INTENDED AS A SUPPLEMENT TO REVEREND S. ENDLE’S KACHÁRI GRAMMAR.
BY J. D. ANDERSON, INDIAN CIVIL SERVICE.
SHILLONG: PRINTED AT THE ASSAM SECRETARIAT PRINTING OFFICE. 1895.
SHILLONG:
PRINTED BY THE SUPERINTENDENT OF THE ASSAM SECRETARIAT PRINTING DEPARTMENT.
TRANSLITERATION.
I am sorry to find that in transcribing I have wandered away from Mr. Endle’s system of marking the values of the vowels. But the differences are, in essence, very small.
The circumflex accent indicates a long vowel.
“å” is as in Mr. Endle’s Grammar.
“ù” is the guttural “u” printed in Mr. Endle’s Grammar as “ŭ.”
J. D. A.
PREFACE.
This little collection of Kachári folk-stories and rhymes is intended as a supplement to the Reverend Mr. Endle’s Grammar of the language, and as a reading-book for those who have acquired an elementary knowledge of Kachári. I have added a rough translation, thinking that these specimens of the folk-lore of a very simple and primitive people may be of interest to some who do not care to learn Kachári, and that it may stimulate others to make fuller and more successful excursions into an unexplored field. These stories were collected during a tour of only six weeks’ duration in the Kachári mauzas of Mangaldai, and cost only the effort of taking down the tales as they were dictated. Not only the Kacháris, but the other hill tribes of Assam have doubtless their stores of folk legends which have never been exploited; and it pleases me to hope that others may find it as pleasant as I have found it, to collect these fictions of the savage mind over the camp fire. The text of the stories suggests a problem which it may amuse some one with better opportunities or more perseverance than myself to solve. It will be noticed that while the words are for the most part Kachári words, the syntax is curiously like the Assamese syntax. As an instance of this I have taken down (see page 1) an accused person’s statement in both Assamese and Kachári. The Kachári version is, literally, a word-for-word translation of the Assamese. I can think of no other two languages in which it would be possible to translate a long statement word for word out of one into the other and yet be idiomatic. The most characteristic idioms are exactly reproduced. The Assamese says mor bapáy, but tor báper. The Kachári similarly says Ângnî âfâ, but nangnî namfâ. The Assamese says e dâl láthi; the Kachári translates gongse lauthi. The Assamese says gai-pelay kalon; the Kachári khithâ-hùi-man. And many more instances will occur to any one with a knowledge of Assamese who reads these stories. Briefly, it may be said that Kachári, as it is spoken in Darrang, has a vocabulary mostly of the Bodo type, though it contains many words borrowed from the Assamese. Its syntax, on the other hand, is nearly identical with the Assamese, almost the only exception being the use of the agglutinate verb (see page 26 of Mr. Endle’s Grammar). Even the agglutinate verb is more or less reproduced in Assamese in the use of such expressions as gai pelay. Now it is quite possible that the Kacháris, from long association with their Hindu neighbours, have learnt their syntax, while retaining their own vocabulary. A more tempting theory is that Assamese and Kachári are both survivals of the vanished speech of the great Koch race, who, we know, ruled where Assamese and Kachári are now spoken side by side; that Assamese has retained the Koch syntax, while it has adopted the Hindu vocabulary of Bengal; that Kachári has preserved both vocabulary and syntax. This theory, if it can be defended, would at last give Assamese a valid claim to be considered a separate tongue, and not a mere dialect of Bengali. It would also give an explanation of the vexed question of the origin of the word Kachári. Ârúi is a common patronymic in the Kachári speech. As Mr. Gait has noted in his Census Report, the Kacháris have totemistic clans, calling themselves Bâg-ârùi, sons of the tiger, and so on. What more simple than that the Koch-ârùi are the sons of the Koches? So far, the problem is one of mere guesswork and theory. But there are other branches of the Bodo tongue in the Tipperah and Gáro Hills and in North Cachar, where men of the Bodo race do not come into contact with Assamese. Do the same idioms and the same syntax exist there? If not, they were probably borrowed from Hindu sources. If they do, it seems probable that these idioms and this syntax have survived not only in them, but in the Hinduised Assamese.
I had intended to draw up a list of the agglutinate verbs found in this little collection of stories to supplement that given at page 26 of Mr. Endle’s Grammar. But anyone interested in the subject will find them for himself in the stories, and will learn more easily from the context than from any vocabulary what the precise shades of meaning of the interpolated particles are. They are a very curious and interesting feature of the language, and are probably found in richer abundance where the well of Bodo undefiled has not been contaminated by a mixture with other tongues.
I must not conclude without offering my hearty thanks to the Reverend Mr. Endle for his advice and help in collecting these stories, and to Samson, my tutor, who was in truth “the only begetter of these ensuing” fictions. He told me most of them and corrected all. I have no doubt he has many other primitive legends, if any one will take the trouble to write them down.
J. D. ANDERSON.
The 21st September 1894.
P.S.—There can be no doubt that the Kachári of Darrang is greatly influenced by the surrounding Assamese, though, even now, many Kacháris, and especially women, do not speak Assamese at all. There is an anecdote among the Kacháris showing the inconveniences of the bilingual state. A Kachári lad married an Assamese girl, and going to his mother-in-law’s house was given food. His hospitable mother-in-law cried to him “Khâ! Khâ!” so he bound her hand and foot. Then she laughed, seeing that he supposed her to be talking Kachári. So she said to him (in Kachári) “Zâ! Zâ!” on which he went away. I am afraid the Kachári syntax is borrowed from Assamese.
KACHÁRI FOLK-TALES AND RHYMES.
An accused person’s statement in Assamese and Kachári.
Once upon a time there lived an old man and an old
woman. And when they were quite old, the old woman said to her husband
“How shall these our children get food when we are gone?”
