Panchatantra: Merchant Strong-Tooth

From The Panchatantra of Vishnu Sharma, translated by Arthur W. Ryder (1925).

Merchant Strong-Tooth

[This story is inserted into The Loss of Friends.]

There is a city called Growing City on the earth's surface. In it lived a merchant named Strong-Tooth who directed the whole administration. So long as he handled city business and royal business, all the inhabitants were satisfied. Why spin it out? Nobody ever saw or heard of his like for cleverness. For there is much wisdom in the proverb:

Suppose he minds the king's affairs,
The common people hate him;
And if he plays the democrat,
The prince will execrate him:

So, since the struggling interests
Are wholly contradictory,
A manager is hard to find
Who gives them both the victory.

While he occupied this position, he once had a daughter married. To the wedding he invited all the townspeople and the king's entourage, paid them much honour, feasted them, and regaled them with gifts of garments and the like. And when the wedding was over, he conducted the king home with his ladies and showed him reverence.

Now the king had a house-cleaning drudge named Bull, who took a seat that did not belong to him — this in the very palace, and in the presence of the king's professor. So Strong-Tooth administered a cuffing and drove him out.

From that moment the humiliation so rankled in Bull's inner soul that he had no rest even at night. Yet he thought: "After all, why should I grow thin? It does me no good. For I cannot possibly hurt him. And there is sense in the saying:

"Indulge no angry, shameless wish
To hurt, unless you can:
The chick-pea, hopping up and down,
Will crack no frying-pan."

Now one morning, as he was sweeping near the bed where the king lay half awake, he said: "What impudence! Strong-Tooth kisses the queen."

When the king heard this, he jumped up in a hurry, crying: "Come, come, Bull! Is that thing true that you were muttering? Has the queen been kissed by Strong-Tooth?"

"O King," answered Bull, "I was awake all night because I am passionately fond of gambling. So sleep overpowered me even when I was busy with my sweeping. I do not know what I said."

But the jealous king thought: "Yes, he has free entrance to my palace. So has Strong-Tooth. Perhaps he actually saw the fellow hugging the queen. For the proverb says:

"Whatever a man desires, sees, does
In broad daylight,
Still mindful, he will say or do
Asleep at night.

"And again:

"Whatever secrets, good or ill,
Men in their bosoms keep,
Are soon betrayed when they are drunk
Or talking in their sleep. 

"In any case, what doubt can there be where a woman is concerned?

"With one she tries the gossip's art;
Her glances with a second flirt;
She holds another in her heart:
Whom does she love enough to hurt?

"And again:

"The logs will glut the hungry fire,
The rivers glut the sea's desire,
And Death with life be glutted, when
The flirt has had enough of men.

"No chance, no corner dark,
No man to woo;
Then, holy sage, you find
A woman true.

"And once again:

"The blunderhead who thinks:
'My love loves me,'
Is ever in her power;
A tame bird, he."

After all this lamentation, he withdrew his favour forthwith from Strong-Tooth. Not to make a long story of it, he forbade his entrance at court.

When Strong-Tooth saw that the monarch's favour was suddenly withdrawn, he thought: "Ah me! There is wisdom in the stanza:

"Whom does not fortune render proud?
Whom does not death lay low?
To what rout do passions not
Bring never ceasing woe? 

"What beggar can be dignified?
Whose heart no woman stings?
Who, trapped by scamps, comes safely off?
Who is beloved of kings?

"And again:

"Who ever saw or heard
A gambler's truthful word,
A neat and cleanly crow,
A woman going slow

"In love, a kindly snake,
A eunuch's pluck awake,
A drunkard's love of science,
A king in friends' alliance?

"And yet I never committed an unfriendly act against the king — or anyone else — not even in a dream, not even by mere words. So why does the king withdraw his favour from me?"

Now one day Bull, the sweeper, saw Strong-Tooth stopped at the palace gate, and he laughed aloud, saying to the doorkeepers: "Be careful, doorkeepers! This fellow Strong-Tooth's temper has been spoiled by the king's favour and he dispenses arrests and releases. If you stop him, you will get a cuffing, just like me."

And Strong-Tooth reflected on hearing this: "I see. It was Bull's doing. Well, there is sense in the proverb:

"Though foolish, base, and lacking pride,
A servant at the monarch's side
Will have his honour satisfied. 

"Though fashioned on a cowardly plan
And mean, a royal servant can
Resent affronts from any man."

After this lamentation he went home, abashed and deeply stirred. Then he summoned Bull in the evening, gave him two garments as an honourable present, and said: "My good fellow, I did not drive you out by order of the king. It was because I saw you, in the chaplain's presence, sitting where you did not belong, that I humiliated you."

Now Bull received the two garments as if they were the Kingdom of Heaven, and feeling intense satisfaction, he said: "Friend merchant, I forgive you. You will soon see the reward of the honour shown me in the king's favour and such things."

With this he departed in high glee. For there is wisdom in the saying:

A little thing will lift him high,
A little make him fall:
'Twixt balance-beam and scamp there is
No difference at all.

On the next day Bull entered the palace, and did his sweeping. And while the king lay half awake, he said: "What intelligence! When our king sits at stool, he eats a cucumber."

(cucumber)

Now the king, hearing this, rose in amazement and said: "Come, come, Bull! What twaddle is this? But I remember that you are a house-servant and do not kill you. Did you ever see me engaged in that occupation?"

"O King," said Bull, "I was awake all night because I am passionately fond of gambling. So drowsiness overcame me in the very act of doing my sweeping. I do not know what I was muttering. Pardon me, master. I was really asleep."

Then the king thought: "Why, from the day of my birth I never ate a cucumber while engaged in that occupation. And since this blockhead has talked unimaginable nonsense about me, it must be the same with Strong-Tooth. This being so, I made a mistake in taking the poor man's honours from him. Nothing of the sort is conceivable with such men. And in his absence all the king's business and city business is at loose ends."

After thus considering the matter from every point of view, he summoned Strong-Tooth, presented him with gems from his own person and with garments, and reinstated him.

And that is why I say:

Whoever is too haughty to
Pay king's retainers honour due,
Will find his feet are tottering -
So merchant Strong-Tooth with the king.

Panchatantra: The Jackal and the War-Drum

From The Panchatantra of Vishnu Sharma, translated by Arthur W. Ryder (1925).

The Jackal and the War-Drum

[This story is told by Victor in The Loss of Friends.]

(14th-century Egyptian ms. of Kalila-wa-Dimna)

In a certain region was a jackal whose throat was pinched by hunger. While wandering in search of food, he came upon a king's battle ground in the midst of a forest. And as he lingered a moment there, he heard a great sound.

This sound troubled his heart exceedingly, so that he fell into deep dejection and said: "Ah me! Disaster is upon me. I am as good as dead already. Who made that sound? What kind of a creature?"

But on peering about, he spied a war-drum that loomed like a mountain-peak, and he thought: "Was that sound its natural voice, or was it induced from without?"

Now when the drum was struck by the tips of grasses swaying in the wind, it made the sound, but was dumb at other times.

So he recognized its helplessness, and crept quite near. Indeed, his curiosity led him to strike it himself on both heads, and he became gleeful at the thought: "Aha! After long waiting food comes even to me. For this is sure to be stuffed with meat and fat."

