II.

GUZARAT FOLK STORIES.

GUZARAT FOLK STORIES—I.

KING MANSING OF SIROHI.

King Mansing of Sirohi was a very brave Rajput; but he had one fault. He was greatly addicted to opium, of which he used to drink daily vast quantities from the hand of his favourite queen. Now it so happened that the Emperor of Delhi came to Rajputana and camped outside the walls of Sirohi. All night long the emperor and his nobles drank deep and revelled, while beautiful dancing girls sang to them lascivious songs. The noise of the music and the dancing could be heard from King Mansing’s palace; and all one night, as the king slept, his favourite queen sat up and listened to it. When Mansing awoke, his queen gave him his opium. As he drank it, she talked about the wonderful revels of the emperor and the noise of his music and the lights that blazed all night in his camp. At first Mansing paid no heed to his queen’s chatter; but at last he got cross and told her not to mention in his presence the name of the Mleccha emperor. The queen was so infatuated with what she had seen and heard that she would not stop, but began to compare the gaiety of the emperor’s camp with the dullness of life in Sirohi. At last the king lost all patience and boxing his wife’s ears told her that if she thought so much of the emperor’s camp, she had better go there.

The queen left the room in a rage and all that day brooded over the king’s words. That night she took her maid with her and stole out of the palace and through the city walls into the emperor’s camp. When she reached his tent, she sent her maid to tell the emperor. He was listening to the singing of his dancing girls and the music of his players; but as soon as he learnt that the queen was outside, he stopped the music and the singing and had the queen brought before him with the greatest respect. As she entered the tent the whole company rose and greeted her. The emperor asked her why she had come. She replied “Grant me a boon, shelter of the world, and I shall tell you.” The emperor replied “The boon is yours; you have but to name it.” The queen told the emperor all that had happened and claimed as a boon that the emperor should marry her. After she had spoken, she took the emperor’s cup in her hands and drank from it, thus breaking her caste in the sight of all. The emperor had no wish to quarrel with King Mansing of Sirohi, but having made the queen a promise, he had to keep it. He called the kazi and married the queen. The same night he left Sirohi and marched back to Delhi.

The king had seen the queen leave his room in a rage, but he thought no more of the matter until next morning, when she did not come with his opium. He sent for her; but as she did not come he called her maids and forced from their trembling lips the truth. The king said nothing, but swallowing a prodigious quantity of opium, he put on his armour and summoned his chiefs and nobles. When they had assembled, he told them that the emperor had seduced his queen and then like a coward had run away to Delhi. The chiefs and nobles all vowed vengeance and bade the king call out his troops. At noon the king held a great parade; but when he came to count his warriors, he found that they barely numbered 6,000. On hearing this, the king’s minister Motishah told him that he could do nothing with only 6,000 men against the 120,000 men led by the emperor. “What then can I do?” cried the king. “Let us go to Delhi in disguise,” said Motishah. “There we shall be able to hit on some plan to win back the queen.” The king agreed; and disguising themselves as two Rajput soldiers, he and Motishah rode from Sirohi to Delhi. At Delhi they put up with a mali woman, who worked in the imperial gardens. From her they learnt that the emperor fearing a rescue, had dug round the queen’s palace no less than seven trenches. Of these six were filled with water and the inner one with fire. Outside the trenches he had built a mighty wall.

That night the king and Motishah disguised as mendicants, but with swords and shields hidden beneath their yellow robes sallied forth to the queen’s palace. On coming to the wall, Motishah climbed on to the king’s shoulders and thence on to the wall. He let down his turban and by its means hauled the king after him. As both could swim, they easily crossed the six water trenches. They had hoped to find the fire-trench burning low at night. But the king’s guards before going home had filled it with fresh wood and it was burning fiercely. Motishah threw his shield into the middle and jumped on to it. But so great was the heat that he soon felt that his legs would be burnt off. So keeping his right leg on the shield, he kept his left leg as high as he could, to save it from the flames. He supported himself on his spear while the king sprang on his shoulders and leapt to the far side of the trench. Near the palace was a tall palm tree. Mansing climbed it and reaching the top, tied his turban to one of the branches. He then swung on his turban to and fro until he was able to swing into one of the windows of the upper storey of the palace. He tied his turban to the window sill and went inside. In a room close by he saw his queen sleeping with the emperor. At first he felt so angry that he would have killed them both, as they slept. Then he remembered that he was a Rajput and that it was wrong to kill a helpless enemy. So he woke the queen and with the point of his sword at her throat, he made her get up without waking the emperor. Tying a rope round her arms and legs and throwing her like a bundle across his back, he swung back to the palm tree by his turban and slid to the ground.

