XIII. THE UPRIGHT KING 68
XIV. LOVING LAILÍ 73
XV. HOW KING BURTAL BECAME A FAKÍR 85
XVI. SOME OF THE DOINGS OF SHEKH FARÍD 95
XVII. THE MOUSE 101
XVIII. A WONDERFUL STORY 108
XIX. THE FAKÍR NÁNAKSÁ SAVES THE MERCHANT'S LIFE 114
XX. THE BOY WHO HAD A MOON ON HIS FOREHEAD AND A STAR
ON HIS CHIN 119
XXI. THE BÉL-PRINCESS 138
XXII. HOW THE RÁJÁ'S SON WON THE PRINCESS LABÁM 153
XXIII. THE PRINCESS WHO LOVED HER FATHER LIKE SALT 164
XXIV. THE DEMON IS AT LAST CONQUERED BY THE KING'S SON 173
XXV. THE FAN PRINCE 193
XXVI. THE BED 201
XXVII. PÁNWPATTÍ RÁNÍ 208
XXVIII. THE CLEVER WIFE 216
XXIX. RÁJÁ HARICHAND'S PUNISHMENT 224
XXX. THE KING'S SON AND THE WAZÍR'S DAUGHTER 234
NOTES 237
GLOSSARY 295
LIST OF BOOKS REFERRED TO 297
INDEX 299
[Decoration]
[Decoration]
INDIAN FAIRY TALES.
I.
PHÚLMATI RÁNÍ.
There were once a Rájá and a Rání who had an only daughter called the
Phúlmati Rání, or the Pink-rose Queen. She was so beautiful that if
she went into a very dark room it was all lighted up by her beauty. On
her head was the sun; on her hands, moons; and her face was covered
with stars. She had hair that reached to the ground, and it was made
of pure gold.
Every day after she had had her bath, her father and mother used to
weigh her in a pair of scales. She only weighed one flower. She ate
very, very little food. This made her father most unhappy, and he
said, "I cannot let my daughter marry any one who weighs more than one
flower." Now, God loved this girl dearly, so he went down under the
ground to see if any of the fairy Rájás was fit to be the Phúlmati
Rání's husband, and he thought none of them good enough. So he went in
the form of a Fakír to see the great Indrásan Rájá who ruled over all
the other fairy Rájás. This Rájá was exceedingly beautiful. On his
head was the sun; and on his hands, moons; and on his face, stars. God
made him weigh very little. Then he said to the Rájá, "Come up with
me, and we will go to the palace of the Phúlmati Rání." God had told
the Rájá that he was God and not a Fakír, for he loved the Indrásan
Rájá. "Very well," said the Indrásan Rájá. So they travelled on until
they came to the Phúlmati Rání's palace. When they arrived there they
pitched a tent in her compound, and they used to walk about, and
whenever they saw the Phúlmati Rání they looked at her. One day they
saw her having her hair combed, so God said to the Indrásan Rájá, "Get
a horse and ride where the Phúlmati Rání can see you, and if any one
asks you who you are, say, 'Oh, it's only a poor Fakír, and I am his
son. We have come to stay here a little while just to see the country.
We will go away very soon.'" Well, he got a horse and rode about, and
Phúlmati Rání, who was having her hair combed in the verandah, said,
"I am sure that must be some Rájá; only see how beautiful he is." And
she sent one of her servants to ask him who he was. So the servant
said to the Indrásan Rájá, "Who are you? why are you here? what do you
want?" "Oh, it's only a poor Fakír, and I am his son. We have just
come here for a little while to see the country. We will go away very
soon." So the servants returned to the Phúlmati Rání and told her what
the Indrásan Rájá had said. The Phúlmati Rání told her father about
this. The next day, when the Phúlmati Rání and her father were
standing in the verandah, God took a pair of scales and weighed the
Indrásan Rájá in them. His weight was only that of one flower! "Oh,"
said the Rájá, when he saw that, "here is the husband for the Phúlmati
Rání!" The next day, after the Phúlmati Rání had had her bath, her
father took her and weighed her, and he also weighed the Indrásan
Rájá. And they were each the same weight. Each weighed one flower,
although the Indrásan Rájá was fat and the Phúlmati Rání thin. The
next day they were married, and there was a grand wedding. God said he
was too poor-looking to appear, so he bought a quantity of elephants,
and camels, and horses, and cows, and sheep, and goats, and made a
procession, and came to the wedding. Then he went back to heaven, but
before he went he said to the Indrásan Rájá "You must stay here one
whole year; then go back to your father and to your kingdom. As long
as you put flowers on your ears no danger will come near you." (This
was in order that the fairies might know that he was a very great Rájá
and not hurt him.) "All right," said the Indrásan Rájá. And God went
back to heaven.
