Category: India

Rájá Harichand’s Punishment

Rájá Harichand, a generous ruler, faced divine trials after refusing to symbolically offer his wife to a disguised God. Choosing a 12-year famine over catastrophic rain, his land endured hardship, and he experienced profound poverty alongside his wife. Their perseverance and faith eventually led to restoration when the famine ended prematurely. This tale emphasizes humility, sacrifice, and the consequences of disregarding spiritual wisdom.

Source
Indian Fairy Tales
collected and translated by Maive Stokes
Ellis & White, London, 1880

► Themes of the story

Sacrifice: Rájá Harichand’s initial daily offerings of gold to the poor demonstrate his commitment to giving. However, when faced with the symbolic request to offer his wife, he hesitates, highlighting the complexities and limits of personal sacrifice.

Prophecy and Fate: The Rájá is confronted with a divine ultimatum: choose between a twelve-year famine or a catastrophic twelve-hour deluge. His decision to endure the famine sets the course for his and his kingdom’s destiny, emphasizing themes of predestined trials and the consequences of choices.

Moral Lessons: The tale imparts lessons on humility, the importance of heeding spiritual wisdom, and the repercussions of pride. Rájá Harichand’s journey from generosity to hardship and eventual restoration serves as a moral exemplar of the virtues of humility and the perils of disregarding divine counsel.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Múniyá, March 4th, 1879

There was once a great Rájá, Rájá Harichand, who every morning before he bathed and breakfasted used to give away one hundred pounds weight of gold to the fakírs, his poor ryots, and other poor people. This he did in the name of God, “For,” he said, “God loves me and gives me everything that I have; so daily I will give him this gold.”

Now God heard what a good man Rájá Harichand was, and how much the Rájá loved him, and he thought he would go and see for himself if all that was said of the Rájá were true.

► Continue reading…

He therefore went as a fakír to Rájá Harichand’s palace and stood at his gate. The Rájá had already given away his hundred pounds’ weight of gold, and gone into his palace and bathed and breakfasted; so when his servants came to tell him that another fakír stood at his gate, the Rájá said, “Bid him come to-morrow, for I have bathed, and have eaten my breakfast, and therefore cannot attend to him now.” The servants returned to the fakír, and told him, “The Rájá says you must come to-morrow, for he cannot see you now, as he has bathed and breakfasted.” God went away, and the next day he again came, after all the fakírs and poor people had received their gold and the Rájá had gone into his palace. So the Rájá told his servants, “Bid the fakír come to-morrow. He has again come too late for me to see him now.”

On the third day God was once more too late, for the Rájá had gone into his palace. The Rájá was vexed with him for being a third time too late, and said to his servants, “What sort of a fakír is this that he always comes too late? Go and ask him what he wants.” So the servants went to the fakír and said, “Rájá Harichand says, ‘What do you want from him?'” “I want no rupees,” answered God, “nor anything else; but I want him to give me his wife.” The servants told this to the Rájá, and it made him very angry. He went to his wife, the Rání Báhan, and said to her, “There is a fakír at the gate who asks me to give you to him! As if I should ever do such a thing! Fancy my giving him my wife!”

The Rání was very wise and clever, for she had a book, which she read continually, called the kop shástra; and this book told her everything. So she knew that the fakír at the gate was no fakír, but God himself. (In old days about two people in a thousand, though not more, could read this book; now-a-days hardly any one can read it, for it is far too difficult.) So the Rání said to the Rájá, “Go to this fakír, and say to him, ‘You shall have my wife.’ You need not really give me to him; only give me to him in your thoughts.” “I will do no such thing,” said the Rájá in a rage; and in spite of all her entreaties, he would not say to the fakír, “I will give you my wife.” He ordered his servants to beat the fakír, and send him away; and so they did.

God returned to his place, and called to him two angels. “Take the form of men,” he said to them, “and go to Rájá Harichand. Say to him, ‘God has sent us to you. He says, Which will you have–a twelve years’ famine throughout your land during which no rain will fall? or a great rain for twelve hours?'”

The angels came to the Rájá and said as God had bidden them. The Rájá thought for a long while which he should choose. “If a great rain pours down for twelve hours,” he said to himself, “my whole country will be washed away. But I have a great quantity of gold. I have enough to send to other countries and buy food for myself and my ryots during the twelve years’ famine.” So he said to the angels, “I will choose the famine.” Then the angels came into his palace; and the moment they entered it, all the Rájá’s servants that were in the palace, and all his cows, horses, elephants, and other animals became stone. So did every single thing in the palace, excepting his gold and silver, and these turned to charcoal. The Rájá and Rání did not become stone.

The angels said to them, “For three weeks you will not be able to eat anything; you will not be able to eat any food you may find or may have given you. But you will not die, you will live.” Then the angels went away.

The Rájá was very sad when he looked round his palace and saw everything in it, and all the people in it, stone, and saw all his gold and silver turned to charcoal. He said to his wife, “I cannot stay here. I must go to some other country. I was a great Rájá; how can I ask my ryots to give me food? We will dress ourselves like fakírs, and go to another country.”

They put on fakírs’ clothes and went out of their palace. They wandered in the jungle till they saw a plum-tree covered with fruit. “Do gather some of those plums for me,” said the Rání, who was very hungry. The Rájá went to the tree and put out his hand to gather the plums; but when he did this, they at once all left the tree and went a little way up into the air. When he drew back his hand, the plums returned to the tree. The Rájá tried three times to gather the plums, but never could do so.

He and the Rání then went on till they came to a plain in another country, where was a large tank in which men were fishing. The Rání said to her husband, “Go and ask those men to give us a little of their fish, for I am very hungry.” The Rájá went to the men and said, “I am a fakír, and have no pice. Will you give me some of your fish, for I have not eaten for four days and am hungry?” The men gave him some fish, and he and his wife carried it to a tank on another plain. The Rání cleaned and prepared the fish for cooking, and said to her husband, “I have nothing in which to cook this fish. Go up to the town (there was a town close by) and ask some one to give you an earthen pot with a lid, and some salt.”

The Rájá went up to the town, and some one in the bazar gave him the earthen pot, and a grain merchant put a little salt into it. Then he returned to the Rání, and they made a fire under a tree, put the fish into the pot, and set the pot on the fire. “I have not bathed for some days,” said the Rájá. “I will go and bathe while you cook the fish, and when I come back we will eat it.” So he went to bathe, and the Rání sat watching the fish. Presently she thought, “If I leave the lid on the pot, the fish will dry up and burn.” Then she took off the lid, and the fish instantly jumped out of the pot into the tank and swam away. This made the Rání sad; but she sat there quiet and silent. When the Rájá had bathed, he returned to his wife, and said, “Now we will eat our fish.” The Rání answered, “I had not eaten for four days, and was very hungry, so I ate all the fish.” “Never mind,” said the Rájá, “it does not matter.”

They wandered on, and the next day came to another jungle where they saw two pigeons. The Rájá took some grass and sticks, and made a bow and arrow. He shot the pigeons with these, and the Rání plucked and cleaned them. Her husband and she made a little fire, put the pigeons in their pot, and set them on it. There was a tank near. “Now I will go and bathe,” said the Rání; “I have not bathed for some days. When I come back, we will eat the pigeons.” So she went to bathe, and the Rájá sat down to watch the pigeons. Presently he thought, “If I leave the pot shut, the birds will dry up and burn.” So he took off the lid, and instantly away flew the pigeons out of the pot. He guessed at once what the fish had done yesterday, and sat still and silent till the Rání came back. “I have eaten the pigeons in the same way that you ate the fish yesterday,” he said to her. The Rání understood what had happened, and saw the Rájá knew how the fish had escaped.

So they wandered on; and as they went the Rání remembered an oil merchant, called Gangá Télí, a friend of theirs, and a great man, just like a Rájá. “Let us go to Gangá Télí, if we can walk as far as his house,” she said. “He will be good to us.” He lived a long way off. When they got to him, Gangá Télí knew them at once. “What has happened?” he said. “You were a great Rájá; why are you and the Rání so poor and dressed like fakírs?” “It is God’s will,” they answered. Gangá Télí did not think it worth while to notice them much now they were poor; so, though he did not send them away, he gave them a wretched room to live in, a wretched bed to lie on, and such bad food to eat that, hungry as they were, they could not touch it. “When we were rich,” they said to each other, “and came to stay with Gangá Télí, he received us like friends; he gave us beautiful rooms to live in, beautiful beds to lie on, and delicious food to eat. We cannot stay here.”

So they went away very sorrowful, and wandered for a whole week, and all the time they had no food, till they came to another country whose Rájá, Rájá Bhoj, was one of their friends. Rájá Bhoj received them very kindly. “What has brought you to this state? How is it you are so poor?” he said. “What has happened to you?” “It is God’s will,” they answered. Rájá Bhoj gave them a beautiful room to live in, and told his servants to cook for them the very nicest dinner they could. This the servants did, and they brought the dinner into Rájá Harichand’s room, and set it before him and left him. Then he and the Rání put some of the food on their plates; but before they could eat anything, the food both in the dishes and on their plates became full of maggots. So they could not eat it. They felt greatly humbled. However, they said nothing, but worshipped God; and they buried all the food in a hole they dug in the floor of their room.

Now the daughter of Rájá Bhoj had left her gold necklace hanging on the wall of the room in which were Rájá Harichand and the Rání Báhan. At night when Rájá Harichand was asleep, the Rání saw a crack come in the wall and the necklace go of itself into the crack; then the wall joined together as before. She at once woke her husband, and told him what she had seen. “We had better go away quickly,” she said. “The necklace will not be found to-morrow, and Rájá Bhoj will think we are thieves. It will be useless breaking the wall open to find it.” The Rájá got up at once, and they set out again. Rájá Bhoj, when the necklace was not found, thought Rájá Harichand and the Rání Báhan had stolen it.

They wandered on till they came to a country belonging to another friend, called Rájá Nal, but they were ashamed to go to his palace. The three weeks were now nearly over, only two more days were left. So the Rání said, “In two days we shall be able to eat. Go into the jungle and cut grass, and sell it in the bazar. We shall thus get a few pice and be able to buy a little food.” The Rájá went out to the jungle, but he had to break and pull up the grass with his hands. He worked half the day, and then sold the grass in the bazar for a few pice. They were able to buy food, and worshipped God and cooked it; and as the three weeks were now over they were allowed to eat it.

They stayed in Rájá Nal’s country, and lived in a little house they hired in the bazar. Rájá Harichand went out every day to the jungle for grass, which he pulled up or broke off with his hands, and then sold in the bazar for a few pice. The Rání saved a pice or two whenever she could, and at the end of two years they were rich enough to buy a hook such as grass-cutters use. The Rájá could now cut more grass, and soon the Rání was able to buy some pretty-coloured silks in the bazar.

Her husband went daily to cut grass, and she sat at home making head-collars with the silks for horses. Four years after they had bought the hook, she had four of these head-collars ready, and she took them up to Rájá Nal’s palace to sell. It was the first time she had gone there, for she and her husband were ashamed to see Rájá Nal. Their fakírs’ dresses had become rags, and they had only been able to get wretched common clothes in their place, for they were miserably poor.

“What beautiful head-collars these are!” said Rájá Nal’s coachmen and grooms; and they took them to show to their Rájá. As soon as he saw them he said, “Where did you get these head-collars? Who is it that wishes to sell them?” for he knew that only one woman could make such head-collars, and that woman was the Rání Báhan. “A very poor woman brought them here just now,” they answered. “Bring her to me,” said Rájá Nal. So the servants brought him Rání Báhan, and when she saw the Rájá she burst into tears. “What has brought you to this state? Why are you so poor?” said Rájá Nal. “It is God’s will,” she answered. “Where is your husband?” he asked. “He is cutting grass in the jungle,” she said. Rájá Nal called his servants and said, “Go into the jungle, and there you will see a man cutting grass. Bring him to me.” When Rájá Harichand saw Rájá Nal’s servants coming to him, he was very much frightened; but the servants took him and brought him to the palace. As soon as Rájá Nal saw his old friend, he seized his hands, and burst out crying. “Rájá,” he said, “what has brought you to this state?” “It is God’s will,” said Rájá Harichand.

Rájá Nal was very good to them. He gave them a palace to live in, and servants to wait on them; beautiful clothes to wear, and good food to eat. He went with them to the palace to see that everything was as it should be for them. “To-day,” he said to the Rání, “I shall dine with your husband, and you must give me a dinner cooked just as you used to cook one for me when I went to see you in your own country.” “Good, I will give it you,” said the Rání; but she was quite frightened, for she thought, “The Rájá is so kind, and everything is so comfortable for us, that I am sure something dreadful will happen.” However, she prepared the dinner, and told the servants how to cook it and serve it; but first she worshipped God, and entreated him to have mercy on her and her husband. The dinner was very good, and nothing evil happened to any one. They lived in the palace Rájá Nal gave them for four and a half years.

Meanwhile the farmers in Rájá Harichand’s country had all these years gone on ploughing and turning up the land, although not a drop of rain had fallen all that time, and the earth was hard and dry. Now just when the Rájá and Rání had lived in Rájá Nal’s palace for four and a half years Mahádeo was walking through Rájá Harichand’s country. He saw the farmers digging up the ground, and said, “What is the good of your digging and turning up the ground? Not a drop of rain is going to fall.” “No,” said the farmers, “but if we did not go on ploughing and digging, we should forget how to do our work.” They did not know they were talking to Mahádeo, for he looked like a man. “That is true,” said Mahádeo, and he thought, “The farmers speak the truth; and if I go on neglecting to blow on my horn, I shall forget how to blow on it at all.” So he took his deer’s horn, which was just like those some yogís use, and blew on it. Now when Rájá Harichand had chosen the twelve years’ famine, God had said, “Rain shall not fall on Rájá Harichand’s country till Mahádeo blows his horn in it.” Mahádeo had quite forgotten this decree; so he blew on his horn, although only ten and a half years’ famine had gone by. The moment he blew, down came the rain, and the whole country at once became as it had been before the famine began; and moreover, the moment it rained, everything in Rájá Harichand’s palace became what it was before the angels entered it. All the men and women came to life again; so did all the animals; and the gold and silver were no longer charcoal, but once more gold and silver. God was not angry with Mahádeo for forgetting that he said the famine should last for twelve years, and that the rain should fall when Mahádeo blew on his horn in Rájá Harichand’s country. “If it pleased Mahádeo to blow on his horn,” said God, “it does not matter that eighteen months of famine were still to last.” As soon as they heard the rain had fallen, all the ryots who had gone to other countries on account of the famine returned to Rájá Harichand’s country.

Among the Rájá’s servants was the kotwál, and very anxious he was, when he came to life again, to find the Rájá and Rání; only he did not know how to do so, and wondered where he had best seek for them.

Meanwhile the Rání Báhan had a dream that God sent her, in which an angel said to her, “It is good that you and your husband should return to your country.” She told this dream to her husband; and Rájá Nal gave them horses, elephants, and camels, that they might travel like Rájás to their home, and he went with them. They found everything in order in their own palace and all through their country, and after this lived very happily in it. But the Rání said to Rájá Harichand, “If you had only done what I told you, and said you would give me to the fakír, all this misery would not have come on us.”

Later they went to stay again with Rájá Bhoj, and slept in the same room as they had had when they came to him poor and wretched. In the night they saw the wall open, and the necklace came out of the crack and hung itself up as before, and the wall closed again. The next day they showed the necklace to Rájá Bhoj, saying, “It was on account of this necklace that we ran away from you the last time we were here,” and they told him all that had happened to it. As for Gangá Télí, they never went near him again.

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The Clever Wife

A merchant’s wife, tasked with building a well and having a son during his year-long absence, outsmarts four prominent men through a clever ruse to raise funds. Disguising herself as a milkmaid, she later marries her unknowing husband and has a son. When the merchant returns, she reveals her ingenuity, earning his admiration and restoring harmony.

Source
Indian Fairy Tales
collected and translated by Maive Stokes
Ellis & White, London, 1880

► Themes of the story

Cunning and Deception: The wife employs clever ruses to achieve her goals.

Trials and Tribulations: She faces and overcomes challenges during her husband’s absence.

Transformation: The wife’s actions lead to a change in her circumstances and perceptions.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Múniyá, Calcutta, March 3rd, 1879

In a country there was a merchant who traded in all kinds of merchandise, and used to make journeys from country to country in his boat to buy and sell his goods. He one day said to his wife, “I cannot stay at home any more, for I must go on a year’s journey to carry on my business.” And he added, laughing, “When I return I expect to find you have built me a grand well; and also, as you are such a clever wife, to see a little son.” Then he got into his boat and went away.

When he was gone his wife set to work, and she spun four hanks of beautiful thread with her own hands. Then she dressed herself in her prettiest clothes, and put on her finest jewels.

► Continue reading…

“I am going to the bazar,” she said to her ayahs, “to sell this thread.” “That is not right,” said one of the ayahs. “You must not sell your thread yourself, but let me sell it for you. What will your husband say if he hears you have been selling thread in the bazar?” “I will sell my thread myself,” answered the merchant’s wife. “You could never sell it for me.”

So off she set to the bazar, and every one in it said, “What a beautiful woman that is!” At last the kotwál saw her, and came to her at once.

“What beautiful thread!” he said. “Is it for sale?” “Yes,” she said. “How much a hank?” said the kotwál. “Fifty rupees,” she answered. “Fifty rupees! Who will ever give you fifty rupees for it?” “I will not sell it for less,” said the woman. “I shall get fifty rupees for it.” “Well,” said the kotwál, “I will give you the fifty rupees. Can I dine with you at your house?” “Yes,” she answered, “to-night at ten o’clock.” Then he took the thread and gave her fifty rupees.

Then she went away to another bazar, and there the king’s wazír saw her trying to sell her thread. “What lovely thread! Is it for sale?” he said. “Yes, at one hundred rupees the hank,” she answered. “Well, I will give you one hundred rupees. Can I dine with you at your house?” said the wazír. “Yes,” she answered, “to-night at eleven o’clock.” “Good,” said the wazír; “here are the hundred rupees.” And he took the thread and went away.

The merchant’s wife now went to a third bazar, and there the king’s kází saw her. “Is that beautiful thread for sale?” he asked. “Yes,” she answered, “for one hundred and fifty rupees.” “I will give you the hundred and fifty rupees. Can I dine with you at your house?” “Yes,” she said, “to-night at twelve o’clock.” “I will come,” said the kází. “Here are one hundred and fifty rupees.” So she took the rupees and gave him the thread.

She set off with the fourth hank to the fourth bazar, and in this bazar was the king’s palace. The king saw her, and asked if the thread was for sale. “Yes,” she said, “for five hundred rupees.” “Give me the thread,” said the king; “here are your five hundred rupees. Can I dine with you at your house?” “Yes,” she said, “to-night at two o’clock.”

Then she went home and sent one of her servants to the bazar to buy her four large chests; and she told her other servants that they were to get ready four very good dinners for her. Each dinner was to be served in a different room; and one was to be ready at ten o’clock that night, one at eleven, one at twelve, and one at two in the morning. The servant brought her four large chests, and she had them placed in four different rooms.

At ten o’clock the kotwál arrived. The merchant’s wife greeted him graciously, and they sat down and dined. After dinner she said to him, “Can you play at cards?” “Yes,” he answered. She brought some cards, and they sat and played till the clock struck eleven, when the doorkeeper came in to say, “The wazír is here, and wishes to see you.” The kotwál was in a dreadful fright. “Do hide me somewhere,” he said to her. “I have no place where you can hide in this room,” she answered; “but in another room I have a big chest. I will shut you up in that if you like, and when the wazír is gone, I will let you out of it.” So she took him into the next room, and he got into one of the four big chests, and she shut down the lid and locked it.

Then she bade the doorkeeper bring in the wazír, and they dined together. After dinner she said, “Can you play at cards?” “Yes,” said the wazír. She took out the cards, and they played till twelve o’clock, when the doorkeeper came to say the kází had come to see her. “Oh, hide me! hide me!” cried the wazír in a great fright. “If you come to another room,” she said, “I will hide you in a big chest I have. I can let you out when he is gone.” So she locked the wazír up in the second chest.

She and the kází now dined. Then she said, “Can you play at cards?” “Yes,” said the kází. So they sat playing at cards till two o’clock, when the doorkeeper said the king had come to see her. “Oh, what shall I do?” said the kází, terribly frightened. “Do hide me. Do not let me be seen by the king.” “You can hide in a big chest I have in another room, if you like,” she answered, “till he is gone.” And she locked up the kází in her third chest.

The king now came in, and they dined. “Will you play a little game at cards?” she asked. “Yes,” said the king. So they played till three o’clock, when the doorkeeper came running in (just as she had told him to do) to say, “My master’s boat has arrived, and he is coming up to the house. He will be here directly.” “Now what shall I do?” said the king, who was as frightened as the others had been. “Here is your husband. He must not see me. You must hide me somewhere.” “I have no place to hide you in,” she said, “but a big chest. You can get into that if you like, and I will let you out to-morrow morning.” So she shut the lid of the fourth chest down on the king and locked him up. Then she went to bed, and to sleep, and slept till morning.

The next day, after she had bathed and dressed, and eaten her breakfast, and done all her household work, she said to her servants, “I want four coolies.” So the servants went for the coolies; and when they came she showed them the four chests, and said, “Each of you must take one of these chests on your head and come with me.” Then they set out with her, each carrying a chest.

