XIX.

XIX.The Conquest of Fate.In the Dakshinadêśa there lived a Brâhmiṇ boy who from his childhood was given a very liberal education in Sanskṛit. He had read so much in philosophy that before he reached the sixteenth year of his life he began to despise the pleasures of the world. Everything which he saw was an illusion (mithyâ) to him. So he resolved to renounce the world and to go to a forest, there to meet with some great sage, and pass his days with him in peace and happiness.Having thus made up his mind, he left his home one day without the knowledge of his parents and travelled towards theDandakâranya. After wandering for a long time in that impenetrable forest, and undergoing all the miseries of a wood inhabited only by wild beasts, he reached the banks of the Tuṅgabhadrâ. His sufferings in his wanderings in a forest untrodden by human feet, his loneliness in the midst of wild beasts, his fears whether after all he had not failed in his search for consolation ina preceptor to teach him the higher branches of philosophy, came up one after another before his mind. Dejected and weary, he cast his glance forward as far as it could reach. Was it a reality or only imagination? He saw before him a lonely cottage of leaves (parṇaśâlâ). To a lonely traveller even the appearance of shelter is welcome, so he followed up his vision till it became a reality, and an aged hoary Brâhmiṇ, full fourscore and more in years, welcomed our young philosopher.“What has brought you here, my child, to this lonely forest thus alone?” spoke in a sweet voice the hoary lord of the cottage of leaves.“A thirst for knowledge, so that I may acquire the mastery over the higher branches of philosophy,” was the reply of our young adventurer, whose name was Subrahmanya.“Sit down my child,” said the old sage, much pleased that in this Kaliyuga, which is one long epoch of sin, there was at least one young lad who had forsaken his home for philosophy.Having thus seen our hero safely relieved from falling a prey to the tigers and lions of the Dandakâranya, let us enquire into the story of the old sage. In the good old days even of this Kaliyuga learned people, after fully enjoying the world, retired to the forests, with or without their wives, to pass the decline of life in solemn solitude and contemplation.When they went with their wives they were said to undergo thevânaprasthastage of family life.The hoary sage of our story was undergoingvânaprastha, for he was in the woods with his wife. His name while living was Jñânanidhi. He had built a neatparṇaśâlâ,or cottage of leaves, on the banks of the commingled waters of the Tuṅgâ and Bhadrâ, and here his days and nights were spent in meditation. Though old in years he retained the full vigour of manhood, the result of a well-spent youth. The life of his later years was most simple and sinless.“Remote from man, with God he passed his days;Prayer all his business, all his pleasures praise.”The wood yielded him herbs, fruits, and roots, and the river, proverbial1for its sweet waters, supplied him with drink. He lived, in fact, as simply as the bard who sang:—“But from the mountain’s grassy sideA guiltless feast I bring;A bag with herbs and fruits supplied,And water from the spring.”His faithful wife brought him these, while Jñânanidhi himself devoted his whole time to the contemplation of God.Such was Jñânanidhi—the abode of all wisepeople—to whom the boy-philosopher, Subrahmanya, resorted. After questioning each other both were mightily pleased at the fortune which had brought them together. Jñânanidhi was glad to impart his hard-earned knowledge during his leisure moments to the young student, and Subrahmanya, with that longing which made him renounce the city and take to the woods eagerly swallowed and assimilated whatever was administered to him. He relieved his mother—for as such he regarded his master’s wife—of all her troubles, and used, himself, to go out to bring the fruits, herbs, and roots necessary for the repasts of the little family. Thus passed five years, by which time our young friend had become learned in the many branches of Aryan philosophy.Jñânanidhihad a desire to visit the source of the Tuṅgabhadrâ, but his wife was eight months advanced in her pregnancy. So he could not take her; and to take care of her he had to leave behind his disciple, Subrahmanya. Thus after commending the lady to Subrahmanya’s care, and leaving for female assistance another sage’s wife, whom he had brought from a distant forest, Jñânanidhi went his way.Now, there is a strong belief among Hindus that Brahmâ, the great creator, writes on everyone’s head at the time of his birth his future fortunes in life. He is supposed to do this just at the momentof birth. Of course, the great god when he enters the room to discharge his onerous duty, is invisible to all human eyes. But the eyes of Subrahmanya were not exactly human. The supreme knowledge which Jñânanidhi had imparted to him made it easy for him to discern at once a person entering most impolitely the room in which his master’s wife had been confined.“Let your reverence stop here,” said the disciple angrily though respectfully.The great god shuddered, for he had been in the habit of entering hourly innumerable buildings on his eternal rounds of duty, but never till then had a human being perceived him and asked him to stop. His wonder knew no measure, and as he stood bewildered the following reprimand fell on his ears:“Hoary Brâhmiṇ sage (for so Brahmâ appeared), it is unbecoming your age thus to enter the hut of my master, unallowed by me, who am watching here. My teacher’s wife is ill. Stop!”Brahmâ hastily—for the time of inscribing the future fortune on the forehead of the baby to be born was fast approaching—explained to Subrahmanya who he was and what had brought him there. As soon as our young hero came to know the person who stood before him he rose up, and, tying his upper cloth round his hips as a mark of respect, went round the creator thrice, fell down beforeBrahmâ’s most holy feet and begged his pardon. Brahmâ had not much time. He wanted to go in at once, but our young friend would not leave the god until he explained what he meant to write on the head of the child.“My son!” said Brahmâ, “I myself do not know what my iron nail will write on the head of the child. When the child is born I place the nail on its head, and the instrument writes the fate of the baby in proportion to its good or bad acts in its former life. To delay me is merely wrong. Let me go in.”“Then,” said Subrahmanya, “your holiness must inform me when your holiness goes out what has been written on the child’s head.”“Agreed,” said Brahmâ and went in. After a moment he returned, and our young hero at the door asked the god what his nail had written.“My child!” said Brahmâ, “I will inform you what it wrote; but if you disclose it to anyone your head will split into a thousand pieces. The child is a male child. It has before it a very hard life. A buffalo and a sack of grain will be its livelihood. What is to be done. Perhaps it had not done any good acts in its former life, and as the result of its sin it must undergo miseries now.”“What! Your supreme holiness, the father of this child is a great sage! And is this the fatereserved to the son of a sage?” wept the true disciple of the sage.“What have I to do with the matter? The fruits of acts in a former life must be undergone in the present life. But, remember, if you should reveal this news to any one your head will split into a thousand pieces.”Having said this Brahmâ went away, leaving Subrahmanya extremely pained to hear that the son of a great sage was to have a hard life. He could not even open his lips on the subject, for if he did his head would be split. In sorrow he passed some days, when Jñânanidhi returned from his pilgrimage and was delighted to see his wife and the child doing well, and in the learned company of the old sage our young disciple forgot all his sorrow.Three more years passed away in deep study, and again the old sage wanted to go on a pilgrimage to the sacred source of the Tuṅgabhadrâ. Again was his wife expecting her confinement, and he had to leave her and his disciple behind with the usual temporary female assistance. Again, too, did Brahmâ come at the moment of birth, but found easy admittance as Subrahmanya had now become acquainted with him owing to the previous event. Again did Brahmâ take an oath from him not to communicate the fortunes of the second child, with the curse that if he broke his oath, his head wouldsplit into a thousand pieces. This child was a female, and the nail had written that her fate