The Bulbul and the Cotton-Tree

A bulbul, mistaking a cotton-tree’s bud for fruit, selfishly guarded it for twelve years, denying other birds access. When the pod burst, revealing cotton instead of fruit, the bulbul was mocked for his greed and shortsightedness. A cuckoo explained that sharing would have brought blessings. The cotton-tree reminded the bulbul of its purpose, benefiting others through its cotton. Since then, bulbuls avoid cotton-trees.

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


► Themes of the story

Cunning and Deception: The bulbul deceives other birds by claiming the fruit is not good, to keep it for himself.

Illusion vs. Reality: The bulbul mistakes the cotton pod for a fruit, highlighting the difference between appearance and reality.

Transformation through Love: The bulbul’s love for the perceived fruit transforms into disappointment, teaching him a valuable lesson.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people


Told by Dunkní

There was once a bulbul, and one day as he was flying about, he saw a tree on which was a little fruit. The bulbul was much pleased and said, “I will sit here till this fruit is ripe, and then I will eat it.” So he deserted his nest and his wife, and sat there for twelve years without eating anything, and every day he said, “To-morrow I will eat this fruit.” During these twelve years a great many birds tried to sit on the tree, and wished to build their nests in it, but whenever they came the bulbul sent them away, saying, “This fruit is not good. Don’t come here.” One day a cuckoo came and said, “Why do you send us away? Why should we not come and sit here too? All the trees here are not yours.”

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“Never mind,” said the bulbul, “I am going to sit here, and when this fruit is ripe, I shall eat it.” Now the cuckoo knew that this tree was the cotton-tree, but the bulbul did not. First comes the bud, which the bulbul thought a fruit, then the flower, and the flower becomes a big pod, and the pod bursts and all the cotton flies away. The bulbul was delighted when he saw the beautiful red flower, which he still thought a fruit, and said, “When it is ripe, it will be a delicious fruit.” The flower became a pod, and the pod burst. “What is all this that is flying about?” said the bulbul. “The fruit must be ripe now.” So he looked into the pod, and it was empty; all the cotton had fallen out. Then the cuckoo came and said to the angry bulbul, “You see if you had allowed us to come and sit on the tree, you would have had something good to eat; but as you were selfish, and would not let any one share with you, God is angry and has punished you by giving you a hollow fruit.” Then the cuckoo called all the other birds, and they came and mocked the bulbul. “Ah! you see God has punished you for your selfishness,” they said. The bulbul got very angry and all the birds went away. After they had gone, the bulbul said to the tree, “You are a bad tree. You are of use to no one. You give food to no one.” The tree said, “You are mistaken. God made me what I am. My flower is given to sheep to eat. My cotton makes pillows and mattresses for man.”

Since that day no bulbul goes near a cotton-tree.


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Barber Hím and the Tigers

A poor barber named Hím cunningly deceived tigers in a jungle by claiming he was sent to capture or harm them. Frightened, the tigers gave him gold and jewels to spare them. Enriched, he revisited, escalating his ruse each time. Despite close calls, including a fatal mishap involving a companion fakír, Hím avoided the jungle thereafter and lived a prosperous life.

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


► Themes of the story

Cunning and Deception: Barber Hím cleverly deceives the tigers by pretending to be sent to capture them, thereby securing gold and jewels in exchange for their safety.

Trials and Tribulations: Hím faces various challenges, such as confronting the tigers and dealing with the aftermath of his deceit, highlighting the difficulties arising from dishonest actions.

Tragic Flaw: Hím’s greed and overconfidence in his deceptive abilities ultimately lead to perilous situations, illustrating how personal flaws can result in one’s downfall.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people


Told by Dunkní

Once there lived a barber called Hím, who was very poor indeed. He had a wife and twelve children, five boys and seven girls: now and then he got a few pice. One day he went away from his home feeling very cross, and left his wife and children to get on as best they could. “What can I do?” said he. “I have not enough money to buy food for my family, and they are crying for it.” And so he walked on till he came to a jungle. It was night when he got there. This jungle was called the “tigers’ jungle,” because only tigers lived in it; no birds, no insects, no other animals, and there were four hundred tigers in it altogether. As soon as Barber Hím reached the jungle he saw a great tiger walking about.

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“What shall I do?” cried he. “This tiger is sure to eat me.” And he took his razor and his razor-strap, and began to sharpen his razor. Then he went close up to the tiger, still sharpening his razor. The tiger was much frightened. “What shall I do?” said the tiger; “this man will certainly gash me.” “I have come,” said the barber, “to catch twenty tigers by order of Mahárájá Káns. You are one, and I want nineteen more.” The tiger, greatly alarmed, answered, “If you won’t catch us, I will give you as much gold and as many jewels as you can carry.” For these tigers used to go out and carry off the men and women from the villages, and some of these people had rupees, and some had jewels, all of which the tigers used to collect together. “Good,” said Hím, “then I won’t catch you.” The tiger led him to the spot where all the tigers used to eat their dinners, and the barber took as much gold and as many jewels as he could carry, and set off home with them.

Then he built a house, and bought his children pretty clothes and good food, and necklaces, and they all lived very happily for some time. But at last he wanted more rupees, so he set off to the tigers’ jungle. There he met the tiger as he did before, and he told him the Mahárájá Káns had sent him to catch twenty tigers. The tiger was terrified and said, “If you will only not catch us, I will give you more gold and jewels.” To this the barber agreed, and the tiger led him to the old spot, and the barber took as many jewels and rupees as he could carry. Then he returned home.

One day a very poor man, a fakír, said to him, “How did you manage to become so rich? In old days you were so poor you could hardly support your family.”

“I will tell you,” said Hím. And he told him all about his visits to the tigers’ jungle. “But don’t you go there for gold to-night,” continued the barber. “Let me go and listen to the tigers talking. If you like, you can come with me. Only you must not be frightened if the tigers roar.”

“I’ll not be frightened,” said the fakír.

So that evening at eight o’clock they went to the tigers’ jungle. There the barber and the fakír climbed into a tall thick tree, and its leaves came all about them and sheltered them as if they were in a house. The tigers used to hold their councils under this tree. Very soon all the tigers in the jungle assembled together under it, and their Rájá–a great, huge beast, with only one eye–came too. “Brothers,” said the tiger who had given the barber the rupees and jewels, “a man has come here twice to catch twenty of us for the Mahárájá Káns; now we are only four hundred in number, and if twenty of us were taken away we should be only a small number, so I gave him each time as many rupees and jewels as he could carry and he went away again. What shall we do if he returns?” The tigers said they would meet again on the morrow, and then they would settle the matter. Then the tigers went off, and the barber and the fakír came down from the tree. They took a quantity of rupees and jewels and returned to their homes.

“To-morrow,” said they, “we will come again and hear what the tigers say.”

The next day the barber went alone to the tigers’ jungle, and there he met his tiger again. “This time,” said he, “I am come to cut off the ears of all the four hundred tigers who live in this jungle; for Mahárájá Káns wants them to make into medicine.”

The tiger was greatly frightened, much more so than at the other times. “Don’t cut off our ears; pray don’t,” said he, “for then we could not hear, and it would hurt so horribly. Go and cut off all the dogs’ ears instead, and I will give you rupees and jewels as much as two men can carry.” “Good,” said the barber, and he made two journeys with the rupees and jewels from the jungle to the borders of his village, and there he got a cooly to help him to carry them to his house.

At night he and the fakír went again to the great tree under which the tigers held their councils. Now the tiger who had given the barber so many rupees and jewels had made ready a great quantity of meat, fowls, chickens, geese, men the tigers had killed–everything he had been able to get hold of–and he made them into a heap under the tree, for he said that after the tigers had settled the matter they would dine. Soon the tigers arrived with their Rájá, and the barber’s tiger said, “Brothers, what are we to do? This man came again to-day to cut off all our ears to make medicine for Mahárájá Káns. I told him this would be a bad business for us, and that he must go and cut off all the dogs’ ears instead; and I gave him as much money and jewels as two men could carry. So he went home. Now what shall we do? We must leave this jungle, and where shall we go?” The other tigers said, “We will not leave the jungle. If this man comes again we will eat him up.” So they dined and went away, saying they would meet again to-morrow.