Poor Motishah’s right leg was by this time all but burnt off; but when he saw the king coming back he put his left leg on the shield and over his shoulders the king climbed across the fire trench. But he could not save his minister. No sooner had Mansing reached safety than poor Motishah fainted and falling into the trench was burnt to ashes. Mansing swam with his queen on his back across the six water trenches. By the aid of Motishah’s turban, which still hung from the wall, he climbed over it and pulled his wife after him. He seated her on his horse and mounting Motishah’s mare, galloped off towards Sirohi. When they had ridden some fifty miles, Mansing stopped to have his morning dose of opium. He then discovered for the first time that he had dropped his opium box inside the emperor’s palace. Addicted as he was to the drug, he could do without food, but he could not do without his opium. It would have been useless for him to ride further, for he would have fallen off the saddle. After stamping on the ground several times with rage, he tied his queen to a tree. Then he lay down on the ground and covering his head with a sheet fell asleep.

In the meantime the emperor had awakened and had missed the Sirohi queen. He asked his guards and his servants and searched everywhere for her but in vain. Then his eyes fell on Mansing’s gold opium box. He picked it up and saw engraved on it the name “Mansing.” He summoned to him his nobles and called for a volunteer to chase Mansing and bring him back alive. A Musulman noble famed for his courage rose, saluted the emperor and promised to bring the king back alive. He galloped towards Sirohi and after riding 50 miles overtook the king and queen. Mansing still lay asleep. The Musulman noble untied the queen but he refused to kill Mansing, although she begged him to. He must bring him back alive, the Musulman said. He would give the king opium and then take him back to Delhi. “If you give him opium,” said the queen, “you will never take him alive, he will kill you.” The Musulman did not heed her, but mixing opium with water he poured it down Mansing’s throat. Directly Mansing recovered his senses, he refused to go back to Delhi. He sprang on his horse and fought the Musulman. But Mansing was still faint from his long privation and the Musulman disarmed him and tied him to a tree. Leaving the queen to guard her husband the Musulman went down the steps of a well to wash his face and hands. The queen seeing her chance, picked up Mansing’s sword as it lay on the ground and struck a blow at his head. Mansing jerked his head aside. The blade missed his head and grazing his side cut through the rope which bound him. In a moment he was free. Rushing at the queen, he twisted the sword from her hand and tied her to the tree. He mixed himself some more opium. Then arming himself with sword and shield, he went to the mouth of the well and challenged the Musulman to a second fight. The Musulman came out of the well, but now that Mansing had had his full dose of opium, no one in the world could have beaten him. With a single sweep of his sword he severed the Musulman’s head from his body. Then tying his wife’s hands and feet to her horse, he rode back with her in triumph to Sirohi. There all the nobles and common people rejoiced at the king’s feat of arms and were very angry with the queen, who had first left him and then had tried to kill him. Mansing had her tied to a pillar in the market place. There everyone threw bricks and stones at her or hit her head with their shoes. She soon died and her body was burnt outside the city walls.

The emperor was very angry when he heard that Mansing had killed the brave Musulman noble. He raised a great army and marched against Sirohi. Yet small though the Sirohi army was, it won repeated victories over the Moghul troops. At last the emperor challenged the king to a duel, but the emperor was no match for the Rajput king. He was soon wounded and disarmed. As the price of his life, he agreed to make a treaty by which he gave great wealth and wide lands to the king of Sirohi.

GUZARAT FOLK STORIES—II.

THE WISDOM SELLER.

Once upon a time there lived a poor Brahman, who earned a tiny income as a clerk. He had one son, a bright, clever boy, who went to school and was a favourite alike of boys and masters. He might have risen to great learning, had his father lived. Unhappily before the boy had left school the poor Brahman died. The boy had to leave school and try to keep his mother and younger brothers and sisters. At first he became a candidate for a clerkship in a public office. But this brought him no pay; and although he wrote petitions in his spare time, he only earned thereby Rs. 3 or Rs. 4 a month. This sum was not enough to keep him and his family from starving. One day he resolved to seek some other way of earning a living and this is what he did.

He went into the town and hired the smallest shop he could find. He spent the few annas he had in the world in buying some writing paper, an ink pot, a bottle of ink, a pen and an empty box. Over the shop he got painted the words “WISDOM SELLER.” All round him were jewellers’ shops, cloth shops, green-grocers’ shops. The other dealers waited for customers, but the green-grocers shouted to the passersby “Pumpkins! Pumpkins!—three pice a pound!” The Brahman boy thought that he would do as the green-grocers did and when any one passed, he called out at the top of his voice, “Wisdom! Wisdom! All kinds! All prices!” At first the passersby could not make out what he meant. When they understood, they did not think of buying his wares. They crowded round his shop and laughed at him. “Who would buy wisdom,” they cried, “especially from a lad like that?” But the Brahman boy did not mind them at all. He went on shouting at the top of his voice “Wisdom! Wisdom! All kinds! All prices!” For several days he made no money at all; but at last the whole city got to hear of the new shop and four or five passersby stopped and bought an anna or two worth of wisdom. He was thus rather better off than when he had been an unpaid clerk; but he knew that when the novelty wore off, he would get no more customers. Still he did not despair.

