Tag: 12. Prophecy and Fate

Destiny shaping characters’ lives

The King’s Son and the Wazír’s Daughter

A king and his wazír pledged to marry their future children. Years later, the prince, having become wicked, lost everything to gambling and drinking, while the wazír’s daughter lived piously. When they reunited, she revealed divine lessons through visions symbolizing their past actions. Despite her wisdom, the prince failed to reform, leading to her death and his continued downfall, ending his life in misery and regret.

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

► Themes of the story

Prophecy and Fate: The initial agreement between the king and the wazír to marry their future children sets a destined path for the prince and the wazír’s daughter.

Divine Punishment: The prince’s misfortunes can be seen as retribution for his immoral behavior.

Love and Betrayal: The relationship between the prince and the wazír’s daughter is strained by his actions, leading to a sense of betrayal and eventual tragedy.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Múniyá, March 8th, 1879

In a country there was a great king who had a wazír. One day he thought he should like to play at cards with this wazír, and he told him to go and get some for him, and then play a game with him. So the wazír brought the cards, and he and the king sat down to play. Now neither the king nor the wazír had any children; and as they were playing, the king said, “Wazír, if I have a son and you have a daughter, or if I have a daughter and you have a son, let us marry our children to each other.” To this the wazír agreed. A year after the king had a son; and when the boy was two years old, the wazír had a daughter.

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Some years passed, and the king’s son was twelve years old, and the wazír’s daughter ten. Then the king said to the wazír, “Do you remember how one day, when we were playing at cards, we agreed to marry our children to each other?” “I remember,” said the wazír. “Let us marry them now,” said the king. So they held the wedding feast; but the wazír’s little daughter remained in her father’s house because she was still so young.

As the king’s son grew older he became very wicked, and took to gambling and drinking till his father and mother died of grief. After their death he went on in the same way, gambling and drinking, until he had no money left, and had to leave the palace, and live anywhere he could in the town, wandering from house to house in a fakír’s dress, begging his bread, and sleeping wherever he found a spot on which to lie down.

Meanwhile the wazír’s daughter was living alone, for her husband had never come to fetch her as he should have done when she was old enough. Her father and mother were dead too. She had given half of the money they left her to the poor, and she lived on the other half. She spent her days in praying to God, and in reading in a holy book; and though she was so young, she was very wise and good.

One day, as the prince was roaming about in his fakír’s rags, not knowing where to find food or shelter, he remembered his wife, and thought he would go and see her. She ordered her servants to give him good food, a bath, and good clothes; “for,” she said, “we were married when we were children, though he never fetched me to his palace.” The servants did as she bade them. The prince bathed and dressed, and ate food, and he wished to stay with his wife. But she said, “No; before you stay with me you must see four sights. Go out in the jungle and walk for a whole week. Then you will come to a plain where you will see them.” So the next day he set out for the plain, and reached it in one week.

There he saw a large tank. At one corner of the tank he saw a man and a woman who had good clothes, good food, good beds, and servants to wait on them, and seemed very happy. At the second corner he saw a wretchedly poor man and his wife, who did nothing but cry and sob because they had no food to eat, no water to drink, no bed to lie on, no one to take care of them. At the third corner he saw two little fishes that were always going up and down in the air. They would shoot down close to the water, but they could not go into it or stay in it; then they would make a salaam to God, and would shoot up again into the air, but before they got very high, they had to drop down again. At the fourth corner he saw a huge demon who was heating sand in an enormous iron pot, under which he kept up a big fire.

The prince returned to his wife, and told her all he had seen. “Do you know who the happy man and woman are?” she said. “No,” he answered. “They are my father and mother,” she said. “When they were alive, I was good to them, and since their death I gave half their money to the poor; and on the other half I have lived quietly, and tried to be good. So God is pleased with them, and makes them happy.” “Is that true?” said her husband. “Quite true,” she said. “And the miserable man and woman who did nothing but cry, do you know who they are?” “No,” said the prince. “They are your father and mother. When they were alive, you gambled and drank; and they died of grief. Then you went on gambling and drinking till you had spent all their money. So now God is angry with them, and will not make them happy.” “Is that true?” said the prince. “Quite true,” she said. “And the fishes you saw were the two little children we should have had if you had taken me to your home as your wife. Now they cannot be born, for they can find no bodies in which to be born; so God has ordered them to rise and sink in the air in these fishes’ forms.” “Is that true?” asked the prince. “Quite true,” she answered. “And by God’s order the demon you saw is heating that sand in the big iron pot for you, because you are such a wicked man.”

The moment she had told all this to her husband, she died. But he did not get any better. He gambled and drank all her money away, and lived a wretched life, wandering about like a fakír till his death.

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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.

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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.

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 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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Loving Lailí

Prince Majnún, son of King Dantál, befriends the Wazír’s son and grows into a fine young man. While hunting, he unknowingly encounters Lailí, a princess destined to marry him by divine decree. A series of trials, including separation, Lailí’s transformation, and confrontations with dangers like a wicked Rájá, tests their love. Ultimately, Lailí’s courage and devotion save Majnún, leading to a joyous reunion and their happily-ever-after.

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

► Themes of the story

Prophecy and Fate: Lailí receives a divine message in her dream, foretelling her destined marriage to Prince Majnún, which drives her actions throughout the tale.

Forbidden Love: Despite societal and familial obstacles, Lailí’s unwavering love for Majnún leads her to defy conventions in pursuit of their union.

Trials and Tribulations: Both Lailí and Majnún endure numerous hardships, including prolonged separation and personal transformations, testing the strength of their love and commitment.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Dunkní

Once there was a king called King Dantál, who had a great many rupees and soldiers and horses. He had also an only son called Prince Majnún, who was a handsome boy with white teeth, red lips, blue eyes, red cheeks, red hair, and a white skin.

This boy was very fond of playing with the Wazír’s son, Husain Mahámat, in King Dantál’s garden, which was very large and full of delicious fruits, and flowers, and trees. They used to take their little knives there and cut the fruits and eat them. King Dantál had a teacher for them to teach them to read and write.

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One day, when they were grown two fine young men, Prince Majnún said to his father, “Husain Mahámat and I should like to go and hunt.” His father said they might go, so they got ready their horses and all else they wanted for their hunting, and went to the Phaláná country, hunting all the way, but they only found jackals and birds.

The Rájá of the Phaláná country was called Múnsúk Rájá, and he had a daughter named Lailí, who was very beautiful; she had brown eyes and black hair.

One night, some time before Prince Majnún came to her father’s kingdom, as she slept, God sent to her an angel in the form of a man who told her that she should marry Prince Majnún and no one else, and that this was God’s command to her. When Lailí woke she told her father of the angel’s visit to her as she slept; but her father paid no attention to her story. From that time she began repeating, “Majnún, Majnún; I want Majnún,” and would say nothing else. Even as she sat and ate her food she kept saying, “Majnún, Majnún; I want Majnún.” Her father used to get quite vexed with her. “Who is this Majnún? who ever heard of this Majnún?” he would say. “He is the man I am to marry,” said Lailí. “God has ordered me to marry no one but Majnún.” And she was half mad. Meanwhile, Majnún and Husain Mahámat came to hunt in the Phaláná country; and as they were riding about, Lailí came out on her horse to eat the air, and rode behind them. All the time she kept saying, “Majnún, Majnún; I want Majnún.” The prince heard her, and turned round. “Who is calling me?” he asked. At this Lailí looked at him, and the moment she saw him she fell deeply in love with him, and she said to herself, “I am sure that is the Prince Majnún that God says I am to marry.” And she went home to her father and said, “Father, I wish to marry the prince who has come to your kingdom; for I know he is the Prince Majnún I am to marry.” “Very well, you shall have him for your husband,” said Múnsúk Rájá. “We will ask him to-morrow.” Lailí consented to wait, although she was very impatient. As it happened, the prince left the Phaláná kingdom that night, and when Lailí heard he was gone, she went quite mad. She would not listen to a word her father, or her mother, or her servants said to her, but went off into the jungle, and wandered from jungle to jungle, till she got farther and farther away from her own country. All the time she kept saying, “Majnún, Majnún; I want Majnún;” and so she wandered about for twelve years.

At the end of the twelve years she met a fakír–he was really an angel, but she did not know this–who asked her, “Why do you always say, ‘Majnún, Majnún; I want Majnún’?” She answered, “I am the daughter of the king of the Phaláná country, and I want to find Prince Majnún; tell me where his kingdom is.” “I think you will never get there,” said the fakír, “for it is very far from hence, and you have to cross many rivers to reach it.” But Lailí said she did not care; she must see Prince Majnún. “Well,” said the fakír, “when you come to the Bhágírathí river you will see a big fish, a Rohú; and you must get him to carry you to Prince Majnún’s country, or you will never reach it.”

She went on and on, and at last she came to the Bhágírathí river. There there was a great big fish called the Rohú fish. It was yawning just as she got up to it, and she instantly jumped down its throat into its stomach. All the time she kept saying, “Majnún, Majnún.” At this the Rohú fish was greatly alarmed and swam down the river as fast as he could. By degrees he got tired and went slower, and a crow came and perched on his back, and said, “Caw, caw.” “Oh, Mr. Crow,” said the poor fish, “do see what is in my stomach that makes such a noise.” “Very well,” said the crow, “open your mouth wide, and I’ll fly down and see.” So the Rohú opened his jaws and the crow flew down, but he came up again very quickly. “You have a Rakshas in your stomach,” said the crow, and he flew away. This news did not comfort the poor Rohú, and he swam on and on till he came to Prince Majnún’s country. There he stopped. And a jackal came down to the river to drink. “Oh, jackal,” said the Rohú, “do tell me what I have inside me.” “How can I tell?” said the jackal. “I cannot see unless I go inside you.” So the Rohú opened his mouth wide, and the jackal jumped down his throat; but he came up very quickly, looking much frightened and saying, “You have a Rakshas in your stomach, and if I don’t run away quickly, I am afraid it will eat me.” So off he ran. After the jackal came an enormous snake. “Oh,” says the fish, “do tell me what I have in my stomach, for it rattles about so, and keeps saying, ‘Majnún, Majnún; I want Majnún.'” The snake said, “Open your mouth wide, and I’ll go down and see what it is.” The snake went down: when he returned he said, “You have a Rakshas in your stomach; but if you will let me cut you open, it will come out of you.” “If you do that, I shall die,” said the Rohú. “Oh, no,” said the snake, “you will not, for I will give you a medicine that will make you quite well again.” So the fish agreed, and the snake got a knife and cut him open, and out jumped Lailí.