was to be that of a frivolous woman. Extremely vexed was our young philosopher. The thought vexed him to such a degree, that language has no words to express it. After worrying a great deal he consoled himself with the soothing philosophies of the fatalists, that fate alone governs the world.The old sage in due course returned, and our young disciple spent two more happy years with him. After a little more than ten years had been thus spent the boy reached to five years and the girl to two. The more they advanced in years the more did the recollection of their future pain Subrahmanya. So one morning he humbly requested the old sage to permit him to go on a long journey to the Himâlayas and other mountains, and Jñânanidhi, knowing that all that he knew had been grasped by the young disciple, permitted him with a glad heart to satisfy his curiosity.Our hero started, and after several years, during which he visited several towns and learned men, reached the Himâlayas. There he saw many sages, and lived with them for some time. He did not remain in one place, for his object was more to examine the world. So he went from place to place, and after a long and interesting journey of twenty years he again returned to the banks of the Tuṅgabhadrâ,at the very place where he lived for ten years and imbibed philosophical knowledge fromJñânanidhi. But he saw there neither Jñânanidhi nor his old wife. They had long since fallen a prey to the lord of death. Much afflicted at heart at seeing his master and mistress no more, he went to the nearest town, and there after a deal of search he found a coolie with a single buffalo. The fate which Brahmâ’s nail had written on his master’s son rushed into the mind of Subrahmanya. He approached the coolie, and, on closely examining him from a distance, our hero found distinct indications of his master’s face in the labourer. His grief knew no bounds at seeing the son of a great sage thus earning his livelihood by minding a buffalo. He followed him to his home, and found that he had a wife and two children. One sack of corn he had in his house and no more, from which he took out a portion every day and gave it to his wife to be shelled. The rice was cooked, and with the petty earnings of a coolie, he and his family kept body and soul together. Each time the corn in the sack became exhausted he used to be able to save enough to replenish it again with corn. Thus did he (according to the writing of Brahmâ’s nail) pass his days. Kapâlî was the name of this coolie, the sage’s son.“Do you know me, Kapâlî?” said our hero, as he remembered his name.The coolie was astonished to hear his name so readily pronounced by one who was apparently a stranger to him, but he said:—“I am sorry that I do not know you, Sir.”Subrahmanya then explained to him who he was, and requested him to follow his advice.“My dear son,” said he, “do as I bid you. Early morningto-morrowleave your bed and take to the market your buffalo and the corn sack. Dispose of them for whatever amount they will fetch. Do not think twice about the matter. Buy all that is necessary for a sumptuous meal from the sale proceeds and eat it all up at once without reserving a morsel for the morrow. You will get a great deal more than you can eat in a day; but do not reserve any, even the smallest portion of it. Feed several otherBrâhmiṇswith it. Do not think that I advise you for your ruin. You will see in the end that what your father’s disciple tells you is for your own prosperity.”However, whatever the sage might say, Kapâlî could not bring himself to believe him.“What shall I do to feed my wife and children to-morrow if I sell everything belonging to me to-day?”Thus thought Kapâlî, and consulted his wife.Now she was a very virtuous and intelligent woman. Said she:—“My dear lord, we have heard that your father was a greatmahâtmâ. This disciple must equally be amahâtmâ. His holiness would not advise us to our ruin. Let us follow the sage’sadvice.”WhenKapâlî’swife thus supported the sage, he resolved to dispose of his beast and sack the next morning, and he did so accordingly.The provisions he bought were enough to feed fiftyBrâhmiṇsmorning and evening, as well as his own family. So that day he fedBrâhmiṇsfor the first time in his life. Night came on, and after an adventurous day Kapâlî retired to sleep, but sleep he could not. Meanwhile Subrahmanya was sleeping on the bare verandah outside the house, and he came to the sage and said:—“Holy sage, nearly half the night is spent, and there are only fifteenghaṭikâsmore for the dawn. What shall I do for the morrow for my hungry children? All that I had I have spent. I have not even a morsel of cold rice for the morning.”Subrahmanya showed him some money that he had in his hand, enough to buy a buffalo and a sack of corn in case the great god did not help him, and asked him to spend that night, atleastthe remainder of it, in calm sleep. So Kapâlî, with his heartatease, retired to rest.He had not slept more than tenghaṭikâswhen he dreamt that all his family—his wife and children—were screaming for a mouthful of rice. Suddenly he awoke and cursed his poverty which always made such thoughts dwell uppermost in his mind. There were only fiveghaṭikâsfor the lord of the day to make his appearance in the eastern horizon, and before this could happen he wanted to finish his morning bath and ablutions, and so he went to his garden to bathe at the well. The shed for the buffalo was erected in the garden, and it had been his habit daily before bathing to give fresh straw to his beast. That morning he thought he would be spared that duty. But, wonder of wonders! He saw another buffalo standing there. He cursed his poverty again which made him imagine impossibilities. How could it be possible that his beast should be standing there when he had sold it the previous morning? So he went into the shed and found a real buffalo standing there. He could not believe his eyes, and hastily brought a lamp from his house. It was, however, a real buffalo, and beside it was a sack of corn! His heart leapt with joy, and he ran out to tell his patron, Subrahmanya. But when the latter heard it he said with a disgusted air:—“My dear Kapâlî, why do you care so much? Why do you feel so overjoyed? Take the beast at once with the corn-sack and sell them as you did yesterday.”Kapâlî at once obeyed the orders and changed the money into provisions. Again fiftyBrâhmiṇswere fed the next day too, and nothing was reserved for the third day’s use. Thus it went on in Kapâlî’s house. Every morning he found a buffalo and a sack of corn, which he sold and fedBrâhmiṇswith the proceeds. In this way a month passed. Said Subrahmanya one day:—“My dear Kapâlî, I am your holy father’s disciple, and I would never advise you to do a thing prejudicial to your welfare. When I came to know that you were the son of the great sage, Jñânanidhi, and were leading so wretched a life, I came to see you in order to alleviate your miseries. I have now done so, having pointed out the way to you to live comfortably. Daily must you continue thus. Do as you have been doing for the past month, and never store away anything, for if you reserve a portion all this happiness may fail, and you will have to revert to your former wretched life. I have done my duty towards you. If you become ambitious of hoarding up money this good fortune may desert you.”Kapâlî agreed to follow the advice of the sage to the uttermost detail and requested him to remain in his house. Again said Subrahmanya:—“My son! I have better work before me than living in your house. So please excuse me. Butbefore leaving you, I request you to inform me as to where your sister is. She was a child of two years of age when I saw her twenty years ago. She must be about twenty-two or twenty-three now. Where is she?”Tears trickled down the eyes of Kapâlî when his sister was mentioned. Said he:—“Do not, my patron, think of her. She is lost to the world. I am ashamed to think of her. Why should we think of such a wretch at this happy time?”At once the inscription made by Brahmâ’s nail rushed into Subrahmanya’s mind and he understood what was meant. Said he:—“Never mind; be open and tell me where she is.”Then her brother, Kapâlî, with his eyes still wet with tears, said that his sister, the daughter of the sageJñânanidhi, was leading the worst of lives in an adjoining village, and that her name wasKalyânî.Subrahmanya took leave of Kapâlî and his wife, after blessing his little children and again warning his friend. He had conferred what happiness he could upon his master’s son, and now the thought of reforming his master’s daughter reigned supreme in his heart. He went at once to the village indicated and reached it at about nightfall. After an easy search he found her house and knocked atthe door. The door was at once opened. But on that day she was astonished to see a face such as she could never expect to approach her house.