by Ruskin Bond
Bayobai then told Baludada to kick the merchant out of the house and appropriate the ship full of pearls and rubies. The poor merchant was compelled to yield, for had he not given a written agreement? He had also, as he had promised, to give five hundred rupees to Baludada.
A month or so after this Bayobai’s parents returned from the distant country. Not a word, however, was told to them of what had happened in their absence. Baludada was now perfectly satisfied with Bayobai, for he had tested her under the most trying circumstances, and he thought to himself, ‘Bayobai will keep up the dignity of my father and the honour of my mother.’
He had been in his father-in-law’s employment for nearly five years, and he now told him that he wished to go home to his parents. So he asked to be paid off for the time he had served, as he had not drawn his pay. Bayobai and her parents had taken such a liking to him that they were very reluctant to let him go, but as he was determined to do so they paid him off and gave him a lot of money over and above what was due to him. Baludada had now plenty of money besides the five hundred rupees he had got from the merchant. He took leave of his friends and returned to his own house.
When he reached his home his parents enquired after his wife, but he stoutly denied his having gone to her, and said he had gone to seek employment, and had returned with a large fortune. How could he have got so much money as he had brought with him, but for the work he had done in all these years?
A few months after this Baludada asked his father to let him go and fetch his wife home, but his father said he would go and bring her himself. So the old man set out one day for his daughter-in-law’s (Bayobai’s) house, where he was cordially received. After a few days’ stay there he told Bayobai’s parents that, as she had now attained maturity, he wished to take her home. Her parents said they had no objection, and that they were very happy that he should have come to take her away. Bayobai, therefore, after taking a tender farewell of her parents, set out with her father-in-law, taking with her all the rubies and pearls she had got from the merchant. When they reached home it was late at night and Baludada had by that time gone to sleep, and accordingly Bayobai did not see him. But, for the next few days, Baludada took to his bed and covered himself up from head to food, so that Bayobai had no chance of seeing him. One day, however, Baludada, knowing that Bayobai would go to the well to fetch water, went out and climbed a bor§ tree, and plucking a few ripe boram, waited for her on her way to the well. He had not long waited, when Bayobai came up to him, and happy at having seen her servant (for so at least she thought him) after such a long time, addressed him: ‘Hallo, Baludada, what are you doing here? Is this your native country? Are you well?’
Baludada replied, ‘Yes, Bayobai, this is my country, and I am well.’ Baludada then asked Bayobai, ‘Bayobai, what are you doing here? Are you well? Have you come to your husband’s house? Is your husband well? How are your mother and father-in-law?’
To these questions Bayobai replied, ‘Yes, Baludada, I am well enough, and I am come to my husband’s house. All are well, but I have not yet seen my husband’s face.’
Upon this Baludada said, ‘Take a few boram and give them to your husband, and then you will have a chance of seeing his face.’ And Bayobai answered, ‘But, Baludada, my husband won’t speak or do anything, and perhaps he would beat me.’
Said Baludada: ‘No, he won’t beat you.’
Bayobai took the boram and went home, and Baludada, going home before her, went to sleep as before.
A few more days passed and Baludada again went and climbing a mango tree plucked a few ripe mangoes and waited for the arrival of Bayobai. She soon came and Baludada asked her:
‘Well, Bayobai, did you give the boram to your husband?’
Bayobai answered, ‘No, Baludada, I was afraid he might beat me.’
Baludada then gave her the mangoes, saying, ‘Do as I tell you. Take these mangoes, and do you know what to do in the night? Take a pair of scissors and cut the cloth off his face and throw him these mangoes. Thus you will see his face and he will be obliged to speak.’
Bayobai again asked, ‘But suppose he beats me?’
Baludada then said, ‘No, he won’t beat you, only do as I tell you.’
And away went Baludada and slept as before.
When she had drawn the water Bayobai went home, and in the night she took a pair of scissors and, as advised by Baludada, cut a piece of the sheet covering him and threw the mangoes on his face. This was too much for Baludada, who could not stifle his laughter, and revealed himself to Bayobai. Bayobai was quite surprised, and asked Baludada why he had played so many tricks. Baludada answered, ‘Do you remember that before the wedding I said that I would marry only her who would keep up the dignity of my father and the honour of my mother? It was to find out whether you could really keep the dignity of my father and the honour of my mother, that I played so many tricks.’