Meanwhile the kotwál’s son, the wazír’s son, the kází’s son, and the king’s son, had been roaming about looking everywhere for their fathers, and asking every one if they had seen them, but no one knew anything about them.

The merchant’s wife went first to the kotwál’s house, and there she saw the kotwál’s son. She had the kotwál’s chest set down on the ground before his door. “Will you buy this chest?” she said to his son. “What is in it?” he asked. “A most precious thing,” she answered. “How much do you want for it?” said his son. “One thousand rupees,” she said; “and when you open the chest, you will see the contents are worth two thousand. But you must not open it till you are in your father’s house.” “Well,” said the kotwál’s son, “here are a thousand rupees.” The woman and the other three chests went on their way, while he took his into the house. “What a heavy chest!” he said. “What can be inside?” Then he lifted the lid. “Why, there’s my father!” he cried. “Father, how came you to be in this chest?” The kotwál was very much ashamed of himself. “I never thought she was the woman to play me such a trick,” he said; and then he had to tell his son the whole story.

The merchant’s wife next stopped at the wazír’s house, and there she saw the wazír’s son. The wazír’s chest was put down before his door, and she said to his son, “Will you buy this chest?” “What is inside of it?” he asked. “A most precious thing,” she answered. “Will you buy it?” “How much do you want for it?” asked the son. “Only two thousand rupees, and it is worth three thousand.” So the wazír’s son bought his father, without knowing it, for two thousand rupees. “You must not open the chest till you are in the house,” said the merchant’s wife. The wazír’s son opened the chest in the house at once, wondering what could be in it; and the wazír’s wife stood by all the time. When they saw the wazír himself, looking very much ashamed, they were greatly astonished. “How came you there?” they cried. “Where have you been?” said his wife. “Oh,” said the wazír, “I never thought she was a woman to treat me like this;” and he, too, had to tell all his story.

Now the merchant’s wife stopped at the kází’s door, and there stood the kází’s son. “Will you buy this chest?” she said to him, and had the kází’s chest put on the ground. “What is in it?” said the kází’s son. “Silver and gold,” she answered. “You shall have it for three thousand rupees. The contents are worth four.” “Well, I will take it,” said the son. “Don’t open it till you are in your house,” she said, and took her three thousand rupees and went away. Great was the excitement when the kází stepped out of the chest. “Oh!” he groaned, “I never thought she could behave like this to me.”

The merchant’s wife now went to the palace, and set the king’s chest down at the palace gates. There she saw the king’s son. “Will you buy this chest?” she said. “What is in it?” asked the prince. “Diamonds, pearls, and all kinds of precious stones,” said the merchant’s wife. “You shall have the chest for five thousand rupees, but its contents are worth a great deal more.” “Well,” said the king’s son, “here are your five thousand rupees; give me the chest.” “Don’t open it out here,” she said. “Take it into the palace and open it there.” And away she went home.

The king’s son opened the chest, and there was his father. “What’s all this?” cried the prince. “How came you to be in the chest?” The king was very much ashamed, and did not tell much about his adventure; but when he was sitting in his court-house, he had the merchant’s wife brought to him, and gave her a quantity of rupees, saying, “You are a wise and clever woman.”

Now the kotwál knew the wazír had gone to see the merchant’s wife; and the wazír knew the kází had gone; and the kází, that the king had gone; but this was all that any of them knew.

The merchant’s wife had now plenty of rupees, so she had a most beautiful well built and roofed over. Then she locked the door of the well, and told the servants no one was to drink any of its water, or bathe in it, till her husband came home: he was to be the first to drink its water, and bathe in the well.

Then she sent her ayah to the bazar to buy her clothes and ornaments such as cowherd’s wives and daughter’s wear; and when the ayah had brought her these, she packed them up in a box. Then she dressed herself in men’s clothes, so that no one could tell she was a woman, and ordered a horse to be got ready for her. “I am going to eat the air of another country for a little while,” she said. “You must all take great care of the house while I am away.” The servants did not like her going away at all; they were afraid her husband might return during her absence, and that he would be angry with them for having let her go. “Don’t be afraid,” she said. “There is nothing to be frightened about. I shall come back all right.”

So she set out, taking the key of the well, the box with the clothes her ayah had bought for her in the bazar, and plenty of rupees. She also took two of her servants. She travelled a long, long way, asking everywhere for her husband’s boat. At last at the end of a month she came to where it was. Here she hired a little house, and dressed herself like a cowherd’s daughter. Then she got some very good milk, and went down to the banks of the river to sell it. Everybody said, “Do look what a beautiful woman that is selling milk!” She sold her milk very quickly, it was so good. This she did for several days, till her husband, the merchant, saw her. He thought her so beautiful, that he asked her to bring him some milk to his boat. So every day for a little while she sold him milk. One day he said to her, “Will you marry me?” “How can I marry you?” she said. “You are a merchant, and I am a cowherd’s daughter. Soon you will be leaving this country, and will travel to another in your boat; you will want me to go with you. Then I shall have to leave my father and mother, and who will take care of them?” “Let us be married,” said the merchant. “I am going to stay here for three months. When I go, you shall return to your father and mother, and later I will come back to you.” To this she agreed, and they were married, and she went to live in the boat. At the end of three months, the merchant said to her, “My business here is done, and I must go to another country. Would you like to go home to your father and mother while I am away?” “Yes,” she said. “Here are some rupees for you to live on in my absence,” he said. “I do not want any rupees,” said his wife. “I only want you to give me two things: your old cap, and your picture.” These he gave her, and then he went to his boat, and she went back to her own home.

Some time afterwards she had a little son. The servants were greatly frightened, for they thought their master would not be pleased when he came home; and he was not pleased when he did come two months later. He was so cross that he would not look at the baby-boy, and he would hardly look at his beautiful well.

One night he lay awake thinking, and he thought he would kill his wife and her little son. But the next day she came to him: “Tell me the truth,” she said; “you are angry with me? Don’t be angry, for I want to show you a picture I like very much–the picture of my boy’s father.” Then she showed him his own picture, and the old cap he had given her on board his boat; and she told him how she had been the cowherd’s daughter; and also how she had gained the money to build his well. “You see,” she said, “I have done all you bade me. Here is your well, and here is your son.” Then the merchant was very happy. He kissed and loved his little son, and thought his well was beautiful; and he said to his wife, “What a clever woman you are!”

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Pánwpattí Rání

At a grand fair, a prince and princess silently admired each other, though they never exchanged words. When the princess left, the prince fell into despair until his loyal friend helped him find her. They married, but misunderstandings and jealousy led to betrayal. Eventually, reconciliation followed, and the prince and princess returned home to live happily, with the friend rewarded for his unwavering loyalty.

Source
Indian Fairy Tales
collected and translated by Maive Stokes
Ellis & White, London, 1880

► Themes of the story

Love and Betrayal: The prince and princess fall in love, but their relationship faces challenges due to misunderstandings and jealousy.

Trials and Tribulations: The couple endures various hardships, including separation and emotional turmoil, before achieving happiness.

Family Dynamics: Despite the betrayals and misunderstandings, the prince and princess eventually reconcile and live happily together.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Múniyá, February, 1879

In a country a big fair was held, to which came a great many people and Rájás from all the countries round. Among them was a Rájá who brought his daughter with him. Opposite their tent another tent was pitched, in which lived a Rájá’s son. He was very beautiful; so was the little Rání, the other Rájá’s daughter.

Now, the Rájá’s son and the Rájá’s daughter did not even know each other’s names, but they looked at each other a great deal, and each thought the other very beautiful. “How lovely the Rájá’s daughter is!” thought the prince. “How beautiful the Rájá’s son is!” thought the princess.

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They lived opposite each other for a whole month, and all that time they never spoke to each other nor did they speak of each other to any one. But they thought of each other a great deal.

When the month was over, the little Rání’s father said he would go back to his own country. The Rájá’s son sat in his tent and watched the servants getting ready the little Rání’s palanquin. As soon as the princess herself was dressed and ready for the journey, she came out of her tent, and took a rose in her hand. She first put the rose to her teeth; then she stuck it behind her ear; and lastly, she laid it at her feet. All this time the Rájá’s son sat in his tent and looked at her. Then she got into her palanquin and was carried away.

The Rájá’s son was now very sad. “How lovely the princess is!” he thought. “And I do not know her name, or her father’s name, or the name of her country. So how can I ever find her? I shall never see her again.” He was very sorrowful, and determined he would go home to his country. When he got home he laid himself down on his bed, and night and day he lay there. He would not eat, or drink, or bathe, or change his clothes. This made his father and mother very unhappy. They went to him often, and asked him, “What is the matter with you? Are you ill?” “I want nothing,” he would answer. “I don’t want any doctor, or any medicine.” Not one word did he say to them, or to any one else, about the lovely little Rání.

The son of the Rájá’s kotwál [the chief police officer in a town] was the prince’s great friend. The two had always gone to school together, and had there read in the same book; they had always bathed, eaten, and played together. So when the prince had been at home for two days, and yet had not been to school or seen his friend, the kotwál’s son grew very anxious. “Why does the prince not come to school?” he said to himself. “He has been here for two days, and yet I have not seen him. I will go and find out if anything is the matter. Perhaps he is ill.”

He went, therefore, to see the prince, who was lying very miserable on his bed. “Why do you not come to school? Are you ill?” asked his friend. “Oh, it is nothing,” said the prince. “Tell me what is the matter,” said the kotwál’s son; but the Rájá’s son would not answer. “Have you told any one what is the matter with you?” said the kotwál’s son. “No,” answered the prince. “Then tell me,” said his friend; “tell me the truth: what is it that troubles you?”

“Well,” said the prince, “at the fair there was a Rájá who had a most beautiful daughter. They lived in a tent opposite mine, and I used to see her every day. She is so beautiful! But I do not know her name, or her father’s name, or her country’s name; so how can I ever find her?” “I will take you to her,” said his friend; “only get up and bathe, and eat.” “How can you take me to her?” said the prince. “You do not even know where she is; so how can you take me to her?” “Did she never speak to you?” said the kotwál’s son. “Never,” said the prince. “But when she was going away, just before she got into her palanquin, she took a rose in her hand; and first she put this rose to her teeth; then she stuck it behind her ear; and then she laid it at her feet.” “Now I know all about her,” said his friend. “When she put the rose to her teeth, she meant to tell you her father’s name was Rájá Dánt [Rájá Tooth]; when she put it behind her ear she meant you to know her country’s name was Karnátak [on the ear]; and when she laid the rose at her feet, she meant that her name was Pánwpattí [Foot-leaf]. Get up; bathe and dress, eat and drink, and we will go and find her.”

The prince got up directly, and told his father and mother he was going for a few days to eat the air of another country. At first they forbad his going; but then they reflected that he had been very ill, and that perhaps the air of another country might make him well; so at last they consented. The prince and his friend had two horses saddled and bridled, and set off together.

At the end of a month they arrived in a country where they asked (as they had asked in every other country through which they had ridden), “What is the name of this country?” “Karnátak” [the Carnatic]. “What is your Rájá’s name?” “Rájá Dánt.” Then the two friends were glad. They stopped at an old woman’s house, and said to her, “Let us stay with you for a few days. We are men from another country and do not know where to go in this place.” The old woman said, “You may stay with me if you like. I live all alone, and there is plenty of room for you.”

After two or three days the kotwál’s son said to the old woman, “Has your Rájá a daughter?” “Yes,” she answered; “he has a daughter; her name is Pánwpattí Rání.” “Can you go to see her?” asked the kotwál’s son. “Yes,” she said, “I can go to see her. I was her nurse, and she drank my milk. It is the Rájá who gives me my house, and my food, and clothes–everything that I have.” “Then go and see her,” said the kotwál’s son, “and tell her that the prince whom she called to her at the fair has come.”

The old woman went up to the palace, and saw the princess. After they had talked together for some time, she said to the little Rání, “The prince you called to you at the fair is come.” “Good,” she said; “tell him to come to see me to-night at twelve o’clock. He is not to come in through the door, but through the window.” (This she said because she did not want her father to know that the prince had come, until she had made up her mind whether she would marry him.)

The old woman went home and told the kotwál’s son what the Princess Pánwpattí said. That night the prince went to see her, and every night for three or four nights he went to talk with her for an hour. Then she told her mother she wished to be married, and her mother told her father. Her father asked whom she wished to marry, and she said, “The Rájá’s son who lives in my nurse’s house.” Her father said she might marry him if she liked; so the wedding was held. The kotwál’s son went to the wedding, and then returned to the old woman’s house; but the prince lived in the Rájá’s palace.

Here he stayed for a month, and all that time he never saw his friend. At last he began to fret for him, and was very unhappy. “What makes you so sad?” said Pánwpattí Rání. “I am sad because I have not seen my friend for a whole month,” answered her husband. “I must go and see him.” “Yes, go and see him,” said his wife. The Rájá’s son went to the old woman’s house, and there he stayed a week, for he was so glad to see the kotwál’s son. Then he returned to his wife. Now she thought he would only have been away a day, and was very angry at his having stayed so long from her. “How could you leave me for a whole week?” she said to him. “I had not seen my friend for a month,” he answered. Pánwpattí Rání did not let her husband see how angry she was; but in her heart she thought, “I am sure he loves his friend best.”

The prince remained with her for a month. Then he said, “I must go and see my friend.” This made her very angry indeed. However, she said, “Good; go and see your friend, and I will make you some delicious sweetmeats to take him from me.” She set to work, and made the most tempting sweetmeats she could; only in each she put a strong poison. Then she wrapped them in a beautiful handkerchief, and her husband took them to the kotwál’s son. “My Rání has made you these herself,” he said to his friend, “and she sends you a great many salaams.” The Rájá’s son knew nothing of the poison.

The kotwál’s son put the sweetmeats on one side, and said, “Let us talk, and I will eat them by and by.” So they sat and talked for a long time. Then the kotwál’s son said, “Your Rání herself made these sweetmeats for me?” “Yes,” said the Rájá’s son. His friend was very wise, and he thought, “Pánwpattí Rání does not like me. Of that I am sure.” So he took some of the sweetmeats, and broke them into bits and threw them to the crows. The crows came flying down, and all the crows who ate the sweetmeats died instantly. Then the kotwál’s son threw a sweetmeat to a dog that was passing. The dog devoured it and fell dead. This put the Rájá’s son into great rage. “I will never see my Rání again!” he exclaimed. “What a wicked woman she is to try and poison my friend–my friend whom I love so dearly; but for whom I should never have married her!” He would not go back to his wife, and stayed in the old woman’s house. The kotwál’s son often told him he ought to return to his wife, but the prince would not do so. “No,” he said, “she is a wicked woman. You never did her any evil or hurt; yet she has tried to poison you. I will never see her again.”

When a month had passed, the kotwál’s son said to the prince, “You really must go back to Pánwpattí Rání; she is your wife, and you must go to her, and take her away to your own country.” Still the Rájá’s son declared he would never see her again. “If you would like to see something that will please you,” said his friend, “go back to your wife for one day; and to-night ‘when she is asleep’ you must take off all her jewels, and tie them up in a handkerchief, and bring them to me. But before you leave her you must wound her in the leg with this trident.” So saying, he gave him a small iron trident.

The prince went back to the palace. His wife was very angry with him, though she did not show her anger. At night ‘when she was fast asleep’ he took off all her jewels and tied them in a handkerchief, and he gave her a thrust in the leg with his trident. Then he went quickly back to his friend. The princess awoke and found herself badly hurt and alone; and she saw that her jewels were all gone. In the morning she told her father and mother that her jewels had been stolen; but she said nothing about the wound in her leg. The king called his servants, and told them a thief had come in the night and stolen his daughter’s jewels, and he sent them to look for the thief and seize him.

That morning the kotwál’s son got up and dressed himself like a yogí. He made the prince put on common clothes such as every one wears, so that he could not be recognized, and sent him to the bazar to sell his wife’s jewels. He told him, too, all he was to say. The pretended yogí went to the river and sat down by it, and the Rájá’s son went through the bazar and tried to sell the jewels. The Rájá’s servants seized him immediately. “You thief!” they said to him, “what made you steal our Rájá’s daughter’s jewels?” “I know nothing about the jewels,” said the prince. “I am no thief; I did not steal them. The holy man, who is my teacher, gave them to me to sell in the bazar for him. If you want to know anything more about them, you must ask him.” “Where is this holy man?” said the servants. “He is sitting by the river,” said the Rájá’s son. “Let us go to him. I will show you where he is.”

They all went down to the river, and there sat the yogí. “What is all this?” said the servants to him. “Are you a yogí, and yet a thief? Why did you steal the little Rání’s jewels?” “Are those the little Rání’s jewels?” said the yogí. “I did not steal them; I did not know to whom they belonged. Listen, and I will tell you. Last night at twelve o’clock I was sitting by this river when a woman came down to it–a woman I did not know. She took a dead body out of the river, and began to eat it. This made me so angry, that I took all her jewels from her, and she ran away. I ran after her and wounded her in the leg with my trident. I don’t know if she were your Rájá’s daughter, or who she was; but whoever she may be, she has the mark of the trident’s teeth in her leg.”

The servants took the jewels up to the palace, and told the Rájá all the yogí had said. The Rájá asked his wife whether the Princess Pánwpattí had any hurt in her leg, and told her all the yogí’s story. The Rání went to see her daughter, and found her lying on her bed and unable to get up from the pain she was in, and when she looked at her leg she saw the wound. She returned to the Rájá and said to him, “Our daughter has the mark of the trident’s teeth in her leg.”

The Rájá got very angry, and called his servants and said to them, “Bring a palanquin, and take my daughter at once to the jungle, and there leave her. She is a wicked woman, who goes to the river at night to eat dead people. I will not have her in my house any more. Cast her out in the jungle.” The servants did as they were bid, and left Pánwpattí Rání, crying and sobbing in the jungle, partly from the pain in her leg, and partly because she did not know where to go, and had no food or water.

Meanwhile her husband and the kotwál’s son heard of her being sent into the jungle, so they returned to the old woman’s house and put on their own clothes. Then they went to the jungle to find her. She was still crying, and her husband asked her why she cried. She told him, and he said, “Why did you try to poison my friend? You were very wicked to do so.” “Yes,” said the kotwál’s son; “Why did you try to kill me? I have never done you any wrong or hurt you. It was I who told your husband what you meant by putting the rose to your teeth, behind your ear, and at your feet. Without me he would never have found you, never have married you.” Then she knew at once who had brought all this trouble to her, and she was very sorry she had tried to kill her husband’s friend.

They all three now went home to her husband’s country; and his father and mother were very glad indeed that their son had married a Rájá’s daughter, and the Rájá gave the kotwál’s son a very grand present.

The young Rájá and his wife lived with his father and mother, and were always very happy together.

Running and expanding this site requires resources: from maintaining our digital platform to sourcing and curating new content. With your help, we can grow our collection, improve accessibility, and bring these incredible narratives to an even wider audience. Your sponsorship enables us to keep the world’s stories alive and thriving. ♦ Visit our Support page

The Bed

A grain merchant’s pampered son learned no trade, relying on his parents’ wealth. After their death, he carved a magnificent bed from a mango tree. Selling it to a king for 1,000 rupees, he warned the king of its mysterious abilities. The bed revealed dangers, saving the king’s life and fortune. Grateful, the king rewarded the son generously, ensuring his and his wife’s lifelong happiness.

Source
Indian Fairy Tales
collected and translated by Maive Stokes
Ellis & White, London, 1880

► Themes of the story

Divine Intervention: The mango tree’s response to the son’s request, influenced by divine will, sets the narrative in motion.

Sacred Objects: The bed, crafted from the mango tree, possesses mystical properties that reveal dangers to the king.

Cunning and Deception: The bed’s revelations expose hidden threats, showcasing the theme of uncovering deceit.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Múniyá, February 23rd, 1879

There was a grain merchant’s son, whose father and mother loved him so dearly that they did not let him do anything but play and amuse himself while they worked for him. They never taught him any trade, or anything at all; for they never reflected that they might die, and that then he would have to work for himself. When he was old enough to be married, they found a wife for him, and married him to her. Then they all lived happily together for some years till the father and mother both died. Their son and his wife lived for a while on the pice his father and mother had left him. But the wife grew sadder and sadder every day, for the pice grew fewer and fewer.

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She thought, “What shall we do when they are all gone? My husband knows no trade, and can do no work.” One day when she was looking very sorrowful, her husband asked her, “What is the matter? Why are you so unhappy?” “We have hardly any pice left,” she answered, “and what shall we do when we have eaten the few we have? You know no trade, and can do no work.” “Never mind,” said her husband, “I can do some work.”

So one day when there were hardly any pice left, he took an axe, and said to his wife, “I am going out to-day to work. Give me my dinner to take with me, and I will eat it out of doors.” She gave him some food, wondering what work he had; but she did not ask him.

He went to a jungle, where he stayed all day, and where he ate his dinner. All day long he wandered from tree to tree, saying to each, “May I cut you down?” But not a tree in the jungle gave him any answer: so he cut none down, and went home in the evening. His wife did not ask where he had been, or what he had done, and he said nothing to her.

The next day he again asked her for food to take with him to eat out of doors, “for,” he said, “I am going to work all day.” She did not like to ask him any questions, but gave him the food. And he took his axe, and went out to a jungle which was on a different side to the one he had been to yesterday. In this jungle also he went to every tree, and said to it, “May I cut you down?” No tree answered him; so he ate his dinner and came home.