It so happened that a certain Nagar lived in that city. He was really very stupid; but he had inherited a large fortune from his father and so he thought himself very clever. Just to show off, he called his only son VIDHYA or LEARNING. But in spite of this grand name, the son was just as stupid as the father. One day Vidhya passed the Brahman boy’s shop and heard him shout “Wisdom! Wisdom! All kinds! All prices!” So foolish was he, that he thought wisdom was a sort of vegetable. He first asked its price per pound. The Brahman boy said “I sell not by weight, but by quality.” Vidhya then put two pice on the counter and said he would take half an anna’s worth. The boy wrote on a piece of paper “It is not wise to stand and watch two people fighting.” He then tied the paper inside Vidhya’s scarf and took the money. Vidhya went home and said to his father “I have bought some wisdom for two pice and it is tied inside my scarf. Let us undo the knot and look at it.” His father did not understand, but undid the knot and finding the paper read “It is not wise to stand and watch two people fighting.” He was very angry and said to his son “Well, you are a fool! Fancy paying two pice for this nonsense! Why, every one knows that it is not wise to stand and watch two people fighting.” In a great rage the Nagar walked to the Brahman’s shop and began to call out “Rogue! Thief! Cheat! you did my son out of his money, just because he was a foolish boy. Give me back the two pice, or I shall call the police!” The Brahman kept his temper and said quietly: “Why are you so angry about nothing? I did not make your son give me the two pice. He asked me to sell him so much wisdom and I did so. Give me back my wisdom and take back your money.” At once the Nagar threw the paper at the Brahman and cried: “Now give me my money!” The Brahman said “No, I said I would give you back your money if you gave me back my wisdom. You only offer me the paper. If you want your two pice back, you must sign a document, binding your son never to abide by my advice and always to stand and watch people fighting.” The passersby took the side of the Brahman boy. The Nagar signed the document and went away with his two pice, very pleased to get them back so cheaply.

Two or three months later each of the king’s two queens sent her maid to buy her some groceries. They both went to the same grocer and both tried to buy the same article. As the grocer had only the one sample they began to quarrel so fiercely that the grocer in a fright took to his heels and ran out of the shop. But the two maids went on quarrelling. Just then Vidhya strolled up and saw the quarrel. Before meeting the Brahman boy he would have run away; for stupid though he was, he knew it was unsafe to stand and watch a fight especially between the two queens’ maid-servants. But he remembered the promise made by his father, so he went close up and watched. One of the maids noticed him and called on him to witness that the other maid had struck her. The other maid retorted that so far from giving blows, she had received any number of them; and she, too, called on Vidhya to be her witness. At last they separated and the maid-servants and Vidhya went to their several homes.

The two maids went to their mistresses and exaggerated what had happened. The queens in turn became furious and sent their maids to complain to the king. At the same time each sent word to Vidhya that if he did not depose in favour of her maid-servant he would be beheaded. Vidhya was very frightened and told his father. The two talked the matter over all that day and all the next night, but they could not find a way of escape. At last Vidhya said “Let us ask the Brahman boy, who sells wisdom; if he really has any to sell, he may help me out.” As a last resort, the Nagar agreed and father and son went to the Brahman boy’s shop and told him what had befallen Vidhya. The Brahman boy asked for a fee of Rs. 500. On getting the money, he told Vidhya to feign insanity and to pretend that he did not understand what the king asked him. Next day the king heard the case. The king questioned him closely, but no question would he answer. He merely gabbled all the time, until the king lost all patience and drove him out of the court room. Very pleased with himself, Vidhya ran home and to all whom he met he praised the wisdom of the Brahman boy, whose fame thus spread through the whole city.

The Nagar was at first delighted at his son’s escape; then he began to reflect that his son must always feign insanity or the king would learn that he had been tricked and would certainly cut Vidhya’s head off. He went to the Brahman boy, who asked for another fee of Rs. 500 which the Nagar paid. “Vidhya should go to the king,” said the Brahman boy, “when he is in a merry mood and tell him the whole story. When he is in a good temper, he will laugh at it and forgive him.” Vidhya followed the advice and one day finding the king in a good humour he confessed everything. The king laughed heartily and forgave him. Then he sent for the Brahman boy and asked him whether he would sell him wisdom and, if so, at what price. “Yes,” said the boy, “I shall be very proud to sell the king wisdom; but my fee will be one lakh.” The king paid the lakh and got in return a paper on which the boy had written: “Do nothing without thinking deeply first.” The king knew the advice to be excellent and dismissing the young Brahman, he had the words embroidered on all his clothes and engraved on all his plates, cups and dishes.

A few months later the king fell very ill. The prime minister eager to get rid of him, urged the doctor to put poison in the royal medicine. The doctor agreed and gave the king a poisoned draught. As the king lifted his gold cup to his lips, he saw engraved on it the words “Do nothing without thinking deeply first.” Without suspecting anything he thought over the words and lowering the cup looked intently at its contents. The doctor’s guilty conscience made him fear that the king guessed that the medicine was poisoned. He threw himself at his master’s feet and confessing everything, prayed for mercy. The astonished king called the guard and had the doctor seized. He sent for the prime minister and bade him drink the poisoned medicine. The minister in his turn threw himself at the royal feet and begged for mercy. But the king had him hanged on the spot. He then sent for the doctor and after rating him soundly, banished him from the kingdom. Lastly he made the Brahman boy, whose wisdom had saved his life, Prime Minister and loaded him with honours.