Having come to this conclusion, he picked a spot, gnawed a hole, and crept in. And though the leather covering was tough, still he had the luck not to break his teeth. But he was disappointed to find it pure wood and skin, and recited a stanza:

Its voice was fierce; I thought it stuffed
With fat, so crept within;
And there I did not find a thing
Except some wood and skin.
So he backed out, laughing to himself, and said:

I thought at first that it was full
Of fat; I crept within
And there I did not find a thing
Except some wood and skin."

And that is why I say that one should not be troubled by a mere sound.

Panchatantra: The Wedge-Pulling Monkey

From The Panchatantra of Vishnu Sharma, translated by Arthur W. Ryder (1925).

The Wedge-Pulling Monkey

[This story is told by Cheek in The Loss of Friends.]

(from Directorium Humanae Vitae, 1484)

There was a city in a certain region. In a grove nearby, a merchant was having a temple built. Each day at the noon hour the foreman and workers would go to the city for lunch.

Now one day a troop of monkeys came upon the half-built temple. There lay a tremendous anjana log, which a mechanic had begun to split, a wedge of acacia-wood being thrust in at the top.

There the monkeys began their playful frolics upon tree-top, lofty roof, and woodpile. Then one of them, whose doom was near, thoughtlessly bestrode the log, thinking: "Who stuck a wedge in this queer place?" So he seized it with both hands and started to work it loose.

Now what happened when the wedge gave at the spot where his private parts entered the cleft, that, sir, you know without being told.

And that is why I say that meddling should be avoided by the intelligent.

The Forest Fire

From Twenty Jataka Tales retold by Noor Inayat Khan, with illustrations by H. W. Le Mair (1939): page.

The Forest Fire

"Be good, my little ones," said Mother Quail to seven little quails, chirping in the next. "Mother and Father will bring you worms, and insects, and grass-seeds."

But each time Mother and Father Quail returned to the next, six little quails caught the worms and insect,s but the seventh only at the grass-seeds. And so while the wings of his brothers grew strong and firm, the little one's wings did not grow at all.

One night when the little family were tucked up cozily, they were awakened by sad cries from the heart of the forest. Mother and Father Quail and the seven little quails peeped out of the next.

What were those fiery red clouds hovering over the distant trees?

The little quails began to cry, and Mother and Father held them tight within their wings.

Crackle . . . crackle . . . bzz . . . bzz . . .  roared the large red clouds.

"See, Father," exclaimed the seventh little one, "it is a fire in the woods."

The glowing flames advanced with the speed of wind through the forest, burning every bush and tree in their path. The roar came nearer and nearer, and soon the fire approached the nest. There was no time to lose and, dashing forth, Mother and Father Quail and the six little quails flew away. But the seventh little one remained alone, he had no wings to fly with.

Bzz . . . bzz . . . roared the large red clouds as they danced around the nest. But the little one was not afraid; he gazed steadily at the flames with his two small twinkling eyes, and in his soft chirping voice he spoke to them.

"I am small," he said, "and have no wings. Why do you come to this wee nest where I am left alone? Go your way, mighty flames; there is nothing here for you."

As he spoke, the aging fire slunk away and disappeared through the trees, and the forest became silent.

By and by little voices arose from the moss, and the frogs signaled that all was clear. One by one, little heads peeped out of their hiding-places. The smoke clouds had blown far away, and Queen Moon smiled once more through the trees. Little Quail also smiled in his nest as he saw the forest waking up again, and he lived there happy ever after.

The Goblin City

From Twenty Jataka Tales retold by Noor Inayat Khan, with illustrations by H. W. Le Mair (1939): page.

The Goblin Town

A great ship had been flung by the angry waves on the rocky shore of an island. Happily the crew and passengers, five hundred men in all, were no drowned. Their plight was wretched, however, but as they looked around, they were cheered by their beautiful surroundings. "Our ship has sunk, alas!" they said; "but doubtless there are endless treasures in this island."

After a while, the sound of voices came to their ears, and they saw a crowd of women approaching. Soon the women came to the place where the men were gathered, and they spoke to them.

"Wherefrom do you come, O travelers?" they asked. "has your ship been broken on the rocks? The men of this island left long ago in a ship and have never returned. Come, then, with us to our homes, O travelers! We will care for you and make you happy."

Such were the alluring words of the women, but even as they spoke, they bound the men with magic chains and, not knowing they were drawn by these chains, the men followed the women to their homes. And so they lived some time in the city and ate the rice which the women prepared for them on golden dishes.

But one night, when all the men were asleep, one of the five hundred awoke and heard strange voices.

"Whose are those voices?" he thought. "Are they not the voices of goblins?"

He silently arose from his bed and hid behind a large stone to watch. He was soon rewarded, for he saw that the women, changed into goblins, were walking through the town.

"It is a goblin-town!" the man exclaimed in horror. "I must tell my companions. We must flee from here."

No sooner were his eyes thus opened than he saw that he was bound with chains.

When morning came, he told his companions what he had seen. Some did not believe him, but the others asked, with trembling voices, "How can we escape?"

"We cannot," the man replied. "With magic chains we are bound."

As he said these words, there was a flash of light, and a white horse descended from the sky and landed before them. And they heard a gentle voice from the sea which said:

A flying horse with silver wings has answered to your call;
Mount on his back, your chains will break, and he will save you all.

And those who did not believe the story of their companion stayed with the women in the goblin-town, but the others flew away to their homes on the back of the silver horse, and they all lived happy ever after.

---

From The Giant Crab, and Other Tales from Old India by W. H. D. Rouse, with illustrations by W. Robinson (1897): text.

The Goblin City

Long, long ago, in the island of Ceylon, there was a large city full of nothing but Goblins. They were all She-Goblins, too, and if they wanted husbands, they used to get hold of travellers and force them to marry — and afterwards, when they were tired of their husbands, they gobbled them up.

One day a ship was wrecked upon the coast near the goblin city, and five hundred sailors were cast ashore. The She-Goblins came down to the seashore, and brought food and dry clothes for the sailors, and invited them to come into the city. There was nobody else there at all, but for fear that the sailors should be frightened away, the Goblins, by their magic power, made shapes of people appear all around, so that there seemed to be men ploughing in the fields, or shepherds tending their sheep, and huntsmen with hounds, and all the sights of the quiet country life. So, when the sailors looked round, and saw everything as usual, they felt quite secure; although, as you know, it was all a sham.

The end of it was, that they persuaded the sailors to marry them, telling them that their own husbands had gone to sea in a ship and had been gone these three years, so that they must be drowned and lost for ever. But really, as you know, they had served others in just the same way, and their last batch of husbands were then in prison, waiting to be eaten.

In the middle of the night, when the men were all asleep, the She-Goblins rose up, put on their hats, and hurried down to the prison; there they killed a few men, and gnawed their flesh, and ate them up, and after this orgy they went home again.

It so happened that the captain of the sailors woke up before his wife came home, and not seeing her there, he watched. By-and-by in she came; he pretended to be asleep and looked out of the tail of his eye. She was still munching and crunching, and as she munched she muttered:

Man’s meat, man’s meat,
That’s what Goblins like to eat!

She said it over and over again, then lay down, and soon she was snoring loudly.

The captain was horribly frightened to find he had married a Goblin. What was he to do? They could not fight with Goblins, and they were in the Goblins’ power. If they had a ship they might have sailed away because Goblins hate the water worse than a cat, but their ship was gone. He could think of nothing.

However, next morning, he found a chance of telling his mates what he had discovered. Some of them believed him, and some said he must have been dreaming; they were sure their wives would not do such a thing. Those who believed him agreed that they would look out for a chance of escape.

