îñ"ò îøëæ ñéôåøé òí åôåì÷ìåø |
C. F. F |
|
NCE upon a time, a very
long time ago indeed, there lived a King who had made a vow never to eat bread or
break his fast until he had given away a hundredweight[2] of gold in charity.
So,
every day, before King Karan[3] – for that was his
name–had his breakfast, the palace servants would come out with baskets and
baskets of gold pieces to scatter amongst the crowds of poor folk, who, you may
be sure, never forgot to be there to receive the alms.
How
they used to hustle and bustle and struggle and scramble! Then, when the last
golden piece had been fought for, King Karan would sit down to his breakfast,
and enjoy it as a man who has kept his word should do.
Now,
when people saw the King lavishing his gold in this fashion, they naturally
thought that sooner or later the royal treasuries must give out, the gold come
to an end, and the King–who was evidently a man of his word–die of starvation.
But, though months and years passed by, every day, just a quarter of an hour
before breakfast-time, the servants came out of the palace with baskets and
baskets of gold; and as the crowds dispersed they could see the King sitting
down to his breakfast in the royal banqueting hall, as jolly, and fat, and
hungry, as could be.
Now,
of course, there was some secret in all this, and this secret I shall now tell
you. King Karan had made a compact with a holy and very hungry old faqîr
who lived at the top of the hill; and the compact was this: on condition of
King Karan allowing himself to be fried and eaten for breakfast every day, the faqîr
gave him a hundredweight of pure gold.
Of
course, had the faqîr been an ordinary sort of person, the compact
would not have lasted long, for once King Karan had been fried and eaten, there
would have been an end of the matter. But the faqîr was a very
remarkable faqîr indeed, and when he had eaten the King, and
picked the bones quite quite clean, he just put them together, said a charm or
two, and, hey presto! there was King Karan as fat and jolly as ever, ready for
the next morning's breakfast. In fact, the faqîr made no bones
at all over the affair, which, it must be confessed, was very convenient
both for the breakfast and the breakfast eater. Nevertheless, it was of course
not pleasant to be popped alive every morning into a great frying-pan of
boiling oil; and for my part I think King Karan earned his hundredweight of
gold handsomely. But after a time he got accustomed to the process, and would
go up quite cheerfully to the holy and hungry one's house, where the biggest
frying-pan was spitting and sputtering over the sacred fire. Then he would just
pass the time of day to the faqîr, to make sure he was
punctual, and step gracefully into his hot oil bath. My goodness! how he
sizzled and fizzled! When he was crisp and brown, the faqîr ate
him, picked the bones, set them together, sang a charm, and finished the
business by bringing out his dirty, old ragged coat, which he shook and shook,
while the bright golden pieces came tumbling out of the pockets on to the
floor.
So
that was the way King Karan got his gold, and if you think it very
extraordinary, so do I!
Now,
in the great Mânsarobar Lake,[4] where, as of course you
know, all the wild swans[5] live when they leave us,
and feed upon seed pearls, there was a great famine. Pearls were so scarce that
one pair of swans determined to go out into the world and seek for food. So
they flew into King Bikramâjît's[6] garden, at Ujjayin. Now,
when the gardener saw the beautiful birds, he was delighted, and, hoping to
induce them to stay, he threw them grain to eat. But they would not touch it,
nor any other food he offered them; so he went to his master, and told him
there were a pair of swans in the garden who refused to eat anything.
Then
King Bikramâjît went out, and asked them in birds' language (for,
as every one knows, Bikramâjît understood both beasts and birds)
why it was that they ate nothing.
'We
don't eat grain!' said they, 'nor fruit, nor anything but fresh unpierced
pearls!'
Whereupon
King Bikramâjit, being very kind-hearted, sent for a basket of pearls;
and every day, when he came into the garden, he fed the swans with his own
hand.
