by Ruskin Bond
Hir would not let the prince rise, but, sitting by his side, made him tell her who he was and whence he had come. He told her; and her eyes filled with tears, that he should have lost a kingdom for love of her. Then she said, ‘Lord of my heart, you cannot stay here in my cabin. Our secret will soon spread abroad. My father will hear of it and will kill you.’ She thought for some time, and then said, ‘There is only one way that I can think of, and that is for you to put on a disguise and hire yourself as a buffalo-herd to my father. You can then graze his buffaloes along the river, and I can meet you daily.’ The prince laughingly consented, and dressed himself as a buffalo-herd in the clothes that Hir procured for him. After bidding him a tender farewell, the princess went to her mother, the queen, and said to her, ‘Our buffaloes are not thriving. They need a skilled herdsman to look after them. I have seen a herdsman from Hazara, who, so I have heard, has great knowledge of cattle. Let us hire him, and our buffaloes will grow fat.’ Her mother agreed; and when Ranjho later in the day offered himself for hire, she ordered a thousand buffaloes to be given into his care.
No one was then so happy as the princess. Daily she would slip down the river in her boat, and, meeting Ranjho, would spend the day with him in the shade of some tree on the river’s edge.
But, in spite of all her care, her love for Ranjho got noised abroad, and men began to whisper: ‘The princess Hir has lost her honour to a cowherd!’ The rumour at last reached the ears of Hedo, the brother of the queen, and he told his sister. The queen sent for the princess and charged her with her guilt. At first Hir denied the story as mere lying gossip, but at last she told her mother everything. The queen was beside herself with anger, and cried, ‘Unless you promise to give up this vile cowherd, whom you forsooth dub a prince, I will tell the king, and he will surely put you both to death.’ Hir shook her head sadly and said, ‘My mother, I can make no such promise. I have given my life into another’s keeping. If I give him up, I give my life up also.’ Then the queen rose and brought king Chuchak. When the king heard what his daughter had done, he drew his sword and would have killed her, but at the queen’s entreaty he sent her to prison instead. Then he bade his guards beat Ranjho and drive him from the city.
Half killed, the unhappy prince dragged himself to a wood at some distance from Jhang Sayal and there he lived, sustained only by the hope that he might again see the princess. Nor did the hope prove vain. The princess pined so in her prison cell, that the queen prevailed on king Chuchak to release her. No sooner was she free, than she made her way to the wood where prince Ranjho was, and fell weeping into his arms. She stayed with him for a short time and then returned to her palace; but every evening she would slip out and take food and drink to Ranjho.
Now Hir’s uncle, Hedo, kept a watch on his niece, and, disguised in a beggar’s clothes, he followed her to the wood. Returning he told the king what he had seen. King Chuchak, seeing Hir’s great love for Ranjho, would have joined them in marriage, but his sons would not hear of it. First they tried to kill prince Ranjho in his lair in the woods: but although he was one to four, he beat them off, until at last they ran away screaming for their lives. Then they formed another plan. They went to the court of king Norang of Norangpur and offered Hir in wedlock to king Norang’s son, Khiro. Prince Khiro gladly accepted the princess’s hand, and the four princes returned to Jhang Sayal and bade their sister make ready for her marriage. But Hir refused to make any preparations; and when her ladies came to put henna on her, as befitted a bride-to-be, she drove them out of the room.
The king in despair took his daughter to the kazi. The kazi at first spoke softly to her. ‘My child,’ he said, ‘you should not love a stranger of whom your parents know nothing. You should only love him of whom your parents approve.’ But Hir would not be cajoled. She stamped her foot and said, ‘What do you know about love, kazi? If I have drunk the cup of love without my parents’ knowledge, I at least know what the cup contains.’ Then the kazi grew angry and said, ‘You are a wicked girl; you have committed a great sin. To disobey your parents is to transgress the scriptures.’ So saying, he took out his holy books, and would have read her passages from them, but Hir stormed at him: ‘A plague,’ she cried, ‘on your scrawls and your zigzags! I do not know a zabar* from a zer! What care I if alif stands for Allah or mim for Mahomed or ain for Ali! Your holy books, you say, have come from heaven, but you cannot show me any passage in them that prescribes rules for love: yet love is as old as Adam! Why should a lover need books, when the mirror in his heart shows him the form of his beloved?’ The kazi, when he heard this bold reply, foamed at the mouth with rage. ‘Take her away,’ he screamed. ‘Take her away and kill her; she is not fit to live!’ The king took her away but he did not kill her. He sent her to Norangpur, where, sore against her will, she was married to prince Khiro.