After the tigers had gone, the barber and fakír came down from the tree and went off to their homes, without taking any rupees or jewels with them. They agreed to return the next evening.

Next evening back they came and climbed into the great tree. The tigers came too, and the barber’s tiger told his story all over again. The tiger Rájá sat up and said, fiercely, “We will not leave this jungle. Should the man come again, I will eat him myself.” When the fakír heard this he was so frightened that he tumbled down out of the tree into the midst of the tigers. The barber instantly cried out with a loud voice, “Now cut off their ears! cut off their ears!” and the tigers, terrified, ran away as fast as they could. Then the barber took the fakír home, but the poor man was so much hurt by his fall that he died.

The barber lived happily ever after, but he took good care never to go to the tigers’ jungle again.


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 Story of Foolish Sachúlí

Sachúlí, a simple-minded young man, unwittingly causes chaos through his naive antics, including accidentally killing a woman, revealing hidden riches, and interacting with magical fairies. Through misadventures involving enchanted items—a cooking pot, a clothes box, and a magical stick—he outwits those who exploit him and proves his worth. Eventually, he gains his mother’s approval, marries, and settles into a happy life.

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


► Themes of the story

Trials and Tribulations: Throughout the narrative, Sachúlí faces numerous challenges and misadventures, reflecting the theme of overcoming a series of tests.

Transformation: Sachúlí evolves from a simple-minded youth causing chaos to someone who gains his mother’s approval and settles into a happy life, indicating personal growth.

Magic and Enchantment: The story features enchanted items—a cooking pot, a clothes box, and a magical stick—that play significant roles in Sachúlí’s adventures.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people


Told by Dunkní

There once lived a poor old widow woman named Hungní, who had a little idiot son called Sachúlí. She used to beg every day. One day when the son had grown up, he said to his mother. “What makes women laugh?” “If you throw a tiny stone at them,” answered she, “they will laugh.” So one day Sachúlí went and sat by a well, and three women came to it to fill their water-jars. “Now,” said Sachúlí “I will make one of these women laugh.” Two of the women filled their water-jars and went away home, and he threw no stones at them; but as the last, who also had on the most jewels, passed him, he threw a great big stone at her, and she fell down dead, with her mouth set as if she were smiling.

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“Oh, look! look! how she is laughing!” said Sachúlí, and he ran off to call his mother.

“Come, come, mother,” said he, “and see how I have made this woman laugh.”

His mother came, and when she saw the woman lying dead, she was much frightened, for the dead woman belonged to a great and very rich family, and she wore jewels worth a thousand rupees. Hungní took off all her jewels, and threw her body into the well.

After some days the dead woman’s father and mother and all her people sent round a crier with a drum to try and find her. “Whoever brings back a young woman who wears a great many gold necklaces and bracelets and rings shall get a great deal of money,” cried the crier. Sachúlí heard him. “I know where she is,” said he. “My mother took off all her jewels, and threw her into the well.”

The crier said, “Can you go down into the well and bring her up?”

“If you will tie a rope round my waist and let me down the well, I shall be able to bring her up.”

So they set off towards the well, which was near Hungní’s house; and when she saw them coming, she guessed what they came for, and she ran out and killed a sheep, threw it into the well, and took out the dead woman and hid her.

The crier got some men to come with him, and they let Sachúlí down the well. “Has she got eyes?” said Sachúlí. “Of course, every one has eyes,” answered the men. “Has she a nose?” asked Sachúlí. “Yes, she has a nose,” said the men. “Has she got a mouth?” asked Sachúlí. “Yes,” said the men. “Has she a long face?”

“What does he mean?” said the men, who were getting cross. “No one has a long face; perhaps she has, though. Yes, she has a long face,” cried the men.

“Has she a tail?”

“A tail! Why no one has a tail. Perhaps, though, she has long hair. No doubt that is what he calls a tail. Yes, she has a tail.”

“Has she ears?”

“Of course, every one has ears.”

“Has she four feet?”

“Four feet!” said the men. “Why, no one has four feet. Perhaps you call her hands feet. Yes, she has four feet. Bring her up quickly.”

Then Sachúlí brought up the sheep.

The men were very angry when they saw the sheep, and they beat Sachúlí, and called him a very stupid fellow and a great liar, and they went away feeling very cross.

Sachúlí went home to his mother, who, as soon as she saw him coming, ran out and put the woman’s body back in the well, and when he got home she beat him. “Mother,” said he, “give me some bread, and I will go away and die.” His mother cooked him some bread, and he went away.

He walked on, and on, and on, a long way.

Now, some Rájá’s ten camels had been travelling along the road on which Sachúlí went, each carrying sacks of gold mohurs and rupees, and one of these camels broke loose from the string and strayed away, and the camel-drivers could not find it again. But Sachúlí met it, and caught it and took it home.

“See, mother! see what a quantity of money I have brought you!” cried Sachúlí. Hungní rushed out, and was delighted to see so much money. She took off the sacks at once and sent the camel away. Then she hid the rupees and the gold with the jewels she had taken from the dead woman. And, as she was a cunning woman, she went and bought a great many comfits and scattered them all about her house, when Sachúlí was out of the way. “Oh, look! look!” cried Sachúlí, “at all these comfits.” “God has rained them from heaven,” said his mother. Sachúlí began to pick them up and eat them, and he told all the people in the village how God had rained down comfits from heaven on his mother’s house. “What nonsense!” cried they. “Yes, he has,” said Sachúlí, “and I have been eating them.” “No comfits have fallen on our houses,” said they. “Yes, yes,” cried he, “the day my mother got all those rupees, God rained comfits on our house.” “What lies!” cried the people; “as if it ever rained comfits. Why did not the comfits rain down on our houses? Why did they fall only on your house? And what’s all this about rupees?” And then they came to see if there were any rupees or comfits in Hungní’s house, and they found none at all, for Hungní had hidden the rupees and thrown away the comfits. “There,” said they to Sachúlí, “where are your rupees? where are your comfits? What a liar you are! as if it ever rained comfits. How can you tell such stories?” And they beat him. “But it did rain comfits,” said Sachúlí, “for I ate them. It rained comfits the day my mother got the rupees.”

Now the Rájá who had lost his camel sent round the crier with his drum to find his camel and his money-bags. “Whoever has found a camel carrying money-bags and brings it and the money back to the Rájá, will get a great many rupees,” cried the crier. “Oh!” says Sachúlí, “I know where the money is. One day I went out and I found a stray camel, and he had sacks of rupees on his back, and I took him home to my mother, and she took the sacks off his back and sent the camel away.” So the crier went to find the rupees, and the people in the bazar went with him. But Hungní had hidden the rupees so carefully that, though they hunted all over her house, they could find none, and they beat Sachúlí, and told him he was a liar. “I am not telling lies,” said Sachúlí. “My mother took the rupees the day it rained comfits on our house.” So they beat him again, and they went away. Then Hungní beat Sachúlí, and said, “What a bad boy you are! trying to get me beaten and put into prison, telling every one about the rupees. Go away; I don’t want you any more, such a bad boy as you are! go away and die.” He said, “Very well, mother; give me some bread, and I’ll go.”

Sachúlí set off and took an axe with him. “How shall I kill myself?” said he. So he climbed up a tree and sat out on a long branch, and began cutting off the branch between himself and the tree on which he was sitting. “What are you doing up there?” said a man who came by. “You’ll die if you cut that branch off.” “What do you say?” cries Sachúlí, jumping down on the man, and seizing his hand. “When shall I die?” “How can I tell? Let me go.” “I won’t let you go till you tell me when I shall die.” And at last the man said, “When you find a scarlet thread on your jacket, then you will die.”