The next day he went to a third jungle on the third side. There, too, he asked each tree, “May I cut you down?” But none gave him any answer. He came home therefore very sorrowful.

On the fourth day he went to a jungle on the fourth side. All day long he went from tree to tree, asking each, “May I cut you down?” None answered. At last, towards evening, he went and stood under a mango-tree. “May I cut you down?” he said to it. “Yes, cut me down,” answered the tree. God loved the merchant’s son and wished him to grow a great man, so he ordered the mango-tree to let itself be cut down.

Now the grain merchant’s son was happy, for he was quite sure he could make a bed, if he only had some wood; so he hewed down the mango-tree, put it on his head, and carried it home. His wife saw him coming, and said to herself, “He is bringing home a tree! What can he be going to do with a tree?”

Next morning he took the tree into one of the rooms of his house. He told his wife to put food and water to last him for a week in this room, and to make a fire in it. Then he went up to the room, and said to her, “You are not to come in here for a whole week. You are not to come near me till I call you.” Then he went into the room and shut the door. The whole week long his wife wondered what he could be doing all alone in that room. “I cannot see into it,” she said to herself, “and I dare not open the door. I wonder what he is about.”

By the end of the week the grain merchant’s son had carved a most beautiful bed out of the mango-tree. Such a beautiful bed had never been seen. Then he called his wife, and when she came he told her to open the door, and when she opened it he said, “See what a beautiful bed I have made.” “Did you make that bed?” she said. “Oh, what a beautiful bed it is! I never saw such a lovely bed!”

He rested that day, and on the day following he took the bed to the king’s palace, and sat down with it before the palace gate. The king’s servants all came to look at the bed. “What a bed it is!” they said. “Did any one ever see such a bed! It is a beautiful bed. Is it yours?” they asked the merchant’s son. “Is it for sale? Who made it? Did you make it?” But he said, “I will not answer any of your questions. I will not speak to any of you. I will only speak to the king.” So the servants went to the king and said to him, “There is a man at your gate with a most beautiful bed. But he will not speak to any of us, and says he will only speak to you.” “Very good,” said the king; “bring him to me.”

When the grain merchant’s son came before the king with his bed, the king asked him, “Is your bed for sale?” “Yes,” he said. “What a beautiful bed it is!” said the king. “Who made it?” “I did,” he said. “I made it myself.” “How much do you want for it?” said the king. “One thousand rupees,” answered the merchant’s son. “That is a great deal for the bed,” said the king. “I will not take less,” said the merchant’s son. “Good,” said the king, “I will give you the thousand rupees.” So he took the bed, and the merchant’s son said to him, “The first night you pass on it, do not go to sleep. Take care to keep awake, and you will hear and see something.” Then he took the rupees home to his wife, who was frightened when she saw them. “Are those your rupees?” she said. “Where did you find such a quantity of rupees?” “The king gave them to me for my bed,” he said. “I am not a thief; I did not steal them.” Then she was happy.

That night the king lay down on his bed, and at ten o’clock he heard one of the bed’s legs say to the other legs, “Listen, you three. I am going out to see the king’s country. Do you all stand firm while I am away, and take care not to let the king fall.” “Good,” the three legs answered; “go and eat the air, and we will all stand fast, so that the king does not fall while you are away.”

Then the king saw the leg leave the bed, and go out of his room door. The leg went out to a great plain, and there it saw two snakes quarrelling together. One snake said, “I will bite the king.” The other said, “I will bite him.” The first said, “No, you won’t; I will climb on to his bed and bite him.” “That you will never do,” said the second. “You cannot climb on to his bed; but I will get into his shoe, and then when he puts it on to-morrow morning, I will bite his foot.”

The bed-leg came back and told the other legs what it had seen and heard. “If the king will shake his shoe before he puts it on to-morrow morning,” it said, “he will see a snake drop out of it.” The king heard all that was said.

“Now,” said the second bed-leg, “I will go out and eat the air of the king’s country. Do you all stand firm while I am away.” “Go,” the others answered; “we will take care the king does not fall.” The second bed-leg then went out, and went to another plain on which stood a very old palace belonging to the king, and the wind told it the palace was so ruinous that it would fall and kill the king the first time he went into it: the king had never once had it repaired. So it came back and told the three other legs all about the palace and what the wind had said. “If I were the king,” said the second bed-leg, “I would have that palace pulled down. It is quite ready to fall; and the first time the king goes into it, it will fall on him and kill him.” The king lay, and listened to everything. As it happened, he had forgotten all about his old palace, and had not gone near it for a long time.

Then the third bed-leg said, “Now I will go out and see all the fun I can. Stand firm, you three, while I am away.” He went to a jungle-plain on which lived a yogí. Now there was a sarai [that is, a resting-place for travellers, composed of a number of small houses in a walled enclosure] not far off in which lived a woman, the wife of a sepoy, whose husband had gone a year ago to another country, leaving her in the sarai. She was so fond of the yogí, that she used to come and talk to him every night. That very day her husband came back to her, and therefore it was later than usual when she got to the yogí; so he was very vexed with her. “How late you are to-night,” he said. “It is not my fault,” she answered. “My husband came home to-day after having been away a year, and he kept me.” “Which of us do you love best?” asked the yogí; “your husband or me?” “I love you best,” said the woman. “Then,” said the yogí, “go home and cut off your husband’s head, and bring it here for me to see.” The sepoy’s wife went straight to the sarai, cut off her husband’s head, and brought it to the yogí. “What a wicked woman you are to do such a thing at my bidding!” he said. “Go away at once. You are a wicked woman, and I do not want to see you.” She took the head home, set it again on the body and began to cry. All the people in the sarai came to see what was the matter. “Thieves have been here,” she said, “and have killed my husband, and cut off his head,” and then she cried again. The third bed-leg now went back to the palace, and told the others all it had seen and heard. The king lay still and listened.

The fourth bed-leg next went out to see all it could, and it came to a plain on which were seven thieves, who had just been into the king’s palace, and had carried off his daughter on her bed fast asleep; and there she lay still sleeping. They had, too, been into the king’s treasury and had taken all his rupees. The fourth bed-leg came quickly back to the palace, and said to the other three legs, “Now, if the king were wise he would get up instantly and go to the plain. For some thieves are there with his daughter and all his rupees which they have just stolen out of his palace. If he only made haste and went at once, he would get them again.”

The king got up that minute, and called his servants and some sepoys, and set off to the plain. He shook his shoe before he put it on, and out tumbled the snake (the other had quietly gone into the jungle, and not come to the palace); so he saw that the first bed-leg had spoken the truth.

When he reached the plain he found his daughter and his rupees, and brought them back to his palace. The princess slept all the time, and did not know what had happened to her. The king saw the fourth leg had told the truth. The thieves he could not catch, for they all ran away when they saw him coming with his sepoys.

The king sent men to the old palace to pull it down. They found it was just going to fall, and would have fallen on any one who had entered it, and crushed him. So the second bed-leg had told the truth.

When the king was sitting in his court-house he heard how during the night thieves had gone into the sarai and killed a sepoy there and cut off his head. Then he sent for the sepoy’s wife, and asked her who had killed her husband. “Thieves,” she said. The king was very angry, for he was sure the third bed-leg had told the truth as the other three legs had done. So he ordered the man to be buried; and bade his servants make a great wooden pile on the plain, and take the woman and burn her on it. They were not to leave her as long as she was alive, but to wait till she was dead.

He next sent for the grain merchant’s son, and said to him, “Had it not been for your bed, I should this morning have been bitten by a snake; and, perhaps, killed by my old palace falling on me, as I did not know it was ready to fall, and so might have gone into it. My daughter would certainly have been stolen from me; and a wicked woman been still alive. So now, to-morrow, bring as many carts as you like, and I will give you as a present as many rupees as you can take away on them in half a day.” Early the next morning the merchant’s son brought his cart and took away on them as many rupees as he could in half a day. His wife was delighted when she saw the money, and said, “My husband only worked for one week, and yet he earned all these rupees!” And they lived always happily.

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The Fan Prince

A king’s youngest daughter is cast into the jungle for claiming God provides for her. Her faith leads to divine blessings, including a magical palace. Later, her father’s journey for “Sabr” brings her a magical fan summoning Prince Sabr, whom she marries. After a plot by jealous sisters injures the prince, she, disguised as a yogí, cures him. Their reunion brings happiness and lasting love.

Source
Indian Fairy Tales
collected and translated by Maive Stokes
Ellis & White, London, 1880

► Themes of the story

Transformation: The princess’s circumstances shift dramatically from being abandoned in the jungle to becoming the mistress of a splendid palace, illustrating a profound change in her life.

Trials and Tribulations: The princess faces numerous challenges, including abandonment by her family and the schemes of her jealous sisters, testing her resilience and faith.

Transformation through Love: The princess’s love and devotion enable her to heal Prince Sabr, leading to their reunion and a harmonious life together.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Múniyá

There lived a king who had a wife and seven daughters. One day he called all his daughters to him, and said to them, “My children, who gives you food? and by whose permission do you eat it?” Six of them answered, “Father, you give us food; and by your permission we eat it.” But the seventh and youngest said, “Father, God gives me my food; and by my own permission I eat it.” This answer made her parents very angry with their youngest daughter. They said, “We will not let our youngest child stay with us any longer.” And her father called some servants and said to them, “Get a palanquin ready, and put my youngest daughter into it; then carry her away to the jungle, and there leave her.”

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The servants got the palanquin ready, put the youngest princess into it, and carried her into the jungle. There they put the palanquin down and said to her, “We are going to drink some water.” “Go home now,” said the girl, “as my father ordered you to do.” They left her, therefore, in the jungle alone, and went back to the king’s palace.

The girl prayed to God and worshipped him; then she went to sleep for a little while in her palanquin. When she awoke, it was evening, and she found in her palanquin a jar of water and some food on a plate which God had sent her while she slept. She knew that God had sent her this nice dinner, and thanked him and worshipped him. Then she bathed her face and hands in a little of the water, and ate and drank, and went to sleep quietly in her palanquin as night had come.

This little princess had always been a very gentle girl, and had always done what was right, and been very good, so God loved her dearly. While she slept, therefore, he made a beautiful palace for her on the jungle-plain where she was lying in her palanquin. God made a garden and tank for her, too. When the princess woke in the morning, and got out of her palanquin, she saw the palace standing by its tank in a beautiful garden. “I never saw that palace before,” she said. “It was not here last night.” She went into the garden, and servants met her and made her salaams. The palace was far finer than her father’s; and when she went into it she found it full of servants. “To whom does this palace belong?” she asked. “To you,” they answered. “God made all this for you last night, and he sent us to wait on you and be your servants.” (Now, they were all men, not angels, that God had sent to take care of her.) The princess thanked God, and worshipped him.

A few days later, her father heard that in the jungle to which he had sent her a beautiful palace and garden and tank had suddenly appeared, and that in this palace she was living; and he said, “Yes; my daughter told me the truth: it is God who gives us everything. I know it is he who gave her this beautiful house.” So some time passed, and the princess lived in her palace in the jungle; but her father did not go to see her.

One day he said to himself, “To-day I will go and eat the air in another country, and I will go by water.” So he ordered a boat to be got ready, and he went to his six daughters, and told them he was going away for a little while. “What would you like me to bring you from this other country?” he said. “I will bring you anything you would like to have.” Some of them wanted jewels, a necklace, a pair of earrings, and so on; and some wanted silk stuffs for sárís and other clothes. Then the king remembered his youngest child, and thought, “I must send to her, and see what she would like.” He called one of his servants, and told him to go to the jungle to his youngest daughter and say, “Your father is going to eat the air of another country. He wishes to know what you would like him to bring back for you.”

The servant found the little princess reading her prayer-book. He gave her the king’s message. She said, “Sabr” (that is wait), for she meant him to wait for her answer till she had finished reading her prayers. The servant, however, did not understand, but went away at once to the king and told him, “Your daughter wants you to bring her Sabr.” “Sabr?” said the king; “what is Sabr? Never, mind, I will see if I can find any Sabr; and if I do, I will bring it for her.”

The king then went in his boat to another country. There he stayed for a little while and bought the jewels and silks for his six elder daughters. When he thought he should like to go home again, he went down to his boat and got into it. But the boat would not move, because he had forgotten one thing; the thing his youngest daughter had asked for.

Suddenly he remembered he had not got any Sabr. So he gave one of his servants four thousand rupees, and told him to go on shore, and go through the bazar, and try and find the Sabr, and he was to give the four thousand rupees for it.

The man went to the bazar and asked every one if they had Sabr to sell. Then he asked if they could tell him what it was. “No,” they said, “but our king’s son is called Sabr; you had better speak to him.”

The servant went to Prince Sabr. “Our king’s youngest daughter,” he said, “has asked her father to bring her Sabr, and the king has given me four thousand rupees to buy it for her; but I cannot get any, and no one knows what it is.” The prince said, “Very good. Give this little box to your king, and tell him to give it to his youngest daughter. But it is only the princess who has asked for Sabr who is to open the box.” Then he told the man to keep the four thousand rupees as a present from him.

The servant went back to the boat to the king and gave him the box, saying, “In this is the Sabr,” and he told him Prince Sabr said no one but the youngest princess was to open it. And now the boat moved quite easily, and the king journeyed home safely.

He gave his six eldest daughters the presents he had brought for them, and sent the little box to his youngest daughter. She said, “My father has sent me this. I will look at it by and by.” Then she put it away and forgot it. At the end of a month she found the little box, and thought, “I will see what my father has sent me,” and opened the box. In it was a most lovely little fan. She was very much pleased, and fanned herself with it, and at once a beautiful prince stood before her.

The princess was delighted. “Who are you? Where did you come from?” she said. “My name is Prince Sabr,” he answered. “Your father came to my father’s country, and he said you had asked him to bring you Sabr, so I gave him this little fan for you. I am obliged to come to whoever uses this little fan with the right side turned outwards. And when you want me to go away, you must turn the right side of the fan towards you and then fan yourself with it.” The little princess said, “Very good. And so your name is Prince Sabr?” They talked together for some time. Then she turned her fan, so that the wrong side was outside, and fanned herself with it, and the prince disappeared.

This went on for a month. The princess used to fan herself with the right side turned outwards, and then Prince Sabr came to her. When she turned her fan wrong side outwards and fanned herself, then he vanished.

One day the prince said to her, “I should like to marry you. Will you marry me?” “Yes,” she answered. Then she wrote a letter to her father and mother and six sisters, in which she said, “Come to my wedding. I am going to marry Prince Sabr.” They all came. Her father was very glad that she married Prince Sabr, and said, “I see it is true that God loves my youngest daughter.”

The day of the wedding her six sisters said to her, “To-day we will not let the servants make your bed. We will make it ourselves for you.” “I have plenty of servants to make it,” she said; “but you can do so if you like.” Her sisters went to make the bed. They took a glass bottle and ground it into a powder, and they spread the powder all over the side where Prince Sabr was to lie. This they did because they were angry at their youngest sister being married, while they, who were older, were not married, and they thought, being her elders, they should have married first, especially as they had lived in their father’s palace, and been cared for, while she was cast out in the jungle.

When the wedding was over, and Prince Sabr and his wife had gone to bed, the prince became very ill, from the glass powder going into his flesh. “Turn your fan the wrong way and fan yourself quickly, that I may go home to my father’s country,” he said to her, “for I am very ill, and dare not remain here.” So she fanned herself at once with the fan turned the wrong way. Then he went home to his father, and was very ill for a long while. The poor princess knew nothing of the glass powder.

Her father and mother and sisters went home after the wedding, and left the princess alone in her palace. Every day she turned her fan the right side outwards and fanned and fanned herself; but Prince Sabr never came. He was far too ill. One day she cried a great deal, and was very, very sad. “Why does my prince not come to me?” she said. “I don’t know where he is, or what has become of him.” That night she had a dream, and in her dream she saw Prince Sabr lying very ill on his bed.

When she got up in the morning she thought she must go and try to find her prince. So she took off all her beautiful clothes and jewels, and put on a yogí’s dress. Then she mounted a horse and set out in the jungle. No one knew she was a woman, or that she was a king’s daughter; every one thought she was a man.

She rode on till night, and then she had come to another jungle. Here she got off her horse, and took it under a tree. She lay down under the tree and went to sleep. At midnight she was awakened by the chattering of a parrot and a mainá, who came and sat on the tree knowing she was lying underneath.

The mainá said to the parrot, “Parrot, tell me something.” The parrot said, “Prince Sabr is very, very ill in his own country. The day he was married, the bride’s six sisters took a glass bottle and ground it to powder. Then they spread the powder all over the prince’s bed, so that when he lay down it got into his flesh. The glass powder has made him very ill.” “What will make him well?” said the mainá; “what will cure him?” “No doctors can cure him,” said the parrot; “no medicine will do him any good: but if any one slept under this tree, and took some of the earth from under it, and mixed it with cold water, and rubbed it all over Prince Sabr, he would get well.”

All this the princess heard. She got up and longed for morning to come. When it was day she took some of the earth, mounted her horse, and rode off. She went on till she came to Prince Sabr’s country. Then she asked to whom the country belonged; she was told it was Prince Sabr’s father’s country, “but Prince Sabr is very ill.”

“I am a yogí,” said the princess, “and I can cure him.” This was told to the king, Prince Sabr’s father. “That is very good,” he said. “Send the yogí to me.” So the little princess went to the king, who said to her, “My son is very, very ill; make him well.” “Yes,” she said, “I will make him well. Bring me some cold water.”

They brought her the cold water, and she mixed it with the earth she had got from under the tree. This she rubbed all over the prince. For three days and nights she rubbed him with it. After that he got better, and in a week he was quite well. He was able to talk, and could walk about as usual.

Then the yogí said, “Now I will go back to my own country.” But the king said to her, “First you must let me give you a present. You shall have anything that you like. As many horses, or sepoys, or rupees as you want you shall have; for you have made my son well.” “I want nothing at all,” said the princess, “but Prince Sabr’s ring, and the handkerchief he has with his name worked on it.” She had given him both these things on their wedding day. Prince Sabr’s father and mother went to their son and begged him to give the handkerchief and ring to the yogí; and he did so quite willingly. “For,” he thought, “were it not for that yogí, I should never see my dear princess again.”

The yogí took the ring and handkerchief and went home. When she got there, she took off her yogí’s dress and put on her own beautiful clothes. Then she turned her fan right side outwards, and fanned herself with it, and immediately her Prince Sabr stood by her. “Why did you not come to me before?” she said. “I have been fanning and fanning myself.” “I was very ill, and could not come,” said Prince Sabr. “At last a yogí came and made me well, and as a reward I gave him my ring and handkerchief.” “It was no yogí,” said the princess. “It was I who came to you and made you well.” “You!” said the prince. “Oh, no; it was a yogí. You were sitting here in your palace while the yogí came and cured me.” “No, indeed,” she said; “I was the yogí. See, is not this your ring? is not this your handkerchief with your name worked on it?” Then he believed her, and she told him of her dream, and her journey in the yogí’s dress, and the birds’ talk, and all that had happened.

And Prince Sabr was very happy that his wife had done so much for him, and they lived happily together.

Running and expanding this site requires resources: from maintaining our digital platform to sourcing and curating new content. With your help, we can grow our collection, improve accessibility, and bring these incredible narratives to an even wider audience. Your sponsorship enables us to keep the world’s stories alive and thriving. ♦ Visit our Support page

The Demon Is at last Conquered by the King’s Son

Seven men embark on a journey to seek fortune but encounter a demonic goat that preys on them nightly, reducing their number. The clever grain merchant’s son uncovers the truth, defeating the demon and leaving it behind. The goat, transforming into a deceitful girl, marries a king, wreaking havoc. Ultimately, the king’s son overcomes various perils, including demons and magical trials, to restore his mothers, defeat evil, and reunite the family.

Source
Indian Fairy Tales
collected and translated by Maive Stokes
Ellis & White, London, 1880

► Themes of the story

Hero’s Journey: The king’s son embarks on a perilous adventure, confronting various challenges to defeat evil and restore his family.

Trials and Tribulations: The protagonist faces numerous obstacles, including battling demons and enduring magical trials, testing his courage and determination.

Revenge and Justice: The story culminates in the king’s son seeking justice by defeating the malevolent entities that caused harm, restoring order and reuniting his family.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Múniyá

In a country there were seven men, no two of whom belonged to the same family, or were of the same trade. One was a grain merchant’s son, one a baker’s, and so on; each had a different trade. These seven men determined they would go to seek for service in another country. They said good-bye to their fathers and mothers, and set off.

They travelled every day, and walked through many jungles. At last, a long way from their homes, they came to a wide plain in the midst of a jungle, and on it they saw a goat which seemed to be a very good milch-goat.

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The seven men said to each other, “If this goat belonged to any one, it would not be left all alone in the jungle. Let us take it with us.” They did so, and no one they met asked them any questions about the goat.

In the evening they arrived at a village where they stayed for the night. They cooked and ate their dinners, and gave the goat grass and grain. At midnight, when they were all asleep, the goat became a great she-demon, with a great mouth, and swallowed one of the seven men. Then she became a goat again, and went back to the place where she had been stabled.