She was now very old. Twelve years she had wandered about the jungle, and for twelve years she had lived inside her Rohú; and she was no longer beautiful, and had lost her teeth. The snake took her on his back and carried her into the country, and there he put her down, and she wandered on and on till she got to Majnún’s court-house, where King Majnún was sitting. There some men heard her crying, “Majnún, Majnún; I want Majnún,” and they asked her what she wanted. “I want King Majnún,” she said. So they went in and said to Prince Majnún, “An old woman outside says she wants you.” “I cannot leave this place,” said he; “send her in here.” They brought her in and the prince asked her what she wanted. “I want to marry you,” she answered. “Twenty-four years ago you came to my father the Phaláná Rájá’s country, and I wanted to marry you then; but you went away without marrying me. Then I went mad, and I have wandered about all these years looking for you.” Prince Majnún said, “Very good.” “Pray to God,” said Lailí, “to make us both young again, and then we shall be married.” So the prince prayed to God, and God said to him, “Touch Lailí’s clothes and they will catch fire, and when they are on fire, she and you will become young again.” When he touched Lailí’s clothes they caught fire, and she and he became young again. And there were great feasts, and they were married, and travelled to the Phaláná country to see her father and mother.

Now Lailí’s father and mother had wept so much for their daughter that they had become quite blind, and her father kept always repeating, “Lailí, Lailí, Lailí.” When Lailí saw their blindness, she prayed to God to restore their sight to them, which he did. As soon as the father and mother saw Lailí, they hugged her and kissed her, and then they had the wedding all over again amid great rejoicings. Prince Majnún and Lailí stayed with Múnsúk Rájá and his wife for three years, and then they returned to King Dantál, and lived happily for some time with him.

They used to go out hunting, and they often went from country to country to eat the air and amuse themselves.

One day Prince Majnún said to Lailí, “Let us go through this jungle.” “No, no,” said Lailí; “if we go through this jungle, some harm will happen to me.” But Prince Majnún laughed, and went into the jungle. And as they were going through it, God thought, “I should like to know how much Prince Majnún loves his wife. Would he be very sorry if she died? And would he marry another wife? I will see.” So he sent one of his angels in the form of a fakír into the jungle; and the angel went up to Lailí, and threw some powder in her face, and instantly she fell to the ground a heap of ashes.

Prince Majnún was in great sorrow and grief when he saw his dear Lailí turn into a little heap of ashes; and he went straight home to his father, and for a long, long time he would not be comforted. After a great many years he grew more cheerful and happy, and began to go again into his father’s beautiful garden with Husain Mahámat. King Dantál wished his son to marry again. “I will only have Lailí for my wife; I will not marry any other woman,” said Prince Majnún. “How can you marry Lailí? Lailí is dead. She will never come back to you,” said the father. “Then I’ll not have any wife at all,” said Prince Majnún.

Meanwhile Lailí was living in the jungle where her husband had left her a little heap of ashes. As soon as Majnún had gone, the fakír had taken her ashes and made them quite clean, and then he had mixed clay and water with the ashes, and made the figure of a woman with them, and so Lailí regained her human form, and God sent life into it. But Lailí had become once more a hideous old woman, with a long, long nose, and teeth like tusks; just such an old woman, excepting her teeth, as she had been when she came out of the Rohú fish; and she lived in the jungle, and neither ate nor drank, and she kept on saying, “Majnún, Majnún; I want Majnún.”

At last the angel who had come as a fakír and thrown the powder at her, said to God, “Of what use is it that this woman should sit in the jungle crying, crying for ever, ‘Majnún, Majnún; I want Majnún,’ and eating and drinking nothing? Let me take her to Prince Majnún.” “Well,” said God, “you may do so; but tell her that she must not speak to Majnún if he is afraid of her when he sees her; and that if he is afraid when he sees her, she will become a little white dog the next day. Then she must go to the palace, and she will only regain her human shape when Prince Majnún loves her, feeds her with his own food, and lets her sleep in his bed.” So the angel came to Lailí again as a fakír and carried her to King Dantál’s garden. “Now,” he said, “it is God’s command that you stay here till Prince Majnún comes to walk in the garden, and then you may show yourself to him. But you must not speak to him, if he is afraid of you; and should he be afraid of you, you will the next day become a little white dog.” He then told her what she must do as a little dog to regain her human form.

Lailí stayed in the garden, hidden in the tall grass, till Prince Majnún and Husain Mahámat came to walk in the garden. King Dantál was now a very old man, and Husain Mahámat, though he was really only as old as Prince Majnún, looked a great deal older than the prince, who had been made quite young again when he married Lailí.

As Prince Majnún and the Wazír’s son walked in the garden, they gathered the fruit as they had done as little children, only they bit the fruit with their teeth; they did not cut it. While Majnún was busy eating a fruit in this way, and was talking to Husain Mahámat, he turned towards him and saw Lailí walking behind the Wazír’s son. “Oh, look, look!” he cried, “see what is following you; it is a Rakshas or a demon, and I am sure it is going to eat us.” Lailí looked at him beseechingly with all her eyes, and trembled with age and eagerness; but this only frightened Majnún the more. “It is a Rakshas, a Rakshas!” he cried, and he ran quickly to the palace with the Wazír’s son; and as they ran away, Lailí disappeared into the jungle. They ran to King Dantál, and Majnún told him there was a Rakshas or a demon in the garden that had come to eat them. “What nonsense,” said his father. “Fancy two grown men being so frightened by an old ayah or a fakír! And if it had been a Rakshas, it would not have eaten you.” Indeed King Dantál did not believe Majnún had seen anything at all, till Husain Mahámat said the prince was speaking the exact truth. They had the garden searched for the terrible old woman, but found nothing, and King Dantál told his son he was very silly to be so much frightened. However, Prince Majnún would not walk in the garden any more.

The next day Lailí turned into a pretty little dog; and in this shape she came into the palace, where Prince Majnún soon became very fond of her. She followed him everywhere, went with him when he was out hunting, and helped him to catch his game, and Prince Majnún fed her with milk, or bread, or anything else he was eating, and at night the little dog slept in his bed.

But one night the little dog disappeared, and in its stead there lay the little old woman who had frightened him so much in the garden; and now Prince Majnún was quite sure she was a Rakshas, or a demon, or some such horrible thing come to eat him; and in his terror he cried out, “What do you want? Oh, do not eat me; do not eat me!” Poor Lailí answered, “Don’t you know me? I am your wife Lailí, and I want to marry you. Don’t you remember how you would go through that jungle, though I begged and begged you not to go, for I told you that harm would happen to me, and then a fakír came and threw powder in my face, and I became a heap of ashes. But God gave me my life again, and brought me here, after I had stayed a long, long while in the jungle crying for you, and now I am obliged to be a little dog; but if you will marry me, I shall not be a little dog any more.” Majnún, however, said “How can I marry an old woman like you? how can you be Lailí? I am sure you are a Rakshas or a demon come to eat me,” and he was in great terror.

In the morning the old woman had turned into the little dog, and the prince went to his father and told him all that had happened. “An old woman! an old woman! always an old woman!” said his father. “You do nothing but think of old women. How can a strong man like you be so easily frightened?” However, when he saw that his son was really in great terror, and that he really believed the old woman would come back at night, he advised him to say to her, “I will marry you if you can make yourself a young girl again. How can I marry such an old woman as you are?”

That night as he lay trembling in bed the little old woman lay there in place of the dog, crying, “Majnún, Majnún, I want to marry you. I have loved you all these long, long years. When I was in my father’s kingdom a young girl, I knew of you, though you knew nothing of me, and we should have been married then if you had not gone away so suddenly, and for long, long years I followed you.” “Well,” said Majnún, “if you can make yourself a young girl again, I will marry you.”

Lailí said, “Oh, that is quite easy. God will make me a young girl again. In two days’ time you must go into the garden, and there you will see a beautiful fruit. You must gather it and bring it into your room and cut it open yourself very gently, and you must not open it when your father or anybody else is with you, but when you are quite alone; for I shall be in the fruit quite naked, without any clothes at all on.” In the morning Lailí took her little dog’s form, and disappeared in the garden.

Prince Majnún told all this to his father, who told him to do all the old woman had bidden him. In two days’ time he and the Wazír’s son walked in the garden, and there they saw a large, lovely red fruit. “Oh!” said the Prince, “I wonder shall I find my wife in that fruit.” Husain Mahámat wanted him to gather it and see, but he would not till he had told his father, who said, “That must be the fruit; go and gather it.” So Majnún went back and broke the fruit off its stalk; and he said to his father, “Come with me to my room while I open it; I am afraid to open it alone, for perhaps I shall find a Rakshas in it that will eat me.” “No,” said King Dantál; “remember, Lailí will be naked; you must go alone, and do not be afraid if, after all, a Rakshas is in the fruit, for I will stay outside the door, and you have only to call me with a loud voice, and I will come to you, so the Rakshas will not be able to eat you.”

Then Majnún took the fruit and began to cut it open tremblingly, for he shook with fear; and when he had cut it, out stepped Lailí, young and far more beautiful than she had ever been. At the sight of her extreme beauty, Majnún fell backwards fainting on the floor.