“Do you know me, Kalyânî?” said Subrahmanya, and she in reply said that she did not. He then explained who he was, and when she came to know that it was a disciple of her father that was standing before her she wept most bitterly. The thought that after having been born of such a holy sage, she had adopted so wretched a life, the most shameful in the world, made her miserable at heart. She fell down at his feet and asked to be forgiven. She then explained to him her extreme misery, and the hard necessity which had compelled her to take to her present way of living. He then consoled her and spoke thus:—“My dear daughter! My heart burns within me when I see that necessity has driven you to this wretched life. But I can redeem you if you will only follow my advice. From this night you had better shut your door, and never open it to any other person except to him who brings to you a large measure full of pearls of the first water. You follow this advice for a day and I shall then advise you further.”Being the daughter of a great sage, and having been compelled by necessity to take to a wretched life, she readily consented to follow her father’sdisciple when he promised to redeem her. She bolted the door, and refused admission to anyone unless they brought a large measure full of pearls. Her visitors, fancying that she must have gone mad, went away. The night was almost drawing to a close and all her friends had gone away disappointed. Who was there in the village to give to her one measure full of pearls? But as the nail of Brahmâ had appointed for her such a life as stated, some one was bound to comply with her terms. And as there was no human being who could do so, the god Brahmâ himself assumed the shape of a young man, and, with a measure full of pearls, visited her in the last watch of the night and remained with her.When morning dawned he disappeared, and when Kalyânî explained to the disciple of her father the next morning that after all one person had visited her with a measure full of pearls on the previous night, he was glad to hear of it. He knew that his plan was working well. Said he:—“My dear daughter, you are restored to your former good self hereafter from this day. There are very few people in this world who could afford to give you a measure full of pearls every night. So he that brought you the pearls last night must continue to do so every night, and he shall be hereafter your only husband. No other person must ever hereafter see your face, and you must obey myorders. You must sell all the pearls he brings you every day and convert them into money. This money you should spend in feeding the poor and other charities. None of it must you reserve for the next day, neither must you entertain a desire to hoard up money. The day you fail to follow my advice you will lose your husband, and then you will have to fall back on your former wretched life.”Thus said Subrahmanya, and Kalyânî agreed to strictly follow his injunctions. He then went to live under a tree opposite to her house for a month to see whether his plan was working well, and found it worked admirably.Thus, after having conferred happiness, to the best of his abilities, on the son and daughter of his former master, Subrahmanya took leave of Kalyânî, and with her permission, most reluctantly given, he pursued his pilgrimage.One moonlight night, after a long sleep, Subrahmanya rose up almost at midnight, and hearing the crows crowing he mistook it for the dawn and commenced his journey. He had not proceeded far, when on his way he met a beautiful person coming towards him, with a sack of corn on his head and a bundle of pearls tied up in the end of his upper cloth on his shoulder, leading a buffalo before him.“Who are you, sir, walking thus in this forest?” said Subrahmanya.When thus addressed, the person before him threw down the sack and wept most bitterly.“See, sir, my head is almost become bald by having to bear to Kapâlî’s house a sack of corn every night. This buffalo I lead to Kapâlî’s shed and this bundle of pearls I take to Kalyânî’s house. My nail wrote their fate on their respective heads and by your device I have to supply them with what my nail wrote. When will you relieve me of these troubles?”Thus wept Brahmâ, for it was no other personage. He was the creator and protector of all beings, and when Subrahmanya had pointed out the way for his master’s children, and they had conquered fate, Brahmâtoo wasconquered. So the great god soon gave them eternal felicity and relieved himself of his troubles.1GaṅgâsnânaTuṅgapâna.The Ganges for bath andTuṅga(Tuṅgabhadrâ) for drink.XX.The Brâhmaṇ Priest who became an Amildâr.1In the Karnâta dêśa there reigned a famous king named Châmunḍa, who was served by an household priest, namedGunḍappa, well versed in all the rituals at which he officiated.Châmunḍa, one day, while chewing betel-leaves, thus addressedGunḍappa, who was sitting opposite him:—“My most holy priest, I am greatly pleased at your faithfulness in the discharge of your sacred duties; and you may ask of me now what you wish and I shall grant your request.”The priest elated replied: “I have always had a desire to become theAmildâr2of a district and to exercise power over a number of people; and if your Majesty should grant me this I shall have attained my ambition.”“Agreed,” said the king, and at that time theAmildârshipof Nañjaṅgôḍ happening to be vacant, his Majesty at once appointed his priest to the post, thinking that his priest, who was intelligent in his duties, would do well in the new post. Before he sent him off, however, he gave Gunḍappa three bits of advice:—(1).Mukha kappage irabêku.(2).Ellâru kevianna kachchi mâtan âḍu.(3).ellâr juṭṭu kayyalii irabêku.The meaning of which is:(1). You should always keep a black (i.e.frowning) countenance.(2). When you speak about State affairs you should do it biting the ear (i.e.secretly—close to the ear).(3.) The locks of every one should be in your hand (i.e.you must use your influence and make every one subservient to you).Gunḍappa heard these words so kindly given by the king, and the way in which he listened to them made his Majesty understand that he had taken them to heart. So with a smiling face the king gave the letter containing the appointment toGunḍappa, who returned home with an elated heart.He told his wife about the change that had come over his prospects, and wished to start at once to take charge of the new post. The king and hisofficers at once sent messengers toNañjaṅgôḍinforming the officers of theAmîldârîthat a newly appointedAmîldârwould be coming soon. So they all waited near the gate of the town to pay their respects to the newAmîldârand escort him into it.Gunḍappa started the very next morning to Nañjaṅgôḍ with a bundle containing clean clothes, six by twelve cubits long, on his head. Poor priest! Wherever he saw thekuśagrass on the road, he was drawn to it by its freshness, and kept on storing it up all the way. The sacred grass had become so dear to him, that, though he would have no occasion to use it asAmîldârof Nañjaṅgôḍ, he could not pass by it without gathering some of it. So with his bundle of clothes on his head and his belovedkuśagrass in his hands, Gunḍappa approached the city ofNañjaṅgôḍabout the twentiethghaṭikâof the day.Now, though it was very late in the day, none of the officers, who had come out to receive theAmildârhad returned home to their meals. Everyone was waiting in the gate and when Gunḍappa turned up, no one took him to be anything more than a priest. The bundle on his head and the green ritual grass in his hands proclaimed his vocation. But everyone thought that, as a priest was coming by the very road theAmildârwould take, he might bring news of him—whether he had halted on the road andwould or might be expected before the evening. So the next officer in rank to theAmildârcame to the most reverend priest and asked him whether he had any news of the comingAmildâr; on which our hero put down his bundle and taking out the cover containing the order of his appointment with a handful ofkuśagrass, lest his clothes be polluted if he touched them with his bare hands informed his subordinate that he was himself theAmildâr!All those assembled were astonished to find such a wretched priest appointed to so responsible a post, but when it was made known that Gunḍappa was the