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  “Then the dog lies,” answered the other, “for that cannot be.”

  The robber who was so dexterous with his hands now threw up a rope-ladder, which attached itself to a lofty balcony, and enabled the party to mount to the top of one of the houses.

  “Do you smell any money here?” said one to the robber whose scent was his principal boast.

  The man went smelling about all over the roof, and at last said: “This must be some poor widow’s quarters, for there is neither gold nor silver in the place. Let us go on.”

  The robbers now crept cautiously along the flat tops of the houses until they came to a towering wall, richly carved and painted, and the robber of the keen scent began smelling again. “Ah!” exclaimed he, “here we are! This is the king’s treasure-house. Ho, Strong-arm, do you break open a way through!”

  The robber of the strong arm now proceeded to dislodge the woodwork and the stones, until at last he had pierced the wall, and effected an entrance into the house. The rest of the gang speedily followed, and their search was rewarded by the coffers full of gold which they found there, and which they passed out through the aperture, and carried away. Well laden, they all by common consent hastened to one of their favourite haunts, where the spoil was divided, the king also receiving his share with the rest, while at the same time he informed himself of the robbers’ names and learnt their places of abode. After this, as the night was far advanced, they separated, and the king returned alone to his palace.

  The next morning the robbery was discovered and the city cried by the officers of justice. But the king, without a word, went into his audience-chamber, where he took his seat as usual. He then addressed his minister, and told him to send and arrest the robbers. “Go to such and such a street,” said he, “in the lower quarter of the city, and there you will find the house. Here are the names of the criminals. Let them be taken before the judge and sentenced, and then produce them here.”

  The minister at once left the presence, and taking with him some attendants, he proceeded with all dispatch to the street in question, found and arrested the robbers, and took them before the judge. As the evidence of their guilt was conclusive, they made a full confession and implored mercy, but the judge condemned them all to be hanged, and sent them before the king. As soon as they appeared the king looked sternly at them, and demanded what they had to allege in extenuation that their sentence should not be carried out. Then they all began to make excuses, excepting the one whose special gift it was to recognise in the day those whom he had met at night. He, looking fixedly at the king, cried out, to the surprise of his comrades: “The moment has arrived for the wagging of the beard.”

  The king, hearing his words, gravely wagged his beard as a signal that the executioners should retire, and having enjoyed a hearty laugh with his chance acquaintances of the preceding night, he feasted them well, gave them some good advice, and restored them to their liberty.

  “The moral of this story,” continued the story-teller, “is this: The whole world is in darkness. At the last day no faculty, however strong, will avail a man but that which will enable him to discern God Himself.”

  THE BRAHMARKSHASA

  Tamil Nadu

  In a certain village of the country of Śeṅgalinîrppaṭṭu1 there dwelt a Brâhmaṇ, gaining his living by the alms he collected daily, and so he was in extremely poor circumstances. Poverty indeed had taken such a firm hold of him that he wished to fly to Bânâras. Accordingly, depending as usual upon what charity would provide for him on the way, he started with only one day’s supplies tied up in a bundle.

  When there wanted yet four ghaṭikâs before sunset he had approached a thick wilderness, which was also long and wide, and studded with small villages here and there. After journeying through this for more than the four ghaṭikâs he reached a splendid tank just as the sun was setting. Ablutions must never be foregone by a Brâhmaṇ, so he neared the tank to wash his hands and legs, to perform his prayers, and to eat what little his bundle contained. As soon as he placed his foot in the water he heard a voice calling out:—“Put not thy foot in this water! Thou art not permitted to do so!”

  He looked round about him and discovered nothing, and so not heeding the threat he washed his hands and feet, and sat down to perform his sandhyâvandana or evening worship, when again he heard a voice:—“Perform not thy sandhyâvandana! Thou art not permitted to do so!”

  A second time he gave no heed to the voice but proceeded with his prayers, and when they were over opened his bundle of food. As soon as he began to eat the same voice was again heard, but the Brâhmaṇ paid no attention, and finished his meal. Then getting up he pursued his journey, so as, if possible, to reach a village to sleep in for the night. He had scarcely advanced a step, when again the same voice forbade him to go on!

  Having thus been barred four times the Brâhmaṇ boldly broke out and said:—“Who art thou, thou wretch? And why dost thou thus forbid me every reasonable action?”

