it was. His uncles, being unable through envy to look at that calf,
killed it. Then the orphan, having taken off the calf's skin, took
one leg and secretly hid it in the house of a rich brahman who
lived at a distance. Then the orphan said, "Oh! how strongly the
house smells of cow's flesh!" The brahman, becoming angry, said,
"May a tiger eat you, you wicked boy! [28] How should there be
any cow's flesh here? I am a brahman--produce it, if you can: if
you cannot, I will take your life." The orphan said, "Very well,
I will make a search." He began to search in a careless, lounging
way; but coming to the place where he had hidden the calf's leg,
he suddenly pulled it out. "See, this is cow's flesh," said he; "I
told you so." Then the brahman, fearing lest, if other people came
in and saw this, his caste would be destroyed, said to the orphan,
"Orphan, my good sir! don't tell any one. I will give you a cloth-full
of money." [29] So saying, he gave him a cloth-full of silver,
which the orphan took with him to his home. When he arrived there,
he said to his mother: "Go and ask my uncles for their basket." His
mother went and called out: "Brothers! your nephew says he wants a
basket." Then the widow's brothers, having given her a basket, said
among themselves, "What does he want to do with the basket? Go and
watch." So they sent the youngest of them, and he went and watched,
and saw the orphan measuring the money with the basket. Then the
one who had watched returned home and told his brothers: "Where did
that nephew of ours get all this money? He is actually measuring the
rupees with a basket!" After they had finished measuring the money,
the orphan's mother went and returned the basket. Her brothers said
to her, "Send our nephew here." When the widow reached her house
she said to her son, "Your uncles bid me ask you to go and see them;
they want to speak to you." So the orphan went, and his uncles asked
him, "Where did you get all that money?" He answered, "It is the
price of cow's flesh; I went a-selling the flesh of my cow which you
killed. The people said, 'There is not enough of it for us,' and they
all bade me to bring more." His uncles asked him again, "Then if we go
selling cow's flesh, they will take more of it?" The orphan replied,
"Certainly they will take more; you have many cows, and if you kill
them all and go and sell their flesh, how much money will you bring
back!" Then each one of his six uncles killed a cow, and having made
the flesh into loads went to sell it. The orphan explained to them,
"When you arrive at the village of that rich brahman, offer your
meat for sale. Call out in the village as soon as you reach it,
'Who will take more cow's flesh?'" So these six brothers, taking up
their beef, went on their way, and, arriving at the brahman's village,
they cried, "Who will take more cow's flesh?" The people answered,
"We will take more; bring it here," and called them in. So when they
arrived at the brahman's house, all the inhabitants of the village,
having gathered together, seized those six brothers who had come to
sell cow's flesh, and having tied their hands, beat them soundly,
and said, "We are brahmans; do you dare to come here and traffic,
offering cow's flesh for sale?" So saying, they let them go. Then
those men who had brought the beef returned homewards, and on the
way took counsel together: "Oh, how that orphan has cheated us! Not
only has he caused us to kill our cattle; over and above that, he has
got us skins that smart all over. As soon as we get home, let us set
fire to his house!" So when they reached home, they set fire to the
orphan's house. Then the orphan, having woven two baskets, collected
the ashes of his burnt house, and made them into a load, and went to
a distant village where the people suffered from sore eyes. In that
village there was not a man who had not a pain in his eyes. When they
saw the orphan coming with his load of ashes, they asked him "Why
have you come hither?" The orphan answered, "Oh! when I heard that
your whole village was suffering severely from sore eyes, I came to
sell medicine to cure the complaint." "Oh, that is very good indeed,
dear sir," said they, and all the people of the village collected a
load of money, and gave it to the orphan. Then the orphan said, "Do
not apply this medicine to your eyes just yet; after I have gone a bit
of the way I will call out to you, 'Apply it'; then rub it in." So the
orphan, having got a load of money in exchange for his ashes, started
for home; and when he had got a little bit of the way, the people with
sore eyes called out to him, "Shall we not apply the medicine yet?" He
answered "Wait a bit!"; and he continued telling them to wait so long
as he was near the village. But when he arrived at a distance where
he thought they could not catch him, he called out, "Now apply the
medicine!" Then the sore-eyed people applied to their eyes the ashes
they had bought from the orphan. As soon as the medicine touched them,
their eyes began to smart as you cannot imagine! The pain in their
eyes became much worse than ever before. They said among themselves,
"Oh! how that fellow has cheated us, and gone away! if he comes again,
let us bind his hands fast and beat him!"
When the orphan reached home, he sent his mother again to fetch his
uncles' basket. The widow went to her brothers' house, and, having
lent her the basket, those six brothers said among themselves, "Go,
young one, watch again; what is he going to do with the basket?" So
the youngest went again secretly to watch. Again he saw the orphan
measuring money; and again he went back and carried the news to
his brothers: "Our nephew has returned, bringing with him much more
money than the last time." Then the six brothers went to the orphan,
and asked him, "Where did you get so much more money?" The orphan
answered, "It is the price of the ashes of my house that you set
fire to. The people in the place where I sold the ashes were crying,
'It is not enough, bring us as much more again!' Now, my house was
but a little one, and so the ashes were not much. But your houses
are big, and if you set fire to them and sell the ashes, how much
money will you get for them! It will be more than you can possibly
carry." Then the six brothers, his uncles, said one to another, "Let
us too set fire to our houses." So, having burned down their houses,
they gathered together the ashes, and each brother took as heavy a
load as he could carry. Then the orphan explained to them: "Take the
loads to the village of sore-eyed people, and, when you arrive near
it, say, 'Will any one take ashes?'" So these six brothers went their
way, and, when they came near the village of sore eyes, they called
out, "Will anyone take ashes?" Then the sore-eyed folk called out,
"Bring them here." So they went into the village. As soon as they got
inside, all the people bound them fast with ropes, and rubbed into
their eyes the ashes which they themselves had brought, and thrashed
them soundly. When the thrashing was over, the six brothers started
to return home. On the way they took counsel again together: "Oh, how
that villain has deceived us! Not only has he got us smarting skins;
he has, over and above that, caused us to burn down our houses and
our harvests. Now, immediately we get home, let us make him fast in
an iron cage, [30] and throw him into the river."
So when they got home they seized the orphan, and having shut him up
in an iron cage they took him to the bank of a great pool in a river
in the jungle. Then they said, "In a little while we will drown him;
now there is no chance for him to escape us, so let us go and eat our
rice." So saying, they went to eat their food. When they had gone away,
a certain king's son, who was hunting deer, came by. When he arrived
where the orphan was, he asked him, "What is the reason why you are
tied up in that iron cage?" The orphan answered, "My uncles have a
daughter, so lovely! You cannot imagine how fair she is. They tell
me to marry her, but I always answer that I will not. So my uncles,
becoming angry, have shut me up in this cage." Then the king's son
said, "Oh! then can I get her to wife?" "If you get into this cage
and stay there, you will be able to get her," the orphan answered;
"after a while my uncles will come, and will say, 'Have you nothing
more to say?' If they ask you this, then answer them, 'All I have
to say is that I will take her, uncles.'" "Very good then," said
the prince. Then the orphan said to the king's son, "If you go into
the cage wearing your own fine clothes, they will recognize you at
once. So let me out. I will give you my clothes, and then you can
enter the cage." So the king's son opened the cage and let out the
orphan, and the orphan gave his clothes to the prince, while the
prince gave his coat, dhoti, necklace, and bracelets in exchange to
the orphan, and entered into the cage. Then the orphan made fast the
door of the cage, and having dressed himself in the prince's clothes,
necklace, and bracelets, went away to his home. Then the orphan's
uncles returned from eating their rice, and coming up to the cage
asked, "Have you anything more to say, nephew?" "All right, uncles,
I agree to take her," answered the king's son, as the orphan had
told him to say. Then they threw him in the iron cage into the deep
pool. Thereupon the six brothers, the orphan's uncles, said one to
another, "How much trouble that fellow caused us all! Now, however,
he is dead and done with!" Then they returned home.
When they got there, lo! they saw the orphan again, not dead at
all, wearing the king's son's clothes, necklace, and bracelets,
splendidly adorned and decked out as you could not imagine! They
said one to another, "The orphan is not dead after all! There he
is, decked out and strutting in his finery!" They went up to him
and asked, "Nephew, how is it that you arrived here so soon?" The
orphan answered, "Oh, uncles, my grandmothers and grandfathers sent
me back here in a palki very quickly. Immediately I arrived there,
my grandparents gave me these fine clothes, this necklace, and these
bracelets. Only look at them! They sent word, too, that they wanted
you also to be told to come to them; as a token, they sent this gold
knife--see!" So saying, he showed it to them. Then his uncles said,
"How shall we manage to get there?" "Let each one of you take an iron
cage with him to the river bank, and get into it there," answered the
orphan. So each man took a cage to the river bank and got inside. Then
the orphan tied each tightly up in his iron cage, and threw the eldest
brother in his cage into the deep pool. As he fell, quantities of
bubbles came up on the surface of the water. The orphan cried, "Look,
uncles! My eldest uncle has drunk so much of the rice-beer which my
grandparents have given him, that he is vomiting." Then he brought
the next brother and threw him into the water; and so having cast
all his six uncles, one after another, into the stream, the orphan
returned to his home. Then his aunts, his uncles' wives, asked him,
"When will your uncles come back again?" "They will not come very
soon; have they not just met their parents, after being separated
from them for so long a time?" replied the orphan. So after waiting
three or four nights his aunts asked the orphan again, "Why have your
uncles not come back by this time?" He answered, "They will come very
soon." Then after waiting two or three nights more they asked again,
"Why have not your uncles come yet?" Then the orphan spoke clearly,
"Put each man's share of rice in the nòksèk." [31] So his aunts cried,
"Ah! they are dead and gone!" And understanding this at last, they
wept and made lamentation.
So the orphan became rich, and there was no one left to envy him. And
having become a great king, he lived a happy life.
Note.--Two incidents in this story, viz. the profit made by
the orphan by disposing of the flesh of his slaughtered calf,
and his gain by selling the ashes of his burnt house, and the
disappointment of his uncles when they endeavoured to imitate
him, much resemble the incidents of a folk-tale given as an
illustration of the Tibeto-Burman dialects of Rangkas, Darma,
Chaudangs, and Byangs in vol. iii. Part I., of the Linguistic
Survey. These dialects are spoken in the northern portion of
Kumaon, on the borders of Tibet. In this version the animals
slaughtered are goats and sheep, and the profit is made out of
their skins, while the ashes of the burnt house are by an accident
exchanged for a load of flour. Still, the motif is the same, and
the great distance of the country where this tale is current from
that of the Mikirs, and the impossibility of inter-communication,
make the coincidences interesting.
