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  After a weary tramp they arrived at a city in which a rich merchant had recently died, and by inquiry they found that, his body having been burnt, his remains had been duly laid in a certain place. Then Eesara, by tampering with the ledgers which he had brought with him from his own home, concocted a tremendous bill against the defunct merchant, ingeniously running up the amount to forty thousand rupees. When night set in, the two friends went to the place of sepulture, and dug out a chamber, in which Caneesara hid himself, while Eesara covered him over with sticks and earth, and, in short, managed his task so well that in the morning no one would have suspected that the ground had been disturbed at all. Eesara, armed with his account-books, went presently to the house of the sons of the dead merchant, and said to them: “Both your father and your grandfather were in debt to the house of which I am a partner. The total sum due to us is forty thousand rupees, and payment is requested without more delay.”

  The sons at first attempted to brave it out. “Not a farthing do we owe you,” said they. “Why was not this monstrous claim sent in before?”

  “The claim is true,” replied Eesara, “and the money is owing in full. I appeal to your dead father. Let him be the judge. I cite you to appear with me at his grave.”

  The two sons, thus solemnly charged, accompanied their pretended creditor to their father’s grave. Now, the dead man’s name was Bahnooshâh.

  “O Bahnooshâh,” cried Eesara, “thou model of honour and probity, hear and answer! Are you indebted in the sum of forty thousand rupees to the house of Eesara and Caneesara, or are you not?”

  Three times was this appeal made with a loud voice over the grave, and in answer to the third appeal Caneesara spoke in a sepulchral tone from the bowels of the earth: “Oh, my sons,” cried he, “if you are faithful to my memory, leave not this weight of woe on my soul, but pay the money at once.”

  The sons were overwhelmed, and, dropping on their knees, promised to fulfil the request of the dead. They then returned home, and taking Eesara into their counting-house, paid him over the sum demanded, and presented him with a mule in addition to carry away the burden. Eesara, who was beyond measure enchanted with the success of his stratagem, forgot in the full flow of his happiness to return for his partner, and having mounted the mule and ensconced himself in comfort between the saddle-bags, he made haste to get out of the town.

  By this time Caneesara, beginning to tire of being pent up in his dark, narrow lodging, was thinking to himself: “Strange! Why does not Eesara come back with news?” And, unable to bear the suspense any longer, he burst open his frail tenement and entered the town. Going to the house of the deluded merchants, he inquired for one named Eesara, and learnt that he had just received the amount of the debt, and had departed. “There he goes,” said they, “on yonder mule.” Following with his eyes the direction indicated, he saw Eesara astride of the mule going up a neighbouring hill, and occasionally belabouring his stubborn animal with a cudgel. “Ha! ha!” laughed Caneesara, “so Eesara is leaving me in the lurch.” And he began to follow him.

  Now, as Eesara jogged along he saw a handsome gold-embroidered shoe lying upon the road; but he was too proud in the possession of his newly-acquired wealth to regard such a trifle as an odd shoe, however embroidered, and he continued his way without dismounting. When Caneesara arrived at the spot, however, he picked up the shoe, and a happy thought striking him, he ran at the top of his speed round by some rocks along a by-way and joined the main track again some distance ahead of Eesara. There he laid down the shoe in the middle of the road, and hid himself in a bush.

  Eesara, riding up as happy as a king, turned a projecting corner of the road and at once espied the shoe. Reining up his mule, he gazed at it and cried: “Ha! here’s the fellow of the shoe I left behind—the same pattern and everything.” And, dismounting, he picked up the shoe, tied his mule to the very bush in which Caneesara was in hiding, and ran back as hard as he could go for the supposed fellow. The moment he was out of sight Caneesara got down from the bush, mounted the mule, and rode off at a full pace.

  Now, Eesara, of course, looked for the fellow-shoe in vain, and, what was still harder to bear, he returned to the bush to find his mule gone. “Ha!” said he, “Caneesara has been here!” And he hastened on foot towards his own village.