But
one day, when he was feeding them as usual, one of the pearls happened to be
pierced. The dainty swans found it out at once, and coming to the conclusion
that King Bikramâjit's supply of pearls was running short, they made up
their minds to go farther afield. So, despite his entreaties, they spread their
broad white wings, and flew up into the blue sky, their outstretched necks
pointing straight towards home on the great Mânsarobar Lake. Yet they
were not ungrateful, for as they flew they sang the praises of
Bikramâjit.
Now,
King Karan was watching his servants bring out the baskets of gold, when the
wild swans came flying over his head; and when he heard them singing, 'Glory to
Bikramâjit! Glory to Bikramâjit!' he said to himself, 'Who is this
whom even the birds praise? I let myself be fried and eaten every day in order
that I may be able to give away a hundredweight of gold in charity, yet no swan
sings my song!'
So,
being jealous, he sent for a bird-catcher, who snared the poor swans with lime,
and put them in a cage.
Then
Karan hung the cage in the palace, and ordered his servants to bring every kind
of birds' food; but the proud swans only curved their white necks in scorn,
saying, 'Glory to Bikramâjît!–he gave us pearls to eat!'
Then
King Karan, determined not to be outdone, sent for pearls; but still the
scornful swans would not touch anything.
'Why
will ye not eat?' quoth King Karan wrathfully; 'am I not as generous as
Bikramâjit?'
Then
the swan's wife answered, and said, 'Kings do not imprison the innocent. Kings
do not war against women. If Bikramâjît were here, he would at any
rate let me go!'
So
Karan, not to be outdone in generosity, let the swan's wife go, and she spread
her broad white wings and flew southwards to Bikramâjit, and told him how
her husband lay a prisoner at the court of King Karan.
Of
course Bikramâjit, who was, as every one knows, the most generous of
kings, determined to release the poor captive; and bidding the swan fly back
and rejoin her mate, he put on the garb of a servant, and taking the name of
Bikrû, journeyed northwards till he came to King Karan's kingdom. Then he
took service with the King, and helped every day to carry out the baskets of
golden pieces. He soon saw there was some secret in King Karan's endless
wealth, and never rested until he had found it out. So, one day, hidden close
by, he saw King Karan enter the faqîr's house and pop into the
boiling oil. He saw him frizzle and sizzle, he saw him come out crisp and
brown, he saw the hungry and holy faqîr pick the bones, and,
finally, he saw King Karan, fat and jolly as ever, go down the mountain side
with his hundredweight of gold!
Then
Bikrû knew what to do! So the very next day he rose very early, and
taking a carving-knife, he slashed himself all over. Next he took some pepper
and salt, spices, pounded pomegranate seeds, and pea-flour; these he mixed
together into a beautiful curry-stuff, and rubbed himself all over with
it–right into the cuts in spite of the smarting. When he thought he was quite
ready for cooking, he just went up the hill to the faqîr's house,
and popped into the frying-pan. The faqîr was still asleep, but he
soon awoke with the sizzling and the fizzling, and said to himself, 'Dear me!
how uncommonly nice the King smells this morning!'
Indeed,
so appetising was the smell, that he could hardly wait until the King was crisp
and brown, but then–oh, my goodness! how he gobbled him up!
You
see, he had been eating plain fried so long that a devilled king was quite a
change. He picked the bones ever so clean, and it is my belief would have eaten
them too, if he had not been afraid of killing the goose that laid the golden
eggs.
Then,
when it was all over, he put the King together again, and said, with tears in
his eyes, 'What a breakfast that was, to be sure! Tell me how you managed to
taste so nice, and I'll give you anything you ask.'
Whereupon
Bikrû told him the way it was done, and promised to devil himself every
morning, if he might have the old coat in return. 'For,' said he, 'it is not
pleasant to be fried! and I don't see why I should in addition have the trouble
of carrying a hundredweight of gold to the palace every day. Now, if I
keep the coat, I can shake it down there.'
To
this the faqîr agreed, and off went Bikrû with the coat.
Meanwhile,
King Karan came toiling up the hill, and was surprised, when he entered the faqîr's
house, to find the fire out, the frying-pan put away, and the faqîr
himself as holy as ever, but not in the least hungry.
'Why,
what is the matter?' faltered the King.