In the meantime prince Ranjho donned the garb of a fakir, and went on foot to Norangpur. Passing close to Hir’s window he contrived, with the help of her sister-in-law Sahti, to make his presence in the town known to her. The same day Hir cried out that a cobra had bitten her in the foot; and, falling on the ground, she feigned to be in agony. The court-doctors were sent for, but they could do nothing. At last Sahti suggested that the fakir who had just come to Norangpur might perhaps effect a cure. The fakir was sent for, and at once promised to cure the princess, provided that he and she were left alone together. The others left them, and Hir and Ranjho embraced. Hir promised her lover to leave the palace and run away with him that very night. Then, to soothe the suspicions of her companions, he began to recite mantras loudly enough for those outside to hear. In a short time the fakir went out of the room and pronounced the princess cured; and, calling in her companions, he claimed, and received, a rich reward.
That night the princess slipped unseen out of the palace; and, joining Ranjho outside the walls of Norangpur, she fled with him towards Hazara. In vain king Norang sent horsemen to catch them; for, thinking that the fugitives must be fleeing to Jhang Sayal, the horsemen took the wrong road and so never caught up with them.
After great toil and hardships, Ranjho and Hir reached Hazara. There Ranjho’s brothers had ruled so ill and harshly, that when the people saw their favourite prince again, they rose in thousands, and, putting the prince at their head, stormed the palace and drove his three brothers from Hazara, just as formerly they themselves had driven out the prince. In this way Ranjho became master of his father’s entire kingdom. He married the princess Hir and made her his queen, and together they ruled over the people of Hazara for many years afterwards.
‘Hir and Ranjho’ from Tales of Old Ind by C. A. Kincaid, 1938.
Umar and Marai
C. A. Kincaid
Once upon a time there ruled in Umarkot a famous king called Umar. He was a Rajput of the Sumro clan, and such was the splendour of his reign, that it would have restored their sight to the blind. Whether in the chase or in battle, he was as brave as a lion; and the justice of his rule was famous far and wide.
But all men, high or low, bad or good, rich or poor, must fulfil their destiny. Thus it came about that one day king Umar sat in his hall of audience, surrounded by his officers and governors, and to all of them he gave a solemn warning that they should fear God and oppress no man. Suddenly, in front of the palace-gate, a stranger cried out that he craved a private audience with the king, as he had a message for his ears alone. When the king heard this, he dismissed his officers and governors, and received the stranger.
Now at the time that king Umar reigned at Umarkot, there lived in a village called Malir, in the Thar desert, a humble goatherd, named Palvi. He had a wife, named Merad, and a lovely daughter, called Marai. In their house also lived a servant, Phog by name, who aspired to Marai’s hand. But Palvi had promised his daughter to her cousin Khet, whom she loved. So he rejected Phog’s suit. In a fury, Phog left Malir, and thirsting for vengeance, went to the palace-gate at Umarkot: he was the stranger who asked for, and obtained, an audience of ki
ng Umar.
When Phog was alone with the king, he said, ‘My lord king, I have a humble petition to make; and it is this. There lives in Malir a maiden, called Marai, whose beauty puts the sun to shame. Her form is tall and straight; her eyes are blacker than the humming bees, her glances sharper than a soldier’s sword; her skin is like satin; when she smiles, it is as if there fell a shower of pearls; her bosom is as white as the clouds in spring, and the buds there put to shame the rosebuds in your garden; her face is fairer than the moonbeam; her gait is like the pea-hen’s, and when she speaks the koels answer her from the forest. When a man has once seen her, he can look at naught else: yet she is but a goatherd’s daughter, and in rags. If she were clad in fine raiment, she would be fairer than the paris. Only you, O king, are fit to possess her. For if her form is lovely, her heart is a treasure-house of love. Come with me, and I will show you where she lives.’
