Tales from India

by Bali Rai

  The tiger family stayed until just before dusk, before they slipped away into the gloom.

  ‘I shall visit you soon,’ the prince called after them, before covering himself in the demons’ blood.

  When evening came, and the rajah returned, he was apoplectic with rage.

  ‘Impossible!’ he bellowed. ‘You cannot have survived!’

  ‘But I am filthy with their blood,’ the prince replied, showing the guards his terrible stains.

  ‘I don’t care!’ the rajah cried. ‘Guards, jail this man at once!’

  Trembling in fear, the men locked Ajeet in the dungeon.

  ‘I find you guilty of murdering my demons!’ the rajah declared. ‘Tomorrow morning, you die!’

  When the princess heard of her father’s treachery, she fell into depression. She begged to visit Ajeet but her father refused. The news spread rapidly across the kingdom, and there was great sorrow and rising anger. That night, Laila took to the roof, but did not sing. Instead, she wept in despair. Each of her falling tears turned to stone, until a pile was created as tall as the palace. Then, with a heavy heart she went to her bed.

  During the night, though, she dreamt of a goddess, who explained how she could save Ajeet. When she woke up, she rushed to her mother.

  ‘I must see Ajeet!’ she cried. ‘I have an idea!’

  Then the rani called to her personal guard. ‘Will you help us?’ she asked him.

  The guard nodded.

  ‘I am your servant,’ he said, ‘as are the other guards. Ask us, and we shall do your bidding.’

  Then he led Laila and her mother to the dungeon …

  Just before noon, the prince was led to the palace gardens. There he was tied to a jackfruit tree. People had gathered from across the kingdom, but none were happy. When the rajah arrived, dragging his wife and daughter along, the crowd began to murmur in disapproval. The rajah, so pompous and wicked, did not notice their displeasure. Instead, he summoned his executioner.

  ‘Today this prince will die,’ the rajah bellowed, before inventing his crimes. ‘He has been found guilty – of murder, and of practising witchcraft and cheating me. The sentence is death!’

  Ajeet looked to Princess Laila and smiled. When the crowd saw this, many began to cry.

  ‘Silence!’ the rajah ordered.

  Princess Laila had hidden her hair under a scarf. She did not smile, instead lowering her gaze and saying prayers. Anger began to grow amongst the crowd.

  ‘Axeman!’ the rajah shouted.

  The masked executioner strode forward with his powerful axe. He checked the ropes and then whispered to Ajeet.

  ‘Fear not, noble prince,’ he said.

  With a mighty swing, he hacked at Ajeet’s neck, where the rope was knotted most tightly. But the blade simply bounced off the twine and shot out of the executioner’s hands, landing with a thud in a bed of yellow roses. Swiftly, each of the rajah’s guards drew their swords, and the rani stepped forward.

  ‘Take him!’ she ordered.

  But instead of Ajeet, the guards took hold of the rajah.

  ‘What are you doing?’ the rajah cried out in shock and fury. ‘You filthy dogs – don’t you dare touch me!’

  The guards ignored his commands, dragging him to the very same dungeon into which Ajeet had been thrown. The rajah’s subjects cheered and some threw ripe fruits. Laila ran to Ajeet, removing her scarf. The crowd saw her and gasped. Gone were her glorious locks, hacked short and sharp.

  ‘I sacrificed my hair for my Ajeet,’ she declared. ‘From it, I fashioned the rope used to tie him. That is why the axe would not cut him.’

  ‘But your wonderful hair!’ came a cry.

  ‘My hair will grow back,’ the princess said. ‘But I would never again have found true love.’

  Soon afterwards, Laila and Ajeet were married, and their two kingdoms combined. Ajeet’s parents were overjoyed to see him return, alive and well, and with his beautiful bride. For the rest of their days they lived in peace and happiness.

  Of Water and Wells

  Abdul Qadir, one of Akbar’s advisors and the most vocal of Birbal’s opponents at court, smiled. It wasn’t a friendly smile. Instead, his expression was laced with arrogance, bravado and self-satisfaction. As he stood with a group of fellow courtiers, he could not help but grin.

  ‘You are in a fine mood today, Abdul Qadir,’ said one of his friends.

  ‘I have been thinking,’ Abdul replied. ‘For too long this outsider, Birbal, has made us look foolish whilst ingratiating himself with the emperor …’

  ‘He is too sharp, too clever,’ said the man. ‘We cannot get the better of him.’

