SONGS OF RADHA - by Sarojini Naidu

 

SONGS  OF  RADHA  by Sarojini Naidu AT Dawn  All night my heart its lonely vigil kept Listening for thee, O Love. All night I wept. Where went thy wanton footsteps wandering, Sweet Ghanashyam, my King ? My bridal veils are flung upon the floor, My bridal garlands drop across the door. The buds that on my bed their fragrance spilt, Grief-scattered, wane and wilt. O Flute-player, how quickly dost thou tire Of thine own gladness and thine own desire! Couldst thou not find upon my sheltering breast Thy rapture and thy rest ? Whose are the fingers that like amorous flocks Raid the ambrosial thickets of thy locks? Ah, whose the lips that smite with sudden drouth The garden of thy mouth ? What shall it profit to revile or hate Thy fickleness, her beauty or my fate, Or strive to tear with black and bitter art Thine image from my heart ? Without thy loveliness my life is dead, Love, like a lamp with golden oils unfed. Come back, come back from thy wild wandering. Sweet Ghanashyam, my King! AT Dusk Krishna Murari, my radiant lover Cometh O comrades haste. Bring me rich perfumes my limbs to cover. Saffron and sandal paste. Bring shining garments for my adorning, Blue of the dusk and rose of the morning. Gold of the flaming noon. Bring me a breastband of gems that shimmer, Making the lamps of the stars grow dimmer, Fillets and fringes of pearls whose glimmer Shameth the Shravan moon. Krishna Murari, my radiant lover Cometh, O sisters spread Buds and ripe blossoms his couch to cover, Silver and vermeil red. With flowering branches the doorways darken, Is that his flute call? Sisters hearken! Why tarrieth he so long? O like a leaf doth my shy heart shiver, O Like a wave do my faint limbs quiver. Softly, softly, Jamuna river, Sing thou our bridal song. THE QUEST My foolish love went seeking thee at dawn, Crying — O wind where is Kanhaya gone? I questioned at noonrise the forest glade, Rests my sweet lover in thy friendly shade? At dusk I pleaded with the dovegray tides, O tell me where my Flute-player abides? Dumb were the waters, dumb the woods, the wind, They knew not where my playfellow to find. I bowed my weeping face upon my palm, Moaning — O where art thou, my Ghanashyam? Then, like a boat that rocks from keel to rafter, My heart was shaken by thy hidden laughter. Then didst thou mock me with thy tender malice, Like nectar bubbling from my own heart's chalice. Thou saidst, — O faithless one, self-slain with doubt, Why seekest thou my loveliness without, And askest wind or wave or flowering dell The secret that within thyself doth dwell? I am of thee, as thou of me, a part. Look for me in the mirror of thy heart.

THE MERCHANT OF SERI - by Ellen C. Babbitt (from "Jataka tales")

There was once a merchant of Seri who sold brass and tinware. He went from town to town, in company with another man, who also sold brass and tinware. This second man was greedy, getting all he could for nothing, and giving as little as he could for what he bought.

When they went into a town, they divided the streets between them. Each man went up and down the streets he had chosen, calling, "Tinware for sale. Brass for sale." People came out to their door-steps, and bought, or traded, with them.

In one house there lived a poor old woman and her granddaughter. The family had once been rich, but now the only thing they had left of all their riches was a golden bowl. The grandmother did not know it was a golden bowl, but she had kept this because her husband used to eat out of it in the old days. It stood on a shelf among the other pots and pans, and was not often used.

The greedy merchant passed this house, calling, "Buy my water-jars! Buy my pans!" The granddaughter said: "Oh, Grandmother, do buy something for me!"

"My dear," said the old woman, "we are too poor to buy anything. I have not anything to trade, even."

"Grandmother, see what the merchant will give for the old bowl. We do not use that, and perhaps he will take it and give us something we want for it."

The old woman called the merchant and showed him the bowl, saying, "Will you take this, sir, and give the little girl here something for it?"

The greedy man took the bowl and scratched its side with a needle. Thus he found that it was a golden bowl. He hoped he could get it for nothing, so he said: "What is this worth? Not even a halfpenny." He threw the bowl on the ground, and went away.

By and by the other merchant passed the house. For it was agreed that either merchant might go through any street which the other had left. He called: "Buy my water-jars! Buy my tinware! Buy my brass!"

The little girl heard him, and begged her grandmother to see what he would give for the bowl.

"My child," said the grandmother, "the merchant who was just here threw the bowl on the ground and went away. I have nothing else to offer in trade."

"But, Grandmother," said the girl, "that was a cross man. This one looks pleasant. Ask him. Perhaps he'll give some little tin dish."

"Call him, then, and show it to him," said the old woman.

As soon as the merchant took the bowl in his hands, he knew it was of gold. He said: "All that I have here is not worth so much as this bowl. It is a golden bowl. I am not rich enough to buy it."

"But, sir, a merchant who passed here a few moments ago, threw it on the ground, saying it was not worth a halfpenny, and he went away," said the grandmother. "It was worth nothing to him. If you value it, take it, giving the little girl some dish she likes for it."

But the merchant would not have it so. He gave the woman all the money he had, and all his wares. "Give me but eight pennies," he said.

So he took the pennies, and left. Going quickly to the river, he paid the boatman the eight pennies to take him across the river.

Soon the greedy merchant went back to the house where he had seen the golden bowl, and said: "Bring that bowl to me, and I will give you something for it."

"No," said the grandmother. "You said the bowl was worthless, but another merchant has paid a great price for it, and taken it away."

Then the greedy merchant was angry, crying out, "Through this other man I have lost a small fortune. That bowl was of gold."

He ran down to the riverside, and, seeing the other merchant in the boat out in the river, he called: "Hallo, Boatman! Stop your boat!"