3. STORY OF HARATA KUNWAR
Harata Kunwar was one of six brothers, the youngest of them. From
his very birth he spent his time in shooting deer and wild pig, and
never laboured in the fields. His elder brothers, the five, did the
field work. Then they, the five brothers, took counsel together with
their father, saying, "This Harata Kunwar does no field work, but
spends his time in hunting. Let us talk the matter over at night." So
that night they talked it over. The father said to his eldest son,
"How will you supply me with rice?" He answered, "As for me, I will
become a head man of a village, and sit in assembly night and day;
from the rice-beer which people will bring me as the head man's
perquisites, I will supply you with good white rice and beer." "And
you, the second son, how will you supply me with rice?" "As for me,
I will become a blacksmith; night and day will I spend in forging
knives and daos; with the money produced by these I will furnish you
with beer, betel, pan, good white rice, and all kinds of spirit." "And
you, the third son, how will you supply me with rice?" "As for me,
I will labour in the fields, and having filled granaries and barns
with produce I will give you good beer and good white rice." "And you,
the fourth, how will you provide for me?" "As for me, I will go as
a companion to some one, and what that person gives me of rice and
beer I will give you." "And you, the fifth, how will you provide for
me?" "As for me, I will become some one's slave, and will support
you with the rice and beer he gives me." "And you, Harata Kunwar,
in what way will you furnish me with rice?" "As for me, I will marry
a daughter of the Sun-god, and having become a great king, I will
seat you on a throne, on a fine couch, I will cause slaves, male and
female, to bathe your arms and legs, and I will give you beer, rice,
and spirits." So they finished their talk. Next day, in the place
where they worked at their field, Harata Kunwar not being with them,
those five brothers consulted again together with their father. "This
Harata Kunwar says he will take to wife the daughter of the Sun-god
and become a king, forsooth! Where will he get his kingship? Let
us kill him, and let us talk about it again to-night." That night,
after they had eaten and drunk, they consulted together about the way
in which the killing was to be done. "Let us build a field-watcher's
hut [32] for Harata Kunwar, on the border of the jungle let us build
it, and make him watch there; then at night let us go and thrust him
through with a spear." Harata Kunwar's sister-in-law overheard them
as they were conspiring together. Next morning, after they had eaten
and drunk and gone away to their work in the fields, Harata Kunwar
came home from his hunting. His sister-in-law gave him his rice,
and after he had eaten and drunk she said, "Let me kill that insect
on you, Harata Kunwar." Then she killed a louse, and as she killed it
a tear fell upon Harata Kunwar's leg. He asked her, "Sister-in-law,
are you crying?" And his sister-in-law said, "I am not crying, a
raindrop fell upon you." Again, as she killed a louse, a tear fell the
second time. Harata Kunwar asked her again, "You really are crying,
sister-in-law; tell me why you are weeping." So she told him: "My
father-in-law and your elder brothers have plotted together to make you
watch by night in a jungle hut, and then they will thrust you through
there with a spear, they say; that is why I am weeping." Harata Kunwar
said, "You need not be afraid; you have told me: it is well. To-morrow
morning you will see what happens. If I am not dead, I will come home
to you after they have gone, and I will throw six clods, taken from
the worm-castings, on the roof of this house. If you don't hear the
noise of them on the roof, you will know that I am dead." So in the
evening his brothers came home from the field, and his father said,
"This night Harata Kunwar must go and watch for us in the jungle
hut. Wild pigs are eating up our paddy. There, by the side of the
jungle-clearing, we have built for you a watcher's hut." So, having
eaten and drunk, Harata Kunwar took with him his bow and went. Then
having gathered the fruit of the puroi-sak, [33] he put the juice of
it into the sheath of a plantain-stalk, and having made it like the
form of a sleeping man he put some clothes on it and laid it as though
sleeping in the hut. He himself hid quietly under the shelter of the
rice plants. Then, after their first sleep, his father and brothers
awoke one another: "Come! let us go and kill Harata Kunwar." Then,
each one taking with him a spear, they went to Harata Kunwar's jungle
hut. Then the father said, "Go thou, eldest, climb up and thrust him
through." The eldest said, "How should I dare to put my spear through
him? he is our brother, our youngest brother, we have one mother and
father, and besides, we have sucked both of us at the same breast,
the same nipple. Since we are brothers, how should I dare to kill
him? I dare not." "Go, then, you, the second." The second answered,
"Oh! he is not the son of a second wife, own brother he is, our younger
brother; how then should I dare to kill him? I dare not." "Go, then,
you, the third." He answered, "Our thigh is one, our foot is one,
our arm is one, our hand is one; we have grown up together, he is our
brother. How could I possibly kill him? I cannot." "Go, then, thou,
the fourth." He said, "We sucked together at one nipple, own brothers
are we, no sister has he, how could I venture to kill him? I dare
not." "Go, then, you, the youngest." "Oh! why do you send me on such an
errand? I am the next to him. From childhood it was I who grew up with
him together. We ate our rice together from one platter; we drank our
beer from the same mug. How should I dare to kill such a one? I dare
not!" Then their father became angry. "Then why did you dare to say,
'We must kill Harata Kunwar'? If you cannot bring yourselves to do
it, you will never become men." So saying, he climbed up the posts
of the hut, and thrust his spear through that plantain-sheath, and
the juice of the puroi sak came dropping out from it. Then he called
out, "Harata Kunwar, strong though he be, has got his deserts now at
last! Let him marry the Sun-god's daughter and make himself a king
now!" Harata Kunwar overheard all this. "What, what are you saying,
my brothers?" he called out. Then, saying "Harata Kunwar has his
bow with him!" they ran away in fear, stumbling and falling as they
ran. When they got to their own jungle hut, they vomited, and on
the night clearing away, with great difficulty in the morning they
reached home. Then Harata Kunwar, after they had come, himself came
up, and took six clods from the worm-casts and threw them on the
roof. So after they had eaten and drunk, his brothers went away to
their field. Then Harata Kunwar came in, and his sister-in-law gave
him his rice. After eating and drinking, he said, "Sister! I cannot
remain here with you; my own brothers, nay, even my own father,
aim at my life, and are plotting to kill me. I must therefore go
a-wandering. Get ready and give me a store of rice to take with me,
bread, and parched grain." So his sister-in-law prepared food for him,
bread and parched rice. And he said to her when he parted: "If I do
not come by my death, then when I come here again I will throw six
clods from the worm-castings on the roof; then, when you hear them,
wash and make ready the stools and benches!" So they wept together,
and parted. Then Harata Kunwar, taking his bow with him, went on his
way. At last he arrived at his grandmother's house. "Oh, granny! are
you there?" The old woman answered, "Who is there? as for this place,
I have neither kin nor helper. Who is come?" Harata Kunwar answered,
"It is I, granny." Then the old woman said, "Why are you come,
my dear? I am a poor widow. I have neither house nor field. I live
only by begging my food. Why have you come?" Harata Kunwar answered,
"I will stay here with you and be your companion." The old woman said,
"You, who are fit to be a king; a great man, how will you be able to
live with me here?" Harata Kunwar answered, "Very good, granny; here
I will stay." So he became her companion there. Then his granny the
widow said, "Harata Kunwar, spread the paddy out in the sun to dry. I
will go and beg paddy in the king's village. After you have spread
out the paddy, if you want to bathe in the river, don't go up-stream;
bathe on the shore close by this house of ours." So having spread out
the paddy, his granny the widow went to the king's village. Harata
Kunwar took charge of the paddy; frequently turning it over, in a very
short time he dried it. Then he collected the paddy together and went
to bathe in the river. He thought in his own mind, "for what reason
did my granny, when she went away, tell me not to go up-stream to
bathe? I will go up-stream and see for myself." So saying, he went
up-stream. There he saw shards of broken water-vessels of gold and
silver lying. "Oh! that is why granny told me when she went away not
to go up-stream. At night I will ask her whose ghat (watering-place)
this is." So he returned home. Then his granny the widow in the evening
also came home again from the king's village. So at night, after they
had eaten and drunk, Harata Kunwar asked her, "Whose ghat is that
up-stream? There are broken pieces of gold and silver water-vessels
strewn all about it." Then the widow said, "I told you when I went
away not to go up-stream. You have been disobeying me and have gone
up there, I know?" Harata Kunwar answered, "Yes, I did go, granny;
now tell me whose ghat it is." So his granny the widow told him:
"It is the ghat of the King of the Great Palace. His daughters, six
sisters, come to that place to bathe; don't go there any more." Then
Harata Kunwar considered again by himself: "My granny tells me not
to go again, but go I will and see for myself." So up-stream he went
again, and hid himself quietly under the river bank. At midday the
six daughters of the King of the Great Palace came to bathe there in
the river. Descending beautifully, each one laid aside her clothes
and jumped into the water. This did one after the other, and fair
it was to see--like the brightness of the moon and sun; there they
bathed and frolicked in the water. Then when the day became cool,
the eldest sister admonished the rest: [34] "O my dears, it is cooking
time! time to serve up the food: time to house for the night our fowls
and our pigs. Our mother will scold us, our father will scold us,
if we stay any longer. Let us go." So they ended their bathing and
playing in the water. One after another they shook out their clothes
in the breeze and put them on, and beautifully flew away; but the
youngest of them flew away last of all, lovely like the brightness of
the moon or the sun. Until they were lost to sight in the heaven Harata
Kunwar continued gazing after them till his neck got a crook in it. So
they entered heaven, and he saw them no more. And he returned to his
house, thinking to himself, "How fair, how lovely! (I will not rest)
until I get one of them to be my wife! To-night I will ask granny
about it." So home he came, and after supper Harata Kunwar asked
his granny: "Oh, granny! such beautiful, such lovely ones I never
saw; how shall I get one to wife? Tell me a plan." His granny said,
"Oh, Harata Kunwar, these are children of the Sun-god, children of a
great king; how should you, who are a man's son, succeed in getting
one to wife?" Harata Kunwar said, "Not so, granny: get one to wife I
must and will. Show me a plan!" Since he continued to press her with
questions, at last she said to him, "If you must and will get one for
your wife, then clear a field on the river bank." "Very good, granny,"
said Harata Kunwar, "to-morrow, this very next day, I will go and
clear it." So he remained watching for the dawn to break, until the
sun fully rose. Then, taking with him a dao, he went. From the moment
he reached the place he rested not, but cut and hacked down the jungle
there, till in a single day he had finished the clearing. Then, having
heaped the fallen trees together, he set fire to them, and the fire
devoured them there, till there was not a single piece or stock left
that was not burnt. Then he dibbled in maize, small millet, sugar cane,
plantains; besides these he planted flowers--marvel of Peru, white
lilies, marigolds, [35] many kinds of flowers. Then the daughters
of the King of the Great Palace came down to bathe in the river;
beautifully they descended, fair as never was seen; like the moon,
like the sun in splendour, they came right down there. So, having
finished bathing and splashing about in the water, they spied Harata
Kunwar's garden plot. They said, "Oh, whose field is this? It is very
pretty indeed!" The eldest answered, "It must be our brother-in-law
Harata Kunwar's field." So they flew away beautifully again to heaven
together. Harata Kunwar there pondered in his mind: "Shall I ever
succeed in getting her to wife?" And again he asked his grandmother,
"Granny, when shall I succeed in getting one to wife?" His granny
answered, "Not in that way, grandson. Build for yourself a jungle
hut." So next morning a jungle hut he went to build. In a single day
he finished building one, great and big, and came home again. "The
jungle-hut is finished, granny," he said. "Then cut for yourself a
flute," advised his granny. So he cut several flutes for himself,
and bored holes in them. Then the time for maize and millet to ripen
came. And his granny advised him: "Go and watch in your jungle hut,
and play the flute." As for his field, in a very short time flowers
blossomed there as you never saw! Then the daughters of the King of the
Great Palace arrived to bathe in the river; flying down beautifully
one after another they laid aside their clothes and jumped into the
water, and bathed and frolicked. Then the eldest admonished them:
"Come, my dears, let us go." Thereupon Harata Kunwar began to play
on his flute so beautifully that you never heard the like. "Oh! this
flute-playing is very pretty to hear! Surely it is the man (called)
Harata Kunwar. Come, dears, let us go and ask for a few flowers." So
they went. "Harata Kunwar, we would like to pluck for ourselves a few
flowers. May we pluck and take some, sir?" "Yes," said Harata Kunwar,
"you can pluck as many as you like." Then each one plucked some flowers
and went away. Gracefully they flew away with the flowers. Until they
disappeared in the sky, Harata Kunwar gazed after them, until his eyes
became quite sore with gazing. So they returned into heaven. When he
could see them no more, Harata Kunwar also returned home. And his
granny the widow asked him, "Did you have any talk to-day with the
daughters of the King of the Great Palace?" "Yes, we had some talk;
they even asked to be allowed to gather some of my flowers." Then his
granny explained a plan: "To-morrow is a lucky day. Go, you, before
the Great King's daughters come down to bathe, and hide yourself as I
tell you, and watch by the river. The elder sisters, all five, have
got husbands already. As for the youngest, the King of the Winds is
asking for her to marry her to his son; already the gourds and chungas
of beer (for the wedding-feast) have arrived. Nevertheless, having
singled out her petticoat from among the others, while they are all
bathing, bring it here to me. I will weave a petticoat just like it
in exchange for it; take that one back there and put it down again in
the same place where her real petticoat was; her own petticoat let us
hide away. Then she will not be able to fly away. If she asks for her
petticoat back again, say 'One or other of you must marry me.'" "Yes,
very good indeed, granny," said Harata Kunwar. From the time that his
granny imparted to him that plan, Harata Kunwar's mind was so cheerful
as you could not imagine. All night long he could not close his eyes,
but went on thinking continually. So morning dawned. Then, having
breakfasted, he went to his field. "Oh, when will it be midday?" he
said, as he went on waiting. Then he hid himself quietly under the
sand. Then at midday the daughters of the King of the Great Palace
came. Gracefully they flew down there, and one after another removed
her garments and plunged into the stream. So when they were all in
the water, Harata Kunwar rose stealthily and seized the petticoat and
striped cloth of that youngest one, and carried them off straightway
to his granny the widow. And his granny wove in place of them another
petticoat and striped cloth just like them. In a very short time she
had done them, and Harata Kunwar ran back again there, and having put
the new petticoat and striped cloth in the same place, himself went
into his jungle hut and played the flute. Wonderfully he played it
there; never was heard such playing.