GUZARAT FOLK STORIES—III.

MAGADHA AND RUPVATI.

Once upon a time there was a town called Avanti on the banks of the river Kshipra. It was a famous town and in it lived very many rich men. But all the inhabitants were not rich, some were very poor. Among the latter was a pious old Brahman called Vishnupriya or dear to the Lord Vishnu. He had two sons named Deval and Madhav. The former he married to a proud and lovely girl called Rupvati. For Madhav he got a pure and saintly girl called Magadha. In course of time the good old Brahman died and after his death the family became so poor that the two brothers resolved to leave Avanti and seek their fortune elsewhere. Before they left, they handed over the whole management of the house to Rupvati. Even Madhav said to Magadha in Rupvati’s presence “You must obey Rupvati in everything. She is my elder brother’s wife. You are but a foolish, ignorant girl. She is clever and wise in the ways of the world.” Magadha was not vexed at what her husband said. She felt sure that what he ordered was for the best and she promised to do everything that Rupvati told her.

Now Rupvati for all her beauty was really a bad hearted woman and directly her husband had gone, she began to take as her lovers all the handsome young men of the neighbourhood. But she feared that Magadha would tell tales about her, so she resolved to turn her out of the house. She told Magadha that she had been born under an unlucky star and was the cause of her husband’s and her brother’s poverty. After rating her well, she beat her and pushing her into the street slammed the door in her face.

Poor Magadha was at first broken hearted at the way Rupvati had treated her. But after shedding some tears, she took courage and began to earn her living as a day labourer. From time to time, too, she used to go to Rupvati’s house and work for her; for so gentle was her nature that she never bore Rupvati any ill-will. One day in Purshotam Mas she saw Rupvati worshipping the God Krishna. As she had never seen this done before, she asked Rupvati to tell her all about it. Rupvati flew into a temper and screamed at her “You wretched girl, fancy not knowing how to worship Shri Krishna! Why your very presence is a sin!” With these words she drove her sister-in-law into the street. As poor Magadha was going home in tears, she met one Bhamini, a friend of Rupvati and just as unkind and cruel as she was. Bhamini asked her why she cried. Magadha told her. But Bhamini instead of taking Magadha’s part, thought it a good chance to play a cruel practical joke on her. She told her that it was Purshotam Mas and that therefore she should worship the God Krishna. “Most people,” added Bhamini, “bathe in a river and burn a ghee lamp in a corner of their house in front of images of Krishna and Radha. Thereafter they feed Brahmans. But I know a much better way to worship Krishna than that. Choose the dirtiest, nastiest pool that you can find. Bathe in it and after bathing eat nothing but cold, stale food. Next worship the pipal tree, thinking all the while of Krishna and Radha. Then give to Brahmans alms wrapped in pipal leaves.” Now this was all wrong; for Shri Krishna does not live in the pipal tree, which is only the abode of devils. But the cruel Bhamini hoped that in this way Magadha would incur both God’s displeasure and the curses of the Brahmans.

Poor Magadha was far too trusting to guess Bhamini’s wickedness and went home very pleased with her new knowledge. She looked about until she found a pool full of dirty rain water and swarming with water insects. She bathed in it, then worshipped a pipal tree, thinking all the while of Shri Krishna. Lastly she went home and ate some cold, stale food, which she had put by on purpose. Having done this for several days she invited 108 Brahmans to dine at her house. After she had invited them, she suddenly remembered that she had no money with which to buy them food, still less to give them alms afterwards. She did not know what to do, so she prayed all that night and all next morning to the God Krishna to help her honour the Brahmans when they came. A little before noon the 108 Brahmans began to collect outside Magadha’s house. But poor Magadha, who had no dinner to give them, had not the heart to go to the door and welcome them; so she just stayed inside and prayed to the God Krishna. At last the Brahmans got very angry and said “What is the use of waiting outside this wretched little hut? Even if the door was opened, there would be nothing inside to eat.” They were about to go away when three other Brahmans came up and one of them asked which was Magadha’s house. Hopes of a good meal once more sprang up in the breasts of the 108 hungry guests and they pointed it out to the newcomers. “We are guests,” they said, “but she has shut her door in our faces. Are you her relative?” The Brahman who had spoken, said “Yes, I am Magadha’s brother and these two are our kinsmen. Please wait outside and I shall go in and see. My sister must be getting ready your dinner.” With these words he went inside the house, but he found nothing ready. In the middle room was poor Magadha, praying with all her might to the God Krishna to help her. “Why do you not serve the dinner for the 108 Brahmans?” asked the newcomer. “There is no worse sin than to send away Brahmans hungry from your door.” “I know that,” replied poor Magadha, “but what can I do? I have no food and no money to buy any.” “Look in your kitchen,” said the newcomer, “and you will find plenty of food.” Magadha looked and sure enough the kitchen was as full as it could be. She was so pleased that she began cooking at once; and two maid-servants, whom she had never seen before helped her and swept the floor of the dining room and got baths ready for the Brahmans; when dinner was ready the newcomer called in the 108 other Brahmans and he and his two kinsmen served the dinner on leaves, which turned into gold plates when the guests touched them. The Brahmans had never eaten so rich or so big a dinner before. They got back their good spirits and instead of cursing poor Magadha, they blessed her from the bottom of their hearts. As they rose to go, the newcomer gave each guest a packet of pipal leaves as a parting present. The guests thought this a very odd “dakshina” but when they opened the leaves they found them full of diamonds and pearls and rubies.

