by Ruskin Bond
El Kedir walked towards a group of dealers in precious stones, and sat down in front of them.
"Who comes hither?" asked one, gazing with wonder on the form of El Kedir.
"You will know my voice," El Kedir said.
"It is the jewel merchant who gave all he possessed to a stranger," said one of the dealers.
"Yes, indeed, it is I and no other," El Kedir answered.
The men laughed because he had said: "It is I."
"Why do you hide your face?" one asked.
Before El Kedir could answer, a woman who stood near him shrieked, and cried out with horror: "He casts no shadow. He is an evil spirit."
The dealers sprang to their feet, and one of them seized El Kedir's garment and rent it in twain. Then everyone saw that his face was green, and his body and his limbs were green also.
Men, women, and children fled at once from the marketplace, crying: "The green man! The green man!"
Then El Kedir realised that he could never live among his fellow men again, because everyone feared him. He returned to the empty house and hid himself until darkness fell. Then he came out and fled through the streets towards the western gate.
The gate was already closed, but he asked the sentinels to open it. At first they refused to do so, one of them saying: "Who are you that dares to command us to open the gate?"
"I am the Green Man," El Kedir answered. "Let me go forth, and I shall never again return."
The sentinels opened the gate and he ran out of the city. The gate was closed quickly behind him.
In this manner El Kedir left his native city to wander alone in the desert. It is said that he is still wandering about searching for the spirit guide who led him westward towards the land of the Well of Life, and that when night falls he hears voices calling him through the darkness. He has been wandering up and down the desert for long years—indeed, for hundreds of years. He cannot rest, he never sleeps, and he cannot die, because he has drunk of the water of the Well of Life."
When an old Arab tells this story to the young people the children pity the desert wanderer. "Poor old man," a woman may say, "perhaps he will be forgiven in time, and allowed to lie down and die."
Three Tales from India, as told again by Ruskin Bond
THE FRIENDSHIP OF HEERA AND LAL
In a certain town there lived a poor grass-cutter who made his living by cutting grass in the forest and selling it in the town for a few paisa. One day, as usual, he rose early in the morning and went into the forest. When he had cut sufficient grass, he found that he had left behind the rope with which he usually tied the bundle. He was very upset, because this meant he had lost a day's labour and earnings; but, as he was walking home despondently, he saw what appeared to be a glistening rope lying a few paces ahead of him.
The grass-cutter took the rope in his hand, and, as he did so, it changed into a long, green snake. He dropped the snake; and, as the reptile touched the ground, it resolved itself into a ruby, or lal, of great value.
The grass-cutter had no idea of the value of what he had found; but, tying it in his turban, he returned home. Next morning he went to the palace and presented his find to the Raja.
The Raja was so pleased with the ruby that, certain that his Rani would admire so beautiful a stone, he took it into her apartment and presented it to her. But as soon as the Rani took the stone in the palm of her hand she found that it was no longer a ruby but a beautiful new-born baby.
As the Rani had no children of her own, she adopted the child, and brought him up with care and affection. When Lal was eight years old, he was sent to a school where only the children of royal families were taught. There he met an enchanting Princess called Heera, and they became close friends.
As the years passed, and the boy and girl grew older in each other's company, their young love grew stronger. When the Raja, Lal's foster-father, heard of their friendship, he immediately ordered the boy to stop seeing Heera. Meanwhile Heera's parents, for political reasons, announced the engagement of their beautiful daughter to a powerful Raja who was old, one-eyed, and bent double. When Lal heard of the betrothal, he stole out of his father's palace, mounted on a swift horse, and rode to the kingdom of Heera's father.
He reached the city on the day of the marriage. The bride came out of the palace followed by a long procession, and people marched with lights and drums through the gaily decorated streets. As the procession passed down the main street, Heera caught sight of Lal. And while the celebrations were at their height, she slipped away and joined him. Then, disguising herself as a boy—so that she resembled Lal very closely—she rode out of the city with him.
They rode fast and far, the hooves of their steeds giving out sparks of fire as they thundered through the forests. On and on they rode until the sun went down and the stars came out. And after several days they reached a large city, where they took lodgings at an inn.
When they were passing through the streets the next day, they noticed a woman sitting at a cooking-pot, weeping bitterly.
'Why are you weeping, mother?' asked Heera.
'Don't you know, my child?' said the woman. 'The Raja of this city has a beautiful daughter for whom every day a young man is sacrificed. Now it is the turn of my son, and these are the last sweets I shall ever make for him.'
'Do not weep, mother,' said Heera, 'We will go instead of your son to this terrible princess.' And they rode to the palace where the Raja's officers showed them into the chamber of the princess.
At first the princess treated him with great kindness; but later, when she was alone with Lal, a sudden change came over her. She began foaming at the mouth and tearing her hair. She rolled on the ground, and writhed and screamed. Heera rushed into the room. At the same time the exhausted princess fell into a deep coma, and, as she lay unconscious, her left thigh burst open, and a terrible black snake emerged from it.