So when they had had enough of bathing and sporting in the water,
the eldest admonished her sisters: [36] "O my sisters, let us go! it
is time to pound the rice, time to clean it after pounding: time to
cook, time to serve up: time to heat the beer, time to squeeze it
from the rice-grains." So having put on her clothes she said again,
"Come, let us go and ask for a few flowers." Then, having plucked some
flowers, first the eldest flew up, then the younger sisters also flew
up to her gracefully, and last of all the youngest also tried to fly,
but found she could not. If she flew she fell back again there; if
she got up and tried to fly again, she fell back a second time. Then
the eldest said, "Oh! what in the world is the matter?" So the elder
sisters also came down again there, and went and said to Harata
Kunwar, "O Harata Kunwar, without doubt it is you who have changed
our youngest sister's petticoat; therefore, bring it back!" So they
called out, and Harata Kunwar answered, "One or other of you must
be my wife." The daughters of the King of the Great Palace said,
"How is it possible that any of us should stay here and be your
wife? We have each of us got husbands already." Harata Kunwar said,
"Then I cannot give you the petticoat; one of you must positively
marry me." Then the daughters of the King of the Great Palace said
to one another, "Sister! do you marry him." The eldest answered,
"How should I marry him? I have a number of children already." "Then
you, the next, you marry him." "How can I marry him? I also have four
children already." "You, the third, you marry him, then." "How can
I, when I also have three children already?" "Then you, the fourth,
you marry him." "I also have two children already; how should I marry
him?" "You, the fifth, you marry him." "I cannot marry him; don't you
know that I also have one child already?" "Then you, the youngest, you
marry him." The youngest answered, "As for me, the King of the Winds
is asking for me to marry me to his son, the gourds and chungas of
beer (for the wedding feast) have arrived already. How can I possibly
marry him?" Her eldest sisters said, "Well, but you are not married
yet. You must marry him, dear. It is getting dark; we must go. There
at home our fowls and our pigs will be calling out for us; besides,
our mother and father will be looking out for us. And We will come
and visit you from time to time." Then the youngest one said, "What
is to be done, sisters? Well, I will marry him; you go. Our mother
and father will be angry." Then the eldest one said: "Harata Kunwar,
you would not listen to our instructions, therefore we are leaving our
youngest sister here with you; but be careful not to grieve or trouble
her. Do not make her cook or serve up; moreover, touch not her hand
or her foot." So, after giving parting instructions to their youngest
sister, they flew away gracefully to heaven again together. The pair
who were left behind continued gazing after them till they were lost in
the heaven and they could see them no more. Then Harata Kunwar said:
"It is getting dark, let us two also go home." So Harata Kunwar was
happy and joyful. Night and day he shot deer and wild pig, and his
platform and drying stand [37] (for drying flesh on) were never dry
(i.e. without flesh exposed on them to dry).
So one year came to an end. "O Granny, I say to myself, 'I will go
home'; what am I to do?" said Harata Kunwar. "Sure, you have your own
house, you have your own field; you can go if you like; nevertheless
your wife is not yet entirely at one with you here." "Nay, but,"
said Harata Kunwar, "is it not a whole year (since we were married),
granny?" "Nevertheless, you have not come to perfect agreement
yet." "Oh, then," said Harata Kunwar, "I cannot go yet." So Harata
Kunwar stayed there, working in the field and labouring, and getting
barns and granaries stored with the produce to such an extent that
the widow's house was filled up with baskets and barrels full of
grain. And God gave Harata Kunwar a child, one son only. Then he asked
his grandmother again: "Granny! I keep saying to myself, 'we will go
home to my mother and father.'" The widow answered, "Your wife has
not yet thoroughly accommodated herself to you, grandson." "Not so,
granny; she has indeed. Has she not already borne me a son?" "Go,
then. You would not listen to the warnings I gave you from time to
time. Go together. But your wife has not yet made up her mind to
stay with you, I assure you." So Harata Kunwar said to his wife,
"My dear! let us two go together to our home." His wife answered,
"Go. Wherever you take me (I will go too)." Then the morning dawned,
and they took their breakfast and started. They went a bit of the
way. Now, his child and his wife Harata Kunwar bound firmly to his
waist with his turban, and so carried them. And so as they went on they
saw a jungle-cock [38] scratching the ground in a wonderful way on the
mountain side. Harata Kunwar said, "Oh, jungle-cock, what are you doing
there? I am in a hurry to get home; leave the road open to me." The
jungle-cock answered, "I will not leave the road open to you. I say to
myself, 'Harata Kunwar to-day will bring along his wife and child,'
and I am watching the way he is coming." Harata Kunwar rejoined,
"What jest is this? Be careful, lest in a little you have to say,
'when Harata Kunwar brought his wife and child to his home and field,
my life was lost.'" The jungle-cock said, "I don't say so; to-day
(we will see whether) you or I will prevail." Harata Kunwar said,
"Is that true?" "True." "Do you swear it?" "I swear it." Then Harata
Kunwar, setting an arrow to his bow, shot him.
Then as he went on a little further (he came upon) a cock-pheasant
[39] blocking the road, and scratching in a wonderful way on the
mountain side. And Harata Kunwar said again, "Oh, cock-pheasant,
what are you doing there? I am in a hurry to get home; leave the road
free to me." The cock-pheasant answered, "I won't leave the road free
to you. I say to myself, 'To-day Harata Kunwar will bring along his
wife and child,' and I am watching here the way he is coming." Harata
Kunwar said, "Oh, don't be silly, lest you have to say in a little
while, 'when Harata Kunwar brought along his wife and child, I lost
my life.'" The cock-pheasant said, "I don't say so." Harata Kunwar
said again, "Are you in earnest?" "In earnest." "Do you swear it?" "I
swear it." Then Harata Kunwar set his bow and shot him.
Then, as they went on still further, a wild boar, so big as you never
saw or imagined, with his tusks overlapping his mouth, was straddling
across the road, and rooting up the earth there on the mountain side
in an extraordinary way. And Harata Kunwar said, "Oh, wild boar,
what are you doing there? leave me the road open, I want to get home
quickly." The wild boar answered, "I will by no means leave you the
road; saying to myself, 'To-day Harata Kunwar will bring along his wife
and child,' I am watching the road he is coming." Harata Kunwar said,
"Oh, don't joke! is it true or not?" The wild boar answered, "It is
true." Harata Kunwar said, "Be careful, lest in a little while you
have to say, 'when Harata Kunwar brought along his wife and child,
my life was lost.'" The wild boar said, "I don't say so." "Are you
in earnest?" "Yes." "Do you swear it?" "I swear it." "Oh, then----"
So saying, Harata Kunwar set his bow and shot him.
Then, when he had nearly arrived at his house, he collected six
clods from the worm-casts, and threw them on the roof. Then his
sister-in-law said, "Harata Kunwar has come home! Wash the stools and
the benches!" Then they washed all the stools and seats and planks and
benches. And Harata Kunwar, bringing along with him that wild boar,
put it down beside the hedge, and entered the house. And as soon as
he arrived, his sister-in-law gave him there beer, bread, and parched
rice. His wife was so very beautiful that no one could look her in the
face, as one cannot look straight at the brightness of the sun. Then
his brothers were perplexed, saying, "What in the world has happened
to us this night?" And Harata Kunwar said, "A short time ago I shot a
little pig on the road. I just put it down there beside the hedge. Go
and get it and scorch it (for cooking)." So his five brothers went,
but the boar was so very big that they could not even move it; they
could do nothing with it at all. So Harata Kunwar went with them. With
one hand he easily lifted it and brought it away; and they scorched
it and cut it up. So home they brought it and cooked it and served
it up, and joyful, noisy, laughing and jesting, they ate and drank.
Then next morning dawned. Hearing that Harata Kunwar had brought
his wife home, all the people of the whole country-side kept coming
and going to gaze upon her, in such crowds as you never saw. And
Harata Kunwar put away carefully in a bamboo chunga his wife's own
petticoat and striped cloth, with her gold ornaments, her necklace,
and her gold drum (Ass. madoli) worn on the breast, and tied them
up in the pitch of the roof. So Harata Kunwar went to pay visits to
the people of the village, and the ryots of the country-side came
to visit him; and then they went on to gaze upon his wife. And all
the women--aunts on mother's and father's side, sisters-in-law, elder
brothers' wives--each one said, "Oh! is she not lovely, sister!" Thus
they wondered at her. Then Harata Kunwar's wife answered, "Not so
lovely yet as I might be. If I were to put on again my own petticoat,
my striped cloth, my necklace and my bracelets, then, indeed, there
would be something to see!" Then some old woman said, "Oh, then, give
them to her." And Harata Kunwar's old father said, "Where in the world
did that idiot of a boy put them away? Why did he not give her her own
petticoat and striped cloth?" Then Harata Kunwar's wife explained:
"They are there in the roof-pitch where he has tied them up." So
his father untied the bundle and gave it to her. Then she put the
things on and arrayed herself. Thereupon she became inconceivably
beautiful. "Oh!" they cried, "lovely! beautiful indeed! It is not
for nothing that she is called child of the Sun-god!" Thereupon
Harata Kunwar's wife rose up to her full height, and flapped her
clothes, and gracefully flew away back to her own place. Then Harata
Kunwar, happening to see her from where he was on a distant road,
kept continually bending his bow. And his wife said, as she left him:
"Wait, wait! hereafter we shall meet again." So Harata Kunwar, weeping
bitterly, sick and sorry at heart, came to his house. Immediately he
got there, without eating or drinking, he took his child on his back,
and straightway set out for the house of his grandmother the widow
woman. Thus he went on till he arrived, and at once on arrival began
to weep and wail as you could not imagine. Then his grandmother said:
"I told you from the first that your wife was not yet reconciled to
her lot with you. How will you get to see her now? How will you be
able to reach her in heaven?" This only aggravated his weeping;
refusing meat and drink, he followed his grandmother wherever
she went, continually dogging her steps, and was like to die of
grief. At last his grandmother said, "Harata Kunwar, take a little
food, and then I will tell you of a plan." So he took something to
eat, bread and parched rice, and then his grandmother told him her
scheme. "To-morrow," she said, "the son of the King of the Winds
will come there to marry your wife. Before that, your father-in-law's
elephant will come here to bathe. Do you go and hide yourself there
under the sand. When the elephant (after its bath) is just about to
go, hold on tight to its tail, and bind your child firmly to your
waist with your turban. If the elephant asks you anything, say that
you also are going to the place where your wife is. Then to-morrow,
in the evening, you will arrive there. Remain concealed on the river
bank. Then male and female slaves will come to draw water there in
order to bathe your wife. Call out to them, 'Give me one draught of
water for the child.' Then, if they give you the water, drop into
the water-pot a gold ring. Then she (i.e. your wife) will call for
you. Go to her, and when you arrive, put down your child on the ground;
then the child will go of itself towards its mother."
The morning dawned, and Harata Kunwar, after eating and drinking, went
to the river bank and hid himself quietly under the sand. Then the
elephant came down to bathe in the river, and having bathed, was just
about to go away, when Harata Kunwar grasped firmly hold of its tail,
and with his turban tied his child securely to his waist. Then the
elephant flew up with him to heaven, and put him down on the river
bank there. And all the people of the King of the Winds had come to
the house of the King of the Great Palace in order to celebrate the
marriage of the son of the King of the Winds with Harata Kunwar's
wife. And the King's slaves, male and female, came to draw water in
order to bathe Harata Kunwar's wife. And Harata Kunwar called out
to them for water for his child: "Give me just one draught of water
for my son, good mothers!" One after another paid no attention to
his request, till at last an old woman came up. So Harata Kunwar
called out again: "Give me water, one draught only, good madam, for
my child." So the old woman gave him some water. Making as though
he would take hold of the water-jar, Harata Kunwar dropped into it
a gold ring. Then they brought the water for Harata Kunwar's wife's
bath. After washing delicately her arms and her legs, they poured
the old woman's water-jar over her head, and the gold ring fell
out. Then Harata Kunwar's wife asked, "Oh! who is the person whose
water-jar has just reached me?" Then one after another they said,
"It's not my water-jar." Then all called out together, "It is the
old woman's jar." Then she said to the old woman: "Where did you get
hold of this ring? Seize that man and bring him here at once. If you
cannot bring him, it will be a matter of your life." So the old woman,
weeping and lamenting, came to Harata Kunwar and called out to him,
"Be pleased to come with me! What was the reason why your Honour,
under pretence of asking me to give you water, had it in your mind to
make me lose my life?" So Harata Kunwar, taking the child on his back,
went with her. Immediately on arriving he put the boy down on the
ground, and the child ran straight into its mother's lap and began to
suck her breast. Then the King of the Great Palace said: "Why! such a
thing as this was never seen! They have got a child big between them
already!" So the King of the Winds' folk were ashamed and disgusted,
and returned home sad and sorry. So they celebrated the wedding of
Harata Kunwar and the daughter of the King of the Great Palace.
So Harata Kunwar remained there one year, two years, and laboured at
tilling the fields, so that he got twelve barns, twelve granaries full
of grain. Then said Harata Kunwar to his wife: "My dear! we two, like
the sparrow or the dove, should have a nest at least, a roosting-place
of our own. Therefore let us go away together. Do you ask father-in-law
and mother-in-law." So at night Harata Kunwar's wife asked her parents:
"O father and mother, your son-in-law says, 'we two, like a sparrow or
a dove, should at least have a nest, a roosting-place of our own. Let
us go away together,' and he bade me ask you about it. What are your
commands in the matter?" So the King of the Great Palace said: "My
daughter! I have once for all given you away to this man like a bundle
of greens, and have nothing more to do with you. Go away together,
to-morrow if you like, or to-day if you prefer it." Then he went on
to say, "What do you two desire of me? slaves, male or female? ryots,
husbandmen? gold? silver?" So she went and told Harata Kunwar: "My
dear! my mother and father say, 'You may go away together to-day or
to-morrow as you please: moreover, slaves, male and female, ryots,
husbandmen, gold, silver,--mention whatever you desire'--so they
say." And Harata Kunwar said, "I want nothing at all." And morning
dawned. Then Harata Kunwar went and did obeisance to his father
and mother-in-law. And his father-in-law said to him, "What do you
desire? slaves--handmaids--ryots--husbandmen--gold--silver?" Harata
Kunwar said, "I need nothing." Then Harata Kunwar and his wife,
the wedded pair, and their son started for home, and in due course
arrived there. A king he became, a great man, and night and day he
lived in happiness and greatness, and his kingdom was great and stable.