So the old man travelled afar to the great god Kuvera,[26] the god of riches, and, taking from him seedlings
of paddy, pulse, mustard, and gourds, journeyed for eight days and so
reached his home. And after staying a couple of days, he set forth to
cultivate, taking dry food with him. And first he marked out a piece of
rich land by placing boundaries on all four sides of it, and so came
home. And again he set out another day with hoe and axe, and cut and
burned the jungle, and cleaned the soil, and after worshipping on each
side of his field—on the east and on the west, on the north and
on the south—he struck one blow with his hoe on each side.
And when all was ready, the old man planted his
seedlings of various sorts, and finally went home and rested. And so,
as time went by, the old woman desired vehemently to see how the crops
were getting on. But the old man said “There is no water on the
road, and if you grow athirst, you will get no relief.” But she
persisted and prevailed, and made her husband take her along. And as
they went, and were now quite close to her husband’s field,
behold, the old woman began to be very thirsty. And the old man, being
enraged, cried “What did I tell you? There is no water, and yet
you would come.” But she, being a woman, said “If you do
not give me to drink, I shall die. So, water you must procure as best
you can.” So the old man, seeing no other way, went to seek for
water. And after long search, seeing a tank, he bound the old
woman’s eyes with a cloth and dragged her to the water’s
edge and said to her “Drink if you will, but look not upon the
tank.” Now the ducks and other water fowls were playing in the
water, and were making a merry noise, clacking and quacking. And, the
old woman, being curious, like all her sex, peeped at them. And, seeing
them at their play, she too desired to be happy in her husband’s
society, and, though he was very loth, prevailed with him. And so
in due course there were born to them many sons and
daughters. And then, in order to provide for their food, he journeyed
to the Himalayas and digged a great tank, stocked with many kinds of
fishes.
Now, one day the god Sri, the god of good luck, came
that way with his white dog, ahunting for deer and hares and tortoises.
And when he came to the margin of the tank, behold he was very thirsty.
But when he stooped to drink, the fishes said to him eagerly that he
must grant them a boon in return for their water. To which he assented,
and when he had satisfied his thirst, the fishes said “Take us to
the great river, the Brahmaputra (or Lohit).” So the god Sri tied
them to his staff, and drew them after him, making runnels of water.
And that is how the rivers were made. And the fishes in return gave him
a pumpkin and a gourd. And, taking these with him to a friend’s
house, his friend regaled him with rice beer and pig’s flesh, and
in the morning he gave his friend the pumpkin. But when his friend cut
open the pumpkin, it contained nothing but pure silver. So he bade the
god Sri stay another day, and brewed fresh beer and killed another pig,
and when he was going away gave him a flitch of bacon to take with him.
So the god Sri gave him also the gourd. But when he cut open the gourd,
it contained nothing but pure gold. And so the god Sri journeyed
to his home. And when he got there, he found that his little daughter
was very ill. And that was because he had given away the presents which
the fishes had made him. But the fishes took pity on him, and came to
him in the guise of physicians, and told him that if he would worship
and do sacrifice on the banks of rivers, then his daughter would be
healed, which he did. And that is why we Kacharis worship rivers. And
that is all.
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,[27] 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!
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 the 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 Story of the Toad.[13]
There was an aged couple, who were very poor. But
they had a fish trap, which they set at night; and the fish they caught
they exchanged for rice. And one night it happened that no fish got
into the trap, but only toads, so that the trap was brimfull. And at
early dawn, when the cock crowed, the old man came, and finding the
trap very heavy was rejoiced, and hoisting it on to his back waddled
away. And when he got home he woke up his wife, crying “Old
woman, old woman, not up yet? The day has dawned.” So the old
woman jumped up, and blew up the fire, and the old couple squatted over
it, warming themselves. And the old man said “We are in luck
to-day! The trap is brimfull.” Then the old woman said
“Let’s see, let’s see.” So the old man tumbled
out the contents of the trap, and, behold, they were all toads. So the
old woman said “We are in luck to-day! We shall have lots
to eat to-day!” And the old man bid her kill the toads without
further words. And the old woman, taking her stick, ran about after the
toads and slew them one by one. But one alone, half dead with fear,
crawled under the old woman’s stool. But the rest she skinned and
cleaned. Then, removing the stool, the old man saw the survivor, and said to the old woman “There
is one left; kill that, too!” But the toad called out “Ah!
father, do not kill me. I will plough for you, and hoe for you, and
plant out paddy for you!” But the old man replied “How
shall a toad do all these things? Your ploughing and hoeing
would be a bitter business! You only want to get off being
killed.” But he pleaded so sore, and begged so hard, that they
took pity on him and let him stay in their house. And so the days went
by till the rainy season came round, and the toad went off to plough in
the field. And as he was sitting on the handle of the plough urging on
his cattle, a king came by that way riding on his elephant, and the
toad called out to him “What fellow is that? You are knocking
down all the balks of my field!” To which the king replied
“Who dares speak to me thus,” and sent men to fetch him.
But he hid behind a clod, so that they could not find him. And when he
continued to abuse them without their finding him, the king bade them
take away the plough cattle to his house. And the toad, followed
secretly behind, and, hiding himself in the thatch of the cowshed,
began to abuse the king afresh. And the king searched for him in vain;
and at last ordered the cowshed to be pulled down and the cattle to be
put elsewhere. And the toad went and hid there, too, and abused
the king again. Finally, the king was frightened and called to him:
“Oh! father, are you god or mortal? And what harm have I done
you?” And he said “I am mortal of a sooth. And I abuse you
because you have carried off my cattle. And if you do not give me your
daughter in marriage, I shall remain invisible and abuse you
daily.” So the king swore that the toad should have his daughter,
and the toad came forth. And the king, for his oath’s sake, and
lest the toad should be in some sort a god, gave him his daughter, and
sent him home with a sedan-chair and elephants and horses. And when he
got near his home, the old man and old woman ran clean away. But the
toad, their adopted son, seeing their terror, bade them not be afraid,
and sent men after them to fetch them. And then they sat down with
their son-in-law and daughter-in-law and feasted the men who had come
with them. And one day the girl, finding her husband very loathsome to
look upon, told him to take a bath. “But,” said her
husband, “what is the good of my taking a bath? I am a frog and
always bathing.” But his wife replied “I know very well
that you live in cold water. But I want to get rid of those nasty
protuberances on your back, and want to bathe you.” So, finally,
her husband agreed. So she heated some water to boiling, and
called out “Come quick, I must bathe you!” And when the
toad came, and asked what he was to do, she said “You jump
straight in, and I will bathe you afterwards.” So he jumped in,
and, turning over on his back, died. And that’s all!
