To notesONCE there was a great king called Burtal, and he had a hundred and sixty wives, but he had no children, which made him sad. One day he said to his wives, “I am going to a very distant jungle which is full of antelopes, to hunt them.” “Very well,” they answered, “go.” So he went. In that jungle lived neither tigers nor men, but only antelopes. When King Burtal reached the jungle, some of the antelopes came to him and said, “Pray don’t kill the black antelope, for he is our Rájá, and we have no other antelope like him among us; but try to kill any of the others—the brown or the yellow antelopes—that you choose.” Now, the king was not a kind man, and he said, “I will kill your black antelope, and no other.” So he shot him dead. When the other antelopes saw this they began to scream and cry with sorrow. But the dead antelope’s wife said to them, “There is a holy man, a fakír, in the jungle. Let us take the dead body to him and ask him to bring our Rájá to life.” And King Burtal laughed at them and said, “How can any man bring a dead antelope to life?” But the antelopes took the body of their dead Rájá on their backs, and the dead antelope’s wife went at their head; and King Burtal went too; and they carried it to the fakír, who was called Goraknáth, and who was resting in the jungle, and they said to him, “Bring our Rájá to life again, for what can we do without a Rájá? and he has left no son to succeed him.” And the queen antelope said, “I have no other husband. I had only this one husband. Do bring him to life for me.” King Burtal laughed and mocked them, and said to the fakír, “I never heard of any man being able to bring a dead antelope to life. I don’t believe you can do it.” At this Goraknáth got angry, and he knelt down and asked God to bring the antelope to life; and God told him to take a wand and beat the dead antelope with it, and then the antelope would be alive again. So Goraknáth took a wand and beat the dead antelope, and it was alive once more, and then it instantly sprang up into heaven. The antelopes were delighted to see their Rájá alive again, and they said, “We do not mind his going up to heaven, for he will come down again to us.”
King Burtal had stood by all the time, and he said to Goraknáth, “Make me a fakír like yourself,” for he thought it would be fine to do such wonderful things. But Goraknáth would not, and King Burtal stayed in the jungle with Goraknáth for twelve years, and all that time he never ceased begging and praying to be made a fakír, till at last Goraknáth said, “I cannot make you a fakír unless you go home and address your wives as ‘Mamma,’ and ask them to give you money and food.” Now, it is a very shameful thing to call one’s wife ‘Mamma,’ for if a wife is called ‘Mamma’ she has to leave her husband. Then Goraknáth took off the king’s clothes, and dressed him only in a cloth and a tiger’s skin; and the king went to his palace and began begging for rice and food, and he would not take any from the palace servants: he said he must and would see the Ránís, and that they themselves should give him food. The servants told the Ránís about this fakír who said he must and would see them himself, and that they should give him food and rice with their own hands, and one of their ayahs, who had recognized King Burtal, told them the fakír was their husband who had been away twelve years. The Ránís cried out, “Do not talk nonsense. That fakír can never be our husband.” “Go and see for yourselves,” answered the ayah. They went, and the fakír said to them, “Mamma, give me rice.” “Why do you call us ‘Mamma’?” they said. “We have no sons. You are not our son.” But at last they saw he was indeed their husband, and they wrung their hands and wept bitterly, and threw themselves on the ground before him and said, “Why have you called us ‘Mamma’? Why do you ask for bread? We must now leave you.” “Don’t go away,” said the king. “Take my kingdom, my money, my houses, and stay here till I return. I am going to be a fakír.” His wives gave him some rice and some money, and he went back to Goraknáth.
In old days men who intended to become fakírs had to do three tasks set them by one who was already a fakír; so Goraknáth said to the king, “Now you must go to a jungle that I will show you, and stay there for twelve years.” Then King Burtal took the flat pan and the rolling-pin which he used in making his flour cakes, and was quite ready to start for the jungle, but the fakír stopped him. “You must leave your pan and your rolling-pin behind,” he said; “and all these twelve years you must neither eat nor drink, or you can never be a fakír. You must sit quite still on the same spot and never move.” “I shall die if I don’t eat,” said the king; “but I don’t care if I do die, so I will do all you tell me.” Then the fakír took him to a jungle, and made him sit down on the grass, and instantly all the grass round him grew up so tall and thick that King Burtal was quite hidden by it, and no one could see him. Here he lived for twelve years, and never moved, and he ate nothing, and drank nothing, and nobody knew he was there.