So the Indrásan Rájá stayed for a whole year. Then he told the Rájá,
the Phúlmati Rání's father, that he wished to go back to his own
kingdom. "All right," said the Rájá, and he wanted to give him horses,
and camels, and elephants. But the Indrásan Rájá and the Phúlmati Rání
said they wanted nothing but a tent and a cooly. Well, they set out;
but the Indrásan Rájá forgot to put flowers on his ears, and after
some days the Indrásan Rájá was very, very tired, so he said, "We will
sit down under these big trees and rest awhile. Our baggage will soon
be here; it is only a little way behind." So they sat down, and the
Rájá said he felt so tired he must sleep. "Very well," said the Rání;
"lay your head in my lap and sleep." After a while a shoemaker's wife
came by to get some water from a tank which was close to the spot
where the Rájá and Rání were resting. Now, the shoemaker's wife was
very black and ugly, and she had only one eye, and she was exceedingly
wicked. The Rání was very thirsty and she said to the woman, "Please
give me some water, I am so thirsty." "If you want any," said the
shoemaker's wife, "come to the tank and get it yourself." "But I
cannot," said the Rání, "for the Rájá is sleeping in my lap." At last
the poor Rání got so very, very thirsty, she said she must have some
water; so laying the Rájá's head very gently on the ground she went to
the tank. Then the wicked shoemaker's wife, instead of giving her to
drink, gave her a push and sent the beautiful Rání into the water,
where she was drowned. The shoemaker's wife then went back to the
Rájá, and, taking his head on her knee, sat still until he woke. When
the Rájá woke he was much frightened, and he said, "This is not my
wife. My wife was not black, and she had two eyes." The poor Rájá felt
very unhappy. He said, "I am sure something has happened to my wife."
He went to the tank, and he saw flowers floating on the water and he
caught them, and as he caught them his own true wife stood before him.
They travelled on till they came to a little house. The shoemaker's
wife went with them. They went into the house and laid themselves down
to sleep, and the Rájá laid beside him the flowers he had found
floating in the tank. The Rání's life was in the flowers. As soon as
the Rájá and Rání were asleep, the shoemaker's wife took the flowers,
broke them into little bits, and burnt them. The Rání died
immediately, for the second time. Then the poor Rájá, feeling very
lonely and unhappy, travelled on to his kingdom, and the shoemaker's
wife went after him. God brought the Phúlmati Rání to life a second
time, and led her to the Indrásan Rájá's gardener.
One day as the Indrásan Rájá was going out hunting, he passed by the
gardener's house, and saw a beautiful girl sitting in it. He thought
she looked very like his wife, the Phúlmati Rání. So he went home to
his father and said, "Father, I should like to be married to the girl
who lives in our gardener's house." "All right," said the father; "you
can be married at once." So they were married the next day.
One night the shoemaker's wife took a ram, killed it, and put some of
its blood on the Phúlmati Rání's mouth while the Rání slept. The next
morning she went to the Indrásan Rájá and said, "Whom have you
married? You have married a Rakshas. Just see. She has been eating
cows, and sheep, and chickens. Just come and see." The Rájá went, and
when he saw the blood on his wife's mouth he was frightened, and he
thought she was really a Rakshas. The shoemaker's wife said to him,
"If you do not cut this woman in pieces, some harm will happen to
you." So the Rájá took a knife and cut his beautiful wife into pieces.
He then went away very sorrowful. The Phúlmati Rání's arms and legs
grew into four houses; her chest became a tank, and her head a house
in the middle of the tank; her eyes turned into two little doves; and
these five houses, the tank and the doves, were transported to the
jungle. No one knew this. The little doves lived in the house that
stood in the middle of the tank. The other four houses stood round the
tank.