The men got up in the morning, and were very much surprised to find they were only six, not seven. “Where is the seventh gone?” they said. “Well, when he returns we will all go on together.” They sat waiting and waiting for him, till, as it was getting late and he had not come, they all thought they had better start without him. So they continued their journey, taking the goat with them. Before they went they said to the villagers, “If our seventh man comes back to you, send him after us.”

At evening they came to another village, where they stayed for the night. They cooked and ate their dinners, and gave grain and grass to the goat. At midnight, when they were fast asleep, the goat became a demon and swallowed another man, and then took her goat’s shape again.

In this way she ate five men. The two that were left were very sad at finding themselves alone. “We were seven men,” they said, “now we are but two.” The grain merchant’s son was one of the two, and he was very quick and sharp. He determined he would not say anything to his companion, but that he would watch by him that night, and find out, if he could, what had happened to his other friends. To keep himself awake he cut a piece out of his finger, and rubbed a little salt into the wound, so that when his companion went to sleep, he should not be able to sleep because of the pain. At midnight the goat came and turned into a huge demon. She went quickly up to the sleeping man to swallow him; but the merchant’s son rushed at her, beat her, and snatched his companion from her mouth. The demon turned instantly into a goat, and went back to the place where it had been stabled.

The two men next morning set out from the village where they had passed the night. They would have killed the goat had they been able. As they could not do so, they took it with them till they came to a plain in the jungle, where they tied it up to a tree, and left it. Then they continued their journey, and were very sorry they had not known how wicked the goat was before it had swallowed their five companions.

The goat meanwhile turned itself into a most beautiful young girl, dressed in grand clothes and rich jewels, and she sat down in the jungle and began to cry. Just then the king of another country was hunting in this jungle; and when he heard the noise of the crying, he called his servants and told them to go and see who was crying. The servants looked about until they saw the beautiful girl. They asked her a great many questions, but she only cried, and would not answer. The servants returned to the king, and told him it was a most beautiful young girl who was crying; but she would do nothing but cry, and would not speak.

The king left his hunting and went himself to the girl, and asked her why she cried. “My husband married me,” she said, “and was taking me to his home. He went to get some water to drink, and left me here. He has never come back, and I don’t know where he is; perhaps some tiger has killed him, and now I am all alone, and do not know where to go. This is why I cry.” The king was so delighted with her beauty, that he asked her to go with him. He sent his servants for a fine palanquin, and when it came he put the girl into it, and took her to his palace, and there she stayed.

At midnight she turned into a demon, and went to the place where the king’s sheep and goats were kept. She tore open all their stomachs, and ate all their hearts. Then she dipped seven knives in their blood, and laid the knives on the beds of the seven queens.

Next morning the king heard that all his sheep and goats were lying dead; and when his seven wives woke, they saw that their clothes were all bloody, and that bloody knives lay on their beds. They wondered who had done this wicked thing to them.

The next night at twelve o’clock the beautiful girl turned into a demon again, and went to the cow-house. There she tore open the cows and ate their hearts. Then she smeared the queens’ clothes, and laid knives dipped in blood on their beds; but she washed her own hands and clothes, so that no blood should show on them. For a long time the same thing happened every night, till she had eaten all the elephants, horses, camels,–every animal, indeed, belonging to the king. The king wondered very much at his animals all being killed in this way, and he could not understand either why every morning his wives’ clothes were bloody, and bloody knives found on their beds.

When she had eaten all the animals, the demon said to the king, “I am afraid your wives are very wicked women. They must have killed all your cows and sheep, goats, horses, elephants, and camels. I am afraid one day they will eat me up.” “I have been married to them for many years,” answered the king, “and anything like this has never happened before.” “I am very much afraid of them,” said the demon, who all this time looked a most beautiful girl. “I am very much afraid; but if you cut out their eyes, then they cannot kill me.”

The king called his servants and said to them, “Get ready seven palanquins, and carry my seven wives into the jungle. There you must leave them; only first take out their eyes, which you must bring to me.” The servants took the queens to a jungle a long way from the king’s country. There they took out their eyes, and left them, and brought the eyes to the king, who gave them into the demon’s hands. She pounded them to bits with a stone, and threw the bits away.

The seven queens in the jungle did not know which way to go; so they walked straight on, and fell into a dry well which lay just before them. In this well they stayed; and the day when they thought they must die of hunger and thirst was drawing near. But before it came the eldest queen had a little son. She and the five next wives were so hungry, that they agreed to kill the child, and divide it into seven pieces. They each ate a piece, and gave one to the seventh and youngest wife. She said nothing, and hid the piece. These five wives each had a son one after the other, and they killed and divided their children as the eldest wife had done with hers. But the youngest wife hid all the six pieces that were given her, and would eat none. Her son was born last of all. Then the six eldest wives said, “Let us kill and divide your child.” “No,” she said, “I will never kill or divide my boy; I would rather die of hunger. Here are the six pieces you gave me. I would not eat them. Take them and eat them, but you must not touch my son.” God was so pleased with her for not killing her child, that he made the boy grow bigger and bigger every day; and the little queen was very happy.

They all lived in the dry well without any food till the little prince was five years old. By that time he was very quick and clever. One day he said to his mother, “Why have we lived all this while in the well?” His mother and all the other wives told him about the wicked demon who lived in his father’s palace, and how the king believed her to be a beautiful girl and had married her, and of all the evil things that she had done to them, and how she had made the king send them to the jungle and have their eyes cut out and given to her, and how from not being able to see they had fallen into this well, and how they had eaten all his brothers, because they were so very hungry they thought they should die–all but his mother at least, for she would not eat the other wives’ children and would not kill her own little son. “Let me climb out of this well,” said the boy, who determined in his heart that he would kill this wicked demon one day. His mother said, “No, stay here; you are too young to leave the well.”

The boy did not listen to her, but scrambled out. Then he saw they were in a wide plain in the jungle. He ran after a few birds, caught and killed them. Then he roasted the birds and brought them with some water to his seven mothers in the well. When they had eaten them and drunk the water, they were happy and worshipped God. The six mothers who had eaten their children were full of sorrow, and said, “If our six sons were now living, how good it would be for us: how happy we should be.” The young prince went out hunting for little birds every day, and in the evening he cooked those he caught and brought them, with water, to his mothers.

Now the demon, because she was a demon and was therefore wiser than men and women, knew that the seven queens lived in the well, and that the son of the youngest queen was still alive. She determined to kill him; so she pretended her eyes hurt her, and began crying, and making a great to-do. The king asked her, “What is the matter?” “See, king, see my eyes,” she said. “They ache and hurt me so much.” “What medicine will make them well again?” said the king. “If I could only bathe them with a tigress’s milk, they would be well,” she answered.

The king called two of his servants and said to them, “Can either of you get me a tigress’s milk? Here are two thousand rupees for whichever of you brings me the milk.” Then he gave them the rupees, and told them to get it at once.

The servants took the rupees, and said nothing to the king, but they said to each other, “How can we get a tigress’s milk?” And they were very sad. They left the king’s country, and wandered on till they came to the jungle-plain, where lived the young prince and his mothers. There they saw him sitting by a dry well and roasting birds. “Do you live in this jungle?” they said to him. “Yes,” answered the boy. Then the servants talked together. “See,” they said, “this boy lives in the jungle, so he will surely be able to get us the milk. Let us tell him to get it, and give him the two thousand rupees.”

So they came back to the boy, who asked them where they were going. “Our queen is very ill with pain in her eyes, and our king has sent us for some tigress’s milk for her to bathe them with, that they may get well. He has given us two thousand rupees, for whichever of us to keep who gets the milk. But we do not know where or how to get it.”

“Good,” said the boy; “give me the two thousand rupees and I will get it for you. Come here for it in a week’s time.”

The king’s servants were very much pleased at not having to try and get it themselves, so they gave him the rupees and went home. The demon knew quite well when she asked for the milk that none of the king’s servants would dare to go for it, but that his son would be brave enough to go. This is why she asked for it, for she meant the tigers to kill him.

The little prince now took his seven mothers out of the well, and they all went together to his father’s country. There he got a small house for them, and good clothes and food. He got a servant, too, for them, to cook their dinner and take care of them. “Be very tender to them,” he said to the servant, “for they cannot see.” For himself he bought a little horse, and good clothes, and a gun, and a sword. Then he made his mothers many salaams, and told them he was going to get a tigress’s milk. They all cried and begged him not to go.

But he set off and rode for three or four days through the jungles. Then he came to a large jungle which was in a great blaze, and two tiger-cubs were running about in the jungle trying to get out of the fire. He jumped off his horse, and took them in his hands; then he mounted his horse again and rode out of the jungle. He rode on till he came to another which was not on fire. He let the cubs loose in it that they might run away; but they placed themselves in front of his horse, and said, “We will not let you go till you have seen our father and mother.”

Meanwhile the tiger and tigress saw the boy coming with their cubs, and they came running to meet them. Till then they had thought their cubs were burned in the jungle-fire. Now they knew at once this boy had saved them. The cubs said to their father and mother, “We should have died had it not been for this boy. Give him food; and when he has eaten some food, we will drink milk.” The tigers were very happy at having their children safe. They went to a garden and got food and good water for the boy, who ate and drank. Then the little cubs drank their mother’s milk.

The tiger said to the prince, “You are such a little child, how is it your mother let you come alone to this jungle?”

“My mother’s eyes are sore and pain her; and the doctor says that if she bathes them in a tigress’s milk they will get well. So I came to see if I could get a little for her.”

“I will give you some,” said the tigress, and she gave him a little jar full of her milk. The cubs said, “One of us will go with you, and the other will stay with our father and mother.” “No,” said the little prince, “do you both stay with your father and mother. I will not take either of you away. What should I do with you?” “No,” said one of the cubs; “I will go with you. I will do all you tell me. Wherever you bid me stay, there I will stay; and I will eat any food you give me.” “Take him with you,” said the old tiger; “one day you will find him of use.” So the boy took the cub and the milk, and made his salaam to the old tigers and went home. His mothers were delighted at his return, though, as they had no eyes, they could not see him.

He tied up the tiger’s cub and fed him. Then he took a little of the milk, and went to the dry well in the jungle and sat down by it. The king’s servants came when the week had passed, and the boy gave them the milk. The servants took it to the king, who gave it to the demon. She was very angry when she found the tigers had not eaten the boy; but she bathed her eyes with the milk, and said nothing.

At the end of another week she would not eat or drink, and did nothing but cry. “What is the matter?” said the king. “See how my eyes pain me,” she answered. “If I could only get an eagle’s feather to lay on them they would be well. Oh, how they hurt me!”

The king called his servants and gave them four thousand rupees. “Go and get me an eagle’s feather,” he said, “and he who gets it is to take the four thousand rupees.” “Let us go to the jungle well,” they said, “and find the boy who got us the tigress’s milk. We could never get an eagle’s feather, but this child certainly can get one for us.”

So they went to the well where they found the boy. The little prince was very wise, though he was such a little child; and he knew the demon would try to send him on some other errand that she might get rid of him. He was quite willing to go on her errands, for he thought he might thus learn how to kill her. He was not a bit afraid of being killed himself, for he knew that God loved him, and that no one but God could kill him.

He at once asked the king’s servants, “What do you want now?” “Our king has sent us for an eagle’s feather to lay on the queen’s eyes, which pain her again. Here are four thousand rupees for you if you will get it for us.” “Give me the rupees,” said the king’s son. “Come here in two weeks, and I will give you the feather.”

He took the rupees to his mothers, and told them he was going to fetch an eagle’s feather. “Where will you find one?” they said. “I don’t know,” he answered, “but I am going to look for one.” He hired some more servants, and told them to take care of his mothers and the tiger-cub.

He rode straight on for two or three days, and at last came to a very dense jungle, through which he rode for another three or four days. When he got out of it he found himself on a beautiful smooth plain in which was a tank. There, too, was a large fig-tree, and under the tree cool shade, and cool, thick grass. He was very much pleased when he saw the tank and the tree. He got off his horse, bathed in the tank, and sat down under the fig-tree, thinking, “Here I will sleep a little while before I go further.”

While he lay asleep in the grass, a great snake crawled up the tree, at the top of which were two young eagles. They began screaming very loud. Their cries awakened the little prince. He looked about and saw the great snake in the tree. Then he took his gun and fired at it, and the snake fell dead to the ground. He cut it into five pieces, and hid them in the long grass. Then he lay down again and went to sleep.

The baby eagles were alone in the tree, as their father and mother had gone to another country. But now the old birds came home, and found the king’s son sleeping in the grass. “See,” they said, “here is the thief who every year robs us of our children! But now he cannot get away. We will kill him.” However, they thought it better to go and look first at their children, to see if they were safe or not. They flew up to the top of the tree, and when they found their children safe, they wished to give them food. All the time they kept saying, “Eat; then we will kill the thief who steals away our children every year.” The young eagles thought, “Oh, if God would only give us the power to speak, then we would tell our father and mother that this boy is no thief.” Then God gave them the power to speak, and they said to the old eagles, “Listen; if that boy had not been here, we should have died, for he killed a huge snake that was going to swallow us: only go and look, and you will see it dead and cut into pieces.” And the eaglets refused to eat till the boy had been fed.

The big eagles flew down and found the bits of the snake: so they flew away to a beautiful garden, where they got delicious fruits and water. These they brought to the boy, and awoke him and fed him. Then they said to him, “It is indeed good to find our children alive. Hitherto our children have always been eaten by that snake. How are your father and mother? Why did they let you come to this jungle? What have you come here for?” The little prince said, “My mother’s eyes are very sore; but they would be cured if she could have an eagle’s feather to lay on them. So I came to look for one.” Then the mother gave him one of her feathers.

When the boy was going home, the eaglets said they would go with him. “No,” he said, “I will not take you with me.” But the old birds said, “Take one of them, it will help you one day.” The little prince made his salaam to the big eagles, and took one of their young ones, mounted his horse, and rode off. The eaglet flew over his head to shade him from the sun.

When he got home to his seven mothers, he took the feather and went and sat by the dry well. The king’s servants came there to him, and he gave them the feather, and said, “Take it to your king.” This they did, and the king gave it to the demon, who flew into a great rage. She said to herself, “The tigers did not kill him, and now the eagles have not killed him.”

At the end of two weeks she began to cry and would not eat. The king asked her, “What is the matter with you? what has happened to you?” “My eyes pain me so much,” she said. “What will cure them?” said the king. “If I had only some night-growing rice,” she said, “I would boil it, and make rice-water, which I would drink. Then I should get well.” Now this night-growing rice was a wonderful rice that no men, and only one demon, possessed. This was the demon-queen’s brother. He used to put a grain of this rice into his huge cavern of a mouth at night when he went to sleep, and when he woke in the morning this grain would have become a tree. Then the demon used to take the rice-tree out of his mouth.

The demon, who seemed such a lovely girl, now wrote a letter to her brother, in which she said, “The bearer of this letter goes to you for some night-growing rice. You must kill him at once; you must not let him live.” The king gave this letter to his servants, with six thousand rupees. “Take this letter,” he said, “and fetch some of the night-growing rice. Here are six thousand rupees for whichever of you finds it.” The king had no idea that it was not these men who had gone for the tigress’s milk and the eagle’s feather.

The servants said, “Let us go to the well, to the boy who has helped us before. We don’t know where to get this night-growing rice, but that boy is sure to know.”

The boy was sitting by the well, and asked what they wanted. They answered, “See, the king has given us six thousand rupees and a letter, and told us to fetch him some night-growing rice.” “Very good,” said the king’s son. “Come here in three weeks’ time, and I will give you some.” The servants gave him the rupees and returned home.

He took the rupees to his mothers, and told them he was going on a fresh errand, and they were to keep the money. Then he made them salaams, took his letter, and rode off. The eaglet went too, and flew above his head. The tiger’s cub he left at home.

He rode on and on through a very large jungle, and he rode a long, long way: at last in a jungle he saw a fakír, who was living in it. He made him salaams, and the fakír was delighted to see him, “because,” he said, “for many years I have been in this country, and all that time have never seen any man.” The prince sat down by the fakír, and the fakír was very much pleased. He asked the boy who had sent him to the jungle, and why he had come to it. “My mother has sore eyes,” he answered, “and wants some night-growing rice. She has given me a letter to the man who owns it.”

The fakír took and read the letter, and was very sorry. He tore it up and threw it away. Then he wrote another, in which he said, “Your sister is very ill, and her son has come for some night-growing rice for her.” This he gave to the boy, and told him to continue his journey. He also told him that the man who had the rice was a huge demon, and that he lived in the country by the great sea. Then he told him the way.

The boy rode on and on, and after a week’s journeying he came to the demon’s country. There he saw the huge demon sitting on the ground, with his great, big mouth, that was just like a cavern. As soon as the demon saw him he stood up and said, “It is many days since a man came here. Now I will eat this one.” He went towards the prince to seize him, and a great rushing wind came blowing from the demon, as it always did when he was angry. But the boy, who had begun to walk towards him when he stood up, threw the letter to him with all his might, so that it fell on him; at the same time he made many salaams. The demon read the letter, and found his sister was very ill, and this was her son; so he stopped the wind, and came up to the boy, who he thought was his sister’s son. “You have come for the rice for my sister who is ill,” he said to him; “you shall have it.”

The demon had a splendid house full of beautiful things, and a great many servants. He took the little prince home with him, and told his servants to get water ready and gave the child a bath. They were also to cook a good dinner for him. Then the demon showed the boy all his gardens, and all his beautiful things, and took him through all the rooms of his house. One room he did not show to the prince. He told him he was never to go into it, though he might go everywhere else that he liked. In this room lived the demon’s daughter, who was very beautiful, just like a fairy. She was ten years old. Every day before her father went out, he used to make the girl lie on her bed, and cover her with a sheet, and he placed a thick stick at her head, and another at her feet; then she died till he came home in the evening and changed the sticks, putting the one at her head at her feet, and the one at her feet at her head. This brought her to life again.

The next day, when the demon had gone out, the boy went to this room, and opened the door, for he wanted to see what was in it. He went in, and saw the beautiful girl lying on the bed. “How lovely she is!” he said; “but she is dead.” Then he saw the sticks, and, to amuse himself, he put the one at her head at her feet, and the one at her feet at her head, just as the demon did every evening. The girl at once came to life, and opened her eyes and got up. “Who is this?” she said to herself, when she saw the king’s son. “This is not my father.” She asked him, “Who are you? Why do you come here? If my father sees you he will eat you.” “No, he won’t,” said the prince, “for I am your aunt’s son, and your father himself brought me to his house. But why is it that you are dead all day, and alive all night?” The girl had told him that her father brought her to life every evening, and made her dead every morning. “Such is my father’s pleasure,” she answered.

So they talked together all day, and he said to her, “Suppose one day your father made you dead as usual, and that he was killed before he had brought you to life, what would you do? You would always be dead then.” “Listen,” she said; “no one can kill my father.” “Why not?” said the boy. “Listen,” she answered; “on the other side of the sea there is a great tree, in that tree is a nest, in the nest is a mainá. If any one kills that mainá, then only will my father die. And if, when the mainá is killed, its blood falls to the ground, a hundred demons would be born from the blood. This is why my father cannot be killed.”

At evening, before the demon came home, the prince made the girl dead. Then he went softly into another room.

The fakír had said to the boy, when they were in the jungle together, “If ever you are in trouble, come to me and I will help you. It will take you now one week to ride to the demon’s country; but if ever you need me, you shall be able to come to me here in this jungle, and to return to the demon’s house in one day.” The fakír was such a holy man that everything he said should happen did happen. So now the prince determined he would go to the fakír and ask him what he should do to kill this mainá. In the morning, therefore, as soon as the demon had gone out, he set off for the fakír’s jungle, and, thanks to the holy man’s power, he got there very quickly. He told him everything, and the fakír made a paper boat which he gave him. “This boat will take you over the sea,” he said to the prince. “This paper boat!” said the boy. “How can a paper boat go over the sea? It will get soaked and sink.” “No, it will not,” said the fakír. “Launch it on the sea, and get into it. The boat will of itself carry you to the tree where the mainá’s nest is.”

The prince took the boat, and went back to the demon’s house. He got there before the demon came home, so that he did not know the boy had been to the fakír. When the demon returned that evening, the king’s son said, “To-morrow I will go home, as my mother is very ill. Will you give me the rice?” “Good,” said the demon, “you shall have it to-morrow.” Next morning he gave the rice, and went off to the jungle.

Then the boy took his paper boat down to the sea, launched it, and got into it; and of itself the boat went straight over the sea to the opposite shore. The eaglet flew above his head; but he left his horse on land. When he got to the other side, he saw the great tree, with the nest and the mainá. He climbed the tree, and took down the nest, and the demon, who was far away, knew it at once, and said to himself, “Some one has come to catch and kill me.” He set out at once for the tree. The prince saw him coming, so he wrapped the mainá up in his handkerchief, that no blood should fall to the ground. Then he broke off one of its legs, and one of the demon’s legs fell off. Still the demon came on. Then he broke off the other leg, but the demon walked on his hands. The boy saw him coming nearer and nearer, so he wrung the bird’s head off, and the demon fell dead.

The prince jumped into his paper boat, and of itself the boat went straight back to the other shore, to the demon’s country. Then he went up to the demon’s house, and made his daughter alive.

She was frightened, and said to him, “Oh, take care. If my father comes back, and finds us together, he will eat us both.” “He will not come back,” said the prince. “I have killed him.”

