Folk-Tales of Bengal

by Lal Behari Day

It is time we should think of the minister’s son, who, leaving his friend in the subterranean palace, had gone to his country to bring horses, elephants, and attendants for the return of the king’s son and his lovely princess with due pomp. The preparations took him many months; and when everything was ready he started on his journey, accompanied by a long train of elephants, horses, and attendants. He reached the tank two or three days before the appointed day. Tents were pitched in the mango-topes adjoining the tank for the accommodation of men and cattle; and the minister’s son always kept his eyes fixed on the tank. The sun of the appointed day sank below the horizon; but the prince and the princess dwelling beneath the waters made no sign. He waited two or three days longer; still the prince did not make his appearance. What could have happened to his friend and his beautiful wife? Were they dead? Had another serpent, possibly the mate of the one that had died, beaten the prince and the princess to death? Had they somehow lost the serpent-jewel? Or had they been captured when they were once on a visit to the upper world? Such were the reflections of the minister’s son. He was overwhelmed with grief. Ever since he had come to the tank he had heard at regular intervals the sound of music coming from the city which was not distant. He inquired of passers-by what that music meant. He was told that the Rajah’s son was about to be married to some wonderful young lady, who had come out of the waters of that very tank on the bank of which he was now seated, and that the marriage ceremony was to be performed on the day following the next. The minister’s son immediately concluded that the wonderful young lady of the lake that was to be married was none other than the wife of his friend, the king’s son. He resolved therefore to go into the city to learn the details of the affair, and try if possible to rescue the princess. He told the attendants to go home, taking with them the elephants and the horses; and he himself went to the city, and took up his abode in the house of a Brahman.

After he had rested and taken his dinner, the minister’s son asked the Brahman what the meaning was of the music that was heard in the city at regular intervals. The Brahman asked, “From what part of the world have you come that you have not heard of the wonderful circumstance that a young lady of heavenly beauty rose out of the waters of a tank in the suburbs, and that she is going to be married the day after to-morrow to the son of our Rajah?”

Minister’s Son. No, I have heard nothing. I have come from a distant country whither the story has not reached. Will you kindly tell me the particulars?

Brahman. The Rajah’s son went out a-hunting about this time last year. He pitched his tents close to a tank in the suburbs. One day, while the Rajah’s son was walking near the tank, he saw a young woman, or rather goddess, of uncommon beauty rise from the waters of the tank. She gazed about for a minute or two and disappeared. The Rajah’s son, however, who had seen her, was so struck with her heavenly beauty that he became desperately enamoured of her. Indeed, so intense was his passion, that his reason gave way; and he was carried home hopelessly mad. The only words he uttered day and night were—“Now here, now gone!” The Rajah sent for all the best physicians of the country for restoring his son to his reason; but the physicians were powerless. At last he caused a proclamation to be made by beat of drum to the effect that if any one could cure the Rajah’s son, he should be the Rajah’s son-in-law and the owner of half his kingdom. An old woman, who went by the name of Phakir’s mother, took hold of the drum, and declared her ability to cure the Rajah’s son. On the tank where the princess had appeared was raised for Phakir’s mother a hut in which she took up her abode; and not far from her hut another hut was erected for the accommodation of attendants who might be required to help her. It seems the goddess rose from the waters; Phakir’s mother seized her with the help of the attendants, and carried her in a palki to the palace. At the sight of her the Rajah’s son was restored to his senses; and the marriage would have been celebrated at that time but for a vow which the goddess had made that she would not look at the face of any male person till the lapse of a year. The year of the vow is now over; and the music which you have heard is from the gate of the Rajah’s palace. This, in brief, is the story.

Minister’s Son. A truly wonderful story! And has Phakir’s mother, or rather Phakir Chand himself, been rewarded with the hand of the Rajah’s daughter and with the possession of half the kingdom?

Brahman. No, not yet. Phakir has not been got hold of. He is a half-witted lad, or rather quite mad. He has been away for more than a year from his home, and no one knows where he is. That is his manner; he stays away for a long time, suddenly comes home, and again disappears. I believe his mother expects him soon.

Minister’s Son. What like is he? and what does he do when he returns home?

Brahman. Why, he is about your height, though he is somewhat younger than you. He puts on a small piece of cloth round his waist, rubs his body with ashes, takes the branch of a tree in his hand, and, at the door of the hut in which his mother lives, dances to the tune of dhoop! dhoop! dhoop! His articulation is very indistinct; and when his mother says—“Phakir! stay with me for some days,” he invariably answers in his usual unintelligible manner, “No, I won’t remain, I won’t remain.” And when he wishes to give an affirmative answer, he says, “Hoom,” which means “Yes.”