  Replied a voice from a pîpal tree above him: “I am a Brahmarâkshasa, named Gâṇapṛiya.2 In my former life I was a Brâhmaṇ, and learnt all the intricacies of music, but I was unwilling to impart my hard-earned knowledge to others. Paramêśvara was so greatly displeased with me that he made me a Brahmarâkshasa in this life3 and even now his rage seems not to have been appeased. At the distance of a quarter of a ghaṭikâ from this spot is a ruined temple, in which pûjâ (worship) is conducted in a very rough way, and during the ceremony a piper plays upon a nâgasvara pipe so very awkwardly, that it causes me the utmost mortification to listen to him. My only hope of escape is that a Brâhmaṇ will rescue me from this tree. You are the first Brâhmaṇ I have ever met with in this wilderness, and I have grown quite thin from the worry of hearing that awkward piper day after day! If I continue much longer in this tree, it will be the death of me! So pity my condition, I beseech you, and remove me to some tree five or six ghaṭikâs distance from this place, and leave me in peace there, so that I may be out of the reach of that horrible piper and get a little stouter. In return demand from me any boon and I will grant it.”

  Thus said the Brahmarâkshasa, and in its very voice the Brâhmaṇ could discover its failing strength. Said he:—“I am an extremely poor Brâhmaṇ, and if you promise to mend my condition and to make me rich I will remove you to a good distance, where the sound of the cracked nâgasvara shall never affect your ears.”

  The Brahmarâkshasa thought for a few nimishas and thus replied:—“Holy Brâhmaṇ, every person must undergo what is cut upon his forehead by Brahmâ, in this world. Five more years of poverty are allotted to you by fate, after which I shall go and possess the Princess of Maisûr, and none of the incantations which learned magicians may pronounce upon me shall drive me out, until you have presented yourself before the king of Maisûr and promised to cure her of me. He will promise you ample rewards, and you must commence the cure, when I will leave her. The king will be pleased and grant you several boons, which will make you happy. But you must never afterwards visit any place where I may be. It may be that I shall possess several princesses, but if you come there with the view of curing them I shall take your life at a blow. Beware!”

  Thus spake the Brahmarâkshasa, and the Brâhmaṇ agreed to all the conditions and removed it to another pîpal tree seven ghaṭikâs distant from its then abode. It found its new home comfortable, and let the Brâhmaṇ pursue his way north to Bânâras, which he reached in six months.

  For five years he lived in the Hanumanta Ghaṭṭa at Bânâras, performing ablutions to wash himself pure of all his sins. Then, thinking of the Brahma- râkshasa’s promise, he returned towards the south, and after travelling for five months reached Maisûr, where he sojourned in an old woman’s house and enquired the news of the day.

  Said she:—“My son, the princess of this country, who is the only daughter of the king, has been possessed by a furious devil for the last five months and all the exorcists of Jambûdvîpa have tried
their skill on her, but to no purpose. He who cures her will become the master of a vast fortune.”

  So said the old woman to the secret joy of the Brâhmaṇ at the faithful observance of its promise by the Brahmarâkshasa. He bathed and hastily took his meal, and then presented himself at the darbâr that very day. The king promised him several villages and whole elephant-loads of mohars should he effect a cure.

  On these conditions he commenced his pretended exorcisms, and on the third day asked for all the persons assembled to vacate the room in which the possessed princess was seated. Then he explained to his friend the Brahmarâkshasa, who was now possessing her, that he was the Brâhmaṇ who had assisted him in the wood five years previously. The demon was greatly pleased to meet its old friend again, and wishing him prosperity and warning him never to come again to any other place where it might go for shelter, took its leave. The princess came back to her former self, and the Brâhmaṇ, loaded with wealth and lands, settled down in Maisûr.

  He had thus earned a name as an exorcist, and now cultivated that science secretly, so that he soon became a master of it, and all over the country he became famous as a master-magician. He also became a favourite with the king of Maisûr, and married a beautiful Brâhmaṇî girl by whom he became the father of three children. Thus passed full ten years.

