Once upon a time there was a great king of Guzarat, who died leaving
two sons Phulsinh and Rupsinh. On the father’s death Phulsinh mounted
the throne. In no long time he died leaving a widow and no children and
Rupsinh became king of Guzarat, although still a little boy. Phulsinh’s
widow would have burnt herself on her husband’s pyre had not the
townspeople bidden her live and care for their child king.
The widowed queen was very wise and clever. So deft was she with her
fingers that she could dress her hair with oil and afterwards press the
hair so skilfully that not a drop of oil remained in it. On a day when
Rupsinh was a lad of fifteen, he lay asleep with his head resting on
the lap of the queen. As he slept, she dressed his hair with oil and
then began to squeeze it out. By chance she pulled out one of Rupsinh’s
hairs. Rupsinh awoke and said crossly: “You are not so clever to-day as
usual with your fingers, or you would not have pulled out my hair.” The
queen said with a laugh: “Yes, I am getting old and make mistakes. If
you want someone who will never make mistakes, you had better marry the
queen of the Anardes.” The queen was only joking, for the Anardes were
a race of fairies. But Rupsinh took her words in earnest and cried
“Marry the queen of the Anardes, then, I will! And till I have done so,
I shall neither eat nor drink inside my kingdom.” The poor queen
regretted bitterly her words and begged the young king to pay no heed
to them. But the headstrong boy would not mind her. He told his grooms,
to saddle his horses. “Shew me,” he said to the queen, “the house of
the queen of the Anardes. If not, I shall seek her without your aid. I
shall ask my way and with God’s help I shall find it.” The widowed
queen was greatly grieved at the way the boy king had taken her words;
still, she thought it best now to help him on his way, rather than to
thwart him.
She said: “If you will go, my King, then heed my words carefully, for
the road is long and full of perils. Trust none whom you meet or you
will perish miserably. On leaving the palace gates ride to the north.
In three days’ time you will come to a dense forest. Ride boldly into
it and in its very heart you will find a lake. But beware of the lake
and do not bathe in it or drink its waters. If you do, you will die;
for the lake is a fairies’ lake and no mortal who bathes in it or
drinks its waters can live. Ride therefore past the lake until you come
to a great mountain. Avoid the mountain; for near it lives a monstrous
elephant; and should it see you, it will trample you to death. Beyond
the mountain you will come to Thugtown, a town full of thugs and
cheats. They will kill you if they can. If you can outwit the men of
Thugtown, you will come next to a beautiful wood. Here above all be on
your guard, for the wood is peopled by demons who live on human flesh.
Beyond the demon’s wood lie the lands of the Princess Phulpancha. She
is so called because her weight is only that of five flowers. In her
country you will surely die; but if someone will drop on your body
three drops of Amrita, or ambrosia from the bottle that I give you, you
will come back to life. Such are the perils that await you, yet if you
still wish to go, take with you my blessing.” As the widowed queen
spoke, her voice trembled and the tears rolled down her cheeks, for she
loved Rupsinh as if he had been her own son. She put in the youth’s
hands a bottle of Amrita. He took it, bowed his head to her feet,
mounted his horse and spurring it along the northern road was soon out
of sight.
Three days later Rupsinh saw, as he rode, the forest of which the
widowed queen had spoken. He rode into it and rejoiced in the shade of
the great trees overhead. Suddenly he saw in front of him, like a sheet
of silver, a beautiful lake. Forgetting what the widowed queen had
said, he let his horse walk to the edge and quench its thirst. A moment
later he heard a noise of wings above him. He looked up and saw a great
company of fairies on horseback flying towards the lake. The young king
in a fright turned his horse’s head towards the road and tried to spur
it into a gallop. But the poison of the fairy lake was killing the poor
horse and after trying feebly to answer to the spur, it fell down dead.
The king undid the girths and taking with him the saddle ran to a big
tree close by and climbed into its branches. The fairies had not seen
him, so they dismounted; tied their horses to trees and plunged gaily
into the fairy lake. Rupsinh slipped down from his tree and slipped
noiselessly to where the queen of the fairies had tethered her horse
and put his saddle on its back. He jumped on it and galloped off. The
fairies did not notice their loss until they came out of the water. The
queen was in great distress; and she and other fairies followed
Rupsinh’s tracks until they came near the elephant mountain. Far off
they saw Rupsinh galloping away on the fairy queen’s horse. They called
to the elephant to stop him, as he was a horse thief. The elephant ran
after the king and caught him and his horse in its mighty trunk.