At the end of that time Goraknáth came and took him away and said, “Now go home to your wives.” “Why should I go to my wives? I do not wish to see my wives, for they have given me no children,” said King Burtal. But Goraknáth said, “Go and see them.” So King Burtal went; and he begged for rice from them; and they entreated him to stay with them, but he would not. “I will return to the fakír Goraknáth,” he said. “Why should I stay with you? You have never given me a child. What use is all my wealth to me? I have no son to take it when I am dead. I will become a fakír.” And they threw themselves on the ground and wrung their hands, and said, “Oh, why will you leave us?” He answered, “Because it pleases me to do so.” And he called them all “Mamma,” and told them to stay in his palace and take all he possessed for their own use. Then he returned to Goraknáth.
“Now,” said Goraknáth, “you must learn to be sweeper to all the beasts of the jungle, and you must serve them for twelve years.” So for twelve years King Burtal cleared the grass and kept the jungle clean for all the creatures in it—cows, sheep, goats, tigers, cats, bears. Sometimes he stayed in one part of the jungle, and sometimes in another.
When the twelve years were over he went to Goraknáth, who said to him, “Good; you have learnt to serve the wild beasts; now you must learn to serve men.” Then the fakír took the king to a village, and bade him sweep it and keep it clean for twelve years. Here King Burtal stayed for another twelve years, and all that time he was the village-sweeper and kept the village clean, and he swept all the dust and dirt into a great heap till the heap was as high and as big as a hut.
When the twelve years were over he returned to Goraknáth and stood before him, and as he stood there came a man who was an angel sent by God, and he threw some dirt on King Burtal’s head; but the king never moved nor spoke. “Now,” cried Goraknáth, “I see you are a true fakír: go and cleanse yourself by bathing in the river.”
The river in which he was sent to bathe was the Jamná. In this river lived water-nymphs, and the nymph Gangá was playing in it when her sister Jamná[3] came to her and said, “Come quickly; our father is dying and wants to see you;” and off Jamná went to her father. Gangá was hurrying after her when King Burtal saw her, and stopped her, and asked her where she was going so fast. “To my father, who is very ill and dying,” said Gangá; “let me go.” “I will not let you go,” said King Burtal. Then Gangá began to run, and said, “You cannot keep me, you cannot catch me; no man can catch me, no man can keep me.” This provoked King Burtal, and he said, “I can catch you, and I can keep you.” “No, no,” she answered; “no one can catch me, no one can hold me.” Then King Burtal got quite vexed, and he ran till he caught her, and then he said, “Now, I will not let you go; I will keep you.” Then he held her in his hands and rubbed her between his palms, and when he opened his hands she had turned into a little round ball. He tried to hide the ball in his hair, but could not, for his hair was too short, and he found he could not hold Gangá, as she was too strong for him; so he thought he would take her to Mahádeo,[4] who had long thick hair, and make him keep her, for King Burtal was dreadfully frightened and did not dare let the ball go, for fear Gangá, who he knew was very angry, should take her own form and bring a great flood to drown him. So he went quickly to Mahádeo, and gave the ball to him. Mahádeo said, “Why not keep her yourself?” “I cannot,” said King Burtal, “for my hair is too short to tie her into; and I cannot hold her, for she is too strong for me; but your hair is long, and so you can hide her in it.” Then Mahádeo had a round box made of bamboo, and in this box was a hole into which he dropped the ball. And he let down his long hair, and it reached to the ground, and was thick—so thick; he put the box in his hair on the top of his head, and rolled his long hair all round his head and over the box just like a turban.