Sachúlí went off to the bazar, and sat down by some tailors, and one of the tailors, in throwing away their shreds of cloth, threw a scarlet thread on Sachúlí’s coat. “Oh,” said Sachúlí, when he saw the thread, “now I shall die!” “How do you know that?” said the tailors. “A man told me that when I found a scarlet thread on my jacket, I should die,” said Sachúlí; and the tailors all laughed at him and made fun of him, but he went off into the jungle and dug his grave with his axe, and lay down in it. In the night a sepoy came by with a large jar of ghee on his head. “How heavy this jar is,” said the sepoy. “Is there no cooly that will come and carry my ghee home for me? I would give him four pice for his trouble.” Up jumped Sachúlí out of his grave. “I’ll carry it for you,” said he. “Who are you?” said the sepoy, much frightened. “Oh, I am a man who is dead,” said Sachúlí, “and I am tired of lying here. I can’t lie here any more.” “Well,” said the sepoy, very much frightened, “you may carry my ghee.” So Sachúlí put the jar on his head, and he went on, with the sepoy following. “Now,” said Sachúlí, “with these four pice I will buy a hen, and I will sell the hen and her eggs, and with the money I get for them I will buy a goat; and then I will sell the goat and her milk and her hide and buy a cow, and I will sell her milk; and then I will marry a wife, and then I shall have some children, and they will say to me, ‘Father, will you have some rice?’ and I will say, ‘No, I won’t have any rice.'” And as he said, “No, I won’t have any rice,” he shook his head, and down came the jar of ghee, and the jar was smashed, and the ghee spilled. “Oh, dear! what have you done?” cried the sepoy. “Why did you shake your head?” “Because my children asked me to have some rice, and I did not want any, so I shook my head,” said Sachúlí. “Oh,” said the sepoy, “he is an utter idiot.” And the sepoy went home, and Sachúlí went back to his mother. “Why have you come back?” said she. “I have been dead twelve years,” said Sachúlí. “What lies you tell!” said she. “You have only been away a few days. Be off! I don’t want any liars here.”

Sachúlí asked her to give him two flour-cakes, which she did, and he went off to the jungle, and it was night. Five fairies lived in this jungle, and as Sachúlí went along, he broke his flour-cakes into five pieces, and said, “Now I’ll eat one, then the second, then the third, then the fourth, and then the fifth.” And the fairies heard him and were afraid, and said to each other, “What shall we do? Here is this man, and he is going to eat us all up. What shall we do to save ourselves? We will give him something.” So they went out all five, and said to Sachúlí, “If only you won’t eat us, we will give you a present.” Now Sachúlí did not know there were fairies in this jungle. “What will you give me?” said Sachúlí. “We will give you a cooking-pot. When you want anything to eat, all you have to do is to ask the pot for it, and you will get it.” Sachúlí took the pot and went off to the bazar. He stopped at a cook-shop, and asked for some pilau. “Pilau? There’s no pilau here,” said the shopman. “Well,” said Sachúlí, “I have a cooking-pot here, and I have only to ask it for any dish I want, and I get it at once.” “What nonsense!” said the man. “Just see,” said Sachúlí; and he said to the cooking-pot, “I want some pilau,” and immediately the pot was full of pilau, and all the people in the shop set to work to help him to eat it up, it was so good. “Oh,” thought the cook, “I must have that pot,” so he gave Sachúlí a sleepy drink. Then Sachúlí went to sleep, and while he slept the cook stole the fairy cooking-pot, and put a common cooking-pot in its place. Sachúlí went home with the cook’s pot, and said, “Mother, I have brought home a cooking-pot. If you ask it for any food you want, you will get it.” “Nonsense,” said Hungní; “what lies you are telling!” “It is quite true, mother; only see,” and he asked the pot for different dishes, but none came. Hungní was furious. “Go away,” she said. “Why do you come back to me? I want no liars here.” “Give me five flour-cakes and I will go,” said her son. So she baked the bread for him, and he set off for the jungle where he had met the five fairies, and as he went along he said, “I will eat one, and I will eat two, and I will eat three, and I will eat four, and I will eat five.” The five fairies heard him, and were terrified. “Here is this bad man again,” said they, “and he will eat us all five. Oh, what shall we do? Let us give him a present.” So they went to Sachúlí, and said, “Here is a box for you. Whenever you want any clothes you have only to tell this box, and it will give them to you; take it, and don’t eat us.” So he took the box and went to the bazar, and he stopped at the cook-shop again, and asked the cook for a red silk dress, and a pair of long black silk trousers, and a blue silk turban, and a pair of red shoes, and the cook laughed and asked how he should have such beautiful things. “Well,” said Sachúlí, “here is a box; when I ask it for the dress and trousers, and turban and shoes, I shall get them.” So the cook laughed at him. “Just see,” said Sachúlí, and he said, “Box, give me a red silk dress and a pair of long black silk trousers, and a blue silk turban, and red shoes,” and there they were at once. And the cook was delighted, and said to himself, “I will have that box,” and he gave Sachúlí a good dinner and a sleepy drink, and Sachúlí fell fast asleep. While he slept the cook came and stole the fairy box, and put a common box in its place. In the morning Sachúlí went home to his mother and said, “Mother, I’ve brought you a box. You have only to ask it for any clothes you may want, and you will get them.” “Nonsense,” said his mother, “don’t tell me such lies.” “Only see, mother; I am telling you truth,” said he. He asked the box for coats and all sorts of things–no; he got nothing. His mother was very angry, and said, “You liar! you naughty boy! Go away and don’t come back any more.” And she broke the box to pieces, and threw the bits away. “Well, mother, bake me some flour-cakes.” So she baked him the cakes and gave them to him, and sent him away. He went off to the fairies’ jungle, and as he went he said, “Now I’ll eat one, then two, then three, then four, then five.” The five fairies were very frightened. “Here is this man come back to eat us all five. Let us give him a present.” So they went to him and gave him a rope and stick, and said, “Only say to this rope, ‘Bind that man,’ and he will be tied up at once; and to this stick, ‘Beat that man,’ and the stick will beat him.” Sachúlí was very glad to get these things, for he guessed what had happened to his cooking-pot and box. So he went to the bazar, and at the cook-shop he said, “Rope, bind all these men that are here!” and the cook and every one in the shop were tied up instantly. Then Sachúlí said, “Stick, beat these men!” and the stick began to beat them. “Oh, stop, stop beating us, and untie, and I’ll give you your pot and your box!” cried the cook. “No, I won’t stop beating you, and I won’t untie you till I have my pot and my box.” And the cook gave them both to him, and he untied the rope. Then Sachúlí went home, and when his mother saw him, she was very angry, but he showed her the box and the cooking-pot, and she saw he had told her the truth. So she sent for the doctor, and he declared Sachúlí was wise and not silly, and he and Hungní found a wife for Sachúlí, and made a grand wedding for him, and they lived happily ever after.


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 Voracious Frog

A rat and a frog cooperated to prepare dinner, but the mischievous frog repeatedly ate the meals while the rat bathed, blaming a “big dog.” Finally, the frog ate the rat and later consumed others, including a baker and a groom. A barber, noticing the frog’s bloated appearance, cut him open, freeing everyone, including the rat. The frog met his end, ending his mischief.

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


► Themes of the story

Cunning and Deception: The frog repeatedly deceives the rat by consuming their shared meals and fabricating stories about a “big dog” to cover his actions.

Trickster: The frog embodies the trickster archetype, using his wits to manipulate and consume others, including the rat, a baker, and a groom.

