Bengal Fairy Tales/Pushpamala, the Wreath of Flowers
II
PUSHPAMALA, THE WREATH OF FLOWERS
IN a certain country, the king and the prefect of police were both childless; and they bewailed it as a great misfortune. One day an astrologer came to the wife of each, and pointing out one of the seven tanks near the palace, told them that they would have the long-desired son and heir were they to bathe in it. The next day they went to the tank; the queen by the steps on one side, and the prefect's wife by those on the other. When they had dipped their heads in the water, the former called to the latter, and proposed that in anticipation of the fulfilment of their expectations, they should enter into a pledge. To this the prefect's wafe replied, that people like her did not understand what a pledge was, and that therefore she could not enter into one. At this the queen explained to her what a pledge meant, and said that the one she would propose was that their children, if of different sexes, should be married to each other; but if of the same sex, they should be knit by eternal frendship.
A scene of a similar nature was at that very moment being enacted elsewhere. The king and the prefect with innumerable body-guards were hunting in a forest. They had been on the look-out for game for hours, without success, and the king put the blame on the prefect of police, because he being an antkoorha,[1] his very presence was unpropitious. The prefect was a great flatterer; so instead of turning the tables on the king, as he could with perfect justice have done, he agreed to submit to any punishment that might be inflicted. The flattery succeeded and the king kindly called him away from the others for a chat. The conversation was opened by the king, who said that during the previous night he had dreamed that a son was born to him, and another to the kotál.[2] To this, the latter, with a thousand apologies and with folded hands, begged permission to say that he had had a different dream, that a daughter was born to him, his master being blessed with a son. Contradiction was unbearable to the autocrat; and in a rage he ordered his companion to break off a leaf from the banyan tree standing by, and bring it to him, so that he might put down in writing what he had to say concerning the matter under discussion between them. The leaf was brought, and the king wrote on it: "If, kotál, you have a son, and I a daughter, I will marry them to each other; but if the reverse happens, I will have you beheaded. Again, if each of us gets a male child, I will give half my kingdom to your son." Of course the kotal could not but accept the conditions.
In due time the queen and the kotál's wife gave birth, the former to a girl of unusual beauty, and the latter to a male child. Time helped the growth of each, and the two children were, when five years old, sent to the same pathshala.[3] Pushpamala, the king's daughter, sat on the throne, while the kotál's son sat below. In their studies they made rapid progress, especially in reading and writing, in which they showed great proficiency. One day the pen in the hand of the princess accidently dropped to the ground, and the kotál's son eagerly picked it up and gave it back to its owner. The same thing happened seven days in succession. But when on the eighth day the pen of the princess again fell to the ground, the kotál's hopeful did not take it up, and on being asked the reason, said that he would never more serve Pushpamala in any way, unless she exchanged garlands with him. The princess was thunderstruck, and when the pathshala broke up, she returned home in an angry frame of mind.
The incident of the pen took place when the princess and the kotál's son were each about fifteen years of age, and instead of estranging the heart of the one from the other, it produced such feelings in both of them as seemed vague and indefinable to themselves, but which may safely be said to have been the first germs of love.
Next day, the pen that the kotál's son was using slipped from his hand, and the ink from it was spilt on the princess's face and clothes. A tremor seized the former; and he was hesitatingly beginning an apology, when the latter picked up the pen and made it over to him. The boy, for reasons best known to himself, went home before the usual hour of dismissal, leaving his bundle of books behind, but taking away the pen. The pathshala broke up at the appointed time, but Pushpamala lagged behind. It struck twelve, yet she had not arrived home, and her mother grew anxious. The princess at length reached home in a strange humour, and in spite of the importunities of her mother, did not even touch the food before her, but retired into her room. The kotál's son too was in an unhappy frame of mind. Having reached home he moved about restlessly, unable to fix his mind on anything that had formerly interested him. Fate at last directed his wandering steps into his father's bedroom. Lying down on the bed he fell into a reverie which was suddenly broken in upon by the banyan leaf, on which the king had drawn up and signed the contract between him and the young man's father with regard to their unborn children, falling upon him. Taking up the leaf, and reading what was written on it, the kotál's son learned that he had the right to demand the princess's hand. Rushing into the king's presence, with a sword in his hand and the leaf in his pocket, he begged for the fulfilment of the royal promise. The king was at first thrown into confusion; but in the twinkling of an eye, he collected himself, and ordered the young kotál to be driven out. The young man, much mortified, left the palace and walking at random, reached one of the seven tanks near by, into which in disgust he threw the sword and the banyan leaf. He then directed his steps homewards.