newAmildârthe customary music was played and he was escorted in a manner due to his position, into the town. He had been fasting from the morning, and a grand feast was prepared for him in the house of the next senior official, which Gunḍappa entered for a dinner and rest. He there informed the officials that he would be at the office at the twenty-fifthghaṭikâof the evening. From the way in which he issued the order all thought that he was really an able man, and that he had come in the guise of a simple priest in order to find out the real state of his district. So every officer went home, bathed, had his meal in haste and attended at the office.The chief assistant took theAmildârto his house, and entertained his guest as became his position.Gunḍappa, being a priest, was a very good eater, for never for a day in his life had he spent money out of his own pocket on meals, so what reason had he to enquire about the price of provisions? It was at the expense of others he had grown so fat! And doing more than full justice to all the good things, much to the secret amusement of his host and assistant, Gunḍappa rose up from his food, and washed his hands. He then wanted betel-leaves though to ask for these before the host offers them is very impolite. But his subordinate interpreted it as an order from a master and brought the platter containing the necessary nutmeg, mace, nut, leaves, andchuṇam(lime).“Where is the dakshiṇa?”3next asked theAmildâr. His host did not quite understand whether this was meant in earnest or in joke, but before he could solve the question in his mind:—“Where is thedakshiṇâ?” reiterated theAmildâr, and his assistant, thinking that his new superior was prone to taking bribes, at once brought a bag containing 500moharsand placed it in the platter. Now adakshiṇato aBrâhmiṇis not usually more than a couple of rupees, but should anAmildârask for one, his assistant would naturally mistake him, and think he was hinting at a bribe!Gunḍappagreatly pleased at a princelydakshiṇasuch as he had never seen before in all his life, at once opened the bag and counted out every gold piece in it, carefully tying them up in his bundle. He then began to chew his betel, and at one gulp swallowed up all the nutmeg and mace in the platter! All this made his assistant strongly suspect the real nature of the newAmildâr; but then there was the order of the king, and it must be obeyed! Gunḍappa next asked his assistant to go on in advance of him to the office, saying that he would be there himself in aghaṭikâ. The assistant accordingly left a messenger to attend on theAmildâr, and being very anxious to see things in good order, left his house for the office.Gunḍappa now remembered the three bits of advice given by the king, the first of which was that he should always put on, when in office, a black countenance. Now he understood the word “black” in its literal sense, and not in its allegorical one of “frowning,” and, so going into the kitchen, he asked for a lump of charcoal paste. When this was ready he blackened the whole of his face with it, and covering his face with his cloth—as he was ashamed to show it—entered the office. With his face thus blackened and partly covered with a cloth, the newAmildârcame and took his seat. Now and then he would remove the cloth from his eyes to seehow his officers were working, and meanwhile all the clerks and others present were laughing in their sleeves at the queer conduct of their chief.The evening was drawing to a close, and there were certain orders to be signed: so taking them all in his hand the assistant approached theAmildâr, and stood at a respectful distance.Gunḍappa, however, asked him to come nearer, and nearer the assistant came.“Still nearer,” saidGunḍappa, and nearer still came the assistant.The second bit of advice from the king now rushed into theAmildâr’smind that he should bite the ears of his officials when he enquired into State affairs, and asGunḍappa’swant of sense always made him take what was said literally, he opened his mouth and bit the ear of his assistant, while in a muffled voice he asked him whether all his people enjoyed full prosperity! The assistant, now in very fear of his life, roared out that all the people were enjoying the greatest prosperity. ButGunḍappawould not let go his ear till the poor assistant had roared out the answer more than twenty times. The poor wretch’s ear soon began to swell enormously, and leaving the office in disgust, he started to report to the king the insane acts of the newAmildâr.Two out of the three bits of advice from the king had now been duly obeyed, but the third, that thelocks of all the people must be in his hands, remained unfulfilled, and Gunḍappa wished to carry out that also quickly. Night had now set in, and as theAmildârstill remained in his seat, all his officers were compelled to do the same. In this way the tenthghaṭikâof the night approached, and still theAmildârwould not get up, but sat with his black face secured in his cloth, now and then peeping out to see whether they were all asleep or awake. The fact was, he was waiting for an opportunity to have all the locks of his officers in his hand! As soon as all his officers fell asleep he intended to cut off all their locks, as usual understanding the words in their literal sense! At about midnight, never dreaming of the stupid act that theAmildârwas contemplating in his mind, every one fell asleep, and Gunḍappa rose up, and with a pair of scissors cut off all the locks of his officers. He then tied them all up in a bundle and returned to his assistant’s home late at night, where the servants gave him something to eat; after which he started with his bag ofmoharsand bundle of locks to his king to inform him of how well he had obeyed his orders!In the early morning he reached the presence of his Majesty only a nimisha after his assistant had arrived. Seeing theAmildârhe was too afraid to to lodge any complaint, but his swollen ear drew the attention of every eye in the assembly.Gunḍappa now stood before the king with the charcoal on his face and said:—“Most noble king, you ordered me to blacken my face for my new duty. See, I have not even yet removed the dye! You ordered me next only to speak while biting an ear. Look, please, at my assistant’s ear, who stands before you and tell me whether I have not obeyed you!! And as for having the locks of my officers in my hands; why here they are in this bundle!!!”Never had the king seen a similar instance of such stupidity, and the thought that Gunḍappa had shorn so many respectable heads of their locks, and had really bitten the ear of a worthy gentleman, brought much shame to his heart. He begged pardon of the injured man and from that day forward was very careful in the choice of his officers! Poor Gunḍappa was dismissed even from the priestship, and his belly grew lean from having no longer the privilege of eating rich food at others’ cost!1A Kanarese tale related by a risâldâr.2Headman of the village.3Dakshiṇâs(fees given in donation toBrâhmiṇs) are ordinarily given to priests.XXI.The Gardener’s Cunning Wife.In a certain village there lived with his wife a poor gardener who cultivated greens in a small patch in the backyard of his house. They were in thirty little beds, half of which he would water every day. This occupied him from the fifth to the fifteenthghaṭikâ.His wife used to cut a basketful of greens every evening, and he took them in the mornings to sell in the village. The sale brought him a measure or two of rice, and on this the family lived! If he could manage any extra work of an evening he got a few coppers which served to meet their other expenses.Now in that village there was a temple to Kâlî, before which was a fine tank with a mango tree on its bank. The fish in the tank and the mangoes from the tree were dedicated to the goddess, and were strictly forbidden to the villagers. If any one was discovered cutting a mango or catching a fish,he was at once excommunicated from the village. So strict was the prohibition.The gardener was returning home one morning after selling his greens and passed the temple. The mangoes, so carefully guarded by religious protection, were hanging on the tree in great numbers, and the gardener’s eyes fell on them! His mouth watered. He looked round about him, and fortunately there was no one by, at least, as far as his eyes could reach. So he hastily plucked one of the mangoes and with nimble feet descended into the tank to wash it. Just then a most charming shoal of fish met his eyes. These protected dwellers in the tank had no notion of danger, and so were frolicking about