only son called Prince Majnún, who was a handsome boy with white teeth, red lips, blue eyes, red cheeks, red hair, and a white skin. This boy was very fond of playing with the Wazír’s son, Husain Mahámat, in King Dantál’s garden, which was very large and full of delicious fruits, and flowers, and trees. They used to take their little knives there and cut the fruits and eat them. King Dantál had a teacher for them to teach them to read and write.
One day, when they were grown two fine young men, Prince Majnún said to his father, “Husain Mahámat and I should like to go and hunt.” His father said they might go, so they got ready their horses and all else they wanted for their hunting, and went to the Phaláná country, hunting all the way, but they only found jackals and birds.
The Rájá of the Phaláná country was called Múnsúk Rájá, and he had a daughter named Lailí, who was very beautiful; she had brown eyes and black hair.
One night, some time before Prince Majnún came to her father’s kingdom, as she slept, God sent to her an angel in the form of a man who told her that she should marry Prince Majnún and no one else, and that this was God’s command to her. When Lailí woke she told her father of the angel’s visit to her as she slept; but her father paid no attention to her story. From that time she began repeating, “Majnún, Majnún; I want Majnún,” and would say nothing else. Even as she sat and ate her food she kept saying, “Majnún, Majnún; I want Majnún.” Her father used to get quite vexed with her. “Who is this Majnún? who ever heard of this Majnún?” he would say. “He is the man I am to marry,” said Lailí. “God has ordered me to marry no one but Majnún.” And she was half mad. Meanwhile, Majnún and Husain Mahámat came to hunt in the Phaláná country; and as they were riding about, Lailí came out on her horse to eat the air, and rode behind them. All the time she kept saying, “Majnún, Majnún; I want Majnún.” The prince heard her, and turned round. “Who is calling me?” he asked. At this Lailí looked at him, and the moment she saw him she fell deeply in love with him, and she said to herself, “I am sure that is the Prince Majnún that God says I am to marry.” And she went home to her father and said, “Father, I wish to marry the prince who has come to your kingdom; for I know he is the Prince Majnún I am to marry.” “Very well, you shall have him for your husband,” said Múnsúk Rájá. “We will ask him to-morrow.” Lailí consented to wait, although she was very impatient. As it happened, the prince left the Phaláná kingdom that night, and when Lailí heard he was gone, she went quite mad. She would not listen to a word her father, or her mother, or her servants said to her, but went off into the jungle, and wandered from jungle to jungle, till she got farther and farther away from her own country. All the time she kept saying, “Majnún, Majnún; I want Majnún;” and so she wandered about for twelve years.
At the end of the twelve years she met a fakír—he was really an angel, but she did not know this—who asked her, “Why do you always say, ‘Majnún, Majnún; I want Majnún’?” She answered, “I am the daughter of the king of the Phaláná country, and I want to find Prince Majnún; tell me where his kingdom is.” “I think you will never get there,” said the fakír, “for it is very far from hence, and you have to cross many rivers to reach it.” But Lailí said she did not care; she must see Prince Majnún. “Well,” said the fakír, “when you come to the Bhágírathí river you will see a big fish, a Rohú; and you must get him to carry you to Prince Majnún’s country, or you will never reach it.”
She went on and on, and at last she came to the Bhágírathí river. There there was a great big fish called the Rohú fish. It was yawning just as she got up to it, and she instantly jumped down its throat into its stomach. All the time she kept saying, “Majnún, Majnún.” At this the Rohú fish was greatly alarmed and swam down the river as fast as he could. By degrees he got tired and went slower, and a crow came and perched on his back, and said, “Caw, caw.” “Oh, Mr. Crow,” said the poor fish, “do see what is in my stomach that makes such a noise.” “Very well,” said the crow, “open your mouth wide, and I’ll fly down and see.” So the Rohú opened his jaws and the crow flew down, but he came up again very quickly. “You have a Rakshas in your stomach,” said the crow, and he flew away. This news did not comfort the poor Rohú, and he swam on and on till he came to Prince Majnún’s country. There he stopped. And a jackal came down to the river to drink. “Oh, jackal,” said the Rohú, “do tell me what I have inside me.” “How can I tell?” said the jackal. “I cannot see unless I go inside you.” So the Rohú opened his mouth wide, and the jackal jumped down his throat; but he came up very quickly, looking much frightened and saying, “You have a Rakshas in your stomach, and if I don’t run away quickly, I am afraid it will eat me.” So off he ran. After the jackal came an enormous snake. “Oh,” says the fish, “do tell me what I have in my stomach, for it rattles about so, and keeps saying, ‘Majnún, Majnún; I want Majnún.’” The snake said, “Open your mouth wide, and I’ll go down and see what it is.” The snake went down: when he returned he said, “You have a Rakshas in your stomach; but if you will let me cut you open, it will come out of you.” “If you do that, I shall die,” said the Rohú. “Oh, no,” said the snake, “you will not, for I will give you a medicine that will make you quite well again.” So the fish agreed, and the snake got a knife and cut him open, and out jumped Lailí.