King Umar forgot all the noble words that he had just spoken to his officers and governors, and went mad with love for the goatherd’s beautiful daughter. He had his fastest camel saddled, and, taking the reins, he mounted in front, while the treacherous servant sat behind him and showed him the way to Marai’s village.
It so happened that Marai had gone with a girl-companion to fetch water at a well outside her village. Seeing a camel with two men riding upon it in the distance, she grew frightened and would have run back to her home, but the girl with her, curious to see the strangers, told her not to be afraid. They are travellers,’ she said, ‘they will do you no harm. When they come to the well, they will ask for water. We will give it to them, and in return they will tell us all the news.’ Marai, persuaded by her companion, went on with her to the well, and reached it at the same time as Umar’s camel. Phog’s whisper and king Umar’s own eyes told him that it was the beautiful Marai who stood before him. He made his camel kneel, and alighting asked Marai for water. The simple girl was preparing to give him some, when suddenly Umar and Phog seized her and gagged her, and, tying her on the camel’s back, took her away with them to the palace at Umarkot.
That night king Umar went to Marai and found her weeping. Her food lay untouched by her side. He tried to console her, saying, ‘Marai, do not weep. What is done, cannot be undone. You shall be my chief queen, and my other queens shall be your slaves. In your hands I will put the reins of my kingdom.’ But Marai only wept the more, as she thought of her home, of her parents, and of Khet, her affianced lover. Then king Umar said scornfully, Why should you grieve for your parents and your lover, Marai? They are wild foresters. Here your word will be law to princes. In your village you have to rise at dawn and drive the goats in the sun; here you will live shaded and sheltered under the roof of my pallace.’
‘Your ladies,’ retorted Marai, ‘think that it is a great thing to veil their faces and live behind palace-walls. But I love the open air and the sunshine on my face. I love the feel of a kid under each arm, as I go with the goats to the grazing-ground. I have nothing in common with your high-born beauties. They like dainty food; I live on wild fruit and berries. They have jewels round their necks; I wear a string of red beads. They love soft beds and bedding; I love to stretch out on the cool sand. In their courtyards servants scatter water to settle the dust, but I love to feel the raindrops. They wear silk clothes; I wear coarse rags. They listen to the sound of your fifes and drums, but far sweeter to my ears is the bleating of my goats.’
‘But I will make you the fairest garden in all the world,’ said king Umar. ‘It shall be hung with gold lamps, and in it will grow vines and dates, plantains and limes, figs and oranges, cocoa-nuts and almonds; and the air will be heavy with the scent of areca-nut, cardamoms, and sandalwood.’
Marai shook her head, and answered, ‘Nay, keep those for others, king Umar. Give me back the rough uplands that stretch round my village, and the brambles and thorn-bushes on the hills, and the fruit and wild berries that grow on them.’
For many a night king Umar tried in vain to win Marai’s love, but she was proof alike against tears, threats, and entreaties. One day he pitched a tent some miles from Umarkot, and bade herdsmen graze their cattle and goats round it, so that the sight of it might soften Marai’s heart and make her smile on him. But Marai only laughed scornfully, and said, ‘Your trouble is wasted. The goats are like my village-goats, and the tent is like the tents in my village; but in the tent you should have put my parents, and the goatherd should have been my lover, Khet.’
Then king Umar sent for a camel-man and bade him dress himself like a Malir peasant. Next he sent word to Marai that a man had come from her village with a message from her parents; and he asked leave to bring him to her room. Marai consented. When the man entered the room, he said, ‘Your mother has sent me to you. Listen to her message, for these are her very words: “My daughter, why do you bring on us the hatred of king Umar by your obstinacy? All the world knows that he has taken you to his palace. Even though you remain chaste, the world will think you unchaste, so why refuse his love?’” But Marai guessed the trick, and as she looked sternly at the false messenger he faltered and stammered beneath her gaze. ‘Love!’ she repeated angrily. ‘There is no love but that blessed by heaven. No parents of mine would have sent me such a message. It is a black lie, which you have been bribed to tell me.’ When this scheme failed, king Umar strode out of the palace in a rage, vowing vengeance against Marai’s parents and her lover; but for some time he left her in peace.