Then he dressed her in boy’s clothes, that no one might know she was a girl, and he found a horse, and had it made ready for her. Her father had collected a quantity of rupees. Some of these the prince gave to the servants as a present, and said to them, “Stay here and be happy; do not be afraid, for there is no demon now to come and eat you.”

Then he took the rice and mounted his horse, and made the girl mount also, and went off to the fakír. The paper boat he left, as he did not want it any more. He and the demon’s daughter made the fakír many salaams, and they stayed with him for a day before they rode to the prince’s country. Here they went to his seven mothers, who were very, very glad to see them, and thanked God that their son had come back safe.

He took a little of the rice, and went and sat by the well till the king’s two servants came. Then he gave them the rice for their king, and the king gave it to the demon. She said nothing while the king was with her; but when she was alone she cried, for she knew the boy must have killed her brother, as he had brought her the rice.

She waited a week, and then she began to cry again, and would not eat. The king was very sorry, and thought, “What can I do to make her well and happy?” Then he said, “What will cure your eyes?” “See, king,” she answered, “if I could only bathe my eyes with water from the Glittering Well, they would not pain me any more.” This well was in the fairies’ country, and was guarded by the demon’s sister, whose name was Jangkatar. She lived in the well; and when any one came to draw water from it, she used to drag him down and eat him.

The king called his servants, gave them eight thousand rupees, and said, “Go and fetch me water from the Glittering Well.” The servants went at once to the dry well in the jungle. There they found the prince, who asked them what they wanted. “Here are eight thousand rupees,” they said; “and the king has ordered us to bring him water from the Glittering Well.” “Come in three weeks, and I will give it to you,” said the king’s son. He took to his mothers the eight thousand rupees which the servants had given him, and said to them, “Take care of these rupees, for I am going away for a little while.” Then he got his horse ready and mounted it, and made many salaams to his mothers. The tiger-cub said to him, “Take me with you this time. Last time you only took the eagle. Now we will both go with you.”

So he rode off; and the eaglet flew above his head and the young tiger ran by his side. It took him a week to get to the fairies’ country, and then he came to a beautiful smooth plain, in which was a garden, but no house. In the middle of this garden was the Glittering Well. It was a deep well, and the water sprang up out of it like a fountain, and then fell back into the well, and the water shone and sparkled as if it were gold, and silver, and diamonds. This is why it was called the Glittering Well.

The prince dipped his jar in the well, and Jangkatar put up her hand and caught him. She dragged him into the water and swallowed him whole. Then the young eagle flew down into the well, seized Jangkatar in his talons, and took her out and threw her on the ground. The tiger-cub rushed at her instantly, tore her open, and pulled the king’s son out of her. But he was half dead. The cub and the eaglet lay down on him to warm him, and when they had warmed him, he was better.

“We have saved you,” they said to him. “But for us you would have died.” The young prince thanked them and caressed them. “It is quite true,” he said; “without you I should have died.” Then he filled his jar with water, and mounted his horse and rode home. He made salaams to his seven mothers, with whom all this time the demon’s daughter had stayed. He bathed his mothers’ eyes with the water from the Glittering Well, and then they saw perfectly once more.

He took a little of the water, and went to wait for the king’s servants by the dry jungle well, and he was very happy thinking that now his mothers could see. He gave the water to the king’s servants, who took it to the king, and the king gave it to his demon-wife, and she was very sad and angry, for she knew the boy must have killed her sister, the guardian of the Glittering Well.

When a whole month had passed, and he had not been sent on any more errands, the king’s son said to himself, “Good; now nothing more is going to happen to me. I am not to be sent anywhere else.” So he bought a fine horse and grand clothes, and rode to the king’s court-house. He went in, and seated himself at the king’s right hand; but he made no salaam to the king, and spoke to no one. This he did every day for three days. Everybody was wondering who this boy was, and why he never made any salaam to the king.

On the fourth day, as he sat at the king’s right hand, the king asked him, “Whose child are you? Where do you come from? Where are you going?” The young prince answered, “See, king, I am a merchant’s son; my ship has been wrecked, and I want to find service with some one.” “What can you do?” asked the king. “I don’t know any trade,” said his son; “but I can tell you a story.” “What wages do you want?” said the king. “One thousand rupees a day,” answered the boy. “I shall only stay a short time in your country.” “Good,” said the king; “I will give you one thousand rupees a day, and a servant to wait on you besides. So come every day to my court-house, and tell me your story.”

The prince told the king his own story. He began from where the king found the beautiful demon-girl crying in the jungle, and ended it where his demon-wife cried and cried for her sister Jangkatar. It took him three weeks to tell the story; and when he had finished it, the king knew that he himself was the king in the story, and that this boy was his own son. “How can I find my seven queens again?” he said. “If you will kill this wicked demon-woman they will come back to you,” said his son. The king was very sad, and thought, “My seven wives and my boy must have suffered very much.” Then he loved his son, and was very happy that he had found him. He ordered his servants to dig a deep pit in the jungle, so deep that should his demon-wife take her demon form when put into it, only her head would be above it. He thought that if her body were buried in the ground she would not be able to do them much harm while they were shooting her. Then he, and his son, and his servants took their guns and bows and arrows, and took the demon with them to the deep pit. She went quite quietly, though she knew they were going to kill her. Since Jangkatar’s death she had been very quiet and sad. And now she thought, “That boy will most certainly kill me as he has killed my sister and brother. He is stronger than I am. I have no one else to send him to; and if I had, he could not be killed. What is the use of my trying to save myself?” So she went along quite quietly, looking like a beautiful girl. She let them put her into the pit, and shoot her to death with their guns and bows and arrows. Then they filled the pit up with earth.

The king went to his seven wives, and begged them to forgive him. He brought them, his son, and the demon’s daughter home to his palace. Later the king married his son to the demon’s daughter, and every one was glad.

But the king grieved that his six other sons were dead.

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The Princess Who Loved Her Father Like Salt

A king’s youngest daughter professes her love as “salt,” earning her banishment to a jungle. Facing challenges, she discovers a magical palace and revives a cursed prince. Betrayed by a servant who claims credit, she endures hardship until her virtues are revealed. Reuniting with her family, she demonstrates wisdom through symbolism, proving love’s depth. Ultimately, she marries the king and ensures harmony among all.

Source
Indian Fairy Tales
collected and translated by Maive Stokes
Ellis & White, London, 1880

► Themes of the story

Family Dynamics: The narrative centers on the relationship between the king and his daughters, particularly highlighting the misunderstanding and subsequent reconciliation between the king and his youngest daughter.

Trials and Tribulations: The youngest princess endures hardships, including banishment to the jungle and the challenges she faces thereafter, showcasing her resilience and determination.

Transformation through Love: The princess’s genuine love, symbolized by her comparison to salt, ultimately leads to a transformation in her father’s understanding of love’s true value.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Múniyá

In a country there lived a king who had seven daughters. One day he called them all to him and said to them, “My daughters, how much do you love me?” The six eldest answered, “Father, we love you as much as sweetmeats and sugar;” but the seventh and youngest daughter said, “Father, I love you as much as salt.” The king was much pleased with his six eldest daughters, but very angry with his youngest daughter. “What is this?” he said; “my daughter only loves me as much as she does salt!” Then he called some of his servants, and said to them, “Get a palanquin ready, and carry my youngest daughter away to the jungle.”

► Continue reading…

The servants did as they were bid; and when they got to the jungle, they put the palanquin down under a tree and went away. The princess called to them, “Where are you going? Stay here; my father did not tell you to leave me alone in the jungle.” “We will come back,” said the servants; “we are only going to drink some water.” But they returned to her father’s palace.

The princess waited in the palanquin under the tree, and it was now evening, and the servants had not come back. She was very much frightened and cried bitterly. “The tigers and wild beasts will eat me,” she said to herself. At last she went to sleep, and slept for a little while. When she awoke she found in her palanquin some food on a plate, and a little water, that God had sent her while she slept. She ate the food and drank the water, and then she felt happier, for she thought, “God must have sent me this food and water.” She decided that as it was now night she had better stay in her palanquin, and go to sleep. “Perhaps the tigers and wild beasts will come and eat me,” she thought; “but if they don’t, I will try to-morrow to get out of this jungle, and go to another country.”

The next morning she left her palanquin and set out. She walked on, till, deep in the jungle, she came to a beautiful palace, which did not belong to her father, but to another king. The gate was shut, but she opened it, and went in. She looked all about, and thought, “What a beautiful house this is, and what a pretty garden and tank!”

Everything was beautiful, only there were no servants nor anybody else to be seen. She went into the house, and through all the rooms. In one room she saw a dinner ready to be eaten, but there was no one to eat it. At last she came to a room in which was a splendid bed, and on it lay a king’s son covered with a shawl. She took the shawl off, and then she saw he was very beautiful, and that he was dead. His body was stuck full of needles.

She sat down on the bed, and there she sat for one week, without eating, or drinking, or sleeping, pulling out the needles. Then a man came by who said to her, “I have here a girl I wish to sell.” “I have no rupees,” said the princess; “but if you will sell her to me for my gold bangles, I will buy her.” The man took the bangles, and left the girl with the princess, who was very glad to have her. “Now,” she thought, “I shall be no longer alone.”

All day and all night long the princess sat and pulled out the needles, while the girl went about the palace doing other work. At the end of other two weeks the princess had pulled out all the needles from the king’s body, except those in his eyes.

Then the king’s daughter said to her servant-girl, “For three weeks I have not bathed. Get a bath ready for me, and while I am bathing sit by the king, but do not take the needles out of his eyes. I will pull them out myself.” The servant-girl promised not to pull out the needles. Then she got the bath ready; but when the king’s daughter had gone to bathe, she sat down on the bed, and pulled the needles out of the king’s eyes.

As soon as she had done so, he opened his eyes, and sat up. He thanked God for bringing him to life again. Then he looked about, and saw the servant-girl, and said to her, “Who has made me well and pulled all the needles out of my body?” “I have,” she answered. Then he thanked her and said she should be his wife.

When the princess came from her bath, she found the king alive, and sitting on his bed talking to her servant. When she saw this she was very sad, but she said nothing. The king said to the servant-maid, “Who is this girl?” She answered, “She is one of my servants.” And from that moment the princess became a servant-girl, and her servant-girl married the king. Every day the king said, “Can this lovely girl be really a servant? She is far more beautiful than my wife.”

One day the king thought, “I will go to another country to eat the air.” So he called the pretended princess, his wife, and told her he was going to eat the air in another country. “What would you like me to bring you when I come back?” She answered, “I should like beautiful sárís and clothes, and gold and silver jewels.” Then the king said, “Call the servant-girl, and ask her what she would like me to bring her.” The real princess came, and the king said to her, “See, I am going to another country to eat the air. What would you like me to bring for you when I return?”

“King,” she answered, “if you can bring me what I want I will tell you what it is; but if you cannot get it, I will not tell you.” “Tell me what it is,” said the king. “Whatever it may be I will bring it you.” “Good,” said the princess. “I want a sun-jewel box.” Now the princess knew all about the sun-jewel boxes, and that only fairies had such boxes. And she knew, too, what would be in hers if the king could get one for her, although these boxes contain sometimes one thing and sometimes another.

The king had never heard of such a box, and did not know what it was like; so he went to every country asking all the people he met what sort of box was a sun-jewel box, and where he could get it. At last one day, after a fruitless search, he was very sad, for he thought, “I have promised the servant to bring her a sun-jewel box, and now I cannot get one for her; what shall I do?”

Then he went to sleep, and had a dream. In it he saw a jungle, and in the jungle a fakír who, when he slept, slept for twelve years, and then was awake for twelve years. The king felt sure this man could give him what he wanted, so when he woke he said to his sepoys and servants, “Stay here in this spot till I return to you; then we will go back to my country.”

He mounted his horse and set out for the jungle he had seen in his dream. He went on and on till he came to it, and there he saw the fakír lying asleep. He had been asleep for twelve years all but two weeks: over him were a quantity of leaves, and grass, and a great deal of mud. The king began taking off all the grass, and leaves, and mud, and every day for a fortnight when he got up he cleared them all away from off the fakír. When the fakír awoke at the end of the two weeks, and saw that no mud, or grass, or leaves were upon him, but that he was quite clean, he was very much pleased, and said to the king, “I have slept for twelve years, and yet I am as clean as I was when I went to sleep. When I awoke after my last sleep, I was all covered with dirt and mud, grass and leaves; but this time I am quite clean.”

The king stayed with the fakír for a week, and waited on him and did everything for him. The fakír was very much pleased with the king, and he told this to him: “You are a very good man.” He added, “Why did you come to this jungle? You are such a great king, what can you want from me?” “I want a sun-jewel box,” answered the king. “You are such a good man,” said the fakír, “that I will give you one.”

Then the fakír went to a beautiful well, down which he went right to the bottom. There, there was a house in which lived the red fairy. She was called the red fairy not because her skin was red, for it was quite white, but because everything about her was red–her house, her clothes, and her country. She was very glad to see the fakír, and asked him why he had come to see her. “I want you to give me a sun-jewel box,” he answered. “Very good,” said the fairy, and she brought him one in which were seven small dolls and a little flute. “No one but she who wants this box must open it,” said the fairy to the fakír. “She must open it when she is quite alone and at night.” Then she told him what was in the box.

The fakír thanked her, and took the box to the king, who was delighted and made many salaams to the fakír. The fakír told him none but the person who wished for the box was to open it; but he did not tell him what more the fairy had said.

The king set off on his journey now, and when he came to his servants and sepoys, he said to them he would now return to his country, as he had found the box he wanted. When he reached his palace he called the false princess, his wife, and gave her her silks and shawls, and sárís, and gold and silver jewels. Then he called the servant-girl–the true princess–and gave her her sun-jewel box. She took it, and was delighted to have it. She made him many salaams and went away with her box, but did not open it then, for she knew what was in it, and that she must open it at night and alone.

That night she took her box and went out all by herself to a wide plain in the jungle, and there opened it. She took the little flute, put it to her lips, and began to play, and instantly out flew the seven little dolls, who were all little fairies, and they took chairs and carpets from the box, and arranged them all in a large tent which appeared at that moment. Then the fairies bathed her, combed and rolled up her hair, put on her grand clothes and lovely slippers. But all the time the princess did nothing but cry. They brought a chair and placed it before the tent, and made her sit in it. One of them took the flute and played on it, and all the others danced before the princess, and they sang songs for her. Still she cried and cried. At last, at four o’clock in the morning, one of the fairies said, “Princess, why do you cry?” “I took all the needles out of the king, all but those in his eyes,” said the princess, “and while I was bathing, my servant-girl, whom I had bought with my gold bangles, pulled these out. She told the king it was she who had pulled out all the other needles and brought him to life, and that I was her servant, and she has taken my place and is treated as the princess, and the king has married her, while I am made to do a servant’s work and treated as the servant.” “Do not cry,” said the fairies. “Everything will be well for you by and by.”

When it was close on morning, the princess played on the flute, and all the chairs, sofas, and fairies became quite tiny, and went into the box, and the tent disappeared. She shut it up, and took it back to the king’s palace. The next night she again went out to the jungle-plain, and all happened as on the night before.

A wood-cutter was coming home late from his work, and had to pass by the plain. He wondered when he saw the tent. “I went by some time ago,” he said to himself, “and I saw no tent here.” He climbed up a big tree to see what was going on, and saw the fairies dancing before the princess, who sat outside the tent, and he saw how she cried though the fairies did all they could to amuse her. Then he heard the fairies say, “Princess, why do you cry?” And he heard her tell them how she had cured the king, and how her servant-girl had taken her place and made her a servant. “Never mind, don’t cry,” said the fairies. “All will be well by and by.” Near morning the princess played on her flute, and the fairies went into the box, and the tent disappeared, and the princess went back to the palace.

The third night passed as the other two had done. The wood-cutter came to look on, and climbed into the tree to see the fairies and the princess. Again the fairies asked her why she cried, and she gave the same answer.

The next day the wood-cutter went to the king. “Last night and the night before,” he said, “as I came home from work, I saw a large tent in the jungle, and before the tent there sat a princess who did nothing but cry, while seven fairies danced before her, or played on different instruments, and sang songs to her.” The king was very much astonished, and said to the wood-cutter, “To-night I will go with you, and see the tent, and the princess, and the fairies.”

When it was night the princess went out softly and opened her box on the plain. The wood-cutter fetched the king, and the two men climbed into a tree, and watched the fairies as they danced and sang. The king saw that the princess who sat and cried was his own servant-girl. He heard her tell the fairies all she had done for him, and all that had happened to her; so he came suddenly down from the tree, and went up to her, and took her hand. “I always thought you were a princess, and no servant-girl,” he said. “Will you marry me?”

She left off crying, and said, “Yes, I will marry you.” She played on her flute, and the tent disappeared, and all the fairies, and sofas, and chairs went into the box. She put her flute in it, as she always did before shutting down the lid, and went home with the king.

The servant-girl was very vexed and angry when she found the king knew all that had happened. However, the princess was most good to her, and never treated her unkindly.

The princess then sent a letter to her mother, in which she wrote, “I am going to be married to a great king. You and my father must come to my wedding, and must bring my sisters with you.”

They all came, and her father and mother liked the king very much, and were glad their daughter should marry him. The wedding took place, and they stayed with her for some time. For a whole week she gave their servants and sepoys nice food cooked with salt, but to her father and mother and sisters she only gave food cooked with sugar. At last they got so tired of this sweet food that they could eat it no longer. At the end of the week she gave them a dinner cooked with salt. Then her father said, “My daughter is wise though she is so young, and is the youngest of my daughters. I know now how much she loved me when she said she loved me like salt. People cannot eat their food without salt. If their food is cooked with sugar one day, it must be cooked with salt the next, or they cannot eat it.”

After this her father and mother and sisters went home, but they often came to see their little daughter and her husband.

The princess, the king, and the servant-maid all lived happily together.

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How The Rájá’s Son Won the Princess Labám

A young prince defies his mother’s warning and ventures to a forbidden side of the jungle, discovering the enchanting Princess Labám through a magical parrot. Determined to marry her, he overcomes deadly challenges set by her father with help from an Ant-Rájá, a tiger, and magical items. Eventually, he wins the princess, and they return to his kingdom to live happily ever after.

Source
Indian Fairy Tales
collected and translated by Maive Stokes
Ellis & White, London, 1880

► Themes of the story

Forbidden Knowledge: The prince’s mother explicitly forbids him from venturing to a particular side of the jungle, fearing he would learn about Princess Labám and pursue her, leading him away from his family.

Trials and Tribulations: To win Princess Labám’s hand, the prince must accomplish seemingly impossible tasks set by her father, such as extracting oil from eighty pounds of mustard seed in a single day and defeating two demons, testing his perseverance and resourcefulness.

Transformation through Love: The prince’s love for Princess Labám drives him to overcome formidable challenges and personal growth, ultimately leading to their union and a harmonious life together.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Múniyá

In a country there was a Rájá who had an only son who every day went out to hunt. One day the Rání, his mother, said to him, “You can hunt wherever you like on these three sides; but you must never go to the fourth side.” This she said because she knew if he went on the fourth side he would hear of the beautiful Princess Labám, and that then he would leave his parents and seek for the princess. The young prince listened to his mother, and obeyed her for some time; but one day, when he was hunting on the three sides where he was allowed to go, he remembered what she had said to him about the fourth side, and he determined to go and see why she had forbidden him to hunt on that side.

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When he got there, he found himself in a jungle, and nothing in the jungle but a quantity of parrots, who lived in it. The young Rájá shot at some of them, and at once they all flew away up to the sky. All, that is, but one, and this was their Rájá, who was called Híráman parrot.

When Híráman parrot found himself left alone, he called out to the other parrots, “Don’t fly away and leave me alone when the Rájá’s son shoots. If you desert me like this, I will tell the Princess Labám.”

Then the parrots all flew back to their Rájá, chattering. The prince was greatly surprised, and said, “Why, these birds can talk!” Then he said to the parrots, “Who is the Princess Labám? Where does she live?” But the parrots would not tell him where she lived. “You can never get to the Princess Labám’s country.” That is all they would say.

The prince grew very sad when they would not tell him anything more; and he threw his gun away, and went home. When he got home, he would not speak or eat, but lay on his bed for four or five days, and seemed very ill.

At last he told his father and mother that he wanted to go and see the Princess Labám. “I must go,” he said; “I must see what she is like. Tell me where her country is.” “We do not know where it is,” answered his father and mother. “Then I must go and look for it,” said the prince. “No, no,” they said, “you must not leave us. You are our only son. Stay with us. You will never find the Princess Labám.” “I must try and find her,” said the prince. “Perhaps God will show me the way. If I live and I find her, I will come back to you; but perhaps I shall die, and then I shall never see you again. Still I must go.”

So they had to let him go, though they cried very much at parting with him. His father gave him fine clothes to wear, and a fine horse. And he took his gun, and his bow and arrows, and a great many other weapons, “for,” he said, “I may want them.” His father, too, gave him plenty of rupees.

Then he himself got his horse all ready for the journey, and he said good-bye to his father and mother; and his mother took her handkerchief and wrapped some sweetmeats in it, and gave it to her son. “My child,” she said to him, “when you are hungry eat some of these sweetmeats.”