APPENDIX.
THE LEGEND OF CREATION.
Condensed from Mr. Allen's (of the American Presbyterian Mission)
replies to ethnographical questions, dated October, 1900.
Long ago the gods Hèmphu and Mukràng took counsel together for the
creation of the world. They marked the limits of their work, setting
up four great posts to fix the boundaries of things, and fastened them
immovably with six of their mother's hairs. Then they looked for seed
to produce the earth, but found none. Then they consulted a hundred
other gods, with their wives, making, with themselves and their wives,
two hundred and four in all. It was decided to send one of the wives to
beg for some earth from the god Hajòng, and Bamon's wife was sent on
this errand. But Hajòng refused to give any earth from his world from
which a rival world might be fashioned, and sent the goddess Bamonpi
away empty-handed. But as she returned she noticed the worm-casts on
the road, and carried off one and hid it in her bosom. But even with
this piece of warm earth nothing could be done, until the gods sent
for Helòng Recho, the king of the earth-worms, who came and worked
up the piece of earth, till in one day it became a heap many feet
in diameter; so he continued, till eventually it became this earth
of ours. But it was still soft moist earth, on which no one could
travel. So they called Kapràng the blacksmith, who with his bellows
produced a wind which dried the mud to solid earth. Then the gods said,
"We must cause plants to grow on it." They searched everywhere for
seed, and at last sent to Rèkbepi in the west, by the great post that
marked the place of the setting sun, to ask her for seed. Rèkbepi came,
and herself brought seed and sowed it. (Another version states that
Rèkbepi and Rèk-kropi, wives of two gods, went to Kana, beyond the
boundaries of this world, and obtained from him the various seeds of
trees and plants. As they were returning, the sinàm, or head-strap,
which held the baskets on their heads broke, and the winds scattered
the seeds on the surface of the earth. This occurred on the bank of
the river Kallang, in the south-eastern part of Nowgong. But all the
bamboos that grew from these seeds were jointless, and therefore weak:
strong winds would break down the entire crop in a single storm. So
the goddesses who brought the seed tied round the stems pieces of
thread to strengthen them; the threads made scars, until at last all
the bamboos we have now are marked with scars at the joints.)
Next came the creation of animals. Hèmphu and Mukràng were the leaders,
but they were helped by Pithe and Pothe ("great mother" and "great
father"). The elephant was first created to be a servant to man. Then
the tiger was made, and bidden to eat the wicked; any one killed by
a tiger is still thought to have committed some great crime.
Then a great council was held, and it was decided to create a
being called arlèng (man). The first man's name was Bamon-po,
and he had created for him two wives, one a Mikir and the other an
Assamese. But no offspring was born to the man for a long time. At
last the Assamese wife sent her husband to her elder brother, who
understood the secrets of nature. He sent Bamonpo into his garden,
and bade him pick an orange for each of his wives, and give it to her
to eat, when all would be well. Bamonpo did so, and went homewards
with his two oranges. On the way, becoming hot, he stopped at a river
to bathe. While he was in the water, a crow came and carried away
one of the oranges. Bamonpo sadly returned to his home, and gave
the one orange left to his Assamese wife, who ate it. But the Mikir
wife picked up a piece of the peel and ate it, and in process of time
she had a son, whom she named Ram. The Assamese wife also had a son,
whom she called Chaputi. He, however, was weak and puny, while Ram
was strong and valiant. Ram could pull up trees by the roots, and
break them down as he pleased. He could fight and conquer any demon
who attacked him, and any man whom he met. But he had no wife. One
day while out hunting he became thirsty, and climbed a tree to look
for water. He saw a pool, at which he quenched his thirst. As he did
so, he noticed in the grass a white thing, which he put in his basket
and carried home. It was a large egg. For some days he forgot to look
at it, and later on, when he went to see it, he found that the egg
was broken, and a beautiful woman had come forth from it. The demons
tried to seize her and carry her off, but Ram vanquished them all, and
made her his wife. She was very fruitful, and her children multiplied
until they were numbered by thousands. Ram's fame spread throughout
the world, till at last he disappeared, and was deified by a race
of his descendants, called Hindus. They were a mighty race of men,
and in the course of time, becoming dissatisfied with the mastery of
the earth, they determined to conquer heaven, and began to build a
tower to reach up to the skies. Higher and higher rose the building,
till at last the gods and demons feared lest these giants should
become the masters of heaven, as they already were of earth. So they
confounded their speech, and scattered them to the four corners of
the earth. Hence arose all the various tongues of men.
Additional note to p. 45.--A very exact parallel to the story of
Harata Kunwar will be found in Mr. S. J. Hickson's book entitled A
Naturalist in North Celebes (London, 1889), pp. 264-6. It is a story
current among the Minahassa people of that region, of heavenly nymphs
in whose clothes resided their power to fly, and one of whom was
captured by a man who made her his wife; other details agree closely
with those of the Mikir story.
VI.
LANGUAGE.
Outline of Mikir grammar--The original text of the three stories
translated in Section V., analysed and elucidated.
The language spoken by the Mikirs belongs to the great family of
Indo-Chinese speech called Tibeto-Burman, the general characteristics
of which have been fully set forth in The Linguistic Survey of India,
vol. iii. Mikir itself is treated on pp. 380 ff. of Part II. of that
volume, and is described by Dr. Grierson as a member of the Naga-Bodo
sub-group, in which it is classed together with Empeo or Kachcha Naga,
Kabui, and Khoirao. It is unnecessary here to occupy space with any
demonstration of the fact that Mikir is a Tibeto-Burman language, or
to cite lists of words in it agreeing with those of other languages of
the same great class. In the next section an attempt will be made to
examine its affinities with other varieties of Tibeto-Burman speech,
and to define more clearly its place in the family; in this the
language will be dealt with in its internal structure only, and,
as specimens, the original text of the three stories translated
in Section V. will be given, with an interlinear rendering and a
running commentary.
A grammatical sketch of Mikir was printed at pp. 381-391 of Part
II. vol. iii. of the Linguistic Survey. What follows is mainly borrowed
from that source, which was the first published attempt to explain
systematically the facts and mechanism of the language.
SOUNDS.
Mikir has no written character of its own. The first publication
printed in it, a short catechism issued by a missionary press at
Sibsagar in 1875, used the Assamese character; since then, so far as
is known, the Roman alphabet has always been employed to express the
sounds of the language. Mr. Stack, from whose materials this monograph
has been compiled, distinguished the following vowel sounds:--
a, long a as in father (chiefly in open syllables);
à, the same shortened and pronounced abruptly, as in the German
Mann, always in closed syllables;
(N.B. The language does not possess the short Hindi a,
representing the u in but.)
e, the long e in the French scène;
e, the same sound shortened, as in belief;
è, the sharp e in the English men (always in closed syllables);
i, the long i in machine;
i, the short i in it;
o, the long o in bone;
o, the same shortened, as in obey;
ò, the sharp abrupt sound in pot (always in closed syllables);
u, the long u in June;
u, the short u in full.
The diphthongs are--
ai, as in aisle;
ei, almost as in feign, with the i audible;
oi, as in boil;
ui, long u with i added: no English equivalent.
The consonants used in Mikir are b, ch, d, h, j, k, l, m, n, ng, p,
r, s, t, v (all with their value as in English), and the aspirates
kh, ph, th (pronounced as in cookhouse, haphazard, anthill). Bh,
dh, and g occur only in a few borrowed words, and bh and dh are
commonly resolved, as bahar (for Hindi bhar), "a load," and dohòn
(for Ass. dhon), "money." F, sh, w, y, and z are not used. Ng is
never initial, and the g is not separately heard (always as in singer,
never as in younger).
MONOSYLLABIC ROOTS.
The root words of the language, whether nouns, adjectives, pronouns,
verbs, or adverbs, are generally monosyllabic; where simple roots
have more than one syllable, the additions are formative prefixes,
once probably separate words, which have become incorporated. Such
are the prefix ke-, ki-, ka-, used to form adjectives, present
participles, and verbal nouns; and the prefixes ar- (in arni, "sun,"
arlòng, "stone," arlèng, "man," etc.), ing- (in inglòng, "mountain";
inghòn, "pity," etc.), and te-, ti-, to- (in teràm, "call," tekàng,
"abandon," tikup, "house-yard," tovar, "road," etc.), of which the
precise significance is not now traceable. In compound roots, formed
by combining monosyllabic elements, the force of each individual
syllable is still fully felt; such compounds are exceedingly common.
Words are not inflected, but are located in sense by their position
in the sentence or by the addition of particles. These particles may
often be omitted where ambiguity is not likely to occur; such omission
is particularly frequent as regards the postpositions indicating case,
and the tense-affixes of the verb.
GENDER.
Gender is not distinguished except for animated beings, and in them
either (1) by added words indicating sex (as so-po, "boy," so-pi,
"girl"; aso-pinso, "male child"; aso-pi, "daughter"; chainòng-alo,
"bull"; chainòng-api, "cow"), or (2) by the use of different terms (po,
"father," pe or pei, "mother," phu, "grandfather," phi, "grandmother,"
etc.).
NUMBER.
The ordinary suffix for the plural is -tum (which is originally a
separate word meaning "company," "followers"); but other words are
occasionally employed, as mar, a "mass, quantity, or company"; òng,
"many"; and li, a respectful form used in addressing a number of
persons. When -tum is suffixed to a noun, it takes the prefixed a-
of relation, as arlèng-atum, "men"; when added to a personal pronoun
it does not require this adjunct, as will be explained below (ne,
"I," ne-tum, "we"; nàng, "thou," nàng-tum, "ye"; la, "he, she, it,"
la-tum, "they").
CASE.
Case is indicated by position, or by postpositions. The nominative,
and, generally speaking, the accusative, have no postpositions, but
are ascertained by their position in the sentence, the nominative
at the beginning, the accusative following it before the verb. Both,
when necessary, can be emphasised by the addition of the particles -ke
and -si, which in some sort play the part of the definite article; but
these are not case-postpositions. There is no device (as in Tibetan)
for distinguishing the case of the agent with transitive verbs.
The genitive always precedes the noun on which it is dependent. When
the word in the genitive is a pronoun of the first or second person,
nothing intervenes between them: ne-mèn, "my name"; nàng-pe,
"thy clothes." But when, the pronoun is in the third person, or a
noun is in the genitive case, the following noun has a- prefixed:
e.g. la a-po, "his father"; Arnàm a-hèm, "God's house"; hijai-atum
a-kàm, "the jackals' work"; arni-kàngsàm a-pòr, "day-becoming-cool
time." This prefixed a- is really the pronoun of the third person,
and means his, her, its, their; the full meaning of the combinations
given above is therefore "he, his father": "God, his house": "the
jackals, their work": "day becoming cool, its time." As in many
other languages of the Tibeto-Burman family, nouns (especially
those denoting personal relations, parts of the body, etc.) are
seldom conceived as abstract and self-contained; they most often
occur in relation to some other noun, and thus the syllable a-
is more often prefixed to them than not. Especially is this the
case with adjectives; these ordinarily follow the noun which they
qualify, and almost always have a- prefixed; e.g. Arnàm a-kethe,
"God Almighty": la a-kibi a-bàng, "that younger one." Sometimes this
prefixed a- is thinned down to e-, as in hèm-e-pi, hèm-e-po, "widow,
widower," literally "female or male owner of the house": hijai e-hur,
"a pack of jackals." Most postpositions (originally nouns joined
to the genitive of the qualified word) similarly require a- before
them; and the suffix -tum of the plural, since it means "a company,"
also in this manner assumes the form a-tum. Before ing- the prefix a-
is absorbed, and the result is àng.
The other cases are formed by postpositions. The instrumental is
generally indicated by pèn (sometimes with prefixed a- or e-,
as apèn, epèn, but more often without), or pèn-si. The dative
takes a-phàn, "to or for," which is also occasionally used for the
accusative. The sign of the dative of purpose is apòt: pi-apòt,
"what for, why?" kopi-apòtsi, id. The ablative is formed with pèn or
pènsi: nòn-pèn, "from now"; dàk-pèn, "from here"; apara (Ass. para)
is also used, generally with pèn as well. The locative has a number
of postpositions, according to the position required: -si is used for
"in," as hèm-si, "in the house," adèt-si, "in his country"; arlo is
also used for "in, inside." Le (properly the conjunctive participle
of a verb meaning "arrive, reach to a place") is often used as a
postposition for "at, in." Other common locative postpositions are
a-thàk, "upon, on," àngsòng, "above, upon," arum, "below," aber,
"below," alòng "together with" (lòng means "place"), adun, adung,
"beside, next to" (dun is a verb meaning "to be with, accompany"),
adàk, "between," àngbòng, "in the middle of," aphi, "after."