But there was a kind fairy who hated those Goblins, and she determined to save the men. So she told her flying horse to go and carry them away. And accordingly, as the men were out for a walk next day, the captain saw in the air a beautiful horse with large white and gold wings. The horse fluttered down, and hovered just above them, crying out, in a human voice: “Who wants to go home? who wants to go home? who wants to go home?”

“I do, I do!” called out the sailors.

“Climb up, then!” said the horse, dropping within reach. So one climbed up, and then another, and another, and, although the horse looked no bigger than any other horse, there was room for everybody on his back. I think that somehow, when they got up, the fairy made them shrink small, till they were no bigger than so many ants, and thus there was plenty of room for all. When all who wanted to go had got up on his back, away flew the beautiful horse and took them safely home.

As for those who remained behind, that very night the Goblins set upon them and mangled them, and munched them to mincemeat.

---

From Jataka Tales by H.T. Francis and E. J. Thomas: page.

The Goblin City

Once upon a time, there was in the island of Ceylon a goblin town called Sirisavatthu, peopled by she-goblins. When a ship is wrecked, these adorn and deck themselves, and taking rice and gruel, with trains of slaves and their children on their hip, they come up to the merchants.

In order to make them imagine that theirs is a city of human beings, they make them see here and there men ploughing and tending kine, herds of cattle, dogs, and the like. Then approaching the merchants, they invite them to partake of the gruel, rice, and other food which they bring. The merchants, all unaware, eat of what is offered. When they have eaten and drunken and are taking their rest, the goblins address them thus: "Where do you live? Where do you come from? Whither are you going, and what errand brought you here?"

"We were shipwrecked here," they reply.

"Very good, noble sirs," the others make answer; "'tis three years ago since our own husbands went on board ship; they must have perished. You are merchants too; we will be your wives. Thus they lead them astray by their women's wiles and tricks and dalliance, until they get them into the goblin city; then, if they have any others already caught, they bind these with magic chains, and cast them into the house of torment. And if they find no shipwrecked men in the place where they dwell, they scour the coast as far as the river Kalyani [Kaelani-ganga] on one side and the island of Nagadipa on the other. This is their way.

Now it happened once that five hundred shipwrecked traders were cast ashore near the city of these she-goblins. The goblins came up to them and enticed them till they brought them to their city; those whom they had caught before they bound with magic chains and cast them into the house of torment. Then the chief goblin took the chief man, and the others took the rest, till five hundred had the five hundred traders, and they made the men their husbands. Then in the night time when her man was asleep, the chief she-goblin rose up and made her way to the house of death, slew some of the men and ate them. The others did the same.

When the eldest goblin returned from eating men's flesh, her body was cold. The eldest merchant embraced her and perceived that she was a goblin. "All the five hundred of them must be goblins!" he thought to himself: "we must make our escape!"

So in the early morning, when he went to wash his face, he bespake the other merchants in these words. "These are goblins, and not human beings! As soon as other shipwrecked men can be found, they will make them their husbands, and will eat us; come — let us escape!"

Two hundred and fifty of them replied, "We cannot leave them: go ye, if ye will, but we will not flee away."

Then the chief trader with two hundred and fifty, who were ready to obey him, fled away in fear of the goblins.

Now at that time, the Bodhisatta had come into the world as a flying horse, white all over and beaked like a crow, with hair like munja grass, possessed of supernatural power, able to fly through the air. From Himalaya he flew through the air until he came to Ceylon. There he passed over the ponds and tanks of Ceylon, and ate the paddy that grew wild there. As he passed on thus, he thrice uttered human speech filled with mercy, saying, "Who wants to go home? Who wants to go home?"

The traders heard his saying and cried, "We are going home, master!" joining their hands and raising them respectfully to their foreheads.

"Then climb up on my back," said the Bodhisatta. Thereat some of them climbed up, some laid hold of his tail, and some remained standing, with a respectful salute. Then the Bodhisatta took up even those who stood still saluting him and conveyed all of them, even two hundred and fifty, to their own country and set down each in his own place; then he went back to his place of dwelling.

And the she-goblins, when other men came to that place, slew those two hundred and fifty who were left, and devoured them.

Note: Divyavadana 524, Karandavyuha 52, Beal, Rom. Leg. 332, a Tibetan version by Wenzel, JRAS 1888 503. The magical Valaha horse is one of the king's seven treasures of Empire in Jataka 479, and one of the chariot-horses of Vishnu in the Mahabharata. The magic horse, which in the Pali is a previous incarnation of Buddha, is also an episode in the tale of Supriya (Divyav. 120), and is there an incarnation of Maitreya, and in the Karandavyua of Avalokitesvara. Wenzel compares the myth of the sirens, and explains the magic horse as a myth of the moon, but Beal as the white crested waves at the change of the monsoon. It is illustrated on the bas-reliefs of the temple of Boro-Boedoer in Java (Leemans, Boro-Boudour, pl. 389, Leide, 1874), and on a railing at Mathura (Anderson, Catalogue of the Indian Museum, i. p. 189). 

---

From The Jataka (vol. 1-6), edited by E. B. Cowell: page.

No. 196. Valahassa-Jataka.

"They who will neglect," etc. — This story the Master told while staying in Jetavana, about a Brother who had become a backslider.

When the Master asked him if it was really true that he was a backslider, the Brother replied that it was true. Being questioned for the reason, he replied that his passion had been aroused by seeing a finely dressed woman. 

Then the Master thus addressed him:

"Brother, these women tempt men by their figure and voice, scents, perfumes, and touch, and by their wiles and dalliance; thus they get men into their power, and as soon as they perceive that this is done, they ruin them, character, wealth and all, by their evil ways. This gives them the name of she-goblins. 

"In former days also, a troop of she-goblins tempted a caravan of traders and got power over them, and afterwards, when they got sight of other men, they killed every one of the first, and then devoured them, crunching them in their teeth while the blood ran down over both cheeks." And then he told an old story.

~ ~ ~

Once upon a time, there was in the island of Ceylon a goblin town called Sirisavatthu, peopled by she-goblins. When a ship is wrecked, these adorn and deck themselves, and taking rice and gruel, with trains of slaves, and their children on their hip, they come up to the merchants. In order to make them imagine that theirs is a city of human beings, they make them see here and there men ploughing and tending kine, herds of cattle, dogs, and the like. Then approaching the merchants, they invite them to partake of the gruel, rice, and other food which they bring. The merchants, all unaware, eat of what is offered. When they have eaten and drunken, and are taking their rest, the goblins address them thus: "Where do you live? Where do you come from? Whither are you going, and what errand brought you here?"

"We were shipwrecked here," they reply. 

"Very good, noble sirs," the others make answer; "’tis three years ago since our own husbands went on board ship; they must have perished. You are merchants too; we will be your wives." 

Thus they lead them astray by their women's wiles and tricks and dalliance, until they get them into the goblin city; then, if they have any others already caught, they bind these with magic chains and cast them into the house of torment. And if they find no shipwrecked men in the place where they dwell, they scour the coast as far as the river Kalyani on one side and the island of Nagadipa on the other. This is their way.

Now it happened once that five hundred shipwrecked traders were cast ashore near the city of these she-goblins. The goblins came up to them and enticed them till they brought them to their city; those whom they had caught before, they bound with magic chains and cast them into the house of torment. 

Then the chief goblin took the chief man, and the others took the rest, till five hundred had the five hundred traders, and they made the men their husbands. Then in the night time, when her man was asleep, the chief she-goblin rose up and made her way to the house of death, slew some of the men, and ate them. The others did the same. 