The snake darted towards Heera with a great hiss, its forked tongue darting in and out. But Lal drew his sword and cut off the snake's head with a single blow.
They remained all night with the unconscious princess, and by morning she had come to her senses.
When the Raja came to know that the snake which had possessed his daughter for so long had been killed by two brave youths, he called them before him, and offered them whatever they liked.
'Announce our betrothal to each other,' requested Heera. 'Permit us to be married in your city.'
'But you are a boy,' said the Raja.
'No, I am the Princess Heera in the guise of a boy. And this is my consort, Prince Lal.'
The Raja immediately made them welcome as his guests, and his daughter and Heera became close friends. But as the day of the marriage drew near, the princess began to grow jealous. She was afraid that Lal would take Heera away from her.
One day the princess asked Heera: 'Tell me, dear sister, what is the caste of our dear friend Lal? Though we know he is the adopted son of a Raja, there is some mystery about his birth. I have heard it said that his real father was a mere grass-cutter.'
'Does it matter?' asked Heera. 'Am I not happy in his love, and in his delightful presence? What need is there to know his caste?'
But the princess persisted with her questioning, and made Heera promise that she would ask Lal about his caste.
One evening as Heera and Lal sat beside each other on the banks of a small river, she put her question to him.
Lal looked very distressed, and said, 'Heera, do not expect me to answer that question. Is it important to you?'
But Heera's curiosity was now aroused. She was bent on knowing the truth, and kept questioning Lal.
The boy walked a little way into the river, and said, 'Are you determined to know my caste?'
'Yes,' said Heera. 'You must tell me.'
He walked deeper into the river until the water reached his shoulders, and again he asked, 'Do you still want to know my caste, Heera?'
And Heera, thinking it was all a game, answered playfully,
'Yes, I do!'
Then Lal moved deeper into the water, until his body was submerged and only a tuft of his hair could be seen on the surface. And his voice came from under the water, asking, 'Heera, are you still bent upon knowing my caste? There is time to change your mind!' His voice sounded deep and strong, as though he was already speaking from another world.
But Heera did not waver in her resolution, and answered, 'I do. I do!'
As soon as she had spoken, the tuft of hair disappeared. In the place where Lal had been standing, there appeared a beautiful white lily, and on it lay a sparkling ruby. The flower and the ruby were visible for only a few moments. Then they vanished.
Heera waited day and night for Lal to reappear; but she waited in vain. He never came back.
THE WISE PARROT
Once upon a time there was a Raja who owned a parrot, and its name was Hiramantota.
This parrot was so very wise that the Raja would always consult it before attending his Court. Hiramantota was also very good at predicting the weather and days of good fortune, and the Raja and his ministers, whenever they wanted to go out hunting or on a long journey, would consult the wise parrot before choosing a day on which to start out.
One afternoon, when Hiramantota was sitting in the Court, a flock of parrots flew past the open door and settled noisily in some guava trees that grew in the gardens.
The Raja was most surprised when Hiramantota turned to him and said, Those are my people, perched on the guava trees. They have come to ask me to visit the country where I was born and bred. Please give me permission to take a holiday, so that I may visit my old home and see my parents and relatives again.'
But the Raja was disturbed by the parrot's request.
'If you go away, Hiramantota,' he said, 'who will advise me and help me to make correct decisions? And how do I know that you will return from that distant country where your people live?'
Hiramantota felt hurt that the Raja should doubt his loyalty.
'You know, O Raja, that I never break my word,' he said. 'If I promise that I will return upon a certain day, you know that I will do so. Moreover, upon my return, I will bring you a truly wonderful fruit which has the rare quality of giving immortality to those who eat it.'
The Raja's curiosity was aroused by the parrot's description of this unusual fruit, and, although he was reluctant to part with Hiramantota even for a short time, he agreed to let him go for a week.
Hiramantota flew off with a shrill scream of delight, and joined the flock of parrots in the guava trees. For a few minutes there was a great chattering in the trees, and then, at a given signal, they all rose into the air and flew off in a westerly direction in the track of the setting sun.
Hiramantota's father was king of all the birds in his native country, and he and his queen were delighted to see their son again. There was great feasting and rejoicing in honour of the visit. Time passed all too quickly, and at the end of the week Hiramantota told his parents, 'I must now return to my Raja. He is expecting me back tomorrow, and I must not disappoint him.'
'Go my son,' said the King of the parrots, 'and if your master can spare you again, come and visit us next year.'
'I will try to come,' said, Hiramantota. 'And I have one favour to ask you. Will you allow me to carry back to my master a specimen of the fruit of immortality which grows in these forests?'
'Most certainly,' said the King of the parrots, and he gave his son one of these wonderful fruits.
Some hours later, while the Raja and his prime minister were together in the council chamber, the parrot flew in at the open window and settled at the Raja's feet. In his beak he carried the golden fruit.
'A thousand welcomes, my Hiramantota!' cried the Raja, stooping down and caressing his friend. 'And is this the fruit of immortality of which you spoke?'
'It is,' said the parrot, laying the fruit on the King's throne. 'Those who partake of it shall never die.'