But the man in the boat said: "Don't stop!" So he reached the city on the other side of the river, and lived well for a time on the money the bowl brought him.

SAKUNTALA or THE LOST RING - from "Tales from the Hindu Dramatists" - by R. N. Dutta

In ancient days, there was a mighty king of the Lunar dynasty by name Dushyanta. He was the king of Hastinapur. He once goes out an hunting and in the pursuit of a deer comes near the hermitage of the sage Kanwa, the chief of the hermits, where some anchorites request him not to kill the deer. The king feels thirsty and was seeking water when he saw certain maidens of the hermits watering the favourite plants. One of them, an exquisitely beautiful and bashful maiden, named Sakuntala, received him. She was the daughter of the celestial nymph Menaka by the celebrated sage Viswamitra and foster child of the hermit Kanwa. She is smitten with love at the first sight of the king, standing confused at the change of her own feeling. The love at first sight which the king conceives for her is of too deep a nature to be momentary. Struck by her beauty he exclaims:

"Her lip is ruddy as an opening bud; her graceful arms resemble tender shoots; attractive as the bloom upon the tree, the glow of youth is spread on all her limbs."

Seizing an opportunity of addressing her, he soon feels that it is impossible for him to return to his capital. His limbs move forward, while his heart flies back, like a silken standard borne against the breeze. He seeks for opportunities for seeing her. With the thought about her haunting him by day and night, he finds no rest, and no pleasure even in his favourite recreation - sporting. Mathavya, the jester, friend and companion of the king, however, breaks the dull monotony of his anxious time. The opportunity which the king seeks offers itself. The hermits send an embassy to the king asking him to come over to the hermitage to guard their sacrifices. As he was making preparations for departure to the hermitage, Karavaka, a messenger from the queen mother, arrives asking his presence at the city of Hastinapur.

He is at first at a loss to extricate himself from this difficulty but a thought strikes him and he acts upon it. He sends the jester as his substitute to the city. He is now at leisure to seek out the love-sick Sakuntala who is drooping on account of her love for the king and is discovered lying on a bed of flowers in an arbour. He comes to the hermitage, overhears her conversation with her two friends, shows himself and offers to wed her. For a second time, the lovers thus meet. He enquires of her parentage to see if there is any obstacle to their being united in marriage; whereupon Sakuntala asks her companion Priyambada to satisfy the king with an account of her birth. The king hearing the story of her birth asks the companion to get the consent of Sakuntala to be married to him according to the form known as gandharva.

Sakuntala requests the king to wait till her foster father Kanwa, who had gone out on a pilgrimage, would come back and give his consent. But the king, becoming importunate, she at last gives her consent. They are married according to the gandharva form, on the condition that the issue of the marriage should occupy the throne of Hastinapur. She accepts from her lord a marriage ring as the token of recognition.

The king then goes away, after having promised to shortly send his ministers and army to escort her to his Capital. When Kanwa returns to the hermitage, he becomes aware of what has transpired during his absence by his spiritual powers, and congratulates Sakuntala on having chosen a husband worthy of her in every respect. Next day, when Sakuntala is deeply absorbed in thoughts about her absent lord, the celebrated choleric sage Durvasa comes and demands the rights of hospitality. But he is not greeted with due courtesy by Sakuntala owing to her pre-occupied state. Upon this, the ascetic pronounces a curse that he whose thought has led her to forget her duties towards guests, would disown her.

Sakuntala does not hear it, but Priyambada hears it and by entreaties appeases the wrath of the sage, who being conciliated ordains that the curse would cease at the sight of some ornament of recognition.

Sakuntala becomes quick with child and in the seventh month of her pregnancy is sent by her foster father to Hastinapur, in the company of her sister Gautami, and his two disciples Sarngarva and Saradwata. Priyambada stays in the hermitage. Sakuntala takes leave of the sacred grove in which she has been brought up, of her flowers, her gazelles and her friends.

The aged hermit of the grove thus expresses his feelings at the approaching loss of Sakuntala:

"My heart is touched with sadness at the thought, "Sakuntala must go today"; my throat is choked with flow of tears repressed; my sight is dimmed with pensiveness but if the grief of an old forest hermit is so great, how keen must be the pang a father feels when freshly parted from a cherished child !"

Then he calls upon the trees to give her a kindly farewell. They answer with the Kokila's melodious cry.

Thereupon the following good wishes are uttered by voices in the air:

"Thy journey be auspicious; may the breeze, gentle and soothing, fan the cheek; may lakes, all bright with lily cups, delight thine eyes; the sun beam's heat be cooled by shady trees; the dust beneath thy feet be the pollen of lotuses."

On their way, Sakuntala and her companions bathe in the Prachi Saraswati, when, as Fate would have it, she carelessly drops the ring of recognition into the river, being unaware of the fact at the time. At last they arrive at Hastinapur, and send words to the king.

The king asks his family priest Somarata to enquire of them the cause of their coming. Whereupon the priest meets them at the gate, knows the objects of their coming and informs the king of it. The curse of Durvasa does its work. The king denies Sakuntala. At the intercession of the priest, she and her companions are brought before the king. The king publicly repudiates her. As a last resource, Sakuntala bethinks herself of the ring given her by her husband, but on discovering that it is lost, abandons hope. Sarnagarva sharply remonstrates against the conduct of the king and presses the claim of Sakuntala.

Gentle and meek as Sakuntala is, she undauntedly gives vent to her moral indignation against the king. The disciples go away saying that the king would have to repent of it.

Sakuntala falls senseless on the ground. After a while, she revives, the priest then comes forward and asks the king to allow her to stay in his palace till her delivery. The king consents, and when Sakuntala is following the priest, Menaka with her irradiant form appears and taking hold of her daughter vanishes and goes to a celestial asylum. Everyone present there is astonished and frightened.