Good vs. Evil: The narrative contrasts the malevolent actions of the voracious frog against the innocence of his victims, highlighting the struggle between harmful deceit and unsuspecting goodness.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people


Told by Dunkní

There were a rat and a frog. And the rat said to the frog, “Go and get me some sticks, while I go and get some flour and milk.” So the frog went out far into the jungle and brought home plenty of sticks, and the rat went out and brought home flour and milk for their dinner. Then she cooked the dinner, and when it was cooked she said to the frog, “Now, you sit here while I go to bathe, and take care of the food so that no one may come and eat it up.” Then the rat went to take her bath, and as soon as she had gone the frog made haste and ate up the dinner quickly, and went away.

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When the rat came back she found no dinner, and she could not find the frog. So she went out to look for him, calling to him as loudly as she could, and she saw him in the distance, and overtook him. “Why have you eaten my dinner? Why did you go away?” said the rat. Said the frog, “Oh, dear! it was not I that ate your dinner, but a huge dog that came; and I was only a tiny, tiny thing, and he was a great big dog, and so he frightened me, and I ran away.” “Very well,” said the rat; “go and fetch me more sticks while I go for flour and milk.” So the frog went out far into the jungle and brought back plenty of sticks. And the rat went to fetch flour and milk. Then she lit the fire and cooked the dinner, and told the frog to take care of the dinner while she went to bathe. As soon as she had gone, the frog ate up all the dinner, and went away and hid himself. When the rat came back she saw no frog, no dinner. She went away into the jungle and called to him, and the frog answered from behind a tree, “Here I am, here I am.” The rat went to him and said, “Why did you eat my dinner?” “I didn’t,” said the frog. “It was a great big dog ate the dinner, and he wanted to eat me too, and so I ran away.” The rat said, “Very well. Go and fetch me some more sticks, and I will go for flour and milk.” Then she cooked the dinner again and went to bathe. The frog ate up all the dinner, and went away and hid himself. When the rat returned she saw no dinner, no frog. So she went far into the jungle, found the frog, and told him that it was he that had eaten the dinner. And the frog said, “No,” and the rat said, “Yes.” And the frog said, “If you say that again, I will eat you up.” “All right,” says the rat, “eat me up.” So he ate her up and sat behind a tree, and the baker came past. The frog called out, “Baker, come here! come here! Give me some bread.” The baker looked about everywhere, could not see anybody, could not think who was calling him. At last he saw the frog sitting behind a tree. “Give me some bread,” says the frog. The man said, “No, I won’t give you any bread. I am a great big man, and you are only a little frog, and you have no money.” “Yes, I have money. I will give you some pice, and you will give me some bread.” But the man said, “No, I won’t.” “Well,” said the frog, “if you won’t give me bread, I will eat you up first, and then I will eat up your bread.” So he ate up the man, and then ate up his bread. Presently a man with oranges and lemons passed by. The frog called to him, “Come here! come here!” The man was very much afraid. He didn’t know who had called him. Then he saw the frog, and the frog said, “Give me some lemons.” The man wouldn’t, and said, “No.” “Very well,” says the frog, “if you won’t, I’ll eat you up.” So he ate up the man with his lemons and oranges. Presently a horse and his groom went by. The frog says, “Please give me a ride, and I will give you some money.” “No,” said the horse, “I won’t let you ride on me. You are like a monkey,–very little–I won’t let you ride on my back.” The frog said, “If you won’t, I’ll eat you up.” Then the frog ate him up, and his groom too. Then a barber passed by. “Come and shave me,” says the frog. “Good,” says the barber, “I’ll come and shave you.” So he shaved him, and he thought the frog looked very fat, and so as he was shaving him he suddenly made a cut in his stomach. Out jumped the rat with her flour and milk–the baker with his bread–the lemon-seller with his oranges and lemons–the horse and his groom. And the barber ran away home. And the frog died.


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The Jackal and the Kite

A she-jackal and a she-kite, neighbors on a tree, sought children through fasting. The kite sincerely worshipped and bore seven sons, while the jackal deceitfully feigned fasting and remained childless. Consumed by jealousy, the jackal repeatedly harmed the kite’s sons, but God revived them each time. Angered by the jackal’s actions, God cursed her, while the kite and her sons thrived happily ever after.

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


► Themes of the story

Good vs. Evil: The narrative contrasts the virtuous behavior of the kite, who sincerely fasts and worships, against the deceitful and malicious actions of the jackal, who feigns fasting and harms the kite’s children.

Cunning and Deception: The jackal employs deceit by pretending to fast and later by harming the kite’s children under the guise of friendship.

Divine Intervention: God intervenes to revive the kite’s children each time the jackal kills them, showcasing a higher power influencing mortal affairs.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people


Told by Dunkní

There was once a she-jackal and a she-kite. They lived in the same tree; the jackal at the bottom of the tree, and the kite at the top. Neither had any children. One day the kite said to the jackal, “Let us go and worship God, and fast, and then he will give us children.” So the jackal said, “Very good.” That day the kite ate nothing, nor that night; but the jackal at night brought a dead animal, and was sitting eating it quietly under the tree. By-and-by the kite heard her crunching the bones, instead of fasting. “What have you got there,” said the kite, “that you are making such a noise?” “Nothing,” said the jackal; “it is only my own bones that rattle inside my body whenever I move.”

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The kite went to sleep again, and took no more notice of the jackal. Next morning the kite ate some food in the name of God. That night again the jackal brought a dead animal. The kite called out, “What are you crunching there? Why are you making that noise? I am sure you have something to eat.” The jackal said, “Oh, no! It is only my own bones rattling in my body.” So the kite went to sleep again.

Some time after, the kite had seven little boys–real little boys–but the jackal had none, because she had not fasted. A year after that the kite went and worshipped God, asking Him to take care of her children. One day–it was their great day–the kite set out seven plates. On one she put cocoa-nuts, on another cucumbers, on a third rice, on a fourth plantains, and so on. Then she gave a plate to each of her seven sons, and told them to take the plates to their aunt the jackal. So they took the seven plates, and carried them to their aunt, crying out, “Aunty, aunty, look here! Mamma has sent you these things.” The jackal took the plates, and cut off the heads of the seven boys, and their hands, and their feet, and their noses, and their ears, and took out their eyes. Then she laid their heads in one plate, and their eyes in another, and their noses in a third, and their ears in a fourth, and their hands in a fifth, and their feet in a sixth, and their trunks in the seventh, and then she covered all the plates over. Then she took the plates to the kite, and called out, “Here! I have brought you something in return. You sent me a present, and I bring you a present.” Now the poor kite thought the jackal had killed all her seven children, so she cried out, “Oh, it’s too dark now to see what you have brought. Put the plates down in my tree.” The jackal put the plates down and went home. Then God made the boys alive again, and they came running to their mother, quite well. And instead of the heads and eyes, and noses and ears, and hands and feet, and trunks, there were again on the plates cocoa-nuts and cucumbers, and plantains and rice, and so on.

Now the jackal got hold of the boys again. And this time she killed them, and cooked them and ate them; and again God brought them to life. Well, the jackal was very much astonished to see the boys alive, and she got angry, and said to the kite, “I will take your seven sons and throw them into the water, and they will be drowned.” “Very well,” said the kite, “take them. I don’t mind. God will take care of them.” The jackal took them and threw them into the water, and left them to die, while the kite looked on without crying. And again God made them alive, and the jackal was so surprised. “Why,” said she, “I put these children into the water, and left them to drown. And here they are alive!” Then God got very angry with the jackal, and said to her, “Go out of this village. And wherever you go, men will try to shoot you, and you shall always be afraid of them.” So the jackal had to go away; and the kite and her children lived very happily ever afterwards.


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The Cat Which Could Not Be Killed

A dog repeatedly tries to harm a resilient cat who remains unhurt despite his efforts and mockingly dances away each time. Seeking help from various animals and even a man, the dog’s allies fail to harm the clever cat, often suffering in return. Frustrated and defeated, the dog ultimately dies in despair, while the unscathed and victorious cat rejoices with her friends.