Lailí took off his turban and wound it all round herself like a sárí (for she had no clothes at all on), and then she called King Dantál, and said to him sadly, “Why has Majnún fallen down like this? Why will he not speak to me? He never used to be afraid of me; and he has seen me so many, many times.” King Dantál answered, “It is because you are so beautiful. You are far, far more beautiful than you ever were. But he will be very happy directly.” Then the King got some water, and they bathed Majnún’s face and gave him some to drink, and he sat up again. Then Lailí said, “Why did you faint? Did you not see I am Lailí?” “Oh!” said Prince Majnún, “I see you are Lailí come back to me, but your eyes have grown so wonderfully beautiful, that I fainted when I saw them.” Then they were all very happy, and King Dantál had all the drums in the place beaten, and had all the musical instruments played on, and they made a grand wedding-feast, and gave presents to the servants, and rice and quantities of rupees to the fakírs.

After some time had passed very happily, Prince Majnún and his wife went out to eat the air. They rode on the same horse, and had only a groom with them. They came to another kingdom, to a beautiful garden. “We must go into that garden and see it,” said Majnún. “No, no,” said Lailí; “it belongs to a bad Rájá, Chumman Básá, a very wicked man.” But Majnún insisted on going in, and in spite of all Lailí could say, he got off the horse to look at the flowers. Now, as he was looking at the flowers, Lailí saw Chumman Básá coming towards them, and she read in his eyes that he meant to kill her husband and seize her. So she said to Majnún, “Come, come, let us go; do not go near that bad man. I see in his eyes, and I feel in my heart, that he will kill you to seize me.” “What nonsense,” said Majnún. “I believe he is a very good Rájá. Anyhow, I am so near to him that I could not get away.” “Well,” said Lailí, “it is better that you should be killed than I, for if I were to be killed a second time, God would not give me my life again; but I can bring you to life if you are killed.” Now Chumman Básá had come quite near, and seemed very pleasant, so thought Prince Majnún; but when he was speaking to Majnún, he drew his scimitar and cut off the prince’s head at one blow.

Lailí sat quite still on her horse, and as the Rájá came towards her she said, “Why did you kill my husband?” “Because I want to take you,” he answered. “You cannot,” said Lailí. “Yes, I can,” said the Rájá. “Take me, then,” said Lailí to Chumman Básá; so he came quite close and put out his hand to take hers to lift her off her horse. But she put her hand in her pocket and pulled out a tiny knife, only as long as her hand was broad, and this knife unfolded itself in one instant till it was such a length! and then Lailí made a great sweep with her arm and her long, long knife, and off came Chumman Básá’s head at one touch.

Then Lailí slipped down off her horse, and she went to Majnún’s dead body, and she cut her little finger inside her hand straight down from the top of her nail to her palm, and out of this gushed blood like healing medicine. Then she put Majnún’s head on his shoulders, and smeared her healing blood all over the wound, and Majnún woke up and said, “What a delightful sleep I have had! Why, I feel as if I had slept for years!” Then he got up and saw the Rájá’s dead body by Lailí’s horse. “What’s that?” said Majnún. “That is the wicked Rájá who killed you to seize me, just as I said he would.” “Who killed him?” asked Majnún. “I did,” answered Lailí, “and it was I who brought you to life.” “Do bring the poor man to life if you know how to do so,” said Majnún. “No,” said Lailí, “for he is a wicked man, and will try to do you harm.” But Majnún asked her for such a long time, and so earnestly to bring the wicked Rájá to life, that at last she said, “Jump up on the horse, then, and go far away with the groom.” “What will you do,” said Majnún, “if I leave you? I cannot leave you.” “I will take care of myself,” said Lailí; “but this man is so wicked, he may kill you again if you are near him.” So Majnún got up on the horse, and he and the groom went a long way off and waited for Lailí. Then she set the wicked Rájá’s head straight on his shoulders, and she squeezed the wound in her finger till a little blood-medicine came out of it. Then she smeared this over the place where her knife had passed, and just as she saw the Rájá opening his eyes, she began to run, and she ran, and ran so fast, that she outran the Rájá, who tried to catch her; and she sprang up on the horse behind her husband, and they rode so fast, so fast, till they reached King Dantál’s palace.

There Prince Majnún told everything to his father, who was horrified and angry. “How lucky for you that you have such a wife,” he said. “Why did you not do what she told you? But for her, you would be now dead.” Then he made a great feast out of gratitude for his son’s safety, and gave many, many rupees to the fakírs. And he made so much of Lailí. He loved her dearly; he could not do enough for her. Then he built a splendid palace for her and his son, with a great deal of ground about it, and lovely gardens, and gave them great wealth, and heaps of servants to wait on them. But he would not allow any but their servants to enter their gardens and palace, and he would not allow Majnún to go out of them, nor Lailí; “for,” said King Dantál, “Lailí is so beautiful, that perhaps some one may kill my son to take her away.”

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The Man Who Went to Seek His Fate

A poor man, seeking answers for his misfortune, encounters a camel, an alligator, and a tiger with unique problems. His fate instructs him to help them: freeing the camel, curing the alligator, and removing the tiger’s thorn. In return, they reward him with riches. However, another greedy man seeking wealth meets a tragic end after defying warnings, highlighting gratitude and moderation’s virtues.

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

► Themes of the story

Quest: The protagonist embarks on a journey to find his fate and understand the reasons behind his poverty.

Prophecy and Fate: The narrative revolves around the man’s attempt to confront and alter his predetermined destiny.

Cunning and Deception: The story highlights the cleverness of the protagonist in navigating the situations he encounters, as well as the deceitful nature of the greedy man who meets a tragic end.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Dunkní

Once there was a very poor man who had a wife and twelve children, and not a single rupee. The poor children used to cry with hunger, and the man and his wife did not know what to do. At last he got furious with God and said, “How wicked God is! He gives me a great many children, but no money.”

So he set out to find his fate. In the jungle he met a camel with two heavy sacks of gold on its back. This camel belonged to a Rájá, and once it was travelling with other camels and with the Rájá’s servants to another country, and carrying the sacks of gold.

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Every night they encamped and started again early in the morning; but one morning the servants forgot to take this camel with them, and the camel forgot the road home, and the sacks were too tightly strapped for it to get rid of them. So it wandered about the jungle with the sacks on its back for twelve years. The camel asked the poor man where he was going. “I am going to seek my fate, to ask it why I am so poor,” he answered. The camel said, “Ask it, too, why for twelve years I have had to carry these two sacks of gold. All this time I have not been able to lie down, or to eat, or to drink.” “Very well,” said the man, and he went on.

Then he came to a river in which he saw an alligator. The alligator took him across, and when he got to the other side it asked him where he was going. The man said, “I am going to seek my fate, to ask it why I am so poor.” “Then,” said the alligator, “ask it also why for twelve years I have a great burning in my stomach.” “I will,” said the man.

Then he went on and on till he came to a tiger, who was lying on the ground with a great thorn sticking in his foot. This tiger had gone out one day to hunt for food, and not looking where he was going, he put his foot on the thorn, and the thorn ran into his foot. And so God grew very angry and said, “Because you are such a careless, stupid fellow, and don’t look where you are going, for twelve years this thorn shall remain in your foot.” “Where are you going?” the tiger asked the man. “I am going to seek my fate, to ask it why I am so poor. Some one told me that my fate was far, far away, a twelve years’ journey from my own country, and that it was lying down, and that I must take a thick stick and beat it with all my might.” “Ask it, too,” said the tiger, “why for twelve years I have had this thorn in my foot and cannot get it out, though I have tried hard to do so.” “Yes, I will,” said the man.

Then he came to the place where every one’s fate lives. The fates are stones, some standing and others lying on the ground. “This must be mine,” he said; “it is lying on the ground, that’s why I am so poor.” So he took the thick stick he had in his hand, and beat it, and beat it, and beat it, but still it would not stir. As night was approaching he left off beating it, and God sent a soul into the poor man’s fate, and it became a man, who stood looking at the poor man and said, “Why have you beaten me so much?” “Because you were lying down, and I am very poor, and at home my wife and my children are starving.” “Oh, things will go well with you now,” said the fate, and the man was satisfied. He said to his fate, “While coming here I met a camel who for twelve years has had to wander about with two heavy sacks of gold on its back, and it wants to know why it must carry them.” “Oh,” said the fate, “just take the sacks off its back and then it will be free.” “I will,” said the poor man. “Then I met an alligator who for twelve years has had a great burning in its stomach.” The fate said, “In its stomach is a very large ruby, as big as your hand. If the alligator will only throw up the ruby, it will be quite well.” “Next I met a tiger who has had for twelve years a great thorn in his foot which he cannot take out.” “Pull it out with your teeth,” said the fate; and then God withdrew the soul, and the fate became a stone again which stood up on the ground.

Then the man set out on his journey home, and he came to the tiger. “What did your fate say?” said the tiger. “Give me your foot and I will take out the thorn,” said the poor man. The tiger stretched out the foot with the thorn in it, and the man pulled out the thorn with his teeth. It was a very large thorn, as big as the man’s hand. The tiger felt grateful to the poor man, and as he was very rich, for he had eaten a great many Rájás and people, and had all their money, he said to the man, “I will give you some gold in return for your kindness.” “You have no money,” said the man. “I have,” said the tiger, and he went into his den, and the poor man followed. “Give me your cloth,” said the tiger. The man laid it on the ground. Then the tiger took quantities of gold and jewels and filled the cloth with them. And the poor man took up his cloth, thanked the tiger, and went his way. Then he met the alligator who took him across the river. The alligator said, “Did you ask your fate why there is such burning in my stomach?” “I did,” said the man. “It is because you have a very large ruby in your stomach. If you will only throw it up, you will be quite well.” Then the alligator threw the ruby up out of its mouth, and that very instant the burning in its stomach ceased. “Ah,” said the alligator, looking at the ruby, “I swallowed that one day when I was drinking.” And he gave the ruby to the man, saying, “In return for your kindness I will give you this ruby. It is a very precious stone.” (In old days every Rájá possessed such a ruby; now very few Rájás, if any, have one.) The poor man thanked the alligator, put the ruby into his cloth, and went on his way till he came to the camel, who said, “Did you ask your fate why I have to carry these two sacks of gold?” “I did,” said the man, and he took the sacks off the camel’s back. How happy and grateful the camel felt! “How kind of you,” he said to the man, “to take the sacks off. Now I can eat, now I can drink, and now I can lie down. Because you have been so kind to me, I give you the two sacks of gold, and I will carry them and your bundle home to your house for you, and then I will come back and live here in the jungle.” Then the poor man put the two sacks of gold and his bundle on the camel, who carried them to his house. When he got there, he took the sacks and his bundle off the camel, who thanked him again for his kindness and went back to his jungle, feeling very glad at having got rid of his heavy burthen.