After this incident, one day while the king is out on inspection, a certain fisherman, charged with the theft of the royal signet-ring which he professes to have found inside a fish, is dragged along by constables before the king who, however, causes the poor accused to be set free, rewarding him handsomely for his find.

Recollection of his former love now returns to him. His strong and passionate love for Sakuntala surges upon him with doubled and redoubled force.

Indulging in sorrow at his repudiation of Sakuntala, the king passes three long years; at the end of which Matali, Indra's charioteer, appears to ask the king's aid in vanquishing the demons. He makes his aerial voyage in Indra's car. While he is coming back from the realm of Indra, he alights on the hermitage of Maricha.

Here he sees a young boy tormenting a lion whelp. Taking his hand, without knowing him to be his own son, he exclaims: "If now the touch of but a stranger's child thus sends a thrill of joy through all my limbs, what transports must be awakened in the soul of that blest father from whose loins he sprang !"

From the vaunting speeches of the boy, the king gathers that the boy is a scion of the race of Puru. His heart everflows with affection for him. A collection of circumstantial evidence points the boy to be his son. The amulet on the boy indicates his parentage.

But while he is in a doubtful mood as to the parentage of the refractory boy, he meets the sage Maricha from whom he learns everything. The name of the boy is Sarvadamana, afterwards known as Bharata, the most famous king of the Lunar race, whose authority is said to have extended over a great part of India, and from whom India is to this day called Bharata or Bharatavarsa (the country or domain of Bharata.)

Soon after, he finds and recognises Sakuntala, with whom he is at length happily reunited.

FEW SHORT STORIES FROM - A Collection of Kachári Folk-Tales - by J.D. Anderson

THE STORY OF THE LAZY BOY

There was once a very lazy boy. And when everybody else had planted out his paddy, he was only setting forth to plough. But the old man of the season, seeing him, said “The season has gone; what are you ploughing for now? The paddy is all planted out, and it is late.” But the boy would not listen to him, and ploughed sturdily ahead, beating his cattle soundly as he went. And when the old man again and again questioned him, he cried “What sort of an old man is this? Can he not see that I am busy? I know very well what I am about.” But the old man said gently “Nay, my son: but it is for your good that I would speak to you.” And the boy said “Speak quickly then, and have done with it.” And the old man said “My son, the season is gone, what avails it to plough now?” And then the boy cried “Where has it gone? And when has it gone? And why has it gone? And how shall I find it?” But the old man of the season said “You should have ploughed when others did. The season has gone, and no man can bring it back.” But the boy said “I must bring it back, else, how shall I eat, and how shall I live? Do tell me where it is gone.” And as he would not let the god go, finally, losing patience, he said “You go over there, and you will find an old man with a snow-white head ploughing in a field. You get hold of him and do as he tells you.” So saying, he made his escape. Then the lad hastened home to his mother and bade her cook supper quickly, and tie him up some rice to take with him on the morrow, for he was going to bring back the departed season for ploughing.

“For” said he “when I was ploughing today, an old man told me that the season was gone, and that if I went after him and pursued him I would find him, and that I must do as he would tell me.” So she rose very early in the morning, and giving him to eat and drink, set him on his way. And as he went, he asked all he met “Can you tell me where the old man of the season has gone?” But they said “Every one knows that the season is gone, but where it has gone, or why it has gone, who can say?” At last, when he was nearly in despair, he saw an old man ploughing afar off, and shouted to him “Stay a moment, father, stay; I want to ask you a question.” But the old man was busy, and went his ways. But the lad pursued him and never ceased calling after him till at last the old man, losing patience, turned upon him, and said “What pertinacious noisy lad is this, who won’t leave me alone?” But the lad said “Be not angry, my father, I am fallen into great trouble, and it behoves you to help me.” “Speak quickly, then,” said the old man. And the boy said “I take you to be the old man of the season, and I pray you not to slay me. All the others have planted out their paddy, and I have fallen behind, and have planted nothing. Therefore, unless you turn back, I cannot hope to get any harvest.” But the old man said “It is too late for me to return. Go you back, and plant your paddy as best you can.” And so the lad hastened back and planted out his seedlings in such heedless haste as became him. And that’s all!

THE  SEVEN  CHAMPIONS

An old man and an old woman had a son. But the father died while his son was yet a child, and the mother brought up her boy by begging from house to house. When he was big enough he begged his mother to let him engage himself as a cowherd. But she said “As long as I live, I must not let you undergo any trouble.” But the gallant boy would not listen, and went and took service as a cowherd. But the other cowherd boys would not let him go out herding with them, and hated him, and beat him, in spite of the help of a good old man who took him into his house, so, being unable to stay any longer for grief and vexation, he went away into foreign lands.

And as he went his ways, he met Simli Bîr, the hero of the simul tree, and when he saw him he said “Ah! here is a hero indeed, seeing that you bear a whole silk-cotton tree on your shoulder.” But the other replied “Whom do you call a hero? I am no hero at all. If you want a real hero, look out for Gilâ Charan.” But the lad said “As for Gilâ Charan, why, I am Gilâ Charan.” On which Simli Bîr got leave to go with him. And as they went they met Dhop Bîr, and to him they said “You are something like a hero. Why, you are carrying a whole dhop tree all by yourself.” But the other said “My brothers, of what account am I? The man they call Gilâ Charan, he is a hero if you like.” Then Gilâ Charan said “But I am he.” On which Dhop Bîr said “Let me come with you too.”

And, so saying, he too joined the party. And in like manner they were joined by other four champions, namely, Mustard, Monkey, Ocean, and Fire, six in all, besides Gilâ Charan.