The Story of the Doe and the Raven.
The doe and the raven were great friends, and
lived together in the shade of the same tree. And one day a jackal,
seeing the doe, and finding her to be fat and good to eat, said to her
“Oh friend, what are you doing there? I am charmed to see you,
and, if you permit, would like to swear eternal friendship.” But
the doe said “How can there be friendship between the likes of
us? we are sworn foes. If you get hold of me, you will eat me. I am
your food.” But the jackal, on hearing this, pretended to be
mightily grieved, and said “What you observe is true enough, and
that is just why all my family are dead and I alone am left. And,
considering these things, I, for my part, am turned Hindu, eat no
flesh, and have vowed friendship to all animals. So you need be in no
fear of me.” To which the doe attached implicit credence, and so
they two walked together under the trees. But the raven came up and
said all he could to induce the doe to abandon the
fellowship of the jackal. But, as he could not prevail with her, he
told her the following story: “Once upon a time there were two
friends. And they vowed that if ever they fell into danger, they should
on no account leave one another. And one day they were going through
the jungle together, when they met a bear. Now, one of them could climb
trees, and the other could not. And when the bear pursued them, the one
scrambled up into the first tree he met. But the other, not knowing
what else to do, lay on the ground, and, pretending to be dead, held
his breath. And the bear, coming and sniffing at him, and finding him
apparently dead, left him. Then his friend, shouting to him from the
tree, said “What was it that the bear whispered to you?”
And he replied “The bear said to me ‘never make friends
with men like that fellow in the tree.’” “And
so,” said the raven, “will it be with you and your friend
the jackal.” For all that, the doe refused to listen, and after
some days the jackal, when walking out with the doe, spied a snare, and
thrust her into it. And when she bade him bite the cords and loose her,
he reminded her of his vows and of the fact that the cords were of
hide. Then the raven, after long searching, came up and found the doe
in the toils, and set to work to devise a remedy. And when the day was
dawning he said to the doe “You swell out your
belly, and hold your breath, and when I give the word, run for your
life.” Presently, the owner of the snare came up, spear in hand,
and, seeing his quarry seemingly dead, loosed her bonds. Upon which the
raven cawed loudly, and the doe, jumping up, ran for her life. But the
hunter, seizing his spear, threw it after her. And the spear missed the
doe, and pierced the wicked jackal, who died. 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!
A monkey and a hare were great friends. They lived
together, ate together, and walked about together. One day they saw a
man from Darrang going to a feast and bearing plantains and betel-nuts,
and they said to one another that they must contrive some plan to get
hold of his load. So the monkey sent the hare to wait on the road, but
himself hid in the jungle. And when the man came up and saw the hare
sitting on the road, he put down his load, and ran after him. No sooner
had he done so, than the monkey came and carried off the
plantains and betel-nuts into a tree, and, for fear the hare should
return, ate them all up in a great hurry, keeping only the skins of the
plantains for his friend.
But when the man found that he could not catch the hare,
he gave up the chase, and went home disconsolate; and so the hare went
back, searching for his friend, and shouting his name. But when he
found him and demanded his share of the spoil, the monkey offered only
the skins of the plantains, and the hare, in his rage, said that he
would have his revenge. So, first of all, he went and sat very quietly
under some kachu plants. Then the monkey climbed down from the
tree and began crying “My friend! my friend!” and the hare
replied “Who are you calling friend? I am watching the
king’s sugarcane field. What do you want?” Then the monkey
came forth and said “Ah, my friend, give me a little of the cane
to suck.” But the hare said “I cannot give you any. If the
Raja were to hear, he would beat me.” But as the monkey grew
importunate, he said “Eat, then, if you will, and don’t
blame me.” But when he ate, the acrid juice of the kachu
caught his tongue, and he rolled on the ground howling. But the hare
only said “It’s your own fault. I told you not to.”
Then he went and sat beneath a wasps’ nest. And the
monkey, moaning and complaining, followed him and asked him what he was
doing there, and the hare replied that he was watching the king’s
cymbals. “Let me play on them, only a little!” entreated
the monkey. But the hare said “I daren’t do it. The Raja
would kill me.” “I will only play very gently,” said
the monkey, and, prevailing by means of his importunity, clapped his
hands on the wasps’ nest and broke it, and straightway the wasps
stung his mouth and face and body all over, so that he rolled on the
ground crying out in agony. But the hare only said “I told you
not to, and you would not listen, what could I do?” And then he
went away to where a gowal snake lay. And again the monkey
followed him, and asked what he was doing there. And the hare said that
he was watching the king’s sceptre. “Ah! let me brandish
it, do,” said the monkey, and for all the hare’s warnings
would seize the sceptre. Whereby he got bitten, and was in greater pain
than ever. Then the rabbit went away and sat down on a marsh, and the
monkey followed him once more, crying as he went, and when he again
questioned his friend, the hare said: “This is what they call the
king’s litter.” “Let me sit on it for a
moment,” said the monkey. “I can’t do it,” said
the hare, “what would the king say? I think you
are a fool, my friend. I tell you not to do things and you will
persist.” But the monkey did not listen to him and jumped on to
the marsh and stuck miserably in the mud. And then the hare said
“Now, my friend, you give me plantain skins to eat, do you? You
can stay where you are. I wish you good-day. I am off.” And, so
saying, he left the monkey and went his ways.