When the poor man’s wife and children saw the gold and jewels and the ruby, they cried, “Where did you get these?” And the man told them his whole story. And he bought food for his wife and children, and gave them a beautiful house, and got them clothes, for now he was very rich.

Another poor man who was not quite, but nearly, as poor as this man had been, asked him where he had got his riches. “I got them out of a river,” answered the man. “I drew the water with a bucket, and in every bucketful there was gold.” The other man started off to the river and began drawing up water in a bucket. “Stop, stop!” cried an alligator, who was the king of the fishes; “you are taking all the water out of the river and my fishes will die.” “I want money,” said the man, “and I can find none, so I am taking the water out of the river in order to get some.” “You shall have some in a minute,” said the alligator, “only do stop drawing the water.” Then a great wave of water dashed on to the land and dashed back into the river, leaving behind it a great heap of gold, which the man picked up joyfully. The next day he came again, and night and day he drew water out of the river. At last the alligator got very angry, and said, “My fishes will all die for want of water. Once I gave the man a heap of gold, and yet he wants more. I won’t give him any,” and the alligator thrust up his head out of the river, and swallowed the man whole. For four days and four nights the man lived in the alligator’s stomach. At the end of the fourth night the king of the fishes said to him, “I will let you get out of my stomach on condition that you tell no man what has happened to you. If you do, you will die instantly.” The man jumped out of the alligator’s mouth and walked towards his house. On his way he met some men and told them what had happened to him, and as soon as he got home he told his wife and children, and the moment he had done so he became mad and dumb and blood came out of his mouth, and he fell down dead.

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The Padishah’s Daughter and the Young Slave

A conceited princess rejects all suitors, leading her father, the Padishah, to consult an old sage, who foretells her marriage to a slave. Despite challenges, the slave accomplishes impossible tasks, gaining immense strength and valor. Refusing to marry the princess, he rejects the Padishah’s tyranny, defeating his oppressors. Embracing freedom, the former slave dedicates his life to protecting the weak and fighting for justice.

Source
Folk Tales from the Soviet Union
Central Asia & Kazakhstan
compiled by R. Babloyan and M. Shumskaya
Raduga Publishers, Moscow, 1986

► Themes of the story

Prophecy and Fate: The narrative centers on a prophecy foretelling that the Padishah’s proud daughter will marry a slave, highlighting the inescapable nature of destiny.

Conflict with Authority: The young slave challenges the Padishah’s authority, especially when he refuses to marry the princess and later opposes the Padishah’s tyranny, symbolizing a struggle against oppressive power.

Revenge and Justice: The story concludes with the slave defeating his oppressors and dedicating his life to protecting the weak and fighting for justice, emphasizing the restoration of moral order.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Tajik people

Retold by Klavdia Ulug-zadeh
Translated by Olga Shartse

The Padishah had a grownup daughter who was so proud and conceited that she sent away all the match- makers who came to seek her hand in marriage. None of the suitors was good enough for this Princess. And then her father held counsel with his viziers and said to them:

“Is it not time the Princess got married?” – “It is time,” replied the viziers. “Only let us ask her what sort of man she wants for a husband.”

And the Princess told them: “I’ll only marry the strongest and most handsome young man in the world, who alone deserves to be my husband.”

► Continue reading…

The viziers tried to find a man like that in their own city, but no one measured up to the Princess’s demands.

The Padishah himself then set off on a journey to other towns. He rode for a long time and finally came to a wide river. On the bank squatted an old man with a beard that was long and green like sea-weed, he had on a green robe, and had a green staff in his hand. He was writing something with a black pebble on white pebbles which he then threw into the river.

The Padishah rode right up to the old man and asked him what he was writing on those pebbles and why he threw them into the water.

“I foretell people’s future. Whatever I write on a white pebble which I then throw into the river will come to pass.”

“Could you foretell my daughter’s future? Who is destined to become her husband?” asked the Padishah, and told the old man about his proud, conceited daughter who refused to marry anyone but the handsomest and strongest young man in the world.

The old man smiled, wrote something on a white pebble, threw it into the river, and said:

“Your daughter will marry neither a pauper nor a labourer, she’ll marry a slave.”

“Oh no! It cannot be!” cried the Padishah in alarm because he remembered that he did have a slave working in his household, he was a young man and the best worker in town, but a slave he was!

The Padishah hurried back home, and all the way he was thinking how to avert that terrible disaster from his daughter. The moment he returned to his palace, he called his viziers together and told them what fate had in store for the Princess.

“Woe unto us, woe! That wretched slave intends to marry my daughter! What am I to do!”

“Chop off his head,” replied the viziers promptly.

When the poor young slave heard that he was to die, he pleaded and swore that he did not have the slightest desire to marry the Princess.

“What, he has the impudence to refuse the Padishah’s daughter?” cried the sly viziers. ‘Off with his head for such impudence!”

And the Padishah agreed with them.

A very, very old and very, very wise man lived in a small hut not far from the palace. He was so old that he could no longer walk. When he heard about Padishah’s cruel order, he begged his neighbours:

“Please, put me on a white felt rug, pick it up by the four corners, and carry me to the Padishah.”

They did so, and when they brought him to the palace the Padishah asked the wise man:

“What advice have you come to give me, old sage?” asked the Padishah.

“Oh Padishah, you are free to do what you will with your servants,” replied the old man. “Send your young slave to the end of the world, give him any order you can think of, only don’t execute that innocent youth.”

The Padishah ordered the young slave to be brought into his presence.

“Hey you, wretched slave!” he said to the young man. “Go and find for me two precious pearls the size of walnuts with a moonglow inside them. If you find them I’ll grant you your life, and give you your freedom besides. If you don’t find them, I’ll order your head to be chopped off.”

The poor young slave merely dropped his head in agreement, and set off to find those unheard-of pearls, the size of walnuts and with a moonglow inside them.

He wandered about the land for many a day, he suffered cold and hunger, people laughed at him, and he all but collapsed from weariness. And then, one day, he came to the river on the bank of which squatted an old man in a green robe, with a long green beard and a green staff in his hand.

The young man bowed to him and asked:

“Can you tell me where I can find two precious pearls the size of walnuts with a moonglow inside them?”

“You are as trusting as a child, I see,” replied the old man. “I know who sent you and why. Oh well, I’ve got to help you. Stay here on the bank, and wait for me.”

Saying this, the old man in the green robe stepped into the river and vanished from sight. Suddenly the green weeds, floating on the surface of the water, parted and out came the old man. He climbed on to the bank and from the skirt of his robe poured a whole heap of large pearls on to the ground. All of them had a moonglow inside them.

“Take them and return to the Padishah,” said the old man. ‘Only mind you don’t show him all the pearls at once. First give him the two he asked for.”

The young slave thanked the old man from the bottom of his heart and started back for the palace at once.

When the Padishah saw the young slave and the fabulous pearls, he knew that he would have to grant him his life and give him his freedom, which did not suit him at all. And so, being very shrewd and wily, he shouted angrily:

“Aha, I’ve caught you out at last! These two pearls were in my treasure-box and then someone stole them. So now we know who stole them! You’re a thief and a liar, pretending that you got them at the other end of the world!”

“My lord, did you say that you had two such pearls in your treasure-box?” asked the brave young man.

“Yes, two, exactly two such pearls,” replied the Padishah.

At this, the young man undid his bundle and poured out onto the carpet before the Padishah a whole heap of beautiful pearls.

The sight of that wealth so startled the Padishah that he was struck speechless. He did not know what to do next, and so he called his viziers together again and asked their advice.

“Since this slave. managed to find a whole heap of pearls and not just the two I sent him to find, it means that he really intends to marry my daughter. But I don’t want her to marry a slave, and so I’ll have his head chopped off,” the Padishah told them.

The viziers did not know what to advise him and, fearing his anger, they thought it safest to say:

“Oh the greatest of the great! You followed the advice of that oldest and wisest of sages about your young slave, and so he should be sent for this time too.”

Once again the old sage was brought to the palace on a white felt. He heard out the viziers and said:

“A promise must not be broken. The Padishah must keep his word.”

“But he’s my slave, his life is in my hands!” cried the Padishah angrily.

“And your word? You can’t go back on your word,” sald the sage.

“Very well then,” said the Padishah. ‘Let him go to the end of the world, see how the sun and the moon rise, and tell us all about it when he comes back. Only then I shall grant him his life and give him his freedom!”

Poor, poor young slave! Without saying a word, he set off to find the end of the world where the sun and the moon rose.

In the meantime, the Padishah tried his best to find a husband for his conceited daughter.

The young slave wandered for days, weeks, months, climbing over high mountains, all but dying of thirst in the dry deserts, and still plodding on. His sandals were worn out, his clothes torn to shreds, and his staff became as thin as a needle. He walked on in rain and wind, in heat and frost. Hunger drove him to beg for bread. Sometimes, he fell asleep at someone’s gate with no strength to go, and the owners beat him up for a tramp.

At long last he came to a mountain so tall that it reached the sky. He tried to climb it but he could not find a foothold anywhere, for the steep sides were smooth rock. Helplessly, he sat on the ground and gazed in despair at the mountain before him.

Suddenly, a peri in white appeared on the top of the mountain.