And when they had gone some way, one of them went into the house of a Râkshashani to beg fire for cooking. But when the old wretch saw that it was a man, she desired to devour him, and to that end lay still, pretending to be ill, and said to him in a weak voice “The fire is quite close to me. Come and blow it up!” and when he came close, she gave him a kick and sent him flying into a pit; and, seeing that he did not come, another champion went on the same quest and was treated in like fashion. Then Gilâ Charan guessed that something out of the way had happened, and went there himself; and, perceiving that the old woman was a vampire, took her by the throat and shook her well. But she cried “Do not kill me, and I will show you where your friends are.” Then the old woman got a ladder and released the two champions from the pit. Whereupon they killed her, and went on their way rejoicing.

And presently they came to a place where Rakshashas dwelt. But, not knowing this, they left Simli Bîr to cook rice and the rest went hunting. And when the rice was ready, two Rakshashas came and gobbled it up, so when the rest returned, hungry, for food, Simlî Bîr said he was very sorry. He had quite forgotten to cook, being very busy watching a beautiful white butterfly. But Gilâ Charan at once saw that was only a pretext. So he bid the rest go, and, staying behind, himself cooked rice afresh. On which the two Rakshashas came up roaring, and said “Here, my son, hand over that rice.” “But,” said Gilâ Charan, undaunted, “we are hungry ourselves and have no rice to spare!” “What!” cried they “shall a scarcely weaned child speak to us like this?” and they ran at him to eat him. But he seized them by their necks and threw them a field’s length. And when they attacked him afresh, he slew them with his sword. And in like manner each of the Bîrs slew each his Rakshasha, and then each married a fair Rakshasha girl, and lived happily ever afterwards. And that’s all!

THE  STORY  OF  MERCHANT'S  SON

There was a lad whose father died while he was a child. And when, by slow degrees, he came to man’s estate, he asked his mother one day how his father got a living. But she heaved a long sigh, and at last said “Your father traded in foreign countries, my dear; and if he were alive now, we would not be in such distress now.” But he said “Ah! mother, may not I work at the same trade? Give me all the money there is, and let me too go trading.” But his mother said “Nay! my son, do not say that. While I live, even if I have to beg, you shall not want. And if you die in strange lands, what is to become of me?” But her son would not hearken to her, and, begging money from her, bought merchandise, and hired a boat, and took two men with him; and, after doing obeisance to his mother, set forth into strange lands. And at last he moored his boat at the ghat of a certain village, and sent his men out to hawk his goods. But he himself stayed with the boat. And at that ghat dwelt an aged couple, who possessed a white and beautiful swan which they cherished as their own child, and fed with their own food. And one day at midday, when men were enjoying their siesta, the merchant lad saw the white swan remove her swan dress and bathe in the river, a lovely slim maiden. Whereupon he began to pay great regard to the old couple, and gave them of his store without money. But as time went by, all his goods were disposed of, and then he went to the old people and offered them a great price for their swan. Nor when they would give it to him for nothing would he accept it, seeing that it were a sin to take a wife as a gift. So, finally he made them take much money and went away home, taking his swan with him. But when he reached home, behold the swan remained a swan, and the lad was sore vexed and lost his sleep and his food, so that his mother was in fear, and asked sundry of the villagers what might be the matter.

And, finally, one of them, who was a wise woman, said to her: “Something has happened to him while he was away trading, and now you must find out what it was. And the way to do it is this: You must get a fair girl to comb his hair; and let her pretend to grieve that he is so ill, and let her cry into his hair, and to a fair maiden he will tell what he would never say to his mother.” So a girl came and combed his hair, and wept silently till the tears fell on his head, and when he asked what ailed her, said she could not bear to see him pine away. So at last he told her of the white swan, which turned before his very eyes into a lovely maiden, but that now it remained ever a white swan, though he was pining away for very love of her. So she went and told the mother, and the mother told the wise woman, who bade them get the lad to lie awake till midnight and then the swan-maiden would arise, and, assuming her maiden form, would worship her own country’s gods. And then he was to leap up suddenly and cast her swan skin on the hearth and burn it; and then of a surety she would remain a maiden. So the lad prepared a basin of oil and ashes and a yak’s tail, and did as the wise woman bade. And in the depth of night, the swan came and felt him all over with her beak. But he never stirred a whit. And then, believing him to be asleep, she stripped off her swan’s skin slowly, and prayed aloud to the gods of her own country. Then the lad got out of bed very silently, and seizing the swan’s skin thrust it in the ashes. And when she smelled the burning feathers, she cried aloud “Ah! what have you done? what have you done?” and fell senseless on the floor. But he anointed her with the oil, and fanned her with the yak’s tail, till presently her great eyes opened and he saw that she loved him. And then they lived happily ever afterwards. And that’s all!

BROTHER  AND  SISTER

A certain king died, and soon after his death his wife bare him a daughter, as she had heretofore borne him a son. And then she too died. But before she died, she bade her son “Strike hard, but once only!” And she committed her daughter to his care. And, though they lost their kingdom and were forced to beg their bread, the brother was a good brother, and took care of his sister until they came to a certain kingdom, the king of which took pity on them and kept them in his own palace.

