THE BANJĀRA, HIS DOG, AND THE BANKER.
Once upon a time there was a Banker, or “Sait,” who lived in a large city in Northern India, and being a man of great wealth was held in high repute by the Rajah and people of the place.
He had all the cunning of his class, and had amassed the most of his fortune by lending money at a high rate of interest, and by giving credit to men engaged in commerce.
THE BANJĀRA, HIS DOG, AND THE BANKER.
One of his debtors was a “Banjāra,” or grain merchant who had owed him some money for a considerable time, and had paid neither interest nor any portion of that which he had borrowed. These Banjāras are well-known people all over India, where they are scattered in large and small communities. They are the possessors, you know, of herds of cattle, which they employ as pack animals to convey their goods and grain from place to place. It is interesting to meet them as they wend their way from one camping ground to another, headed by the leading bullock, which is called the “Guru Bail,” or “Sainted Bullock.” This bullock is ornamented in every direction; the horns and pack-saddle with cowry shells, bits of scarlet cloth, peacock’s feathers, and tassels of various colours, while its neck is encircled by a band of leather carrying tinkling bells of different sounds.
The Banjāra of this story was one day again obliged, on matters of business, to go to the city where his creditor, the banker, lived; so, to avoid meeting him, he encamped some distance off and then went singly and alone to the city, in the hope that he might not come across him; still he was haunted with the old native saying, oft repeated, “If you have not seen a tiger, then look at a cat, and if you do not want to see the Angel of death, then keep out of the way of your creditor.”
As ill luck would have it, however, he had no sooner got into the streets of the town than upon turning a corner he came face to face with the Banker, who instantly recognised him, and carried him off to his house, and demanded that immediate payment should be made. It was quite in vain for the poor Banjāra to sue for pity and forbearance, for the debt was an old one, and the Banker was both hard and unmerciful.
At last the Banjāra bethought him of an expedient and said, “Permit me to go to my encampment, and I will beg and borrow from my friends, and return to you with the money without fail in three days’ time.” “No, no,” said the Banker; “I cannot trust you again out of my sight, and by my influence here I could, you know, get you thrown into prison. If indeed I were merciful enough to let you go to your encampment for the money, I should require the very best security.” “I know no one in the city,” replied the Banjāra; “What can I do? Oh dear! what can I do? But wait a moment. Here is my best friend, my faithful dog, “Kaloo” (Kala is “black” in Sanscrit); “take him as my pledge and security that I will return and pay you all I owe.”