When all the guests had left, Magadha begged the three Brahmans who had so wonderfully helped her, to have their meal also. They excused themselves, pleading that they had already eaten. But they pressed Magadha to eat and she did so. Directly she had finished, her eyes were opened and she saw the three Brahmans and the two maid-servants as they really were. For the Brahman, who had said he was her brother was none other than Shri Krishna himself and his two so called kinsmen were his two friends Uddhav and Akrur; while the two maid-servants were Shri Krishna’s queens Rukmani and Satyabhama. Magadha threw herself at Shri Krishna’s feet; but the great God raised her and said “The ceremonies you performed in my honour were all wrong. But ceremonies are of little value. The true worth of worship is in faith; and your faith was such that I granted you your prayers.” With these words he took Magadha by the hand and led her back with him to his heaven Vaikunth. But what happened to the wicked Rupvati and Bhamini? They were very properly punished. Rupvati in order to humble poor Magadha still more, had on the same day asked another 108 Brahmans to dinner, intending to give them a splendid feast and get their blessing, while poor Magadha fell under the curses of her 108 guests. But the very opposite happened. Rupvati cooked her dinner and had her house swept and garnished and went out to welcome her guests. But when she took them into her house there was nothing to eat at all. All the fine dinner which she had cooked for them had gone. She looked everywhere but she could not find it. At last she had to send the Brahmans away as hungry and cross as could be. As they went they called down the most frightful curses on her, so that she died soon afterwards and went straight to Hell. Nor did Bhamini fare any better. The God Krishna was very angry with her for telling Magadha to worship him in the way she did. She lost all her money and became very poor; and when she died she went to Hell too, and she and Rupvati are still there, keeping each other company.

GUZARAT FOLK STORIES—IV.

RUPSINH AND THE QUEEN OF THE ANARDES.

Once upon a time there was a great king of Guzarat, who died leaving two sons Phulsinh and Rupsinh. On the father’s death Phulsinh mounted the throne. In no long time he died leaving a widow and no children and Rupsinh became king of Guzarat, although still a little boy. Phulsinh’s widow would have burnt herself on her husband’s pyre had not the townspeople bidden her live and care for their child king.

The widowed queen was very wise and clever. So deft was she with her fingers that she could dress her hair with oil and afterwards press the hair so skilfully that not a drop of oil remained in it. On a day when Rupsinh was a lad of fifteen, he lay asleep with his head resting on the lap of the queen. As he slept, she dressed his hair with oil and then began to squeeze it out. By chance she pulled out one of Rupsinh’s hairs. Rupsinh awoke and said crossly: “You are not so clever to-day as usual with your fingers, or you would not have pulled out my hair.” The queen said with a laugh: “Yes, I am getting old and make mistakes. If you want someone who will never make mistakes, you had better marry the queen of the Anardes.” The queen was only joking, for the Anardes were a race of fairies. But Rupsinh took her words in earnest and cried “Marry the queen of the Anardes, then, I will! And till I have done so, I shall neither eat nor drink inside my kingdom.” The poor queen regretted bitterly her words and begged the young king to pay no heed to them. But the headstrong boy would not mind her. He told his grooms, to saddle his horses. “Shew me,” he said to the queen, “the house of the queen of the Anardes. If not, I shall seek her without your aid. I shall ask my way and with God’s help I shall find it.” The widowed queen was greatly grieved at the way the boy king had taken her words; still, she thought it best now to help him on his way, rather than to thwart him.

She said: “If you will go, my King, then heed my words carefully, for the road is long and full of perils. Trust none whom you meet or you will perish miserably. On leaving the palace gates ride to the north. In three days’ time you will come to a dense forest. Ride boldly into it and in its very heart you will find a lake. But beware of the lake and do not bathe in it or drink its waters. If you do, you will die; for the lake is a fairies’ lake and no mortal who bathes in it or drinks its waters can live. Ride therefore past the lake until you come to a great mountain. Avoid the mountain; for near it lives a monstrous elephant; and should it see you, it will trample you to death. Beyond the mountain you will come to Thugtown, a town full of thugs and cheats. They will kill you if they can. If you can outwit the men of Thugtown, you will come next to a beautiful wood. Here above all be on your guard, for the wood is peopled by demons who live on human flesh. Beyond the demon’s wood lie the lands of the Princess Phulpancha. She is so called because her weight is only that of five flowers. In her country you will surely die; but if someone will drop on your body three drops of Amrita, or ambrosia from the bottle that I give you, you will come back to life. Such are the perils that await you, yet if you still wish to go, take with you my blessing.” As the widowed queen spoke, her voice trembled and the tears rolled down her cheeks, for she loved Rupsinh as if he had been her own son. She put in the youth’s hands a bottle of Amrita. He took it, bowed his head to her feet, mounted his horse and spurring it along the northern road was soon out of sight.