  Meanwhile Caneesara was also pressing on with all speed. He arrived at his home in the middle of the night, and without a word to any of his neighbours he unloaded the mule and drove it away into the forest. He then summoned his wife, and the two between them carried the bags of money into the house and buried them under the mud floor. But being afraid of unpleasant questions if he met Eesara just then, he absented himself from home, charging his wife not to reveal the fact of his arrival.

  Eesara, by no means despairing, arrived at his own house and related his adventures to his wife, who agreed with him in his opinion that the money had been taken by Caneesara. “And what is more,” said Eesara, “he has buried it in his house.”

  The next night the wife of Eesara invited the wife of Caneesara to spend a few hours with her, and during the interval Eesara visited the house of his partner and successfully dug up the money, after which he restored the floor to its former appearance. Taking the hoard to his own house, which he entered after the departure of Caneesara’s wife, he buried it in like manner under the floor of his chamber. He then went off and hid himself in an old dry well, directing his wife to bring him his food at a certain hour every day.

  By this time Caneesara had ventured to return to his home, and choosing a proper time for the purpose, he dug up the floor of his house, stopping now and then to chuckle with his wife over the success of his stratagem. But, alas! the money was nowhere to be found, and he laboured in vain. “Ha!” cried he, throwing down his spade, “Eesara has been here!” Then he considered within himself, “Eesara has taken away the money, but instead of looking for the money I shall now look for Eesara himself.”

  Caneesara now watched in the neighbourhood of Eesara’s house night and day, and observing that his wife always went out at the same hour, he began to suspect that she must be taking her husband’s food somewhere. So he dogged her footsteps at a safe distance, and discovered that she made for the old well. There he watched her from behind a boulder, and saw her take bread and buttermilk from under her veil, and lower the food with a piece of string down the well. After a time he noticed that she drew up the empty vessel, and, with a few words to the person below, returned to the town. “Ha, ha!” laughed Caneesara, “Eesara is here; he is down that well! But where can the money be?”

  That night Caneesara made up some atrociously bad bread, and the next day he disguised himself as a woman in a long red cloth, and taking with him the bread, a vessel, and a piece of string, he went out to the well and lowered down the food.

  “Oh, you cursed woman!” cried Eesara in a rage, “what bread is this you have brought me?”

  “O husband!” answered Caneesara in feigned tones, “you rail at your poor wife, but what am I to do without money?”

  “You wretched woman!” said Eesara, “you know that under the floor of our old house there are bags and bags of money! Why can’t you take a rupee occasionally and buy me decent victuals?”

  Caneesara, having heard quite enough for his purpose pulled up the empty vessel and took himself off. He passed the real wife on his way into town, and going straight to the house, he abstracted the whole of the money, and carried it to his own house; but this time he buried it in the garden.

  Meanwhile, Eesara’s wife, having arrived at the well, let down her husband’s food. Eesara, when he saw the suspended vessel again bobbing in front of him, cried out: “Hullo! you here again? It is not half an hour since you were here before!”

  “What are you talking about?” answered the woman. “I have not been near you since this time yesterday.”

  “Ah!” exclaimed Eesara with a groan, “is that so? Then Caneesara has been here, and we are undone a
gain!”

  So he climbed up by the loose masonry and came out of the well. “Now let us go home,” said he, “and look after the money.” When he came to his house it was too evident that the place had been rifled, and having plied his shovel to no purpose, he rushed off to the house of Caneesara. His wily partner, however, was nowhere to be found, nor with all his searching and digging could he light on the slightest trace of the lost treasure. At last, baffled and disappointed, he went back to his wife and got her to lay him out as if he were dead, and to bewail him after the custom of his people. Then came the neighbours bearing bundles of wood, and a funeral-pyre was erected to burn his body. Caneesara, hearing of these lugubrious preparations, said to himself: “All this, I fear, is only some trick of my old friend;” and he went to the house and asked permission to view the body. “This merchant who is dead was a friend of mine,” said he. But they drove him out of the place, saying: “No, no; you are a Mahomedan.”