And first of all a rhinoceros came. But when the monkey
begged for help, he said that he was hungry and thirsty, and really
could not stop; he was very sorry; and, so saying, he too went
away.
And when a buffalo presently came, the monkey addressed
him, but he, too, had other business, and went away. Last of all there
came a tiger, who was extremely hungry, and to him the monkey
said,
“My father, if you do not help me out of this scrape, I
have no help left,” and with such and such like words the monkey
entreated him. But the tiger said “What good will it do me if I
help you?” and was going away, when the monkey cried out
“Father, father, take me out of the dreadful marsh, and then, if
you like, clean me and eat me.” And the tiger was so hungry that
he said: “It is not so much that I want to eat you, but
if I rescue one fallen into such calamity, it will be well with me
hereafter. However, as you yourself have offered yourself to be eaten,
I see no harm.” So saying, he stretched out his tail into the
marsh, and the monkey, grasping it, was drawn out. Then the monkey
said: “Let me get dry in the sun, and when I am a bit cleaner,
you can eat me.” And so saying he sat him down in the sun and
waited. But presently the tiger looked another way, and the monkey
slipped up a tall tree. But the tiger, being in a great rage, waited
two or three days at the foot of the tree. But, as the monkey would not
descend, he lay at the tree’s root as one dead, and opened his
mouth with his teeth grinning, and the flies came and buzzed in his
mouth, so that at last the monkey thought that of a verity he was dead.
So finally he crawled down, and slowly inserted his tail in the
tiger’s mouth. But the tiger never stirred. Then he felt one of
the tiger’s great paws. But the tiger never stirred. Then the
monkey said “Ah, you would scrunch my bones to make your bread,
would you?” and danced about gaily, and cried “See if you
can eat my head now,” and, so saying, he put his head in the
tiger’s jaws. And then the jaws closed with a scrunch, and that
was the end of the monkey. And that’s all!
A tortoise and a monkey were great friends, and as
they were on the road one day, a man passed laden with plantains. And
the monkey, seeing him, said “You go and wait on the road, and
when the man pursues you, run away. And so the man put down his load
(the monkey having hid in the jungle), and ran after the tortoise. Then
the monkey came out of the jungle and took the plantains and molasses
that the man bare, and climbed with them into a tree. Then the man, not
being able to catch the tortoise, returned, and, not getting his
things, went home. Then the tortoise returned and asked his friend for
his share of the plantains and molasses. And the monkey offered him for
molasses potsherds, and for plantains their skins only; and, when the
tortoise insisted, the monkey got angry and hoisted his friend into the
tree, saying “See for yourself, if any plantains or molasses be
left.” And so he went away and left him. And he could not get
down, and one by one various animals came under the tree, but could not
help him. And last of these came a very aged rhinoceros, and the
tortoise begged leave to jump down on his back. And to this the
rhinoceros consented, and so the tortoise leapt down, with such force
that he broke the old rhinoceros’ back. Then he covered
up the corpse with leaves, and going to the king’s court, sat him
down under the king’s throne; and, when the royal council was
assembled, the tortoise sneezed loudly, “Who dared to
sneeze?” said the king. “Cut off his nose!” But they
all with one accord declared that they had not sneezed, and, after he
had sneezed once or twice again, some one saw the tortoise under the
king’s throne. So he said respectfully “If your Majesty
wishes, you can kill me, but I have something to say: There is some
living thing under your Majesty’s throne. Without doubt, it was
that which sneezed.” On which the king, looking under his throne,
saw the tortoise, and ordered them to cut off his nose. But the
tortoise said “Do not cut off my nose, and in return I will give
your Majesty a rhinoceros.” And at first the king was angry, but
for his entreating gave him men with him to fetch his rhinoceros, and
when the men returned with the body of the rhinoceros, the king was
very pleased, and gave the tortoise a horse.
And as he was riding off, he met the monkey and told him
that the king had given him the horse. And when the monkey asked him
why, he said that he had jumped on to a common lizard from the tree, on
which the monkey had left him and had killed it. And that then he
had covered it up with leaves and told the king
it was a rhinoceros. And the king was pleased and gave him a horse. So
the monkey killed a lizard, and went and told the king it was a
rhinoceros, and got his nose cut off for his pains. And that’s
all!
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.”
“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! and
There was once an aged couple, who had a foolish
son, who one day begged them to give him money to buy an ox with. And,
owing to his persistence, though they knew him to be simple, they gave
him sixteen rupees and let him go. And, as he went, he found a fine ox
grazing where three roads meet; and, putting his rupees down on the
road, he bound the ox and drove it away. Presently, he stopped to rest,
and while he was dozing, his ox ran away. So he began searching all
through the jungle for the missing animal.
At last he found a fine stag, and thinking that to be
his ox, chased it through the forest till by chance its horns got
caught in a thicket. So he tied a rope round its horns, and to that
tied another rope, and so on till he got home. And when his old mother
asked him if he had bought his ox “Havn’t I, just,”
said he, “just help me to pull and see!” On this, the three
of them pulled at the rope, hand over hand, and presently the stag made
his appearance kicking and struggling, at which they were mightily
afraid. However, they killed the stag, and gave of its flesh to the
neighbours to eat.
On which the simpleton went about and told the villagers
that they had eaten of cow’s flesh. But, fortunately, knowing he
was a simpleton, no one believed a word he said.
Another time, when the simpleton was grown a bit bigger,
he again begged money of his parents: this time that he might get him a
wife. And since he would not take a refusal, he got his sixteen rupees
and set out afresh in search of a wife. Finally, he went and sat at a
place where the village women drew water. And when a pretty maiden came
down with her vessel on her hip to draw water, he seized her and
carried her off.
And when he got tired, he stopped to rest under a tree.