He then set out on his journey, and rode on and on till he came to a jungle in which were a tank and shady trees. He bathed himself and his horse in the tank, and then sat down under a tree. “Now,” he said to himself, “I will eat some of the sweetmeats my mother gave me, and I will drink some water, and then I will continue my journey.” He opened his handkerchief, and took out a sweetmeat. He found an ant in it. He took out another. There was an ant in that one too. So he laid the two sweetmeats on the ground, and he took out another, and another, and another, until he had taken them all out; but in each he found an ant. “Never mind,” he said, “I won’t eat the sweetmeats; the ants shall eat them.” Then the Ant-Rájá came and stood before him and said, “You have been good to us. If ever you are in trouble, think of me and we will come to you.”

The Rájá’s son thanked him, mounted his horse and continued his journey. He rode on and on till he came to another jungle, and there he saw a tiger who had a thorn in his foot, and was roaring loudly from the pain.

“Why do you roar like that?” said the young Rájá. “What is the matter with you?” “I have had a thorn in my foot for twelve years,” answered the tiger, “and it hurts me so; that is why I roar.” “Well,” said the Rájá’s son, “I will take it out for you. But, perhaps, as you are a tiger, when I have made you well, you will eat me?” “Oh, no,” said the tiger, “I won’t eat you. Do make me well.”

Then the prince took a little knife from his pocket, and cut the thorn out of the tiger’s foot; but when he cut, the tiger roared louder than ever, so loud that his wife heard him in the next jungle, and came bounding along to see what was the matter. The tiger saw her coming, and hid the prince in the jungle, so that she should not see him.

“What man hurt you that you roared so loud?” said the wife. “No one hurt me,” answered her husband; “but a Rájá’s son came and took the thorn out of my foot.” “Where is he? Show him to me,” said his wife. “If you promise not to kill him, I will call him,” said the tiger. “I won’t kill him; only let me see him,” answered his wife.

Then the tiger called the Rájá’s son, and when he came the tiger and his wife made him a great many salaams. Then they gave him a good dinner, and he stayed with them for three days. Every day he looked at the tiger’s foot, and the third day it was quite healed. Then he said good-bye to the tigers, and the tiger said to him, “If ever you are in trouble, think of me, and we will come to you.”

The Rájá’s son rode on and on till he came to a third jungle. Here he found four fakírs whose teacher and master had died, and had left four things,–a bed, which carried whoever sat on it whithersoever he wished to go; a bag, that gave its owner whatever he wanted, jewels, food, or clothes; a stone bowl that gave its owner as much water as he wanted, no matter how far he might be from a tank; and a stick and rope, to which its owner had only to say, if any one came to make war on him, “Stick, beat as many men and soldiers as are here,” and the stick would beat them and the rope would tie them up.

The four fakírs were quarrelling over these four things. One said, “I want this;” another said, “You cannot have it, for I want it;” and so on.

The Rájá’s son said to them, “Do not quarrel for these things. I will shoot four arrows in four different directions. Whichever of you gets to my first arrow, shall have the first thing–the bed. Whosoever gets to the second arrow, shall have the second thing–the bag. He who gets to the third arrow, shall have the third thing–the bowl. And he who gets to the fourth arrow, shall have the last things–the stick and rope.” To this they agreed, and the prince shot off his first arrow. Away raced the fakírs to get it. When they brought it back to him he shot off the second, and when they had found and brought it to him he shot off his third, and when they had brought him the third he shot off the fourth.

While they were away looking for the fourth arrow, the Rájá’s son let his horse loose in the jungle, and sat on the bed, taking the bowl, the stick and rope, and the bag with him. Then he said, “Bed, I wish to go to the Princess Labám’s country.” The little bed instantly rose up into the air and began to fly, and it flew and flew till it came to the Princess Labám’s country, where it settled on the ground. The Rájá’s son asked some men he saw, “Whose country is this?” “The Princess Labám’s country,” they answered. Then the prince went on till he came to a house where he saw an old woman. “Who are you?” she said. “Where do you come from?” “I come from a far country,” he said; “do let me stay with you to-night.” “No,” she answered, “I cannot let you stay with me; for our king has ordered that men from other countries may not stay in his country. You cannot stay in my house.” “You are my aunty,” said the prince; “let me remain with you for this one night. You see it is evening, and if I go into the jungle, then the wild beasts will eat me.” “Well,” said the old woman, “you may stay here to-night; but to-morrow morning you must go away, for if the king hears you have passed the night in my house, he will have me seized and put into prison.”

Then she took him into her house, and the Rájá’s son was very glad. The old woman began preparing dinner, but he stopped her. “Aunty,” he said, “I will give you food.” He put his hand into his bag, saying, “Bag, I want some dinner,” and the bag gave him instantly a delicious dinner, served upon two gold plates. The old woman and the Rájá’s son then dined together.

When they had finished eating, the old woman said, “Now I will fetch some water.” “Don’t go,” said the prince. “You shall have plenty of water directly.” So he took his bowl and said to it, “Bowl, I want some water,” and then it filled with water. When it was full, the prince cried out, “Stop, bowl,” and the bowl stopped filling. “See, aunty,” he said, “with this bowl I can always get as much water as I want.”

By this time night had come. “Aunty,” said the Rájá’s son, “why don’t you light a lamp?” “There is no need,” she said. “Our king has forbidden the people in his country to light any lamps; for, as soon as it is dark, his daughter, the Princess Labám, comes and sits on her roof, and she shines so, that she lights up all the country and our houses, and we can see to do our work as if it were day.”

When it was quite black night, the princess got up. She dressed herself in her rich clothes and jewels, and rolled up her hair, and across her head she put a band of diamonds and pearls. Then she shone like the moon, and her beauty made night day. She came out of her room, and sat on the roof of her palace. In the daytime she never came out of her house; she only came out at night. All the people in her father’s country then went about their work and finished it.

The Rájá’s son watched the princess quietly, and was very happy. He said to himself, “How lovely she is!”

At midnight, when everybody had gone to bed, the princess came down from her roof, and went to her room; and when she was in bed and asleep, the Rájá’s son got up softly, and sat on his bed. “Bed,” he said to it, “I want to go to the Princess Labám’s bed-room.” So the little bed carried him to the room where she lay fast asleep.

The young Rájá took his bag and said, “I want a great deal of betel-leaf,” and it at once gave him quantities of betel-leaf. This he laid near the princess’s bed, and then his little bed carried him back to the old woman’s house.

Next morning all the princess’s servants found the betel-leaf, and began to eat it. “Where did you get all that betel-leaf?” asked the princess. “We found it near your bed,” answered the servants. Nobody knew the prince had come in the night and put it all there.

In the morning the old woman came to the Rájá’s son. “Now it is morning,” she said, “and you must go; for if the king finds out all I have done for you, he will seize me.” “I am ill to-day, dear aunty,” said the prince; “do let me stay till to-morrow morning.” “Good,” said the old woman. So he stayed, and they took their dinner out of the bag, and the bowl gave them water.

When night came the princess got up and sat on her roof, and at twelve o’clock, when every one was in bed, she went to her bed-room, and was soon fast asleep. Then the Rájá’s son sat on his bed, and it carried him to the princess. He took his bag and said, “Bag, I want a most lovely shawl.” It gave him a splendid shawl, and he spread it over the princess as she lay asleep. Then he went back to the old woman’s house and slept till morning.

In the morning, when the princess saw the shawl, she was delighted. “See, mother,” she said; “God must have given me this shawl, it is so beautiful.” Her mother was very glad too. “Yes, my child,” she said; “God must have given you this splendid shawl.”

When it was morning the old woman said to the Rájá’s son, “Now you must really go.” “Aunty,” he answered, “I am not well enough yet. Let me stay a few days longer. I will remain hidden in your house, so that no one may see me.” So the old woman let him stay.

When it was black night, the princess put on her lovely clothes and jewels, and sat on her roof. At midnight she went to her room and went to sleep. Then the Rájá’s son sat on his bed and flew to her bed-room. There he said to his bag, “Bag, I want a very, very beautiful ring.” The bag gave him a glorious ring. Then he took the Princess Labám’s hand gently to put on the ring, and she started up very much frightened.

“Who are you?” she said to the prince. “Where do you come from? Why do you come to my room?” “Do not be afraid, princess,” he said; “I am no thief. I am a great Rájá’s son. Híráman parrot, who lives in the jungle where I went to hunt, told me your name, and then I left my father and mother, and came to see you.”

“Well,” said the princess, “as you are the son of such a great Rájá, I will not have you killed, and I will tell my father and mother that I wish to marry you.”

The prince then returned to the old woman’s house; and when morning came, the princess said to her mother, “The son of a great Rájá has come to this country, and I wish to marry him.” Her mother told this to the king. “Good,” said the king; “but if this Rájá’s son wishes to marry my daughter, he must first do whatever I bid him. If he fails I will kill him. I will give him eighty pounds weight of mustard seed, and out of this he must crush the oil in one day. If he cannot do this he shall die.”

In the morning the Rájá’s son told the old woman that he intended to marry the princess. “Oh,” said the old woman, “go away from this country, and do not think of marrying her. A great many Rájás and Rájás’ sons have come here to marry her, and her father has had them all killed. He says whoever wishes to marry his daughter must first do whatever he bids him. If he can, then he shall marry the princess; if he cannot, the king will have him killed. But no one can do the things the king tells him to do; so all the Rájás and Rájás’ sons who have tried have been put to death. You will be killed too, if you try. Do go away.” But the prince would not listen to anything she said.

The king sent for the prince to the old woman’s house, and his servants brought the Rájá’s son to the king’s court-house to the king. There the king gave him eighty pounds of mustard seed, and told him to crush all the oil out of it that day, and bring it next morning to him to the court-house. “Whoever wishes to marry my daughter,” he said to the prince, “must first do all I tell him. If he cannot, then I have him killed. So if you cannot crush all the oil out of this mustard seed, you will die.”

The prince was very sorry when he heard this. “How can I crush the oil out of all this mustard seed in one day?” he said to himself; “and if I do not, the king will kill me.” He took the mustard seed to the old woman’s house, and did not know what to do. At last he remembered the Ant-Rájá, and the moment he did so, the Ant-Rájá and his ants came to him. “Why do you look so sad?” said the Ant-Rájá. The prince showed him the mustard seed, and said to him, “How can I crush the oil out of all this mustard seed in one day? And if I do not take the oil to the king to-morrow morning, he will kill me.” “Be happy,” said the Ant-Rájá; “lie down and sleep: we will crush all the oil out for you during the day, and to-morrow morning you shall take it to the king.” The Rájá’s son lay down and slept, and the ants crushed out the oil for him. The prince was very glad when he saw the oil.

The next morning he took it to the court-house to the king. But the king said, “You cannot yet marry my daughter. If you wish to do so, you must first fight with my two demons and kill them.” The king a long time ago had caught two demons, and then, as he did not know what to do with them, he had shut them up in a cage. He was afraid to let them loose for fear they would eat up all the people in his country; and he did not know how to kill them. So all the kings and kings’ sons who wanted to marry the Princess Labám had to fight with these demons; “for,” said the king to himself, “perhaps the demons may be killed, and then I shall be rid of them.”

When he heard of the demons the Rájá’s son was very sad. “What can I do?” he said to himself. “How can I fight with these two demons?” Then he thought of his tiger: and the tiger and his wife came to him and said, “Why are you so sad?” The Rájá’s son answered, “The king has ordered me to fight with his two demons and kill them. How can I do this?” “Do not be frightened,” said the tiger. “Be happy. I and my wife will fight with them for you.”

Then the Rájá’s son took out of his bag two splendid coats. They were all gold and silver, and covered with pearls and diamonds. These he put on the tigers to make them beautiful, and he took them to the king, and said to him, “May these tigers fight your demons for me?” “Yes,” said the king, who did not care in the least who killed his demons, provided they were killed. “Then call your demons,” said the Rájá’s son, “and these tigers will fight them.” The king did so, and the tigers and the demons fought and fought until the tigers had killed the demons.

“That is good,” said the king. “But you must do something else before I give you my daughter. Up in the sky I have a kettle-drum. You must go and beat it. If you cannot do this, I will kill you.”

The Rájá’s son thought of his little bed; so he went to the old woman’s house and sat on his bed. “Little bed,” he said, “up in the sky is the king’s kettle-drum. I want to go to it.” The bed flew up with him, and the Rájá’s son beat the drum, and the king heard him. Still, when he came down, the king would not give him his daughter. “You have,” he said to the prince, “done the three things I told you to do; but you must do one thing more.” “If I can, I will,” said the Rájá’s son.

Then the king showed him the trunk of a tree that was lying near his court-house. It was a very, very thick trunk. He gave the prince a wax hatchet, and said, “To-morrow morning you must cut this trunk in two with this wax hatchet.”

The Rájá’s son went back to the old woman’s house. He was very sad, and thought that now the Rájá would certainly kill him. “I had his oil crushed out by the ants,” he said to himself. “I had his demons killed by the tigers. My bed helped me to beat his kettle-drum. But now what can I do? How can I cut that thick tree trunk in two with a wax hatchet?”

At night he went on his bed to see the princess. “To-morrow,” he said to her, “your father will kill me.” “Why?” asked the princess.

“He has told me to cut a thick tree-trunk in two with a wax hatchet. How can I ever do that?” said the Rájá’s son. “Do not be afraid,” said the princess; “do as I bid you, and you will cut it in two quite easily.”

Then she pulled out a hair from her head, and gave it to the prince. “To-morrow,” she said, “when no one is near you, you must say to the tree-trunk, ‘The Princess Labám commands you to let yourself be cut in two by this hair.’ Then stretch the hair down the edge of the wax hatchet’s blade.”

The prince next day did exactly as the princess had told him; and the minute the hair that was stretched down the edge of the hatchet-blade touched the tree-trunk, it split into two pieces.

The king said, “Now you can marry my daughter.” Then the wedding took place. All the Rájás and kings of the countries round were asked to come to it, and there were great rejoicings. After a few days the prince’s son said to his wife, “Let us go to my father’s country.” The Princess Labám’s father gave them a quantity of camels and horses and rupees and servants; and they travelled in great state to the prince’s country, where they lived happily.

The prince always kept his bag, bowl, bed, and stick; only as no one ever came to make war on him, he never needed to use the stick.

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The Bél-Princess

A young prince, determined to find the elusive Bél-Princess, embarks on a perilous journey aided by a wise fakír. After overcoming challenges, he finds and loses her due to a wicked woman’s deceit. Through divine intervention and persistence, he discovers her true form hidden in a magical palace. Justice prevails as the wicked woman is punished, and the prince marries the Bél-Princess, restoring harmony.

Source
Indian Fairy Tales
collected and translated by Maive Stokes
Ellis & White, London, 1880

► Themes of the story

Quest: The prince embarks on a perilous journey to find the Bél-Princess, demonstrating determination and bravery.

Cunning and Deception: The prince encounters deceit, notably from a wicked woman who transforms the Bél-Princess into a bird, testing his resolve and intelligence.

Transformation: The Bél-Princess undergoes a physical transformation into a bird due to the wicked woman’s actions, adding complexity to the prince’s quest.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Múniyá

In a country lived a King who had seven sons. Six of these sons married, but the seventh and youngest son would not marry; and, moreover, he disliked his six sisters-in-law, and could not bear to take food from their hands. One day, they got very angry with him for disliking them, and they said to him, taunting him, “We think that you will marry a Bél-Princess.”

“A Bél-Princess,” said the young prince to himself. “What is a Bél-Princess? and where is one to be found? I will go and look for one.” But the next day he thought, “How can I find a Bél-Princess? I don’t know where to seek for her.”

► Continue reading…

At last one day he saddled and bridled one of his father’s beautiful horses. Then he put on his grand clothes, took his sword and gun, and said good-bye to his father and mother, and set out on his search. They cried very much at parting with him.

He rode from his father’s country for a long, long way. At length, when he had journeyed for six months, he found himself in a great jungle, through which he went for many nights and days, until he at last came to where a fakír lay sleeping. The young prince thought, “I will watch by this fakír till he wakes. Perhaps he can help me.” So he stayed with the fakír for one whole month; and all that time he took care of him and watched by him, and kept his hut clean.

This fakír used to sleep for six whole months at a time, and then he would remain awake for six months.

When the prince had watched over him for one month the fakír woke, for his six months’ sleep had come to an end; and when he saw what care the young prince had taken of him, and how clean his hut was, he was very much pleased with the King’s son, and said to him, “How have you been able to reach this jungle, to which no man can come? and who are you? and whence do you come?”

“I am a King’s son,” answered the prince. “My father’s country is a six months’ journey away from this; and I am come to look for a Bél-Princess. I hear there is a Bél-Princess, and I want to find her. Can you tell me where she is?”

“It is true that there is one,” answered the fakír, “and I know where she is. She is in the fairies’ country, whither no man can go.”

This made the young prince very sad. “What shall I do?” he said. “I have left my father and mother, and have travelled a long, long way to find the Bél-Princess. And now you tell me I cannot go where she lives.”

“I will help you,” said the fakír, “and if you do exactly what I tell you, you will find her. But, first, stay here with me for a little while.”

So the King’s son stayed for another month with the fakír, and took care of him, and did everything for him, as he did for his own father.

At the end of the month, the fakír gave him his stick, and said to him, “Now you must go to the fairies’ country. It is one week’s journey distant from this jungle. When you get there, you will see a number of demons and fairies who live in it.” Then the fakír took a little earth from the ground, and put it in the prince’s hand. “When you have come to the fairies’ country, in order that they and the demons may not see you, you must blow all this earth away from the palm of your hand, and then you will be invisible. You must ride on till you come to a great plain in the middle of their garden, and on this plain you will see a large bél-tree and on it one big bél-fruit. In this fruit is the Bél-Princess. You must throw my stick at it, and it will fall; but you must take care to catch the fruit in your shawl, and not let it fall to the ground. Then ride quickly back to me, for as soon as the fruit falls you will cease to be invisible, and the fairies and demons who guard the fruit will all come running after you, and they will all call to you. But take care, take care not to look behind you when they call you. Ride straight on to me with the fruit, and do not look behind you. If you do, you will become stone, and your horse too, and they will take the bél-fruit back to its tree.”

The prince promised to do all the fakír bade him. He rode for a week, and then he came to the fairies’ country. He blew the earth the fakír had given him away from his palm all along his fingers, just as he had been told, and then he became invisible. He rode through the great garden to the plain. There he saw the bél-tree, and the one fruit hanging all alone. He threw the fakír’s stick at it, and caught it in a corner of his shawl as it fell, but then he was no longer invisible. All the fairies and demons could see him, and they came running after him as he rode quickly away, and called to him. He looked behind at them, and instantly he and his horse became stone; and the bél-fruit went back to its tree and hung itself up.

For one week the fakír sat in his jungle, waiting for the King’s son. But the moment he was turned into stone, the fakír knew of it, and he set off at once for the fairies’ country. He walked all through it, but neither the fairies nor demons could touch him. He went straight to the great plain, and there he saw the King’s son sitting on his horse, and both he and the horse were stone.

This made the fakír very sad; and he said to God, “What will the father and mother do, now that their son is changed into a stone?” And he prayed to God and said, “If it be God’s pleasure, may this King’s son be alive once more.” Then he cut his little finger on the inside from the tip to the palm, and smeared the prince’s forehead with the blood that came from it. He rubbed some blood on the horse too, all the time praying to God to give the prince his life again. The King’s son and his horse were alive once more. The fakír took the prince back to his jungle, and said to him, “Listen. I told you not to look behind you, and you disobeyed me and so were turned to stone. Had I not come to save you, you would always have remained stone.”

The fakír kept the prince with him in the jungle for one whole week. Then he gave him his stick and some earth he picked up from the ground on which they were standing, and said, “Now you must go to the fairies’ country again, and throw my stick at the bél-fruit, and catch it in a corner of your shawl as you did before. But mind, mind you do not look behind you this time. If you do you will be turned to stone, and you will for ever remain stone. Ride straight back to me with the fruit, and take care never to look behind you once till you get to me.”

So the King’s son went again to the fairies’ country, and all happened as before, till he had caught the fruit in his shawl. But then he rode straight back to the fakír without looking behind him, although the fairies and demons ran after him and called to him the whole way.

He rode so fast they could not catch him, and when he came to the fakír, the fakír turned him into a fly and thus hid him. Up came all the fairies and demons and said to the fakír, “There is a thief in your hut.” “A thief! Where is the thief?” said the fakír. “Look everywhere for him, and take him away if you can find him.” Then they searched and searched everywhere, but could not find the prince; so at last they went away.

When they had all gone, the fakír took the little fly and turned it back into a King’s son. A few days afterwards he said to the prince, “Now you have found what you wanted; you have the Bél-Princess you came to seek. So go back to your father and mother.” “Very well,” said the prince. Then he got his horse all ready for the journey, took the bél-fruit, and made many salaams to the fakír, who said to him, “Now, listen. Take care not to open the fruit on the road. Wait till you are in your father’s house with your father and mother, and then open it. If you do not do exactly as I tell you, evil will happen to you; so mind you only open the fruit in your father’s house. Out of it will come the Bél-Princess.”

The prince set out on his journey, and rode on and on for six months till he came to his father’s country, and then to his father’s garden. There he sat down to rest by a well under a clump of great trees. He said to himself, “Now that I am in my father’s country, and in my father’s garden, I will sit and rest in this cool shade; and when I am rested I will go up to the palace.” He bathed his face and his hands in the well, and drank some of its water. Then he thought, “Surely, now that I am in my father’s country and in his garden, I need not wait till I get to his palace to open my bél-fruit. What harm can happen if I do open it here?”