One day when the Indrásan Rájá was hunting by himself in the jungle he
was very tired, and he saw the house in the tank. So he said, "I will
go into that house to rest a little while, and to-morrow I will return
home to my father." So, tying his horse outside, he went into the
house and lay down to sleep. By and by, the two little birds came and
perched on the roof above his head. They began to talk, and the Rájá
listened. The little husband-dove said to his wife, "This is the man
who cut his wife to pieces." And then he told her how the Indrásan
Rájá had married the beautiful Phúlmati Rání, who weighed only one
flower, and how the shoemaker's wife had drowned her; how God had
brought her to life again; how the shoemaker's wife had burned her;
and last of all, how the Rájá himself had cut her to pieces. "And
cannot the Rájá find her again?" said the little wife-dove. "Oh, yes,
he can," said her husband, "but he does not know how to do so." "But
do tell me how he can find her," said the little wife-dove. "Well,"
said her husband, "every night, at twelve o'clock, the Rání and her
servants come to bathe in the tank. Her servants wear yellow dresses,
but she wears a red one. Now, if the Rájá could get all their dresses,
every one, when they lay them down and go into the tank to bathe, and
throw away all the yellow dresses one by one, keeping only the red
one, he would recover his wife."
The Rájá heard all these things, and at midnight the Rání and her
servants came to bathe. The Rájá lay very quiet, and after they all
had taken off their dresses and gone into the tank, he jumped up and
seized every one of the dresses,--he did not leave one of them,--and
ran away as hard as he could. Then each of the servants, who were only
fairies, screamed out, "Give me my dress! What are you doing? why do
you take it away?" Then the Rájá dropped one by one the yellow dresses
and kept the red one. The fairy servants picked up the dresses, and
forsook the Phúlmati Rání and ran away. The Rájá came back to her with
her dress in his hand, and she said, "Oh, give me back my dress. If
you keep it I shall die. Three times has God brought me to life, but
he will bring me to life no more." The Rájá fell at her feet and
begged her pardon, and they were reconciled. And he gave her back her
dress. Then they went home, and Indrásan Rájá had the shoemaker's wife
cut to pieces, and buried in the jungle. And they lived happily ever
after.
Told by Dunkní at Simla, July 25th, 1876.
[Decoration]
[Decoration]
II.
THE POMEGRANATE KING.
There was once a Mahárájá, called the Anárbásá, or Pomegranate King;
and a Mahárání called the Gulíanár, or Pomegranate-flower. The
Mahárání died leaving two children: a little girl of four or five
years old, and a little boy of three. The Mahárájá was very sorry when
she died, for he loved her dearly. He was exceedingly fond of his two
children, and got for them two servants: a man to cook their dinner,
and an ayah to take care of them. He also had them taught to read and
write. Soon after his wife's death the neighbouring Rájá's daughter's
husband died, and she said if any other Rájá would marry her, she
would be quite willing to marry him, and she also said she would like
very much to marry the Pomegranate Rájá. So her father went to see the
Pomegranate Rájá, and told him that his daughter wished to marry him.
"Oh," said the Pomegranate Rájá, "I do not want to marry again, for if
I do, the woman I marry will be sure to be unkind to my two children.
She will not take care of them. She will not pet them and comfort them
when they are unhappy." "Oh," said the other Rájá, "my daughter will
be very good to them, I assure you." "Very well," said the Mahárájá,
"I will marry her." So they were married.
For two or three months everything went on well, but then the new
Rání, who was called the Sunkásí Mahárání, began to beat the poor
children, and to scold their servants. One day she gave the boy such
a hard blow on his cheek that it swelled. When the Mahárájá came out
of his office to get his tiffin, he saw the boy's swollen face, and,
calling the two servants, he said, "Who did this? how did my boy get
hurt?" They said, "The Rání gave him such a hard blow on his cheek
that it swelled, and she gets very angry with us if we say anything
about her ill-treatment of the children, or how she scolds us." The
Mahárájá was exceedingly angry with his wife for this, and said to
her, "I never beat my children. Why should you beat them? If you beat
them I will send you away." And he went off to his office in a great
rage. The Rání was very angry. So she told the little girl to go with
the ayah to the bazar. The ayah and the little girl set off, never
suspecting any evil. As soon as they had gone, the Rání took the
little boy and told him she would kill him. The boy went down on his
knees and begged her to spare his life. But she said, "No; your father
is always quarrelling with me, beating me, and scolding me, all
through your fault." The boy begged and prayed again, saying he would
never be naughty any more. The Rání shook her head, and taking a large
knife she cut off his head. She then cut him up and made him into a
curry. She then buried his head, and his nails, and his feet in the
ground, and she covered them well with earth, and stamped the ground
well down so that no one should notice it had been disturbed. When the
Pomegranate Rájá came home to his dinner, she put the curry and some
rice on the table before him; but the Rájá, seeing his boy was not
there, would not eat. He went and looked everywhere for his son,
crying very much, and the little girl cried very much too, for she
loved her brother dearly. After they had hunted for him for some time,
the little boy appeared. His father embraced him. "Where have you
been?" said he. "I cannot eat my dinner without you." The little boy
said, "Oh, I was in the jungle playing with other boys." They then
sat down to dinner, and the curry changed into a kid curry. The Rání
was greatly astonished when she saw the boy. She said to herself, "I
cut his head off; I cut him into little pieces, and I made him into a
curry, and yet he is alive!" She then went into the garden to see if
his head, and nails, and feet were in the hole where she had buried
them. But they were not there; it was quite empty. She then called a
sepoy, and said to him, "If you will take two children into the jungle
and kill them, I will give you as much money as you like." "All
right," said the sepoy. She then brought the children, and told him to
take them to the jungle. So he took them away to the jungle, but he
had not the heart to kill them, for they were exceedingly beautiful,
and he left them in the jungle near their dead mother's grave. Then he
returned to the Rání, saying he had done as she wished, and she gave
him as much money as he wanted.