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


► Themes of the story

Cunning and Deception: The cat consistently outsmarts the dog and other animals, using her wit to evade harm and turn situations to her advantage.

Moral Lessons: The narrative imparts lessons on the futility of malice and the virtue of cleverness in overcoming adversity.

Tragic Flaw: The dog’s persistent aggression and inability to recognize the cat’s superiority lead to his ultimate demise, illustrating the consequences of hubris.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people


Told by Dunkní at Simla, July 26th, 1876

There were once a dog and a cat, who were always quarrelling. The dog used to beat the cat, but he never could hurt her. She would only dance about and cry, “You never hurt me, you never hurt me! I had a pain in my shoulder, but now it is all gone away.” So the dog went to a mainá [a kind of starling] and said, “What shall I do to hurt this cat? I beat her and I bite her, and yet I can’t hurt her. I am such a big dog and she is rather a big cat, yet if I beat her I don’t hurt her, but if she beats me she hurts me so much.” The mainá said, “Bite her mouth very, very hard, and then you’ll hurt her.” “Oh, no,” said the cat, who had just come up, laughing; “you won’t hurt me at all.”

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The dog bit her mouth as hard as he could. “Oh, you don’t hurt me,” said the cat, dancing about. So the dog went again to the mainá and said, “What shall I do?” “Bite her ears,” said the mainá. So the dog bit the cat’s ears, but she danced about and said, “Oh, you did not hurt me; now I can put earrings in my ears.” So she put in earrings.

The dog went to the elephant. “Can you kill this cat? she worries me so every day.” “Oh, yes,” said the elephant, “of course I can kill her. She is so little and I am so big.” Then the elephant came and took her up with his trunk, and threw her a long way. Up she jumped at once and danced about, saying, “You did not hurt me one bit. I had a pain, but now I am quite well.” Then the elephant got cross and said, “I’ll teach you to dance in another way than that,” and he took the cat and laid her on the ground and put his great foot on her. But she was not hurt at all. She danced about and said, “You did not hurt me one bit, not one bit,” and she dug her claws into the elephant’s trunk. The elephant ran away screaming, and he told the dog, “You had better beware of that cat. She belongs to the tiger tribe.” The dog felt very angry with the cat. “What shall I do,” said he, “to kill this cat?” And he bit her nose so hard that it bled. But she laughed at him. “Now I can put a ring in my nose,” said she. He got furious. “I’ll bite her tail in half,” said he. So he bit her tail in half, and yet he did not hurt her.

He then went to a leopard. “If you can kill this cat I will give you anything you want.” “Very well, I’ll kill her,” said the leopard. And they went together to the cat. “Stop,” said the cat to the leopard; “I want to speak to you first. I’ll give you something to eat, and then I’ll tell you what I want to say.” And then she ran off ever so far, and after she had run a mile she stopped and danced, calling out, “Oh! I’ll give you nothing to eat; you could not kill me.” The leopard went away very cross, and saying, “What a clever cat that is.”

The dog next went to a man, and said, “Can you kill this cat, she worries me so?” “Of course I can,” said the man; “I’ll stick this knife into her stomach.” And he stuck his knife into the cat’s stomach, but the cat jumped up, and her stomach closed, and the man went home.

And the dog went to a bear. “Can you kill this cat? I can’t.” “I’ll kill her,” said the bear; so he stuck all his claws into the cat, but he didn’t hurt her; and she stuck her claws into the bear’s nose so deep that he died immediately.

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


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The Cat and the Dog

A dog and a cat argue over caste and seek a jackal’s judgment. The jackal declares the dog superior, angering the cat. In the jungle, they encounter a tiger with a thorn in his paw. A man removes it, but the tiger breaks his promise not to harm him. The jackal tricks the tiger into a bag, and with help, the tiger is killed, resolving the conflict.

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


► Themes of the story

Cunning and Deception: The jackal’s judgment and the subsequent events involve cleverness and trickery, especially in dealing with the tiger.

Good vs. Evil: The narrative contrasts the benevolent actions of the man who removes the thorn from the tiger’s paw with the tiger’s malevolent betrayal.

Revenge and Justice: The jackal orchestrates a plan to punish the tiger for breaking his promise, leading to the tiger’s demise and the restoration of order.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people


Told by Dunkní at Simla, July 26th, 1876

Now all cats are aunts to the tigers, and the cat in this story was the aunt of the tiger in this story. She was his mother’s sister. When the tiger’s mother was dying, she called the cat to her, and taking her paw she said, “When I am dead you must take care of my child.” The cat answered, “Very well,” and then the tiger’s mother died. The tiger said to the cat, “Aunt, I am very hungry. Go and fetch some fire. When I go to ask men for fire they are afraid of me, and run away from me, and won’t give me any. But you are such a little creature that men are not afraid of you, and so they will give you fire, and then you must bring it to me.” So the cat said, “Very good,” and off she started, and went into a house where some men were eating their dinner: they had thrown away the bones, and the cat began to eat them.

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This house was very near the place where the tiger lived, and on peeping round the corner he saw his aunt eating the bones. “Oh,” said he, “I sent my aunt to fetch fire that I might cook my dinner as I am very hungry, and there she sits eating the bones, and never thinks of me.” So the tiger called out, “Aunt, I sent you to fetch fire, and there you sit eating bones and leave me hungry! If ever you come near me again, I will kill you at once.” So the cat ran away screaming, “I will never go near the tiger again, for he will kill me!” This is why all cats are so afraid of tigers, or of anything like a tiger. And this is why, when the cat in the story saw the tiger, her nephew, fighting with the man, she ran away as hard as she could.

The Story

There were once a dog and a cat. It was a very rainy day, and some men were eating their dinner inside their house. The cat sat inside too, eating her dinner, and the dog sat on the door-step. The cat called out to the dog, “I am a high-caste person, and you are a very low-caste person.” “Oh,” said the dog, “not at all. I am the high-caste person and you are of very low caste. You eat all the men’s dinner up, and snatch the food from their hands just as they are putting it into their mouths. And you scratch them, and they beat you; while I sit away from them, and so they don’t beat me. And if they give me any dinner I’ll eat it; but if they don’t, I won’t.” “Oh,” says the cat, “not a bit of it. I eat nice clean food; but you eat nasty, dirty food, which the men have thrown away.” “No,” said the dog, “I am high caste and you are very low caste, for if I gave you a slap you would tumble down directly.” “No, no!” said the cat. And they went on disputing and began to fight, till the dog said, “Very well, let us go to the wise jackal and ask him which of us is the better.” “Good,” said the cat. So they went to the jackal and asked him. Said the cat, “I am of the higher caste, and the dog is of the lower caste.” “No,” said the jackal, “the dog is of the higher caste.” The cat said, “No,” and the jackal said, “Yes,” and they began to fight. Then the jackal and the dog proposed to go and ask a great big beast who lived in the jungle and was like a tiger. But the cat said, “I cannot go near a tiger or anything like one.” So then they said, “When we come near the beast, you can remain behind, and we will go on and speak to him.” So they ran into the jungle, where there was a tiger who had been lying on the ground with a great thorn sticking in his foot. When his aunt, the cat, saw him, she scampered off, for she was dreadfully frightened.

The thorn had given the tiger great pain; for a long while he could get no one to take it out, so had lain there for days. At last he had seen a man passing by, to whom he called and said, “Take out this thorn, and I promise I won’t eat you.” But the man refused through fear, saying, “No, I won’t, for you will eat me.” Three times the tiger had promised not to eat him; so at last the man took out the thorn. Then the tiger sprang up and said, “Now I will eat you, for I am very hungry.” “Oh, no, no!” said the man. “What a liar you are! You promised not to eat me if I would take the thorn out of your foot, and now that I have done so you say you will eat me.” And they began to fight, and the man said, “If you won’t eat me, I will bring you a cow and a goat.” But the tiger refused, saying, “No, I won’t eat them; I will eat you.”