And it happened that a man driving a plough ox was also resting there,
and the maiden sat there crying her very eyes out for grief at having
been carried off. So the man with the ox asked the simpleton
“Where did you get that girl? Did you have a look at her before
you took her, or didn’t you?” To which the simpleton
replied “She seemed a pretty girl, so I put down sixteen rupees
at the bathing place and carried her off.” On which the wise man
said: “You must be blind. The girl’s pretty enough, but
don’t you see that both her eyes are burst. You clearly
don’t see straight. Just see how the water is flowing from both
her eyes.” On hearing this, the simpleton offered to
exchange the girl for the ox. But the other pretended to be unwilling,
till, after much persistence on the part of the simpleton, he cried:
“There, take it, take it!” So the exchange was effected,
and each went on his way mightily satisfied.
And, as the simpleton went his ways, he found a man
seated under a tree having a goat with him. So he too stayed to rest.
And when they stopped to rest, the ox lay down to rest. On this, the
man with the goat said: “That ox is not a good bargain. It will
die in a day or two.” And the simpleton, believing this,
exchanged the ox for the goat. And when he set forth again, he met a
man carrying a big bunch of plantains. So the two sat down. And as the
goat was restless and gave him no peace, the simpleton began beating
it, so that it cried Ba! ba! (now Ba in the Kachári
speech means “carry”). So he said “Do you suppose a
tired man like me is going to carry you?” And he was so angry
that in disgust he exchanged the goat for the bunch of plantains; and
went on. And as he went, he met a man cracking his fingers, and,
thinking he did it in scorn of his plantains, explained at what price
he had got them.
However, he offered to give him the plantains if he
would teach him the art of cracking his fingers. So the
two stayed there a long time till the simpleton had more or less
acquired the art he coveted. Then as he went on, he suddenly forgot
what he had learned. And because he forgot it in a paddy field, he
thought he must have lost it in the paddy, and began examining the ears
of paddy as a woman searches another woman’s hair for lice. And
when the owner of the field came up and asked what he was about, he
said: “I have lost a thing which cost me sixteen rupees. Come and
help me to look.” So the two looked together, and when, after
much search, they found nothing, the other man, in pure vexation,
cracked his fingers. On which the simpleton, crying “I’ve
found it! I’ve found it!” went dancing away.
Presently, he stopped by a tank, and again forgot his
new acquisition. So he plunged into the mud to look for it. And a man
came up and asked what he was searching for? To which he replied
“My friend, my friend! I have lost something very valuable. Do
come and help me to look.” On which, the two searched until they
were covered with mud; and when they found nothing, the new-comer
cracked his fingers in vexation, and the simpleton, crying
“I’ve found it! I’ve found it!” went gaily
cracking his fingers all the way home. And when his father and mother
saw him, they smiled at his state, and till they spoke to him
did not know who he was. And then they asked him what he had done with
his money. “Oh!” said he, “first of all I bought a
lovely maiden, and, because her eyes were bad, I exchanged her for an
ox; and because there was something wrong with the ox, I got a goat in
exchange; and because the goat wanted me to carry him, I got angry and
changed him for plantains. And the plantains I gave to a man who taught
me to crack my fingers, and what else would you have me do?” And
that’s all!
There were, once upon a time, seven simpletons.
And once they were going down the road, and meeting a puddle, were in
great distress as to how they should cross it. And the eldest said
“I will go first, and you all follow, holding one another’s
loin cloths.” So they held one another’s cloths and crawled
through the puddle on their hands and knees, getting very muddy and
dirty in doing so. But when they had fairly got across, the elder set
to work to count; and, as he failed to count himself, behold, there was
one missing. Then the next brother counted; and, as he, too, found one
missing, they each in turn counted. And so it became clear that one was
lost; and there they stood debating this deplorable
business. Just then a wily Brahmin came up, and asked what was the
matter. And they told him that they had been seven, but that in
crossing the puddle, one of them had been lost. On which, the Brahmin,
quickly counting them, found that they were still seven, and, judging
them to be simpletons, said to them “My sons, if you will come to
my house and work for me, I will find you the missing man.” To
which with one accord they agreed.
Then the Brahmin split a betelnut into seven pieces and
put them into the hand of the eldest. “Now count them,”
said he, “and tell me how many there be.” And he counted
and found that there were seven. “Now take each man a
piece,” said the Brahmin, and, behold, to each piece there was a
man. So in great joy and peace of mind they went to the Brahmin’s
house to work.
And then, one day, he sent the seven simpletons out into
the garden to weed the vegetables, and with them he sent his only son,
saying “If the lad is lazy and falls behind, shove him along and
make him work.”
So they all went into the garden and began cutting the
weeds with their knives; and presently the boy fell into the rear. On
which they said “There is that Brahmin boy fallen behind. Did not
his father say that we were to push him along? What
is to be done now? But the elder brother said, “Do? Why, do as we
were told.” On which each of them hit him with his weeding knife,
so that presently he died. And when the weeding was quite finished,
they went and told the Brahmin, saying “You told us to shove him
along, and as we had our knives in our hands, we hurt him so that he
died.” But the Brahmin was speechless, for they had but done as
they were told.
Another day he told them to go and plough. “Take
your ploughs up above the great simul tree,” he said. So
they rose in the early morning, and, taking ploughs, cattle and ropes,
went to the great simul tree. And some stayed below and bound
the ploughs and cattle with the ropes, and others climbed the tree and
hauled. But the ropes broke and the cattle were killed and the ploughs
were smashed. And then they went and told the Brahmin that they had
tried to plough above the simul tree and had failed.
“And what of the cattle?” said he, “Oh! they fell
down and were killed,” they replied. So, in despair, he bought
other cattle and sent them out to plough afresh.
And when the harvest was ripe, they reaped the paddy,
and, tying it in sheaves, brought it home and asked where
they were to put it. And the Brahmin said “Put it where my old
woman tells you to put it.” So they went and asked the
Brahmin’s wife. But she was very busy, and only cried “Oh,
bother you and your paddy! Put it on my head!” On this, they all
took their sheaves, and heaped them on the old woman, so that she died.