Just about the same time Pushpamala, persuaded by her mother, came down to bathe, and fate led her to the same tank. On finding the leaf floating, she took it up, and read what was written on it, and so intense were her feelings that she swooned away. One of the maids attending on her ran into the palace with the intelligence, and the king and the queen hastened to the spot. Restoratives were administered with success, and the princess was taken home. She remained silent and sullen, however, for the rest of the day, and spent a sleepless night.
Next morning, both she and the kotál's son went to the pathshala and took their respective places. The tutor, finding something unusual in their demeanour, asked them to explain it, at which Pushpamala showed him the leaf, and both of them asked his advice. He said that as the contract it contained had been entered into by their fathers, and as their mothers had also bound themselves by a promise, they must fulfil it. At this the princess left her throne to her lover, and sat on the floor at his feet; and though there were no lessons that day, they remained there till the usual hour of dismissal, when each of them, making valuable presents to the guru, went home with the mutual understanding that they would leave the country together during the ensuing night. It was arranged therefore that the kotál's son should wait at the foot of a particular tree, whence he was to give the signal of his presence by playing on a flute. The night came, and the princess was subject to such feelings as generally work in the mind of one going to take so serious a step as that of leaving her parents and her home, with all its dear associations. Her heart palpitated and her whole body trembled. The last duty she thought of performing for her parents and the other inmates of the palace was to cook the best dishes for them, and to serve them with her own hands; and her mother, unable to divine her motive, attributed her self-denial to a childish freak, and permitted her to act in her own way. She had finished cooking and serving the meal, when she heard her lover's flute, as if saying:—
"O princess! how long wilt thou be sleeping? It is midnight, hasten or the morning star will rise, and our plans be foiled."
But as yet she could not go out, for the sentinels were still awake. It was midnight, and the flute was heard again:—
"Ye stars and trees, witness that I am waiting for my sweetheart, and that she is delaying. Oh that she may not forget her promise!"
Then at the beginning of the fourth watch of the night, when the flute sounded once more, Pushpamala changed her clothes, tied her jewels in a bundle, and whispered to herself, "Stay, stay, my friend, stay a little while for this unfortunate maiden. In the first watch of the night I cooked the night-meal; in the second I served it out; during the third the guards were awake; and now the fourth has come and I step out to meet thee. Little canst thou conceive my feelings on leaving my parents! They will weep themselves blind at my absence; and just as the cow lows for her young calf, so will their souls cry after me."
Then the longed-for meeting took place, but the lovers did not at once proceed on their journey. The kotál's son, seeing that the dawn was not far off, induced the princess to take him into the royal armoury and stables, where he selected two good swords and two winged horses for himself and his betrothed. Then, disguised as two soldiers, they started with the speed of an arrow, and on the fourth day, in the evening, reached a grand mansion, which was the habitation of a dacoit[4] king, his old mother, and six brothers. The brothers were out on a plundering expedition, leaving their mother at home. She saw the two riders approaching the gate, and instantly accosted them, saying, "My children, my people are out, and I am here alone. Make yourselves, however, quite at home." After that she placed before them some oil to be rubbed on their bodies in preparation for the evening bath; and when they seemed somewhat refreshed, offered them food. But the girl said that as they never ate anything not prepared by their own hands, they would cook themselves. At this the dacoit's mother, who had seen the valuables on the persons and horses of her guests, and from these had guessed that they were worth robbing, gave them such materials for cooking as would detain them longest, so that her sons might in the meantime come home, and do with them as they pleased. She gave them such fuel as would take long to ignite, and such rice and dal[5] as would not soon boil. Pushpamela commenced cooking under these disadvantages, and her face and eyes were swollen at the smoke from the oven. She was very ill at ease; and her lover, who had gone for a bath in the tank near the house, was in a similar plight. The old woman had thrown water on the stairs