  Abdul shook his head. ‘Not this time,’ he replied. ‘This time I will outsmart Birbal! When I am done, Birbal will look the fool and Akbar will realize our true worth.’

  Across the court, Akbar sat listening to a Sufi poet, with Birbal at his side. Before them, on a ruby silk sheet inlaid with golden thread, lay fancy goblets of pomegranate juice and silver platters of fruit and nuts. The poet’s words were full of beauty, his rhythm mesmeric. He told of a gentle farmer’s daughter crying. Of how her teardrops fell to the grass, glistening like morning dew until they dried into precious stones. Almost all at court were lulled by the magic of the poet’s words. All but Abdul Qadir and his cohort.

  A sudden disturbance by the great doors disturbed Akbar and made him angry.

  ‘What is going on?’ he demanded.

  A young guard stood at the entrance, holding apart two quarrelling farmers.

  ‘I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but these men would not stop.’

  Akbar sighed. Although quick to anger, the emperor was keen to fulfil his duty to his subjects. Crowned at the age of thirteen, he had grown up with such things. A great ruler, his father had once said, rules for his people, not himself.

  ‘Come forward,’ he said. ‘Let me hear them out.’

  The two men lowered their heads in shame and came to stand before Akbar. The guard outlined their dispute.

  ‘This is Moti Ram,’ he said, pointing to a short, stout man with almost ebony skin and greying whiskers. ‘He bought a well from Raj Singh.’

  The second man was taller and fairer, and obviously wealthier. Whereas Moti Ram wore dirty rags, Raj Singh was dressed in much finer and cleaner fabrics.

  ‘Then where is the problem?’ Akbar asked the guard.

  ‘Your Majesty!’ Moti Ram begged. ‘I paid him a fair price for the well, but now he demands that I pay him for the water too!’

  ‘It is my water!’ replied Raj Singh. ‘I gave this wretch fair value for the well. I did not sell him the water too. I decide who draws my water …’

  Akbar held up his right index finger. The men fell silent at once.

  ‘I can see no issue here,’ he said. ‘Birbal …?’

  His best friend and advisor took a grape from the platter and popped it into his mouth. As he chewed, he eyed both farmers.

  ‘So, Moti Ram, it is your well?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Moti Ram replied. ‘I paid a fair price – nearly all that I have.’

  Birbal nodded. ‘And you, Raj Singh?’ he said. ‘You insist you sold the well and not the water?’

  ‘I do!’ said Raj Singh. ‘Where is the issue?’

  Birbal took his time, eating another grape and taking a drink. ‘Tell the guard where this well is,’ he replied. ‘Tomorrow, the emperor and I will visit you at midday. I shall give my verdict then.’

  Unsatisfied, the men left, still arguing with one another.

  ‘Sometimes I despair of this kingdom,’ said Akbar. ‘A well, indeed.’

  ‘Despair not, Majesty,’ Birbal replied. ‘After all, what are your advisors for?’

  Later, once the poet had finished his recital, Abdul Qadir took his chance. Approaching the emperor, he coughed into his hand.

  ‘Yes, Abdul Qadir?’

  ‘I have a great story for Your Majesty,’ said Abdul. ‘One that you will find most glor
iously amusing …’

  ‘Really?’ Akbar replied. ‘I’ve never considered you to be a great storyteller, Abdul.’

  ‘Well,’ said Abdul, feeling insulted, ‘it was a dream I had – about Birbal. Perhaps you would like to hear it?’

  ‘I would, yes,’ said Akbar.

  ‘Perhaps we should ask everyone to join us, then?’

  Akbar agreed and the entire court stood silently, as Abdul Qadir cleared his throat. Birbal, showing little interest, ate a slice of ripe mango that dripped with sweet nectar.

  ‘It was a moonless night, Your Majesty,’ Abdul began. ‘I found myself in the streets, when out of the shadows, I saw Birbal walking towards me, beckoning. I could not see his face, for his dark skin melted into the gloom all around me. Yet I could see the yellow of his teeth. As we approached each other, an owl hooted and Birbal jumped in fright. I, however, strolled on with purpose …’

  Some of the courtiers began to giggle, and Abdul broke into a wide smile. Akbar sat motionless, a look of bemusement upon his face. Birbal, still feigning disinterest, cracked a nut between his teeth.

