by Ruskin Bond
The shopkeeper declared that if only men would go back to the real teaching of the Vedas, they would find that there was no need to plough the ground. In ancient days the earth yielded all that was required. Herbs and plants grew of themselves.
Despite the strength of the shopkeeper’s arguments, the ascetic was not convinced. We are told that both he and the shopkeeper died not long afterwards, and that each went to his own particular heaven—their heavens being as different as were their ways of life.
The Hare in the Moon
A LONG TIME ago, when animals could talk, there lived in a forest four wise creatures—a hare, a jackal, an otter and a monkey.
They were good friends, and every evening they would sit together in a forest glade to discuss the events of the day, exchange advice, and make good resolutions. The hare was the noblest and wisest of the four. He believed in the superiority of men and women, and was always telling his friends tales of human goodness and wisdom.
One evening, when the moon rose in the sky—and in those days the moon’s face was clear and unmarked—the hare looked up at it carefully and said: ‘Tomorrow good men will observe a fast, for I can see that it will be the middle of the month. They will eat no food before sunset, and during the day they will give alms to any beggar or holy man who may meet them. Let us promise to do the same. In that way, we can come a little closer to human beings in dignity and wisdom.’
The others agreed, and then went their different ways.
Next day, the otter got up, stretched himself, and was preparing to get his breakfast when he remembered the vow he had taken with his friends.
If I keep my word, how hungry I shall be by evening! he thought. I’d better make sure that there’s plenty to eat once the fast is over. He set off towards the river.
A fisherman had caught several large fish early that morning, and had buried them in the sand, planning to return for them later. The otter soon smelt them out.
‘A supper all ready for me!’ he said to himself. ‘But since it’s a holy day, I mustn’t steal.’ Instead he called out: ‘Does anyone own this fish?’
There being no answer, the otter carried the fish off to his home, setting it aside for his evening meal. Then he locked his front door and slept all through the day, undisturbed by beggars or holy men asking for alms.
Both the monkey and the jackal felt much the same way when they got up that morning. They remembered their vows but thought it best to have something put by for the evening. The jackal found some stale meat in someone’s back yard. Ah, that should improve with age, he thought, and took it home for his evening meal. And the monkey climbed a mango tree and picked a bunch of mangoes. Like the otter, they decided to sleep through the day.
The hare woke early. Shaking his long ears, he came out of his burrow and sniffed the dew-drenched grass.
When evening comes, I can have my fill of grass, he thought. But if a beggar or holy man comes my way, what can I give him? I cannot offer him grass, and I have nothing else to give. I shall have to offer myself. Most men seem to relish the flesh of the hare. We’re good to eat, I’m told. And pleased with this solution to the problem, he scampered off.
Now the God Sakka had been resting on a cloud not far away, and he had heard the hare speaking aloud.
‘I will test him,’ said the god. ‘Surely no hare can be so noble and unselfish.’
Towards evening, God Sakka descended from his cloud, and assuming the form of an old priest, he sat down near the hare’s burrow. When the animal came home from his romp, he said: ‘Good evening, little hare. Can you give me something to eat? I have been fasting all day, and am so hungry that I cannot pray.’
The hare, remembering his vow, said: ‘Is it true that men enjoy eating the flesh of the hare?’
‘Quite true,’ said the priest.
‘In that case,’ said the hare, ‘since I have no other food to offer you, you can make a meal of me.’
‘But I am a holy man, and this is a holy day, and I may not kill any living creature with my own hands.’
‘Then collect some dry sticks and set them alight. I will leap into the flames myself, and when I am roasted you can eat me.’
God Sakka marvelled at these words, but he was still not quite convinced, so he caused a fire to spring up from the earth. The hare, without any hesitation, jumped into the flames.
‘What’s happening?’ called the hare after a while. ‘The fire surrounds me, but not a hair of my coat is singed. In fact, I’m feeling quite cold!’