“Who are you and what do you seek?” he heard her voice.

“I am the Padishah’s slave,” replied the youth. “Under threat of death the Padishah ordered me to go and see where the sun and moon rise in the sky. And I haven’t even discovered where that place is!”

“Shut your eyes,” the girl told him.

He shut his eyes, and when he opened them in a moment he found himself standing on top of the mountain beside the girl.

“Come, I’ll show you what you want,” the peri told him, and started across a green meadow, covered with beautiful white flowers, and made for some tall trees whose branches drooped to the very ground.

When the youth came nearer to these trees he saw that they were weeping willows growing round a large, still lake. That lake was so lovely that he stood there spellbound, unable to tear his eyes away.

“It’s so wonderful here!” he exclaimed, and went down to the water.

“The sun and the moon bathe in this lake,” the fairy-girl told him. “This lake does magic things. If you bathe in it right after the moon has taken a dip, you’ll become even more handsome than you are now and the Padishah’s daughter will gladly marry you.”

“But I don’t want to marry the Padishah’s daughter!” said the youth. “Would I have come all this way just for that?”

“Then wait until after the sun has had its swim. If you enter the water just after, you’ll feel enormous strength flowing into your body,” the fairy-girl told him, and disappeared.

The youth was very thirsty, but he stood on the shore and did not touch the water. He very much wanted to refresh his weary body in the lovely lake, but he waited patiently for the moon or the sun to bathe in it first.

The day waned, and dusk gathered quickly. Golden sunlight gave way to a silvery mist. And then darkness fell all at once, and the mountain trembled. Something very large and heavy rolled into the water, causing a wave to dash against the shore. In the next moment, a round, shining moon emerged from the lake, soared up, and sailed across the sky. And in the moonlight everything turned silver and began to shine and sparkle.

All night long the youth sat on the shore of the lovely lake, gazing at the beauty that surrounded him.

Little by little the moon lost its sparkle and melted away, the sky turned a pale grey, and suddenly the mountain trembled again, and something very large and heavy rolled into the lake. And in the next moment he saw the radiant, brilliant sun rise from the water higher and higher into the sky, and in the dazzling light it shed down on earth everything glowed with light and warmth.

Thus the brave youth saw how the sun rose. Happily, he threw off his rags, drank his fill of water and bathed in the lake. And instantly he felt his strength increasing tenfold. As he climbed on to the shore he clutched at a branch of a weeping willow, pulling down the whole tree, and as the roots were bared he saw between them a round shield, a sharp sword, a tall helmet and clothes worthy of a knight. And then he saw a beautiful horse with strong, slender legs standing there ready for him to mount.

Quickly, he put on the fine clothes, leapt into the saddle and rode off to look for the peri. He found her where he saw her for the first time, and thanked her for everything.

“But I only helped you to rise to the top of the mountain,” she said. “The rest you did yourself. You yourself found. the place where the sun and the moon rise. And you saw them rise. You bathed in the lake after the sun. You drank the water of life and joy and your strength increased tenfold. Only mind that your strength does not do people harm.”

“I promise I shall be kind to people,” the youth cried.

“But first I’ve got to settle up with my master, the Padishah, and obtain my freedom.”

And he went back to the Padishah whose slave he had been for so many years. On the way back he performed many feats, and his fame ran ahead of him.

In the meantime the Padishah had still been trying to find a husband for his daughter.

When he heard that a strange young knight had come to his city, he ordered him brought into his presence at once.

“Quickly, bring the visitor to my palace!” he ordered his servants. “And tell the young Princess. Maybe she’ll agree to marry him, because we’ve quite run out of suitors.”

The Princess peeped through the curtains at the newcomer, and whispered to her father:

“I’ll marry him. He’s the strongest and most handsome man in the world!”

The Padishah was overjoyed that at long last a worthy suitor had been found. He ordered the finest delicacies and wines to be served, seated the guest in the place of honour, and asked him to relate where he had been in the world and what he had seen.

“I travelled to the place where the sun and the moon rise,” replied the guest. “I saw the moon and the sun bathing in a mountain lake. I, too, bathed in that lake and it gave me the fabulous strength of a powerful knight.”

The Padishah knew then that his grand visitor was, in fact, his slave. But he did not let on that he had recognised him. To himself he was saying: “If he marries my daughter hell go on serving me as my son-in-law. As a warrior he’ll win glory for me and multiply my wealth.”

Now, the visitor said in conclusion of his story:

“Well, I’ve done everything I was ordered to do, and now I want to receive what was promised me. Do you remember your promise, Padishah?”

“Marry my daughter, and I’ll give you your freedom,” the Padishah told him.

But the young slave said:

“Then you don’t rightly know what freedom means if you want to give it to me in addition to your conceited daughter. When I wore the rags of a slave I did not seem a human being to you and your daughter!”

Enraged, the Padishah ordered his servants to seize the impudent slave, but he flung them off easily with his mighty strength and bared his sword… And the Padishah, being a cowardly, spiteful soul, scampered away in terror, like a rabbit from a great lion. The former slave left the Padishah’s palace forever, and as a free man rode off on his horse. He knew what he must do now: a man who was brave, strong and free must protect the weak from the strong, he must fight evil for the triumph of good on earth.

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 Sad Story of the Yaoya’s Daughter

A wandering ballad-singer narrates the tragic tale of O Schichi, a beautiful young girl from Yedo who falls in love with a temple acolyte. When her family’s home is rebuilt, she is separated from him and consumed by longing. In desperation, she sets her father’s house ablaze to return to the temple. Caught and judged, she is executed, dying for love.

Source
Japanese Fairy Tales
by Grace James
Macmillan & Co., London, 1912

► Themes of the story

Tragic Love: The profound love between O Schichi and the acolyte ultimately results in her demise, highlighting the sorrowful aspects of their relationship.

Conflict with Authority: O Schichi’s actions, driven by her love, bring her into direct conflict with societal laws and the authorities who enforce them.

Prophecy and Fate: The story reflects on the concept of karma and destiny, suggesting that the characters’ actions are influenced by forces beyond their control.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

There was a wandering ballad-singer who came to a great house in Yedo where they wished to be entertained. “Will you have a dance or a song?” said the ballad-singer; “or shall I tell you a story?” The people of the house bade him tell a story. “Shall it be a tale of love or a tale of war?” said the ballad-singer. “Oh, a tale of love,” they said. “Will you have a sad tale or a merry?” asked the ballad-singer. They were all agreed that they would hear a sad tale. “Well, then,” said the ballad-singer, “listen, and I will tell you the sad story of the Yaoya’s daughter.”

So he told this tale:

► Continue reading…

The Yaoya was a poor hard-working man, but his daughter was the sweetest thing in Yedo. You must know she was one of the five beauties of the city, that grew like five cherry-trees in the time of the spring blossoming.

In autumn the hunters lure the wild deer with the sound of the flute. The deer are deceived, for they believe that they hear the voices of their mates. So are they trapped and slain. For like calls to like. Youth calls to youth, beauty to beauty, love to love. This is law, and this law was the undoing of the Yaoya’s daughter.

When there was a great fire in Yedo, so great that more than the half of the city was burned, the Yaoya’s house was ruined also. And the Yaoya and his wife and his daughter had no roof over them, nor anywhere to lay their heads. So they went to a Buddhist temple for shelter and stayed there many days, till their house should be rebuilt. Ah me, for the Yaoya’s daughter! Every morning at sunrise she bathed in the spring of clean water that was near the temple. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks ruddy. Then she would put on her blue gown and sit by the water-side to comb her long hair. She was a sweet and slender thing, scarce fifteen years old. Her name was O Schichi.

“Sweep the temple and the temple courts,” her father bade her. “’Tis well we should do so much for the good priests who give us shelter.” So O Schichi took the broom and swept. And as she laboured she sang merrily, and the grey precincts of the temple grew bright.

Now there was a young acolyte who served in the holy place. Gentle he was and beautiful. Not a day passed but he heard the singing of O Schichi; not a day passed but he set eyes upon her, going her ways, so light and slender, in the ancient courts of the temple.

It was not long before he loved her. Youth calls to youth, beauty to beauty, love to love. It was not long before she loved him.

Secretly they met together in the temple grove. Hand in hand they went, her head against his arm.

“Ah,” she cried, “that such a thing should be! I am happy and unhappy. Why do I love you, my own?”

“Because of the power of Karma,” said the acolyte. “Nevertheless, we sin, O heart’s desire, grievously we sin, and I know not what may come of it.”

“Alas,” she said, “will the gods be angry with us, and we so young?”

“I cannot tell,” he said; “but I am afraid.”

Then the two of them clung together, trembling and weeping. But they pledged themselves to each other for the space of many existences.

The Yaoya had his dwelling in the quarter of the city called Honjo, and presently his house was rebuilt which had been destroyed by the fire. He and his wife were glad, for they said, “Now we shall go home.”

O Schichi hid her face with her sleeve and wept bitter tears.

“Child, what ails you?” said her mother.

O Schichi wept. “Oh! oh! oh!” she cried, and swayed herself to and fro.

“Why, maid, what is it?” said her father.

Still O Schichi wept. “Oh! oh! oh!” she cried, and swayed herself to and fro.

That night she went to the grove. There was the acolyte, very pale and sorrowful, beneath the trees.

“They will part us,” she cried, “O my dear heart’s desire. The dear gods are angry with us, and we so young.”

“Ah,” he said, “I was afraid…. Farewell, dear maid, O little maid, sweet and slender. Remember we are pledged to one another for the space of many existences.”

Then the two of them clung together, trembling and weeping, and they bade farewell a thousand times.

The next day they bore O Schichi home to Honjo. She grew languid and listless. White she grew, white as the buckwheat flower. She drooped and she failed. No longer was she numbered with the five beauties of Yedo, nor likened to a cherry-tree in the time of the spring blossoming. All the day long she brooded silently. At night she lay awake in her low bed.