Jamná finding her sister did not follow her, came up from the bottom of the river to look for her, and she asked whether any one had seen her, and at last some one said, “King Burtal has taken her away.” Jamná set off to King Burtal and said, “Give me my sister Gangá, for our father is dying and wants to see her.” “It is true that I took her away,” said King Burtal, “but I have not got her now; she is with Mahádeo.” So Jamná went to Mahádeo,—“Give me my sister quickly, for our father is dying and wants to see her.” (Now Gangá was in a great passion inside her box.) “I cannot give you Gangá,” said Mahádeo, “for she is so angry that if I let her loose she will flood the country with water.” “No, she will not; indeed, she will not,” said Jamná. “If I give her to you, you will not be able to keep her,” said Mahádeo. “Yes, yes, I shall,” said Jamná. “I do not think you will,” said Mahádeo; “but here is the box in which said is. Hold it tight, and be careful that neither you nor any one else mentions her name on the journey.” Jamná said she would be very careful, and took the box; but she had to pass through a jungle in which were a number of cowherds and holy men, one of whom was called Gangá. Just as Jamná passed by, one of these men called to this man by his name, Gangá, and instantly Gangá burst the box and flooded the country with water. The holy men and the cowherd called to her to have pity on them, and so did Jamná; but Gangá was too angry to listen to them or speak to them, so she drowned all the holy men and the cowherds, and when she got to her father’s house and found he was dead, she was in such a rage that she declared she would send a still greater flood to ruin the country; and so she did.
After this, King Burtal went to Goraknáth and stayed with him some years, till Goraknáth said, “Now go to your own kingdom.” But King Burtal refused, saying, “I wish to stay with you; my wives have never given me a child. I have no son. I do not care to return to my kingdom.” However, Goraknáth would not allow him to stay. “Go to your own kingdom,” he said again; “but first tell me how many wives you have.” “A hundred and sixty,” answered the King. “Here are a hundred and sixty líchí fruits for you,” said the fakír. “Give one to each of your wives to eat, and they will each have a son, and I will go with you.” So King Burtal obeyed, and Goraknáth went with him.
Seventy years had passed since King Burtal had left his kingdom. When he and Goraknáth reached it, they went to an open plain and made a fire and sat down beside it. Everybody who passed them said, “Who are these fakírs?” Some servants of King Burtal’s Ránís passed too, and when they got home they told the Ránís that their husband had returned to his kingdom. But the Ránís said, “What nonsense you talk! King Burtal went away with the fakír Goraknáth.” The servants answered, “We are quite sure that King Burtal is here, for Goraknáth is here, and with him is another man, and we are sure this man is King Burtal.” So all the Ránís went to see for themselves, and when they saw the fakír that was with Goraknáth they knew he was their husband. Then the first Rání, who was very angry with him for having left them, said a spell over him: “God is very angry with you for leaving us, and he will send you a bad illness.” But King Burtal answered, “Do not be angry with me. I am your husband, and have come back to you after an absence of seventy years.” At this the youngest Rání was very glad, and she ordered drums to be beaten and she beat a drum herself, and they sang songs, and all went to the palace together, and Goraknáth with them.
Then Goraknáth said he must now go away, but first he asked King Burtal to show him a grand feat as a proof of his skill. So King Burtal sent to the smith for a great iron chain. Then he lit a big fire. This alarmed the palace servants, who wondered if he were going to burn his palace and his wives. King Burtal next sent for some ghee. “What is he going to do with the ghee?” said the palace servants. Then he drove a nail into the wall, rubbed his hands with the ghee, put the iron chain into the fire and drew it out red-hot; flames came from the iron. Then King Burtal hung it on the nail and pulled and pulled at the chain till he drew it off the nail, and his hands were not in the least burnt. The Ránís and palace servants were greatly astonished and Goraknáth much pleased. “You know how to do your work well,” said he to the king. Then Goraknáth bade him good bye, telling him to look after his kingdom and his wives; but they all said he must not leave them, and they built him a grand house in the compound, and gave him a great many servants to wait on him, and plenty of money; so Goraknáth agreed to live in this house; only, as he was a fakír, he often went away by himself to spend some time in his jungle, always returning to his house in King Burtal’s compound. Meanwhile King Burtal gave each of his wives a líchí to eat, and after a little while each wife had a little son. They were all such beautiful children; but the biggest and handsomest of all was the eldest Rání’s little son. His name was Sazádá, and his father and mother loved him dearly.