ADJECTIVES.
Adjectives are regularly formed by prefixing ke-, ki-, or ka- to the
root, and do not change for gender, number, or case. Thus, from the
root me, "to be good," we have keme, "good"; helo, "distance," kahelo,
"far off"; dòk, "to have savour," kedòk, "savoury"; ho, "to be bitter,"
keho, "bitter"; lòk, "to be white," kelòk, "white"; ri, "to be rich,"
kiri, "rich." Ke- and ki- are generally used with monosyllables, ka-
with longer words; ka- with ing- forms kàng.
The form of the adjective is precisely the, same as that of the present
participle of the verbal root, used to form the present tense, and also
as that of the infinitive or abstract of that root, and the collocation
of the sentence alone determines the meaning of the word used. When
particles of comparison or other modifying elements are added to the
adjective, the prefix ke- etc. is often dropped as unnecessary; thus--
kelòk, "white"; lòk-hik, "whitish."
keme, "good"; me-mu, "better"; me-ne, "best."
keding, "tall"; ding-mu, "taller."
But kàngtui, "high"; kàngtui-mu, "higher"; kàngtui-ne, "highest."
Comparison is effected by means of the postpositions apar and aphàn;
"his brother is taller than his sister," a-te apar (or aphàn)
a-kòr ding-mu.
Adjectives commonly follow the noun qualified; when they precede,
the construction corresponds to what in Aryan languages would be
indicated by the relative pronoun (see below, p. 80).
NUMERALS.
The cardinal numerals are isi, one; hini, two; kethòm, three; phili,
four; phòngo, five; theròk, six; theròk-si, seven; nerkèp, eight;
sirkèp, nine; kèp, ten. It will be seen that seven is six plus one,
eight ten minus two, nine ten minus one. From eleven to nineteen
kre takes the place of kèp: kre-isi, eleven; kre-hini, twelve;
kre-kethòm, thirteen, etc. A score is ingkoi, and from this point
onwards the syllable ra is inserted between the multiple of ten
and the added units: ingkoi-ra-isi, twenty-one; ingkoi-ra-hini,
twenty-two, etc. Thirty, forty, etc. are formed by adding kèp to the
multiplier unit: thòm-kèp, phili-kèp, etc. Eighty is theròk-nerkèp,
ninety theròk-serkèp. A hundred is pharo or paro, a thousand suri.
The numeral follows the noun. In composition hini (except with bàng,
"person") is reduced to ni, and kethòm to thòm, as jo-ni jo-thòm,
"two or three nights." Phili and theròk are often contracted to phli
and thròk.
Generic determinatives, as in many other Tibeto-Burman languages,
are commonly used with numbers:--
with persons, bàng, as a-òng-mar kòrte bàng-theròk, "his uncles,
the six brothers";
with animals, jòn (perhaps an Assamese loan-word), as chelòng
jòn-phili, "four buffaloes";
with trees and things standing up, ròng: thèngpi ròng-theròk "six
trees";
with houses, hum, as hèm hum-theròk-kèp, "sixty houses";
with flat things, as a mat, a leaf, a knife, pàk: as tar pàk-phòngo,
"five mats"; lo pàk-phili, "four leaves"; noke pàk-thòm, "three
knives";
with globular things, as an egg, a gourd, a vessel, pum: as vo-ti
pum-ni, "two eggs"; bòng pum-theròksi, "seven gourds";
with parts of the body, and also with rings, bracelets, and
other ornaments, hòng: as kèng e-hòng, "one leg"; roi hòng-ni,
"two bracelets."
One of anything is not formed with isi, but, if a person is spoken of,
inut (a Khasi loan-word) is used: if anything else, e- is prefixed
to the generic determinative; "one cow," chainòng e-jòn; "one tree,"
thèngpi e-ròng; "one book," puthi e-pàk; "one egg," vo-ti e-pum. This
e- appears to be borrowed from Assamese, where it is shortened from èk.
Ordinals are formed by prefixing batai to the cardinal, as
batai-kethòm, "third," batai phili, "fourth." They seem to be little
used: in the story of Harata Kunwar it will be seen that clumsy
periphrases are employed to designate the second, third, fourth, and
fifth brother of the family to which the hero belonged. Distributive
numeral adverbs are formed by prefixing pur or phòng to the cardinal:
pur-thòm or phòng-thòm, "thrice."
PRONOUNS.
The following are the personal pronouns:--
1st Person: ne, I; ne-tum, ne-li, ne-li-tum, we, excluding the
person addressed: i-tum, i-li, we, including the person
addressed;
2nd Person: nàng, thou; nàng-tum, nàng-li, nàng-li-tum, ye;
3rd Person: la, he, she, it; la-tum, they; alàng, he, she; alàng-li,
alàng-atum, alàng-li-tum, they.
(The pronoun la is really a demonstrative, = this, that: it is probable
that the original pronoun of the third person was a.)
These pronouns take the postpositions like nouns. The possessive or
genitive prefixes are ne, my, our, excluding the person addressed;
e- or i-, our, including the person addressed; nàng-, thy, your; a-,
his, her, its, their.
The demonstrative pronouns are--la, labàngso, bàngso, this;
pl. labàngso-atum, these: hala, halabàngso, that; pl. hala-tum,
halabàngso-atum, those. The syllable ha- connotes distance, as dàksi,
ladàk, here; ha-dàk, there; ha ahèm che-voi-lo, "he returned home
from a distance."
(There appears once to have been another demonstrative pronoun, pi,
pe, pa, still preserved in the compound words pi-ni, "to-day," penàp,
"to-morrow," pedàp, "this morning," paningve, "to-night." Instead
of pi and pe we also find mi, me, as mi-ni, me-nàp. This survival
is important for the purpose of comparison with other Tibeto-Burman
languages.)
As in other Tibeto-Burman languages, there is no relative pronoun;
its place is taken by descriptive adjectival phrases. Thus "those
six brothers who had gone to sell cow's flesh" is--
la chainòng a-òk kejòr-dàm-a-tum kòrte bàng-theròk.
Those cow 's flesh to sell going (plural) brothers persons-six;
"The man whom Tenton had tied with an iron chain" is--
Tèntòn ingchin a-ni-pèn ke-kòk arlèng.
Tenton iron chain-with tied-up man.
In these constructions, it will be seen, the adjective or qualifying
participle precedes the noun.
The interrogative syllable, used to form interrogative pronouns,
is ko-: komàt, komàt-si, who? kopi, pi, what? ko-pu, ko-pu-si,
kolopu, kolopu-sòn, how? ko-àn, ko-ànsi, how many? konàt, konàthu,
where? konàm-tu, nàm-tu, nàm-tu-si, when? Always when the sentence
does not contain an interrogative pronoun, and sometimes when it
does, the syllable ma at the end marks a question: "Are you afraid,"
nàng phere-dèt ma? Ne (probably an Assamese loan-word) is also used
instead of ma: "Will you marry him or not?" do-ji-ne do-de-ne?
The reflexive pronoun is amethàng, self; binòng, own; but the most
usual way of indicating that the action affects oneself is to prefix
the particle che- (chi-, ching-, cheng-, and rarely cho-) to the
verbal root: la hèm che-voi-lo, "he returned home," i.e. to his own
house; a-òng-mar-atum che-pu-lo, "his uncles said to one another";
che-hàng-jo, "they asked for themselves." With initial ing-, che-
coalesces to ching: with ar- it unites to form cher.
VERBS.
The Mikir verb indicates time, past, present, or future, by means
of particles prefixed or suffixed to the root. It does not vary for
number, [40] gender, or person. There is no separate verb-substantive,
though there are several ways of expressing existence, as do,
"stay, abide," used also for "have, possess"; plàng, "become"; làng,
"exist, continue (with a sense of incompleteness)"; le, "arrive,
happen," etc. Great use is made of adjectival or participial forms,
and, in narrative, of the conjunctive participle. Compound roots are
very extensively used, the principal verb being put first, then the
modifying supplements, and last the time-index.
The simple, or indeterminate present is expressed by the participle
with ke-, ka-, without any suffix: konàtsi nàng kedo, "where do you
live?"; vo kàngjar, "the bird flies"; sarbura thi-lòt-si ne ka-chiru,
"the old man having died, I am weeping"; ne-phu ke-so-kòn, "my head
is aching badly." This tense, as in other languages, is often used
historically for the past.
The definite or determinate present is expressed by the same participle
with -lo added: la kopi kànghoi-lo? "What is he doing (now)?"
The habitual present is expressed by the verbal root with -lo: as
vo-atum-ke ne-phu-athàk ingjar-lo, "the birds fly above our heads."
The simple or narrative past is formed by the verbal root with -lo or
-dèt added: la pu-lo or pu-dèt, "he said"; ne-phu so-dèt, "my head
was aching"; la keri-aphi-si lòng-lo, "he, after searching, found
it." Sometimes dèt and lo are used together: la ne ingtòn-dèt-lo,
"he abused me." Dèt may also be used for the present when the
state indicated by the verb is one that began in the past and still
continues: e.g. "Why are you afraid?" may be rendered kopi apòtsi
nang phere-dèt, or kopi apòtsi nàng kaphere?
The complete past is indicated by the root with tànglo added: la-apòtsi
ne dam-tànglo, "I went, or had gone, on his account"; telòng lòngle
pho-tànglo, "the boat has touched ground." Tang is a verb meaning
"to finish." There are besides a great number of other particles
indicating past time used with particular verbs. Thus, with verbs
meaning "to fall," bup and buk are common: hala che-koi-bup, "he
fell down"; hèm ru-bup, "the house collapsed"; lòng-chòng kli-bup,
"the upright memorial stone fell down"; lòng-pàk klo-buk, "the
flat memorial stone fell down"; thèng-pi àngsòng-pèn nàng-klo-buk,
"he fell down from the top of the tree." Such particles generally
indicate not only past time but abruptness.
A periphrastic past, with the root followed by inghoi-lo, "did,"
frequently occurs; this is probably an imitation of Assamese idiom.
Here may be noticed the prefix nàng, used, as the specimens show,
with great frequency in narrative. It has the effect of fixing the
occurrence to a known place, and may generally be rendered "there." It
is probable that this particle is originally the pronoun of the second
person, and that it refers to the knowledge of the person addressed:
"as you know," "as you see."
The future is represented in two ways: (1) by -po added to the root,
to indicate an action beginning now and continuing in the future; as
itum nònke labàngso akàm apòtsi pu-po, "we will talk about this affair
now;" and (2) by -ji added, for an action which commences later on;
as badu arlèng-ta thi-ji, "all men will die" (i.e. at some future
time). As -po includes the present in the case of continuing action,
it may be, and often is, used in a present sense; -ji is restricted
to future time.
A compound future may be formed by adding to the root with -ji the
words dòkdòk-lo: la thi-ji dòkdòk-lo, "he is just about to die";
àn cho-ji dòkdòk-lo, "it is near breakfast-time" (rice-eating); àn
ik-ji dòkdòk-lo, "the rice is nearly all done." A doubtful future may
be expressed by -ji added to the present participle: konàt chainòng
a-òk-si dàk-si kedo-ji, "where should cow's flesh be here?"
From the above it will be seen that there is much indefiniteness
in the indications of time afforded by the Mikir verb: except tàng
for the past complete, and -ji for the future, the other suffixes
may, according to circumstances, be rendered by the past, present,
or future; they may also on occasion be omitted altogether. But the
context generally removes all ambiguity.
Conditional phrases are formed by putting -te or -le, "if," at the
end of the first member, and the second generally in the future with
-ji or -po. Of the conditional future an example is nàng dàm-te, nàng
la thèk-dàm-ji, "if you go, you will see him." The conditional past
inserts asòn ("like, supposing that,") before -te: dohòn do-asòn-te, ne
la nàm-ji, "if I had money, I would buy it." The conditional pluperfect
modifies the second member thus: nàng dàm asòn-te, nàng la lòng-lòk
apòtlo, "if you had gone, you would have got it"; nàng ne thàn asòn-te,
ne la klèm tàng-lo, "if you had explained to me, I would have done it."
The imperative is, for the second person, the bare root, or more
usually the root strengthened by the addition of nòn or tha, and
dialectically of noi; nòn (= "now") is the strongest form. The other
persons are formed by the addition of nàng (a verb meaning "to be
necessary") to the future in -po or present in -lo: "let us go" is
i-tum dàm-po-nàng; "let us go to the field and plough," rit hai-bai
dàm-lo-nàng. We may, for the third person, use the causative form of
the verb: la-ke pedàm-nòn, "let him go."
Participles. The present participle has the form of the adjective,
with the prefixed ke- (ki-) or ka-; as kedàm, "going," ka-chiru,
"weeping." The past participle is the root or the present participle
with tàng added: dàm-tàng, "gone," thèk-tàng, "having seen,"
ka-pàngtu-tàng, "fattened."