When the eldest goblin returned from eating men's flesh, her body was cold. The eldest merchant embraced her, and perceived that she was a goblin. "All the five hundred of them must be goblins!" he thought to himself: "we must make our escape!"

So in the early morning, when he went to wash his face, he bespake the other merchants in these words. "These are goblins, and not human beings! As soon as other shipwrecked men can be found, they will make them their husbands, and will eat us; come — let us escape!"

Two hundred and fifty of them replied, "We cannot leave them: go ye, if ye will, but we will not flee away."

Then the chief trader with two hundred and fifty, who were ready to obey him, fled away in fear of the goblins.

Now at that time, the Bodhisatta had come into the world as a flying horse, white all over and beaked like a crow, with hair like munja grass, possessed of supernatural power, able to fly through the air. From Himalaya he flew through the air until he came to Ceylon. There he passed over the ponds and tanks of Ceylon, and ate the paddy that grew wild there. As he passed on thus, he thrice uttered human speech filled with mercy, saying, "Who wants to go home? Who wants to go home? 

The traders heard his saying and cried, "We are going home, master!" joining their hands, and raising them respectfully to their foreheads. 

"Then climb up on my back," said the Bodhisatta. Thereat some of them climbed up, some laid hold of his tail, and some remained standing, with a respectful salute. Then the Bodhisatta took up even those who stood still saluting him, and conveyed all of them, even two hundred and fifty, to their own country, and set down each in his own place; then he went back to his place of dwelling.

And the she-goblins, when other men came to that place, slew those two hundred and fifty who were left, and devoured them.

~ ~ ~

The Master now said, addressing the Brethren: "Brethren, even as these traders perished by falling into the hands of she-goblins but the others by obeying the behest of the wonderful horse each returned safe home again, so, even so, they who neglect the advice of the Buddhas, both Brethren and Sisters, lay Brethren and lay Sisters, come to great misery in the four hells, places where they are punished under the five fetters, and so forth. But those who abide by such advice come to the three kinds of fortunate birth, the six heavens of sense, the twenty worlds of Brahma, and reaching the state of imperishable Nirvana they attain great blessedness." 

Then, becoming perfectly enlightened, he recited the following verses:

They who will neglect the Buddha when he tells them what to do, 

As the goblins ate the merchants, likewise they shall perish too.

They who hearken to the Buddha when he tells them what to do, 

As the bird-horse saved the merchants, they shall win salvation too.

When the Master had ended this discourse, he declared the Truths and identified the Birth — at the conclusion of the Truths the backsliding Brother entered on the Fruit of the First Path, and many others entered on the Fruit of the First, Second, Third or Fourth — "The Buddha's followers were the two hundred and fifty who followed the advice of the horse, and I was the horse myself."

Footnotes. The modern Kaelani-gaṅgā (Journ. of the Pāli Text Soc., 1888, p. 20). On one side of a pillar in a Buddhist railing at Mathura, is a flying horse with people clinging to it, perhaps intended for this scene (Anderson, Catalogue of the Indian Museum, i. p. 189). Saccharum Muñja.

The Monkey and the Crows

The Talking Thrush and Other Tales from India by W. Crooke and W. H. D. Rouse, with illustrations by W. H. Robinson (1922): online text.

The Monkey and the Crows

In a certain land, a flock of Crows built their nests in the branches of a huge cotton-tree. In that country, the climate is not the least like ours. It is hot all the year round, and for eight months the sun blazes like a fiery furnace, so that the people who live there are burnt as black as your boot; then after eight months comes the rain, and the rain comes down in bucketsful, with lightning fit to blind you, and thunder enough to crack your head. These Crows were quite happy in their nests, whatever happened, for when it was hot, the leaves of the trees sheltered them from the sun, and in the rainy season the leaves kept them pretty dry.

One evening there came a terrible storm, with torrents of rain like Noah's flood. In the midst of it, the Crows noticed a Monkey sliding along, drenched and draggle-tailed, looking like a drowned Rat. The Crows set up a chorus of caws, and called out, "O Monkey, what a fool you must be! Look at us, dry and comfortable, in our nests of rags and twigs. If we, with only our little beaks to help us, can make comfortable nests, why can't you, with two hands and two feet and a tail?"

You might have thought the Monkey would take this advice to heart. But not a bit of it. Monkeys are naturally a lazy tribe, and they are full of envy, hatred, and malice. What they like best is destroying whatever they can lay their hands on — and when I look upon some of the nations of this globe, I cannot help thinking that they really must be descended from Monkeys. 

So this Monkey snapt and snarled, and said to the Crows, "Just wait till morning, and then we'll see what a Monkey can do."

The simple birds were delighted to hear this and looked forward to seeing the Monkey do something wonderfully clever, with his tail and his two hands and two feet.

Morning came, and the rain was over. The Monkey climbed up into the tree, and in his rage and envy he tore all the Crows' nests to pieces.

Then the Crows were sorry they spoke, and determined for the future to mind their own business, and let fools alone. For, as the wise man said, "To give good advice to a fool is like pouring oil upon

the fire."

The Grain of Corn

Tales of the Punjab by Flora Annie Steel, with illustrations by J. Lockwood Kipling (1922): webpage.

The Grain of Corn

Once upon a time a farmer's wife was winnowing corn, when a crow, flying past, swooped off with a grain from the winnowing basket and perched on a tree close by to eat it. The farmer's wife, greatly enraged, flung a clod at the bird with so good an aim that the crow fell to the ground, dropping the grain of corn, which rolled into a crack in the tree. The farmer's wife, seeing the crow fall, ran up to it, and seizing it by the tail, cried, "Give me back my grain of corn, or I will kill you!"

The wretched bird, in fear of death, promised to do so, but, lo and behold! when he came to search for the grain, it had rolled so far into the crack that neither by beak nor claw could he reach it.

So he flew off to a woodman and said—
"Man! Man! Cut tree;
I can't get the grain of corn
To save my life from the farmer's wife!"

But the woodman refused to cut the tree, so the crow flew on to the King's palace and said—
"King! King! Kill man;
Man won't cut tree;
I can't get the grain of corn.
To save my life from the farmer's wife!"

But the King refused to kill the man, so the crow flew on to the Queen and said—
"Queen! Queen! Coax King;
King won't kill man;
Man won't cut tree;
I can't get the grain of corn
To save my life from the farmer's wife!"

But the Queen refused to coax the King, so the crow flew on till he met a snake and said—
"Snake! Snake! Bite Queen;
Queen! Queen! Coax King;
King won't kill man;
Man won't cut tree;
I can't get the grain of corn
To save my life from the farmer's wife!"

But the snake refused to bite the Queen, so the crow flew on till he met a stick and said—
"Stick! Stick! Beat snake;
Snake won't bite Queen;
Queen won't coax King;
King won't kill man;
Man won't cut tree;
I can't get the grain of corn
To save my life from the farmer's wife!"

But the stick refused to beat the snake, so the crow flew on till he saw a fire and said—
"Fire! Fire! Burn stick;
Stick won't beat snake;
Snake won't bite Queen;
Queen won't coax King;
King won't kill man;
Man won't cut tree;
I can't get the grain of corn
To save my life from the farmer's wife!"

But the fire refused to burn the stick, so the crow flew on till he met some water and said—
"Water! Water! Quench fire;
Fire won't burn stick;
Stick won't beat snake;
Snake won't bite Queen;
Queen won't coax King;
King won't kill man;
Man won't cut tree;
I can't get the grain of corn
To save my life from the farmer's wife!"