  Meanwhile the Brahmarâkshasa, after going to several places, went to the country of Tiruvanandapuram (Trivandrum) and possessed the Princess of Travancore. Many masters of magic were called in, but to no effect. At length rumours about the master-magician of Maisûr reached the ears of the king of Tiruvanandapuram. He at once wrote to the Mahârâja of Maisûr, who showed the letter to the Brâhmaṇ. The invitation was a death stroke to our hero; for if he refused to go he would lose his good name and the favour of his king, and if he went he would lose his life! He preferred the latter alternative, and at once wrote out a will, leaving his estate to his children and confiding them to careful hands. He then started from Maisûr for Tiruvanandapuram, which he reached after journeying for a month. The king had so arranged for his comfort that he performed the journey with apparent ease: but his heart beating painfully!

  He reached Tiruvanandapuram and tried to postpone his exorcisms for this reason or that for a short time, but the king was determined to prove him. So he was asked to leave no stone unturned in order to effect the perfect cure of the princess. He had now no hope in this world, and thinking that his days were numbered he undertook the cure. As usual he made a pretence for a few days with his incantations, but he thought: “After all, what is the use of my thus prolonging my miseries, as it is settled that I must die? The sooner there is an end to them the better!” So with a determined will to fall before the blow of the Brahmarâkshasa he entered the chamber in which the princess was seated, but just as he entered a thought came into his mind and he said boldly:—“Will you now abandon her, you Brahmarâkshasa, or shall I at once bring in the piper of the ruined temple near the wood, who is waiting outside?”

  No sooner had the name of the awkward piper fallen on the ears of the Brahmarâkshasa, than he threw down the long pole, which he had in his hand to thrash the Brâhmaṇ with, and fell at his feet, saying:—

  “Brother Brâhmaṇ, I will never even look back, but run away at once, if you will only never bring that piper to me again!”

  “Agreed,” said our hero, and Gâṇapṛiya disappeared.

  Of course, our hero was greatly rewarded for his success and became doubly famous throughout the world as a master-magician!

  1. Śeṅgalinîrppaṭṭu means “the land of the blue lily,” now corrupted into Chingleput.

  2. This means merely “lover of music.”

  3. It is a common notion among Hindûs, especially among Brâhmaṇs, that he who does not freely impart his knowledge to others is born in the next life as a kind of demon called Brahmarâkshasa.

  LIFE’S SECRET

  Bengal

  There was a king who had two queens, Duo and Suo.1 Both of them were childless. One day a Faquir (mendicant) came to the palace-gate to ask for alms. The Suo queen went to the door with a handful of rice. The mendicant asked whether she had any children. On being answered in the negative, the holy mendicant refused to take alms, as the hands of a woman unblessed with child are regarded as ceremonially unclean. He offered her a drug for removing her barrenness, and she expressing her willingness to receive it, he gave it to her with the following directions:—“Take this nostrum, swallow it with the juice of the pomegranate flower; if you do this, you will have a son in due time. The son will be exceedingly handsome, and his complexion will be of the colour of the pomegranate flower; and you shall call him Dalim Kumar.2 As enemies will try to take away the life of your son, I may as well tell you that the life of the boy will be bound up in the life of a big boal fish which is in your tank, in front of the palace. In the heart of the fish is a small box of wood, in the box is a necklace of gold, that necklace is the life of your son. Farewell.”

  In the course of a month or so it was whispered in the palace that the Suo queen had hopes of an heir. Great was the joy of the king. Visions of an heir to the throne, and of a never-ending succession of powerful monarchs perpetuating his dynasty to the latest generations, floated before his mind, and made him glad as he had never been in his life. The usual ceremonies performed on such occasions were celebrated with great pomp; and the subjects made loud demonstrations of their joy at the anticipation of so auspicious an event as the birth of a prince. In the fulness of time the Suo queen gave birth to a son of uncommon beauty. When the king the first time saw the face of the infant, his heart leaped with joy. The ceremony of the child’s first rice was celebrated with extraordinary pomp, and the whole kingdom was filled with gladness.