And when the Brahmin came from his work and asked for his old woman,
they said they had buried her in the paddy, as she told them to. On
which, being at his wit’s end, he bade them go and bury her. On
this, they tied the corpse on a bamboo sledge and bumped it along
through the bamboo-clump, so that it got knocked off by the way.
And when they came to some fallow land, they dug a
grave, and then began looking about for the corpse. Now there was an
old woman hard by herding cattle. “Cunning old wretch!”
said they, “she is afraid of being buried, and is pretending to
be somebody else.” So they got hold of her, and, in spite of her
struggles, buried her.
And the Brahmin, in fear of what they might do next,
began to contrive means to get rid of them. So he said “Today, my
sons, we will go and cut down the great simul tree.” So
they took their axes and, going to the simul tree, began hewing
with a will, and when the tree was tottering to its fall,
the Brahmin said to them “If the tree falls down, it will be
broken. Run under it and catch it!” And when they did so, the
Brahmin gave the last strokes, and the tree fell on the seven
simpletons and killed them. And that’s all!
There sprang up a friendship between a blind man
and a hunchback. And one day they said to one another “We shall
get more if we beg in some other village than our own.” The
hunchback made the blind man hold his stick, and so dragged him along.
And as they went, the blind man trod upon an old elephant rope which
lay upon the road, and said to his friend “Ah! friend, what is
this thing like a long snake which I am treading upon?” The
hunchback said “Why, it is only an old elephant-rope.” But
the blind man said “Take it, my friend, take it.” But, as
the hunchback refused, the blind man bid his friend hand it to him, and
so they went their ways thence.
And presently they came to a river; and as they were
wading across it, the blind man trod upon a tortoise and told his
friend that he had trod upon something living; but the hunchback said
it was only a stone, and asked what was the use of standing there
talking. But the blind man begged him to feel and see. And
when the hunchback announced that it was a tortoise, the blind man
begged his friend to take that, too; and on the hunchback declaring
that it was too heavy, he finally carried it himself.
Then they went their ways and came to a meadow, and
heard a drum being beaten. And the blind man asked what that was, and
where the drumming was going on. On which the hunchback said it was
only cowherds drumming. On which the blind man was for sending the
hunchback to fetch the drum.
But the hunchback said “How shall I fetch it? They
will be too strong for me, for they are many.” Then the blind man
devised a plan, and bade the hunchback crawl through the jungle and
roar like a tiger. Which the hunchback did; and the cowherd boys, on
hearing his roaring, ran away headlong and left the drum, which the
hunchback gave, as before, to the blind man to carry.
Then the friends went through the forest, until they
came to some houses. On which the hunchback said “My friend, the
sun has set, and evening has come. How much further are we to go? Here
are houses, let’s stop here.” But the blind man said he did
not think very well of houses in the jungle, and sent his
friend to have a good look at them.
Presently the hunchback returned and said “There
are two or three houses and a granary.” On this, the blind man
decided that they would stay in the granary, and so was dragged into
the granary, where they carefully fastened the doors and prepared to
stay for the night. And while they were there, Rakshashas came and
said—
And while they were gliding round the house, the
blind man shouted loudly “Here am I!” “Who are
you?” said the Rakshashas. “Who are you?” shouted the
blind man. “I am a Rakshasha,” said one of them. “And
I am a Zakshasha!”[28] said the blind man. Whereupon
they all got very angry. Then the blind man said “You need not
get angry and you need not get noisy. I can’t see you and you
can’t see me. Let us make an expedient by which you can be
satisfied.” So saying, the blind man bade the Rakshasha show him
a lock of his hair. On this a Rakshasha tore out a bunch of hair and
showed it to him. On which the blind man said “Now see
mine!” And so saying, thrust out of a chink the elephant rope.
And on seeing it, the Rakshasha became very afraid. Then the
blind man demanded to see a flea (from his body). And when the
Rakshasha had shown him one, the blind man put forth his tortoise. Then
the Rakshasha thought “This must indeed be a Zakshasha,”
and was greatly afraid. Then the blind man bade him beat his breast.
And, on his doing so, cried “Well done, well done! I have heard
you. Now hear me!” and straightway began to beat his drum
“rub-a-dub-dub.” On which the Rakshashas were greatly
frightened and ran right away.
Then the blind man said to his friend “Take any
good things that there are, and tie them up. You take some and give me
some, and let us go;” and, so saying, they went away together.
And when they were come to a far place, the hunchback began dividing
the spoil. And, when that was done, he bade his friend take which share
he would. But the blind man groped about and found that the share
nearest to the hunchback was the biggest. So the hunchback said
“How did you, without seeing, find that out? Now I have got to
divide it all over again!” So he made a fresh division.
And the same thing happened again, and the blind man
turned everything topsy-turvy. And, when this had occurred four or five
times, the hunchback became angry, and taking sand in his hand rubbed
it into the blind man’s eyes, saying “Now we shall see if you are really blind
or not;” whereby the blind man recovered his sight. But he, too,
was angry and said “What a hideous thing you are, and hateful to
look upon.” And he jumped on the hunchback’s back and
belaboured his hump till he made him straight and well. And when the
two were hale and well, they divided their spoil fairly and went home
happily. And that’s all!