But the water refused to quench the fire, so the crow flew on till he met an ox and said—
"Ox! Ox! Drink water;
Water won't quench fire;
Fire won't burn stick;
Stick won't beat snake;
Snake won't bite Queen;
Queen won't coax King;
King won't kill man;
Man won't cut tree;
I can't get the grain of corn
To save my life from the farmer's wife!"

But the ox refused to drink the water, so the crow flew on till he met a rope and said—
"Rope! Rope! Bind ox;
Ox won't drink water;
Water won't quench fire;
Fire won't burn stick;
Stick won't beat snake;
Snake won't bite Queen;
Queen won't coax King;
King won't kill man;
Man won't cut tree;
I can't get the grain of corn
To save my life from the farmer's wife!"

But the rope wouldn't bind the ox, so the crow flew on till he met a mouse and said—
"Mouse! Mouse! Gnaw rope;
Rope won't bind ox;
Ox won't drink water;
Water won't quench fire;
Fire won't burn stick;
Stick won't beat snake;
Snake won't bite Queen;
Queen won't coax King;
King won't kill man;
Man won't cut tree;
I can't get the grain of corn
To save my life from the farmer's wife!"

But the mouse wouldn't gnaw the rope, so the crow flew on until he met a cat and said—
"Cat! Cat! Catch mouse;
Mouse won't gnaw rope;
Rope won't bind ox;
Ox won't drink water;
Water won't quench fire;
Fire won't burn stick;
Stick won't beat snake;
Snake won't bite Queen;
Queen won't coax King;
King won't kill man;
Man won't cut tree;
I can't get the grain of corn
To save my life from the farmer's wife!"

The moment the cat heard the name of mouse, she was after it, for the world will come to an end before a cat will leave a mouse alone.

So the cat began to catch the mouse,
The mouse began to gnaw the rope,
The rope began to bind the ox,
The ox began to drink the water,
The water began to quench the fire,
The fire began to burn the stick,
The stick began to beat the snake,
The snake began to bite the Queen,
The Queen began to coax the King,
The King began to kill the man,
The man began to cut the tree;
So the crow got the grain of corn,
And saved his life from the farmer's wife!

The Parrot Judge

The Talking Thrush and Other Tales from India by W. Crooke and W. H. D. Rouse, with illustrations by W. H. Robinson (1922): online text.

The Parrot Judge

There was once a Fowler who caught a young Parrot. He kept the Parrot in his house, hoping that it would pick up something to say, but the Parrot learnt nothing at all. 

Then he set to work at teaching it, but after six months the Parrot had only learnt to say two things: one was "Of course," and the other was "Certainly."

Seeing that his trouble was wasted, the Fowler took him to market in a gilt cage in order to catch the eye of customers. He cried in a loud voice, "Who'll buy! Who'll buy! Here's a Parrot which can say anything in the world! Here's a clever Parrot who knows what he is talking about! If you want a question answered here's the Parrot to answer you, no matter what it may be! Who'll buy, who'll buy?" 

Everybody crowded round to see the wonderful Parrot. 

The King happened to be passing by and heard all this to-do about a Parrot. Said he to the Fowler, "Is it really true about your Parrot?"

"Ask him, sire," said the Fowler.

"Parrot," said the King, "do you know English?"

"Of course," said the Parrot, in a tone of scorn, turning up his beak, as who should say, "What a question to ask me!"

"Can you decide knotty points of law?" the King went on.

"Certainly," said the Parrot, with great confidence.

"This is the bird for me," said the King, and asked his price. The price was a thousand pounds. The King paid a thousand pounds to the Fowler and departed.

A big price, you will say, for a Parrot. So it was, but the King had a reason for paying it. The Judge of the City had just died, and the King could not find another. Hundreds of men offered to do the work. Some wanted too much money, more than the King could pay; some were reasonable, but knew no law; and the cheaper ones who professed to know everything were all Germans, whom the King would not have at any price. When he heard of this wise Parrot, thought he, "Here's my Judge; he will want no wages but sugar and chickweed, and he will take no bribes."

So the Parrot was made Judge, and sat on a big throne, with a white wig and a red robe lined with ermine.

Next day, the Parrot was in Court, and a case came up for judgment. It was a murder case, and when the evidence had been heard, the pleader on the murderer's side finished up his speech by saying, "And now, my Lord, you must admit that my client is innocent."

Said the Parrot, "Of course."

Everybody thought this rather odd, because the other side had not yet been heard and, besides, the man was caught in the act. However, they held their tongues and waited.

Then the prosecutor got up and made a long speech, at the end of which he said, "It is no longer possible to doubt that the prisoner at the bar is guilty. Two witnesses saw him do the deed, and half-a-dozen caught him just as he was pulling the knife out of the body. I therefore call upon you, my Lord, to pass sentence of death."

Said the Parrot, "Certainly."

At this the King pricked up his ears. The man could not be innocent of course, and yet certainly guilty, at the same time. So he turned to the Judge and said, "If you go against evidence so clear, Judge, I shall begin to suspect that you killed the man yourself."

Said the Parrot, "Certainly."

You may imagine the hubbub that arose in Court when the Judge said this! Everybody saw that the King had made a mistake in his Judge, and even the King himself began to suspect that something was wrong. So he said, rather angrily, to the Parrot, "Then it is your head ought to be chopped off."

Said the Parrot, "Of course."

"Chop off his head, then," cried the King, and they took away the Parrot and chopped off his head without delay, and all the while he was being dragged along, he called out,

"Certainly," 

"Certainly,"

"Certainly."

(fortune-telling parrot in India)

The Jackal and the Iguana

Tales of the Punjab by Flora Annie Steel, with illustrations by J. Lockwood Kipling (1922): webpage.

The Jackal and the Iguana

One moonlight night, a miserable, half-starved jackal, skulking through the village, found a worn-out pair of shoes in the gutter. They were too tough for him to eat, so, determined to make some use of them, he strung them to his ears like earrings and, going down to the edge of the pond, gathered all the old bones he could find together and built a platform with them, plastering it over with mud.

On this he sat in a dignified attitude, and when any animal came to the pond to drink, he cried out in a loud voice, "Hi! stop! You must not taste a drop till you have done homage to me. So repeat these verses, which I have composed in honour of the occasion:

Silver is his dais, plastered o'er with gold;
In his ears are jewels — some prince I must behold!"

Now, as most of the animals were very thirsty and in a great hurry to drink, they did not care to dispute the matter, but gabbled off the words without a second thought. Even the royal tiger, treating it as a jest, repeated the jackal's rhyme, in consequence of which the latter became quite cock-a-hoop and really began to believe he was a personage of great importance.

By and by an iguana, or big lizard, came waddling and wheezing down to the water, looking for all the world like a baby alligator.

"Hi! you there!" sang out the jackal; "you mustn't drink until you have said:

Silver is his dais, plastered o'er with gold;
In his ears are jewels — some prince I must behold!"

"Pouf! pouf! pouf!" gasped the iguana. "Mercy on us, how dry my throat is! Mightn't I have just a wee sip of water first? And then I could do justice to your admirable lines; at present I am as hoarse as a crow!"

"By all means!" replied the jackal, with a gratified smirk. "I flatter myself the verses are  good, especially when well recited."

So the iguana, nose down into the water, drank away, until the jackal began to think he would never leave off and was quite taken aback when he finally came to an end of his draught and began to move away.