They then lived together happily to a good old age.
‘Baludada and Bayobai’, from ‘Folklore in Salsette’ by Geo. Fr. D’Penha. The Indian Antiquary, Vol. XX. 1891.
Suhni and Mehar
C. A. Kincaid
Once upon a time there lived in Guzrat town, on the banks of the Chenab, a famous potter, named Tallu. His skill in pottery was famed far and wide and had brought him great riches. He had born to him in his old age a lovely daughter. Even as a babe she was so pretty that Tallu gave her the name of Suhni, or the maiden beautiful.
At the same time there lived in Bokhara a rich merchant, called Mirza. For all his riches he was unhappy, because he had no son. One day he heard of a famous fakir who was reputed to be able to bestow children on the childless. To him Mirza went and implored his help. ‘Of what use,’ he cried bitterly, ‘are all my riches, when I have no son to inherit them?’ The fakir pitied the old man, and said, ‘Your wish shall be fulfilled. You shall be blessed with a son; but beware of the day on which he falls in love!’
Mirza was delighted at the prospect of a son, and paid but little heed to the fakir’s warning. He went back home; and in less than a year his wife, although well stricken in years, bore him a son, on exactly the same day as Tallu’s wife in Guzrat gave birth to Suhni.
To the little boy Mirza gave the name of Izat Beg. He grew up, and became a skilled musician and a bold huntsman. But one day a traveller from India came to Bokhara, and, meeting Izat Beg, praised to him so warmly the splendours of Delhi and the greatness of the emperor Shah Jahan, that the youth felt that he must see Delhi or die. He asked his father’s leave to go, but Mirza would not hear of it.
Izat Beg was so fired with longing to see the city of the mighty emperor, that he could neither eat nor sleep. At last Mirza, fearing for his son’s health, gave him leave to go.
Izat Beg set out with a retinue of servants and a great store of money for the journey, and after some weeks he reached Delhi without mishap. There he gave rich presents to several of the courtiers, and in this way obtained an interview with the emperor. Having feasted his eyes on the pomp and state of the court, Izat Beg thought of returning to Bokhara. As he went homewards, he passed, as his ill fortune willed it, the village of Guzrat. There he heard of Tallu’s fame as a potter and he resolved to buy some of Tallu’s earthenware as a present for his father. He sent a servant to Tallu; but the man was so dazzled by the beauty of Suhni, whom he saw in her father’s shop, that, without buying anything, he ran back to his master, and cried, ‘Of the pots I can say nothing, for I had eyes only for the potter’s daughter. She is so lovely that she has no earthly rival. No man is fit to wed her save only you, my master.’
Izat Beg was so struck by the man’s words that he at once went back with him to Tallu’s shop. The moment he saw Suhni, he, too, lost all thought of buying Tallu’s pots. All he could do was to gaze, distracted with love, on the potter’s daughter. To be the longer with her, he made her show him every pot in Tallu’s shop, feigning not to be pleased with any of them. At last Suhni lost all patience with him,
and said, ‘Young sir, if you wish to buy my father’s pots, buy them; but if not, pray excuse me, as I have other work waiting for me.’
Izat Beg, sooner than displease her, bought all the costliest earthenware she had, and went back to his camp. But he had fallen so deeply in love with Suhni that he could not bear to leave Guzrat. He opened a shop in the town and stocked it with Tallu’s pottery. Each day he went to Tallu’s shop and bought pots at any price the potter asked, and, taking them to his shop, sold them for anything the villagers chose to offer him. In this way he soon spent the greater part of his money. His servants, who wished to go back to their homes, began to fear that they would never see Bokhara again. Taking counsel together, they one night robbed their master of such money as he still had, and with it went back to their native country.
Next morning the unhappy Izat Beg woke to find himself a beggar. For some time he went daily to Tallu’s shop and bought pots on credit, promising to pay their price later. But at last Tallu refused to sell him any more and pressed him for payment. Izat Beg pleaded that his servants had robbed him; at the same time he offered to work for Tallu, and so pay off his debt. Tallu agreed, and made him sweep the house daily and fetch clay for his earthenware from the river bed.