There was an old man and his wife. One day, when
the old man was clearing jungle, a half-dead deer that had been shot by
a huntsman, came limping that way and crossed the old man’s
field. On which the old man killed it by hitting it on the head with
his hoe, and hid it away in the jungle. Presently, the man who shot the
deer made his appearance, having tracked its blood as far as the old
man’s field. “Here, old man!” said he, “have
you seen a wounded deer pass this way?” The old man replied
“The boundaries of my field? Well, the east boundary is here and
the west over there!” But the other said “Not so, not so, I
am asking about a wounded deer.” To which the old man replied
“I know what you mean; but whether it will be a good crop or not,
how shall I say?” “Not so, not so,” said the
other; that isn’t what I want to know.” But the old man
said “I cannot stop any longer. The dark is falling, and I am
hungry for my supper. I’m off.” So saying, he went away
home, and when he had had his supper, he said to his old woman
“You must give me my breakfast early tomorrow, for I have killed
a deer, and I must go early and cut it up.” So the old woman gave
him his breakfast very early and sent him about his business. And he
went to his field, and, having chopped up the carcase began dividing
the pieces. And first he put apart his own share, “One piece for
washing my face in the morning; one piece for chewing tobacco; one
piece for driving the cattle afield; one piece for ploughing”;
and so on, for all his daily avocations. Then he made out his old
woman’s share: “One piece for washing her face in the
morning; one piece for chewing tobacco; one piece for spinning cotton;
one piece for fretting cotton; one piece for weaving cloth; one piece
for cooking rice; one piece for drawing water;” and so on, with
all her occupations. But, on counting up, he found that the old
woman’s share was much the biggest. On which he cried angrily
that it was not to be believed that a woman’s share could be
bigger than his, and, mixing up all the pieces of flesh on the ground,
he began a fresh division. This time he set apart the old woman’s share first, and his own
afterwards. This time his share became the largest. But still he was
not satisfied, and, mixing all the gobbets up again, he divided them
again and again, but never got them equal. Meanwhile, the day had
slipped by and evening was come. So the old woman, taking the pestle of
the dhenki, went to look for her husband, and there she found
him in the midst of the lumps of flesh, which had become covered with
dust and dirt through much mixing. Then the old woman let fly the
dhenki stump at his back. On which he cried that a snake had
bitten him and ran home, on which the old woman tied up the meat in a
cloth and carried it to her house, and cooked some hastily for supper.
And when her husband asked where the meat came from, she said that he
had been such a long time in coming, that she had killed a chicken and
cooked it for him. “And if you had stopped dividing that
deer’s flesh, we should never have got any supper at all,”
said she. And that’s all!
There was an aged couple who lived in a pair of
houses. And four thieves used to prowl round their houses, seeking to
steal. And the old man set to work to contrive devices to disappoint
them. And first he filled a joint of bamboo with cowdung and
dirty water and rice-chaff, and hung it up in the rafters of the
dhenki-shed. And when at nightfall the thieves began prowling
round and listening to hear if the inmates were asleep, the old people
overheard them, and the old man said to his wife “Old woman, old
woman; where have you hung up the molasses and milk and
chira?” And the old woman replied “A nice business!
I have been and gone and hung them up in the dhenki-shed, where
the thieves can get at them.” And the thieves, hearing this,
slipped off to the shed, and, getting the bamboo-joint, gathered
plantain leaves for plates, and divided the spoil and sat down to eat.
And one of them, smelling at the stuff, said to the others
“Smells rather strong, doesn’t it?” Then one of them
took his mess in his hand and smelled it, and, seeing what had
happened, they all burst out laughing. Then the old man came out with
his big stick, and the four thieves ran away. Another day, the old man,
hearing the thieves prowling about, said to his wife “Where have
you hung the packet of salt?” And the old woman replied “A
fine affair! I have hung it up on south wall of our sleeping-house,
where the thieves can easily get it.” And so one of the thieves
thrust his hand in, and began feeling about for the bundle, on
which the old man took his knife and cut his
hand. But he only said “I can’t find it,” and went
away.
On which the other three felt about, and one got his
finger cut, and another his ear, and the fourth his nose. Then they
looked about in the yard for something to ease the pain, and the first,
finding a cooking pot in which acrid plantain ashes had been steeped,
plunged his hand in, and, getting more pain than before, only said
“Ah! that’s good.” On which the others followed his
example. And, while they were hopping about in pain, the old man came
out and took his stick, and drove them away.
Another day, the old people found a wasps’ nest on
a chili plant under a plantain tree. And when the thieves came,
the old man said to his wife “Old woman, old woman, where have
you put the lota with our money in it?” And the old woman
answered “To-day’s luck is the worst of all. I have left
the lota under the plantain tree in the garden, by the
chili bush, and no doubt the thieves will get it.” Hearing
this, the thieves went and disturbed the wasps’ nest, and the
wasps flew out and stung them. And when they cried in pain and ran
away, the old man ran after them with his stick and beat them soundly.
Again, another day, when the old man went out to cut
reeds for his fence, he found the four thieves asleep under an O tree
(the fruit of which is hard and heavy), and the old man, climbing
quietly into the tree, cut four of the fruits, with the stalks
attached, and tied them to the thieves’ hair. Then he suddenly
cried out “Thief! thief!” And the more they ran, the more
the heavy fruit bumped on their backs, so that they thought the old man
was running after them and beating them. And they ran a very long way
before they discovered their mistake, and unloosed the fruit from their
hair.
Bînîfrai ârù sânse
braiâ mai duliau thânânai
bùrùikhô fùrùngnaise
“Bùrùi, nang hoṛau sikhau faibâ
gaigainù sùngnânai, gaigainù khithâ
de, ereùi hannânai “Brai, brai hùn! nang
thurse khurui mau dindang?” “Dhinkhî-sâliaunu
maiduli-au bîfùr khô dinnai zâbai. Dâ
sikhau faibâ, man-lâng-sî-gan dâ! Mâ
khâmkhù!”
Be khorâng-khô sikhau
khnânânai, mâmâr dhinkhi saliau
thângnânai naihùibâ be dulikhô
dikhângnânai “O! beaunù thorse
khurui-fùr dang le! Ilit mâthù!”
Obâsù bîsùr khânânai
bânnânai lâng-lâi-naise.