All eyes in the council chamber turned enviously upon the golden fruit.
The Raja considered for a moment, and then said, 'This precious fruit must not be wasted. Let us plant it in the ground, and raise from it a tree which will bear more fruits upon its branches. In that way, many people will benefit from it.'
The head gardener was sent for, and he was told to plant the fruit with great care in the royal gardens. When the young tree appeared, it was to be well watered, fenced around, and tended with great care.
And in time a plant did spring up from the fruit, and began to grow into a vigorous young tree. The Raja and the parrot both watched its growth with considerable pleasure and satisfaction.
The tree grew rapidly for it was well nourished and cared for. Fruit began to form upon it. And then a strange thing happened. On a certain night, one of the fruits fell to the ground and was poisoned by a snake which ran its tongue over it. In the morning, the head gardener, not knowing what had happened, chanced to pass by, and seeing one of the precious fruits lying on the ground, picked it up, put it into a basket, and took it straight to the Raja.
The Raja summoned Hiramantota and the prime minister, and said, 'Behold, here is the first fruit of our tree of immortality!'
'Do not eat it, Your Highness,' said the prime minister. The first fruit should be dedicated to the gods.'
The Raja was pleased with this advice, and sent soldiers to inform the priests that he would attend the principal temple on the morrow.
The Raja divided the fruit amongst the priests, assigning two pieces to each god. These portions, of course, the priests took for their own use; and no sooner had they eaten of them than they fell into a profound sleep, from which they never awoke.
The Raja was thunderstruck and immediately consulted his prime minister.
'Their deaths must have been caused by the fruit of immortality,' said the prime minister. 'It appears to me that Hiramantota has done us a great evil by introducing this poisonous fruit into our country. It seems that he intended to kill you and your family in this way!'
The Raja was inclined to believe his prime minister, and summoning Hiramantota, he asked the parrot, Tor whom did you bring back this fruit of immortality?'
'For you, O King,' answered Hiramantota without any hesitation.
Then the Raja said bitterly, 'I have protected you all these years, and placed you in position of honour and trust, and you have repaid me by black ingratitude and most sinister plots against my life and the lives of my family and people.'
And without giving Hiramantota time to say a word in his own defence, he struck the poor bird a heavy blow with a stick, and killed him on the spot.
Then the Raja gave instructions to the head gardener to place a thorny fence around the tree, and ordered that no one was to visit the spot.
Now there happened to be a dhobi—a washerman—connected with the palace, whose married son lived with him. Unfortunately the dhobi's wife and the son's wife could not agree, and were frequently quarrelling with each other. This brought much grief to the dhobi and his wife. So much so that one day they decided that they could stand it no longer, and would put an end to their lives. Whilst discussing the matter, it occurred to the dhobi that some of the poisoned fruit from the Raja's tree would serve their purpose, so at night he stole into the gardens, pushed aside the thorny fence, and taking one of the fruits, returned home. Then he and his wife both ate of the fruit, and lay down—as they thought—to die.
But the result was very different from what they expected, for no sooner had they devoured the fruit than they suddenly shuffled off many weary years and became quite young again!
The dhobi sprang to his feet, exclaiming: 'Isn't this wonderful? I feel almost like a boy again!' And his wife gave a skip and a jump, and screamed: 'I'm a girl, I'm a girl! I can dance and sing again!'
It did not take long for the strange news to spread through the bazaars, and soon all the gossips were talking of the dhobi and his wife who had eaten of the fruit in the Raja's garden, and become quit
e youthful again. (Needless to say, they no longer wished to die.) In time the news reached the palace, and the Raja was amazed and very troubled when he heard the story. He instantly made enquiries of the gardener, and then learnt for the first time that the fruit the priests had eaten was not plucked from the tree, but picked off the ground.
'That unlucky fruit must have been poisoned by a snake!' cried the Raja in distress. 'And I sacrificed my faithful Hiramantota due to my own suspicious thoughts and lack of faith. My poor parrot, my best friend! I will rather see you again and beg your forgiveness than live for a thousand years!'
The heart-broken Raja was never seen to smile again. The first lesson he taught his children was that the rulers of states should not lightly order a subject's execution, lest it prove an act of injustice, and bring lifelong sorrow in its wake.
SEVEN BRIDES FOR SEVEN PRINCES
Long, long ago there was a king who had seven sons—all of them brave, handsome and clever. The old king loved them equally, and the princes dressed alike and received the same allowances. When they grew up they were given separate palaces, but the palaces were built and furnished alike, and if you had seen one palace you had seen the others.
When the princes were old enough to marry, the king sent his ambassadors all over the country to search for seven brides of equal beauty and talent. The king's messengers travelled everywhere, saw many princesses, but could not find seven suitable brides. They returned to the king and reported their failure.
The king now became so despondent and gloomy that his chief minister decided that something had to be done to solve this problem. 'Do not be so downcast, Your Majesty,' he said. 'Surely it is impossible to find seven brides as accomplished as your seven sons. Let us trust to chance, and then perhaps we shall find the right brides.'