So he broke it open, in spite of all the fakír had told him, and out of it came such a beautiful girl. She was more beautiful than any princess that ever was seen–so beautiful that the King’s son fainted when he saw her. The princess fanned him, and poured water on his face, and presently he recovered, and said to her, “Princess, I should like to sleep for a little while, for I have travelled for six months, and am very tired. After I have slept we will go together to my father’s palace.” So he went to sleep, and the princess sat by him.

Presently a woman came to the well for water, and she said to herself, “See, here is the King’s youngest son. What a lovely princess that is sitting by him! What fine clothes and jewels she has on!” And the wicked woman determined to kill the princess and to take her place. Then she came up to the beautiful girl, and sat down beside her, and talked to her. “Listen to me, princess,” she said at last. “Let us change clothes with each other. Give me yours, and I will give you mine.” The princess, thinking no harm, did as the woman suggested. “And now,” said the woman, “let me put on your beautiful jewels.” The princess gave them to her, and then the wicked, wicked woman, said to her, “Let us walk about this pretty garden, and look at the flowers, and amuse ourselves.” By and by she said, “Princess, let us go and look at ourselves in the well, and see what we look like, you in my clothes, and I in yours.” The young girl consented, and they went to the well. As they bent over the side to look in, the wicked woman gave the princess a push, and pushed her straight over the edge into the water.

Then she went and sat down by the sleeping prince, just as the princess had done. When he awoke and saw this ugly, wicked woman, instead of his Bél-Princess, he was very much surprised, and said to himself, “A little while ago I had a beautiful girl by me, and now there is such an ugly woman. It is true she has on the clothes and jewels my Bél-Princess wore; but she is so ugly, and there is something wrong with one of her eyes. What has happened to her?” Then he said to this wicked woman, whom he took for his Bél-Princess, “What is the matter with you? Has anything happened to you? Why have you become so ugly?” She answered, “Till now I have always lived in a bél-fruit. It is the bad air of your country that has made me ugly, and hurt one of my eyes.”

The prince was ashamed of her, and very, very sorry. “How shall I take her to my father’s palace now?” he thought. “My mother and all my brothers’ wives will see her, and what will they say? However, never mind; I must take her to my house, and marry her. I cannot think what can have happened to her.” Then he got a palanquin, and took her up to the palace.

His father and mother were very glad that their youngest son had come back to them; but when they saw the wicked woman, and heard she was his Bél-Princess, they, and every one else in the palace, said, “Can she be a Bél-Princess? She is not at all pretty, and she is not at all pleasant.” “She was lovely when she came out of the fruit,” said the prince. “No one ever saw such a beautiful girl before. I cannot think what has happened to her. It must be the bad air of this country that has made her so ugly.” Then he told them all about his journey to the jungle where he had met the fakír, and how, with the fakír’s help, he had found his Bél-Princess, and how he had opened the fruit in his father’s garden, and then fallen asleep.

The King made a great wedding-feast for his son, and he and the wicked woman were married, and all the time the King’s youngest son thought he was marrying the Bél-Princess.

Meanwhile, the beautiful girl had not been drowned in the well, but had changed into a most lovely pink lotus-flower. This flower was first seen by a man from the village who came to the well for water. “What a lovely lotus-flower!” said the man; “I must gather it.” But when he tried to reach it the flower floated away from him. Then he went and told all the people in the village of the beautiful flower, and then the palace servants heard of it. They all tried to gather it, but could not, for the flower always went just out of their reach. Then the King and his six elder sons heard of it, and they came to the well; but the King tried in vain to gather it, and his six sons too. The lotus-flower always floated away from them.

Last of all, the youngest prince heard of the lotus, and he grew very curious to see it, and said, “I will try if I cannot gather this wonderful flower that no one can touch.” So he, too, came to the well, and stooped, and stretched out his hand, and the minute he did so the flower floated of itself into his hand.

Then he was very happy and proud, and he took the flower up to his wife and showed it to her. “Just see,” he said, “every one in the village and the palace were talking of this lotus-flower; and every one tried to gather it; and no one could, for the flower would not let any one touch it. My father tried, and my brothers all tried, and they, too, could not gather it; but as soon as I stretched out my hand the flower floated into it of itself.”

When his wicked wife saw the flower, she said nothing; but her heart told her it was the beautiful girl she had pushed into the well. The prince laid the flower on his pillow, and was very glad and happy. As soon as he had gone out, his wife seized the lotus-flower, tore it to bits, and threw them far away into the garden.

In a few days a bél-tree was growing on the spot where she had thrown the pieces of the lotus-flower. On it grew one big bél-fruit, and it was so fine and large that every one in the village and the palace tried to gather it; but no one could touch it, for the fruit always went just out of reach. The King and his six elder sons also tried, but they could not touch it. The youngest prince heard of this fruit, so he said to his wife, “I will go and see if I can gather this bél-fruit that no one can even touch.” The wicked woman’s heart said to her, “In the bél-fruit is the Bél-Princess;” but she said nothing.

The prince went to the bél-tree; the bél-fruit came into his hand, and he broke it off the tree, and brought it home to his wife. “See,” he said, “here is the bél-fruit; it let me gather it at once.” And he was very proud and happy. Then he laid the fruit on a table in his room.

When he had gone out the wicked wife came, and took the fruit, and flung it away in the garden. In the night the fruit burst in two, and in it lay a lovely, tiny girl baby. The gardener, as he went round the garden early in the morning, found the little baby; and he wondered who had thrown away the beautiful fruit, and who the lovely baby girl could be. She was so tiny and so pretty, and the gardener was delighted when he saw her, for he had no children, and thought God had sent him a little child at last.

He took her in his arms and carried her to his wife.

“See,” he said, “we have never had any children, and now God has sent us this beautiful little girl.” His wife looked at the child, and she was as delighted with her as her husband was. “Yes,” she said, “God has sent us this child, and she is certainly most beautiful. I am very happy. But I have no milk for her; if only I had milk for her, I could nurse her and she would live.” And the gardener’s wife was very sad to think she had no milk in her breasts for the little child.

Then her husband said, “Let us ask God to send you milk for her.” So they prayed to God and worshipped him. And God was pleased with them both, and sent the gardener’s wife a great deal of milk.

The little girl now lived in the gardener’s house, and he and his wife took the greatest care of her, and were very happy to think they had now a child. She grew very fast, and became lovelier every day. She was more beautiful than any girl that had ever been seen, and all the people in the King’s country used to say, “How lovely the gardener’s daughter is! She is more beautiful than any princess.”

The King’s youngest son’s wicked wife heard of the child, and her heart told her, “She is the Bél-Princess.” She said nothing, but she often thought of how she could contrive to have her killed.

One day, when the gardener’s daughter was seven years old, she was out in her father’s garden, making a little garden of her own near the house-door. While she was busy over her flowers, the wicked woman’s cow strayed into the garden and began eating the plants in it. The little girl would not let it make its dinner off her father’s flowers and grass, but pushed it out of the garden.

The wicked woman was told how the gardener’s daughter had treated her cow; so she cried all day long, and pretended to be ill. When her husband asked her what was the matter, she answered, “I am sick because the gardener’s daughter has ill-treated my cow. She beat it, and turned it out of her father’s garden, and said many wicked things. If you will have the girl killed, I shall live; but if you do not kill her, I shall die.” The prince at once ordered his servants to take the gardener’s daughter the next morning to the jungle, and there kill her.

So the next morning early the servants went to the gardener’s house to take away his daughter. He and his wife cried bitterly, and begged the servants to leave the girl with them. They offered them a great many rupees, saying, “Take these rupees, and leave us our daughter.” “How can we leave you your daughter,” said the servants, “when the King’s youngest son has ordered us to take her to the jungle and kill her, that his wife may get well?”

So they led the girl away; and as they went to the jungle, they said to each other, “How beautiful this girl is!” They found her so beautiful that they grew very sorrowful at the thought of killing her.

They took the girl to a great plain, which was about ten miles distant from the King’s country; but when they got there they said they could not kill her. She was so beautiful that they really could not kill her. She said to them, “You were ordered to kill me, so kill me.” “No,” they answered, “we cannot kill you, we cannot kill you.”

Then the girl took the knife in her own hand and cut out her two eyes; and one eye became a parrot, and the other a mainá. Then she cut out her heart and it became a great tank. Her body became a splendid palace and garden–a far grander palace than was the King’s palace; her arms and legs became the pillars that supported the verandah roof; and her head the dome on the top of the palace.

The prince’s servants looked on all the time these changes were taking place, and they were so frightened by them, that when they got home they would not tell the prince or any one else what they had seen. No one lived in this wonderful house. It stood empty in its garden by its tank, and the parrot and mainá lived in the garden trees.

Some time afterwards the youngest prince went out hunting, and towards evening he found himself on the great plain where stood the wonderful palace. He rode up to it and said to himself, “I never saw any house here before. I wonder who lives here?” He went through the great gate into the garden, and then he saw the large tank, and how beautiful the garden was. He went all through the garden and was delighted with it, and he saw that it was beautifully kept, and was in perfect order. Then he went into the palace, and went through all the rooms, and wondered more and more to whom this beautiful house could belong. He was very much surprised, too, at finding no one in the palace, though the rooms were all splendidly furnished, and very clean and neat.

“My father is a great king,” he said to himself, “and yet he has not got a palace like this.” It was now deep night, so the prince knew he could not go home till the next day. “Never mind,” he said, “I will sleep in the verandah. I am not afraid, though I shall be quite alone.”

So he lay down to sleep in the verandah, and while he lay there, the parrot and mainá flew in, and they perched near him, for they knew he was there, and they wanted him to hear what they said to each other. Then they began chattering together; and the parrot told the mainá how the prince’s father was king of the neighbouring country, and how he had seven sons, and how six of the sons had married six princesses, “but this prince, who was the youngest son, would not marry; and what is more, he did not like his brother’s wives at all.” Then the birds stopped talking and did not chatter any more that night. The prince was very much surprised at the birds knowing who he was, and all about his dislike to his brothers’ wives.

The next morning he rode home; and there he stayed all day, and would not talk. His wife asked him, “What is the matter with you? Why are you so silent?” “My head aches,” he answered: “I am ill.” But towards evening he felt he must go back to the empty palace on the great plain, so he said to his wife, “I am going out to eat the air for a little while.” Then he got on his horse and rode off to the palace.

As soon as he had laid himself down in the verandah, the parrot and the mainá perched near him; and the parrot told the mainá how the prince had heard of the Bél-Princess; and all about his long journey in search of her, and how he found the bél-fruit, and how he was turned to stone. Then he stopped chattering, and the birds said nothing more to each other that night.

In the morning the King’s son rode home, and was as silent and grave as he had been before. He told his wife his head ached when she asked him whether he was ill.

That night he again slept in the verandah of the strange palace, and heard a little more of his story from the birds.

The next day he was still silent and grave, and his wife was very uneasy. “I am sure the Bél-Princess is alive,” she said to herself, “and that he goes every night to see her.” Then she asked him, “Why do you go out every evening? Why do you not stay at home?” “I am not well,” he answered, “so I go to my mother’s house” (the prince had a little house of his own in his father’s compound). “I will not sleep at home again till I am well.”

That night he lay down to sleep again in the verandah of the great empty palace, and heard the parrot tell the mainá all that happened to the prince up to the time that he fell asleep in his father’s garden with the beautiful Bél-Princess sitting beside him.

On the fifth night the prince lay down to sleep again in the verandah of the palace on the great plain, and watched eagerly for the little birds to begin their talk. This night the parrot told how the wicked woman had come and taken the Bél-Princess’s clothes, and thrown her down the well; how the princess became a lotus-flower which the wicked wife broke to bits; how the bits of the lotus-flower turned into a bél-fruit which she threw away; how out of the fruit came a tiny girl-baby that the gardener adopted; how the wicked woman persuaded the prince to have this girl killed when she was seven years old; how he and the mainá had once been this girl’s eyes; how the tank was once her heart, and how her body had changed into this palace and garden, while her head became the dome on the top of the palace.

Then the mainá asked the parrot where the Bél-Princess was. “Cannot she be found?” said the mainá. “Yes,” said the parrot, “she can be found; but the King’s youngest son alone can find her, and he is so foolish! He believes that his ugly, wicked wife is the beautiful Bél-Princess!” “And where is the princess?” asked the mainá. “She is here,” said the parrot. “If the prince would come one day and go through all the rooms of this palace till he came to the centre room, he would see a trap-door in the middle of that room. If he lifted the trap-door he would see a staircase which leads to an underground palace, and in this palace is the Bél-princess.” “And can no one but the prince lift the trap-door?” asked the mainá. “No one,” answered the parrot. “It is God’s order that only the King’s youngest son can lift the trap-door and find the Bél-Princess.”

The next day the young prince went through all the rooms of the palace, instead of going home. When he came to the centre room, he looked for the trap-door, and when he had lifted it he saw the staircase. He went down it, and found himself in the under-ground palace, which was far more beautiful than the one above-ground. It was full of servants; and in one room a grand dinner was standing ready. In another room he saw a gold bed, all covered with pearls and diamonds, and on the bed lay the Bél-Princess.

Day and night she prayed to God and read a holy book. She did nothing else.

When the prince went into her room and she saw him, she was very sad, not happy, for she thought, “He is so foolish; he knows nothing of what has happened to me.” Then she said to him, “Why did you come here? Go home again to your father’s palace.”

The prince burst out crying. “See, princess,” he said, “I knew nothing of your palace. I only found it by chance five nights ago. I have slept here in the verandah for the last five nights, and only last night did I learn what had happened to you, and how to find you.” “I know it is true,” she said, “that you knew nothing of what happened to me. But now that you have found me, what will you do?”

“I will go home to my father’s palace,” he answered, “and make everything ready for you, and then I will come and marry you and take you home.”

So it was all settled, and he ate some food, and returned to his father. He told his father and mother all that had happened to the Bél-Princess, and how her body had turned into the beautiful garden and palace that stood on the big plain; and of the little birds; and of the underground palace in which she now lived. So his father said that he and the prince’s mother, and his six brothers and their wives, would all take him in great state to the palace and marry him to the beautiful Bél-Princess; and that then they would all return to their own palace, and all live together. “But first the wicked woman must be killed,” said the King.

So he ordered his servants to take her to the jungle and kill her, and throw her body away. So they took her away at four o’clock in the afternoon and killed her.

One morning two or three days later, the prince and his father and mother, and brothers and sisters-in-law, went to the great palace on the wide plain; and there, in the evening, the king’s youngest son was married to the Bél-Princess. And when his father and mother and brothers, and his brothers’ wives, saw her, they all said, “It is quite true. She is indeed a Bél-Princess!”

After the wedding they all returned to the King’s palace, and there they lived together. But the King and his sons used often to go to the palace on the great plain to eat the air; and they used to lend it sometimes to other rájás and kings.

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The Boy Who Had a Moon on His Forehead and a Star on His Chin

A gardener’s daughter, married to a king, bore a miraculous son with a moon on his forehead and a star on his chin. Deceived by the king’s jealous wives, her child was abandoned but survived through the care of a dog, cow, and magical horse. As an adult, the son reclaimed his identity, exposed the conspiracies, and reunited with his mother, bringing justice and happiness to their family.

Source
Indian Fairy Tales
collected and translated by Maive Stokes
Ellis & White, London, 1880

► Themes of the story

Prophecy and Fate: The gardener’s daughter foretells the birth of a miraculous son, indicating a destined path that unfolds throughout the narrative.

Supernatural Beings: The miraculous nature of the boy, marked by a moon on his forehead and a star on his chin, adds a supernatural element to the tale.

Trials and Tribulations: The boy faces numerous challenges, including abandonment and the need to reclaim his rightful place, showcasing his resilience.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Múniyá

In a country were seven daughters of poor parents, who used to come daily to play under the shady trees in the King’s garden with the gardener’s daughter; and daily she used to say to them, “When I am married I shall have a son. Such a beautiful boy as he will be has never been seen. He will have a moon on his forehead, and a star on his chin.” Then her playfellows used to laugh at her and mock her. But one day the King heard her telling them about the beautiful boy she would have when she was married, and he said to himself he should like very much to have such a son; the more so that though he had already four wives he had no child.

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He went, therefore, to the gardener and told him he wished to marry his daughter. This delighted the gardener and his wife, who thought it would indeed be grand for their daughter to become a princess. So they said “Yes” to the King, and invited all their friends to the wedding. The King invited all his, and he gave the gardener as much money as he wanted. Then the wedding was held with great feasting and rejoicing.

A year later the day drew near on which the gardener’s daughter was to have her son; and the King’s four other wives came constantly to see her. One day they said to her, “The King hunts every day; and the time is soon coming when you will have your child. Suppose you fell ill whilst he was out hunting and could therefore know nothing of your illness, what would you do then?”

When the King came home that evening, the gardener’s daughter said to him, “Every day you go out hunting. Should I ever be in trouble or sick while you are away, how could I send for you?” The King gave her a kettle-drum which he placed near the door for her, and he said to her, “Whenever you want me, beat this kettle-drum. No matter how far away I may be, I shall hear it, and will come at once to you.”

Next morning, when the King had gone out to hunt, his four other wives came to see the gardener’s daughter. She told them all about her kettle-drum. “Oh,” they said, “do drum on it just to see if the King really will come to you.” “No, I will not,” she said; “for why should I call him from his hunting when I do not want him?” “Don’t mind interrupting his hunting,” they answered. “Do try if he really will come to you when you beat your kettle-drum.” So at last, just to please them, she beat it, and the King stood before her.

“Why have you called me?” he said. “See, I have left my hunting to come to you.” “I want nothing,” she answered; “I only wished to know if you really would come to me when I beat my drum.” “Very well,” answered the King; “but do not call me again unless you really need me.” Then he returned to his hunting.

The next day, when the King had gone out hunting as usual, the four wives again came to see the gardener’s daughter. They begged and begged her to beat her drum once more, “just to see if the King will really come to see you this time.” At first she refused, but at last she consented. So she beat her drum, and the King came to her. But when he found she was neither ill nor in trouble, he was angry, and said to her, “Twice I have left my hunting and lost my game to come to you when you did not need me. Now you may call me as much as you like, but I will not come to you,” and then he went away in a rage.

The third day the gardener’s daughter fell ill, and she beat and beat her kettle-drum; but the King never came. He heard her kettle-drum, but he thought, “She does not really want me; she is only trying to see if I will go to her.”

Meanwhile the four other wives came to her, and they said, “Here it is the custom before a child is born to bind its mother’s eyes with a handkerchief that she may not see it just at first. So let us bind your eyes.” She answered, “Very well, bind my eyes.” The four wives then tied a handkerchief over them.

Soon after, the gardener’s daughter had a beautiful little son, with a moon on his forehead and a star on his chin; and before the poor mother had seen him, the four wicked wives took the boy to the nurse and said to her, “Now you must not let this child make the least sound for fear his mother should hear him; and in the night you must either kill him, or else take him away, so that his mother may never see him. If you obey our orders, we will give you a great many rupees.” All this they did out of spite. The nurse took the little child and put him into a box, and the four wives went back to the gardener’s daughter.

First they put a stone into her boy’s little bed, and then they took the handkerchief off her eyes and showed it her, saying, “Look! this is your son!” The poor girl cried bitterly, and thought, “What will the King say when he finds no child?” But she could do nothing.

When the King came home, he was furious at hearing his youngest wife, the gardener’s daughter, had given him a stone instead of the beautiful little son she had promised him. He made her one of the palace servants, and never spoke to her.

In the middle of the night the nurse took the box in which was the beautiful little prince, and went out to a broad plain in the jungle. There she dug a hole, made the fastenings of the box sure, and put the box into the hole, although the child in it was still alive. The King’s dog, whose name was Shankar, had followed her to see what she did with the box. As soon as she had gone back to the four wives (who gave her a great many rupees), the dog went to the hole in which she had put the box, took the box out, and opened it. When he saw the beautiful little boy, he was very much delighted and said, “If it pleases God that this child should live, I will not hurt him; I will not eat him, but I will swallow him whole and hide him in my stomach.” This he did.

After six months had passed, the dog went by night to the jungle, and thought, “I wonder whether the boy is alive or dead.” Then he brought the child out of his stomach and rejoiced over his beauty. The boy was now six months old. When Shankar had caressed and loved him, he swallowed him again for another six months. At the end of that time he went once more by night to the broad jungle-plain. There he brought up the child out of his stomach (the child was now a year old), and caressed and petted him a great deal, and was made very happy by his great beauty.

But this time the dog’s keeper had followed and watched the dog; and he saw all that Shankar did, and the beautiful little child, so he ran to the four wives and said to them, “Inside the King’s dog there is a child! the loveliest child! He has a moon on his forehead and a star on his chin. Such a child has never been seen!” At this the four wives were very much frightened, and as soon as the King came home from hunting they said to him, “While you were away your dog came to our rooms, and tore our clothes and knocked about all our things. We are afraid he will kill us.” “Do not be afraid,” said the King. “Eat your dinner and be happy. I will have the dog shot to-morrow morning.”

Then he ordered his servants to shoot the dog at dawn, but the dog heard him, and said to himself, “What shall I do? The King intends to kill me. I don’t care about that, but what will become of the child if I am killed? He will die. But I will see if I cannot save him.”

