The Story of Kúngóri.
(From “Progressive Colloquial Exercises in the Lushai Dialect” by Captain H. Lewin, 1874.)
Her father, who was unmarried, was splitting cane to make a winnowing basket when he ran a splinter into his hand: the splinter grew into a little child; (after a time) the child was brought forth motherless and they called her Kúngóri. They fed her with single grains of millet and rice, and so little by little she grew big. Two or three years passed by and she attained puberty; she was very pretty, and all the young-men of the village wanted to marry her, but her father refused them all. Then the young tiger-man, Keimi, took up the impression of her foot and wrapped it up and placed it on the bamboo grating over the house fire to dry. Then Kúngóri became ill.
Kúngóri’s father said, “If there be anyone that can cure her, he shall have my daughter.” All the villagers tried, but not one of them could do any good. Then the young tiger-man came. “I will cure her, and I will marry her afterwards,” said he. Her father said, “Cure the girl first and you may then have her.”
So he cured her; the footprint which he had placed to dry on the fire-shelf he opened out and threw away. Kúngóri became well and Keimi married her. “Come, Kúngóri,” said he, “will you go to my house?” So they went; on the road Keimi turned himself into a tiger, Kúngóri caught hold of his tail, and they ran like the wind. Some women of the village were gathering wood and they saw this, so they went back home and said to Kúngóri’s father, “Your daughter has got a tiger for a husband.” Kúngóri’s father said, “Whoever can go and take Kúngóri may have her,” but no one dared to take her. However, Hpohtir and Hrangchal, two friends, said, “We will take her.” Kúngóri’s father said, “If you are able to take her you may have her,” so Hpohtir and Hrangchal set off. Going on they came to Keimi’s village. The young tiger-man, Keimi, had gone out hunting; before he reached his house Hpohtir and Hrangchal went to Kúngóri. “Kúngóri,” said they, “where is your husband?” “He is gone out hunting,” she said, “but will be home directly.” On this they became afraid, and Hpohtir and Hrangchal climbed up on to the top of the high fire-shelf. Kúngóri’s husband arrived. “There is the smell of a human being,” said he. “It must be my smell,” said Kúngóri. Night fell; everyone ate their dinners and lay down to rest. In the morning Kúngóri’s husband again went out to hunt. A widow said (to the two friends), “If you are going to run away with Kúngóri take fire-seed, thorn-seed, and water-seed (with you).” So they took fire-seed, thorn-seed, and water-seed, and they took Kúngóri also and carried her off.
Kúngóri’s husband returned home. He looked and found Kúngóri was gone, so he followed after them in hot haste. A little bird called to Hrangchal. “Run! run! Kúngóri’s husband will catch you,” said the bird. So (the friends) scattered the fire-seed, and the jungle and undergrowth burnt furiously, so that Kúngóri’s husband could not come any further. When the fire subsided he again resumed the pursuit.
The little bird cried to Hrangchal, “He is catching you up.” So they scattered the water-seed, and a great river rose. However, Kúngóri’s husband waited for the water to go down, and when the water went down he followed after them as before.
The bird said to Hrangchal, “He is after you again—he is fast gaining on you; sprinkle the thorn-seed,” and thorns sprouted in thickets, so that Kúngóri’s husband could not get on. By biting and tearing the thorns he at length made a way. and again he followed after them. Hrangchal’s[2] party became bewildered and hid in a clump of reeds. Hpohtir cut the tiger down dead with a blow of his dao. “I am Hpohtir,”[2] said he. So the tiger died.
Hrangchal and the others went on again until they came to the three cross-roads of Khuavang, and there they stopped. Hpohtir and Hrangchal were to keep guard turn about. Hrangchala went to sleep first while Hpohtir kept watch.
At night Khuavang came. “Who is staying at my cross-roads?” he said. Hpohtira (spoke out boldly). “Hpohtira and Hrangchala (are here),” said he, “crouching under the reeds. We cut off the tiger’s head without much ado.” Khuavang, hearing and becoming afraid, ran off. So Hpohtira (woke up Hrangchal, saying), “Hrangchal, get up; you stay awake now. I am very sleepy; I will lie down. If Khuavang comes you must not be afraid.” Having said this he slept. Hrangchala watched; presently Khuavang returned. “Who is this staying at my cross-roads?” he said. Hrangchala was frightened; (however), he replied, “Hpohtira and Hrangchala (are here); they killed the tiger that followed them among the reed-roots.” But Khuavang was not to be frightened by this, so he took Kúngóri. Kúngóri marked the road, trailing behind her a line of cotton thread. They entered into a hole in the earth, and so arrived at Khuavang’s village. The hole in the earth was stopped up by a great stone. In the morning Hpohtir and Hrangchala began to abuse each other. Said Hpohtira to Hrangchal, “Fool man!” said he, “where has Kúngóri gone to? On account of your faintheartedness Khuavang has carried her off. Away! you will have to go to Khuavang’s village.” So they followed Kúngóri’s line of white thread and found that the thread entered (the earth) under a big rock. They moved away the rock and saw Khuavang’s village below them. Hpohtira called out, “Hoy! give me back my Kúngóri!” Khuavang replied, “We know nothing about your Kúngóri, whom you were taking away.” “If you do not (immediately) give me Kúngóri I will use my dao,” said Hpohtir. “Hit away,” answered Khuavang. With one cut of the dao a quarter of the village died right off. Again Hpohtir cried, “Give me my Kúngóri,” Khuavang said, “Your Kúngóri is not here.” On this Hpohtir and Hrangchal said, “We will come in.” “Come along,” said Khuavang, so they went in and came to Khuavang’s house. Khuavang’s daughter was a very pretty girl. “Here is Kúngóri,” said they. “This is not she,” said Hpohtir; “give me Kúngóri herself.” So (at last) they gave her to him.