Now, in that kingdom dwelt seven thieves, who oppressed the king, so that he was compelled to send them fowls, pigs, cattle, and pigeons every day. And when the brother heard of this, he begged the king to let him go and kill the thieves. And when the king was unwilling to let him undertake the enterprise, the brother insisted, and, borrowing a horse and a sword from the king, went to the thieves’ house, and there tied up his horse and waited with drawn sword at the door. And when the eldest thief came out, he cut him down, and so in turn he cut down each of them. But the youngest of all was suspicious and came out cautiously, so that the brother was not able to kill him at one blow. So, mindful of his mother’s saying, he shut him up in one of the thieves’ houses, and put a lock upon the door. And then he went and told all that had happened to the king; who, as a reward made the brother and sister custodians of the thieves’ houses. And so they went and stayed there, and the brother said to his sister “You can go into and examine all the houses except the one that is locked.” And the brother was a mighty hunter. But before he went out a hunting, he mixed pulse and grain, and, filling a plate with the mixture, bade his sister separate the seeds while he was away. And this occupied her a whole day. And then she went and examined all the rooms in the thieves’ houses. And in some were cattle, and in some fowls, and in some horses, and so forth. But her mind was ill at ease, because she might not examine the house that was locked. “For,” she said to herself, “if I do not see what is in that house, I cannot be happy.” So she went and saw, and there she found a man half dead with his wound; and when he besought her, she pitied him, and fetched him such medicines as he required of her. So that at the end of some days he was healed, and in course of time they two fell in love with one another. And the wicked thief began to teach the girl how she should bring about the destruction of her brother. And he bade her, when her brother returned, to pretend to be ill, and to say that nothing would cure her save a drink of tigress’ milk. And when her brother heard this, he set out in search of a she-tiger. And, as luck would have it, he found a she-tiger with a bone stuck in her teeth. So, after binding her with a vow, he extracted the bone from her teeth, and then he told her what he required. So she gave him of her milk, and also one of her whelps. And then he returned home. And at dawn the thief asked the sister “Did he bring you the tigress’s milk?” And she replied “That he did, and he brought a tiger’s whelp also.” On which the thief was much discomfited. Then he bade her ask her brother fetch some water from a certain tank, well knowing that to fetch water from that tank, was certain death. On which she said to her brother “If you can only get me water from that tank, I shall certainly be well.” So the brother took his horse and a sword, and a hound, and also the tiger’s whelp, and set out. And on the way he came to a great tree and stopped to rest in the shade; and while he was resting, a huge snake came and began climbing up the tree. And, seeing it, the brother cut the snake in two with his sword; and when a second snake came, he slew that, too. And while he was still resting, a bird came flying to the tree with food for her nestlings. But they refused to eat. And when their mother asked them why they would not eat, they said “Unless you take pity on the man who is resting under the tree, we cannot eat.” So the mother bird promised; and, having fed her nestlings, flew down to the brother and asked him what he desired. And he said that he desired water from a certain tank. But the bird knew all about the properties of the tank, and told the brother. Now, near the tank dwelt a maiden, the guardian of the tank; and he entered into her house, and told her his heart’s desire. But she said to him “You must not go near the tank, for you will die. You must marry me. And as for your sister, she has disobeyed your word, and has married the thief you nearly killed, and their desire is only to be rid of you.” So they two were married, and, going to the thief’s house, slew the thief and the wicked sister. And then they lived happily ever afterwards. And that’s all!

THE  OLD  MAN  AND  THE  TIGER

There was once an old man, who, when he was cutting reeds for his fence in the jungle, heard a tiger growling close to him; and it happened that at that moment a bird also flew away. On which the old man, though he was in truth very frightened, called after the bird “Ah! if you had only stopped, I would have taught you the secret of the ghughu ban.” And this saying he kept on repeating, so that the tiger said to himself “What is it that the old man is saying? I must get him to tell me; and in that case I won’t even eat him.” So he called to the old man. “Look here, old man, what is that about the ghughu ban?” But the old man, answering not a word, kept on chopping his reeds. Then the tiger crept up quite close to him, and said to the old man “If you don’t tell me what you are talking about, I will eat you!” But the old man, for all his fear, only said “You come to my house tomorrow, and I will tell you.” Very early the next morning the tiger asked his way to the old man’s house, and when he got there, it being still early morning, the old man said “And what may your honour be pleased to want?” And the tiger replied “I want to know what you were talking about yesterday.” But the old man replied “I cannot possibly teach you alone. You had better go and get two or three other tigers.” And so the tiger went away and returned with two or three of his brethren. In the meanwhile the old man had spread his unthreshed paddy in the yard. And, putting his earliest acquaintance first, he tied all the tigers to the post, round which the cattle revolve when they are treading out the grain, and set them to work to tread.

But the one in the middle, who was unaccustomed to such labour, cried out in a piteous voice that his head ached, and that he was getting very giddy. But the old man said “Wait a bit, my friend; you haven’t learned yet.” And when the tiger complained again, the old man fetched his goad and pricked him sore, so that, giddy and stumbling, he had to go round and round, and when the tiger said “I shall die at this rate,” the old man replied “You wanted to learn the ghughu ban yesterday, and unless you endure this trouble, you cannot possibly learn;” and, so saying, pricked him the more cruelly. Finally, the tiger said “If so be, I must be in pain, I must be. But I don’t see what it is all about.” Then the old man replied “This is precisely what they called the ghughu ban.” Then the tiger said “I see, I see, now let us go. We have learned our lesson.” But the old man said “Wait a bit, the paddy is nearly trodden out,” and would not stop pricking the tigers for all their entreaties. And when the paddy was all threshed, the old man began untying their bonds. But before he had finished, the tigers were in such pain that they tore the rope out of his hands and ran away. When they stopped to rest, they saw the old man’s rope, and said to one another “If we do not give the old man his rope again, we shall get into further trouble.” So, after much debate, the first tiger was deputed to take it back.

So back he went, trembling with fear in every limb, and, getting close to the old man’s house, offered him his rope. But the old man said “It is night, and I am in bed. I can’t come out. Put the rope in at the window.” So the tiger put it on his tail and thrust it in at the window. But the old man had his knife ready and cut the tiger’s tail off. On which the tiger once more fled, howling with pain. But the old man shouted after him “You may run as far as you like, but my brother is after you, and will catch you.” On which the tiger ran faster than ever. At last, however, he stopped to rest near a cool pool of water, and, not seeing the old man’s brother, dipped the wounded stump of his tail into the pool for refreshment. But a crab, which dwelt in that pool, nipped the stump of his tail; and the tiger crying “The old man’s brother has caught me!” again fled through the jungle, and it was not till the crab was knocked off against the trees that he at last rested. And that’s all!