She was now very old. Twelve years she had wandered about the jungle, and for twelve years she had lived inside her Rohú; and she was no longer beautiful, and had lost her teeth. The snake took her on his back and carried her into the country, and there he put her down, and she wandered on and on till she got to Majnún’s court-house, where King Majnún was sitting. There some men heard her crying, “Majnún, Majnún; I want Majnún,” and they asked her what she wanted. “I want King Majnún,” she said. So they went in and said to Prince Majnún, “An old woman outside says she wants you.” “I cannot leave this place,” said he; “send her in here.” They brought her in and the prince asked her what she wanted. “I want to marry you,” she answered. “Twenty-four years ago you came to my father the Phaláná Rájá’s country, and I wanted to marry you then; but you went away without marrying me. Then I went mad, and I have wandered about all these years looking for you.” Prince Majnún said, “Very good.” “Pray to God,” said Lailí, “to make us both young again, and then we shall be married.” So the prince prayed to God, and God said to him, “Touch Lailí’s clothes and they will catch fire, and when they are on fire, she and you will become young again.” When he touched Lailí’s clothes they caught fire, and she and he became young again. And there were great feasts, and they were married, and travelled to the Phaláná country to see her father and mother.
Now Lailí’s father and mother had wept so much for their daughter that they had become quite blind, and her father kept always repeating, “Lailí, Lailí, Lailí.” When Lailí saw their blindness, she prayed to God to restore their sight to them, which he did. As soon as the father and mother saw Lailí, they hugged her and kissed her, and then they had the wedding all over again amid great rejoicings. Prince Majnún and Lailí stayed with Múnsúk Rájá and his wife for three years, and then they returned to King Dantál, and lived happily for some time with him.
They used to go out hunting, and they often went from country to country to eat the air and amuse themselves.
One day Prince Majnún said to Lailí, “Let us go through this jungle.” “No, no,” said Lailí; “if we go through this jungle, some harm will happen to me.” But Prince Majnún laughed, and went into the jungle. And as they were going through it, God thought, “I should like to know how much Prince Majnún loves his wife. Would he be very sorry if she died? And would he marry another wife? I will see.” So he sent one of his angels in the form of a fakír into the jungle; and the angel went up to Lailí, and threw some powder in her face, and instantly she fell to the ground a heap of ashes.
Prince Majnún was in great sorrow and grief when he saw his dear Lailí turn into a little heap of ashes; and he went straight home to his father, and for a long, long time he would not be comforted. After a great many years he grew more cheerful and happy, and began to go again into his father’s beautiful garden with Husain Mahámat. King Dantál wished his son to marry again. “I will only have Lailí for my wife; I will not marry any other woman,” said Prince Majnún. “How can you marry Lailí? Lailí is dead. She will never come back to you,” said the father. “Then I’ll not have any wife at all,” said Prince Majnún.
Meanwhile Lailí was living in the jungle where her husband had left her a little heap of ashes. As soon as Majnún had gone, the fakír had taken her ashes and made them quite clean, and then he had mixed clay and water with the ashes, and made the figure of a woman with them, and so Lailí regained her human form, and God sent life into it. But Lailí had become once more a hideous old woman, with a long, long nose, and teeth like tusks; just such an old woman, excepting her teeth, as she had been when she came out of the Rohú fish; and she lived in the jungle, and neither ate nor drank, and she kept on saying, “Majnún, Majnún; I want Majnún.”
At last the angel who had come as a fakír and thrown the powder at her, said to God, “Of what use is it that this woman should sit in the jungle crying, crying for ever, ‘Majnún, Majnún; I want Majnún,’ and eating and drinking nothing? Let me take her to Prince Majnún.” “Well,” said God, “you may do so; but tell her that she must not speak to Majnún if he is afraid of her when he sees her; and that if he is afraid when he sees her, she will become a little white dog the next day. Then she must go to the palace, and she will only regain her human shape when Prince Majnún loves her, feeds her with his own food, and lets her sleep in his bed.” So the angel came to Lailí again as a fakír and carried her to King Dantál’s garden. “Now,” he said, “it is God’s command that you stay here till Prince Majnún comes to walk in the garden, and then you may show yourself to him. But you must not speak to him, if he is afraid of you; and should he be afraid of you, you will the next day become a little white dog.” He then told her what she must do as a little dog to regain her human form.
Lailí stayed in the garden, hidden in the tall grass, till Prince Majnún and Husain Mahámat came to walk in the garden. King Dantál was now a very old man, and Husain Mahámat, though he was really only as old as Prince Majnún, looked a great deal older than the prince, who had been made quite young again when he married Lailí.