“Oh! oh!” she moaned, “the weary, weary night! Shall I never see him? Must I die of longing? Oh! oh! the weary, weary night….”

Her eyes grew large and burning bright.

“Alas! poor maid,” said her father.

“I am afraid …” said her mother. “She will lose her wits…. She does not weep any more.”

At last O Schichi arose and took straw and made it into a bundle; and she put charcoal in the bundle and laid it beneath the gallery of her father’s house. Then she set fire to the straw and the charcoal, and the whole burnt merrily. Furthermore the wood of her father’s house took light and the house was burnt to the ground.

“I shall see him; I shall see him!” shrieked O Schichi, and fell in a swoon.

Howbeit all the city knew that she had set fire to her father’s house. So she was taken before the judge to be tried for her wrong-doing.

“Child,” said the judge, “what made you do this thing?”

“I was mad,” she said, “I did it for love’s sake. I said, ‘I will burn the house, we shall have nowhere to lay our heads, then we shall take shelter at the temple; I will see my lover.’ Lord, I have not seen him nor heard of him these many, many moons.”

“Who is your lover?” said the judge.

Then she told him.

Now as for the law of the city, it was hard and could not be altered. Death was the penalty for the crime of the Yaoya’s daughter. Only a child might escape.

“My little maid,” the judge said, “are you perhaps twelve years old?”

“Nay, lord,” she answered.

“Thirteen, then, or fourteen? The gods send you may be fourteen. You are little and slender.”

“Lord,” she said, “I am fifteen.”

“Alas, my poor maid,” said the judge, “you are all too old.”

So they made her stand upon the bridge of Nihonbashi. And they told her story aloud; they called it from the house-tops so that all might hear. There she was for all the world to look upon.

Every day for seven days she stood upon the bridge of Nihonbashi, and drooped in the glare of the sun and of men’s glances. Her face was white as the flower of the buckwheat. Her eyes were wide and burning bright. She was the most piteous thing under the sky. The tender-hearted wept to see her. They said, “Is this the Yaoya’s daughter that was one of the five beauties of Yedo?”

After the seven days were passed they bound O Schichi to a stake, and they piled faggots of wood about her and set the faggots alight. Soon the thick smoke rose.

“It was all for love,” she cried with a loud voice. And when she had said this, she died.

* * * * *

“The tale is told,” said the ballad-singer. “Youth calls to youth, beauty to beauty, love to love. This is law, and this law was the undoing of the Yaoya’s daughter.”

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

Karma

Ito Tatewaki, burdened by cares, encounters a mysterious maiden on a solitary road. She leads him to her mistress, a lady he instantly loves. After a night together, the house vanishes, and she leaves, binding his arm with a golden dragon girdle, promising reunion in nine years. Despite years of longing, they meet again on the Night of Souls, where he dies peacefully, finally reunited with his love.

Source
Japanese Fairy Tales
by Grace James
Macmillan & Co., London, 1912

► Themes of the story

Love and Betrayal: The profound connection between Ito Tatewaki and the mysterious lady highlights deep affection, though not explicitly involving betrayal.

Prophecy and Fate: The promise of reunion after nine years and the eventual fulfillment of this destiny underscore the role of fate in their lives.

Illusion vs. Reality: The vanishing house and garden blur the lines between what is real and what is illusionary, challenging Tatewaki’s perception of reality.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

The young man, Ito Tatewaki, was returning homeward after a journey which he had taken to the city of Kioto. He made his way alone and on foot, and he went with his eyes bent upon the ground, for cares weighed him down and his mind was full of the business which had taken him to Kioto. Night found him upon a lonely road leading across a wild moor. Upon the moor were rocks and stones, with an abundance of flowers, for it was summer time, and here and there grew a dark pine tree, with gnarled trunk and crooked boughs.

► Continue reading…

Tatewaki looked up and beheld the figure of a woman before him in the way. It was a slender girl dressed in a simple gown of blue cotton. Lightly she went along the lonely road in the deepening twilight.

“I should say she was the serving-maid of some gentle lady,” Tatewaki said to himself. “The way is solitary and the time is dreary for such a child as she.”

So the young man quickened his pace and came up with the maiden. “Child,” he said very gently, “since we tread the same lonely road let us be fellow-travellers, for now the twilight passes and it will soon be dark.”

The pretty maiden turned to him with bright eyes and smiling lips.

“Sir,” she said, “my mistress will be glad indeed.”

“Your mistress?” said Tatewaki.

“Why, sir, of a surety she will be glad because you are come.”

“Because I am come?”

“Indeed, and indeed the time has been long,” said the serving-maid; “but now she will think no more of that.”

“Will she not?” said Tatewaki. And on he went by the maiden’s side, walking as one in a dream.

Presently the two of them came to a little house, not far from the roadside. Before the house was a small fair garden, with a stream running through it and a stone bridge. About the house and the garden there was a bamboo fence, and in the fence a wicket-gate.

“Here dwells my mistress,” said the serving-maid. And they went into the garden through the wicket-gate.

Now Tatewaki came to the threshold of the house. He saw a lady standing upon the threshold waiting.

She said, “You have come at last, my lord, to give me comfort.”

And he answered, “I have come.”

When he had said this he knew that he loved the lady, and had loved her since love was.

“O love, love,” he murmured, “time is not for such as we.”

Then she took him by the hand, and they went into the house together and into a room with white mats and a round latticed window.

Before the window there stood a lily in a vessel of water.

Here the two held converse together.

And after some time there was an old ancient woman that came with saké in a silver flagon; and she brought silver drinking-cups and all things needful. And Tatewaki and the lady drank the “Three Times Three” together. When they had done this the lady said, “Love, let us go out into the shine of the moon. See, the night is as green as an emerald….”

So they went and left the house and the small fair garden behind them. Or ever they had closed the wicket-gate the house and the garden and the wicket-gate itself all faded away, dissolving in a faint mist, and not a sign of them was left.

“Alas! what is this?” cried Tatewaki.

“Let be, dear love,” said the lady, and smiled; “they pass, for we have no more need of them.”

Then Tatewaki saw that he was alone with the lady upon the wild moor. And the tall lilies grew about them in a ring. So they stood the live-long night, not touching one another but looking into each other’s eyes most steadfastly. When dawn came, the lady stirred and gave one deep sigh.

Tatewaki said, “Lady, why do you sigh?”

And when he asked her this, she unclasped her girdle, which was fashioned after the form of a golden scaled dragon with translucent eyes. And she took the girdle and wound it nine times about her love’s arm, and she said, “O love, we part: these are the years until we meet again.” So she touched the golden circles on his arm.

Then Tatewaki cried aloud, “O love, who are you? Tell me your name….”

She said, “O love, what have we to do with names, you and I?… I go to my people upon the plains. Do not seek for me there…. Wait for me.”

And when the lady had spoken she faded slowly and grew ethereal, like a mist. And Tatewaki cast himself upon the ground and put out his hand to hold her sleeve. But he could not stay her. And his hand grew cold and he lay still as one dead, all in the grey dawn.

When the sun was up he arose.

“The plains,” he said, “the low plains … there will I find her.” So, with the golden token wound about his arm, fleetly he sped down, down to the plains. He came to the broad river, where he saw folk standing on the green banks. And on the river there floated boats of fresh flowers, the red dianthus and the campanula, golden rod and meadow-sweet. And the people upon the river banks called to Tatewaki:

“Stay with us. Last night was the Night of Souls. They came to earth and wandered where they would, the kind wind carried them. To-day they return to Yomi. They go in their boats of flowers, the river bears them. Stay with us and bid the departing Souls good speed.”

And Tatewaki cried, “May the Souls have sweet passage…. I cannot stay.”

So he came to the plains at last, but did not find his lady. Nothing at all did he find, but a wilderness of ancient graves, with nettles overgrown and the waving green grass.

So Tatewaki went to his own place, and for nine long years he lived a lonely man. The happiness of home and little children he never knew.

“Ah, love,” he said, “not patiently, not patiently, I wait for you…. Love, delay not your coming.”

And when the nine years were past he was in his garden upon the Night of Souls. And looking up he saw a woman that came towards him, threading her way through the paths of the garden. Lightly she came; she was a slender girl, dressed in a simple gown of blue cotton. Tatewaki stood up and spoke:

“Child,” he said very gently, “since we tread the same lonely road let us be fellow-travellers, for now the twilight passes and it will soon be dark.”

The maid turned to him with bright eyes and smiling lips:

“Sir,” she said, “my mistress will be glad indeed.”

“Will she be glad?” said Tatewaki.

“The time has been long.”

“Long and very weary,” said Tatewaki.

“But now you will think no more of that….”

“Take me to your mistress,” said Tatewaki. “Guide me, for I cannot see any more. Hold me, for my limbs fail. Do not leave go my hand, for I am afraid. Take me to your mistress,” said Tatewaki.

In the morning his servants found him cold and dead, quietly lying in the shade of the garden trees.

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 Strange Story of the Golden Comb

Two samurai families in Sendai betrothed their newborn children, Aiko and Konojo, marking the bond with a golden comb. Years later, misfortune separated them, and Aiko, now a graceful maiden, fell ill and died longing for Konojo. When he returned, Aiko’s spirit briefly inhabited her sister Aiyamé’s body, sharing a year with Konojo. Before departing to the afterlife, Aiko united them in love.

Source
Japanese Fairy Tales
by Grace James
Macmillan & Co., London, 1912

► Themes of the story

Tragic Love: Aiko’s death due to longing for Konojo, and their brief reunion through Aiyamé, underscore the sorrow of love lost and regained only temporarily.

Family Dynamics: The interactions between Aiko, Aiyamé, and their families reflect the complexities of familial relationships, especially in the context of cultural traditions.

Prophecy and Fate: The predetermined betrothal and the eventual outcomes suggest a play of destiny in the characters’ lives.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

In ancient days two samurai dwelt in Sendai of the North. They were friends and brothers in arms. Hasunuma one was named, and the other Saito.