THE  BRAHMIN  AND  HIS  SERVANT

There was once a Brahmin who had a servant. And one day when they were going to the house of the Brahmin’s mother-in-law, the Brahmin gave his servant a bunch of plantains and other things to carry, and said to him “Now, mind you don’t eat those plantains, for I can see just as well behind as I can in front.” And, so saying, he marched ahead. And presently the servant, getting hungry, plucked one of the plantains from the bunch, and, holding it out to his master’s back, ate it. And this he did again and again till all the plantains were gone. And when the Brahmin presently asked what had become of the load, the servant said “You told me you could see behind as well as in front. So I showed you each plantain before I ate it. And you never said anything.”

So the Brahmin went his ways speechless. Presently they stopped to cook their midday meal, and they had got with them a few khawai fish. But the Brahmin gave only one to his servant, and kept the rest himself. And when he was about to eat, the servant asked innocently: “Oh! Brahmin, do khawai fish swim about singly or in shoals?” To which the Brahmin said: “Why, in shoals, of course.” So the servant said “Then my fish had better go with yours.” And, so saying, he threw his fish on the Brahmin’s mess, which was defiled. So the Brahmin got no dinner, and the servant ate the whole.

A little later they came across a number of simul trees. Seeing them, the servant asked his master “And what do they call these trees, master?” And the Brahmin (being an educated man) said “These are sirmolu.” But the servant said “Not so, not so! These are himulu,” and offered to bet five blows that it was so. And, meeting some cowherd boys, he asked them what the trees were. And when they said “himulu” he gave the Brahmin five blows without further question.

Next they met a drove of goats. “And what may these be, Brahmin, these animals that are grazing?” And the Brahmin said “These be called châg.” But the servant cried “Not so, not so! These are châgali.” And the result, as before, was that the Brahmin was worsted and got five blows.

And next they came across a flock of paddy-birds, which the Brahmin called “Bog,” but the servant “Boguli.” And again he was worsted and got his five blows. On which he consoled himself by reciting an Assamese saying, to the effect that it is ill arguing with a fool:

“Sâg sirmolu bog ba-káran

Tinî pânch panra kîl sudâ akâran.”

And when they were now come near the Brahmin’s mother-in-law’s house, and the Brahmin was become very hungry, he sent his servant on ahead to beg them to get supper ready. So the servant went on ahead and bade the Brahmin’s mother-in-law cook a duck and put lots of plantain ashes, which the Kacháris use for salt, well knowing that his master disliked its acrid taste. So the duck was cooked with plenty of alkali.

And when the Brahmin arrived, his meal was set before him, and he was so hungry that he had to eat it whether he liked its savour or no.

And so in various ways the Brahmin was put to shame by his servant. So he wrote a long letter to his brother, and, putting it in his servant’s hand, bade him deliver it. But he went a little way, until he met a man who could read and write, and he bade him tell him what was written in the letter. And the man read him the letter, which was to the effect that the brother was to kill the servant. On this, the servant tore up the letter and bade his friend write another one, saying “Dear brother, on receipt of this letter marry my servant to my niece without delay. I shall not be able to come to the wedding.”

Taking this letter, the servant went to his master’s brother, who was much vexed, but dared not disobey. Accordingly, though reluctantly, he married the servant to his daughter.

And, when the master came to see if his servant had been disposed of, and heard what had happened, he set about to kill him. But his niece got to know of the matter and told her husband, who got a calf, and, binding it hand and foot, put it by her in her bed. And in the night the Brahmin came, and thinking the calf was his niece’s husband sleeping by her side, killed it. And when he found out his mistake in the morning, and learned that he was guilty of cow-killing, he bade his niece’s husband go and bury the calf in all haste. And the servant dragged the calf into the garden and buried it with its tail sticking out of the ground. Meanwhile, the Brahmin set to work to get himself purged of the offence of cow-killing, and summoned the villagers to a feast without telling them why. And when they were all seated, the servant ran out into the garden and hauling at the calf’s tail, called out “The Brahmin didn’t kill a cow, Oh, no! 

FEW  LINES  ABOUT  KACHARI  KINGDOM

India's North East remains unexplored and undiscovered to most... 

splendor of the Kasomari Monoliths

 Kachári  Palace ruins at Khaspur

The Dimasa Kingdom (Hidimbā kingdom) was a powerful kingdom in Assam, Northeast India ruled by Dimasa kings,called Timisa in the Ahom Buranjis. The Dimasa kingdom and others (Kamata, Chutiya) that developed in the wake of the Kamarupa kingdom were led by chieftains of indigenous communities of Assam and are examples of indigenous state formations in Medieval Assam. The British finally annexed the kingdom: the plains in 1832 and the hills in 1834. This kingdom gave its name to undivided Cachar district of colonial Assam. And after independence the undivided Cachar district was split into three districts in Assam: Dima Hasao district (formerly North Cachar Hills), Cachar district, Hailakandi district.