Izat Beg, fearing that he might be sent away, worked so hard that in the end he fell ill. Tallu, taking pity on him, sent him to graze the buffaloes, that he might regain his strength; and as he did not know his real name, he called him Mehar or herdsman.
One day, as Mehar grazed his buffaloes, Suhni came up to him and asked him to give her some milk. Izat Beg consented, and, as he milked a she-buffalo, he told her his story, how he was the son of a rich merchant of Bokhara, how he had given up all his wealth and his home, his parents and his country, all for love of her. As Suhni heard his tale and saw what a goodly youth he was, tears rolled down her cheeks, and before he had done, she was as much in love with him as he with her.
Every day thereafter Suhni would meet Mehar, and, feigning to beg milk of him, would pass an hour or more in his company. At last the village tongues began to wag, and everyone whispered to his neighbour that Tallu’s daughter loved the buffalo-herd. The talk reached Tallu’s ears, and in great wrath he drove Mehar out of Guzrat. Then, in spite of her tears and entreaties, he married Suhni to her cousin, who lived close by. But when the wedding night came, Suhni prayed to Allah to save her from the clutches of her husband whom she hated; and Allah, taking pity on her, wrapped him night after night in so deep a sleep that he never thought of the fair girl by his side.
Now Mehar, driven out of Guzrat, went to live across the Chenab, so that he might still see by day the roof to the potter’s house, beneath which lived his beloved. He bore their separation well enough until he heard of her marriage to her cousin. Then, beside himself with jealousy and grief, he wrote her a bitter letter, taunting her with her faithlessness to one who had given up all for her. His cruel words pierced Suhni to the heart. She wrote back begging him to meet her that night on the river-bank near her husband’s house, and promising that she would show him that she loved him still.
The letter gave new life to Mehar. That night he swam across the Chenab, and met Suhni on the river-bank. There, while her husband slept in the deathlike sleep sent him by Allah, Suhni and Mehar passed many happy hours. They supped off a fish that Mehar had bought off a fisherman as a present for Suhni, and before the eastern sky grew light, Mehar swam back to his hiding-place across the Chenab.
The next night, and many nights afterwards, he swam the dark waters to meet his beloved. Always he brought with him a freshly caught fish, that they might sup together, while her husband slept.
One day, however, there had been a strong wind, and the fishermen had caught no fish. Fearing Suhni might think that he had grown miserly, or that his love for her was waning, Mehar cut a piece of flesh off his thigh, intending to pass it off as a fish that he had bought for her. When he reached the opposite bank, he was so weak with pain that he fainted. Suhni, seeing the blood streaming down his leg, tended his wound. In reply to her questions, he told her what he had done. Tenderly reproaching him, she tied up the wound, and forbade him to swim across the river again. She promised she would swim across to him in future. That night Mehar, wounded though he was, struggled safely back across the river.
Next day Suhni took a seasoned jar from her father’s house, and, when night fell, swam boldly out into the Chenab with the jar under her. The night was dark and stormy, but the jar bore her up; and with strong, swift strokes she crossed the river, and found Mehar on the bank, ready to clasp her to his bosom. Before morning came, she had swum back and was fast asleep in her husband’s house.
Thus, night after night, Suhni crossed and recrossed the Chenab, borne up by the earthen vessel beneath her. Unhappily, one night, her husband’s sister saw Suhni leave her house and, jar in hand, go to the riverside. She followed Suhni, and saw her swim across the river and after some hours swim back again. Furious for her brother’s sake, she vowed that she would rid him of so unfaithful a wife. She noted where Suhni hid her jar, and then went quietly home. But at noon she took an unseasoned pot, and put it in place of the one that had so often carried Suhni across the stream.
When darkness came, Suhni fetched, as she thought, the jar that she had hidden, and went to the edge of the river. The rain was pouring in torrents, and the waters roared as if warning her not to go. But trusting in the vessel that had so often carried her, she swam out, as before, into the raging torrent. When she reached midstream, the unseasoned jar crumbled to pieces beneath her, and without its help Suhni could not battle against the current. She struggled bravely for a time, then wearied and sank.
All that night Mehar waited in vain for Suhni on the farther bank. When morning broke, he knew that she must have perished in the cruel water. Life without her, for whom he had given up his home and country, seemed to him worthless. With a great cry to Suhni that he was coming, he sprang into the river and was never seen again.