on four different sides of the tank, to make them very slippery, and he could ascend them only after several falls and bruises. He smelt danger, and from outside the house gave the alarm to Pushpamala, saying that she must look sharp, and see that the horses were not removed. He then came in and helped her to finish cooking as soon as possible; and both of them having gone through a hurried meal, got on their horses and galloped off. But the woman they left behind was too clever to be baulked. In order to enable her sons to track the fugitives, she managed to tie to the horses' hind legs very small, hardly perceptible bags of cloth filled with mustard seeds, and perforated in order to allow the escape of the seeds. The lovers did not notice the trick; and so they rode on unaware of the danger, leaving the old woman in a frenzy at the delay of her sons. She waited a long time and then she had recourse to the plan, previously arranged between her and her sons, of making a bonfire in an emergency as a signal to them to come home. Accordingly she set fire to a stack of straw lying by, which quickly burnt into a red blaze, and instantly brought the dacoits home. Not letting them dismount, she seized hold of the reins of their horses, and turned the heads of the animals towards the road taken by her guests, telling her sons in the meantime of the mustard seeds that they would surely find on the way. They took the road pointed out to them and, overtaking the fugitives, made a fierce attack upon them, but such was the princess's dexterity in using the sword, that she cut off the heads of six of them. The remaining dacoit, the youngest of the brothers, with a dried bit of straw which he found lying on the way between his teeth, implored her to spare his life, on condition that he would ever remain her slave in return. The kotál's son recommended the bestowal of this favour, saying that it could not do any harm. But the princess said, "My dear, remember that the sages have said that to leave unpaid the least portion of a debt, not to extinguish the last spark of a fire, to spare an inveterate enemy even when he is at his last gasp, are as foolish as for a person to approach blindfolded a yawning abyss. Do not tell me to spare the fellow." Her lover, in spite of the warning, persisted in his recommendation, saying that even granting that the robber's penitence was all pretence, he singly could not injure them when they were two together, and Pushpamala at last relented. They then rode forward with the robber as their groom, and finding a large piece of open ground with a beautiful tank, and an attractive orchard, the kotál's son suggested that they should take a bath, and satisfy the cravings of hunger by eating some fruit. The princess yielded, though unwillingly, and they both got down into the tank, leaving their horses and swords on the bank in charge of the groom. This ruffian, taking advantage of their temporary inattention, took up one of the swords and cut off at one stroke the head of Pushpamala's lover. The murderer, having by some means seen through her disguise, cast in her teeth the fate of him for whom she had left all, and asked her to be his. The girl, knowing her danger, controlled her grief, and pretended to be glad at the request. The robber then took his seat on the horse of the deceased and invited her to do the same. But she said it did not look well for her to be on the horse that her new lover rode, and that therefore she would ride her own horse, with her own sword in her hand, to resist any unforeseen attack. The fellow, too foolish to see through the pretence, agreed to the arrangement, and by the time he had gone a few yards, his head fell dissevered from his body. No longer in fear, the princess had time to think of her irreparable loss, and wept and cried, rolling on the ground with her lover's head held close to her breast. But she had not to weep long, for he was restored to her by Parbati.[6] How it happened may be gathered from the following dialogue between the goddess Shiva and her husband.
"My lord," said Parbati, "I hear a woman crying. Who may it be?"
"Nobody cries save one in grief," replied Shiva: "but what is that to us? While passing on our way, you notice everything. Come, let us pass by."
"No, my lord," urged Parbati. "It is not for me to pass by when one of my daughters is in trouble. She may be a wife bewailing the loss of her husband, or a mother that of her child. My heart bleeds to leave her without consolation!"
Saying this, the goddess willed herself to be taken to the spot whence the sound of crying came; and this being done, she saw poor Pushpamala dipped waist-deep in the water of the tank and heard her uttering the words, "O my poor husband, gone for ever from me."
This was too much for Parbati, and she said to Shiva, "Lord, she must have her husband back."