The poor Pomegranate Rájá was very unhappy when he saw his children
were not in the palace, and that they could not be found. He asked his
Rání where they were, but she said she did not know; they had gone out
to play and had never returned. From the day he lost his children the
Pomegranate Rájá became melancholy. He did not love the Rání any more;
he hated her.
Meanwhile the children lived in a little house built close to their
mother's grave. God had given her life again that she might take care
of them. But they did not know she was their mother; they thought she
was another woman sent to take care of them. God sent also a man to
teach them. Somehow or other the Rání Sunkásí heard they were still
alive in the jungle. She did not know how she could kill them. So at
last she pretended she was very ill, and she said to the Rájá, "The
doctor says that in the jungle there are two children, and he says if
you will have them killed, and will bring their livers for me to
stand on when I bathe, then I shall get well." The Rájá sent a second
sepoy to kill the children, and this man killed them and brought their
livers to the Rání. She stood on them while bathing, and then said she
was quite well. She then threw the livers into the garden, and during
the night a tree grew up there with two large beautiful flowers on it.
Next morning the Rání looked out and said, "I will gather those
flowers to-day." Every day she said she would gather them, and every
day she forgot. At last one day she said, "Every day I forget to
gather those flowers, but to-day I really will do so," and she sent
her servant to pluck them. So he went out, and, just as he was going
to gather them, the flowers flew up just out of his reach. Then the
Rání went down, and when she was going to pick them they flew up so
high that they could not be seen. Every day she tried to gather them,
and every day they went high up, and came back again to the tree as
soon as she had gone. Then the flowers disappeared and two large
fruits came in their stead. The Rání looked out of her window: "Oh,
what delicious fruits! I'll eat them all myself. I won't give a bit to
anybody, and I'll eat them by myself quite quietly." She went down to
the garden, but they flew high up into the sky, and then they came
down again. So this went on, day after day, until she got so cross she
ordered the tree to be cut down. But it was of no use. The tree was
cut down, but the fruits flew high up into the sky, and in the night
the tree grew up again and the fruits came back again to it. And so
this went on for many days. Every day she cut down the tree, and every
night it grew up again, but she could never get the fruits. At last
she became very angry, and had the tree hewn into tiny bits and all
the bits thrown away, but still the tree grew again in the night, and
in the morning the fruits were hanging on it. So she went to the Rájá
and told him that in the garden was a tree with two fruits, and every
time she tried to get them, the fruits went up into the air. She had
had the tree cut down ever so many times, and it always grew up again
in the night and the fruits returned to it. "Why cannot you leave the
tree alone?" said the Rájá. "But I should like to see if what you say
is true." So the Rájá and the Rání went down to the garden, and the
Rání tried to get the fruits, but she could not, for they went right
up into the air.
That evening the Rájá went alone to the garden to gather the fruits,
and the fruits of themselves fell into his hand. He took them into his
room, and putting them on a little table close to his bed, he lay down
to sleep. As soon as he was in bed a little voice inside one of the
fruits said, "Brother;" and a little voice in the other fruit said,
"Sister, speak more gently. To-morrow the Rájá will break open the
fruits, and if the Rání finds us she will kill us. Three times has God
made us alive again, but if we die a fourth time he will bring us to
life no more." The Rájá listened and said, "I will break them open in
a little while." Then he went to sleep, and after a little he woke and
said, "A little while longer," and went to sleep again. Several times
he woke up and said, "I will break the fruits open in a little while,"
and went to sleep. At last he took a knife and began cutting the
fruits open very fast, and the little boy cried, "Gently, gently,
father; you hurt us!" So then the Rájá cut more gently, and he stopped
to ask, "Are you hurt?" and they said, "No." And then he cut again and
asked, "Are you hurt?" and they said, "No." And a third time he asked,
"Are you hurt?" and they answered, "No." Then the fruits broke open
and his two children jumped out. They rushed into their father's arms,
and he clasped them tight, and they cried softly, that the Rání might
not hear.