When Prince Sazádá was about six or seven years old, the fakír Goraknáth came to King Burtal and said, “Now you must give me your son Sazádá, for I want to take him away with me for some years.” The Rání, his mother, refused to let him go, but at last she had to do so, and then she became mad and very sick for grief.
Goraknáth took the little prince to Indrásan to be taught by the fairies, and on arriving he married him to Jahúr Rání, who was the daughter of the greatest of the fairy queens. Goraknáth made a grand wedding for the little prince, and all the fairies were delighted that he should be the little Jahúr Rání’s husband, for he was such a beautiful child they all fell in love with him the moment they saw him, and they taught him to play on all kinds of instruments, and to sing beautifully, and to read and write, and he grew handsomer and handsomer every day in the fairy kingdom. Goraknáth came often to see him, and the fairies took great care of him.
When Prince Sazádá had grown a fine strong young man, Goraknáth took him and his wife, the Jahúr Rání, and brought them in great state to King Burtal’s kingdom. First he took the young prince and presented him to his father and said, “See, here is your son. Now he can read and write, sing and play on all kinds of instruments, for I have had him taught all these things.” But they, when they saw him, fell on their faces, for they could not look at him on account of his great beauty. He had grown so handsome in Indrásan, and his cheeks were red. “How can this beautiful boy be our son?” they said, and they did not recognize him. “Stand up,” said Goraknáth. “This is your son Sazádá; do not fall down before your son.” So they stood up, and the fakír said, “I have married your son to the fairy princess Jahúr Rání, and I will bring her to you.” So then he brought the little Rání, and when they saw her they fell down again, for they could not look at her beauty. Her hair was like red gold, her eyes were dark, and her eyelashes black. But Goraknáth made them stand up; and when they really understood it was their son and his wife that he had brought them, they took Prince Sazádá into their arms, and kissed him and loved him, and his Rání too. Goraknáth made a grand wedding-feast for them all, and they were all very happy.
Told by Dunkní.
To notesONCE there was a Rájá called Hámánsá Rájá. He had a son, named Gursan Rájá, who married Kheláparí Rání, the daughter of Gulábsá Rájá. After the wedding Gursan Rájá brought her home to his father’s house.
One day Gursan Rájá came home from hunting, very very tired and thirsty. It was about twelve or one o’clock in the day. He asked Kheláparí Rání to fetch him some water, and while she went for it he fell asleep. When she came back she found him still sleeping, and because he was so tired he slept all the afternoon and all night, and never woke till the next morning. His wife stood by him all the time holding the water in a brass cup. When he woke and found she had stood there all the afternoon and all night he was very sorry, and asked God to forgive him, and to give his wife whatever she wished for, no matter what it might be. So Kheláparí wished that whatever happened in any country, she might know of it at once of herself without any one telling her, no matter how far away the country might be.
One day Kheláparí Rání went to draw water from the tank, and by the tank sat an old man, the fakír Shekh Faríd. He said to the Rání, “Give me a little water to drink.” “I will,” she said, “only drink it quickly, for my father’s house is on fire, and I am going to put it out.” “How far off is your father’s country?” asked Shekh Faríd. “About twenty miles,” answered Kheláparí. “Then how can you know his house is on fire!” said Shekh Faríd; “I have been a fakír for twelve years, and for twelve years neither ate nor drank, and yet I do not know what happens twenty miles away.” “But I know,” she answered. “Leave your water-jar here,” he said, “and go and see if the house really is on fire, and I will not drink till you return to me.”
So off went Kheláparí Rání to her father’s country, and when she got there his house was burning, and she stayed till the fire was put out, and then returned to the tank where she left the fakír. “Is it true,” he asked, “that your father’s house was on fire?” “Quite true,” she answered. The fakír wondered. “How could she know it when the fire was twenty miles off?” he said to himself, and he determined to go to Gulábsá Rájá’s country to see if the Rání had told him the truth.