Now it happened that a daughter was born to the house of Hasunuma, and upon the selfsame day, and in the selfsame hour, there was born to the house of Saito a son. The boy child they called Konojo, and the girl they called Aiko, which means the Child of Love.

► Continue reading…

Or ever a year had passed over their innocent heads the children were betrothed to one another. And as a token the wife of Saito gave a golden comb to the wife of Hasunuma, saying: “For the child’s hair when she shall be old enough.” Aiko’s mother wrapped the comb in a handkerchief, and laid it away in her chest. It was of gold lacquer, very fine work, adorned with golden dragon-flies.

This was very well; but before long misfortune came upon Saito and his house, for, by sad mischance, he aroused the ire of his feudal lord, and he was fain to fly from Sendai by night, and his wife was with him, and the child. No man knew where they went, or had any news of them, nor of how they fared, and for long, long years Hasunuma heard not one word of them.

The child Aiko grew to be the loveliest lady in Sendai. She had longer hair than any maiden in the city, and she was the most graceful dancer ever seen. She moved as a wave of the sea, or a cloud of the sky, or the wild bamboo grass in the wind. She had a sister eleven moons younger than she, who was called Aiyamé, or the Water Iris; and she was the second loveliest lady in Sendai. Aiko was white, but Aiyamé was brown, quick, and light, and laughing. When they went abroad in the streets of Sendai, folk said, “There go the moon and the south wind.”

Upon an idle summer day when all the air was languid, and the cicala sang ceaselessly as he swung on the pomegranate bough, the maidens rested on the cool white mats of their lady mother’s bower. Their dark locks were loose, and their slender feet were bare. They had between them an ancient chest of red lacquer, a Bride Box of their lady mother’s, and in the chest they searched and rummaged for treasure.

“See, sister,” said Aiyamé, “here are scarlet thongs, the very thing for my sandals … and what is this? A crystal rosary, I declare! How beautiful!”

Aiko said, “My mother, I pray you give me this length of violet silk, it will make me very fine undersleeves to my new grey gown; and, mother, let me have the crimson for a petticoat; and surely, mother, you do not need this little bit of brocade?”

“And what an obi,” cried Aiyamé, as she dragged it from the chest, “grass green and silver!” Springing lightly up, she wound the length about her slender body. “Now behold me for the finest lady in all Sendai. Very envious shall be the daughter of the rich Hachiman, when she sees this wonder obi; but I shall be calm and careless, and say, looking down thus humbly, ‘Your pardon, noble lady, that I wear this foolish trifling obi, unmeet for your great presence!’ Mother, mother, give me the obi.”

“Arah! Arah! Little pirates!” said the mother, and smiled.

Aiko thrust her hand to the bottom of the chest. “Here is something hard,” she murmured, “a little casket wrapped in a silken handkerchief. How it smells of orris and ancient spices!–now what may it be?” So saying, she unwound the kerchief and opened the casket. “A golden comb!” she said, and laid it on her knee.

“Give it here, child,” cried the mother quickly; “it is not for your eyes.”

But the maiden sat quite still, her eyes upon the golden comb. It was of gold lacquer, very fine work, adorned with golden dragon-flies.

For a time the maiden said not a word, nor did her mother, though she was troubled; and even the light Lady of the South Wind seemed stricken into silence, and drew the scarlet sandal thongs through and through her fingers.

“Mother, what of this golden comb?” said Aiko at last.

“My sweet, it is the love-token between you and Konojo, the son of Saito, for you two were betrothed in your cradles. But now it is full fifteen years since Saito went from Sendai in the night, he and all his house, and left no trace behind.”

“Is my love dead?” said Aiko.

“Nay, that I know not–but he will never come; so, I beseech you, think no more of him, my pretty bird. There, get you your fan, and dance for me and for your sister.”

Aiko first set the golden comb in her hair. Then she flung open her fan to dance. She moved like a wave of the sea, or a cloud of the sky, or the wild bamboo grass in the wind. She had not danced long before she dropped the fan, with a long cry, and she herself fell her length upon the ground. From that hour she was in a piteous way, and lay in her bed sighing, like a maid lovelorn and forsaken. She could not eat nor sleep; she had no pleasure in life. The sunrise and the sound of rain at night were nothing to her any more. Not her father, nor her mother, nor her sister, the Lady of the South Wind, were able to give her any ease.

Presently she turned her face to the wall. “It is more than I can understand,” she said, and so died.

When they had prepared the poor young maid for her grave, her mother came, crying, to look at her for the last time. And she set the golden comb in the maid’s hair, saying:

“My own dear little child, I pray that in other lives you may know happiness. Therefore take your golden token with you; you will have need of it when you meet the wraith of your lover.” For she believed that Konojo was dead.

But, alas, for Karma that is so pitiless, one short moon had the maid been in her grave when the brave young man, her betrothed, came to claim her at her father’s house.

“Alas and alack, Konojo, the son of Saito, alas, my brave young man, too late you have come! Your joy is turned to mourning, for your bride lies under the green grass, and her sister goes weeping in the moonlight to pour the water of the dead.” Thus spoke Hasunuma the samurai.

“Lord,” said the brave young man, “there are three ways left, the sword, the strong girdle, and the river. These are the short roads to Yomi. Farewell.”

But Hasunuma held the young man by the arm. “Nay, then, thou son of Saito,” he said, “but hear the fourth way, which is far better. The road to Yomi is short, but it is very dark; moreover, from the confines of that country few return. Therefore stay with me, Konojo, and comfort me in my old age, for I have no sons.”

So Konojo entered the household of Hasunuma the samurai, and dwelt in the garden house by the gate.

Now in the third month Hasunuma and his wife and the daughter that was left them arose early and dressed them in garments of ceremony, and presently were borne away in kago, for to the temple they were bound, and to their ancestral tombs, where they offered prayers and incense the live-long day.

It was bright starlight when they returned, and cold the night was, still and frosty. Konojo stood and waited at the garden gate. He waited for their home-coming, as was meet. He drew his cloak about him and gave ear to the noises of the evening. He heard the sound of the blind man’s whistle, and the blind man’s staff upon the stones. Far off he heard a child laugh twice; then he heard men singing in chorus, as men who sing to cheer themselves in their labour, and in the pauses of song he heard the creak, creak of swinging kago that the men bore upon their shoulders, and he said, “They come.”

“I go to the house of the Beloved,
Her plum tree stands by the eaves;
It is full of blossom.
The dew lies in the heart of the flowers,
So they are the drinking-cups of the sparrows.
How do you go to your love’s house?
Even upon the wings of the night wind.
Which road leads to your love’s house?
All the roads in the world.”

This was the song of the kago men. First the kago of Hasunuma the samurai turned in at the garden gate, then followed his lady; last came Aiyamé of the South Wind. Upon the roof of her kago there lay a blossoming bough.

“Rest well, lady,” said Konojo, as she passed, and had no answer back. Howbeit it seemed that some light thing dropped from the kago, and fell with a little noise to the ground. He stooped and picked up a woman’s comb. It was of gold lacquer, very fine work, adorned with golden dragon-flies. Smooth and warm it lay in the hand of Konojo. And he went his way to the garden house. At the hour of the rat the young samurai threw down his book of verse, laid himself upon his bed, and blew out his light. And the selfsame moment he heard a wandering step without.

“And who may it be that visits the garden house by night?” said Konojo, and he wondered. About and about went the wandering feet till at length they stayed, and the door was touched with an uncertain hand.

“Konojo! Konojo!”

“What is it?” said the samurai.

“Open, open; I am afraid.”

“Who are you, and why are you afraid?”

“I am afraid of the night. I am the daughter of Hasunuma the samurai…. Open to me for the love of the gods.”

Konojo undid the latch and slid back the door of the garden house to find a slender and drooping lady upon the threshold. He could not see her face, for she held her long sleeve so as to hide it from him; but she swayed and trembled, and her frail shoulders shook with sobbing.

“Let me in,” she moaned, and forthwith entered the garden house.

Half smiling and much perplexed, Konojo asked her:

“Are you Aiyamé, whom they call the Lady of the South Wind?”

“I am she.”

“Lady, you do me much honour.”

“The comb!” she said, “the golden comb!”

As she said this, she threw the veil from her face, and taking the robe of Konojo in both her little hands, she looked into his eyes as though she would draw forth his very soul. The lady was brown and quick and light. Her eyes and her lips were made for laughing, and passing strange she looked in the guise that she wore then.

“The comb!” she said, “the golden comb!”

“I have it here,” said Konojo; “only let go my robe, and I will fetch it you.”

At this the lady cast herself down upon the white mats in a passion of bitter tears, and Konojo, poor unfortunate, pressed his hands together, quite beside himself.

“What to do?” he said; “what to do?”

At last he raised the lady in his arms, and stroked her little hand to comfort her.

“Lord,” she said, as simply as a child, “lord, do you love me?”

And he answered her in a moment, “I love you more than many lives, O Lady of the South Wind.”

“Lord,” she said, “will you come with me then?”

He answered her, “Even to the land of Yomi,” and took her hand.

Forth they went into the night, and they took the road together. By river-side they went, and over plains of flowers; they went by rocky ways, or through the whispering pines, and when they had wandered far enough, of the green bamboos they built them a little house to dwell in. And they were there for a year of happy days and nights.

Now upon a morning of the third month Konojo beheld men with kago come swinging through the bamboo grove. And he said:

“What have they to do with us, these men and their kago?”

“Lord,” said Aiyamé, “they come to bear us to my father’s house.”

He cried, “What is this foolishness? We will not go.”

“Indeed, and we must go,” said the lady.

“Go you, then,” said Konojo; “as for me, I stay here where I am happy.”

“Ah, lord,” she said, “ah, my dear, do you then love me less, who vowed to go with me, even to the Land of Yomi?”

Then he did all that she would. And he broke a blossoming bough from a tree that grew near by and laid it upon the roof of her kago.

Swiftly, swiftly they were borne, and the kago men sang as they went, a song to make labour light.