Perhaps the most used form of the verb, especially in narrative,
is the conjunctive participle, which is either the bare root, or
the root with -si; hèm che-voi-si thèk-lo, "having returned home, he
saw." When the past is indicated, dèt is used, either with or without
-si, as cho-dèt jun-dèt, sarbura, tòn-arlo kaibòng patu-joi-si, i-lo,
"having finished eating and drinking, the old man, having quietly
hidden his club in a basket, lay down"; Tèntòn, dohòn-alàngbòng
lòng-si, rit dàm-de-dèt-si, kàt-jui-lo, "Tenton, having got the
bamboo-joint with the money, without returning to the field, ran away."
When the phrase in which the conjunctive participle occurs is
terminated by an imperative, the suffix is not -si but -ra: "having
eaten your rice, go," is àn cho-ra dàm-nòn; but "having eaten his rice,
he went," is an chodèt-si dàm-lo. While -si links together parts of
a narrative, -ra links together a string of imperatives.
The infinitive or verbal noun is identical in form with the present
participle; kum-kiròt tàngte kekàn arki nàng arju-lònglo, "he heard
(got to hear) there (nàng) the sound (arki) of fiddle (kum) scraping
(ki-ròt) and dancing (ke-kàn)." All words beginning with ke-, ki-,
and ka- may therefore be regarded as (1) adjectives, (2) participles
forming tenses of the verb, or (3) verbal nouns; and it will be seen
from the analysis of the specimens how clearly this at first sight
strange allocation of forms can be made to express the required sense.
In all Tibeto-Burman languages the passive voice is either non-existent
or little used; a sentence which in English would be stated passively
is turned the other way, and appears in an active form. Thus--"Four
trees were uprooted by the wind" would be rendered tomòn thèngpi
ròng-phili pi-pur-koi-lo, "the wind uprooted four trees"; "this house
has been thrown down by an earthquake" is chikli-si labàngso ahèm
pi-ru-hup-lo, "an earthquake has thrown down this house." Sometimes
a passive may be expressed by a periphrasis, as "I was beaten," ne
kechòk èn-tàng, lit. "I received a beating." The only unquestionable
example of a passive is in the case of past participles, and here the
passive is expressed by the simple expedient of putting the participle
before instead of after the noun: bàng kevàn ahòr, "the drink brought
by people"; maja kelòng arlèng, "a man bewitched"; ne ke-pi a-àn ahòr,
"the to-me-given rice and beer." This construction is exactly parallel
to the method (explained above) of expressing the relative phrase
by putting the adjective first, instead of after the noun, and is in
fact another case of the same idiom. The participle, which may also
(as just explained) be regarded as a verbal noun, comes before the
subject of the sentence, because the action passes on to the subject,
instead of emanating from it, as in an active construction. We are
tempted to think that languages which lack what seems to European
modes of thought such essential elements as a relative pronoun and
a passive voice cannot be capable of any subtlety of expression; yet
this phenomenon is common to forms of speech like Tibetan, Burmese,
and Chinese, which possess vast literatures dealing with all kinds of
subjects, and in which it is possible to render ideas of the greatest
complexity and variety. Even in Europe, the clearest and most logical
of languages, French, prefers to use the active form of phrase (with
on) rather than the passive.
The negative verb is a very interesting and remarkable feature
of the language. A separate negative root, formed by prefixing or
suffixing a negative particle, and conjugated in the same way as
the positive, is indeed a common property of Tibeto-Burman speech;
but in Mikir this secondary root is formed in a peculiar manner. The
negating syllable -e is added to the primitive, as un, "can," un-e,
"cannot"; òng, "be much," òng-e, "be not much"; i, "lie down," i-e,
"not lie down." But when the root begins with a consonant or a nexus
of consonants, and is monosyllabic, the consonant or nexus is repeated
before the added vowel: thèk, "see, be able"; thèk-the, "not see, be
unable"; dàm, "go," dàm-de, "not go"; kroi, "believe, obey," kroi-kre,
"disbelieve, disobey"; mèk-pràng, "eye-open, awake," mèk-pràng-pre,
"not awake." When the verb is of two or more syllables, the last is
chosen for reduplication: inghoi, "do," inghoi-he, "not do"; ingjinso,
"show mercy," ingjinso-se, "not show mercy"; chini (Ass. loan-word),
"recognise," chini-ne, "not recognise."
The secondary root thus obtained is treated in construction just
like the positive root, and takes the tense-suffixes: pàk-ta
pi-vàng-ve-dèt-lo, "anybody to give him (anything) came not." The
time-index is, however, with negative verbs more often dropped as
unnecessary, owing to the context showing what the time-relation is.
In the imperative the reduplication is not used; the particle -ri is
added to the positive root, with or without nòn as well: thèk-nòn,
"see!"; thèk-ri, or thèk-ri-nòn, "see not!"
It may be added that this method of forming the negative by
reduplication is also applied to verbal adjectives in ke-, ki-,
ka-, which thereupon usually drop the prefix: keso, "in pain, sick";
so-se, "not sick, well"; but kàngjinso, "merciful"; kàng-jinso-se,
"merciless."
Besides this organic negative, there is a periphrastic negative
formed by adding the word ave, "is not": Arnàm abàng ave, kechèng ave,
kapetàng ave, "God has no body, no beginning, no end" (lit. "God his
body is not, beginning is not, end is not"). The a in ave is the usual
a of relation, and may be dropped: alàm-ave "without a word"; làm-ve,
"word-less, dumb." Ka- may be prefixed, forming kave, used as an
adjectival negative: kopai (Ass. kopal), "fortune," kopai-kave,
"unfortunate." Another negative used separately, in emphatic
assertions, is kali: tovar nàng kepèk-ji kali, "the way I will by no
means yield to you"; ne-thibuk kali, "it is not my water-jar."
The causal verb is formed by prefixing the syllable pe-, pi-,
pa- [41] to the root: this is probably the verb pi, meaning "to give";
e.g. cho, "eat," pecho, "feed"; tàng, "finish," petàng, "cause to
finish, end"; ingrum, "be gathered together," pàngrum, "collect";
virdèt, "be lost," pi-virdèt, "destroy." This syllable takes precedure
of che- in reflexive verbs: e-chainòng e-pa-chi-thu-koi-làng, "he
has caused us to slaughter all our cows": here e- is the pronoun of
the first person plural inclusive of the addressee; pa-, the causal
prefix; chi-, the reflexive particle, indicating that the cattle
slaughtered were their own; thu, a verb, "to kill by cutting"; koi,
a particle indicating completeness; làng, the tense-suffix.
Compound verbs meet us at every step in Mikir. Roots are heaped
together, and the compound is closed by the tense-suffix. Ordinarily
the first root determines the general meaning of the compound, the
rest being adverbial supplements of modifying force:--chiru-pi-lèm-lo,
"he pretended to weep" (chiru, "weep," lèm, "seem, appear," pi-lèm,
"cause to seem, pretend"); ke-phlòng-dàm abàng, "somebody who will
go and set fire (to the funeral pile)" (phlòng, "kindle," dàm, "go");
kroi-dun-lo, "she consented" (kroi, "agree, obey," dun, "go or be with
another"); ne do-dun-ji-ma, "will you stay with me?" (do, "stay," dun,
as above). The texts which follow supply a multitude of other examples.
These adverbial supplements to verbs, inserted between the principal
verb and the tense-suffixes, are a very characteristic feature of the
language, and their proper use is one of the most difficult things for
a learner to master. Certain roots take constant supplements of this
kind, and are scarcely ever found without them; thus the verbs thi,
"die," i, "lie down to sleep," and jàng, "close the eyes," are almost
invariably followed by lòt; rèng, "to live," takes èt before verbal
suffixes; lòng, "to get," takes lòk; chingbar, "to be equal (in size,
weight, height)," and chingdòn, "to be equal in length," take chit;
inghòn, "to love," and ingjinso, "to pity," both take duk; jòk and
thèt, both meaning "to escape, get loose," take phlòt. The complements
for verbs meaning "to fall" have been mentioned above (p. 82). These
supplements frequently cause the tense-endings to be dispensed with,
in which case the action is understood to be in the narrative past
or historic present. No doubt most of them were originally separate
verbal roots, but are not now capable of being used separately.
The brief outline given above will, it is hoped, enable the reader to
apprehend the general construction of the narratives which follow,
and display the language in action; for further analysis reference
should be made to the notes appended to the texts.
I.
CHÒNGHOLOSO ATOMO.
FROG STORY.
Arni-si miso-ròngpo a-òng àn che-thòn-dàmlo. Chòngholoso
Day-one a big black ant (to) his uncle rice to carry went. a frog
tovar ingni-thip. Ànsi miso pulo: "Tovar ne
the way sat down and blocked. Then the ant said: "The way for me
pèk-tha, chòngholoso; ne ne-òng àn chethòn-dàm-ji." Chòngholoso
leave free, frog; I my-uncle rice carry-go-will." The frog
pudèt: "Ne-rum ne-lut-thòt-ra dàm-te: pàkta
answered: "Under me entering (creeping)| go your way: every one
ne-rum-si dàm-hòr-le." Miso pudèt: "Ne-òng a-àn bòr
under me passes." The ant said: "My uncle's rice leaf-bundle
do-kòk-le, pusi nàng-rum-le nàng-kelut-thèk-ji?" Ànsi
being tied up, how you-underneath enter, creep, shall I be able?" So
chòngho-ta pèk-pe, miso-ta dàm-de. Ànsi nerlo
the frog would not give way, the ant could no go. So day
chitim-lo. Ànsi miso--"Ai, ne-òng àn-ingchir-si
became middle. So the ant-- "Oh, my uncle rice-hunger-in
aning-ne-thi-po" pulo; chòngholoso-arum lut-thòt-lo. Àn-lo
angry with me will be" said; the frog-under he entered, crept. Then
chòngholoso miso-athàk ingni-dun-chèt-lo. Lasi miso-ròngpo
the frog the ant-upon sat-down-flat. Thereupon the big black ant
chòngholoso a-mi kòr-ràk. Ànsi chòngho aning-thi-ning-thi
the frog's loins bit-severely. Then the frog becoming very angry
karle-sarpo-a-dòn chòn-rai. Karle-sarpo
squirrel-big-old's ladder (on) jumped and broke. The big old squirrel
aningthi-ningthi hànthar-a-kòk ròt-pèt. Hànthar
becoming very angry gourd's stem cut in two. The gourd
aningthi-ningthi phàk-belèngpi a-moi klo-dup. Phàk-belèngpi
becoming very angry a wild boar's back (on) fell plump. The wild boar
aningthi-ningthi lo-bòng thimur-phàk. Lobòng
becoming very angry a plantain-tree rooted up. The plantain-tree
aningthi-ningthi vo-arbipi a-tar sàp-rai. Vo-arbipi
becoming very angry a sparrow 's nest struck and broke. The sparrow
aningthi-ningthi ingnar no-thòng-po a-no lut-thòt.
becoming very angry an elephant deaf-big 's ear entered.
Ingnar no-thòng-po aningthi-ningthi arlòng helàng-phlut.
The elephant deaf-big becoming very angry a rock tore up suddenly.
Arlòng aningthi-ningthi Recho- a-so kònglòng-pi-bup. Ànsi
The rock becoming very angry the King 's son rolling-down killed. Then
Recho nàng-bisar-lo: "Màt-si ne-po pithi-lòtlo?" "Ai, arlòng-si
the King made an enquiry: "Who my son has killed?" "Oh, the rock
kònglòng-bup," pulo. Ànsi arlòng arju-dàmlo:
rolled down on him," they said. Then the rock he summoned to answer:
"O arlòng, arlòng! pi-apòt nàng ne-so kònglòng-bup?"
"O rock, rock! for what reason you my son did roll down upon?"
Arlòng pudèt: "Che! Hèmphu-arnàm-recho, pi ne kònglòng-bup-be-ji?
The rock said: "Oh! Lord-God-King, how I to roll down-not was I?
Ingnar no-thòngpo-si ne helàng-phlut-le ne doi-phit-lo;
The elephant big-deaf me torn up suddenly having, me pushed out;
ne-ke ne-ri ave, ne-kèng ave, kolo-pu-si
as for me, (to) me hands are not, (to) me legs are not, how then
cher-chàk-thèk-ji? Nàng-sopo ne kekònglòng a-tovar dokòksi,
withstand could I? Your honourable son my rolling down-path being-in,
ne kònglòng-bup-lo-te."
I rolled down upon him accordingly."
Ànsi Recho pulo: "Mai! la ingnar no-thòng-po
Then the king said: "Oh! that elephant deaf-big
la-ànsèt bòn-he"-- pusi, ingnar no-thòng-po
that so much (trouble) caused"-- saying, elephant deaf-big
arju-dàm-lo. "O ingnar ingnar! kopi-apòt nàng arlòng
summoned. "O elephant, elephant! for what reason you the rock
helàng-phlut?" Ingnar pudèt: "Che! pi ne
tore up suddenly?" The elephant answered: "Oh, how I
helàng-phlut-phle-ji, Hèmphu arnàm? Vo-arbipi ne-no
was to help tearing it up, Lord God? The sparrow my ear
ne-kelut-thòt-si, ne a-bidi thèk-the-dèt-lo-le, la-helo ne
having entered into, my wits having lost control of me, therefore I
arlòng helàng-phlut."
the rock tore up suddenly."