'Who
are you?' asked the faqîr, who, to begin with, was somewhat
short-sighted, and in addition felt drowsy after his heavy meal.
'Who!
Why, I'm King Karan, come to be fried! Don't you want your breakfast?'
'I've
had my breakfast!' sighed the faqîr regretfully. 'You tasted very
nice when you were devilled, I can assure you!'
'I
never was devilled in my life!' shouted the King; 'you must have eaten somebody
else!'
'That's
just what I was saying to myself!' returned the faqîr sleepily; 'I
thought–it couldn't–be only–the spices–that'—Snore, snore, snore!
'Look
here!' cried King Karan, in a rage, shaking the faqîr, 'you must
eat me too!'
'Couldn't!'
nodded the holy but satisfied faqîr, 'really–not another
morsel–no, thanks!'
'Then
give me my gold!' shrieked King Karan; 'you're bound to do that, for I'm ready
to fulfil my part of the contract!'
'Sorry
I can't oblige, but the devil–I mean the other person–went off with the coat!'
nodded the faqîr.
Hearing
this, King Karan returned home in despair and ordered the royal treasurer to
send him gold; so that day he ate his breakfast in peace.
And
the next day also, by ransacking all the private treasuries, a hundredweight of
gold was forthcoming; so King Karan ate his breakfast as usual, though his
heart was gloomy.
But
the third day, the royal treasurer arrived with empty hands, and, casting
himself on the ground, exclaimed, 'May it please your majesty! there is not any
more gold in your majesty's domains!'
Then
King Karan went solemnly to bed, without any breakfast, and the crowd, after
waiting for hours expecting to see the palace doors open and the servants come
out with the baskets of gold, melted away, saying it was a great shame to deceive
poor folk in that way!
By
dinner-time poor King Karan was visibly thinner; but he was a man of his word,
and though the wily Bikrû came and tried to persuade him to eat, by
saying he could not possibly be blamed, he shook his head, and turned his face to
the wall.
Then
Bikrû, or Bikramâjît, took the faqîr's old coat,
and shaking it before the King, said, 'Take the money, my friend; and what is
more, if you will set the wild swans you have in that cage at liberty, I will
give you the coat into the bargain!'
So
King Karan set the wild swans at liberty, and as the pair of them flew away to
the great Mânsarobar Lake, they sang as they went, 'Glory to
Bikramâjît! the generous Bikramâjît!'
Then King Karan hung his
head, and said to himself, 'The swans' song is true!–Bikramâjît is
more generous than I; for if I was fried for the sake of a hundredweight of
gold and my breakfast, he was devilled in order to set a bird at liberty!'
[1] The story is told of the hill temple (marhî
) on the top of Pindî Point at the Murree (Marhî ) Hill
Sanitarium. Full details of the surroundings are given in the Calcutta
Review, No. cl.
[2] This is for Karna, the half-brother of
Pându, and a great hero in the Mahâbhârata legends.
Usually he appears in the very different character of a typical tyrant, like
Herod among Christians, and for the same reason, viz. the slaughter of
innocents.
[3] A man and a quarter in the
original, or about 100 lbs.
[4] The Mânasasarovara Lake (=
Tsho-Mâphan) in the Kailâsa Range of the Himâlayas, for ages
a centre of Indian fable. For descriptions see Cunningham's Ladâk,
pp. 128-136.
[5] Hansa in the original: a fabulous bird that lives on pearls
only. Swan translates it better than any other word.
[6] The great Vikramâditya of
Ujjayinî, popularly the founder of the present Samvat era in B. C. 57.
Bikrû is a legitimately-formed diminutive of the name. Vikramâditya
figures constantly in folklore as Bikram, Vikram, and Vichram, and also by a
false analogy as Bik Râm and Vich Râm. He also goes by the name of
Bîr Bikramâjît or Vîr Vikram, i.e.
Vikramâditya, the warrior. In some tales, probably by the error of the
translator, he then becomes two brothers, Vir and Vikram. See Postans' Cutch,
p. 18 ff.