“I go to the house of the Beloved,
Her plum tree stands by the eaves;
It is full of blossom.
The dew lies in the heart of the flowers,
So they are the drinking-cups of the sparrows.
How do you go to your love’s house?
Even upon the wings of the night wind.
Which road leads to your love’s house?
All the roads in the world.”

This was the song of the kago men.

About nightfall they came to the house of Hasunuma the samurai.

“Go you in, my dear lord,” said the Lady of the South Wind. “I will wait without; if my father is very wroth with you, only show him the golden comb.” And with that she took it from her hair and gave it him. Smooth and warm it lay in his hand. Then Konojo went into the house.

“Welcome, welcome home, Konojo, son of Saito!” cried Hasunuma. “How has it fared with your knightly adventure?”

“Knightly adventure!” said Konojo, and blushed.

“It is a year since your sudden departure, and we supposed that you had gone upon a quest, or in the expiation of some vow laid upon your soul.”

“Alas, my good lord,” said Konojo, “I have sinned against you and against your house.” And he told Hasunuma what he had done.

When he had made an end of his tale:

“Boy,” said the samurai, “you jest, but your merry jest is ill-timed. Know that my child lies even as one dead. For a year she has neither risen nor spoken nor smiled. She is visited by a heavy sickness and none can heal her.”

“Sir,” said Konojo, “your child, the Lady of the South Wind, waits in a kago without your garden wall. I will fetch her in presently.”

Forth they went together, the young man and the samurai, but they found no kago without the garden wall, no kago-bearers and no lady. Only a broken bough of withered blossom lay upon the ground.

“Indeed, indeed, she was here but now!” cried Konojo. “She gave me her comb–her golden comb. See, my lord, here it is.”

“What comb is this, Konojo? Where got you this comb that was set in a dead maid’s hair, and buried with her beneath the green grass? Where got you the comb of Aiko, the Lady of the Moon, that died for love? Speak, Konojo, son of Saito. This is a strange thing.”

Now whilst Konojo stood amazed, and leaned silent and bewildered against the garden wall, a lady came lightly through the trees. She moved as a wave of the sea, or a cloud of the sky, or the wild bamboo grass in the wind.

“Aiyamé,” cried the samurai, “how are you able to leave your bed?”

The young man said nothing, but fell on his knees beside the garden wall. There the lady came to him and bent so that her hair and her garments overshadowed him, and her eyes held his.

“Lord,” she said, “I am the spirit of Aiko your love. I went with a broken heart to dwell with the shades of Yomi. The very dead took pity on my tears. I was permitted to return, and for one short year to inhabit the sweet body of my sister. And now my time is come. I go my ways to the grey country. I shall be the happiest soul in Yomi–I have known you, beloved. Now take me in your arms, for I grow very faint.”

With that she sank to the ground, and Konojo put his arms about her and laid her head against his heart. His tears fell upon her forehead.

“Promise me,” she said, “that you will take to wife Aiyamé, my sister, the Lady of the South Wind.”

“Ah,” he cried, “my lady and my love!”

“Promise, promise,” she said.

Then he promised.

After a little she stirred in his arms.

“What is it?” he said.

So soft her voice that it did not break the silence but floated upon it.

“The comb,” she murmured, “the golden comb.”

And Konojo set it in her hair.

* * * * *

A burden, pale but breathing, Konojo carried into the house of Hasunuma and laid upon the white mats and silken cushions. And after three hours a young maid sat up and rubbed her sleepy eyes. She was brown and quick and light and laughing. Her hair was tumbled about her rosy cheeks, unconfined by any braid or comb. She stared first at her father, and then at the young man that was in her bower. She smiled, then flushed, and put her little hands before her face.

“Greeting, O Lady of the South Wind,” said Konojo.

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 Singing Bird of Heaven

Ama Terassu, Goddess of the Sun, commands her August Child, the Conqueror, to rule the Land of Reed Plains. However, strife prevents his descent. The gods send others, including the Young Prince, who becomes entangled in earthly love and forgets his divine mission. Deceived, he slays Heaven’s Singing Bird, and in consequence, a returning arrow pierces his heart, leading to his tragic death and Heaven’s sorrow.

Source
Japanese Fairy Tales
by Grace James
Macmillan & Co., London, 1912

► Themes of the story

Love and Betrayal: The Young Prince becomes entangled in earthly love with the Princess Undershining, leading him to neglect his divine mission and betray the expectations of the heavenly deities.

Prophecy and Fate: The narrative revolves around the destined role of the August Child to rule the land, and the consequences of deviating from this fate.

Tragic Flaw: The Young Prince’s susceptibility to earthly desires and emotions leads to his downfall, highlighting a fatal weakness in his character.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

Ama Terassu, the Glorious, the Light of High Heaven, commanded, saying, “His Augustness, my August Child, who is called the Conqueror, shall descend to the land. For it is a Land of Luxuriant Reed Plains, a Land of Fresh Rice Ears, a Land of a Thousand Autumns. So of this land he shall be king.”

Now his Augustness, the August Child, the Conqueror, stood upon the Floating Bridge of Heaven and looked down, and he saw that there was a great unquietness upon the Land of the Reed Plains. For earthly deities made strife, and blood ran, and fearful sounds of war arose, even to High Heaven.

► Continue reading…

So the August Child, the heavenly born, turned back across the Floating Bridge, and swore he would not descend to rule the land until it should be cleansed.

And Ama Terassu, the Light of High Heaven, who had the sun set fast between her eyes, bound her head with jewels, and gathered the deities together in a divine assembly, to hold council in the Tranquil River Bed. And she spoke and said, “Who shall subdue the land that I have given to the August Child?”

And all the deities cried, “O Thine Augustness, send down the Lord of Spears.” Therefore the Lord of Spears went lightly down by the Floating Bridge; and there were bound upon his back eight hundred spears. Howbeit, he made a truce with the Lord of the Reed Plains and tarried there; and for three years there was no report.

Therefore, once more the Queen of Heaven called him whom the gods name Wonderful, and she called the Lord of Deep Thoughts, and likewise she called every deity of Heaven, and they came to council in the Tranquil River Bed, so that upon the sand there was left the print of their august feet. And Ama Terassu said, “Behold now the Lord of Spears is faithless. Whom shall we send to rule the land?” And the Young Prince answered, “O Mother of Heaven, Thine Augustness, send me.” And all the deities assented with one accord and cried, “Send him, send him,” till there was a sound like thunder in the River Bed.

So the Young Prince bound on his sandals, and they brought to him the great bow that stands in the Hall of High Heaven, and bestowed it upon him, and they gave him many heavenly-feathered arrows. So they made him ready, and they brought him to the Floating Bridge. And the Young Prince descended lightly, while his garments shone with the glory of Heaven. But when he touched the tops of the high hills, his heart beat fast and his blood ran warm. Therefore he cut the fastening of his sandals and cast them behind him, and he ran upon his bare feet, like an earthly deity, and came to the palace upon the Reed Plains.

Now, at the door of the palace the Princess Undershining stood, like a growing flower. So the Young Prince beheld her and loved her, and he built him a dwelling upon the Reed Plains, and took the Princess for his bride. And, because he loved her and her earthly children, he brought no report to High Heaven, and he forgot the waiting deities. For Heaven was vague to him as a dream.

But the gods were weary.

And Ama Terassu said, “Long, long tarries our messenger, and brings no word again. My Lord, the August Child, waxes impatient; whom now shall we send?” Thereupon, all the deities, and the Lord of Deep Thoughts, replied, “Send down the Singing Bird, the beloved of High Heaven.”

So Ama Terassu took the golden Singing Bird, and said, “Sweet music of the divine gods, spread thou thy bright wings, and fly to the Land of Reed Plains, and there search out the Young Prince, the messenger of Heaven, and, when thou hast found him, sing in his ear this song: ‘Ama Terassu, the Goddess of the Sun, has sent me saying, How fares the quest of High Heaven, and how fares the message? Where is the report of the gods?’”

So the bird departed, singing. And she came to the Land of the Reed Plains, and perched upon the branch of a fair cassia tree which grew hard by the Young Prince’s dwelling. Day and night, she sang, and the gods in Heaven thought long for their sweet Singing Bird. Howbeit she returned not again, but sat upon the branch of the cassia tree.

But the Young Prince gave no heed.

And She that Speaketh Evil heard the words that the bird sang. And she whispered in the Young Prince’s ear, “See now, my lord, this is an evil bird, and evil is its cry; therefore take thou thine arrows and go forth and slay it.” So she urged continually, and, by glamour, she prevailed upon him. Then the Young Prince arose, and took his bow and his heavenly-feathered arrows, and he let fly an arrow into the branches of the cassia tree. And suddenly the sweet sound of singing ceased, and the golden bird fell dead, for the aim was true.

But the heavenly-feathered arrow took wing and pierced the floor of Heaven, and reached the high place, where sat the Sun Goddess, together with her August Counsellors, in the Tranquil River Bed of Heaven. And the god called Wonderful took up the arrow, and beheld the blood upon its feathers. And the Lord of Deep Thoughts said, “This is the arrow that was given to the Young Prince,” and he showed it to all the deities. And he said, “If the Young Prince has shot this arrow at the evil deities, according to our command, let it do him no hurt. But, if his heart be not pure, then let the Young Prince perish by this arrow.” And he hurled the arrow back to earth.

Now the Young Prince lay upon a couch, sleeping. And the arrow fell, and pierced his heart that he died.

Yet the sweet Singing Bird of Heaven returned no more; and the gods were sorrowful.

Howbeit, the Young Prince lay dead upon his bed; and the wailing of his spouse, the Princess Undershining, re-echoed in the wind, and was heard in Heaven. So the Young Prince’s father descended with cries and lamentations, and there was built a mourning house upon the Land of Reed Plains, and the Young Prince was laid there.

And there came to mourn for him the wild goose of the river, and the pheasant, and the kingfisher. And they mourned for him eight days and eight nights.

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