Three days later Rupsinh saw, as he rode, the forest of which the widowed queen had spoken. He rode into it and rejoiced in the shade of the great trees overhead. Suddenly he saw in front of him, like a sheet of silver, a beautiful lake. Forgetting what the widowed queen had said, he let his horse walk to the edge and quench its thirst. A moment later he heard a noise of wings above him. He looked up and saw a great company of fairies on horseback flying towards the lake. The young king in a fright turned his horse’s head towards the road and tried to spur it into a gallop. But the poison of the fairy lake was killing the poor horse and after trying feebly to answer to the spur, it fell down dead. The king undid the girths and taking with him the saddle ran to a big tree close by and climbed into its branches. The fairies had not seen him, so they dismounted; tied their horses to trees and plunged gaily into the fairy lake. Rupsinh slipped down from his tree and slipped noiselessly to where the queen of the fairies had tethered her horse and put his saddle on its back. He jumped on it and galloped off. The fairies did not notice their loss until they came out of the water. The queen was in great distress; and she and other fairies followed Rupsinh’s tracks until they came near the elephant mountain. Far off they saw Rupsinh galloping away on the fairy queen’s horse. They called to the elephant to stop him, as he was a horse thief. The elephant ran after the king and caught him and his horse in its mighty trunk. Carrying them to the mountain, it tried to crush them to death against one of its steep sides. The young king was in despair. Then regaining courage, he slashed so fiercely at the elephant’s trunk with his sword that it let him and the horse go.

Rupsinh galloped away until he reached Thugtown. At its gate he saw an old man sitting. As the king rode up, the old man rose and with great courtesy said “Welcome, Thakor. Your father married you when a child to my daughter; and yet you have never come to see her until now.” “This is Thugtown,” thought the king, “and the old man must be one of the thugs who live there.” Still Rupsinh could not but return the old man’s greeting. He said “My father died so long ago that I cannot remember him at all, nor anything he did. It was only the other day that I heard from a kinsman that my father had married me to your daughter. I at once set out to claim my bride.” The old man bade the king enter the town and stay at his house, that he might meet his daughter. They entered the town gates together. At the old man’s door his four young sons came out and greeted the king as their brother-in-law. At night they would have led him to a room at the top of the house. But the king guessed that in the night they meant to throw him from the window. He said he could not sleep anywhere but on the ground floor. He was so obstinate that the old man at last put a bed for him in the verandah on the ground floor, while he and his sons slept in rooms off it. The king kept awake all night. It was well he did so. The queen of the fairies, who had never ceased to follow her horse’s tracks, came to the old man’s house and saw Rupsinh lying in the verandah. She tied a magic thread round his ankle and ran to the stable to mount the horse which the king had stolen. But Rupsinh untied the thread and tied it round the ankle of the old man. He had no sooner done so, than the magic thread became quite taut. The fairy queen had mounted her horse and riding off dragged the old man after her. She never thought of looking back, but galloped straight off to the elephant mountain. There she threw him before the elephant, who at once trampled the old man to death. In the meantime Rupsinh drew his sword. Going to the beds of the four sons, he sternly demanded his horse. One of the four sons went to the stable to saddle it. As it was not there, Rupsinh made him give him one of the old man’s own horses instead. He then rode as fast as he could out of Thugtown.

Rupsinh rode north for some hours when he saw in front of him a beautiful wood. He at once recalled the widowed queen’s warning about the demons who lived in it. He entered it. Suddenly he saw two demons fighting together. When they saw the king they stopped fighting and began to laugh. Rupsinh laughed back and then asked them what amused them. “We have not tasted human flesh,” said one of the demons, “for twelve years. When we saw you we laughed for joy. But why did you laugh?” “I am a messenger of the god Shiva” said Rupsinh. “The parchment on one of his drums is torn and he sent me out to get two demon skins with which to repair it. The drum is so big that the skin of one demon would not be enough. So when I saw two demons in front of me, I laughed for joy.” Rupsinh drew his sword and rode at the demons as if to skin them alive. In an agony of fear they begged him to take the skin of their blind uncle instead. “One demon’s skin will not do,” said the king sternly; “besides the skin of a blind demon would sound hollow.” The demons in despair offered Rupsinh a large ransom, but he would not accept it. At last they offered him a flying machine known as a pavanpavdi. “In it,” they said, “you can fly all over the sky and whenever you see a demon on earth, you can come down and skin him.” The king took the pavanpavdi and tied it on to his horse’s back and rode on until he crossed the borders of the Princess Phulpancha’s country. Some time later he reached her town and lodged with an old woman who owned a garden outside the city.