In the 18th century, a divine Hindu origin was constructed for the rulers of the Kachari kingdom and it was named Hidimba, and the kings as Hidimbesvar. The name Hiḍimbā continued to be used in the official records when the East India Company took over the administration of Cachar

The origin of the Kachari Kingdom is not clear. According to tradition the Dimasa had their domain in Kamarupa and their king belonged to a lineage called Ha-tsung-tsa or Ha-cheng-sa, a name first mentioned in a coin from 1520. Some of them had to leave due to a political turmoil and while crossing the Brahmaputra some of them were swept away - therefore, they are called Dimasa ("son of the big river"). The similarity in Dimasa traditions and religious beliefs with those of the Chutiya kingdom supports this tradition of initial unity and then divergence. Linguistic studies too point to a close association between the Dimasa language and the Moran language that was alive till the beginning of the 20th-century, suggesting that the Dimasa kingdom had an eastern Assam presence before the advent of the Ahoms. The Dimasas had a tradition of worshiping Kechai Khaiti, the war goddess common among all Bodo-Kachari peoples: as the Rabhas, Tiwas, Koch, Chutias, etc. According to an account in a Buranji, the first Ahom king Sukaphaa (r. 1228–1268) encountered them in the Tirap region (currently in Arunachal Pradesh), soon after they had to leave a place called Mohung (salt springs) losing it to the Nagas, which supports a tradition that eastern boundary of their domain extended up to Mohong or Namchang (near Jeypore, Assam) beyond the river Dichang.

According to legend Hachengsa (or Hasengcha) was an extraordinary boy brought up by a tiger and a tigress in a forest near Dimapur who replaced the existing king following divine oracles; which likely indicates the emergence of a strong military leader able to consolidate power. Subsequently, the Hasengcha Sengfang (clan) emerged and beginning with Khorapha (1520 in Dimapur), the Dimasa kings continued to draw lineage from Hachengcha in Maibong and Khaspur till the 19th century. This legend of the origin of Hachengcha is recorded in an unpublished manuscript written by the late Rajkumar Janmejoy Barman, a member of the royal clan of the Dimasas. 

From archaeological evidence and Kachari Buranjis record, First capital Laksmindrapur is doubtlessly accepted as Kachomari

more at :

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dimasa_Kingdom

Kachári Man 

Kachári Woman

ASNEHA, THE LEGEND OF THE OPAL - by Carlo De Fornaro

Utter a powerful song to Indra, which will be as sweet as butter and honey. - Rig Veda.

Once upon a time, in the land of Kasi, there lived a poor musician, who was also a poet and a most imaginative storyteller. He had lost his flute in a village brawl, and being too poor to buy a new instrument had to content himself in relating wonderful legends concerning the gods, and stirring tales about the jungle people.

One morning, feeling the necessity of communing with his spirit in quiet and solitude, he wandered into the jungle under a favorite cluster of bamboos.

His soaring imagination was checked in its flight by a song of so extraordinary a tune, so novel and strange to his ears that he fancied he had been carried up by unknown favor to Indra’s heaven. The heavenly singer was only a small bird with feathers like old gold, two eyes green as emeralds, and the beak and legs of the same color.

And the Golden Bird spoke to him: “Asneha! thou hast acquired great merit by thy devotion to matters spiritual, by thy kindness to animals and to human beings. Therefore, if thou wilt cut a reed within these woods they shall repeat my songs to thee.

“But have a care, thou must remain pure and not suffer to be deluded by the love of woman, and thou shalt conquer the world.”

He cut a flute in haste and pressed his lips to it to utter a song from it. And verily the music which flowed from its opening was divine and golden beyond description. Sometimes it sang softly as the moonbeam plays on a silent lake of emerald, dancing and trembling with so gentle a rhythm that only the soul of a poet could hear its melody; at other times it swelled its notes to the power of the roaring Maruts smiting against the unmovable Himalayas, as the wrath of Kali with the shiver of the cold snows from the eternal summits. Again, its melody dripped sweetly as the whitest of honey with the scent of a thousand flowers, of innumerable forms and shadings the most delicate. It wept, also, a song of despair and misery, so sadly, so pitifully, that it caused the tears to surge as readily as the Fountain of all the Sorrows.

So he incised on his flute this motto:

“Once upon a time the Golden Bird sang to me,

Now I shall sing a golden song to the gods.”

He went from village to village, from city to city, playing with the generosity of an inspired poet, followed by man, woman, child and beast alike, whenever he put his flute to his lips. They offered him their homes, their riches, their dearest possessions, but he scorned all, accepting only a little rice with spices, partaking of shelter with the humblest when the tempest-beaten jungle forbade his sleeping out of doors.

Quickly his fame had spread, and reached the ears of the Maharajah, who bade him appear at the palace, to vie with the court musicians, who were the most famous in the land. The court musicians, in their ignorance, eyed the half-naked poet with a defiant leer, as one by one they began playing, while nearby sat the Maharajah with his daughter, the fair Mahismati, and the courtiers around, all fairly laden with gems, appearing as enormous glistening scarabei.

They sang and drummed, they scratched their fiddles and twanged their guitars, they played the harps and clanked the cymbals to the admiring assemblage of noblemen, who wondered how this miserable, half-starved vagabond dared to compete with his wretched little instrument.

When the musicians had ended, Asneha got up, announcing the Song of Songs.

It began imperceptibly, but as insinuatingly as the language of a couple of loving eyes whispers to another loved pair; so indistinct to the ear that it was as the incipient melody in the mind of the composer.

Then it continued, soothing and muffled as the patter of small naked feet dancing the nautch on the marble flooring; rattled speedily as an incessant cascade of rubies, diamonds, sapphires, pearls and emeralds on a basin of gold. Steadily it flowed, like a Song of Desire and Voluptuousness, filling the hall with a scarlet inundation of light; heavy and numbing as the exhalation of soporific flowers.

But now it ascended to healthier altitudes like a Song of Victory and Exultation, direct and concise, in a blast of crystal trumpets, higher, slowly, in the manner of the eagle.

It rang forth agitated and sonorous as a gong, yet farther, solitary, inaccessible.