He went by a roundabout road, as he did not know the way, so it took him three or four days to get there. When he did, he asked some villagers if there had been a fire at their Rájá’s house. “Yes, a few days ago there was,” they answered. So the fakír, still more astonished, decided he would go back to Hámánsá Rájá’s palace and ask Kheláparí Rání how it came to pass that she was wiser than Shekh Faríd.
As he was returning, he met a bullock-cart laden with bags of sugar, and he asked the driver what the bags contained. The driver was put out because his bullocks would not go on quickly, and he was tired with beating and goading them, so he said crossly, “It’s ashes.” “Good,” said Shekh Faríd, “let it be ashes.” When the cartman got to the bazar, and went to make over the sugar to the merchant who had sent him for it, he found all his bags full of ashes, nothing but ashes. He was in a great state of mind, for a good deal of money had been paid for the sugar, and he was a poor man. So he went back to Shekh Faríd and fell down at his feet, saying, “I am a poor, poor man. My sugar is turned to ashes. Do make the ashes sugar again.” “Good,” said the fakír; “go home, and you will find sugar, and next time you are asked what you have in your cart, tell the truth and not lies.” The cartman went home, and when he saw his sugar was sugar once more, and no longer ashes, he was very, very glad.
One of his brother-villagers thought, “How pleasant it would be to become a fakír and do such things myself! I will go to this fakír and learn from him to be a fakír too.” So he went after Shekh Faríd and found him walking along the road, and he followed him. Now Shekh Faríd knew at once what this man wanted, so as they passed a heap of clay bricks, he said, “O God, let it be thy pleasure to give me power to turn these clay bricks into gold.” Instantly they became gold, and Shekh Faríd walked on; but the villager took up two of the bricks and put one under each arm, and then followed the fakír. Suddenly Shekh Faríd turned round, and said to him, “You have two clay bricks under your arms.” The man looked, saw it was true, and threw them away. Then Shekh Faríd said to him, “You steal bricks, and yet wish to be a fakír?” The man was ashamed, and went back to his village.
Shekh Faríd continued his journey and got to Hámánsá Rájá’s country; but when he got there he found Kheláparí had gone to another country for a little while, so he never saw her, nor found out how it was that she knew what happened twenty miles off.
In a jungle in Hámánsá Rájá’s country he met a man, called Fakír-achand, and his wife, who were very poor. They were going to bury their only son, and were crying bitterly. Shekh Faríd asked them, “Would you like your son to be alive again?” “Yes,” they said. “Will you give him to me, and I will bring him to life, and then he shall return to you?” said Shekh Faríd. “Yes,” they answered, and gave him their dead son, and went to their home.
The fakír carried the dead boy, who was called Mohandás, a little further on, and then laid him on the ground, and struck him with a long thin bamboo wand he carried in his hand. The boy stood up. Shekh Faríd asked him, “Would you like to go home to your father and mother, or to stay with me?” “To stay with you,” said Mohandás. (Had he wished to go home, the fakír would have been very angry.) “Then,” said Shekh Faríd, “I will call your mother here.” He did so, and when she came, he said to her, “See, here is your son alive. Will you give him to me for twelve years?” The woman said, “Yes,” and went home. The fakír gave her and her husband a quantity of rupees and built them a beautiful house. Then he and Mohandás set out on their travels, and wandered about the jungles for one whole year, till they came to a country full of large splendid gardens belonging to a very rich Rájá, called Dumkás Rájá.
This Rájá had a beautiful daughter, Champákálí Rání. She had lovely golden hair, golden eyebrows, golden eyelashes, blue eyes, and her skin was transparent. In Dumkás Rájá’s country they had never seen a fakír, so when Shekh Faríd and Mohandás arrived, the Rájá sent to them, and asked Shekh Faríd to come to talk to him. “No,” said the fakír, “I will not go to the Rájá: if the Rájá wants me, he must come to me.”