Ànsi Recho pudèt--"Mai! la vo-arbipi la-ànpin bòn-he"
Then the King said--"Oh! that sparrow that so much (trouble) caused"
pu, arju-dàmlo. "O vo-arbipi voarbipi! ingnar a-no
saying, summoned. "O sparrow, sparrow! elephant's ear
kopi-apòt nàng lut-thòt?" Voarbipi thàkdèt-- "Che! Hèmphu! pi
for what reason did you enter?" The sparrow answered-- "Oh! Lord! how
ne lut-le-ji? lobòng ne-tar
I was I not to enter? the plantain-stalk my nest
kesàp-rai-le, la-helo ne-ning oi-òng, ne
falling on having broken, therefore my mind being very disturbed, I
ingnar a-no lut-thòt."
elephant's ear entered."
Ànsi Recho pu--"Mai! la lobòng lapu
Then the King said--"Oh! that plantain-stalk, it seems;
ànpin bòn-he"-- pusi arju-dàm-lo. "O lobòng lobòng!
so much (trouble) caused"-- saying he summoned. "O plantain, plantain!
nàng kopi-apòt vo-arbipi a-tar sàp-rai?"
you for what reason the sparrow's nest fell upon and broke?"
Lobòng pudèt--"Che! pi ne sàp-rai-re-ji, Hèmphu
The plantain said--"Oh! how I was not to fall and break, Lord|
arnàm? Phàk-belèng-pi-si ne kathimur-phàk-le: ne
God? The wild boar me rooted me up suddenly: I
thimur-phàk-lo-te ne ingkur kave-dèt-lo-le: kopu-si ne
having been rooted up, I root none had at all: how I
karjàp thèk-ji-làng? Thàngbàk ne-ri
standing-up was to be able to continue? Any to me-hand
ne-kèng le-kedo kali-dèt-le."
to me-leg being, existing, not-at-all there is."
"Mai! la phàk pu àn-pin bon-he," pu
"Oh! that pig, it seems, all the (trouble) caused," saying
Recho pulo. Ànsi phak-aphàn arju-dàm-lo. "O phàk phàk!
the King said. So the pig (accus.) he summoned. "O pig, pig!
pi-apòt nàng lobòng thimur-phàk"? Phàk pudèt "Pi ne
for what reason you the plantain rooted up"? The pig answered "How I
thimur-phàk-phe-ji? Ne chopàn-vèk, mamàtsi
could help rooting it up? (as) I was feeding, grazing, suddenly,
hànthar ne-moi keklo-dàp-le: la-helo keso-òng
the gourd my back (on) came tumbling down: therefore being in great pain
ne lobòng thimur-phàk."
I the plantain rooted up."
Ànsi Recho-- "Mai! hànthar pu àn-pin bòn-he"
So the king-- "Oh! the gourd, then, all this (trouble) caused,"
pusi hànthar arju-dàm-lo. "O hànthar hànthar! pi-apòt
saying the gourd summoned. "O gourd, gourd! for what
phàk-belèng-pi a-moi nàng klo-dup?" "Pi ne
reason the wild boar 's back (on) you fell-plump?" "How I
klo-dup-de-ji, Hèmphu Arnàm? Karle-si ne-kòk
could help falling? Lord God? The squirrel my stem (to me)
ne-keròt-pèt-le, ne-ke thàngbàk ne-ri, ne-kèng
having cut through, I at all to me hand, to me foot
le-kedo kali-dèt, ne-kòk isi-pèt àn-helo, la-le
there-not-existing, my stem, one-only, so much having, that if
ne ròt-pèt-lo-te, ne klo-nàng-po. Phàk-belèng-pi
to me is cut through, I must necessarily fall. The wild boar
a-moi keklo-nàng-dup."
's back (on) falling became necessary."
Ànsi Recho pu-le-lo--"Mai! la karle pu àn-pin
So the King said again--"Oh! that squirrel then so much
bònhe" pusi karle arju-dàm-lo. "O karle
(trouble) caused" saying the squirrel summoned. "O squirrel,
karle! kopi-apòt nàng hànthar a-kòk ròt-pèt?"
squirrel! for what reason did you the gourd 's stem cut through?"
Karle pudèt-- "Che! pi ne ròt-re-ji, Hèmphu Arnàm?
The squirrel said-- "Oh, how I was not to cut it, Lord God?
Chòngholoso-si ne-dòn chòn-rai-le. Lasi ne tovar
The frog my ladder (on) jumping broke. Therefore to me a road
ave-dèt-lo: ne hànthar a-kòk ròt-pèt."
did not remain: I the gourd 's stem had to cut."
Recho pudèt-- "Mai! la chòngho la-pu àn-pin bòn-he"
The King said-- "Oh! that frog, it seems, so much (trouble) caused"
pusi arju-dàm-lo. "O chòngholoso chòngholoso! kopi-apòt nàng
saying he summoned. "O frog, frog! for what reason you
karle a-dòn chòn-rai?" Chòngho thàkdèt-- "Pi ne
the squirrel's ladder jumping on broke?" The frog answered-- "How I
chòn-rai-re-ji? Miso-ròng-po-si ne-mi
was to help jumping on and breaking? The big black ant my loins,
ne-ke kòr-ràk-le: la keso-òng-si ne
even me, bit hard: that pain-great-from I
karle-adòn-bo-po ne chini-ne-dèt-si chòn-rai-te."
squirrel's ladder (honorific) I not knowingly jumped upon and broke."
Recho pu-le-lo-- "Mai! miso pu àn-pin bòn-he"
The King said again-- "Oh! the ant, then, caused all the trouble"
pusi arju-dàm-lo. "O miso miso! pi-apòt nàng chòngholoso-a-mi
saying summoned. "O ant, ant! what-for did you the frog's loins
kòr-ràk?" Miso pudèt-- "Pi ne kòr-ràk-re-ji?
bite severely?" The ant said-- "How I was to help biting him?
Adàp ne-òng àn che-thòn-dàm-lo: Chòngho
In the morning to my uncle rice I was going along carrying: the frog
tovar ingni-thip. La-lo ne 'tovar ne pèk-tha'
the road sitting down blocked. Thereupon I 'road to me free-leave'
pulo: 'ne-rum-le lut-nòn' pu. Ne lut-thòt-lo: chòngho
said: 'me underneath creep' he said. I crept under him: the frog
ne-thàk ne ingni-thip; lasi ne a-mi kòr-ràk."
on the top of me sat down tight; therefore I his loins bit-severely."
Ànsi Recho pulo--"Nàng bàng-hini kelèt-dèt." Miso-ke
Then the King said--"You persons-two guilty-are." The ant
chujèng-pèn kòk-chèk-lo: nòn a-vàm chèng-jàn.
hair of head-with they tied-firmly: now his-waist is very slender.
Chòngho-ke tarme-làng-bòng-pèn sàp-phràt-phràt; lasi
The frog a blistering creeper-with they soundly thrashed; therefore
nòn phròk-se-nòk-tòk.
now he is speckled all over.
NOTES.
This simple and direct narrative, easy of analysis, affords an
excellent illustration of the mechanism of Mikir speech. First,
we observe that the indication of time is put at the beginning
of the sentence: arni-si, "one day"; adàp, "in the morning." Then
follows the subject, then the object, and last the verb, with all
its qualifications. The most frequent conjunction is ànsi, "and, so,"
which appears to be made up of àn, the particle indicating quantity,
and si, the particle indicating locality, used also for the conjunctive
participle; the meaning would then be--"so much having passed (what
follows comes next)." Àn-ke, àn-le and àn-lo have the same force.
For the tenses we find the usual suffixes, -lo, -dèt, for
the narrative past, -po for the present-future, and -ji for the
future. In the narrative a much-used auxiliary is -le, which means
"having arrived." The passage is remarkable for the number of cases
in which, no ambiguity being possible, the tense-particle is omitted,
and the past is expressed by the bare root, without, or more commonly
with, an adverbial supplement. Thus, we have pulo, pudèt, and pu
for "said"; ingni-thip, "he sat down and blocked," kòr-ràk, "bit
severely," chòn-rai, "jumped upon and broke," ròt-pèt, "cut in two,"
klo-dup, "fell plump," thimur-phàk, "rooted up," sàp-rai, "struck
and broke," lut-thòt, "entered," helàng-phlut, "tore up suddenly,"
pi-bup, "killed by tumbling on him," chò-pàn-vèk, "was feeding,
grazing," sàp-phràt-phràt, "beat soundly." Then, we notice that the
great majority of these cases are examples of roots qualified by the
addition of a particle which, while not used separately by itself,
gives energy and definiteness to the verbal root; this method of
heightening the force of verbs is a great characteristic of Mikir
diction, and is at once the chief beauty and the chief difficulty
(to a foreigner) of the language. The adverbial particles so used are
very numerous, but they are appropriated to particular verbal roots,
and if they were wrongly applied the result would be nonsense. Thus,
the particle lòt is used with three verbs only, thi, "die," i, "lie
down," and jàng "close the eyes," and always precedes the verbal
suffixes with these roots: it cannot be used with any other. Thòt,
again, always occurs with lut, "to enter," jòk and var, "to throw." Bup
conveys the idea of a sudden blow or fall, and is used with verbs of
falling or striking. Dàp and dup seem to have much the same force. Pèt,
koi, klip are particles used to indicate completeness; lut-pèt-lo,
"all have gone in," ròt-pèt-lo, "he cut through," cho-koi-lo, "he
ate up," thu-koi-lo, "he killed them all," cho-klip-lo, "he devoured
them." Several of these auxiliary particles seem to be onomatopoetic.
Much resembling the use of these particles are the cases in which
verbal roots are combined together to form a single expression. Thus,
in our story, thòn-dàm-lo "he carrying went"; do-kòk-le "remaining
tied-up"; ingni-dun-chèt-lo "he sat down suddenly (chèt) when the
ant was passing (dun)" (dun means "to be with," and is constantly
used as an auxiliary, but can also be employed alone in the sense
"to go with"); arju-dàm-lo "he summoned to answer"; ne klo-nàng-po
"I must necessarily fall" (nàng, verb of necessity).
The story gives a number of examples of the remarkable Mikir negative
verb: pèk-pe, "did not give way (pèk)"; dàm-de, "did not go"; pi ne
kònglòng-bup-be-ji, "how was I not to roll down upon him and smash
him?" where the negative syllable be borrows the initial consonant
of the qualifying particle bup; similarly, helàng-phlut-phle "not
suddenly root up"; sàp-rai-re "not strike and break"; chòn-rai-re
"not jump upon and break"; chini-ne-dèt-si "not knowing" (where chini
is a loan-word from Assamese).
As regards vocabulary, tha in ne-pèk-tha is the imperative particle:
another such particle (rarely occurring) is te in ne lut-thòt-ra
dàm-te; ra is used as the suffix of the conjunctive participle in a
string of imperatives. Hòr in dàm-hòr-le indicates plurality: "every
one has to pass under me"; other such particles are jo and jàm. Ta in
chòngho-ta and miso-ta gives definiteness and emphasis; so also ke in
ne-ke, &c. Sarpo in karle sarpo means "big chief": po is a syllable
added to give honour and dignity. Notice intensiveness indicated by
reduplication in aningthi-ningthi, "very angry"; ning-thi, angry,
is made up of ning, mind, and thi to be vexed (also to die). Hànthar:
see note on p. 46. Ròt-pèt means to cut down a slender stem or twig
by drawing a knife across it: pi-pèt to cut down a thick trunk of
a tree; ròt is used for drawing a bow across a fiddle in kum-kiròt
"fiddle-scraping." Belèng means a shovel or tray for winnowing rice;
phàk-belèng-pi is a wild pig, because he roots about in the earth with
his snout like a shovel; -pi is a syllable used to form augmentatives,
as -so indicates a diminutive. Bisar, to hold a judicial inquiry,
is Assamese. Hèmphu, "owner," the God Mikirs belong to. Vo-arbipi,
"a small bird, the size of a sparrow" (not the sparrow itself,
which in Mikir is vo-puru). Ne chopàn-vèk, "I was grazing"; chopàn
is used of feeding for animals only; vèk (or vèk-vèk) is a particle
indicating continuance. Mamàtsi is used of some sudden and unpleasant
interruption: klèm-vèk-vèk mamàtsi thi-lo, "he died suddenly as he
was working"; ne àn cho-vèk mamàtsi ne chòk-dèt, "he beat me while
I was eating." Notice, finally, nòn, the particle most often used to
indicate a strong imperative, here in its original sense of "now"; in
this meaning it is usually emphasised by adding ke or le, nònke, nònle.
II.
JÀNGRESO PÈN A-ÒNG-ATUM ATOMO.