As Prince Majnún and the Wazír’s son walked in the garden, they gathered the fruit as they had done as little children, only they bit the fruit with their teeth; they did not cut it. While Majnún was busy eating a fruit in this way, and was talking to Husain Mahámat, he turned towards him and saw Lailí walking behind the Wazír’s son. “Oh, look, look!” he cried, “see what is following you; it is a Rakshas or a demon, and I am sure it is going to eat us.” Lailí looked at him beseechingly with all her eyes, and trembled with age and eagerness; but this only frightened Majnún the more. “It is a Rakshas, a Rakshas!” he cried, and he ran quickly to the palace with the Wazír’s son; and as they ran away, Lailí disappeared into the jungle. They ran to King Dantál, and Majnún told him there was a Rakshas or a demon in the garden that had come to eat them. “What nonsense,” said his father. “Fancy two grown men being so frightened by an old ayah or a fakír! And if it had been a Rakshas, it would not have eaten you.” Indeed King Dantál did not believe Majnún had seen anything at all, till Husain Mahámat said the prince was speaking the exact truth. They had the garden searched for the terrible old woman, but found nothing, and King Dantál told his son he was very silly to be so much frightened. However, Prince Majnún would not walk in the garden any more.
The next day Lailí turned into a pretty little dog; and in this shape she came into the palace, where Prince Majnún soon became very fond of her. She followed him everywhere, went with him when he was out hunting, and helped him to catch his game, and Prince Majnún fed her with milk, or bread, or anything else he was eating, and at night the little dog slept in his bed.
But one night the little dog disappeared, and in its stead there lay the little old woman who had frightened him so much in the garden; and now Prince Majnún was quite sure she was a Rakshas, or a demon, or some such horrible thing come to eat him; and in his terror he cried out, “What do you want? Oh, do not eat me; do not eat me!” Poor Lailí answered, “Don’t you know me? I am your wife Lailí, and I want to marry you. Don’t you remember how you would go through that jungle, though I begged and begged you not to go, for I told you that harm would happen to me, and then a fakír came and threw powder in my face, and I became a heap of ashes. But God gave me my life again, and brought me here, after I had stayed a long, long while in the jungle crying for you, and now I am obliged to be a little dog; but if you will marry me, I shall not be a little dog any more.” Majnún, however, said “How can I marry an old woman like you? how can you be Lailí? I am sure you are a Rakshas or a demon come to eat me,” and he was in great terror.
In the morning the old woman had turned into the little dog, and the prince went to his father and told him all that had happened. “An old woman! an old woman! always an old woman!” said his father. “You do nothing but think of old women. How can a strong man like you be so easily frightened?” However, when he saw that his son was really in great terror, and that he really believed the old woman would come back at night, he advised him to say to her, “I will marry you if you can make yourself a young girl again. How can I marry such an old woman as you are?”
That night as he lay trembling in bed the little old woman lay there in place of the dog, crying, “Majnún, Majnún, I want to marry you. I have loved you all these long, long years. When I was in my father’s kingdom a young girl, I knew of you, though you knew nothing of me, and we should have been married then if you had not gone away so suddenly, and for long, long years I followed you.” “Well,” said Majnún, “if you can make yourself a young girl again, I will marry you.”
Lailí said, “Oh, that is quite easy. God will make me a young girl again. In two days’ time you must go into the garden, and there you will see a beautiful fruit. You must gather it and bring it into your room and cut it open yourself very gently, and you must not open it when your father or anybody else is with you, but when you are quite alone; for I shall be in the fruit quite naked, without any clothes at all on.” In the morning Lailí took her little dog’s form, and disappeared in the garden.
Prince Majnún told all this to his father, who told him to do all the old woman had bidden him. In two days’ time he and the Wazír’s son walked in the garden, and there they saw a large, lovely red fruit. “Oh!” said the Prince, “I wonder shall I find my wife in that fruit.” Husain Mahámat wanted him to gather it and see, but he would not till he had told his father, who said, “That must be the fruit; go and gather it.” So Majnún went back and broke the fruit off its stalk; and he said to his father, “Come with me to my room while I open it; I am afraid to open it alone, for perhaps I shall find a Rakshas in it that will eat me.” “No,” said King Dantál; “remember, Lailí will be naked; you must go alone, and do not be afraid if, after all, a Rakshas is in the fruit, for I will stay outside the door, and you have only to call me with a loud voice, and I will come to you, so the Rakshas will not be able to eat you.”
Then Majnún took the fruit and began to cut it open tremblingly, for he shook with fear; and when he had cut it, out stepped Lailí, young and far more beautiful than she had ever been. At the sight of her extreme beauty, Majnún fell backwards fainting on the floor.