Then as if it had grown in magnitude by the ascent, it roared like a planet as it shoots into space to restore the equilibrium of the Universe, and suddenly, unexpectedly, in the fashion of the shooting star, it stopped short, carrying in its wake the exhausted assemblage of listeners to the floor as a mass of inert flesh.

One by one, as do the reeds after the violent gust of wind has blown over, they raised themselves, but not quite so erect as before. The musicians approached him humbly, and breaking their instruments, threw them at his feet, salaaming and promising never to play again from that day on.

Then Rajah Nila spoke: “Oh Asneha! Thou art indeed a great musician, and thou shalt be rewarded as befits a king; my riches, my kingdom, my daughter, are thine for thy choosing!”

“Oh, Rajah!” answered Asneha, “I am only a poor man and a musician by divine grace, but I am not a beggar, and have no desire for thy kingly gifts and thy fair daughter!”

The astonished Nila replied: “Assuredly thou art richer than am I, for thou art freed of all desires! But let me be a beggar for once, and entreat thee for another song!”

One day Pavana, the messenger of the gods, appeared to Asneha mounted on his white antelope, a flag in one hand, in the other an arrow, with a command from Indra to present himself immediately to the gods. So he mounted the antelope, and in less time than it takes to think it, he was carried to the eastern spur of the great Mount Meru, which is Swargra, in the City of Asmaravati, the heaven of Indra. All the gods had assembled there. Above all towered the great and mighty Indra, the Ruler of the gods and Lord of the Firmament, mounted on his elephant Airavata, at his right his dog Surana, and at his left his wife Indrani. Farther to the left was Surya, the god of the Sun, on his winged horse Tarkshya. Agni, the god of Fire, on a blue ram, and Varuna, the god of Waters, on his terrible Makara.

At Indra’s right was Yama, the god of Death, on a blue buffalo, with his twin sisters, the Yamunis, at their feet, the Sarameyas, their faithful watchdogs.

On Yama’s right was Kuvera, the god of Wealth, with his sister Kuveri, in their aerial car of jeweled lapis-lazuli.

Then Soma, the god of the Moon, on a white antelope, and Mangala, the god of War.

Also the goddess of Love, Radha, and all the lesser gods in magnificent array, in all their splendor, in all their beauty and power, watching silently Asneha.

Indra patted Airavata, and then spoke:

“Oh Asneha! Thou hast conquered the world with thy songs, and thou hast boasted to conquer the gods too! Now make thy boast good, or thou shalt go into the keeping of Yama!”

Asneha looked around, a little dazed by this gathering of Immortals; he then shook his long black hair, as if to conquer timidity, and then began his Golden Song.

Pure and exquisite as the breath of woman with teeth like pearls, as fragrant as the rose of Cashmere, it sang, now jocund, now sad, as the moods of love-sick Radha; plaintively yearning as an appeal to love in the stillness of the starless night; joyous and eager as the meeting of desirous lips; languishing as the woman’s heart fainting under the first kiss of the loved; it redoubled powerful, passionate as the march of the conquering male who has subdued. Abruptly it altered the rhythm as if awakening in readiness for battle, with the clamor of an army lusting for carnage, with the clank of swords, the discordant clash of shields, armors and spears, the dull thud of shattered bones and skulls, vehement imprecations, deep blasphemies, full of rancor, hatred and vengeance.

Then succeeded a silence, heavy, full of terrible signs, as of a silent flapping of wings, of a roaming of untold shadows, blacker than the night.

It repeated the death-song of the jackal and the hyena, with its harassing, fiendish chorus, pursuing in a mad dance with strange rhythms, the lively reel of the black scavengers on the silent and pale corpses. Then it died out, purling and gurgling as life ebbs out of a tortured body from a deep and crimson wound.

Pity and compassion returned to the song, gently, caressingly, as if nursing multiple wounds, infusing sympathy and life, like the wind, which laden with coolness and fragrance, sweeps over an arid and desolate valley.

It broke into a chant, strong and overwhelming, and so irresistible that it was as a strain of Perfect Joy; persevered tenfold, omnipotent, with a note so true, so deep and so infinite that it  was like a sip of the Amrita, blissful and oblivious.

All the gods encircled Asneha, instinctively, irresistibly, as the cobras surround the snake-charmer when he plays to them his captivating melody.

They stared at him fixedly as if to get the sound from its original source, and when he had ended they stood one instant stock-still, dumb, overflowing with admiration and ecstasy. Then they all pressed around him, speaking and shouting confusedly like ordinary mortals. But a hush fell over the assemblage as the great Indra slowly made his way to Asneha, and for a while stood absorbed and pensive, looking at the musician.

He then spoke with his clear, sonorous voice: “Asneha! Verily thou hast made thy daring boast good, therefore thou shalt become immortal too!

“I cannot offer thee what is earthly, for thou canst acquire all earthly things with thy song. But I have created a gem which comprises all the harmonies, all the melodies of music in color. It is ever changing, ever beautiful and imperishable as are your songs. Take it, and delight with it the mortals!”

To the kneeling Asneha he extended his palm, where scintillated, luminous and irradiating as a perfect song, the Opal.

Carlo de Fornaro (1871 - 1949)

Carlo de Fornaro described himself in his book, A Modern Purgatory, as "artist, writer, editor, revolutionary".

De Fornaro was an artist, writer, editor and revolutionary who lived in Mexico for three years where he became interested in politics and established a daily newspaper in Mexico City. On his return to New York in 1909 he published a book entitled 'Diaz, Czar of Mexico' criticising the regime of the general who served as Mexican President. The book created an immediate sensation with copies being smuggled over the border into Mexico, which ultimately led to de Fornaro being convicted for criminal libel. This work published in 1917 is a record of his experiences in the famous Tombs Prison in New York City, and in the New York City penitentiary on Blackwell's Island