"Hi! hi!" cried the jackal, recovering his presence of mind; "stop a bit, and say:

Silver is his dais, plastered o'er with gold;
In his ears are jewels — some prince I must behold!"

"Dear me!" replied the iguana, politely; "I was very nearly forgetting! Let me see—I must try my voice first — Do, re, me, fa, sol, la, si — that is right! Now, how does it run?

Silver is his dais, plastered o'er with gold;
In his ears are jewels — some prince I must behold!"

repeated the jackal, not observing that the lizard was carefully edging farther and farther away.

"Exactly so," returned the iguana; "I think I could say that!" Whereupon he sang out at the top of his voice:

Bones make up his dais, with mud it's plastered o'er,
Old shoes are his ear-drops: a jackal, nothing more!"

And turning round, he bolted for his hole as hard as he could.

The jackal could scarcely believe his ears and sat dumb with astonishment. Then, rage lending him wings, he flew after the lizard, who, despite his short legs and scanty breath, put his best foot foremost and scuttled away at a great rate.

It was a near race, however, for just as he popped into his hole, the jackal caught him by the tail and held on. Then it was a case of "pull butcher, pull baker," until the lizard made certain his tail must come off, and the jackal felt as if his front teeth would come out. Still not an inch did either budge, one way or the other, and there they might have remained till the present day, had not the iguana called out, in his sweetest tones, "Friend, I give in! Just leave hold of my tail, will you? Then I can turn round and come out."

Whereupon the jackal let go, and the tail disappeared up the hole in a twinkling, while all the reward the jackal got for digging away until his nails were nearly worn out, was hearing the iguana sing softly:

"Bones make up his dais, with mud it's plastered o'er,
Old shoes are his ear-drops: a jackal, nothing more!"

The Ass in the Lion's Skin

From Indian Fairy Tales by Joseph Jacobs, with illustrations by John Batten (1912): story page.

Note: You may already know this story from the famous version in Aesop's fables.

The Ass in the Lion's Skin

At the same time, when Brahmadatta was reigning in Benares, the future Buddha was born one of a peasant family, and when he grew up, he gained his living by tilling the ground.

At that time a hawker used to go from place to place, trafficking in goods carried by an ass. Now at each place he came to, when he took the pack down from the ass's back, he used to clothe him in a lion's skin and turn him loose in the rice and barley fields. And when the watchmen in the fields saw the ass, they dared not go near him, taking him for a lion.

So one day the hawker stopped in a village, and whilst he was getting his own breakfast cooked, he dressed the ass in a lion's skin and turned him loose in a barley-field. The watchmen in the field dared not go up to him, but going home, they published the news. Then all the villagers came out with weapons in, their hands, and blowing chanks, and beating drums, they went near the field and shouted. Terrified with the fear of death, the ass uttered a cry — the bray of an ass!

And when he knew him then to be an ass, the future Buddha pronounced the First Verse:

This is not a lion's roaring,

Nor a tiger's, nor a panther's;

Dressed in a lion's skin,

'Tis a wretched ass that roars!

But when the villagers knew the creature to be an ass, they beat him till his bones broke and, carrying off the lion's skin, went away. Then the hawker came, and seeing the ass fallen into so bad a plight, pronounced the Second Verse:

Long might the ass,

Clad in a lion's skin,

Have fed on the barley green.

But he brayed!

And that moment he came to ruin.

And even whilst he was yet speaking the ass died on the spot!

The Brahman’s Wife and the Mungoose

This story is from Tales of the Sun or Folklore of Southern India by Georgiana Kingscote and Natesa Sastri (1890); online text.

Note: This story is found all over the world, most famous in the Welsh tale of Beth Gelert. Dan Ashliman has collected many variants, including the Indian story of the mongoose, here: Llewellyn and His Dog Gellert and other folktales of Aarne-Thompson-Uther type 178A.

Story of the Brahman’s Wife and the Mungoose

On the banks of the Ganges, which also flows by the most holy city of Banaras, there is a town named Mithila, where dwelt a very poor Brahman called Vidyadhara. He had no children, and to compensate for this want, he and his wife tenderly nourished in their house a mungoose—a species of weasel. It was their all in all—their younger son, their elder daughter—their elder son, their younger daughter, so fondly did they regard that little creature.

(mongoose)

The god Visvesvara and his spouse Visalakshi observed this and had pity for the unhappy pair; so, by their divine power they blessed them with a son. This most welcome addition to their family did not alienate the affections of the Brahman and his wife from the mungoose; on the contrary, their attachment increased, for they believed that it was because of their having adopted the pet that a son had been born to them. So the child and the mungoose were brought up together, as twin brothers, in the same cradle.

It happened one day, when the Brahman had gone out to beg alms of the pious and charitable, that his wife went into the garden to cull some pot-herbs, leaving the child asleep in his cradle, and by his side the mungoose kept guard. An old serpent, which was living in the well in the garden, crept into the house and under the cradle, and was beginning to climb into it to bite the child when the mungoose fiercely attacked it and tore it into several pieces, thus saving the life of the Brahman’s little son, and the venomous snake, that came to slay, itself lay dead beneath the cradle.

Pleased at having performed such an exploit, the mungoose ran into the garden to show the Brahman’s wife its blood-smeared mouth, but she rashly mistook the deliverer of her child for his destroyer, and with one stroke of the knife in her hand with which she was cutting herbs she killed the faithful creature, and then hastened into the house to see her dead son.

But there she found the child in his cradle alive and well, only crying at the absence of his little companion, the mungoose, and under the cradle lay the great serpent cut to pieces. The real state of affairs was now evident, and the Brahman presently returning home, his wife told him of her rash act and then put an end to her life. The Brahman, in his turn, disconsolate at the death of the mungoose and his wife, first slew his child and then killed himself.

The Foolish Wolf

The Talking Thrush and Other Tales from India by W. Crooke and W. H. D. Rouse, with illustrations by W. H. Robinson (1922): online text.

The Foolish Wolf

One day, as the Wolf was running away full tilt from the Ass, a Boy saw them.

"Ha, ha, ha," said the Boy, "what a coward that Wolf is, to run away from an Ass." He thought, you see, that the Wolf was afraid of being eaten by the Ass.

The Wolf heard him, and was very angry. He stopped short, and said to the Boy, "So you think I am a coward, little Boy? You shall rue the word. I'm brave enough to eat you, as you shall find out this very night, for I will come and carry you off from your home."

If the Wolf was no coward, at least he was a foolish Wolf to tell the Boy if he meant to carry him off, as I think you will agree with me.

The Boy went home to tell his mother. "Mother," said he, "a Wolf is coming tonight to carry me off."

"Oh, never mind if he does," said the Boy's mother; "he won't hurt you."

The Boy did not feel quite so sure about that, for he had seen sharp teeth in the mouth of the Wolf. So he chose out a big and sharp stone, and put it in his pocket. Why he did not hide, I can't tell you, for he never told me, but my private opinion is, he was almost as foolish as the Wolf.

Well, when night came, the Boy's mother went to bed, and she was soon snoring, but the Boy stayed up to wait for the Wolf. About ten o'clock came a knock at the door.

"Come in," said the Boy.

The Wolf opened the door, and came in, and says he, "Now, Boy, you must come along with me."

"All right," says the Boy; "Mother doesn't mind."

I have never been able to understand why his mother did not mind, but perhaps he was a very naughty Boy, and she was glad to get rid of him. If he did nothing but pull his sisters' hair and put spiders down their necks, he was just as well out of the house, I think.