  Eesara was now carried out of the house on a stretcher and laid on the top of the funeral-pyre, while blankets and clothes were held round to keep off the gaze of the multitude. Just as the torches were applied, and the smoke began to envelop him, and while the confusion was at its height, he slipped out of his shroud, and, taking advantage of the darkness, he managed to escape from the scene unobserved. His first act was to go again to the house of Caneesara, feeling satisfied that he must by that time have ventured to return; but the latter, full of suspicion and in dread of his life, still kept out of the way. So Eesara’s search was a complete failure. “I cannot find the money,” said he; “but Caneesara I am determined to hunt out, and then we shall have an account to settle.”

  Caneesara now resolved to feign death in his turn. “Eesara has not deceived me,” said he; “but if I can deceive Eesara, I will return some night, dig up the money, and be off to other parts.” So first of all a rumour was circulated that he was very ill; then it was asserted that he was dead; and his wife, to keep up the deceit, laid him out and bewailed him with shrieks and moaning cries. When the neighbours came about, they said: “Alas! it is poor Caneesara!” And they ordered his shroud and carried his body to the grave. There they laid it down upon the earth, close by the tomb of an old hermit, for the customary observances, and Eesara, who had followed the mourners, contrived to get a peep at his friend’s face, saying: “This poor man, as you know, was a crony of mine.” Having satisfied his doubts, he climbed into a tree, which was near the grave, and waited there until, the rites being completed, the body was laid in its chamber. As soon as the company had dispersed, night having now set in, Eesara got down from the tree, crept to the old tomb, and, lifting up the slab, dragged out the body alive and laid it down by the edge of the grave. Just then the noise of approaching footsteps and subdued whispers caught his attention, and he again got into the tree, wondering what this interruption could be.

  The party which now approached was a gang of notorious robbers, seven in number, one of whom was blind of an eye. Catching sight of the body in the old tomb, they examined it with great care, and exclaimed: “See, this must be some famous saint! He has come out of his grave, and his body is perfectly fresh. Let us pray to him for favour and good luck!” So they one and all fell down on their knees and besought his assistance. “We are pledged to a robbery this night,” said they. “If we are successful, O saint, into your mouth we shall drop some sugar.” The one-eyed man, however, said: “As for me, I shall tickle his throat with some water.”

  Having made their vows, they all set out for the town, robbed a rich man’s house, and returned, each one bearing his own bag of money, to the graveyard. They now dropped morsels of sugar into Caneesara’s mouth in accordance with their promises; but when it came to the turn of the robber of the one eye, he dropped in some vile water. Poor Caneesara had accepted the sugar with stolid indifference; but the water, tickling his gullet, nearly choked him, and he began to cough most violently. Precisely at this moment Eesara, who had been an absorbed observer of the scene, suddenly shrieked out in menacing tones: “Never mind the fellows behind; catch the rascal who is standing in front!”

  These unexpected words sounded in the robbers’ ears like the voice of the black angel, and imagining themselves in the midst of evil spirits, they took to their heels and incontinently ran away, leaving their bags of money behind them by the open grave.

  The dead Caneesara now sprang to his feet, crying out: “Ha! ha! Eesara is here, and I have caught him at last!” And as the latter had descended from the tree, the two friends embraced each other most cordially. Picking up the seven bags of gold, they entered the old tomb, where they managed to light one of the little earthenware lamps belonging to the shrine, and by dint of drawing the feeble flame close enough, they poured out the glittering heaps, and proceeded to settle their accounts. They were, however, unable to agree about a balance of a single farthing; and their words began to run high, each of them asserting his claim with tremendous warmth.