Dumkás Rájá was very angry when his messengers returned with this answer, and he ordered Shekh Faríd to leave his country immediately; but the fakír said he would not go until he had married his adopted son, Mohandás, to Champákálí Rání. The people all laughed at him for saying this, and declared such a marriage would never take place. However, the fakír and Mohandás walked about and saw the town, and looked at everything, and everybody stared at them. Then they went to live on the border of Dumkás Rájá’s country, and lived there for some time.
One day Shekh Faríd bought Mohandás a beautiful horse and fine clothes such as Rájás wear, and told the boy to ride about the fields and high roads. He also told him not to speak to any one unless they spoke to him. Mohandás promised to do as he was bid. As he was riding along, he met the Princess Champákálí, who was also riding. She asked him who he was. “A Rájá’s son,” he said. “What Rájá?” asked Champákálí. “Never mind what Rájá,” said Mohandás. The princess then went home, and so did Mohandás; but every day after this they met and talked together, and the princess fell very much in love with Mohandás.
At last she said to her father, “I wish to marry a young man who rides about on the border-land every day, and is very handsome.” The Rájá consented, for it was time his daughter was married, and now no Rájá from another country would come to marry her, as the demons who guarded the princess swallowed all her suitors at one gulp, and had already swallowed many Rájás who had come on this errand.
Shekh Faríd said to Mohandás, “Now go up to the palace, and claim the princess for your wife.” “If I do,” said Mohandás, “the demons will swallow me.” “I will not let them swallow you,” said Shekh Faríd. So Mohandás consented and set off for the palace, Shekh Faríd following him. When Mohandás came to the demons, they were going to swallow him; but the fakír, who had his sword in his hand, killed them all, and as he did so, the Rájás and princes who had come as suitors to the Princess Champákálí, and had therefore been swallowed by the demons, all came jumping out of the demons’ stomachs and ran off in all directions as hard as they could, from fear not knowing where they went.
Mohandás was greatly frightened at all this; but Shekh Faríd explained everything to him, so he went on to the palace, and the fakír went too. There Mohandás asked Dumkás Rájá to give him his daughter as his wife, and the Rájá consented. So he was married to Champákálí Rání, and her father gave them a great many elephants, and horses, and camels, and a great deal of money and many jewels. And Mohandás and his wife set off with the fakír to his father Fakír-achand’s house, and they took all the elephants, camels, horses, money and jewels with them. On the way Mohandás told Champákálí Rání that he was not a great Rájá’s son, but the son of poor people. Champákálí’s heart was very sad at this; however, she was not angry, only sorry.
When they reached Hámánsá Rájá’s country, and had come to Fakír-achand’s house, the fakír said to Mohandás’s mother, “See, you lent me one child, and I have brought you back two children. Does this please you?” “Indeed it does please me,” she answered; “I am very happy.”
They built a beautiful palace and all lived in it together. The mother begged Shekh Faríd to stay with them, saying, “Only stay with us; I will give you a bungalow, and you shall have everything you want.” But Shekh Faríd said, “I am a fakír, and so cannot stay with you, as I may never stay in one place, and must, instead, wander from country to country and from jungle to jungle.” So he said good-bye to them and went on his wanderings, and never returned to them.
Mohandás, his wife, and his father and mother, all lived happily together.
Told by Dunkní.
To notesTHERE was a mouse who wanted something to eat; so he went to a garden, where many kinds of grain, and fruit, and cabbages, and other vegetables were growing. All round the garden the people to whom it belonged had planted a hedge of thorns, that nothing might get in. The mouse scrambled through the hedge, but great thorns pierced his tail, and he began to cry. He came out of the garden again through the hedge, and on his way home he met a barber.
“You must take out these thorns,” said he to the barber.
“I cannot,” said the barber, “without cutting off your tail with my razor.”
“Never mind cutting off my tail,” said the mouse.
The barber cut off the mouse’s tail. But the mouse was in a rage. He seized the razor and ran away with it. At this the poor barber was very unhappy and began to cry, for he had no pice wherewith to buy another.