In the meantime Marai’s parents had heard from her girl-companion how she had been carried off; but when they learnt later that the wrongdoer was no other than the great king Umar of Umarkot, they did nothing to rescue her. They fancied that her heart had yielded to the passion of the king and to the glamour of a royal palace.
But Marai’s lover, Khet, distracted by her loss, went on foot to Umarkot and daily wandered in despair around her dwelling. Marai saw him from her window and contrived to send him a message to be at a well-known shrine on a certain day with a swift camel. The next time king Umar came to see Marai, she soothed him by promising that if her parents and clansmen did not rescue her within twelve months of her capture, she would be his. By such soft words she got from him leave to visit the shrine on the day when Khet was to meet her. On the appointed day she and a crowd of richly dressed girl-companions went together to worship at the shrine. When they reached it, they got down from their palkis, and laughing and chattering and admiring each other’s jewels, they paid little heed to a poorly dressed camel-man who stood by a kneeling camel, not far from the saint’s tomb. Suddenly, as they passed him, Marai left the group of heedless girls and ran to the kneeling camel as fast as she could. In a moment she and the camel-man, who was her lover, Khet, had jumped on its back, and the camel, rising to its feet, was soon racing towards Malir. The girls cried after her, ‘What are you doing, Marai? Why are you riding off with a stranger on a camel?’ Marai called back mockingly, ‘Tell king Umar that on a camel I came, and on a camel I went.’
The girls went back to their palkis, and, going home, told king Umar with trembling lips what had happened. The king was afraid to send an army into the desert to fetch Marai back, lest his nobles might upbraid him for doing injustice, when he bade others be just. So Marai reached her home safely. There she married her cousin Khet. Neither king Umar nor the wicked Phog ever came to trouble them again, and they lived happily ever after.
‘Umar and Marai’ from Tales of Old Ind by C. A. Kincaid, 1938.
Momul and Rano
C. A. Kincaid
Once upon a time there lived in Sind a king, Nanda by name. He had a wonderful pig’s tooth which had the power of drying up water if put close to it. King Nanda used the pig’s tooth in this way: he took it to the Indus, and putting the tooth close to the surface of the water, dried up the great river. Whenever king Nanda wanted money, he would go to the bank of the Indus and dry it up with his magical tooth, take from it such treasure as he needed, and return home. When he took the pig’s toot
h away, the river began to flow once more.
Now it so happened that an anchorite learnt about the pig’s tooth by means of his inner knowledge. Filled with greed, he went to the king’s palace when Nanda was absent. King Nanda had nine daughters, of whom Momul was the most beautiful, and the wisest, Somal. When the anchorite reached the palace, he began to weep and moan and groan so loudly that his cries roused the princesses. Unhappily the wise Somal, who would have seen through the anchorite’s pretence, had gone away with king Nanda. As it was, the beautiful Momul sent for the anchorite and asked him what ailed him. He told her that he was very ill and dying, but could he but get a pig’s tooth, he would at once get well. Momul remembered that her father, the king, had a pig’s tooth. Not knowing its magical properties, she took it from Nanda’s room and gave it to the stranger. The anchorite took it and instantly recovered from his feigned illness. Then, going to the bank of the Indus, he dried up its waters, dug out a treasure, and travelling to a distant city spent the rest of his life there, in great peace and happiness.
When king Nanda came back with his daughter Somal and learnt that Momul had given his pig’s tooth to a wandering anchorite, he was so angry that he would have killed Momul, had not his wise daughter Somal soothed him by saying that she knew a way in which Momul could get back just as big a treasure as the anchorite had stolen. Next day she took Momul to a spot far out on the Sind pat or desert, and there by her sorcery she created a beautiful palace and round it a garden blooming with flowers, and fragrant with fruit. In front of the garden she laid out a maze, round which there seemed to flow a great red river, which she named the Kak. Leading into the maze was a tunnel. Inside the tunnel Somal put by means of her sorcery terrible contrivances which roared and screamed at her will. At each corner of the magic palace she chained a lion, ready to tear into pieces any one who sought to enter. When her task was done, she called Momul, and bade her and her slave-girls live in the palace and proclaim that she would wed the first man who could find his way through the tunnel and maze to her chamber.