Carrying them to the mountain, it tried to crush them to death against
one of its steep sides. The young king was in despair. Then regaining
courage, he slashed so fiercely at the elephant’s trunk with his sword
that it let him and the horse go.
Rupsinh galloped away until he reached Thugtown. At its gate he saw an
old man sitting. As the king rode up, the old man rose and with great
courtesy said “Welcome, Thakor. Your father married you when a child to
my daughter; and yet you have never come to see her until now.” “This
is Thugtown,” thought the king, “and the old man must be one of the
thugs who live there.” Still Rupsinh could not but return the old man’s
greeting. He said “My father died so long ago that I cannot remember
him at all, nor anything he did. It was only the other day that I heard
from a kinsman that my father had married me to your daughter. I at
once set out to claim my bride.” The old man bade the king enter the
town and stay at his house, that he might meet his daughter. They
entered the town gates together. At the old man’s door his four young
sons came out and greeted the king as their brother-in-law. At night
they would have led him to a room at the top of the house. But the king
guessed that in the night they meant to throw him from the window. He
said he could not sleep anywhere but on the ground floor. He was so
obstinate that the old man at last put a bed for him in the verandah on
the ground floor, while he and his sons slept in rooms off it. The king
kept awake all night. It was well he did so. The queen of the fairies,
who had never ceased to follow her horse’s tracks, came to the old
man’s house and saw Rupsinh lying in the verandah. She tied a magic
thread round his ankle and ran to the stable to mount the horse which
the king had stolen. But Rupsinh untied the thread and tied it round
the ankle of the old man. He had no sooner done so, than the magic
thread became quite taut. The fairy queen had mounted her horse and
riding off dragged the old man after her. She never thought of looking
back, but galloped straight off to the elephant mountain. There she
threw him before the elephant, who at once trampled the old man to
death. In the meantime Rupsinh drew his sword. Going to the beds of the
four sons, he sternly demanded his horse. One of the four sons went to
the stable to saddle it. As it was not there, Rupsinh made him give him
one of the old man’s own horses instead. He then rode as fast as he
could out of Thugtown.
Rupsinh rode north for some hours when he saw in front of him a
beautiful wood. He at once recalled the widowed queen’s warning about
the demons who lived in it. He entered it. Suddenly he saw two demons
fighting together. When they saw the king they stopped fighting and
began to laugh. Rupsinh laughed back and then asked them what amused
them. “We have not tasted human flesh,” said one of the demons, “for
twelve years. When we saw you we laughed for joy. But why did you
laugh?” “I am a messenger of the god Shiva” said Rupsinh. “The
parchment on one of his drums is torn and he sent me out to get two
demon skins with which to repair it. The drum is so big that the skin
of one demon would not be enough. So when I saw two demons in front of
me, I laughed for joy.” Rupsinh drew his sword and rode at the demons
as if to skin them alive. In an agony of fear they begged him to take
the skin of their blind uncle instead. “One demon’s skin will not do,”
said the king sternly; “besides the skin of a blind demon would sound
hollow.” The demons in despair offered Rupsinh a large ransom, but he
would not accept it. At last they offered him a flying machine known as
a pavanpavdi. “In it,” they said, “you can fly all over the sky and
whenever you see a demon on earth, you can come down and skin him.” The
king took the pavanpavdi and tied it on to his horse’s back and rode on
until he crossed the borders of the Princess Phulpancha’s country. Some
time later he reached her town and lodged with an old woman who owned a
garden outside the city.
The king had not been there many days before the princess came to hear
of him. One day as he rode under her window her maid-servants whispered
to her, “That is the young king, my Princess.” Phulpancha on the spot
fell in love with him. One day Rupsinh came to his lodging, hungry and
thirsty, and asked the old woman to cook him some food at once. The old
woman said that she could not, as she was weaving garlands for the
Princess Phulpancha. The king bade the old woman cook his dinner while
he wove the garlands, which he did very skilfully. He then took off his
diamond ring and hid it in one of them. When his dinner was ready, he
ate it and the old woman went to the palace with the garlands. As the
Princess put them round her neck, her fingers touched the diamond ring.
She knew that it must have been sent to her by Rupsinh, as he lodged
with the old woman. Some days later Rupsinh left his lodging and
dressed as a poor Rajput, went to the court of Phulpancha’s father and
asked for service. The old king was pleased with Rupsinh’s speech and
bearing and made him chief of the guards round the Princess’ palace and
paid him three gold pieces a day. In this manner Rupsinh came to see
the Princess almost daily and told her all about himself. Some days
later came the weighing of the Princess Phulpancha. It was the custom
of the land that once a year the Princess should be weighed on a pair
of magic scales. If no man but the king had seen her during the
previous year, her weight would only be that of five flowers. But if a
man had seen her, her weight would be that of an ordinary girl of her
age and height. At the appointed hour Phulpancha sat on one of the
scales, while the weigher put five flowers on the other. Instead of the
five flowers balancing the Princess, her scale clung obstinately to the
ground; and it was not until two maunds had been put in the other, that
the Princess began to move upwards. The old king made enquiries and
came to know that Rupsinh had several times spoken to Phulpancha.