The mouse ran on and on until at last he came to another country, in which there were no knives or sickles to cut the grass with. There the mouse saw a man pulling the grass out of the ground with his hands.
“You will cut your hands,” said the mouse.
“There are no knives here,” said the man, “so I must pull up the grass in this way.”
“You must take my razor then,” said the mouse.
“Suppose your razor should break? I could not buy you another,” said the man.
“Never mind if it does break,” said the mouse, “I give it to you as a present.”
So the man took the razor and began cutting the grass, and as he was cutting, the razor broke.
“Oh, why have you broken my razor?” exclaimed the mouse.
“Did not I tell you it would break?” answered the man.
The mouse snatched up the man’s blanket and ran off with it. The grass-cutter began to cry. “What shall I do?” said he. “The mouse has carried away my blanket, and I have not money wherewith to buy another.” And he went home very sad.
Meanwhile the mouse ran on and on until he arrived at another country, where he saw a grain merchant chopping up sugar-canes; only as he had no blanket or cloth to lay the canes on, he chopped them up on the ground, and so they got dirty.
“Why do you chop up your canes on the ground?” said the mouse; “they all get dirty.”
“What can I do?” answered the man. “I have no pice wherewith to buy a blanket to chop them on.”
“Then why don’t you take mine?” said the mouse.
“If I took yours it would get cut, and I have no money to buy you another,” said the grain merchant.
“Never mind; I don’t want another,” said the mouse.
So the man took the blanket, and of course he cut it. When he had finished chopping up his sugar-canes, he gave it back to the mouse.
When the mouse saw the blanket was full of holes, he was very angry indeed with the man, and seizing all the sugar-canes he ran away with them as fast as he could. The grain merchant began to cry. “What shall I do?” said he; “I have no more sugar-canes.” And he went home very sorrowful.
Then the mouse ran on and on till he came to another country, where he stopped at a sweetmeat-seller’s shop. Now in this country there was no salt and no sugar. And the sweetmeat-seller made his sweetmeats of flour and ghee without either sugar or salt, so that they were very nasty.
“Will you give me some sweetmeats for a pice?” said the mouse to the sweetmeat-seller. “Yes,” answered the man, and he gave one. The mouse began to eat it and thought it very nasty indeed.
“Why, there is no sugar in it!” exclaimed the mouse.
“No,” said the man; “we have no sugar in this country. The few sugar-canes we have are so dear, that poor people like myself cannot buy them.”
“Then take my sugar-canes,” cried the mouse.
“No,” said the man. “Where should I find the money to pay you for them? They would be all used in making sweetmeats.”
“Take them,” said the mouse; “I give them to you.”
The sweetmeat-seller took them and began making sweetmeats of all kinds, so that he used all the sugar-canes.
“Why have you used all my sugar-canes?” cried the mouse.
“Did not I tell you I should do so?” said the man.
“You are a thief!” cried the mouse, and he knocked down the sweetmeat-seller, seized all his sweetmeats, and ran off with them.
“What shall I do now?” cried the sweetmeat-seller. “I have no money to buy flour and ghee to make more sweetmeats with; and if I quarrel with the mouse, he will doubtless kill me.”
Meanwhile the mouse ran on and on till he reached a country, the Rájá of which had a great many cows—hundreds of cows. The mouse stopped at the pasture-ground of these cows. Now, the cowherds were so poor they could not buy bread every day, and sometimes they ate bread which was twelve days old. When the mouse arrived, the cowherds were eating their bread, and it was very stale and mouldy.
“Why do you eat that stale bread?” said the mouse.
“Because we have no money to buy any other with,” answered the cowherds.
“Look at all these sweetmeats,” said the mouse. “Take them and eat them instead of that stale bread.”
“But if we eat them, we must pay you for them, and where shall we get the money?” said the cowherds.
“Oh, never mind the money,” said the mouse.
So the cowherds took the sweetmeats and ate them all up. At this the mouse was furious. He stuck a pole into the ground, and ran and fetched ropes, and tied the cowherds hand and foot to the pole. Then he took all the cows and ran off with them.