The king had not been there many days before the princess came to hear of him. One day as he rode under her window her maid-servants whispered to her, “That is the young king, my Princess.” Phulpancha on the spot fell in love with him. One day Rupsinh came to his lodging, hungry and thirsty, and asked the old woman to cook him some food at once. The old woman said that she could not, as she was weaving garlands for the Princess Phulpancha. The king bade the old woman cook his dinner while he wove the garlands, which he did very skilfully. He then took off his diamond ring and hid it in one of them. When his dinner was ready, he ate it and the old woman went to the palace with the garlands. As the Princess put them round her neck, her fingers touched the diamond ring. She knew that it must have been sent to her by Rupsinh, as he lodged with the old woman. Some days later Rupsinh left his lodging and dressed as a poor Rajput, went to the court of Phulpancha’s father and asked for service. The old king was pleased with Rupsinh’s speech and bearing and made him chief of the guards round the Princess’ palace and paid him three gold pieces a day. In this manner Rupsinh came to see the Princess almost daily and told her all about himself. Some days later came the weighing of the Princess Phulpancha. It was the custom of the land that once a year the Princess should be weighed on a pair of magic scales. If no man but the king had seen her during the previous year, her weight would only be that of five flowers. But if a man had seen her, her weight would be that of an ordinary girl of her age and height. At the appointed hour Phulpancha sat on one of the scales, while the weigher put five flowers on the other. Instead of the five flowers balancing the Princess, her scale clung obstinately to the ground; and it was not until two maunds had been put in the other, that the Princess began to move upwards. The old king made enquiries and came to know that Rupsinh had several times spoken to Phulpancha. Instantly he had Rupsinh hanged, from the branch of a tree. Fortunately before entering the king’s service, Rupsinh had told the old woman of the garden about the Amrita. Hearing of the poor young king’s execution, she went at night and sprinkled three drops of Amrita over his body. Rupsinh came to life again. But the old woman fearing the old king’s anger would not take him back. Rupsinh was at first at his wit’s end. Then he remembered the demons’ pavanpavdi and seating himself in it he rose in the air and flew northwards.

After some time the young king came to a big garden in the midst of which was a palace seven stories high. He entered the palace and ran upstairs until he reached the seventh storey. On the top stair was seated an aged anchorite who said to him, “Welcome Rupsinh.” The king was astonished that the anchorite should know his name and he asked the anchorite how he knew it. “My inner knowledge, my son, tells me your name. I also know that your brother’s widow anxiously awaits your return. I know, too, that you are fated to win the queen of the Anardes.” The king begged the anchorite to bless him. The anchorite did so and added, “To-morrow I shall go to bathe in a pool in the palace gardens. When I do so, watch carefully the pomegranate trees in the orchard. You will see the pomegranates on them suddenly open and from each one will come out an Anarde. They will play and dance together in the garden and she to whom the others will pay deference is their queen. After a time they will go back to their hiding places. Note carefully the fruit which the queen enters. Then go down into the garden, pick it and take it back with you. But do not look behind you, as many others before you have done, or you will be turned into stone.” Next morning the ascetic went to bathe and Rupsinh did as the ascetic had told him. He watched the pomegranate trees and soon from each fruit there dropped to the earth a tiny fairy. One of them, slightly bigger than the others, was clearly their queen. They played and danced for a time. Then they ran back to their hiding places. The pomegranates closed and hid their fairy lodgers from view. The king, however, had seen which pomegranate held the queen. He went into the garden, plucked the fruit and turned back to the palace. Voices all round him cried out, “Strike him! Kill him!” But remembering the anchorite’s words, he never once looked round until he had reached the palace door. Then he turned and saw the anchorite trying to soothe the other Anardes, for it was their voices which the king had heard. “It was fated that one of you should wed a mortal. What was fated has happened. So cease from troubling the king and his bride and give them your blessing instead.” When he had calmed the fairies, he went to the king and said, “My son, start at once homewards and tarry nowhere on the road. Shew the pomegranate to no one until you reach your city.”

The king mounted his horse without delay and started on his homeward journey. In no long time he saw an ascetic, who for 700 years had been doing penances, in order to win the queen of the Anardes. The king saluted the anchorite, who asked him whether he had won his goal. The king foolishly shewed the anchorite the pomegranate and let him take it in his hand. The sage put it under his foot and when Rupsinh asked for it back, sternly bade the prince begone. The king grew angry and threatened to take it back by force. The anchorite turned towards a big tree close by and consumed it with a single fiery breath. He then said to the youth with a mocking laugh: “When I can blast a tree with a single breath, do you think that I fear you for all your valour? For 700 years I have sought to win the queen of the Anardes. I shall not give her up.” But seeing how downcast Rupsinh looked, he gave him a wand and said “This is a magic wand. Take it. It will beat anyone whom you hate or fear and in battle it will always give you victory.” The king took the wand, although he thought it a poor exchange for the queen of the Anardes, and going sadly to his horse got ready to mount it. As he put his foot in the stirrup, the wand spoke to him with a human voice, “O King, you do not know my name. It is Lalia Lath. For 700 years I have faithfully served the anchorite and now he has given me away in exchange for a woman. If you bid me I will give my old master a sound beating.” Rupsinh, who felt very cross with the anchorite for stealing the queen of the Anardes, was delighted and said “Yes, give him a beating, the sounder the better.” The wand then flew from the king’s hand and began mercilessly to belabour the old sage, until in his pain and fear he threw away the pomegranate and begged for mercy.