at their ease. The gardener looked about him first and finding no one by caught half a dozen stout fish at one plunge of his hand. He hid them and the mango underneath the rice in his basket and returned home, happy in the thought that he had not been caught. Now he had a special delight in fish, and when he reached his house he showed what he brought to his wife and asked her to prepare a dish with the newly caught fish and the never-till-then tasted mango.Meanwhile he had to water his garden, and went to the backyard for the purpose. The watering was done by apikôṭa. He used to run up and down the pole while a friend of his, theson of his neighbour, lifted the water and irrigated the garden.Meanwhile his wife cooked the dish of mango and fish in a pan, and found the flavour so sweet that even while the fish was only half cooked she began to taste one bit of it after another till more than half had already gone down her throat! The dish was at last cooked, and the few remaining slices in the pan were taken off the fire, so she went into the verandah and from thence saw her husband running up and down thepikôṭa. She beckoned to him that the dish was ready and that he should come in and taste it. However, he never noticed her, but kept on running up and down thepikôṭa, and while running up and down he was obliged to wave his hands about, and this his wife mistook as an indication that she might eat up her portion of the dish. At any rate her imagination made her think so; and she went in and ate a slice, and then went out into the verandah again to call her husband who was still running up and down thepikôṭa. Again, her husband, so she thought, waved his hands in permission to go on with her dinner. Again she went in and had another slice. Thus it went on for a fullghaṭikâtill the last slice was consumed.“Alas!” thought she, “With what great eagerness my husband fetched the fish and the mango, and how sadly, out of greediness, have I disappointedhim. Surely his anger will know no bounds when he comes in. I must soon devise some means to save myself.”So she brought the pan in which she cooked the fish and mango out of the house and covered it with another pan of similar size and sat down before it. Then she undid her hair and twisted it about her head until it was dishevelled. She then began to make a great noise. This action by a woman in an illiterate family of low caste is always supposed to indicate a visitation from a goddess and a demon; so when her husband from thepikôṭatree saw the state of his wife, his guilty conscience smote him. The change in his wife alarmed him, and he came down suddenly and stood before her. As soon as she saw him she roared out at him:—“Why have you injured me to-day by plundering my mango and fish? How dare you do such an irreligious act? You shall soon see the results of your impertinence!”“The goddess has come upon my wife most terribly,” thought the poor man. “Her divine power may soon kill her! What shall I do?”So he fell at the feet of the divine visitation as he thought it to be, and said:—“My most holy goddess, your dog of a servant has this day deviated from the straight path.Excuse him this time, and he will never do so a second time.”“Run then with the pan which contains the fruits of your robbery and dip it deep into my tank. Then shall the fish become alive and the mango shall take its place in the tree.”The gardener received the order most submissively, and taking the pan in his hand flew to the tank. There he dipped it in the water and came back to his house fully believing that his sin that day had been forgiven, and that the cooked fish had become alive again and the mango a living one. Thus did the cunning wife save herself from her husband’s wrath!

XIX.The Conquest of Fate.In the Dakshinadêśa there lived a Brâhmiṇ boy who from his childhood was given a very liberal education in Sanskṛit. He had read so much in philosophy that before he reached the sixteenth year of his life he began to despise the pleasures of the world. Everything which he saw was an illusion (mithyâ) to him. So he resolved to renounce the world and to go to a forest, there to meet with some great sage, and pass his days with him in peace and happiness.Having thus made up his mind, he left his home one day without the knowledge of his parents and travelled towards theDandakâranya. After wandering for a long time in that impenetrable forest, and undergoing all the miseries of a wood inhabited only by wild beasts, he reached the banks of the Tuṅgabhadrâ. His sufferings in his wanderings in a forest untrodden by human feet, his loneliness in the midst of wild beasts, his fears whether after all he had not failed in his search for consolation ina preceptor to teach him the higher branches of philosophy, came up one after another before his mind. Dejected and weary, he cast his glance forward as far as it could reach. Was it a reality or only imagination? He saw before him a lonely cottage of leaves (parṇaśâlâ). To a lonely traveller even the appearance of shelter is welcome, so he followed up his vision till it became a reality, and an aged hoary Brâhmiṇ, full fourscore and more in years, welcomed our young philosopher.“What has brought you here, my child, to this lonely forest thus alone?” spoke in a sweet voice the hoary lord of the cottage of leaves.“A thirst for knowledge, so that I may acquire the mastery over the higher branches of philosophy,” was the reply of our young adventurer, whose name was Subrahmanya.“Sit down my child,” said the old sage, much pleased that in this Kaliyuga, which is one long epoch of sin, there was at least one young lad who had forsaken his home for philosophy.Having thus seen our hero safely relieved from falling a prey to the tigers and lions of the Dandakâranya, let us enquire into the story of the old sage. In the good old days even of this Kaliyuga learned people, after fully enjoying the world, retired to the forests, with or without their wives, to pass the decline of life in solemn solitude and contemplation.When they went with their wives they were said to undergo thevânaprasthastage of family life.The hoary sage of our story was undergoingvânaprastha, for he was in the woods with his wife. His name while living was Jñânanidhi. He had built a neatparṇaśâlâ,or cottage of leaves, on the banks of the commingled waters of the Tuṅgâ and Bhadrâ, and here his days and nights were spent in meditation. Though old in years he retained the full vigour of manhood, the result of a well-spent youth. The life of his later years was most simple and sinless.“Remote from man, with God he passed his days;Prayer all his business, all his pleasures praise.”The wood yielded him herbs, fruits, and roots, and the river, proverbial1for its sweet waters, supplied him with drink. He lived, in fact, as simply as the bard who sang:—“But from the mountain’s grassy sideA guiltless feast I bring;A bag with herbs and fruits supplied,And water from the spring.”His faithful wife brought him these, while Jñânanidhi himself devoted his whole time to the contemplation of God.Such was Jñânanidhi—the abode of all wisepeople—to whom the boy-philosopher, Subrahmanya, resorted. After questioning each other both were mightily pleased at the fortune which had brought them together. Jñânanidhi was glad to impart his hard-earned knowledge during his leisure moments to the young student, and Subrahmanya, with that longing which made him renounce the city and take to the woods eagerly swallowed and assimilated whatever was administered to him. He relieved his mother—for as such he regarded his master’s wife—of all her troubles, and used, himself, to go out to bring the fruits, herbs, and roots necessary for the repasts of the little family. Thus passed five years, by which time our young friend had become learned in the many branches of Aryan philosophy.Jñânanidhihad a desire to visit the source of the Tuṅgabhadrâ, but his wife was eight months advanced in her pregnancy. So he could not take her; and to take care of her he had to leave behind his disciple, Subrahmanya. Thus after commending the lady to Subrahmanya’s care, and leaving for female assistance another sage’s wife, whom he had brought from a distant forest, Jñânanidhi went his way.Now, there is a strong belief among Hindus that Brahmâ, the great creator, writes on everyone’s head at the time of his birth his future fortunes in life. He is supposed to do this just at the momentof birth. Of course, the great god when he enters the room to discharge his onerous duty, is invisible to all human eyes. But the eyes of Subrahmanya were not exactly human. The supreme knowledge which Jñânanidhi had imparted to him made it easy for him to discern at once a person entering most impolitely the room in which his master’s wife had been confined.