The above conversation with the Brahman poured a flood of light into the mind of the minister’s son. He saw how matters stood. He perceived that the princess of the subterranean palace must have alone ventured out into the tank by means of the snake-jewel; that she must have been captured alone without the king’s son; that the snake-jewel must be in the possession of Phakir’s mother; and that his friend, the king’s son, must be alone below the waters without any means of escape. The desolate and apparently hopeless state of his friend filled him with unutterable grief. He was in deep musings during most part of the night. Is it impossible, thought he, to rescue the king’s son from the nether regions? What if, by some means or other, I contrive to get the jewel from the old woman? And can I not do it by personating Phakir Chand himself, who is expected by his mother shortly? And possibly by the same means I may be able to rescue the princess from the Rajah’s palace. He resolved to act the rôle of Phakir Chand the following day. In the morning he left the Brahman’s house, went to the outskirts of the city, divested himself of his usual clothing, put round his waist a short and narrow piece of cloth which scarcely reached his knee-joints, rubbed his body well with ashes, took in his hand a twig which he broke off a tree, and thus accoutred, presented himself before the door of the hut of Phakir’s mother. He commenced operations by dancing, in a most violent manner, to the tune of dhoop! dhoop! dhoop! The dancing attracted the notice of the old woman, who, supposing that her son had come, said—“My son Phakir, are you come? Come, my darling; the gods have at last become propitious to us.” The supposed Phakir Chand uttered the monosyllable “hoom,” and went on dancing in a still more violent manner than before, waving the twig in his hand. “This time you must not go away,” said the old woman, “you must remain with me.” “No, I won’t remain, I won’t remain,” said the minister’s son. “Remain with me, and I’ll get you married to the Rajah’s daughter. Will you marry, Phakir Chand?” The minister’s son replied—“Hoom, hoom,” and danced on like a madman. “Will you come with me to the Rajah’s house? I’ll show you a princess of uncommon beauty who has risen from the waters.” “Hoom, hoom,” was the answer that issued from his lips, while his feet tripped it violently to the sound of dhoop! dhoop! “Do you wish to see a manik, Phakir, the crest jewel of the serpent, the treasure of seven kings?” “Hoom, hoom,” was the reply. The old woman brought out of the hut the snake-jewel, and put it into the hand of her supposed son. The minister’s son took it, and carefully wrapped it up in the piece of cloth round his waist. Phakir’s mother, delighted beyond measure at the opportune appearance of her son, went to the Rajah’s house, partly to announce to the Rajah the news of Phakir’s appearance, and partly to show Phakir the princess of the waters. The supposed Phakir and his mother found ready access to the Rajah’s palace, for the old woman had, since the capture of the princess, become the most important person in the kingdom. She took him into the room where the princess was, and introduced him to her. It is superfluous to remark that the princess was by no means pleased with the company of a madcap, who was in a state of semi-nudity, whose body was rubbed with ashes, and who was ever and anon dancing in a wild manner. At sunset the old woman proposed to her son that they should leave the palace and go to their own house. But the supposed Phakir Chand refused to comply with the request; he said he would stay there that night. His mother tried to persuade him to return with her, but he persisted in his determination. He said he would remain with the princess. Phakir’s mother therefore went away, after giving instructions to the guards and attendants to take care of her son.

When all in the palace had retired to rest, the supposed Phakir, coming towards the princess, said in his own usual voice—“Princess! do you not recognise me? I am the minister’s son, the friend of your princely husband.” The princess, astonished at the announcement, said—“Who? The minister’s son? Oh, my husband’s best friend, do rescue me from this terrible captivity, from this worse than death. O fate! it is by my own fault that I am reduced to this wretched state. Oh, rescue me, rescue me, thou best of friends!” She then burst into tears. The minister’s son said, “Do not be disconsolate. I will try my best to rescue you this very night; only you must do whatever I tell you.” “I will do anything you tell me, minister’s son; anything you tell me.” After this the supposed Phakir left the room, and passed through the courtyard of the palace. Some of the guards challenged him, to whom he replied, “Hoom, hoom; I will just go out for a minute and again come in presently.” They understood that it was the madcap Phakir. True to his word he did come back shortly, and went to the princess. An hour afterwards he again went out and was again challenged, on which he made the same reply as at the first time. The guards who challenged him began to mutter between their teeth—“This madcap of a Phakir will, we suppose, go out and come in all night. Let the fellow alone; let him do what he likes. Who can be sitting up all night for him?” The minister’s son was going out and coming in with the view of accustoming the guards to his constant egress and ingress, and also of watching for a favourable opportunity to escape with the princess. About three o’clock in the morning the minister’s son again passed through the courtyard, but this time no one challenged him, as all the guards had fallen asleep. Overjoyed at the auspicious circumstance, he went to the princess. “Now, princess, is the time for escape. The guards are all asleep. Mount on my back, and tie the locks of your hair round my neck, and keep tight hold of me.” The princess did as she was told. He passed unchallenged through the courtyard with the lovely burden on his back, passed out of the gate of the palace—no one challenging him, passed on to the outskirts of the city, and reached the tank from which the princess had risen. The princess stood on her legs, rejoicing at her escape, and at the same time trembling. The minister’s son untied the snake-jewel from his waist-cloth, and descending into the waters, both he and she found their way to the subterranean palace. The reception which the prince in the subaqueous palace gave to his wife and his friend may be easily imagined. He had nearly died of grief; but now he suffered a resurrection. The three were now mad with joy. During the three days that they remained in the palace they again and again told the story of the egress of the princess into the upper world, of her seizure, of her captivity in the palace, of the preparations for marriage, of the old woman, of the minister’s son personating Phakir Chand, and of the successful deliverance. It is unnecessary to add that the prince and the princess expressed their gratitude to the minister’s son in the warmest terms, declared him to be their best and greatest friend, and vowed to abide always, till the day of their death, by his advice, and to follow his counsel.