The king picked up the fruit and with it the wand and he resumed his journey. Several days later he reached his capital. There he took out of the pomegranate the queen of the Anardes, who had by this time become reconciled to marrying Rupsinh. After greeting his sister-in-law, the widowed queen, he began to make everything ready for his marriage to the fairy queen; and in due time their wedding was celebrated with the greatest pomp and splendour. Unhappily in the crowd that watched the wedding was a pretty sweeper girl, called Rukhi and deeply skilled in black magic. She fell in love with the young king’s handsome face and was filled with jealous rage at the happy look on the face of the queen of the Anardes. She devised a cruel plot, to kill her. She sought and obtained service in the palace, where the fairy queen shewed her the greatest kindness. One day the king, weary with the chase, fell asleep. The fairy queen had to go to a neighbouring well, to fetch water for her bath. She did not like to leave the king alone, so she asked Rukhi to watch by him until she came back. Rukhi promised to do so, but a minute or so later she followed her mistress to the well and pushed her in. Then she returned to the palace and by her magic made the king believe that she was the queen of the Anardes. But she could not so deceive the widowed queen. One day the latter in open durbar challenged Rukhi to go back inside the pomegranate. But Rukhi was too clever to be caught. She answered with ready wit: “I can no longer do that, sister, now that I am wedded to a mortal.” She then complained to the king that the widowed queen always tried to vex her. So Rupsinh quarrelled with his sister-in-law and drove her out of the palace.

Now out of the well into which the fairy queen had fallen, there grew a most beautiful lotus. The gardener picked it and gave it to the king, who in turn gave it to Rukhi. The latter by her magic knew that the lotus had sprung from the body of the Anarde queen. She pulled off all its petals and threw it out of the window. The flower fell into a bed of soft earth and in a month or two there had sprung up a splendid mango tree that bore delicious fruit. Rukhi had the tree cut down but before it was felled, a bania had picked one of the mangoes and given it to his wife to eat. A year later she bore him a beautiful little baby girl. As the little girl grew up, she became the living image of the queen of the Anardes.

Rukhi guessed that she must have sprung from the mango, which had sprung from the lotus that had grown in the well, where the poor queen had been drowned. Rukhi began to complain of a bad pain and told the king that she had been bewitched by the bania girl and would not get well while the girl lived. The king had the bania girl hanged outside the eastern gate of his city. Another marvel then happened. The girl’s head changed into an image of the God Shiva and her body into an image of the Goddess Parvati. Her right eye turned into a cock sparrow and her left eye into a hen sparrow. Her two legs turned into two plantain trees. When Rukhi heard of this, she got terribly afraid that the king would pass that way and see what had occurred. She told him never to pass by the eastern gate or the spirit of the witch girl would possess him. The king did not pass that way for a long time; but one day his horse ran away with him and took him to the eastern gate. He saw there a noble temple to the God Shiva. He went inside to pray.

As he prayed, he heard the hen sparrow say to her mate: “The king of this city is a fool” and thereupon she told the cock sparrow the whole tale of the queen of the Anardes. “This very night,” continued the hen sparrow “the queen will come out of one of the plantain trees, into which the bania girl’s legs have changed. She will worship the God Shiva, re-enter the plantain stem and never again be seen on earth.” The king heard the story and resolved to stay there all night. He did so and at midnight he saw one of the plantain stems open. Out of it came the queen of the Anardes. She began to pray to the God Shiva. Before she had ended her prayer, the king caught her by the hand. “Who are you?” cried the queen “and why do you take my hand?” “I am your husband Rupsinh,” replied the king penitently. “I have been blind and cruel. But pray forgive me and I shall live with you always.”

The queen was unwilling to stay, but Rupsinh held her firmly all night by the hand. Next morning the king’s ministers and the widowed queen missing him, went in search of him. When they found him at the temple, the king told his sister-in-law all that had happened and begged her forgiveness also. The widowed queen, to test the story, shewed the pomegranate to the fairy queen and bade her hide herself inside it. She did so. The widowed queen called to her and she came out. The widowed queen had no longer any doubts. She buried the pomegranate in the earth and went back with the king into his city. There the king called together the townspeople and before them all repudiated the sweeper woman Rukhi. He then had her hanged on the very spot where the bania girl had been executed. After thus ridding himself of Rukhi, he sent for the Princess Phulpancha and married her as well as the queen of the Anardes. In their company and that of the widowed queen, the king lived happily for ever so many years afterwards.