  In course of time Dalim Kumar grew up a fine boy. Of all sports he was most addicted to playing with pigeons. This brought him into frequent contact with his stepmother, the Duo queen, into whose apartments Dalim’s pigeons had a trick of always flying. The first time the pigeons flew into her rooms, she readily gave them up to the owner; but the second time she gave them up with some reluctance. The fact is that the Duo queen, perceiving that Dalim’s pigeons had this happy knack of flying into her apartments, wished to take advantage of it for the furtherance of her own selfish views. She naturally hated the child, as the king, since his birth, neglected her more than ever, and idolised the fortunate mother of Dalim. She had heard, it is not known how, that the holy mendicant that had given the famous pill to the Suo queen had also told her of a secret connected with the child’s life. She had heard that the child’s life was bound up with something—she did not know with what. She determined to extort that secret from the boy. Accordingly, the next time the pigeons flew into her rooms, she refused to give them up, addressing the child thus:—“I won’t give the pigeons up unless you tell me one thing.”

  Dalim.—What thing, mamma?

  Duo.—Nothing particular, my darling; I only want to know in what your life is.

  Dalim.—What is that, mamma? Where can my life be except in me?

  Duo.—No, child; that is not what I mean. A holy mendicant told your mother that your life is bound up with something. I wish to know what that thing is.

  Dalim.—I never heard of any such thing, mamma.

  Duo.—If you promise to inquire of your mother in what thing your life is, and if you tell me what your mother says, then I will let you have the pigeons, otherwise not.

  Dalim.—Very well, I’ll inquire, and let you know. Now, please, give me my pigeons.

  Duo.—I’ll give them on one condition more. Promise to me that you will not tell your mother that I want the information.

  Dalim.—I promise.

  The Duo queen let go the pigeons, and Dalim, overjoyed to find again his beloved birds, forgot every syllable of the conversation he had had with his stepmother. The next day, however, the pigeons again flew into the Duo queen’s rooms. Dalim went to his stepmother, who asked him
for the required information. The boy promised to ask his mother that very day, and begged hard for the release of the pigeons. The pigeons were at last delivered. After play, Dalim went to his mother and said—“Mamma, please tell me in what my life is contained.” “What do you mean, child?” asked the mother, astonished beyond measure at the child’s extraordinary question. “Yes, Mamma,” rejoined the child, “I have heard that a holy mendicant told you that my life is contained in something. Tell me what that thing is.” “My pet, my darling, my treasure, my golden-moon, do not ask such an inauspicious question. Let the mouth of my enemies be covered with ashes, and let my Dalim live for ever,” said the mother, earnestly. But the child insisted on being informed of the secret. He said he would not eat or drink anything unless the information were given him. The Suo queen, pressed by the importunity of her son, in an evil hour told the child the secret of his life. The next day the pigeons again, as fate would have it, flew into the Duo queen’s rooms. Dalim went for them; the stepmother plied the boy with sugared words, and obtained the knowledge of the secret.

  The Duo queen, on learning the secret of Dalim Kumar’s life, lost no time in using it for the prosecution of her malicious design. She told her maid-servants to get for her some dried stalks of the hemp plant, which are very brittle, and which, when pressed upon, make a peculiar noise, not unlike the cracking of joints of bones in the human body. These hemp stalks she put under her bed, upon which she laid herself down and gave out that she was dangerously ill. The king, though he did not love her so well as his other queen, was in duty bound to visit her in her illness. The queen pretended that her bones were all cracking; and sure enough, when she tossed from one side of her bed to the other, the hemp stalks made the noise wanted. The king, believing that the Duo queen was seriously ill, ordered his best physician to attend her. With that physician the Duo queen was in collusion. The physician said to the king that for the queen’s complaint there was but one remedy, which consisted in the outward application of something to be found inside a large boal fish which was in the tank before the palace. The king’s fisherman was accordingly called and ordered to catch the boal in question. On the first throw of the net the fish was caught. It so happened that Dalim Kumar, along with other boys, was playing not far from the tank. The moment the boal fish was caught in the net, that moment Dalim felt unwell; and when the fish was brought up to land, Dalim fell down on the ground, and made as if he was about to breathe his last. He was immediately taken into his mother’s room, and the king was astonished on hearing of the sudden illness of his son and heir. The fish was by the order of the physician taken into the room of the Duo queen, and as it lay on the floor striking its fins on the ground, Dalim in his mother’s room was given up for lost. When the fish was cut open, a casket was found in it; and in the casket lay a necklace of gold. The moment the necklace was worn by the queen, that very moment Dalim died in his mother’s room.