“Let your reverence stop here,” said the disciple angrily though respectfully.The great god shuddered, for he had been in the habit of entering hourly innumerable buildings on his eternal rounds of duty, but never till then had a human being perceived him and asked him to stop. His wonder knew no measure, and as he stood bewildered the following reprimand fell on his ears:“Hoary Brâhmiṇ sage (for so Brahmâ appeared), it is unbecoming your age thus to enter the hut of my master, unallowed by me, who am watching here. My teacher’s wife is ill. Stop!”Brahmâ hastily—for the time of inscribing the future fortune on the forehead of the baby to be born was fast approaching—explained to Subrahmanya who he was and what had brought him there. As soon as our young hero came to know the person who stood before him he rose up, and, tying his upper cloth round his hips as a mark of respect, went round the creator thrice, fell down beforeBrahmâ’s most holy feet and begged his pardon. Brahmâ had not much time. He wanted to go in at once, but our young friend would not leave the god until he explained what he meant to write on the head of the child.“My son!” said Brahmâ, “I myself do not know what my iron nail will write on the head of the child. When the child is born I place the nail on its head, and the instrument writes the fate of the baby in proportion to its good or bad acts in its former life. To delay me is merely wrong. Let me go in.”“Then,” said Subrahmanya, “your holiness must inform me when your holiness goes out what has been written on the child’s head.”“Agreed,” said Brahmâ and went in. After a moment he returned, and our young hero at the door asked the god what his nail had written.“My child!” said Brahmâ, “I will inform you what it wrote; but if you disclose it to anyone your head will split into a thousand pieces. The child is a male child. It has before it a very hard life. A buffalo and a sack of grain will be its livelihood. What is to be done. Perhaps it had not done any good acts in its former life, and as the result of its sin it must undergo miseries now.”“What! Your supreme holiness, the father of this child is a great sage! And is this the fatereserved to the son of a sage?” wept the true disciple of the sage.“What have I to do with the matter? The fruits of acts in a former life must be undergone in the present life. But, remember, if you should reveal this news to any one your head will split into a thousand pieces.”Having said this Brahmâ went away, leaving Subrahmanya extremely pained to hear that the son of a great sage was to have a hard life. He could not even open his lips on the subject, for if he did his head would be split. In sorrow he passed some days, when Jñânanidhi returned from his pilgrimage and was delighted to see his wife and the child doing well, and in the learned company of the old sage our young disciple forgot all his sorrow.Three more years passed away in deep study, and again the old sage wanted to go on a pilgrimage to the sacred source of the Tuṅgabhadrâ. Again was his wife expecting her confinement, and he had to leave her and his disciple behind with the usual temporary female assistance. Again, too, did Brahmâ come at the moment of birth, but found easy admittance as Subrahmanya had now become acquainted with him owing to the previous event. Again did Brahmâ take an oath from him not to communicate the fortunes of the second child, with the curse that if he broke his oath, his head wouldsplit into a thousand pieces. This child was a female, and the nail had written that her fate was to be that of a frivolous woman. Extremely vexed was our young philosopher. The thought vexed him to such a degree, that language has no words to express it. After worrying a great deal he consoled himself with the soothing philosophies of the fatalists, that fate alone governs the world.The old sage in due course returned, and our young disciple spent two more happy years with him. After a little more than ten years had been thus spent the boy reached to five years and the girl to two. The more they advanced in years the more did the recollection of their future pain Subrahmanya. So one morning he humbly requested the old sage to permit him to go on a long journey to the Himâlayas and other mountains, and Jñânanidhi, knowing that all that he knew had been grasped by the young disciple, permitted him with a glad heart to satisfy his curiosity.Our hero started, and after several years, during which he visited several towns and learned men, reached the Himâlayas. There he saw many sages, and lived with them for some time. He did not remain in one place, for his object was more to examine the world. So he went from place to place, and after a long and interesting journey of twenty years he again returned to the banks of the Tuṅgabhadrâ,at the very place where he lived for ten years and imbibed philosophical knowledge fromJñânanidhi. But he saw there neither Jñânanidhi nor his old wife. They had long since fallen a prey to the lord of death. Much afflicted at heart at seeing his master and mistress no more, he went to the nearest town, and there after a deal of search he found a coolie with a single buffalo. The fate which Brahmâ’s nail had written on his master’s son rushed into the mind of Subrahmanya. He approached the coolie, and, on closely examining him from a distance, our hero found distinct indications of his master’s face in the labourer. His grief knew no bounds at seeing the son of a great sage thus earning his livelihood by minding a buffalo. He followed him to his home, and found that he had a wife and two children. One sack of corn he had in his house and no more, from which he took out a portion every day and gave it to his wife to be shelled. The rice was cooked, and with the petty earnings of a coolie, he and his family kept body and soul together. Each time the corn in the sack became exhausted he used to be able to save enough to replenish it again with corn. Thus did he (according to the writing of Brahmâ’s nail) pass his days. Kapâlî was the name of this coolie, the sage’s son.“Do you know me, Kapâlî?” said our hero, as he remembered his name.The coolie was astonished to hear his name so readily pronounced by one who was apparently a stranger to him, but he said:—“I am sorry that I do not know you, Sir.”Subrahmanya then explained to him who he was, and requested him to follow his advice.“My dear son,” said he, “do as I bid you. Early morningto-morrowleave your bed and take to the market your buffalo and the corn sack. Dispose of them for whatever amount they will fetch. Do not think twice about the matter. Buy all that is necessary for a sumptuous meal from the sale proceeds and eat it all up at once without reserving a morsel for the morrow. You will get a great deal more than you can eat in a day; but do not reserve any, even the smallest portion of it. Feed several otherBrâhmiṇswith it. Do not think that I advise you for your ruin. You will see in the end that what your father’s disciple tells you is for your own prosperity.”However, whatever the sage might say, Kapâlî could not bring himself to believe him.“What shall I do to feed my wife and children to-morrow if I sell everything belonging to me to-day?”Thus thought Kapâlî, and consulted his wife.Now she was a very virtuous and intelligent woman. Said she:—“My dear lord, we have heard that your father was a greatmahâtmâ. This disciple must equally be amahâtmâ. His holiness would not advise us to our ruin. Let us follow the sage’sadvice.”WhenKapâlî’swife thus supported the sage, he resolved to dispose of his beast and sack the next morning, and he did so accordingly.The provisions he bought were enough to feed fiftyBrâhmiṇsmorning and evening, as well as his own family. So that day he fedBrâhmiṇsfor the first time in his life. Night came on, and after an adventurous day Kapâlî retired to sleep, but sleep he could not. Meanwhile Subrahmanya was sleeping on the bare verandah outside the house, and he came to the sage and said:—“Holy sage, nearly half the night is spent, and there are only fifteenghaṭikâsmore for the dawn. What shall I do for the morrow for my hungry children? All that I had I have spent. I have not even a morsel of cold rice for the morning.”Subrahmanya showed him some money that he had in his hand, enough to buy a buffalo and a sack of corn in case the great god did not help him, and asked him to spend that night, atleastthe remainder of it, in calm