What could the god then do, but stop the chariot? He took the form of an old Brahmin, and she of an old Brahmini, and they appeared before the object of their pity. They asked her the cause of her lamentation, and she said, "Father and mother, listen to my tale. I left my parents and the royal splendour of their palace in company with our kotál's son, whom I loved, but whom, in spite of the promise they had previously made, they did not recognize as a fit suitor for my hand. He has just been killed by a dacoit." Shiva said in reply, "Well, let us have the head, and turn your eyes away from us." After a good deal of hesitation, lest she should be deprived of her lover's head, her last consolation, she did as desired. A moment elapsed, and when told to look back, what was her surprise to find her dear one standing by her in the full panoply of a warrior, and a chariot flying overhead in the air. The lovers, overjoyed at their re-union, spent the day and the greater part of the night there, and starting some hours before dawn, reached a beautiful garden in another kingdom. Feeling very drowsy, the kotál's son proposed that they should get down from their horses and rest awhile. His proposal was accepted, and overpowered by sleep, he succumbed to it, the princess sitting by, with his head on her lap.
As the morning sun was rising in full splendour, a woman approached them. It was she who supplied the palace with flowers, and she came into the garden to gather them. Now this woman was a witch, and she had the power by a single glance to turn a human being into a beast. She cast her spell, a wreath of flowers, on the two figures before her, and immediately the kotál's son was changed into a long-bearded goat. Over Pushpamala, however, her spell happily had no power, the princess being a Sati. But who can picture the girl's surprise? The whole world was vanishing before her eyes and the ground slipping from under her feet. For a space she stood dumbfounded. Seeing her beloved following the witch, she left him, and with the bridles of the horses in her hands walked towards the palace. The people round about admired her in her soldier's garb, for she was still so equipped. The sentinels at the gate, prepossessed in her favour, recommended her to the king, who offered her the post of a guard, to keep watch at the eight gates of the palace, the remuneration being three gold mohurs a day.
Now it chanced there was a Shankhini[7] of enormous size in the country, which committed great havoc among men and beasts, and which no one so far had been able to kill. Orders were at length given by the king to Pushpamala, alias Ranjit, to free the country from the pest; and having for several days watched for it, she discovered that it every day visited a tank. She asked the king for three days' leave of absence from the gates, and this being granted, she, with food sufficient for that time, climbed up a tree by the side of the tank, and remained there in expectation of seeing the snake. At the end of the third night it came to the spot to quench its thirst, felling the large trees on its way with terrible lashes of its tail. Having quenched its thirst it went away. Pushpamala saw this, and expecting the monster's return the next night, had recourse to a stratagem to entrap it. With this object she propped up the trees, so that they might appear to be standing firmly, although liable to fall at the least shock. The snake came back as expected, and when its huge tail, moving this way and that, struck the trees, they fell upon it, and it could not shake them off. Seeing it thus arrested, Pushpamala got down from the tree, and with one stroke of her sword cut off its head. But what was her wonder to find that out of the snake's trunk came the witch who had turned the kotál's son into a goat. The witch fell prostrate before the princess, and said:—
"I see in thee the personification of chastity. Thou hast freed me from the torments of hell."
"Who art thou?" asked Pushpa.
"I was thy mother in my former birth," replied the witch. "I broke my pledge to the kotál's wife, and have been punished in this birth. I was doomed to pass the day as a malini[8] and the night inside the snake which you have killed. As a snake, I have ravaged thy father's kingdom."
"O my mother, am I indeed thy daughter?" cried Pushpa. "In me thou hadst a viper nested in thy breast. But I fulfilled thy vow in marrying the kotál's son."
"My Pushpa, my darling, come to my bosom," exclaimed her mother. "Greatly do I rue my having turned thy husband into a goat. I did not then recognize thee. Oh, how can I make amends for what I have done? Take the snake's seven heads, take this basket of flowers, and they will stand thee in good stead. Dear daughter, I have another confession to make. I turned into goats kings and kotáls, five thousand and two in number, of whom I have as a snake eaten all but one; and their bones are lying in a heap in my house. Wash the flowers in this basket in water, and sprinkle it on the bones. The dead will then rise into life. And as for thy lover in the goat, the touch of one of these flowers will bring him to his former self."
