This went on for several years. Every day the dhal soup was invariably
prepared for the night meal and a good portion of it was reserved for
the cold rice. Every night, the husband, without forgetting for even
a single day, used to ask his wife to reserve a portion. Thus passed
on several years, as we have already said.
One night this husband had his supper. The wife had sat at her
husband's leaf to take her supper after her lord had had his. That
night, too, our hero, as usual, repeated:--
"Keep, my dear, some of this soup for the morning."
At once a gurgling laughter was heard near the doorsill of their
house. The pair were astonished, and searched their whole house. No
one was discovered. Again the husband said:--
"Keep, my dear, some of this soup for the morning."
Again the laughter was heard. Finding that the laughter immediately
followed his order, the husband repeated it a third time. A third
time also the laughter broke out. They were astonished. Three times
had laughter been heard in their house, and still they could see no
one. Thinking that some one must have mocked him from the neighbouring
houses, he made careful inquiries and satisfied himself that none
of his neighbours had mocked him. He was afraid at the laughter
which thrice proceeded from a part of his house, as he had heard
it distinctly.
That very night our hero had a sudden and unforeseen calamity, and
just as he was dragging the latch of his backyard door a serpent
stung him in his finger. Neighbours hearing of the venomous reptile
in their next house, ran there with a stout cudgel. Already the
master of the house, who was passionately fond of the dhal soup,
had swooned away. His wife was mourning by his side, saying:--
"My dear husband. How did you forget your soup so soon and leave us
all for the other world? Just now you gave me the order, and before
tasting it even you have died."
The neighbours began to search for the snake; but they did not
succeed. And again a voice exclaimed from vacuum:--
"This husband's fate ended at the twelfth ghatika of this night. Yama
ordered me to go and fetch him to his world. I came down and reached
this house at the eighth ghatika when the husband was giving the
order to reserve for the morning meal his dear dhal soup. I could not
contain my laughter, and so broke out with a gurgling noise. As I am
divine no one could perceive me. And so none ever found me in this
house after they heard the laughter. Then I transformed myself into
a serpent and waited for the hour to do my death-dealing duty. The
poor man is now no more. Four ghatikas ago he was of opinion that he
would live and eat his cold rice to-morrow morning. How very sanguine
people are in this world of uncertainty. The cause for my laughter
was the husband's certainty when he issued that order to reserve the
dhal soup for the breakfast."
Thus ended the messenger, and vanished of course to inform his master
how he had executed his orders.
And from that day, my children, it was fixed that our life in this
world is always uncertain, and that one who lives at this moment
cannot be sure of doing so at the next moment. While such is the case,
how can you say, "Keep the pudding for to-morrow morning." Since you
saw in the story just related to you, that we can never be certain
of our life, you must say, instead of "for to-morrow morning, for
the beggar." If we keep it for the beggar, and if we fortunately
live till to-morrow morning, we shall use a portion of it and give
the remainder to the beggar. Hence you must always, hereafter,
say when any supper from overnight is to be left for the morning,
"Keep it for the beggar, Amma."
"Yes, mother. We shall do so hereafter," replied the children.
In India, among Brahmins, the wife must never take her food before her
lord, unless she is pregnant or sick. In these two cases even on the
days when it is possible to avoid the meal before her lord, the wife
invariably does it; on other days she cannot probably help it when she
is physically unable. And in taking her meal, the wife sits in front
of the leaf (dish) from which her husband has eaten. Most husbands
generally leave their leaves clean, some out of pure affection to
their wives and out of a good intention of not injuring the feelings
of their wives. But there are others, who, as they are unclean in
their other habits, are also unclean in their eating. The appearance
of their leaves after they have left off eating, is like those thrown
out in the streets and mutilated by crows and dogs. But their wives,
cursing their lot to have married such husbands, must, as long as
they are orthodox, eat out of those leaves.