‘Suhni and Mehar’, from Tales of Old Ind by C. A. Kincaid, 1938.
Hir and Ranjho
C. A. Kincaid
Once upon a time a king, named Chuchak, ruled at Jhang Sayal, on the banks of the Chenab river. He had a beautiful daughter, called Hir: her neck was like a swan’s, her eyes were like a deer’s, and her voice like a koel’s. Nor was she only beautiful to look upon: she was also a mine of wit and wisdom. Her father had built her a palace on the banks of the Chenab river, but he did not force her to live in it, as if in a prison. He had a beautiful boat built for her, and in it she would take long trips up and down the river; at night the dwellers on the banks would hear her singing in her cabin, like a nightingale in its cage.
At the same time, in the Hazara country, there ruled four princes, all sons of the same father: of the four the bravest and the most beloved was prince Ranjho. One day there came to prince Ranjho’s palace a traveller. The prince received him courteously and hospitably. Noticing that the traveller was preoccupied and sad, the prince asked him what ailed him. ‘Nothing ails me, my lord prince,’ replied the traveller, ‘but my thoughts are far away in my own city of Jhang Sayal. Over it rules king Chuchak, and there too dwells his daughter Hir, whose beauty I cannot describe, so wonderful it is. If I seem sad and my thoughts wander, it is because I, like all the noble youths of our city, am in love with her. Indeed, it was to gain peace of mind that I set out on my travels.’
The prince’s fancy was fired by the tale, and he begged the traveller to describe princess Hir, however imperfectly. The traveller consented; and so glowing was his tale and so passionate his words, that the prince sprang to his feet. ‘Promise me that I shall see her,’ he cried, ‘or I will kill myself before your eyes.’ There is no need to die,’ said the traveller soothingly, ‘send an envoy to her father’s palace and ask for her hand in marriage.’
Prince Ranjho did not send the envoy, for he feared to court a refusal. Nevertheless the image, so deftly painted by t
he traveller, danced always before his eyes, and he lost all power to eat or sleep. His brothers, seeing his pitiable state, conspired against him, drove him out of the kingdom, and divided his inheritance.
The unhappy Ranjho could think of no better plan than to beg his way to the country of her for love of whom he had lost his kingdom. The way was long from Hazara to Jhang Sayal, and the prince was half dead of fatigue before he came to the Chenab river. At last he saw it in the distance, and on its banks the palace of the princess Hir. Opposite the palace was moored the princess’s boat. The prince called to the boatman, who stood on the deck, ‘I have come from a far country and I am very weary. Pray, let me rest in yonder boat.’ The boatman turned, and seeing a tall and gallant youth, guessed him to be of noble birth. Very courteously he answered, ‘Young lord, that boat is the princess Hir’s; I cannot let you go on board.’
Prince Ranjho walked towards the boat, hoping to be able to persuade the boatman to let him see the princess. When he reached the water’s edge, his worn-out limbs gave way and he fell headlong into the river. The kindly boatman would not let him drown, and, rowing to where the prince was struggling against the current, dragged him into the boat, and let him rest himself in the princess’s cabin. A moment later the prince was fast asleep.
It so happened that Hir resolved that day to go sailing on the river earlier than was her wont. With sixty serving maids she walked across the garden that stretched between her palace and the river. When the boatman saw her coming he began to tremble. He called to his wife and said, ‘Go and appease the princess, or, when she sees this stranger in her cabin, she will have me flayed alive.’ His wife left the boat and began to scream at the top of her voice. The princess heard her and, running towards her, asked what was the matter. ‘O lady, forgive my husband!’ sobbed the boatman’s wife. ‘A young man has forced his way into your cabin and is fast asleep on your bed!’ When the princess heard these words, her eyes blazed with anger. ‘How dare he?’ she cried. ‘Where is he? I will kill him.’ She ran into the cabin, meaning to stab the stranger to the heart, but when her gaze fell on the sleeping youth, her anger vanished. As she drank in the beauty of the prince, he slowly opened his eyes and, to his surprise, saw before him a maid fairer than the fairies themselves; her eyes were like lotuses, her shape beggared all description. Hir, as if fascinated, came slowly to the side of the cot. The prince held out his arms, and a moment later their lips met.