Lailí took off his turban and wound it all round herself like a sárí (for she had no clothes at all on), and then she called King Dantál, and said to him sadly, “Why has Majnún fallen down like this? Why will he not speak to me? He never used to be afraid of me; and he has seen me so many, many times.” King Dantál answered, “It is because you are so beautiful. You are far, far more beautiful than you ever were. But he will be very happy directly.” Then the King got some water, and they bathed Majnún’s face and gave him some to drink, and he sat up again. Then Lailí said, “Why did you faint? Did you not see I am Lailí?” “Oh!” said Prince Majnún, “I see you are Lailí come back to me, but your eyes have grown so wonderfully beautiful, that I fainted when I saw them.” Then they were all very happy, and King Dantál had all the drums in the place beaten, and had all the musical instruments played on, and they made a grand wedding-feast, and gave presents to the servants, and rice and quantities of rupees to the fakírs.
After some time had passed very happily, Prince Majnún and his wife went out to eat the air. They rode on the same horse, and had only a groom with them. They came to another kingdom, to a beautiful garden. “We must go into that garden and see it,” said Majnún. “No, no,” said Lailí; “it belongs to a bad Rájá, Chumman Básá, a very wicked man.” But Majnún insisted on going in, and in spite of all Lailí could say, he got off the horse to look at the flowers. Now, as he was looking at the flowers, Lailí saw Chumman Básá coming towards them, and she read in his eyes that he meant to kill her husband and seize her. So she said to Majnún, “Come, come, let us go; do not go near that bad man. I see in his eyes, and I feel in my heart, that he will kill you to seize me.” “What nonsense,” said Majnún. “I believe he is a very good Rájá. Anyhow, I am so near to him that I could not get away.” “Well,” said Lailí, “it is better that you should be killed than I, for if I were to be killed a second time, God would not give me my life again; but I can bring you to life if you are killed.” Now Chumman Básá had come quite near, and seemed very pleasant, so thought Prince Majnún; but when he was speaking to Majnún, he drew his scimitar and cut off the prince’s head at one blow.
Lailí sat quite still on her horse, and as the Rájá came towards her she said, “Why did you kill my husband?” “Because I want to take you,” he answered. “You cannot,” said Lailí. “Yes, I can,” said the Rájá. “Take me, then,” said Lailí to Chumman Básá; so he came quite close and put out his hand to take hers to lift her off her horse. But she put her hand in her pocket and pulled out a tiny knife, only as long as her hand was broad, and this knife unfolded itself in one instant till it was such a length! and then Lailí made a great sweep with her arm and her long, long knife, and off came Chumman Básá’s head at one touch.
Then Lailí slipped down off her horse, and she went to Majnún’s dead body, and she cut her little finger inside her hand straight down from the top of her nail to her palm, and out of this gushed blood like healing medicine. Then she put Majnún’s head on his shoulders, and smeared her healing blood all over the wound, and Majnún woke up and said, “What a delightful sleep I have had! Why, I feel as if I had slept for years!” Then he got up and saw the Rájá’s dead body by Lailí’s horse. “What’s that?” said Majnún. “That is the wicked Rájá who killed you to seize me, just as I said he would.” “Who killed him?” asked Majnún. “I did,” answered Lailí, “and it was I who brought you to life.” “Do bring the poor man to life if you know how to do so,” said Majnún. “No,” said Lailí, “for he is a wicked man, and will try to do you harm.” But Majnún asked her for such a long time, and so earnestly to bring the wicked Rájá to life, that at last she said, “Jump up on the horse, then, and go far away with the groom.” “What will you do,” said Majnún, “if I leave you? I cannot leave you.” “I will take care of myself,” said Lailí; “but this man is so wicked, he may kill you again if you are near him.” So Majnún got up on the horse, and he and the groom went a long way off and waited for Lailí. Then she set the wicked Rájá’s head straight on his shoulders, and she squeezed the wound in her finger till a little blood-medicine came out of it. Then she smeared this over the place where her knife had passed, and just as she saw the Rájá opening his eyes, she began to run, and she ran, and ran so fast, that she outran the Rájá, who tried to catch her; and she sprang up on the horse behind her husband, and they rode so fast, so fast, till they reached King Dantál’s palace.
There Prince Majnún told everything to his father, who was horrified and angry. “How lucky for you that you have such a wife,” he said. “Why did you not do what she told you? But for her, you would be now dead.” Then he made a great feast out of gratitude for his son’s safety, and gave many, many rupees to the fakírs. And he made so much of Lailí. He loved her dearly; he could not do enough for her. Then he built a splendid palace for her and his son, with a great deal of ground about it, and lovely gardens, and gave them great wealth, and heaps of servants to wait on them. But he would not allow any but their servants to enter their gardens and palace, and he would not allow Majnún to go out of them, nor Lailí; “for,” said King Dantál, “Lailí is so beautiful, that perhaps some one may kill my son to take her away.”
Told by Dunkní.