So when it was night, the dog ran to the King’s cow, who was called Surí, and said to her, “Surí, I want to give you something, for the King has ordered me to be shot to-morrow. Will you take great care of whatever I give you?” “Let me see what it is,” said Surí; “I will take care of it if I can.” Then they both went together to the wide plain, and there the dog brought up the boy. Surí was enchanted with him. “I never saw such a beautiful child in this country,” she said. “See, he has a moon on his forehead and a star on his chin. I will take the greatest care of him.” So saying she swallowed the little prince. The dog made her a great many salaams, and said, “To-morrow I shall die;” and the cow then went back to her stable.

Next morning at dawn the dog was taken to the jungle and shot.

The child now lived in Surí’s stomach; and when one whole year had passed, and he was two years old, the cow went out to the plain, and said to herself, “I do not know whether the child is alive or dead. But I have never hurt it, so I will see.” Then she brought up the boy; and he played about, and Surí was delighted; she loved him and caressed him, and talked to him. Then she swallowed him, and returned to her stable.

At the end of another year she went again to the plain and brought up the child. He played and ran about for an hour to her great delight, and she talked to him and caressed him. His great beauty made her very happy. Then she swallowed him once more and returned to her stable. The child was now three years old.

But this time the cowherd had followed Surí, and had seen the wonderful child and all she did to it. So he ran and told the four wives, “The King’s cow has a beautiful boy inside her. He has a moon on his forehead and a star on his chin. Such a child has never been seen before!”

At this the wives were terrified. They tore their clothes and their hair and cried. When the King came home at evening, he asked them why they were so agitated. “Oh,” they said, “your cow came and tried to kill us; but we ran away. She tore our hair and our clothes.” “Never mind,” said the King. “Eat your dinner and be happy. The cow shall be killed to-morrow morning.”

Now Surí heard the King give this order to the servants, so she said to herself, “What shall I do to save the child?” When it was midnight, she went to the King’s horse called Katar, who was very wicked, and quite untameable. No one had ever been able to ride him; indeed no one could go near him with safety, he was so savage. Surí said to this horse, “Katar, will you take care of something that I want to give you, because the King has ordered me to be killed to-morrow?” “Good,” said Katar; “show me what it is.” Then Surí brought up the child, and the horse was delighted with him. “Yes,” he said, “I will take the greatest care of him. Till now no one has been able to ride me, but this child shall ride me.” Then he swallowed the boy, and when he had done so, the cow made him many salaams, saying, “It is for this boy’s sake that I am to die.” The next morning she was taken to the jungle and there killed.

The beautiful boy now lived in the horse’s stomach, and he stayed in it for one whole year. At the end of that time the horse thought, “I will see if this child is alive or dead.” So he brought him up; and then he loved him, and petted him, and the little prince played all about the stable, out of which the horse was never allowed to go. Katar was very glad to see the child, who was now four years old. After he had played for some time, the horse swallowed him again. At the end of another year, when the boy was five years old, Katar brought him up again, caressed him, loved him, and let him play about the stable as he had done a year before. Then the horse swallowed him again.

But this time the groom had seen all that happened, and when it was morning, and the King had gone away to his hunting, he went to the four wicked wives, and told them all he had seen, and all about the wonderful, beautiful child that lived inside the King’s horse Katar. On hearing the groom’s story the four wives cried, and tore their hair and clothes, and refused to eat. When the King returned at evening and asked them why they were so miserable, they said, “Your horse Katar came and tore our clothes, and upset all our things, and we ran away for fear he should kill us.” “Never mind,” said the King. “Only eat your dinner and be happy. I will have Katar shot to-morrow.” Then he thought that two men unaided could not kill such a wicked horse, so he ordered his servants to bid his troop of sepoys shoot him.

So the next day the King placed his sepoys all round the stable, and he took up his stand with them; and he said he would himself shoot any one who let his horse escape.

Meanwhile the horse had overheard all these orders. So he brought up the child and said to him, “Go into that little room that leads out of the stable, and you will find in it a saddle and bridle which you must put on me. Then you will find in the room some beautiful clothes such as princes wear; these you must put on yourself; and you must take the sword and gun you will find there too. Then you must mount on my back.” Now Katar was a fairy-horse, and came from the fairies’ country, so he could get anything he wanted; but neither the King nor any of his people knew this. When all was ready, Katar burst out of his stable, with the prince on his back, rushed past the King himself before the King had time to shoot him, galloped away to the great jungle-plain, and galloped about all over it. The King saw his horse had a boy on his back, though he could not see the boy distinctly. The sepoys tried in vain to shoot the horse; he galloped much too fast; and at last they were all scattered over the plain. Then the King had to give it up and go home; and his sepoys went to their homes. The King could not shoot any of his sepoys for letting his horse escape, for he himself had let him do so.

Then Katar galloped away, on, and on, and on; and when night came they stayed under a tree, he and the King’s son. The horse ate grass, and the boy wild fruits which he found in the jungle. Next morning they started afresh, and went far, and far, till they came to a jungle in another country, which did not belong to the little prince’s father, but to another king. Here Katar said to the boy, “Now get off my back.” Off jumped the prince. “Unsaddle me and take off my bridle; take off your beautiful clothes and tie them all up in a bundle with your sword and gun.” This the boy did. Then the horse gave him some poor, common clothes, which he told him to put on. As soon as he was dressed in them the horse said, “Hide your bundle in this grass, and I will take care of it for you. I will always stay in this jungle-plain, so that when you want me you will always find me. You must now go away and find service with some one in this country.” This made the boy very sad. “I know nothing about anything,” he said. “What shall I do all alone in this country?” “Do not be afraid,” answered Katar. “You will find service, and I will always stay here to help you when you want me. So go, only before you go, twist my right ear.” The boy did so, and his horse instantly became a donkey. “Now twist your right ear,” said Katar. And when the boy had twisted it, he was no longer a handsome prince, but a poor, common-looking, ugly man; and his moon and star were hidden.

Then he went away further into the country, until he came to a grain merchant of the country, who asked him who he was. “I am a poor man,” answered the boy, “and I want service.” “Good,” said the grain merchant, “you shall be my servant.”

Now the grain merchant lived near the King’s palace, and one night at twelve o’clock the boy was very hot; so he went out into the King’s cool garden, and began to sing a lovely song. The seventh and youngest daughter of the King heard him, and she wondered who it was who could sing so deliciously. Then she put on her clothes, rolled up her hair, and came down to where the seemingly poor common man was lying singing. “Who are you? where do you come from?” she asked. But he answered nothing. “Who is this man who does not answer when I speak to him?” thought the little princess, and she went away. On the second night the same thing happened, and on the third night too. But on the third night, when she found she could not make him answer her, she said to him, “What a strange man you are not to answer me when I speak to you.” But still he remained silent, so she went away.

The next day when he had finished his work, the young prince went to the jungle to see his horse, who asked him, “Are you quite well and happy?” “Yes, I am,” answered the boy. “I am servant to a grain merchant. The last three nights I have gone into the King’s garden and sung a song. And each night the youngest princess has come to me and asked me who I am, and whence I came, and I have answered nothing. What shall I do now?” The horse said, “Next time she asks you who you are, tell her you are a very poor man, and came from your own country to find service here.”

The boy then went home to the grain merchant, and at night, when every one had gone to bed, he went to the King’s garden and sang his sweet song again. The youngest princess heard him, got up, dressed, and came to him. “Who are you? Whence do you come?” she asked. “I am a very poor man,” he answered. “I came from my own country to seek service here, and I am now one of the grain merchant’s servants.” Then she went away. For three more nights the boy sang in the King’s garden, and each night the princess came and asked him the same questions as before, and the boy gave her the same answers.

Then she went to her father, and said to him, “Father, I wish to be married; but I must choose my husband myself.” Her father consented to this, and he wrote and invited all the Kings and Rájás in the land, saying, “My youngest daughter wishes to be married, but she insists on choosing her husband herself. As I do not know who it is she wishes to marry, I beg you will all come on a certain day, for her to see you and make her choice.”

A great many Kings, Rájás, and their sons accepted this invitation and came. When they had all arrived, the little princess’s father said to them, “To-morrow morning you must all sit together in my garden” (the King’s garden was very large), “for then my youngest daughter will come and see you all, and choose her husband. I do not know whom she will choose.”

The youngest princess ordered a grand elephant to be ready for her the next morning, and when the morning came, and all was ready, she dressed herself in the most lovely clothes, and put on her beautiful jewels; then she mounted her elephant, which was painted blue. In her hand she took a gold necklace.

Then she went into the garden where the Kings, Rájás, and their sons were seated. The boy, the grain merchant’s servant, was also in the garden: not as a suitor, but looking on with the other servants.

The princess rode all round the garden, and looked at all the Kings and Rájás and princes, and then she hung the gold necklace round the neck of the boy, the grain merchant’s servant. At this everybody laughed, and the Kings were greatly astonished. But then they and the Rájás said, “What fooling is this?” and they pushed the pretended poor man away, and took the necklace off his neck, and said to him, “Get out of the way, you poor, dirty man. Your clothes are far too dirty for you to come near us!” The boy went far away from them, and stood a long way off to see what would happen.

Then the King’s youngest daughter went all round the garden again, holding her gold necklace in her hand, and once more she hung it round the boy’s neck. Every one laughed at her and said, “How can the King’s daughter think of marrying this poor, common man!” and the Kings and the Rájás, who had come as suitors, all wanted to turn him out of the garden. But the princess said, “Take care! take care! You must not turn him out. Leave him alone.” Then she put him on her elephant, and took him to the palace.

The Kings and Rájás and their sons were very much astonished, and said, “What does this mean? The princess does not care to marry one of us, but chooses that very poor man!” Her father then stood up, and said to them all, “I promised my daughter she should marry any one she pleased, and as she has twice chosen that poor, common man, she shall marry him.” And so the princess and the boy were married with great pomp and splendour: her father and mother were quite content with her choice; and the Kings, the Rájás and their sons, all returned to their homes.

Now the princess’s six sisters had all married rich princes–and they laughed at her for choosing such a poor ugly husband as hers seemed to be, and said to each other, mockingly, “See! our sister has married this poor, common man!” Their six husbands used to go out hunting every day, and every evening they brought home quantities of all kinds of game to their wives, and the game was cooked for their dinner and for the King’s; but the husband of the youngest princess always stayed at home in the palace, and never went out hunting at all. This made her very sad, and she said to herself, “My sisters’ husbands hunt every day, but my husband never hunts at all.”

At last she said to him, “Why do you never go out hunting as my sisters’ husbands do every day, and every day they bring home quantities of all kinds of game? Why do you always stay at home, instead of doing as they do?”

One day he said to her, “I am going out to-day to eat the air.” “Very good,” she answered; “go, and take one of the horses.” “No,” said the young prince, “I will not ride, I will walk.” Then he went to the jungle-plain where he had left Katar, who all this time had seemed to be a donkey, and he told Katar everything. “Listen,” he said; “I have married the youngest princess; and when we were married everybody laughed at her for choosing me, and said, ‘What a very poor, common man our princess has chosen for her husband!’ Besides, my wife is very sad, for her six sisters’ husbands all hunt every day, and bring home quantities of game, and their wives therefore are very proud of them. But I stay at home all day, and never hunt. To-day I should like to hunt very much.”

“Well,” said Katar, “then twist my left ear;” and as soon as the boy had twisted it, Katar was a horse again, and not a donkey any longer. “Now,” said Katar, “twist your left ear, and you will see what a beautiful young prince you will become.” So the boy twisted his own left ear, and there he stood no longer a poor, common, ugly man, but a grand young prince with a moon on his forehead and a star on his chin. Then he put on his splendid clothes, saddled and bridled Katar, got on his back with his sword and gun, and rode off to hunt.

He rode very far, and shot a great many birds and a quantity of deer. That day his six brothers-in-law could find no game, for the beautiful young prince had shot it all. Nearly all the day long these six princes wandered about looking in vain for game; till at last they grew hungry and thirsty, and could find no water, and they had no food with them. Meanwhile the beautiful young prince had sat down under a tree, to dine and rest, and there his six brothers-in-law found him. By his side was some delicious water, and also some roast meat.

When they saw him the six princes said to each other, “Look at that handsome prince. He has a moon on his forehead and a star on his chin. We have never seen such a prince in this jungle before; he must come from another country.” Then they came up to him, and made him many salaams, and begged him to give them some food and water. “Who are you?” said the young prince. “We are the husbands of the six elder daughters of the King of this country,” they answered; “and we have hunted all day, and are very hungry and thirsty.” They did not recognize their brother-in-law in the least.

“Well,” said the young prince, “I will give you something to eat and drink if you will do as I bid you.” “We will do all you tell us to do,” they answered, “for if we do not get water to drink, we shall die.” “Very good,” said the young prince. “Now you must let me put a red-hot pice on the back of each of you, and then I will give you food and water. Do you agree to this?” The six princes consented, for they thought, “No one will ever see the mark of the pice, as it will be covered by our clothes; and we shall die if we have no water to drink.” Then the young prince took six pice, and made them red-hot in the fire; he laid one on the back of each of the six princes, and gave them good food and water. They ate and drank; and when they had finished they made him many salaams and went home.

The young prince stayed under the tree till it was evening; then he mounted his horse and rode off to the King’s palace. All the people looked at him as he came riding along, saying, “What a splendid young prince that is! He has a moon on his forehead and a star on his chin.” But no one recognized him. When he came near the King’s palace, all the King’s servants asked him who he was; and as none of them knew him, the gate-keepers would not let him pass in. They all wondered who he could be, and all thought him the most beautiful prince that had ever been seen.

At last they asked him who he was. “I am the husband of your youngest princess,” he answered. “No, no, indeed you are not,” they said; “for he is a poor, common-looking, and ugly man.” “But I am he,” answered the prince; only no one would believe him. “Tell us the truth,” said the servants; “who are you?” “Perhaps you cannot recognize me,” said the young prince, “but call the youngest princess here. I wish to speak to her.” The servants called her, and she came. “That man is not my husband,” she said at once. “My husband is not nearly as handsome as that man. This must be a prince from another country.”

Then she said to him, “Who are you? Why do you say you are my husband?” “Because I am your husband. I am telling you the truth,” answered the young prince. “No you are not, you are not telling me the truth,” said the little princess. “My husband is not a handsome man like you. I married a very poor, common-looking man.” “That is true,” he answered, “but nevertheless I am your husband. I was the grain merchant’s servant; and one hot night I went into your father’s garden and sang, and you heard me, and came and asked me who I was and where I came from, and I would not answer you. And the same thing happened the next night, and the next, and on the fourth I told you I was a very poor man, and had come from my country to seek service in yours, and that I was the grain merchant’s servant. Then you told your father you wished to marry, but must choose your own husband; and when all the Kings and Rájás were seated in your father’s garden, you sat on an elephant and went round and looked at them all; and then twice hung your gold necklace round my neck, and chose me. See, here is your necklace, and here are the ring and the handkerchief you gave me on our wedding day.”

Then she believed him, and was very glad that her husband was such a beautiful young prince. “What a strange man you are!” she said to him. “Till now you have been poor, and ugly, and common-looking. Now you are beautiful and look like a prince; I never saw such a handsome man as you are before; and yet I know you must be my husband.” Then she worshipped God and thanked him for letting her have such a husband. “I have,” she said, “a beautiful husband. There is no one like him in this country. He has a moon on his forehead and a star on his chin.” Then she took him into the palace, and showed him to her father and mother and to every one. They all said they had never seen any one like him, and were all very happy. And the young prince lived as before in the King’s palace with his wife, and Katar lived in the King’s stables.

One day, when the King and his seven sons-in-law were in his court-house, and it was full of people, the young prince said to him, “There are six thieves here in your court-house.” “Six thieves!” said the King. “Where are they? Show them to me.” “There they are,” said the young prince, pointing to his six brothers-in-law. The King and every one else in the court-house were very much astonished, and would not believe the young prince. “Take off their coats,” he said, “and then you will see for yourselves that each of them has the mark of a thief on his back.” So their coats were taken off the six princes, and the King and everybody in the court-house saw the marks of the red-hot pice. The six princes were very much ashamed, but the young prince was very glad. He had not forgotten how his brothers-in-law had laughed at him and mocked him when he seemed a poor, common man.

Now when Katar was still in the jungle, before the prince was married, he had told the boy the whole story of his birth, and all that had happened to him and his mother. “When you are married,” he said to him, “I will take you back to your father’s country.” So two months after the young prince had revenged himself on his brothers-in-law, Katar said to him, “It is time for you to return to your father. Get the King to let you go to your own country, and I will tell you what to do when we get there.”

The prince always did what his horse told him to do; so he went to his wife and said to her, “I wish very much to go to my own country to see my father and mother.” “Very well,” said his wife; “I will tell my father and mother, and ask them to let us go.” Then she went to them, and told them, and they consented to let her and her husband leave them. The King gave his daughter and the young prince a great many horses, and elephants, and all sorts of presents, and also a great many sepoys to guard them. In this grand state they travelled to the prince’s country, which was not a great many miles off. When they reached it they pitched their tents on the same plain in which the prince had been left in his box by the nurse, where Shankar and Surí had swallowed him so often.

When the King, his father, the gardener’s daughter’s husband, saw the prince’s camp, he was very much alarmed, and thought a great King had come to make war on him. He sent one of his servants, therefore, to ask whose camp it was. The young prince then wrote him a letter, in which he said, “You are a great King. Do not fear me. I am not come to make war on you. I am as if I were your son. I am a prince who has come to see your country and to speak with you. I wish to give you a grand feast, to which everyone in your country must come–men and women, old and young, rich and poor, of all castes; all the children, fakírs, and sepoys. You must bring them all here to me for a week, and I will feast them all.”

The King was delighted with this letter, and ordered all the men, women, and children of all castes, fakírs and sepoys, in his country to go to the prince’s camp to a grand feast the prince would give them. So they all came, and the King brought his four wives too. All came, at least all but the gardener’s daughter. No one had told her to go to the feast, for no one had thought of her.

When all the people were assembled, the prince saw his mother was not there, and he asked the King, “Has every one in your country come to my feast?” “Yes, everyone,” said the King. “Are you sure of that?” asked the prince.

“Quite sure,” answered the King. “I am sure one woman has not come,” said the prince. “She is your gardener’s daughter, who was once your wife and is now a servant in your palace.” “True,” said the King, “I had forgotten her.” Then the prince told his servants to take his finest palanquin and to fetch the gardener’s daughter. They were to bathe her, dress her in beautiful clothes and handsome jewels, and then bring her to him in the palanquin.

While the servants were bringing the gardener’s daughter, the King thought how handsome the young prince was; and he noticed particularly the moon on his forehead and the star on his chin, and he wondered in what country the young prince was born.

And now the palanquin arrived bringing the gardener’s daughter, and the young prince went himself and took her out of it, and brought her into the tent. He made her a great many salaams. The four wicked wives looked on and were very much surprised and very angry. They remembered that, when they arrived, the prince had made them no salaams, and since then had not taken the least notice of them; whereas he could not do enough for the gardener’s daughter, and seemed very glad to see her.

When they were all at dinner, the prince again made the gardener’s daughter a great many salaams, and gave her food from all the nicest dishes. She wondered at his kindness to her, and thought, “Who is this handsome prince, with a moon on his forehead and a star on his chin? I never saw any one so beautiful. What country does he come from?”

Two or three days were thus passed in feasting, and all that time the King and his people were talking about the prince’s beauty, and wondering who he was.

One day the prince asked the King if he had any children. “None,” he answered. “Do you know who I am?” asked the prince. “No,” said the King. “Tell me who you are.” “I am your son,” answered the prince, “and the gardener’s daughter is my mother.” The King shook his head sadly. “How can you be my son,” he said, “when I have never had any children?” “But I am your son,” answered the prince. “Your four wicked wives told you the gardener’s daughter had given you a stone and not a son; but it was they who put the stone in my little bed, and then they tried to kill me.” The King did not believe him. “I wish you were my son,” he said; “but as I never had a child, you cannot be my son.” “Do you remember your dog Shankar, and how you had him killed? And do you remember your cow Surí, and how you had her killed too? Your wives made you kill them because of me. And,” he said, taking the King to Katar, “do you know whose horse that is?”

The King looked at Katar, and then said, “That is my horse Katar.” “Yes,” said the Prince. “Do you not remember how he rushed past you out of his stable with me on his back?” Then Katar told the King the prince was really his son, and told him all the story of his birth, and of his life up to that moment; and when the King found the beautiful prince was indeed his son, he was so glad, so glad. He put his arms round him and kissed him and cried for joy.

“Now,” said the King, “you must come with me to my palace, and live with me always.” “No,” said the prince, “that I cannot do. I cannot go to your palace. I only came here to fetch my mother; and now that I have found her, I will take her with me to my father-in-law’s palace. I have married a King’s daughter, and we live with her father.” “But now that I have found you, I cannot let you go,” said his father. “You and your wife must come and live with your mother and me in my palace.” “That we will never do,” said the prince, “unless you will kill your four wicked wives with your own hand. If you will do that, we will come and live with you.”

So the King killed his wives, and then he and his wife, the gardener’s daughter, and the prince and his wife, all went to live in the King’s palace, and lived there happily together for ever after; and the King thanked God for giving him such a beautiful son, and for ridding him of his four wicked wives.

Katar did not return to the fairies’ country, but stayed always with the young prince, and never left him.

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