THE ORPHAN AND HIS UNCLES ' STORY.
Hako inut ahèm-epi asopo inut-pèt do; la
Once on a time one widow a son only one had; she
achèkle-mar kòrte bàng-theròk do. Ànsi arni-si
(woman's) brothers (plural) brothers persons-six had. Now one day
arni-kàngsàm a-òngmar-atum vàng-si
in the cool of the day (evening) his maternal uncles having come
jàngreso-aphàn nàng-hànglo-- "Osá! ru cho-du-dàm-nàng."
the orphan (accus.) called-to-- "Nephew! fish-trap set up-go-let-us."
Ànsi jàngreso-ta dun-lo. Ànsi aòng-mar
So the orphan went with them. Then his uncles,
kòrte bàng-theròk-ke làng-thàk-si pàt me-sèn-si ru
the brothers persons-six, up-stream a dam having well built the trap
du-lo. Jàngreso-ke a-òngmar-atum a-ru-pàt a-ber-si arlòng
set up. The orphan his uncles ' trap-dam below stones
du-i phàng-o-phàng-a-si ru du-lo, ànsi hèm
having set up carelessly, disorderly, trap set up, and home
nàng-che-voi-lo. Ànsi latum adàp ru
returned. Then they in the morning the trap-their
che-vàt-dàm-lo. A-òngmar-atum a-ru-pàt àn kepàt-peme-ta,
went to inspect. His uncles ' trap-dam so very well-built though,
chikung-chikàng-ta che-var-thòt-the; jàngreso a-ru
one cray-fish even had not thrown itself into it; the orphan's trap
puke, òk kejàng a-ru tèngsèt. Ànsi
as for, fish holding, entering his trap was quite full Then
a-òngmar-atum pulo-- "Osá! netum dàk ru pàt-po, nàngli-ke
his uncles said-- "Nephew! we here trap will build, do you
làng-ber-le pàt-dàm-thu-nòn." Ànsi jàngreso a-ru-pàt
down-stream go and set your dam again." So the orphan's trap-dam (in)
a-òng-mar-atum a-ru du-si, jàngreso-ke làngbersi
his uncles their trap having set up, the orphan down stream
pàt-dàm-thu-lo; bònta òk kejàng lapu-thàk-thàk,
again built his dam; but the fish holding just that same way,
a-òngmar-atum a-ru-ke òk-ejòn-nàt-ta jàng-thòt-the, jàngreso
the uncles ' trap one single fish even did not hold, the orphan's
a-ru-ke òk kejàng plèngsèt-plèngsèt. Ànsi adàp-vàng-ta jàngreso
trap fish holding was quite full. So morning-every the orphan's
a-ru-pàt a-òng-atum che-rai-ver-lo. Lasi
trap-dam his uncles took for themselves continually. Therefore
adàp-vàng alòng kaprèk ru-pàt selèt-òng-si,
every morning a place different (in) trap-set-up becoming very weary,
adàp-isi-ke ru du-tekàng-ke-dètsi, bàp a-phàng-athàk bi
morning one the trap not setting up at all, grass clump upon placing
tekàng-kòk. Ànsi adàp le-lo, a-òngmar-atum vàng-si
he left it. So morning arrived, his uncles having come
jàngreso-aphàn nàng-hàng-lo: "Osá,
to the orphan called out: "Nephew!
ru chevàt-dàm-le-lo-nàng." Ànsi jàngreso pulo: "Neli-ke
our traps let us go again and visit." Then the orphan said: "As for me,
ru-ta du-tekàng-ke; da bònta, nànglitum-ari
a trap I have not even set up; come, nevertheless, (as) your companion
nàng-dun-ji," pusi dun-lo. Ànsi a-ru
I will go with you," so saying he went with them. Then his trap
che-làng-dàmlo. Vo-thung lut-thòt thèk-dàm-lo. Ànsi
he went to look at. A wood-pigeon having entered he found. So
labàngso a-vo-thung ari chekòksi hèm che-vàn-lo.
that wood pigeon his cord (with) having tied up home he bought.
Labàngso a-jàngreso chainòng-aso-ta e-jòn do, la kàngtu
That orphan a cow's child (a calf) also one had, it fat
puke matha-thèk-the jadi-thèk-the, nei-bòt àn-pin. Ànke
so very, as could not be imagined (doublet) very sleek so greatly. Now
a-òngmar-atum làng-un-e-si labàngso
his uncles to look at-being unable (through envy) that
a-chainòng-aso thu-pèt-lo. Ànsi jàngreso labàngso
calf killed (entirely). Then the orphan that
a-chainòng-aso a-rèng lumsi akèng-ehòng ha
calf's skin having taken off, leg one to a distance
bamòn kiri-po a-hèm pòn-si patu-dàm-joi-lo. Ànsi
a brahman rich-big's house (to) taking, hid it quietly. Then
jàngreso: "Mai! hèm-ta chainòng-a-òk angnim-hai-òng-he!"
the orphan (said): "Oh! the house cow's flesh (of) smells strongly!"
Ànke bamòn-po aningthi-si pulo: "Tèke nàng-kòrdut-pi a-osó!
Then the big brahman, becoming angry, said: "Tiger-bitten boy!
konàt achainòng-a-òksi dàk-le ke-do-ji? Ne-ke bamòn-le. Nàng
where cow's flesh here should be? I am a brahman. You
peklàng thèk-ser-ma-si: thèkthe-le nàng-pràn
produce, show, must be able to: you cannot-if, your life
nàng-èn-ji." Ànsi jàngreso pulo-- "Dei, tàngte ne
I will take here." Then the orphan said-- "Very well, then I
ri-po," pu-si ri-lo. Ri-phàng-o-phàng-a-si, alàng
will search," saying he searched: searching carelessly, he
kapatu-alòng dàm-si chainòng-aso a-kèng vung-dàm-phlut
hiding-place (to) going the calf's leg pull out suddenly
inghoi-lo: "Làng-nòn, chainòng a-òk do," pu-- "ne
did: "See-now, cow's flesh there is," saying-- "I
nàng pu-lo-he!" Ànsi bamòn po-- "Bàng-kaprèk-atum
told you so!" Then the big brahman-- "people other (plur.)
vàng-thèk-dun-te, ne-jàt virdèt-ji" pu, phere-si
come-see-together-if, my-caste will be destroyed" saying, fearing
jàngreso-aphàn pulo: "Jàngreso, po-arnàm-po! pàk-tà thàn-ri-nòn! dohòn
the orphan-to said: "Orphan, my good sir! any one do not tell! money
màntung-isi nàng pi-po"-- pusi dohòn màntung-isi pilo. Ànsi
a cloth-full-one you I will give," saying money a cloth-full gave. Then
jàngreso labàngso adohòn pòn-si hèm che-voi-lo. Hèm
the orphan that money taking with him home returned. House
che-le-lo, ànsi a-pei che-pu-lo: "ne-òng-atum a-tòn
his he arrived, and his mother (to) said: "my uncles' basket
hàng-dàm-tha." Ànsi a-pei dàm-si hàng-dàm-lo: "Ik-mar-li! nàngli
go-ask-for." So his mother going asked for it: "Brothers! your
osá kipu, 'tòn tàngho.'" Ànsi tòn nàng-lo-lo. Ànsi
nephew says, 'a basket I want'" So a basket they sent. Then
hèm-epi a-ik-mar-atum tòn pisi
the widow's brothers the basket having given
che-pu-lo-- "Tòn pi kànghoi-i-ji-ne?
said among themselves-- "The basket what is to do with?
làng-dun-tòn-tha-- pusi akibi-abàng toi-dun-lo; ànsi la
go and peep (imper.)-- saying their youngest one they sent and he
nàng-làng-dun-tòn-lo, ànke hotòn-pèn dohòn ketèng
there went and watched, and the basket-with money measuring
nàng-thèk-dun-lo. Ànsi nàng-kelàng-dun-tòn-abàng hèm
there he saw. Then there-the-one-who-had-watched-person house
che-voi-si, a-ik-mar thàn-dàm-lo-- "La e-osá
his having returned to, his brothers informed-- "That our-nephew
konàt-tòng kelòng-dàm-lo-ne? hotòn-pèn dohòn ketèng
wherever get-did he (all this money)? with a basket money measure
chinàm sai-se." Ànsi dohòn tèng-tàng-dèt jàngreso
really he has to." So the money measuring-finished-having the orphans
a-pei-ta tòn thòn-dàm-lo, ànke achèkle-mar nàng-pu-dun-lo
mother the basket returned, and her brothers there said to her
"Osá nàng-toi-tha." Ànsi hèm-epi hèm nàng-che-le-si
"Nephew here send." So the widow home having arrived
asopo-aphàn che-pulo-- "Nàng òng-atum kipu 'Vàng-tha-tu tàngho
her son to said-- "Your uncles say 'Come here, we want you,
po.'" Ànsi jàngreso-ta dàmlo. Ànke a-òng-atum nàng arju-lo-- "Konàt
father.'" So the orphan went. And his uncles there asked-- "Where
adohòn-si nàngli kelòng-dàm?" Ànsi jàngreso pulo:
all this money you obtained?" And the orphan said:
"Chainòng-a-òk a-nàm: nàngli-tum-ne-kithu-pi-pèt a-chainòng
"Cow's flesh (of) price (it is): (by) you my killed-entirely cow's
a-òk-si neli kejòr-dàm; chetàngte chehàng-jo
flesh I went a-selling; it not being sufficient, together they asked
'àn-pin làng?'" Ànsi aòng-mar arju-thu-le-lo: "Tàngte
'is there only so much?'" Then his uncles asked again: "Then
chainòng-a-òk jòr-dàm-te la-tum ènji-làng-ma?" Ànsi
cow's flesh go a-selling if (we), they will taking-go on?" And
jàngreso pulo-- "En-ji làng-te; nàngli-tum-ke
the orphan said-- "They will go on taking certainly; you
chainòng-do-o-para lale thu-koi-ra a-òk
cows having many because, therefore killing them all their flesh
jòr-dàm-te, ko-ànsi dohòn kevàn-ji?" Ànsi a-òngmar
if you go selling how much money you will bring?" So his uncles
kòrte-bang-theròk abàng-phu ejòn chainòng thu-si a-òk bahar
brothers the six each one one cow having killed, its flesh load
pòn-si jòr-dàm-lo, ànsi jàngreso thàn-dun-lo--
having taken, went to sell it, and the orphan explained to them--
"Nàngli-tum hala bamòn kiri-po a-ròng-le jòr-dàm-nòn:
"You that (distant) brahman rich-big's village in go and sell:
la-ròng le-lo-te 'chainòng a-òk
that village (at) when you arrive, 'cow's flesh
èn-ji-làng-ma' pu-ra arju-nòn." Ànsi latum
will (any one) go on taking?' saying ask." So these
kòrte-bàng-theròk chainòng a-òk pònsi dàmlo, ha bamòn-aròng
brothers six cow's flesh taking went, that Brahman's village
le-si, "Chainòng-a-òk èn-ji làng ma?" pu
having arrived, "Cow's flesh will (any one) take more?" saying
arju-lo. Ànsi "èn-ji-làng, vàn-nòn," pu
asked. And "we will take more, bring it here," saying
nàng-hàng-lo. Ànsi bamòn-po a-hèm le-lo. Ànsi
they called out. So the big brahman's house they reached. Then
bamòn-po ròng-isi asàngho
the big brahman's village-whole inhabitants,
che-pàngrum-pèt-si, la chainòng-a-òk
having collected all together, those cow's flesh
kejòr-dàm-atum kòrte bàng-theròk, nèp-si, a-ri
bringing to sell-people, the six brothers, having seized, their hands
kòk-krei-si, jasemèt chòk-si pulo: "Netum bamòn-le:
tied firmly having, severely having beaten, said: "We brahmans are:
'chainòng-aòk èn-ji ma?' pu nàng
'cow's flesh will any one take?' saying, you
nàng-katirva-hai?" pu-si lo-lo. La chainòng-a-òk
here-solicit a customer dare?" saying let them go. These cow's-flesh
kevàn-atum-ta hèm che-voi-lo, ànsi tovar
bringing persons home their own went, and on the way
chingvai-pòn-lo: "Mai! àn-le alàng jangreso e-kechobei!
took counsel together: "Oh! how much that orphan us has cheated!
e-chainòng e-haidi e-pa-chi-thu-koi-làng; aphu-thàk-ta
our cattle (doublet) he has caused us to kill all; over and above that
e-rèng e-hu e-ka-peso. Apòt-ke
our skin (doublet) to us he has caused to smart. Therefore
kele-pèn a-hèm me-kei-dàm-po-nàng." Ànsi hèm
immediately on arriving his house fire-set-to let-us-go." So home
che-le-lo ànke jàng-reso a-hèm me-kei-dàm-dut inghoi-lo. Ànsi
they arrived, and the orphan's house fire-setting did. Then
jàngreso atum hini chibu-si hèm me-kecho
the orphan baskets-two having woven, house-fire-eaten, devoured (of)