At this moment the jackal and the dog came up. And the jackal asked, “What is the matter? why are you fighting?” So then the man told him why they were fighting; and the jackal said to the tiger, “I will tell you a good way of eating the man. Go and fetch a big bag.” So the tiger went and fetched the bag, and brought it to the jackal. Then the jackal said, “Get inside the bag, and leave its mouth open and I’ll throw the man in to you.” So the tiger got inside the bag, and the jackal, the dog and the man quickly tied it up as tight as they could. Then they began to beat the tiger with all their might until at last they killed him. Then the man went home, and the jackal went home, and the dog went home.


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The Pomegranate King

The Pomegranate King mourns his wife’s death and cares for their two children. He remarries, but the new queen mistreats the children and tries to kill them. Through divine intervention, the children are repeatedly saved, eventually becoming fruits on a magical tree. The king discovers the truth, punishes the queen, and reunites with his wife, who returns in bird form before regaining her human shape. They live happily ever after.

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


► Themes of the story

Transformation: The children undergo physical changes, becoming fruits on a magical tree, and the mother transforms from a bird back into her human form, symbolizing change and renewal.

Revenge and Justice: The king discovers the truth about the queen’s malice, leading to her punishment and the restoration of order within the family.

Resurrection: The mother’s return from death, first as a bird and then regaining her human form, signifies a literal resurrection, bringing the family back together.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people


Told by Dunkní at Simla, 26th July, 1876

There was once a Mahárájá, called the Anárbásá, or Pomegranate King; and a Mahárání called the Gulíanár, or Pomegranate-flower. The Mahárání died leaving two children: a little girl of four or five years old, and a little boy of three. The Mahárájá was very sorry when she died, for he loved her dearly. He was exceedingly fond of his two children, and got for them two servants: a man to cook their dinner, and an ayah to take care of them. He also had them taught to read and write. Soon after his wife’s death the neighbouring Rájá’s daughter’s husband died, and she said if any other Rájá would marry her, she would be quite willing to marry him, and she also said she would like very much to marry the Pomegranate Rájá.

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So her father went to see the Pomegranate Rájá, and told him that his daughter wished to marry him. “Oh,” said the Pomegranate Rájá, “I do not want to marry again, for if I do, the woman I marry will be sure to be unkind to my two children. She will not take care of them. She will not pet them and comfort them when they are unhappy.” “Oh,” said the other Rájá, “my daughter will be very good to them, I assure you.” “Very well,” said the Mahárájá, “I will marry her.” So they were married.

For two or three months everything went on well, but then the new Rání, who was called the Sunkásí Mahárání, began to beat the poor children, and to scold their servants. One day she gave the boy such a hard blow on his cheek that it swelled. When the Mahárájá came out of his office to get his tiffin, he saw the boy’s swollen face, and, calling the two servants, he said, “Who did this? how did my boy get hurt?” They said, “The Rání gave him such a hard blow on his cheek that it swelled, and she gets very angry with us if we say anything about her ill-treatment of the children, or how she scolds us.” The Mahárájá was exceedingly angry with his wife for this, and said to her, “I never beat my children. Why should you beat them? If you beat them I will send you away.” And he went off to his office in a great rage. The Rání was very angry. So she told the little girl to go with the ayah to the bazar. The ayah and the little girl set off, never suspecting any evil. As soon as they had gone, the Rání took the little boy and told him she would kill him. The boy went down on his knees and begged her to spare his life. But she said, “No; your father is always quarrelling with me, beating me, and scolding me, all through your fault.” The boy begged and prayed again, saying he would never be naughty any more. The Rání shook her head, and taking a large knife she cut off his head. She then cut him up and made him into a curry. She then buried his head, and his nails, and his feet in the ground, and she covered them well with earth, and stamped the ground well down so that no one should notice it had been disturbed. When the Pomegranate Rájá came home to his dinner, she put the curry and some rice on the table before him; but the Rájá, seeing his boy was not there, would not eat. He went and looked everywhere for his son, crying very much, and the little girl cried very much too, for she loved her brother dearly. After they had hunted for him for some time, the little boy appeared. His father embraced him. “Where have you been?” said he. “I cannot eat my dinner without you.” The little boy said, “Oh, I was in the jungle playing with other boys.” They then sat down to dinner, and the curry changed into a kid curry. The Rání was greatly astonished when she saw the boy. She said to herself, “I cut his head off; I cut him into little pieces, and I made him into a curry, and yet he is alive!” She then went into the garden to see if his head, and nails, and feet were in the hole where she had buried them. But they were not there; it was quite empty. She then called a sepoy, and said to him, “If you will take two children into the jungle and kill them, I will give you as much money as you like.” “All right,” said the sepoy. She then brought the children, and told him to take them to the jungle. So he took them away to the jungle, but he had not the heart to kill them, for they were exceedingly beautiful, and he left them in the jungle near their dead mother’s grave. Then he returned to the Rání, saying he had done as she wished, and she gave him as much money as he wanted.

The poor Pomegranate Rájá was very unhappy when he saw his children were not in the palace, and that they could not be found. He asked his Rání where they were, but she said she did not know; they had gone out to play and had never returned. From the day he lost his children the Pomegranate Rájá became melancholy. He did not love the Rání any more; he hated her.

Meanwhile the children lived in a little house built close to their mother’s grave. God had given her life again that she might take care of them. But they did not know she was their mother; they thought she was another woman sent to take care of them. God sent also a man to teach them. Somehow or other the Rání Sunkásí heard they were still alive in the jungle. She did not know how she could kill them. So at last she pretended she was very ill, and she said to the Rájá, “The doctor says that in the jungle there are two children, and he says if you will have them killed, and will bring their livers for me to stand on when I bathe, then I shall get well.” The Rájá sent a second sepoy to kill the children, and this man killed them and brought their livers to the Rání. She stood on them while bathing, and then said she was quite well. She then threw the livers into the garden, and during the night a tree grew up there with two large beautiful flowers on it. Next morning the Rání looked out and said, “I will gather those flowers to-day.” Every day she said she would gather them, and every day she forgot. At last one day she said, “Every day I forget to gather those flowers, but to-day I really will do so,” and she sent her servant to pluck them. So he went out, and, just as he was going to gather them, the flowers flew up just out of his reach. Then the Rání went down, and when she was going to pick them they flew up so high that they could not be seen. Every day she tried to gather them, and every day they went high up, and came back again to the tree as soon as she had gone. Then the flowers disappeared and two large fruits came in their stead. The Rání looked out of her window: “Oh, what delicious fruits! I’ll eat them all myself. I won’t give a bit to anybody, and I’ll eat them by myself quite quietly.” She went down to the garden, but they flew high up into the sky, and then they came down again. So this went on, day after day, until she got so cross she ordered the tree to be cut down. But it was of no use. The tree was cut down, but the fruits flew high up into the sky, and in the night the tree grew up again and the fruits came back again to it. And so this went on for many days. Every day she cut down the tree, and every night it grew up again, but she could never get the fruits. At last she became very angry, and had the tree hewn into tiny bits and all the bits thrown away, but still the tree grew again in the night, and in the morning the fruits were hanging on it. So she went to the Rájá and told him that in the garden was a tree with two fruits, and every time she tried to get them, the fruits went up into the air. She had had the tree cut down ever so many times, and it always grew up again in the night and the fruits returned to it. “Why cannot you leave the tree alone?” said the Rájá. “But I should like to see if what you say is true.” So the Rájá and the Rání went down to the garden, and the Rání tried to get the fruits, but she could not, for they went right up into the air.