He shut his room up close, and fed and dressed his children, and then
went out of the room, locking the door behind him. He had a little
wooden house built that could easily catch fire, and as soon as it was
ready he went to the Rání and said, "Will you go into a little house I
have made ready for you while your room is getting repaired?" "All
right," said the Rání; so she went into the little house, and that
night a man set it on fire, and the Rání and everything in it was
burnt up. Then the Pomegranate Rájá took her bones, put them into a
tin box, and sent them as a present to her mother. "Oh," said the
mother, "my daughter has married the Pomegranate Mahárájá, and so she
sends me some delicious food." When she opened the box, to her horror
she found only bones! Then she wrote to the Mahárájá, "Of what use are
bones?" The Mahárájá wrote back, "They are your bones; they belong to
you, for they are your daughter's bones. She ill-treated and killed my
children, and so I had her burnt."
The Pomegranate Rájá and his children lived very happily for some
time, and their dead mother, the Gulíanár Rání, having a wish to see
her husband and her children, prayed to God to let her go and visit
them. God said she could go, but not in her human shape, so he changed
her into a beautiful bird, and put a pin in her head, and said, "As
soon as the pin is pulled out you will become a woman again." She flew
to the palace where the Mahárájá lived, and there were great trees
about the palace. On one of these she perched at night. The doorkeeper
was lying near it. She called out, "Doorkeeper! doorkeeper!" and he
answered, "What is it? Who is it?" And she asked, "Is the Rájá well?"
and the doorkeeper said, "Yes." "Are the children well?" and he said,
"Yes." "And all the servants, and camels, and horses?" "Yes." "Are you
well?" "Yes." "Have you had plenty of food?" "Yes." "What a great
donkey your Mahárájá is!" And then she began to cry very much, and
pearls fell from her eyes as she cried. Then she began to laugh very
much, and great big rubies fell from her beak as she laughed. The next
morning the doorkeeper got up and felt about, and said, "What is all
this?" meaning the pearls and the rubies, for he did not know what
they were. "I will keep them." So he picked them all up and put them
into a corner of his house. Every night the bird came and asked after
the Mahárájá and the children and the servants, and left a great many
pearls and rubies behind her. At last the doorkeeper had a whole heap
of pearls and rubies.
One day a Fakír came and begged, and as the doorkeeper had no pice, or
flour, or rice to give, he gave him a handful of pearls and rubies.
"Well," said the Fakír to himself, "I am sure these are pearls and
rubies." So he tied them up in his cloth. Then he went to the Rájá to
beg, and the Rájá gave him a handful of rice. "What!" said the Fakír,
"the great Mahárájá only gives me a handful of rice when his
doorkeeper gives me pearls and rubies!" and he turned to walk away.
But the Mahárájá stopped him. "What did you say?" said he, "that my
doorkeeper gave you pearls and rubies?" "Yes," said the Fakír, "your
doorkeeper gave me pearls and rubies." So the Mahárájá went to the
doorkeeper's house, and when he saw all the pearls and rubies that
were there, he thought the man had stolen them from his treasury. The
Mahárájá had not as many pearls and rubies as his doorkeeper had. Then
turning to the doorkeeper he asked him to tell him truly where and how
he had got them. "Yes, I will," said the doorkeeper. "Every night a
beautiful bird comes and asks after you, after your children, after
all your elephants, horses, and servants; and then it cries, and when
it cries pearls drop from its eyes; and then it laughs, and rubies
fall from its beak. If you come to-night I dare say you will see it."
"All right," said the Pomegranate Rájá.
So that night the Mahárájá pulled his bed out under the tree on which
the bird always perched. At night the bird came and called out,
"Doorkeeper! doorkeeper!" and the doorkeeper answered, "Yes, lord."
And the bird said, "Is your Mahárájá well?" "Yes." "Are the children
well?" "Yes." "And all his servants, horses, and camels and
elephants--are they well?" "Yes." "Are you well?" "Yes." "Have you had
plenty of food?" "Yes." "What a fool your Mahárájá is!" And then she
cried, and the pearls came tumbling down on the Mahárájá's eyes, and
the Mahárájá opened one eye and saw what a beautiful bird it was. And
then it laughed, and rubies fell from its beak on to the Mahárájá.