So the Boy got on the Wolf's back, and the Wolf trotted off briskly to his den. Then the Wolf thought to himself, "I have had my dinner, and I don't want any Boy tonight. Suppose I leave him for tomorrow, and go for a spin with my friend the Jackass."

So he left the Boy in his den, and off he went after the Jackass.

What makes me think more than ever that he was a foolish Wolf is that he never even tied the Boy's legs together. So when the Wolf was gone, the Boy went out of the den and climbed up a tree.

In an hour or two back came the Wolf, ready for bed. He looked in at the mouth of the den, but no Boy.

"Where on earth has that Boy got to?" said he; "I left him here safe and sound." It never occurred to this Wolf that legs can walk and Boys can climb trees. He felt very anxious, and as many people do when their wits are puzzled, he opened his mouth wide.

(grey wolf)

The Boy saw him standing at the opening of the den, with his mouth wide open, so he pulled the sharp stone out of his pocket and threw it in. This Boy was a very good shot with a stone, and the stone went straight into the Wolf's inside, and cut his inside so much that he died.

Then the Boy climbed down from the tree, and he was at home in time for breakfast. I don't know whether his mother was pleased to see him or not, but there he was, and there he stayed, and if he has not gone away, he is there still.

A Fox and His Wife

This story is from the Folklore of the Santal Parganas by Cecil Henry Bompas, published in 1909: page link.

A Fox and His Wife

Once upon a time there were a fox and his wife who lived in a hole with their five little ones. Every evening the two foxes used to make their way to a bazar to feed on the scraps thrown away by the bazar people, and every night on their way home the following conversation passed between them. 

The fox would say to his wife, “Come tell me how much wit you have,” and she would answer him by, “Only so much as would fill a small vegetable basket.” 

Then she in her turn would ask “And how much wit have you?” 

“As much as would load twelve buffaloes.”

One night as they were on their way home as usual, the two suddenly found themselves face to face with a tiger, who greeted them by saying “At last, my friends, I have got you.”

At this the fox, for all his wit, could not utter a word but crouched down and shook with fright. 

Mrs Fox however was not at all inclined to give way to despair. She saluted the tiger and said, “Ah, uncle, do not eat us up just now; I and my husband have a dispute and we want you to settle it for us.” 

The tiger was mollified by being addressed by so respectful a name as uncle and answered in a gentler voice, “Well, my niece, tell me what is the point, and I will decide it for you.”

“It is this,” went on Mrs. Fox; “we have five children and we wish to divide them between us but we cannot decide how to do so; I say that I will take three and leave him two, while he wants to take three and leave me two. We came out to look for some man to settle the dispute but have not met one, and now providentially you have appeared before us like a god; no doubt you will be able to make the division for us.” 

The tiger reflected that if he managed things well, he would be able to eat not only the two foxes but their young ones as well, so he graciously agreed to make the division.

The foxes then invited him to come back with them to the hole in which they lived and, when they reached it, Mr. Fox bolted into it saying that he was going to bring out the children. As, however, he did not come out again, Mrs. Fox said that it was clear that he could not manage the children by himself, and she would go and help, and thereupon proceeded to back into the hole, keeping her face turned towards the tiger.

Seeing her disappearing, the tiger thought to seize her, but as she kept her eyes on him, he could only say “Hullo, what is the matter? Why are you going in backwards?” 

“Oh, uncle,” replied Mrs. Fox, “how could I turn my back on so great a personage as you?” and with that she disappeared. 

Presently the tiger heard the two foxes calling out from inside, “Goodbye, uncle, you can go away now; we have arranged how to divide the children ourselves.” 

Then he saw how he had been fooled and flew into a terrible rage and tried to squeeze his way into the hole, but it was much too small and at last he had to go away baffled, and so the foxes were saved by Mrs. Fox’s wit.

(Wisc. Natural Resources)

The Legend of Gwâshbrâri, The Glacier-Hearted Queen

From Tales of the Punjab by Flora Annie Steel (1894): text online.

Notes: Another name for Gwâshbrâri is Kolahoi Peak; you can read more at Wikipedia.

(Kolahoi Glacier)

The Legend of Gwâshbrâri, The Glacier-Hearted Queen

Once upon a time, ever so long ago, when this old world was young, and everything was very different from what it is nowadays, the mighty Westarwân was jing of all the mountains. High above all other hills he reared his lofty head, so lofty, that when the summer clouds closed in upon his broad shoulders he was alone under the blue sky. And thus, being so far above the world, and so lonely in his dignity, he became proud, and even when the mists cleared away, leaving the fair new world stretched smiling at his feet, he never turned his eyes upon it, but gazed day and night upon the sun and stars.

Now Harâmukh, and Nangâ Parbat, and all the other hills that stood in a vast circle round great Westarwân, as courtiers waiting on their king, grew vexed because he treated them as nought; and when the summer cloud that soared above their heads hung on his shoulders like a royal robe, they would say bitter, wrathful words of spite and envy.

Only the beautiful Gwâshbrâri, cold and glistening amid her glaciers, would keep silence. Self-satisfied, serene, her beauty was enough for her; others might rise farther through the mists, but there was none so fair as she in all the land.

Yet once, when the cloud-veil wrapped Westarwân from sight, and the wrath rose loud and fierce, she flashed a contemptuous smile upon the rest, bidding them hold their peace.

"What need to wrangle?" she said, in calm superiority; "great Westarwân is proud, but though the stars seem to crown his head, his feet are of the earth, earthy. He is made of the same stuff as we are; there is more of it, that is all."

"The more reason to resent his pride!" retorted the grumblers. "Who made him a King over us?"

Gwâshbrâri smiled an evil smile. "O fools! Poor fools, and blind! Giving him a majesty he has not in my sight. I tell you mighty Westarwân, for all his star-crowned loftiness, is no King to me. 'Tis I who am his Queen!"

Then the mighty hills laughed aloud, for Gwâshbrâri was the lowliest of them all.

"Wait and see!" answered the cold passionless voice. "Before tomorrow's sunrise, great Westarwân shall be my slave!"

Once more the mighty hills echoed with scornful laughter, yet the icy-hearted beauty took no heed. Lovely, serene, she smiled on all through the long summer's day; only once or twice from her snowy sides would rise a white puff of smoke, showing where some avalanche had swept the sure-footed ibex to destruction.

But with the setting sun a rosy radiance fell over the whole world. Then Gwâshbrâri's pale face flushed into life, her chill beauty glowed into passion. Transfigured, glorified, she shone on the fast-darkening horizon like a star.

And mighty Westarwân, noting the rosy radiance in the east, turned his proud eyes towards it, and, lo! the perfection of her beauty smote upon his senses with a sharp, wistful wonder that such loveliness could be —that such worthiness could exist in the world which he despised. The setting sun sank lower, reflecting a ruddier glow on Gwâshbrâri's face; it seemed as if she blushed beneath the great King's gaze. A mighty longing filled his soul, bursting from his lips in one passionate cry — "O Gwâshbrâri! kiss me, or I die!"

The sound echoed through the valleys, while the startled peaks stood round expectant.

Beneath her borrowed blush, Gwâshbrâri smiled triumphant as she answered back, "How can that be, great King, and I so lowly? Even if I would, how could I reach your star-crowned head? — I who on tip-toe cannot touch your cloud-robed shoulder?"

Yet again the passionate cry rang out — "I love you! Kiss me, or I die!"

Then the glacier-hearted beauty whispered soft and low, the sweet music of her voice weaving a magical spell round the great Westarwân — "You love me? Know you not that those who love must stoop? Bend your proud head to my lips, and seek the kiss I cannot choose but give!"