That evening the Rájá went alone to the garden to gather the fruits, and the fruits of themselves fell into his hand. He took them into his room, and putting them on a little table close to his bed, he lay down to sleep. As soon as he was in bed a little voice inside one of the fruits said, “Brother;” and a little voice in the other fruit said, “Sister, speak more gently. To-morrow the Rájá will break open the fruits, and if the Rání finds us she will kill us. Three times has God made us alive again, but if we die a fourth time he will bring us to life no more.” The Rájá listened and said, “I will break them open in a little while.” Then he went to sleep, and after a little he woke and said, “A little while longer,” and went to sleep again. Several times he woke up and said, “I will break the fruits open in a little while,” and went to sleep. At last he took a knife and began cutting the fruits open very fast, and the little boy cried, “Gently, gently, father; you hurt us!” So then the Rájá cut more gently, and he stopped to ask, “Are you hurt?” and they said, “No.” And then he cut again and asked, “Are you hurt?” and they said, “No.” And a third time he asked, “Are you hurt?” and they answered, “No.” Then the fruits broke open and his two children jumped out. They rushed into their father’s arms, and he clasped them tight, and they cried softly, that the Rání might not hear.

He shut his room up close, and fed and dressed his children, and then went out of the room, locking the door behind him. He had a little wooden house built that could easily catch fire, and as soon as it was ready he went to the Rání and said, “Will you go into a little house I have made ready for you while your room is getting repaired?” “All right,” said the Rání; so she went into the little house, and that night a man set it on fire, and the Rání and everything in it was burnt up. Then the Pomegranate Rájá took her bones, put them into a tin box, and sent them as a present to her mother. “Oh,” said the mother, “my daughter has married the Pomegranate Mahárájá, and so she sends me some delicious food.” When she opened the box, to her horror she found only bones! Then she wrote to the Mahárájá, “Of what use are bones?” The Mahárájá wrote back, “They are your bones; they belong to you, for they are your daughter’s bones. She ill-treated and killed my children, and so I had her burnt.”

The Pomegranate Rájá and his children lived very happily for some time, and their dead mother, the Gulíanár Rání, having a wish to see her husband and her children, prayed to God to let her go and visit them. God said she could go, but not in her human shape, so he changed her into a beautiful bird, and put a pin in her head, and said, “As soon as the pin is pulled out you will become a woman again.” She flew to the palace where the Mahárájá lived, and there were great trees about the palace. On one of these she perched at night. The doorkeeper was lying near it. She called out, “Doorkeeper! doorkeeper!” and he answered, “What is it? Who is it?” And she asked, “Is the Rájá well?” and the doorkeeper said, “Yes.” “Are the children well?” and he said, “Yes.” “And all the servants, and camels, and horses?” “Yes.” “Are you well?” “Yes.” “Have you had plenty of food?” “Yes.” “What a great donkey your Mahárájá is!” And then she began to cry very much, and pearls fell from her eyes as she cried. Then she began to laugh very much, and great big rubies fell from her beak as she laughed. The next morning the doorkeeper got up and felt about, and said, “What is all this?” meaning the pearls and the rubies, for he did not know what they were. “I will keep them.” So he picked them all up and put them into a corner of his house. Every night the bird came and asked after the Mahárájá and the children and the servants, and left a great many pearls and rubies behind her. At last the doorkeeper had a whole heap of pearls and rubies.

One day a Fakír came and begged, and as the doorkeeper had no pice, or flour, or rice to give, he gave him a handful of pearls and rubies. “Well,” said the Fakír to himself, “I am sure these are pearls and rubies.” So he tied them up in his cloth. Then he went to the Rájá to beg, and the Rájá gave him a handful of rice. “What!” said the Fakír, “the great Mahárájá only gives me a handful of rice when his doorkeeper gives me pearls and rubies!” and he turned to walk away. But the Mahárájá stopped him. “What did you say?” said he, “that my doorkeeper gave you pearls and rubies?” “Yes,” said the Fakír, “your doorkeeper gave me pearls and rubies.” So the Mahárájá went to the doorkeeper’s house, and when he saw all the pearls and rubies that were there, he thought the man had stolen them from his treasury. The Mahárájá had not as many pearls and rubies as his doorkeeper had. Then turning to the doorkeeper he asked him to tell him truly where and how he had got them. “Yes, I will,” said the doorkeeper. “Every night a beautiful bird comes and asks after you, after your children, after all your elephants, horses, and servants; and then it cries, and when it cries pearls drop from its eyes; and then it laughs, and rubies fall from its beak. If you come to-night I dare say you will see it.” “All right,” said the Pomegranate Rájá.

So that night the Mahárájá pulled his bed out under the tree on which the bird always perched. At night the bird came and called out, “Doorkeeper! doorkeeper!” and the doorkeeper answered, “Yes, lord.” And the bird said, “Is your Mahárájá well?” “Yes.” “Are the children well?” “Yes.” “And all his servants, horses, and camels and elephants–are they well?” “Yes.” “Are you well?” “Yes.” “Have you had plenty of food?” “Yes.” “What a fool your Mahárájá is!” And then she cried, and the pearls came tumbling down on the Mahárájá’s eyes, and the Mahárájá opened one eye and saw what a beautiful bird it was. And then it laughed, and rubies fell from its beak on to the Mahárájá. Next morning the Mahárájá said he would give any one who would catch the bird as much money as he wanted. So he called a fisherman, and asked him to bring his net and catch the bird when it came that night. The fisherman said he would for one thousand rupees. That night the fisherman, the Mahárájá, and the doorkeeper, all waited under the tree. Soon the bird came, and asked after the Mahárájá, after his children, and all his servants and elephants, and camels and horses, and then after the doorkeeper, and then it called the Mahárájá a fool. Then it cried, and then it laughed, and just as it laughed the fisherman threw the net over the bird and caught it. Then they shut it up in an iron cage, and the next morning the Mahárájá took it out and stroked it, and said, “What a sweet little bird! what a lovely little bird!” And the Mahárájá felt something like a pin in its head, and he gave a pull, and out came the pin, and then his own dear wife, the Pomegranate-flower Rání, stood before him. The Rájá was exceedingly glad, and so were his two children. And there were great rejoicings, and they lived happily ever after.


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Phúlmati Rání, or The Flower Lady

Phúlmati Rání, a radiant princess weighing only a flower, marries Indrásan Rájá, an equally enchanting prince. Their journey unfolds with trials: betrayal by a wicked shoemaker’s wife, the Rání’s deaths and resurrections by divine intervention, and the Rájá’s regretful mistakes. Guided by magical doves, he ultimately redeems himself, recovers his wife, and ensures justice. Reunited, they return to their kingdom and live happily ever after.

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


► Themes of the story

Trials and Tribulations: Both protagonists face numerous challenges, including betrayal and separation, testing their resilience and commitment.

Cunning and Deception: The shoemaker’s wife employs deceit to harm Phúlmati Rání, introducing conflict and driving the narrative forward.

Rebirth: The literal resurrection of Phúlmati Rání signifies a new beginning, emphasizing the cyclical nature of life and redemption.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people


Told by Dunkní at Simla, July 25th, 1876.

There were once a Rájá and a Rání who had an only daughter called the Phúlmati Rání, or the Pink-rose Queen. She was so beautiful that if she went into a very dark room it was all lighted up by her beauty. On her head was the sun; on her hands, moons; and her face was covered with stars. She had hair that reached to the ground, and it was made of pure gold.

Every day after she had had her bath, her father and mother used to weigh her in a pair of scales. She only weighed one flower. She ate very, very little food.