sleep. So Kapâlî, with his heartatease, retired to rest.He had not slept more than tenghaṭikâswhen he dreamt that all his family—his wife and children—were screaming for a mouthful of rice. Suddenly he awoke and cursed his poverty which always made such thoughts dwell uppermost in his mind. There were only fiveghaṭikâsfor the lord of the day to make his appearance in the eastern horizon, and before this could happen he wanted to finish his morning bath and ablutions, and so he went to his garden to bathe at the well. The shed for the buffalo was erected in the garden, and it had been his habit daily before bathing to give fresh straw to his beast. That morning he thought he would be spared that duty. But, wonder of wonders! He saw another buffalo standing there. He cursed his poverty again which made him imagine impossibilities. How could it be possible that his beast should be standing there when he had sold it the previous morning? So he went into the shed and found a real buffalo standing there. He could not believe his eyes, and hastily brought a lamp from his house. It was, however, a real buffalo, and beside it was a sack of corn! His heart leapt with joy, and he ran out to tell his patron, Subrahmanya. But when the latter heard it he said with a disgusted air:—“My dear Kapâlî, why do you care so much? Why do you feel so overjoyed? Take the beast at once with the corn-sack and sell them as you did yesterday.”Kapâlî at once obeyed the orders and changed the money into provisions. Again fiftyBrâhmiṇswere fed the next day too, and nothing was reserved for the third day’s use. Thus it went on in Kapâlî’s house. Every morning he found a buffalo and a sack of corn, which he sold and fedBrâhmiṇswith the proceeds. In this way a month passed. Said Subrahmanya one day:—“My dear Kapâlî, I am your holy father’s disciple, and I would never advise you to do a thing prejudicial to your welfare. When I came to know that you were the son of the great sage, Jñânanidhi, and were leading so wretched a life, I came to see you in order to alleviate your miseries. I have now done so, having pointed out the way to you to live comfortably. Daily must you continue thus. Do as you have been doing for the past month, and never store away anything, for if you reserve a portion all this happiness may fail, and you will have to revert to your former wretched life. I have done my duty towards you. If you become ambitious of hoarding up money this good fortune may desert you.”Kapâlî agreed to follow the advice of the sage to the uttermost detail and requested him to remain in his house. Again said Subrahmanya:—“My son! I have better work before me than living in your house. So please excuse me. Butbefore leaving you, I request you to inform me as to where your sister is. She was a child of two years of age when I saw her twenty years ago. She must be about twenty-two or twenty-three now. Where is she?”Tears trickled down the eyes of Kapâlî when his sister was mentioned. Said he:—“Do not, my patron, think of her. She is lost to the world. I am ashamed to think of her. Why should we think of such a wretch at this happy time?”At once the inscription made by Brahmâ’s nail rushed into Subrahmanya’s mind and he understood what was meant. Said he:—“Never mind; be open and tell me where she is.”Then her brother, Kapâlî, with his eyes still wet with tears, said that his sister, the daughter of the sageJñânanidhi, was leading the worst of lives in an adjoining village, and that her name wasKalyânî.Subrahmanya took leave of Kapâlî and his wife, after blessing his little children and again warning his friend. He had conferred what happiness he could upon his master’s son, and now the thought of reforming his master’s daughter reigned supreme in his heart. He went at once to the village indicated and reached it at about nightfall. After an easy search he found her house and knocked atthe door. The door was at once opened. But on that day she was astonished to see a face such as she could never expect to approach her house.“Do you know me, Kalyânî?” said Subrahmanya, and she in reply said that she did not. He then explained who he was, and when she came to know that it was a disciple of her father that was standing before her she wept most bitterly. The thought that after having been born of such a holy sage, she had adopted so wretched a life, the most shameful in the world, made her miserable at heart. She fell down at his feet and asked to be forgiven. She then explained to him her extreme misery, and the hard necessity which had compelled her to take to her present way of living. He then consoled her and spoke thus:—“My dear daughter! My heart burns within me when I see that necessity has driven you to this wretched life. But I can redeem you if you will only follow my advice. From this night you had better shut your door, and never open it to any other person except to him who brings to you a large measure full of pearls of the first water. You follow this advice for a day and I shall then advise you further.”Being the daughter of a great sage, and having been compelled by necessity to take to a wretched life, she readily consented to follow her father’sdisciple when he promised to redeem her. She bolted the door, and refused admission to anyone unless they brought a large measure full of pearls. Her visitors, fancying that she must have gone mad, went away. The night was almost drawing to a close and all her friends had gone away disappointed. Who was there in the village to give to her one measure full of pearls? But as the nail of Brahmâ had appointed for her such a life as stated, some one was bound to comply with her terms. And as there was no human being who could do so, the god Brahmâ himself assumed the shape of a young man, and, with a measure full of pearls, visited her in the last watch of the night and remained with her.When morning dawned he disappeared, and when Kalyânî explained to the disciple of her father the next morning that after all one person had visited her with a measure full of pearls on the previous night, he was glad to hear of it. He knew that his plan was working well. Said he:—“My dear daughter, you are restored to your former good self hereafter from this day. There are very few people in this world who could afford to give you a measure full of pearls every night. So he that brought you the pearls last night must continue to do so every night, and he shall be hereafter your only husband. No other person must ever hereafter see your face, and you must obey myorders. You must sell all the pearls he brings you every day and convert them into money. This money you should spend in feeding the poor and other charities. None of it must you reserve for the next day, neither must you entertain a desire to hoard up money. The day you fail to follow my advice you will lose your husband, and then you will have to fall back on your former wretched life.”Thus said Subrahmanya, and Kalyânî agreed to strictly follow his injunctions. He then went to live under a tree opposite to her house for a month to see whether his plan was working well, and found it worked admirably.Thus, after having conferred happiness, to the best of his abilities, on the son and daughter of his former master, Subrahmanya took leave of Kalyânî, and with her permission, most reluctantly given, he pursued his pilgrimage.One moonlight night, after a long sleep, Subrahmanya rose up almost at midnight, and hearing the crows crowing he mistook it for the dawn and commenced his journey. He had not proceeded far, when on his way he met a beautiful person coming towards him, with a sack of corn on his head and a bundle of pearls tied up in the end of his upper cloth on his shoulder, leading a buffalo before him.“Who are you, sir, walking thus in this forest?” said Subrahmanya.When thus addressed, the person before him threw down the sack and wept most bitterly.“See, sir, my head is almost become bald by having to bear to Kapâlî’s house a sack of corn every night. This buffalo I lead to Kapâlî’s shed and this bundle of pearls I take to Kalyânî’s house. My nail wrote their fate on their respective heads and by your device I have to supply them with what my nail wrote. When will you relieve me of these troubles?”Thus wept Brahmâ, for it was no other personage. He was the creator and protector of all beings, and when Subrahmanya had pointed out the way for his master’s children, and they had conquered fate, Brahmâtoo wasconquered. So the great god soon gave them eternal felicity and relieved himself of his troubles.1GaṅgâsnânaTuṅgapâna.The Ganges for bath andTuṅga(Tuṅgabhadrâ) for drink.