Instantly he had Rupsinh hanged, from the branch of a tree. Fortunately
before entering the king’s service, Rupsinh had told the old woman of
the garden about the Amrita. Hearing of the poor young king’s
execution, she went at night and sprinkled three drops of Amrita over
his body. Rupsinh came to life again. But the old woman fearing the old
king’s anger would not take him back. Rupsinh was at first at his wit’s
end. Then he remembered the demons’ pavanpavdi and seating himself in
it he rose in the air and flew northwards.
After some time the young king came to a big garden in the midst of
which was a palace seven stories high. He entered the palace and ran
upstairs until he reached the seventh storey. On the top stair was
seated an aged anchorite who said to him, “Welcome Rupsinh.” The king
was astonished that the anchorite should know his name and he asked the
anchorite how he knew it. “My inner knowledge, my son, tells me your
name. I also know that your brother’s widow anxiously awaits your
return. I know, too, that you are fated to win the queen of the
Anardes.” The king begged the anchorite to bless him. The anchorite did
so and added, “To-morrow I shall go to bathe in a pool in the palace
gardens. When I do so, watch carefully the pomegranate trees in the
orchard. You will see the pomegranates on them suddenly open and from
each one will come out an Anarde. They will play and dance together in
the garden and she to whom the others will pay deference is their
queen. After a time they will go back to their hiding places. Note
carefully the fruit which the queen enters. Then go down into the
garden, pick it and take it back with you. But do not look behind you,
as many others before you have done, or you will be turned into stone.”
Next morning the ascetic went to bathe and Rupsinh did as the ascetic
had told him. He watched the pomegranate trees and soon from each fruit
there dropped to the earth a tiny fairy. One of them, slightly bigger
than the others, was clearly their queen. They played and danced for a
time. Then they ran back to their hiding places. The pomegranates
closed and hid their fairy lodgers from view. The king, however, had
seen which pomegranate held the queen. He went into the garden, plucked
the fruit and turned back to the palace. Voices all round him cried
out, “Strike him! Kill him!” But remembering the anchorite’s words, he
never once looked round until he had reached the palace door. Then he
turned and saw the anchorite trying to soothe the other Anardes, for it
was their voices which the king had heard. “It was fated that one of
you should wed a mortal. What was fated has happened. So cease from
troubling the king and his bride and give them your blessing instead.”
When he had calmed the fairies, he went to the king and said, “My son,
start at once homewards and tarry nowhere on the road. Shew the
pomegranate to no one until you reach your city.”
The king mounted his horse without delay and started on his homeward
journey. In no long time he saw an ascetic, who for 700 years had been
doing penances, in order to win the queen of the Anardes. The king
saluted the anchorite, who asked him whether he had won his goal. The
king foolishly shewed the anchorite the pomegranate and let him take it
in his hand. The sage put it under his foot and when Rupsinh asked for
it back, sternly bade the prince begone. The king grew angry and
threatened to take it back by force. The anchorite turned towards a big
tree close by and consumed it with a single fiery breath. He then said
to the youth with a mocking laugh: “When I can blast a tree with a
single breath, do you think that I fear you for all your valour? For
700 years I have sought to win the queen of the Anardes. I shall not
give her up.” But seeing how downcast Rupsinh looked, he gave him a
wand and said “This is a magic wand. Take it. It will beat anyone whom
you hate or fear and in battle it will always give you victory.” The
king took the wand, although he thought it a poor exchange for the
queen of the Anardes, and going sadly to his horse got ready to mount
it. As he put his foot in the stirrup, the wand spoke to him with a
human voice, “O King, you do not know my name. It is Lalia Lath. For
700 years I have faithfully served the anchorite and now he has given
me away in exchange for a woman. If you bid me I will give my old
master a sound beating.” Rupsinh, who felt very cross with the
anchorite for stealing the queen of the Anardes, was delighted and said
“Yes, give him a beating, the sounder the better.” The wand then flew
from the king’s hand and began mercilessly to belabour the old sage,
until in his pain and fear he threw away the pomegranate and begged for
mercy.