These were the last words of the witch. When she had finished speaking she fell down and expired. Pushpamala, sorely afflicted at the sad story of the witch, her mother, went to the garden in front of the house she had occupied, and being much wearied on account of the vigils she had kept for four successive nights, fell asleep with the snake's heads by her side. The gardener at dawn came there, and finding them, took them to the king, and said, " Mighty lord, you sent your sepoy, who is made much of, to kill the snake. There he is asleep in the flower garden, while I have done the work for which he was commissioned. Here are the snake's heads." The king believed what he heard, and having liberally rewarded the gardener, sent a body of soldiers to fetch the sepoy, to answer for neglect of duty. The soldiers went out, and finding him asleep, caught hold of his turban, and gave him such a pull as to displace his garments; whereupon the young soldier stood transformed into a girl of ravishing beauty. Pushpa hung down her head in shame, and followed the soldiers into the royal durbar. The king was astonished to behold the charming figure before him, and asked the gardener how she could have been found asleep in Ranjit's place, and what had become of him. The gardener was speechless; but the soldiers explained everything. The king then addressed Pushpa in these words:
"Who are you? and why did you assume disguise? Surely you disgraced yourself and your family, and sought shelter in my palace. Be off." But Pushpa replied, "O king, the father of the fatherless and the helper of the helpless, listen to me before I leave your presence. In the house of the gardener before you, there are a goat and heaps of bones of a thousand and one goats. Let me have them, I beseech you." The king asked the gardener if what the girl said was true; but the gardener denied every word. Pushpa, at this, stepped forward and said, "O Maharaja, send your men to verify my statement. I have to charge your gardener with another falsehood. Let him, with his face towards the sun, affirm that it was he who killed the snake, and not I." The girl's manners impressed the king with the truth of what she said, and he sent men to the gardener's house to see if the goat and bones were there, reserving for the time being his verdict on the question as to who had killed the snake. The girl, with folded hands, again said, "O gracious majesty, allow me to remain in the palace for four days more, for I have vowed to do so. On the morning of the fifth day I will leave here, but not before I have seen the goat and the bones brought from the gardener's house." The king granted her request, and Pushpa remained in the palace, pondering over the past and the future.
The four days came to an end, and on the morning of the fifth day she was summoned by the king to appear before the crowded court to say what she knew about the goat and the bones, of which she had spoken and which were at that time lying there. She came, clad in female attire, and said, "O king, give me your permission to tell you a story connected with the matter before you." The king nodded his assent, and she continued thus, "Witness sun and moon, witness the elements, the truth of what I say. I was a king's daughter, affianced by my parents to our kotál's son before we were born. My parents afterwards broke their promise, and we, partly to redeem their word, and partly in obedience to the flame of love within us, left home and were married. Our married life has, till the present, been one of misfortune. See here the goat, which is my husband transformed by magic; and these bones are those of a thousand and one goats, into which as many kings and kotáls were changed."
The speech being ended, she followed the advice of the witch in her dying moments, and her late victims stood up in their natural forms, to the infinite surprise of the whole court. The gardener, in extreme horror, was heard to cry aloud:—
"O save me, Pushpa, my darling! In my former birth I was your father, but I could not recognize you till now. I have become a mali[9] for the sin of having violated the oath I made with regard to your marriage. My sin is now expiated to some extent, but at this moment I shall be changed into a ram. Only you will be able to bring me and your mother, who is now a jessamine flower close at hand, into human existence again, and this you can do by taking the flower off its stem and placing it on my head." In the twinkling of an eye there was a fierce-looking hairy ram in the gardener's place, and the whole court was in utter amazement. The sight was unbearable to Pushpa, who, leaving her husband to see that the ram might not go out, went in search of the flower, and having obtained it, she placed it on the animal's head. Immediately her father and mother regained their natural forms, and the king left his throne to receive them. After a friendly conversation it was settled that Pushpa and the kotál's son should be formally married. A priest was brought, and the wedding concluded with great rejoicings.
After spending a few days in that kingdom, Pushpa with her parents and her husband went to her own country, and the first thing she did was to revive the people there who had been destroyed by the witch. The old kotál and his wife rose into life again to embrace their son and daughter-in-law, and every one in the kingdom resumed his usual avocation. Pushpa's life after this was one of unalloyed happiness.