  By this time the robbers, having come to a halt, deputed their one-eyed companion to return and look for the money. One-eyed men are proverbially cunning, and this one was determined not to impair his reputation. Creeping quietly along, he arrived at the tomb as the dispute was in full career; but, alas! he was seen; and just as his head appeared through one of the holes in the wall, Caneesara suddenly snatched off the fellow’s turban, and, handing it to Eesara, cried, “Here, then, is your farthing; so now we are quits!” The robber, drawing back his head with the utmost despatch, ran as fast as his legs could carry him to his confederates, and told them: “The number of demons in that old tomb is so immense that the share of each of them comes to only a single farthing! Let us get away, or we shall all be caught and hanged!” So, in a great fright, they left the place on the instant, and never returned again.

  Then said the wily Caneesara to the wily Eesara: “With the forty thousand rupees which I possess already, my share of this capture is one bag, and these other six bags are therefore yours.”

  The two friends were now equally rich; and returning to their homes, they bought lands and houses, and defied poverty for the rest of their days, living together with their wives and children in the utmost happiness and in the enjoyment of every blessing.

  THE LORD of DEATH

  Punjab

  Once upon a time there was a road, and every one who travelled along it died. Some folk said they were killed by a snake, others said by a scorpion, but certain it is they all died.

  Now a very old man was travelling along the road, and being tired, sat down on a stone to rest; when suddenly, close beside him, he saw a scorpion as big as a cock, which, while he looked at it, changed into a horrible snake. He was wonderstruck, and as the creature glided away, he determined to follow it at a little distance, and so find out what it really was.

  So the snake sped on day and night, and behind it followed the old man like a shadow. Once it went into an inn, and killed several travellers; another time it slid into the King’s house and killed him. Then it crept up the waterspout to the Queen’s palace, and killed the King’s youngest daughter. So it passed on, and wherever it went the sound of weeping and wailing arose, and the old man followed it, silent as a shadow.

  Suddenly the road became a broad, deep, swift river, on the banks of which sat some poor travellers who longed to cross over, but had no money to pay the ferry. Then the snake changed into a handsome buffalo, with a brass necklace and bells round its neck, and stood by the brink of the stream. When the poor travellers saw this, they said, “This beast is going to swim to its home across the river; let us get on its back, and hold on to its tail, so that we too shall get over the stream.”

  Then they climbed on its back and held by its tail, and the buffalo swam away with them bravely; but when it reached the middle, it began to kick, until they tumbled off, or let go, and were all drowned.

  When the old man, who had crossed the river in a boat, reached the other side, the buffalo had disappeared,
and in its stead stood a beautiful ox. Seeing this handsome creature wandering about, a peasant, struck with covetousness, lured it to his home. It was very gentle, suffering itself to be tied up with the other cattle; but in the dead of night it changed into a snake, bit all the flocks and herds, and then, creeping into the house, killed all the sleeping folk, and crept away. But behind it the old man still followed, as silent as a shadow.

  Presently they came to another river, where the snake changed itself into the likeness of a beautiful young girl, fair to see, and covered with costly jewels. After a while, two brothers, soldiers, came by, and as they approached the girl, she began to weep bitterly.

  “What is the matter?” asked the brothers; “and why do you, so young and beautiful, sit by the river alone?”

  Then the snake-girl answered, “My husband was even now taking me home; and going down to the stream to look for the ferry-boat, fell to washing his face, when he slipped in, and was drowned. So I have neither husband nor relations!”

  “Do not fear!” cried the elder of the two brothers, who had become enamoured of her beauty; “come with me, and I will marry you.”

  “On one condition,” answered the girl: “you must never ask me to do any household work; and no matter for what I ask, you must give it me.”

  “I will obey you like a slave!” promised the young man.

  “Then go at once to the well, and fetch me a cup of water. Your brother can stay with me,” quoth the girl.

  But when the elder brother had gone, the snake-girl turned to the younger, saying, “Fly with me, for I love you! My promise to your brother was a trick to get him away!”

  “Not so!” returned the young man; “you are his promised wife, and I look on you as my sister.”

  On this the girl became angry, weeping and wailing, until the elder brother returned, when she called out, “O husband, what a villain is here! Your brother asked me to fly with him, and leave you!”