He ran on and on till he got to a country where there were no fowls, no cows, no buffaloes, no meat of any kind; and the people in it did not even know what milk and meat were. The day the mouse arrived was the day the Rájá’s daughter was to be married, and a great many people were assembled together. The Rájá’s cooks were cooking, but they had neither meat nor ghee.
“Why are all these people assembled together?” said the mouse.
“To-day is our Rájá’s daughter’s wedding-day, and we are cooking the dinner,” answered the cooks.
“But you have no meat,” said the mouse.
“No,” said the cooks. “There is no meat of any kind in our country.”
“Take my cows,” said the mouse.
“No,” said the cooks; “our Rájá could not pay for them; he is too poor.” (He was only a petty Rájá.)
“It does not matter,” said the mouse. “I don’t want money.”
So the cooks took the cows and the sheep and killed them, and dressed their flesh in different ways; made pilaus and curries; they roasted some and boiled some, and gave it to the people to eat. In this way they made an end of all the cows.
“Why have you made an end of all my cows?” cried the mouse.
“Did not we tell you we should make use of them all?” said the cooks.
“Give me my cows,” said the mouse.
“We can’t. The people have eaten them all up,” said the cooks.
The mouse was in a great rage. He ran off to the bridegroom, who was walking near the kitchen, saying to himself, “Now I will go and fetch my bride.”
“Give me the money for my cows,” cried the mouse to him. “Your people have eaten them all up, and your cooks won’t pay me, so you must.”
“What have I to do with your cows?” said the bridegroom. “I won’t pay you for them.”
“Then if you won’t pay me, your wife’s father must,” said the mouse.
“Oh, he is too poor to pay for your cows,” said the bridegroom, “and I won’t.”
“Then if I am not paid, I will take away your bride,” said the mouse; and he ran off and carried away the bride.
The Rájá was very angry at this; but the mouse ran on and on with his wife (so he called the Rájá’s daughter) till he came to another country.
Now, on the day he arrived in it there were going to be grand sights and fun to please its Rájá. Some jugglers and rope-dancers were going to perform.
“Take my wife and let her walk on the rope; she is young, and your wives are old,” said the mouse to the rope-dancers.
“No,” they answered, “for she does not know how to walk on a rope and carry at the same time a wooden plate on her head. She would fall and break her neck.”
“But you must take my wife,” said the mouse. “She won’t fall; she is young, and your wives are old. You really must take her.”
So the rope-dancers took her, much against their will, and when she began to walk on the rope with the wooden plate on her head, she fell and died.
“Oh, why have you killed my wife?” cried the mouse.
“Did we not tell you she would fall and kill herself?” answered the rope-dancers.
The mouse seized all the jugglers’ and rope-dancers’ wives, and the things they used in dancing and juggling, and ran off with them. Then the rope-dancers and jugglers began to cry, and said, “What shall we do? Our wives and our property are all gone!”
Meanwhile the mouse ran on and on until he came to another country, where he got a house to live in. And he ate a great deal, and grew so fat that he could not get through the door of his house.
“Send for a carpenter,” said he to the rope-dancers’ and jugglers’ wives, “and tell him to cut off some of my flesh. Then I shall be able to get into my house.”
The women sent for a carpenter, and when he came the mouse said to him, “cut off some of my flesh, then I shall be able to go into my house.”
“If I do,” said the carpenter, “you will die.”
“No, I shan’t die,” said the mouse. “Do as I bid you.”
So the carpenter took his knife, and cut off some of the mouse’s flesh.
“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” cried the mouse; “how it does hurt! What can I do to make it stop paining me?”
“You must go to a certain place, where a particular kind of grain grows, and rub the grain on your wounds. Then they will get quite well,” said the carpenter.
So the mouse ran off to the place to which the carpenter had told him to go, and rubbed his wounds with the grain. This gave him such pain that he fell down and died.
The rope-dancers’ and jugglers’ wives went home to their husbands with all the things the mouse had carried away, and they all lived happily ever after.
Told by Karím.