Slowly, surely, as one under a charm, the monarch of the mountains stooped-nearer and nearer to her radiant beauty, forgetful of all else in earth or sky.

The sun set. The rosy blush faded from Gwâshbrâri's fair false face, leaving it cold as ice, pitiless as death. The stars began to gleam in the pale heavens, but the King lay at Gwâshbrâri's feet, discrowned for ever!

And that is why great Westarwân stretches his long length across the valley of Kashmir, resting his once lofty head upon the glacier heart of Queen Gwâshbrâri.

And every night the star crown hangs in the heavens as of yore.

The Lost Camel

This story is from Tales of the Sun or Folklore of Southern India by Georgiana Kingscote and Natesa Sastri (1890).

Note: The pagodas referred to in thi story are a gold coin issued by medieval kings in southern India, and then later by the British, French, and Dutch in India. You can find out more at Wikipedia.

(Gold Pagoda coin cast in Pondicherry, India, 18th-century)

The Lost Camel

There was a city called Alakapuri, famous for all the riches that sea and land can yield, and inhabited by people speaking different languages. In that city reigned a king named Alakesa, who was a storehouse of all excellent qualities. He was so just a king that during his reign the cow and the tiger amicably quenched their thirst side by side in the same pond, the cats and the rats sported in one and the same spot, and the kite and the parrot laid their eggs in the same nest, as though they were “birds of a feather.” The women never deviated from the path of virtue, and regarded their husbands as gods. Timely rain refreshed the soil, and all Alakesa’s subjects lived in plenty and happiness. In short, Alakesa was the body, and his subjects the soul of that body, for he was upright in all things.

Now there was in Alakapuri a rich merchant who lost a camel one day.

(Rajasthani man with his camel)

He searched for it without success in all directions, and at last reached a road which he was informed led to another city, called Mathurapuri, the king of which was named Mathuresa.

King Mathuresa had under him four excellent ministers, whose names were Bodhaditya, Bodhachandra, Bodhavyapaka, and Bodhavibhishana. These four ministers, being, for some reason, displeased with the king, quitted his dominions, and set out for another country.

As they journeyed along they observed the track of a camel, and each made a remark on the peculiar condition of the animal, judging from the footsteps and other indications on the road.

Presently they met the merchant who was searching for his camel, and, entering into conversation with him, one of the travellers inquired if the animal was not lame in one of its legs; another asked if it was not blind of the right eye; the third asked if its tail was not unusually short; and the fourth inquired if it was not suffering from colic. They were all answered in the affirmative by the merchant, who was convinced that they must have seen the animal and eagerly demanded where they had seen it. They replied that they had seen traces of the camel, but not the camel itself, which being inconsistent with the minute description they had given of it, the merchant accused them of having stolen the beast and immediately applied to king Alakesa for redress.

On hearing the merchant’s story, the king was equally impressed with the belief that the travellers must know what had become of the camel and, sending for them, threatened them with his displeasure if they did not confess the truth. How could they know, he demanded, that the camel was lame or blind, or whether the tail was long or short, or that it was suffering from any malady, unless they had it in their possession?

In reply, they each explained the reasons which had induced them to express their belief in these particulars.

The first traveller said, “I noticed in the footmarks of the animal that one was deficient, and I concluded accordingly that it was lame of one of its legs.”

The second said, “I noticed that the leaves of the trees on the left side of the road had been snapped or torn off, whilst those on the right side were untouched, whence I concluded that the animal was blind of his right eye.”

The third said, “I saw some drops of blood on the road, which I conjectured had flowed from the bites of gnats or flies, and I thence concluded that the camel’s tail was shorter than usual, in consequence of which he could not brush the insects away.”

The fourth said, “I observed that while the forefeet of the animal were planted firmly on the ground the hind ones appeared to have scarcely touched it, whence I guessed that they were contracted by pain in the belly of the animal.”

When the king heard their explanation he was much struck by the sagacity of the travellers, and giving five hundred pagodas to the merchant who had lost the camel; he made the four young men his principal ministers, and bestowed on each of them several villages as free gifts.

The Cat That Could Not Be Killed

This story is from Indian Fairy Tales by Maive Stokes (1880); story online.

The Cat That Could Not Be Killed

THERE were once a dog and a cat who were always quarrelling. The dog used to beat the cat, but he never could hurt her. She would only dance about and cry, “You never hurt me, you never hurt me! I had a pain in my shoulder, but now it is all gone away.”

So the dog went to a mainá [bird] and said, “What shall I do to hurt this cat? I beat her and I bite her, and yet I can’t hurt her. I am such a big dog and she is rather a big cat, yet if I beat her, I don’t hurt her, but if she beats me she hurts me so much.”

The mainá said, “Bite her mouth very, very hard, and then you’ll hurt her.”

(mynah bird in Kerala, India)

“Oh, no,” said the cat, who had just come up, laughing; “you won’t hurt me at all.” The dog bit her mouth as hard as he could. “Oh, you don’t hurt me,” said the cat, dancing about.

So the dog went again to the mainá and said, “What shall I do?”

“Bite her ears,” said the mainá. So the dog bit the cat’s ears, but she danced about and said, “Oh, you did not hurt me; now I can put earrings in my ears.” So she put in earrings.

The dog went to the elephant. “Can you kill this cat? She worries me so every day.”

(Indian elephant)

“Oh, yes,” said the elephant, “of course I can kill her. She is so little and I am so big.” Then the elephant came and took her up with his trunk, and threw her a long way. Up she jumped at once and danced about, saying, “You did not hurt me one bit. I had a pain, but now I am quite well.”

Then the elephant got cross and said, “I’ll teach you to dance in another way than that,” and he took the cat and laid her on the ground and put his great foot on her. But she was not hurt at all. She danced about and said, “You did not hurt me one bit, not one bit,” and she dug her claws into the elephant’s trunk.

The elephant ran away screaming, and he told the dog, “You had better beware of that cat. She belongs to the tiger tribe.”

The dog felt very angry with the cat. “What shall I do,” said he, “to kill this cat?”

And he bit her nose so hard that it bled. But she laughed at him. “Now I can put a ring in my nose,” said she.

He got furious. “I’ll bite her tail in half,” said he. So he bit her tail in half, and yet he did not hurt her.

He then went to a leopard. “If you can kill this cat, I will give you anything you want.”

(leopard in Karnataka, India)

“Very well, I’ll kill her,” said the leopard. And they went together to the cat.

“Stop,” said the cat to the leopard; “I want to speak to you first. I’ll give you something to eat, and then I’ll tell you what I want to say.” And then she ran off ever so far, and after she had run a mile she stopped and danced, calling out, “Oh! I’ll give you nothing to eat; you could not kill me.”

The leopard went away very cross, and saying, “What a clever cat that is.”

The dog next went to a man, and said, “Can you kill this cat? She worries me so?”

“Of course I can,” said the man; “I’ll stick this knife into her stomach.” And he stuck his knife into the cat’s stomach, but the cat jumped up, and her stomach closed, and the man went home.

And the dog went to a bear. “Can you kill this cat? I can’t.”

(Himalayan black bear)

“I’ll kill her,” said the bear; so he stuck all his claws into the cat, but he didn’t hurt her, and she stuck her claws into the bear’s nose so deep that he died immediately.

Then the poor dog felt very unhappy, and went and threw himself into a hole, and there he died, while the cat went away to her friends.