As the hare spoke, the fire died down, and he found himself sitting on the cool sweet grass. Instead of the old priest, there stood before him the God Sakka in all his radiance.
‘I am God Sakka, little hare, and having heard your vow, I wanted to test your sincerity. Such unselfishness of yours deserves immortality. It must be known throughout the world.’
God Sakka then stretched out his hand towards the mountain, and drew from it some of the essence which ran in its veins. This he threw towards the moon, which had just risen, and instantly the outline of the hare appeared on the moon’s surface.
Then leaving the hare in a bed of sweet grass, he said: ‘For ever and ever, little hare, you shall look down from the moon upon the world, to remind men of the old truth, “Give to others, and the gods will give to you.’’’
Toria and the Daughter of the Sun
ONCE UPON a time there was a young shepherd of the Santal tribe named Toria, who grazed his sheep and goats on the bank of a river. Now it happened that the daughters of the Sun would descend from heaven every day by means of a spider’s web, to bathe in the river. Finding Toria there, they invited him to bathe with them. After they had bathed and anointed themselves with oils and perfumes, they returned to their heavenly abode, while Toria went to look after his flock.
Having become friendly with the daughters of the Sun, Toria gradually fell in love with one of them. But he was at a loss to know how to obtain such a divine creature. One day, when they met him and said, ‘Come along, Toria, and bathe with us,’ he suddenly thought of a plan.
While they were bathing, he said, ‘Let us see who can stay under water the longest.’ At a given signal they all dived, but very soon Toria raised his head above water and, making sure that no one was looking, hurried out of the water, picked up the robe of the girl he loved, and was in the act of carrying it away when the others raised their heads above the water.
The girl ran after him, begging him to return her garment, but Toria did not stop till he had reached his home. When she arrived, he gave her the robe without a word. Seeing such a beautiful and noble creature before him, for very bashfulness he could not open his mouth to ask her to marry him; so he simply said, ‘You can go now.’
But she replied, ‘No, I will not return. My sisters by this time will have gone home. I will stay with you, and be your wife.’
All the time this was going on, a parrot, whom Toria had taught to speak, kept on flying about the heavens, calling out to the Sun: ‘Oh, great Father, do not look downwards!’ As a result, the Sun did not see what was happening on earth to his daughter.
This girl was very different from the women of the country—she was half human, half divine—so that when a beggar came to the house and saw her, his eyes were dazzled just as if he had stared at the Sun.
It happened that this same beggar in the course of his wanderings came to the king’s palace, and having seen the queen, who was thought by all to be the most beautiful of women, he told the king: ‘The shepherd Toria’s wife is far more beautiful than your queen. If you were to see her, you would be enchanted.’
‘How can I see her?’ asked the king eagerly.
The beggar answered, ‘Put on your old clothes and travel in disguise.’
The king did so, and having arrived at the shepherd’s house, asked for alms. Toria’s wife came out of the house and gave him food and water, but he was so astonished at seeing her great beauty that he was unable to eat or
drink. His only thought was, How can I manage to make her my queen?
When he got home he thought over many plans and at length decided upon one. He said, ‘I will order Toria to dig a large tank with his own hands, and fill it with water, and if he does not perform the task, I will kill him and seize his wife.’ He then summoned Toria to the palace, commanded him to dig the tank and threatened him with death if he failed to fill the tank with water the same night.
Toria returned home slowly and sorrowfully.
‘What makes you so sad today?’ asked his wife.
He replied, ‘The king has ordered me to dig a large tank, to fill it with water, and also to make trees grow beside it, all in the course of one night.’
‘Don’t let it worry you,’ said his wife. ‘Take your spade and mix a little water with the sand, where the tank is to be, and it will form there by itself.’
Toria did as he was told, and the king was astonished to find the tank completed in time. He had no excuse for killing Toria.
Later, the king planted a great plain with mustard seed. When it was ready for reaping, he commanded Toria to reap and gather the produce into one large heap on a certain day; failing which, he would certainly be put to death.