  ‘It was so dark that we collided with one another and fell. Luckily for me, I fell into a pool of rice pudding, rich with cream and spices. But guess what Birbal fell into …?’

  Akbar shrugged.

  ‘Tell us, tell us!’ shouted Abdul Qadir’s friends.

  ‘Very well, then,’ said Abdul. ‘Birbal fell into a gutter!!’

  The court rocked with laughter. Some of the courtiers held on to each other. Others fell to the floor such was their amusement. Akbar smiled and turned to his friend, who was busy examining his fingernails.

  ‘Birbal?’ said the emperor. ‘It seems that Abdul Qadir has made you the butt of an extremely funny story …’

  Birbal took a swig of pomegranate juice before replying.

  ‘It is indeed a very amusing tale,’ he eventually said. ‘But, by sheer coincidence, I had the exact same dream, Your Majesty …’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Birbal. ‘Only, unlike Abdul Qadir, I slept on until the very end …’

  The laughter subsided, as everyone at court waited for Birbal to continue. Abdul felt a creeping sense of despair growing within. This was his time to shine. No one needed to hear from Birbal, the outsider.

  ‘A likely story,’ he blurted out. ‘Your Majesty, I –’

  ‘No, no, Abdul Qadir,’ said Akbar. ‘You’ve had your moment. Now we hear from Birbal. Do go on …’

  ‘As Abdul climbed out of the rice pudding, and I from the putrid gutter,’ said Birbal, ‘we discovered that we had no clean water with which to wash …’

  ‘Yes …?’ Akbar asked, smiling slightly.

  ‘Our only choice was to wash each other …’ said Birbal, staring directly at Abdul Qadir.

  ‘Each other?’ said the Emperor.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Birbal. ‘So we washed each other … with our tongues!’

  The court exploded with laughter, and this time Akbar joined in. So intense was the shame and anger felt by Abdul Qadir, he turned and stormed from the room. As he went, the courtiers pointed and roared with amusement. Birbal, saying nothing more, picked up another grape and put it into his mouth …

  The following day, as promised, Akbar, Birbal and two guards arrived at the disputed well. Both Moti Ram and Raj Singh were calm, each of them hoping to be victorious over the other. Raj Singh had dressed in his very best clothes, and had his servant offer a gift of flowers and sweets to the emperor. Moti Ram, however, had nothing but the clothes that he had worn the previous day. His face was covered in a fine layer of flour dust, his hands were dry, and his head remained bowed.

  ‘Raj Singh,’ said Birbal, as he dismounted his horse. ‘I wish to clarify the situation one last time before I give my advice.’

  ‘Whatever your wish, sir,’ Raj Singh replied. ‘I know that my claim is honourable, and I have nothing to hide.’

  Birbal nodded and walked over to the well. He patted the wall before peering down at the water. ‘So this well belongs to Moti Ram?’ he asked the wealthier man.

  ‘It does,’ Raj Singh replied.

  ‘But the water remains yours, you say?’

  Raj Singh nodded. ‘Absolutely, sir,’ he said. ‘Moti Ram said nothing about buying the water, only the well …’

  Moti Ram raised his head to complain, but Birbal told him to wait.

  ‘So, in effect,’ said Birbal, ‘you, Raj Singh, are storing your water in Moti Ram’s well?’

  Raj Singh grew confused but nodded anyway.

  ‘Well, yes, if you put it like that, I …’

  ‘Moti Ram?’ asked Birbal. ‘Why, then, do you not charge Raj Singh rent for using your well?’

  Moti Ram, realizing his victory, allowed himself a brief smile.

  ‘Your Majesty?’ said Birbal.

  Akbar took a moment to appraise both men and then made his decision.

  ‘Raj Singh,’ he said. ‘You shall pay Moti Ram rent for this well. Otherwise I order you to remove your water at once!’

  ‘But, Your Majesty, this is preposterous!’

  ‘I will not give my judgement again,’ Akbar warned.

  Raj Singh, outwitted and outnumbered, realized that he had no choice. He withdrew, but not before Akbar made him apologize to his neighbour. Once done, Akbar turned to Moti Ram.

  ‘I have no need for flowers and sweets in this heat,’ he told the poor farmer. ‘But fresh, cold water would be like a blessing from heaven … do you happen to have any?’

