Once upon a time there was a Banker, or “Sait,” who lived in a large
city in Northern India, and being a man of great wealth was held in
high repute by the Rajah and people of the place.
He had all the cunning of his class, and had amassed the most of his
fortune by lending money at a high rate of interest, and by giving
credit to men engaged in commerce.
[Illustration: THE BANJĀRA, HIS DOG, AND THE BANKER.]
One of his debtors was a “Banjāra,” or grain merchant who had owed him
some money for a considerable time, and had paid neither interest nor
any portion of that which he had borrowed. These Banjāras are
well-known people all over India, where they are scattered in large and
small communities. They are the possessors, you know, of herds of
cattle, which they employ as pack animals to convey their goods and
grain from place to place. It is interesting to meet them as they wend
their way from one camping ground to another, headed by the leading
bullock, which is called the “Guru Bail,” or “Sainted Bullock.” This
bullock is ornamented in every direction; the horns and pack-saddle
with cowry shells, bits of scarlet cloth, peacock’s feathers, and
tassels of various colours, while its neck is encircled by a band of
leather carrying tinkling bells of different sounds.
The Banjāra of this story was one day again obliged, on matters of
business, to go to the city where his creditor, the banker, lived; so,
to avoid meeting him, he encamped some distance off and then went
singly and alone to the city, in the hope that he might not come across
him; still he was haunted with the old native saying, oft repeated, “If
you have not seen a tiger, then look at a cat, and if you do not want
to see the Angel of death, then keep out of the way of your creditor.”
As ill luck would have it, however, he had no sooner got into the
streets of the town than upon turning a corner he came face to face
with the Banker, who instantly recognised him, and carried him off to
his house, and demanded that immediate payment should be made. It was
quite in vain for the poor Banjāra to sue for pity and forbearance, for
the debt was an old one, and the Banker was both hard and unmerciful.
At last the Banjāra bethought him of an expedient and said, “Permit me
to go to my encampment, and I will beg and borrow from my friends, and
return to you with the money without fail in three days’ time.” “No,
no,” said the Banker; “I cannot trust you again out of my sight, and by
my influence here I could, you know, get you thrown into prison. If
indeed I were merciful enough to let you go to your encampment for the
money, I should require the very best security.” “I know no one in the
city,” replied the Banjāra; “What can I do? Oh dear! what can I do? But
wait a moment. Here is my best friend, my faithful dog, “Kaloo” (Kala
is “black” in Sanscrit); “take him as my pledge and security that I
will return and pay you all I owe.”
Now a Banjāra’s dog is of a breed well known in India; he is ready of
resource and of wonderful sagacity, and obedient to the voice and
gesture of his master in a very marked degree.
After some considerable demur the Banker at last consented to take the
dog as security, and bringing a collar and chain to the Banjāra, he bid
him tie up the dog in the yard of his house.
This the Banjāra did; then patting and caressing his dog he said, “Now,
‘Kaloo,’ remember you are not to leave this house until I come back to
fetch you; if you run away you will disgrace my name, and I will never
forgive you.”
After thus addressing his dog he made a hasty “salaam” to the Banker,
and took his departure.
When the Banjāra had returned to his encampment he found the packs as
he had left them, still under their awning of blankets, and as it was
sun-down the cattle were being picketed in a circle round the packs,
and the fires were ready for the night, while the dogs were roaming
about outside on their usual guard over the camp.
Saluting his friends he said, “Now give me, please, a draught of water
to drink,—not like the sweet water of the Sāgar Lake, my friends, where
you know the firstborn of our race was sacrificed to the goddess
‘Devi,’ to appease her wrath for drying up the lake,—but the pure
crystal stream from the hills.”
He had soon refreshed himself with a draught, and then went round the
encampment in order to collect the money due to the Banker, and by
early the next morning he had got together enough to liquidate the
debt.
In the meantime strange things were happening at the Banker’s house,
for on the night of the very day when the Banjāra had gone for the
money the house was attacked by some “badmāshes,” or thieves, who
carried off several bags of rupees.