Toria, hearing this, was again very sad. When he told his wife about it, she said, ‘Do not worry, it will be done.’ So the daughter of the Sun summoned her children, the doves. They came in large numbers, and in the space of an hour carried the produce away to the king’s threshing floor. Again, Toria was saved through the wisdom of his wife. However, the king determined not to be outdone, so he arranged a great hunt. On the day of the hunt he assembled his retainers, and a large number of beaters and provision-carriers, and set out for the jungle. Toria was employed to carry eggs and water. But the object of the hunt was not to kill a tiger, it was to kill Toria, so that the king might seize the daughter of the Sun and make her his wife.
Arriving at a cave, they said that a hare had taken refuge in it. They forced Toria into the cave. Then, rolling large stones against the entrance, they completely blocked it. They gathered large quantities of brushwood at the mouth of the cave, and set fire to it to smother Toria. Having done this, they returned home, boasting that they had finally disposed of the shepherd. But Toria broke the eggs, and all the ashes were scattered. Then he poured the water that he had with him on the remaining embers, and the fire was extinguished. Toria managed to crawl out of the cave. And there, to his great astonishment, he saw that all the white ashes of the fire were becoming cows, whilst the half-burnt wood was turning into buffaloes.
Toria herded the cows and buffaloes together, and drove them home.
When the king saw the herd, he became very envious, and asked Toria where he had found such fine cows and buffaloes. Toria said, ‘From that cave into which you pushed me. I did not bring many with me, being on my own. But if you and all your retainers go, you will be able to get as many as you want. But to catch them it will be necessary to close the door of the cave, and light a fire in front, as you did for me.’
‘Very well,’ said the king. ‘I and my people will enter the cave, and, as you have sufficient cows and buffaloes, kindly do not go into the cave with us, but kindle the fire outside.’
The king and his people then entered the cave. Toria blocked up the doorway, and then lit a large fire at the entrance. Before long, all that were in the cave were suffocated.
Some days later the daughter of the Sun said, ‘I want to visit my father’s house.’
Toria said, ‘Very well, I will also go with you.’
‘No, it is foolish of you to think of such a thing,’ she said. ‘You will not be able to get there.’
‘If you are able to go, surely I can.’ And he insisted on accompanying her.
After travelling a great distance, Toria became so faint from the heat of the sun that he could go no further. His wife said, ‘Did I not warn you? As for quenching your thirst, there is no water to be found here. But sit down and rest, I will see if I can find some for you.’
While she was away, driven by his great thirst, Toria sucked a raw egg that he had brought with him. No sooner had he done this than he changed into a fowl. When his wife returned with water, she could not find him anywhere; but, sitting where she had left him, was a solitary fowl. Taking the bird in her arms, she continued her journey.
When she reached her father’s house, her sisters asked her, ‘Where is Toria, your husband?’ She replied, ‘I don’t know. I left him on the road while I went to fetch water. When I returned, he had disappeared. Perhaps he will turn up later.’
Her sisters, seeing the fowl, thought that it would make a good meal. And so, while Toria’s wife was resting, they killed and ate the fowl. Later, when they again inquired of her as to the whereabouts of her husband, she looked thoughtful.
‘I can’t be sure,’ she said. ‘But I think you have eaten him.’
SELECTED NON-FICTION
1960s AND 1970s:
MAPLEWOOD LODGE
Colonel Gardner and the Princess of Cambay
OF THE MANY diverse Europeans who served in the armies of the Marathas, Colonel William Linnaeus Gardner was perhaps the most romantic and the most likeable. As a soldier he did not lack any of the dash or courage of George Thomas and James Skinner; but he was less flamboyant, a man of education and good taste, and if his life had its dramatic moments it was in spite of, rather than because of, his friendly disposition. His marriage to an Indian princess, though unusual and unorthodox, was an unqualified success.