And, again, the old man climbed into the mat receptacle
in which the paddy was stored; but, before doing so, he instructed his
wife to imitate his voice and ask where the brass plates and cups had
been put; and to answer in her own voice that they had been put into
the paddy receptacle in the dhenki-shed. And when the thieves
heard all this, they hurried to the dhenki-shed, and, lifting up
the paddy receptacle, said with one accord: “My! isn’t it
heavy?” And so they tied it to poles and carried it away on their
shoulders.
Presently, they came to a deep river, and as they were
wading across, the old man cried “Look here! I am
getting wet, carry it higher.” On which they said to one another
“Surely, some one spoke?” But, thinking it was a mistake,
they went on, and came to deeper water. On this the old man called out
again “Stupid brutes! Sons of slaves! Can’t you see your
way? I am getting wet through.” And the thieves were frightened,
and, dropping the old man in the water, ran clean away. That’s
all!
[1] A “Bengali ghusâ” is said to be a blow inflicted with the fist, the thumbnail protruding between the first and second finger so as to give a scratch! [↑]
[26] The hideous Kuvera, god of wealth. He was a white man with three legs and eight teeth. Apparently, the same as the Hindu Pluto; and lord of the shades as well as of wealth. [↑]
Work you can’t, and toil you can’t, bearing baby on your back.
A Nursery Rhyme.
Bongfâng
dô,
Beat the
tree,
bongfâng
dô,
and beat the
tree,
bongfâng
nârengâ.
and beat the
orange tree.
Fitsiu-siu
Chirrup,
chirrup,
firingâ;
bhimraj bird;
bidùi
zåkhaibâ!
give twenty eggs
to me.
What Women sing at Weddings.
Zô sit
sit,
Pour, pour the
beer,
Gogorleng;
Gogorleng;
Zô sit
sit.
pour the
beer.
Dângnai
dângnai sit,
Pour in
torrents,
Gogorleng;
Gogorleng;
dângnai
dângnai sit.
pour in torrents,
pour.
Then you substitute other festive occupations, for instance:
Goe khau khau (cut, cut the betelnut).
Zô lù lù (pass round the beer).
Khurui sù sù (wash the plates), &c., &c.
“Gogorleng” is the traditional name for the bâru or bohua, who plays the buffoon at weddings.
A Woman to her Lover.
Sô mâlîbai, sôbaî.
Come, my lover, come.
Gangâ zâliâ.
O! Ganges fisherman.
Thâkânî kheru manâbâ.
If I don’t get silver earrings.
Âng-bù thângliâ.
I, too, cannot go.
In the following verses the woman substitutes other ornaments or presents:
An exchange of Compliments.
A girl sings—
Silâkhonârùi gåthåfùr,
Chinakona boys,
Moisù hùnù fai!
Come and drive buffaloes.
Boy answers (derisively)—
Hunù rangâ, munù rangâ.
I cannot drive, I cannot wive.
Ângkhô dâ ling, fai.
Don’t cry to me to come.
Engkhut khârùi khùrù khùrù.
The mess of rice goes bubble-bubble.
Ângnî fâtse fùrù fùrù.
My share is but trouble trouble.
Khuru khusuli.
You’ve got the itch.
Bidot zâsuli.
Eater of meat.
What Women sing when the Bride is taken away.
Dâ gâpse, ai—dâ gapse.
Don’t weep, dear, don’t weep.
Khânu lai lângâ.
Not to bind thee do they take thee;
Sunu lai lângâ
Not to wound thee do they take thee;
Bângâl Simsânù lângâ.
Not for Bengali or Bhutia do they, &c.
Ehe! hai! hùi!—
Oh! ho! ho!
The second, third and fourth lines may of course be varied ad infinitum.
The lament of a Mother.
Thokon srong srong.
With multitudes of clubs.
Thângdangman, âfâ Sokhai, nanglai.
Thou wentest, son Sokhai, thou.
Emfu blî blâ thângdangman, &c.
Flashing thy sword, thou wentest, &c.
Khaukhâ dumâ dumî, &c.
With great turban bound, &c.
Nang dangbâ omâ bidot zang zâdangman, &c.
Whilst thou lived’st I ate pig’s flesh, &c.
and so on.
“Buffalo Girls come out to play.”
Ùi! Silakhonârùi hingzau-fùr,
Oh! Chinakona women.
Nâ gutnù fai.
Come and catch fish.
Nâ gutnù rangâbâ,
If you cannot catch fish,
Lùgùse dâlâ fai!
Don’t come with us at all!
In other verses substitute “megong khânù,” or other things man and maid may do together.
A Love Song.
Âgùi Boisâgi,
O! sister wanderer,
Âng khô dâ bâsi!
Do not spurn me!
Sikhlâ sipnù hâiâbâ,
If you cannot sweep the yard,
Âng-bu sipfâgan.
I will help you sweep.
In the next verse, for the last two lines, substitute—”Dùi lainù hâiâbâ âng bù lai-fâ-gan,” and so on, with other female occupations. If a woman sings, the first line will be “Âdâ Bùidâsi,” and she will select men’s work, as, e.g., “Hâthi hunù hâiâbâ, ângbù thâng-fâ-gan.”
Substitute other occupations in subsequent verses.
A Love Song.
Dui lainaiâ sùrù man?
Who was it used to draw water?
Âgùi Banbâhi sikhlâ man.
It was the maid, my sister Banbâhi.
In following verses substitute “Mikhâm songnaiâ, megong khâwâiâ, hî dânâiâ,” &c., &c. If a woman sings, she sings “Hâthi hunaiâ sura man. Âdâ bùidîsi zålåman,” and goes on with male occupations.
[1] A man speaking to a woman says “lùi” (cf. “he-lùi”); a woman speaking says “hai”, and a man, speaking to his wife or other woman with whom he is on familiar terms, says “ùi”. [↑]
[2] “Dudugur” is the little drum on a handle, with a bead tied to it. The drum is shaken from side to side, and the bead beats it,—onomatopœically, “dudugur, dudugur!” [↑]
[3] Not easily to be translated word for word. But the meaning is that a woman cannot think of her work if a man passes by. [↑]