“Kaloo” gave tongue, and barked loudly, but he failed to rouse the
inmates, and the thieves made off with their booty. At last “Kaloo”
succeeded in breaking his chain, and he followed the thieves along the
road, who finding that the dawn of day was rapidly coming on, hastily
deposited the money bags in a tank, intending at some future time to
come again and remove them.
“Kaloo” noticed all this, gave up all further chase, and returned to
the Banker’s house. When the household rose in the morning it was soon
found out what had happened during the night, and in very quick time a
large concourse of friends and neighbours came round about the house,
and condoled with the Banker and his family at the loss they had
incurred. There were offers of help on every hand, the police were sent
in pursuit, and all that could be done was done to help the great
Banker of the city.
While all this stir was going on some of the friends noticed that the
dog was much agitated, and was every now and then pulling at their
garments. Many drove him off, and even the Banker said, “As if I had
not worry enough without being annoyed by a dog which does not belong
to me!”
Then the Banker told all his friends how he came to be possessed of the
dog which belonged to a Banjāra. Shortly afterwards an old man of the
party, who knew the quick intelligence of these Banjāra dogs, said, “I
think the dog knows more than you give him credit for; look! he has
come to me, and I shall go where he leads me.” Soon others followed in
the train, and the dog went knowingly along the road until he came to a
dead stop near a tank, and went in. The old man said, “There is
something here, depend upon it; let some young man go into the tank and
make a search.”
This was done, and lo and behold! one bag of rupees was brought up out
of the tank, and then another, and another, until all had been
recovered that the Banker had lost.
Then came shoutings and congratulations from all the people upon this
wonderful discovery, and loud praises were lavished on the Banjāra’s
dog who had found out the hiding-place of the thieves. The Banker
himself was so overcome with delight that he gave presents to his
friends all round, and then looking at “Kaloo” he said, “You faithful
dog! you most blessed of all securities! I shall now write out a
receipt in full for the money your master owes me, and tell him all
that you have done, and you yourself shall be the bearer of the good
news to him.”
This he at once did, and tied the receipt and the letter on to the
collar of the dog, and giving him a good feed he dismissed him to his
master with many smiles and blessings.
“Kaloo,” thus released by authority, and proud of having done his duty,
ran off with great joy to seek his master.
It was not long ere he saw his master hurriedly returning to the city,
and running up to him he began to play round about him, and to show
every sign of interest and affection. To “Kaloo’s” dismay, however, his
master did not respond, but on the contrary, was in great anger, and
much disappointed that his hitherto faithful dog had, as he thought,
broken his chain and run away from the Banker’s house, where he had
lodged him as security. In a loud voice he said, “Kaloo,’ you are a
‘Namak Harram’ (traitor to your salt); did I not tell you to wait till
I released you? But instead of that you have disobeyed me, disgraced my
name, and I can no longer have any confidence in you, and you are not
fit to live.” Whereupon he at once drew his “talwār” (sword) from its
scabbard, and at one cut severed poor “Kaloo’s” head from his body.
“Wretched dog!” he said, “This is the first time I have known you to
deceive me, and you richly deserve your fate.” Stooping down, his eye
suddenly caught sight of a piece of paper tied to the dog’s collar, and
hastily opening it he discovered to his utmost dismay that it was the
Banker’s receipt in full for all the money that he owed him, and with
the receipt was a letter, yes! a letter, describing how that the
faithful dog had been the means of his recovering all the property that
some thieves had stolen from his house on the same night of his
departure from the city.
Plunged at once into the direst horror and grief at what he had done,
and alone on the road with his faithful friend dead before his eyes, he
could not resist the impulse, and seizing the open talwār he thrust it
into his own body, and so perished by the side of his favourite. In
this state were they found, and the story of the Banjāra and his dog,
and the spot where they died, have ever since been treasured up in the
memories of the people.
Moral, or “Nasihut”: Keep always a steel-plate upon your temper, and a
“Rothâs” bridle on your tongue, which you know is the strongest of all,
and never give way to rash and impulsive acts.
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