The Victorian novelist Thackeray used the incidents of Gardner’s life in sketching the career of his fictitious Major Gahagan, a swashbuckling character who was given to boasting about his exploits in India. The comparison was unfair, because there was no resemblance in character between the adventurer of fiction and the real man. But novelists are often very cruel, and will sometimes pillory their best friends if it enhances the interest of their work.
William Linnaeus Gardner, born in 1770, was a great-grandson of William Gardner of Coleraine, and a nephew of Alan, first Baron Gardner, an Irish peer and a distinguished admiral in the British Navy. The boy was educated in France, and at the age of eighteen joined the British army. In 1796 he landed at Calcutta with a company of the 30th Foot.
After an uneventful six months Gardner resigned his commission. At the time there was a certain amount of discontent among the English officers, some of whom resigned and entered the employment of Indian princes; but with Gardner it was probably just restlessness. He entered the service of Jaswant Rao Holkar, the great Maratha chief, and was one of the few officers who remained faithful to Holkar after the chief had lost his capital of Indore to his rival, Daulat Rao Sindhia. Holkar, finding it politic to come to terms with the British, against whom he had been intriguing for some time, sent Gardner as an emissary to Lord Lake. This was to be the beginning of a hair-raising adventure for Gardner. Many years later, relating his experiences to that indefatigable traveller and diarist, Lady Fanny Parkes, he said:
‘One evening, when in Holkar’s service, I was employed as an envoy to the Company’s forces, with instructions to return within a certain time. My family remained in camp. Suspicion of treachery was caused by my lengthened absence, and accusations were brought forth against me at the durbar held by Holkar on the third day following that on which my presence was expected. I rejoined the camp while the durbar was in progress. On my entrance the Maharaja, in an angry tone, demanded the reason of my delay, which I gave, pointing out the impossibility of a speedier return. Whereupon Holkar exclaimed, in great anger, ‘Had you not returned this day I would have levelled the khanats of your tent.’ I drew my sword instantly and endeavoured to cut His Highness down, but was prevented by those around him; and before they had recovered from the amazement and confusion caused by the attempt, I rushed from the camp, sprang upon my horse, and was soon beyond the reach of recall.’
The khanats, which caused so much indignation, we
re the canvas walls of Gardner’s tent, which sheltered his newly-wedded wife, a Mohammedan Princess of Cambay. Gardner was obviously head over heels in love with her. The threat of violating her privacy by pulling down her tent was taken by him as a mortal insult, and spurred the impulsive young officer to violent action. Fortunately for Gardner, his friends at the camp enabled his wife to join him afterwards. And Jaswant Rao did not prevent her from going after him: a strange act of generosity on his part, for he was soon afterwards to have all his European officers executed for suspected treachery; but the ways of a powerful Indian prince were unpredictable.
Gardner’s marriage must have been one of the most romantic of his times. The marriage was conducted by Mohammedan rites. The lady was a thirteen-year-old princess of the house of Cambay, a state on the western seaboard of India. That engaging nosey-parker, Lady Fanny Parkes, elicited from Gardner this delightful account of his romantic union: ‘When a young man, I was entrusted to negotiate a treaty with one of the native princes of Cambay. Durbars and consultations were continually held. During one of the former at which I was present, a curtain near me was gently pulled aside, and I saw, as I thought, the most beautiful black eyes in the world. It was impossible to think of the treaty: those bright and piercing glances, those beautiful dark eyes completely bewildered me.
‘I felt flattered that a creature so lovely as she of those deep black, loving eyes should venture to gaze upon me. To what danger might not the veiled beauty be exposed should the movement of the purdah be seen by any of those present at the durbar? On quitting the assembly I discovered that the bright-eyed beauty was the daughter of the prince. At the next durbar my agitation and anxiety were extreme to again behold the bright eyes that haunted my dreams and my thoughts by day. The curtain was again gently waved, and my fate was decided.