The king picked up the fruit and with it the wand and he resumed his
journey. Several days later he reached his capital. There he took out
of the pomegranate the queen of the Anardes, who had by this time
become reconciled to marrying Rupsinh. After greeting his
sister-in-law, the widowed queen, he began to make everything ready for
his marriage to the fairy queen; and in due time their wedding was
celebrated with the greatest pomp and splendour. Unhappily in the crowd
that watched the wedding was a pretty sweeper girl, called Rukhi and
deeply skilled in black magic. She fell in love with the young king’s
handsome face and was filled with jealous rage at the happy look on the
face of the queen of the Anardes. She devised a cruel plot, to kill
her. She sought and obtained service in the palace, where the fairy
queen shewed her the greatest kindness. One day the king, weary with
the chase, fell asleep. The fairy queen had to go to a neighbouring
well, to fetch water for her bath. She did not like to leave the king
alone, so she asked Rukhi to watch by him until she came back. Rukhi
promised to do so, but a minute or so later she followed her mistress
to the well and pushed her in. Then she returned to the palace and by
her magic made the king believe that she was the queen of the Anardes.
But she could not so deceive the widowed queen. One day the latter in
open durbar challenged Rukhi to go back inside the pomegranate. But
Rukhi was too clever to be caught. She answered with ready wit: “I can
no longer do that, sister, now that I am wedded to a mortal.” She then
complained to the king that the widowed queen always tried to vex her.
So Rupsinh quarrelled with his sister-in-law and drove her out of the
palace.
Now out of the well into which the fairy queen had fallen, there grew a
most beautiful lotus. The gardener picked it and gave it to the king,
who in turn gave it to Rukhi. The latter by her magic knew that the
lotus had sprung from the body of the Anarde queen. She pulled off all
its petals and threw it out of the window. The flower fell into a bed
of soft earth and in a month or two there had sprung up a splendid
mango tree that bore delicious fruit. Rukhi had the tree cut down but
before it was felled, a bania had picked one of the mangoes and given
it to his wife to eat. A year later she bore him a beautiful little
baby girl. As the little girl grew up, she became the living image of
the queen of the Anardes.
Rukhi guessed that she must have sprung from the mango, which had
sprung from the lotus that had grown in the well, where the poor queen
had been drowned. Rukhi began to complain of a bad pain and told the
king that she had been bewitched by the bania girl and would not get
well while the girl lived. The king had the bania girl hanged outside
the eastern gate of his city. Another marvel then happened. The girl’s
head changed into an image of the God Shiva and her body into an image
of the Goddess Parvati. Her right eye turned into a cock sparrow and
her left eye into a hen sparrow. Her two legs turned into two plantain
trees. When Rukhi heard of this, she got terribly afraid that the king
would pass that way and see what had occurred. She told him never to
pass by the eastern gate or the spirit of the witch girl would possess
him. The king did not pass that way for a long time; but one day his
horse ran away with him and took him to the eastern gate. He saw there
a noble temple to the God Shiva. He went inside to pray.
As he prayed, he heard the hen sparrow say to her mate: “The king of
this city is a fool” and thereupon she told the cock sparrow the whole
tale of the queen of the Anardes. “This very night,” continued the hen
sparrow “the queen will come out of one of the plantain trees, into
which the bania girl’s legs have changed. She will worship the God
Shiva, re-enter the plantain stem and never again be seen on earth.”
The king heard the story and resolved to stay there all night. He did
so and at midnight he saw one of the plantain stems open. Out of it
came the queen of the Anardes. She began to pray to the God Shiva.
Before she had ended her prayer, the king caught her by the hand. “Who
are you?” cried the queen “and why do you take my hand?” “I am your
husband Rupsinh,” replied the king penitently. “I have been blind and
cruel. But pray forgive me and I shall live with you always.”
The queen was unwilling to stay, but Rupsinh held her firmly all night
by the hand. Next morning the king’s ministers and the widowed queen
missing him, went in search of him. When they found him at the temple,
the king told his sister-in-law all that had happened and begged her
forgiveness also. The widowed queen, to test the story, shewed the
pomegranate to the fairy queen and bade her hide herself inside it. She
did so. The widowed queen called to her and she came out. The widowed
queen had no longer any doubts. She buried the pomegranate in the earth
and went back with the king into his city. There the king called
together the townspeople and before them all repudiated the sweeper
woman Rukhi. He then had her hanged on the very spot where the bania
girl had been executed. After thus ridding himself of Rukhi, he sent
for the Princess Phulpancha and married her as well as the queen of the
Anardes. In their company and that of the widowed queen, the king lived
happily for ever so many years afterwards.