► Continue reading…

This made her father most unhappy, and he said, “I cannot let my daughter marry any one who weighs more than one flower.” Now, God loved this girl dearly, so he went down under the ground to see if any of the fairy Rájás was fit to be the Phúlmati Rání’s husband, and he thought none of them good enough. So he went in the form of a Fakír to see the great Indrásan Rájá who ruled over all the other fairy Rájás. This Rájá was exceedingly beautiful. On his head was the sun; and on his hands, moons; and on his face, stars. God made him weigh very little. Then he said to the Rájá, “Come up with me, and we will go to the palace of the Phúlmati Rání.” God had told the Rájá that he was God and not a Fakír, for he loved the Indrásan Rájá. “Very well,” said the Indrásan Rájá. So they travelled on until they came to the Phúlmati Rání’s palace. When they arrived there they pitched a tent in her compound, and they used to walk about, and whenever they saw the Phúlmati Rání they looked at her. One day they saw her having her hair combed, so God said to the Indrásan Rájá, “Get a horse and ride where the Phúlmati Rání can see you, and if any one asks you who you are, say, ‘Oh, it’s only a poor Fakír, and I am his son. We have come to stay here a little while just to see the country. We will go away very soon.'” Well, he got a horse and rode about, and Phúlmati Rání, who was having her hair combed in the verandah, said, “I am sure that must be some Rájá; only see how beautiful he is.” And she sent one of her servants to ask him who he was. So the servant said to the Indrásan Rájá, “Who are you? why are you here? what do you want?” “Oh, it’s only a poor Fakír, and I am his son. We have just come here for a little while to see the country. We will go away very soon.” So the servants returned to the Phúlmati Rání and told her what the Indrásan Rájá had said. The Phúlmati Rání told her father about this. The next day, when the Phúlmati Rání and her father were standing in the verandah, God took a pair of scales and weighed the Indrásan Rájá in them. His weight was only that of one flower! “Oh,” said the Rájá, when he saw that, “here is the husband for the Phúlmati Rání!” The next day, after the Phúlmati Rání had had her bath, her father took her and weighed her, and he also weighed the Indrásan Rájá. And they were each the same weight. Each weighed one flower, although the Indrásan Rájá was fat and the Phúlmati Rání thin. The next day they were married, and there was a grand wedding. God said he was too poor-looking to appear, so he bought a quantity of elephants, and camels, and horses, and cows, and sheep, and goats, and made a procession, and came to the wedding. Then he went back to heaven, but before he went he said to the Indrásan Rájá “You must stay here one whole year; then go back to your father and to your kingdom. As long as you put flowers on your ears no danger will come near you.” (This was in order that the fairies might know that he was a very great Rájá and not hurt him.) “All right,” said the Indrásan Rájá. And God went back to heaven.

So the Indrásan Rájá stayed for a whole year. Then he told the Rájá, the Phúlmati Rání’s father, that he wished to go back to his own kingdom. “All right,” said the Rájá, and he wanted to give him horses, and camels, and elephants. But the Indrásan Rájá and the Phúlmati Rání said they wanted nothing but a tent and a cooly. Well, they set out; but the Indrásan Rájá forgot to put flowers on his ears, and after some days the Indrásan Rájá was very, very tired, so he said, “We will sit down under these big trees and rest awhile. Our baggage will soon be here; it is only a little way behind.” So they sat down, and the Rájá said he felt so tired he must sleep. “Very well,” said the Rání; “lay your head in my lap and sleep.” After a while a shoemaker’s wife came by to get some water from a tank which was close to the spot where the Rájá and Rání were resting. Now, the shoemaker’s wife was very black and ugly, and she had only one eye, and she was exceedingly wicked. The Rání was very thirsty and she said to the woman, “Please give me some water, I am so thirsty.” “If you want any,” said the shoemaker’s wife, “come to the tank and get it yourself.” “But I cannot,” said the Rání, “for the Rájá is sleeping in my lap.” At last the poor Rání got so very, very thirsty, she said she must have some water; so laying the Rájá’s head very gently on the ground she went to the tank. Then the wicked shoemaker’s wife, instead of giving her to drink, gave her a push and sent the beautiful Rání into the water, where she was drowned. The shoemaker’s wife then went back to the Rájá, and, taking his head on her knee, sat still until he woke. When the Rájá woke he was much frightened, and he said, “This is not my wife. My wife was not black, and she had two eyes.” The poor Rájá felt very unhappy. He said, “I am sure something has happened to my wife.” He went to the tank, and he saw flowers floating on the water and he caught them, and as he caught them his own true wife stood before him.

They travelled on till they came to a little house. The shoemaker’s wife went with them. They went into the house and laid themselves down to sleep, and the Rájá laid beside him the flowers he had found floating in the tank. The Rání’s life was in the flowers. As soon as the Rájá and Rání were asleep, the shoemaker’s wife took the flowers, broke them into little bits, and burnt them. The Rání died immediately, for the second time. Then the poor Rájá, feeling very lonely and unhappy, travelled on to his kingdom, and the shoemaker’s wife went after him. God brought the Phúlmati Rání to life a second time, and led her to the Indrásan Rájá’s gardener.

One day as the Indrásan Rájá was going out hunting, he passed by the gardener’s house, and saw a beautiful girl sitting in it. He thought she looked very like his wife, the Phúlmati Rání. So he went home to his father and said, “Father, I should like to be married to the girl who lives in our gardener’s house.” “All right,” said the father; “you can be married at once.” So they were married the next day.

One night the shoemaker’s wife took a ram, killed it, and put some of its blood on the Phúlmati Rání’s mouth while the Rání slept. The next morning she went to the Indrásan Rájá and said, “Whom have you married? You have married a Rakshas. Just see. She has been eating cows, and sheep, and chickens. Just come and see.” The Rájá went, and when he saw the blood on his wife’s mouth he was frightened, and he thought she was really a Rakshas. The shoemaker’s wife said to him, “If you do not cut this woman in pieces, some harm will happen to you.” So the Rájá took a knife and cut his beautiful wife into pieces. He then went away very sorrowful. The Phúlmati Rání’s arms and legs grew into four houses; her chest became a tank, and her head a house in the middle of the tank; her eyes turned into two little doves; and these five houses, the tank and the doves, were transported to the jungle. No one knew this. The little doves lived in the house that stood in the middle of the tank. The other four houses stood round the tank.

One day when the Indrásan Rájá was hunting by himself in the jungle he was very tired, and he saw the house in the tank. So he said, “I will go into that house to rest a little while, and to-morrow I will return home to my father.” So, tying his horse outside, he went into the house and lay down to sleep. By and by, the two little birds came and perched on the roof above his head. They began to talk, and the Rájá listened. The little husband-dove said to his wife, “This is the man who cut his wife to pieces.” And then he told her how the Indrásan Rájá had married the beautiful Phúlmati Rání, who weighed only one flower, and how the shoemaker’s wife had drowned her; how God had brought her to life again; how the shoemaker’s wife had burned her; and last of all, how the Rájá himself had cut her to pieces. “And cannot the Rájá find her again?” said the little wife-dove. “Oh, yes, he can,” said her husband, “but he does not know how to do so.” “But do tell me how he can find her,” said the little wife-dove. “Well,” said her husband, “every night, at twelve o’clock, the Rání and her servants come to bathe in the tank. Her servants wear yellow dresses, but she wears a red one. Now, if the Rájá could get all their dresses, every one, when they lay them down and go into the tank to bathe, and throw away all the yellow dresses one by one, keeping only the red one, he would recover his wife.” The Rájá heard all these things, and at midnight the Rání and her servants came to bathe. The Rájá lay very quiet, and after they all had taken off their dresses and gone into the tank, he jumped up and seized every one of the dresses,–he did not leave one of them,–and ran away as hard as he could. Then each of the servants, who were only fairies, screamed out, “Give me my dress! What are you doing? why do you take it away?” Then the Rájá dropped one by one the yellow dresses and kept the red one. The fairy servants picked up the dresses, and forsook the Phúlmati Rání and ran away. The Rájá came back to her with her dress in his hand, and she said, “Oh, give me back my dress. If you keep it I shall die. Three times has God brought me to life, but he will bring me to life no more.” The Rájá fell at her feet and begged her pardon, and they were reconciled. And he gave her back her dress. Then they went home, and Indrásan Rájá had the shoemaker’s wife cut to pieces, and buried in the jungle. And they lived happily ever after.


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