  The Blind Saint

  One year, a blind saint arrived in Akbar’s kingdom. The man was said to be able to see into the future and Akbar’s subjects flocked to the saint’s ashram, eager to know what fate held in store for them. As his reputation grew, the saint’s powers made Akbar curious.

  ‘There is no such thing,’ Birbal replied, when Akbar asked him.

  ‘But my subjects claim him to be accurate!’ said Akbar. ‘What harm could a visit do?’

  Birbal smiled. ‘In my experience,’ he said, ‘such men are merely charlatans and scoundrels. One day this saint will prove himself a sinner, and when that day comes, Your Majesty must not be connected to him in any way. Your reputation depends upon such things …’

  Unhappy but wary of ignoring Birbal’s advice, Akbar tried to forget his curiosity, but as with the monsoon rains, such moods came and went according to their own timetable. Nothing – not hunting nor feasting, nor the words and melodies of countless poets and musicians tamed Akbar’s interest. He longed to find out if the saint was as his subjects claimed – a genuine teller of fortunes.

  Over time, the saint grew fatter and richer, as people arrived from across the kingdom to hear his prophecies. Birbal, sure that his own prediction would turn out to be true, watched on, occasionally disguising himself as a beggar to visit this famed saint as an observer, but never presenting himself for a reading. It was on one such trip that Birbal’s suspicions began to grow.

  The ashram was full of devotees, each sitting cross-legged on either side of the saint – all of them under the shade of a huge tent. The man himself wore numerous garlands of marigold, jasmine and rose, and a robe of the finest ivory silk. His silver hair was rich with coconut oil, the skin of his hands soft and clean. Before him stretched a line of people, eager to speak with him. And all around were the spoils of his trade – fine fabrics and expensive dishes, delicious sweets and fruits, and mountains of nuts. A single wooden box sat at his feet, into which his patrons put money, and Birbal had no need to ask if it was full. He had observed so many people paying tribute that he wondered if the saint might not rival Akbar himself for wealth very soon. The saint reached out for a nut, his hand hovering for a moment before picking out a salted almond. Birbal watched the way the saint chose his treat with great care.

  ‘He likes salted almonds,’ Birbal whispered to the man standing next to him.

  ‘They are his favourites,’ said the man. ‘H
e does not eat any other nuts …’

  At the head of the line, Birbal spotted an old couple with a girl in tow. The child was no more than eight or nine years old, and completely dishevelled. The man spoke up.

  ‘Oh, great saint,’ he said. ‘Please help us to understand what fate has decreed for our niece.’

  The saint’s head remained bowed, as though in deep contemplation. ‘Continue, my son,’ he whispered.

  ‘My brother and his wife were murdered by bandits and we were left their daughter. She does nothing but sit and cry, and murmur wicked thoughts of revenge. Will she ever recover and marry a suitable man?’

  The saint raised his head and turned it from side to side. He raised a hand to his eyes and rubbed them. ‘I am but a blind old man,’ the saint said. ‘But I will do my best to alleviate your fears …’

  ‘Thank you, great saint.’

  ‘You will first make your offering, for without a gift to the heavens, the gods will not grant me their audience.’

  ‘Anything you wish, oh blessed one!’ the uncle cried. ‘I have brought money and fruits and a dish made of gold …’

  ‘Bring the child forward, that she might touch my feet, and me her face …’

  Birbal watched the girl peer out from behind her long and knotted hair. Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open.

  ‘YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!’ the girl screamed.

  The saint flinched at the severity of her tone.

  ‘It was you!!!!!’ the girl continued. ‘You killed my parents!’

  The saint’s devotees sprang to their feet, pushing the girl and her family away.

  ‘Be gone!’ screamed one of them. ‘How dare you besmirch the sanctity of this ashram! If I were not so pious, I would chop off your heads!’

  The couple turned and fled, with the girl behind them, as other patrons punched and kicked at them. Birbal withdrew a safe distance, and once the girl and her family were clear, he pulled them aside.

  ‘Do as I say!’ he ordered. ‘Otherwise, I cannot save you!’

  Behind them, two angry, vicious-looking devotees edged closer. Both looked like bandits pretending to be holy men – their skins scarred with needle tattoos, their ears heavy with gold rings.