XIX.The Conquest of Fate.

In the Dakshinadêśa there lived a Brâhmiṇ boy who from his childhood was given a very liberal education in Sanskṛit. He had read so much in philosophy that before he reached the sixteenth year of his life he began to despise the pleasures of the world. Everything which he saw was an illusion (mithyâ) to him. So he resolved to renounce the world and to go to a forest, there to meet with some great sage, and pass his days with him in peace and happiness.Having thus made up his mind, he left his home one day without the knowledge of his parents and travelled towards theDandakâranya. After wandering for a long time in that impenetrable forest, and undergoing all the miseries of a wood inhabited only by wild beasts, he reached the banks of the Tuṅgabhadrâ. His sufferings in his wanderings in a forest untrodden by human feet, his loneliness in the midst of wild beasts, his fears whether after all he had not failed in his search for consolation ina preceptor to teach him the higher branches of philosophy, came up one after another before his mind. Dejected and weary, he cast his glance forward as far as it could reach. Was it a reality or only imagination? He saw before him a lonely cottage of leaves (parṇaśâlâ). To a lonely traveller even the appearance of shelter is welcome, so he followed up his vision till it became a reality, and an aged hoary Brâhmiṇ, full fourscore and more in years, welcomed our young philosopher.“What has brought you here, my child, to this lonely forest thus alone?” spoke in a sweet voice the hoary lord of the cottage of leaves.“A thirst for knowledge, so that I may acquire the mastery over the higher branches of philosophy,” was the reply of our young adventurer, whose name was Subrahmanya.“Sit down my child,” said the old sage, much pleased that in this Kaliyuga, which is one long epoch of sin, there was at least one young lad who had forsaken his home for philosophy.Having thus seen our hero safely relieved from falling a prey to the tigers and lions of the Dandakâranya, let us enquire into the story of the old sage. In the good old days even of this Kaliyuga learned people, after fully enjoying the world, retired to the forests, with or without their wives, to pass the decline of life in solemn solitude and contemplation.When they went with their wives they were said to undergo thevânaprasthastage of family life.The hoary sage of our story was undergoingvânaprastha, for he was in the woods with his wife. His name while living was Jñânanidhi. He had built a neatparṇaśâlâ,or cottage of leaves, on the banks of the commingled waters of the Tuṅgâ and Bhadrâ, and here his days and nights were spent in meditation. Though old in years he retained the full vigour of manhood, the result of a well-spent youth. The life of his later years was most simple and sinless.“Remote from man, with God he passed his days;Prayer all his business, all his pleasures praise.”The wood yielded him herbs, fruits, and roots, and the river, proverbial1for its sweet waters, supplied him with drink. He lived, in fact, as simply as the bard who sang:—“But from the mountain’s grassy sideA guiltless feast I bring;A bag with herbs and fruits supplied,And water from the spring.”His faithful wife brought him these, while Jñânanidhi himself devoted his whole time to the contemplation of God.Such was Jñânanidhi—the abode of all wisepeople—to whom the boy-philosopher, Subrahmanya, resorted. After questioning each other both were mightily pleased at the fortune which had brought them together. Jñânanidhi was glad to impart his hard-earned knowledge during his leisure moments to the young student, and Subrahmanya, with that longing which made him renounce the city and take to the woods eagerly swallowed and assimilated whatever was administered to him. He relieved his mother—for as such he regarded his master’s wife—of all her troubles, and used, himself, to go out to bring the fruits, herbs, and roots necessary for the repasts of the little family. Thus passed five years, by which time our young friend had become learned in the many branches of Aryan philosophy.Jñânanidhihad a desire to visit the source of the Tuṅgabhadrâ, but his wife was eight months advanced in her pregnancy. So he could not take her; and to take care of her he had to leave behind his disciple, Subrahmanya. Thus after commending the lady to Subrahmanya’s care, and leaving for female assistance another sage’s wife, whom he had brought from a distant forest, Jñânanidhi went his way.Now, there is a strong belief among Hindus that Brahmâ, the great creator, writes on everyone’s head at the time of his birth his future fortunes in life. He is supposed to do this just at the momentof birth. Of course, the great god when he enters the room to discharge his onerous duty, is invisible to all human eyes. But the eyes of Subrahmanya were not exactly human. The supreme knowledge which Jñânanidhi had imparted to him made it easy for him to discern at once a person entering most impolitely the room in which his master’s wife had been confined.“Let your reverence stop here,” said the disciple angrily though respectfully.The great god shuddered, for he had been in the habit of entering hourly innumerable buildings on his eternal rounds of duty, but never till then had a human being perceived him and asked him to stop. His wonder knew no measure, and as he stood bewildered the following reprimand fell on his ears:“Hoary Brâhmiṇ sage (for so Brahmâ appeared), it is unbecoming your age thus to enter the hut of my master, unallowed by me, who am watching here. My teacher’s wife is ill. Stop!”Brahmâ hastily—for the time of inscribing the future fortune on the forehead of the baby to be born was fast approaching—explained to Subrahmanya who he was and what had brought him there. As soon as our young hero came to know the person who stood before him he rose up, and, tying his upper cloth round his hips as a mark of respect, went round the creator thrice, fell down beforeBrahmâ’s most holy feet and begged his pardon. Brahmâ had not much time. He wanted to go in at once, but our young friend would not leave the god until he explained what he meant to write on the head of the child.“My son!” said Brahmâ, “I myself do not know what my iron nail will write on the head of the child. When the child is born I place the nail on its head, and the instrument writes the fate of the baby in proportion to its good or bad acts in its former life. To delay me is merely wrong. Let me go in.”“Then,” said Subrahmanya, “your holiness must inform me when your holiness goes out what has been written on the child’s head.”“Agreed,” said Brahmâ and went in. After a moment he returned, and our young hero at the door asked the god what his nail had written.“My child!” said Brahmâ, “I will inform you what it wrote; but if you disclose it to anyone your head will split into a thousand pieces. The child is a male child. It has before it a very hard life. A buffalo and a sack of grain will be its livelihood. What is to be done. Perhaps it had not done any good acts in its former life, and as the result of its sin it must undergo miseries now.”“What! Your supreme holiness, the father of this child is a great sage! And is this the fatereserved to the son of a sage?” wept the true disciple of the sage.“What have I to do with the matter? The fruits of acts in a former life must be undergone in the present life. But, remember, if you should reveal this news to any one your head will split into a thousand pieces.”Having said this Brahmâ went away, leaving Subrahmanya extremely pained to hear that the son of a great sage was to have a hard life. He could not even open his lips on the subject, for if he did his head would be split. In sorrow he passed some days, when Jñânanidhi returned from his pilgrimage and was delighted to see his wife and the child doing well, and in the learned company of the old sage our young disciple forgot all his sorrow.Three more years passed away in deep study, and again the old sage wanted to go on a pilgrimage to the sacred source of the Tuṅgabhadrâ. Again was his wife expecting her confinement, and he had to leave her and his disciple behind with the usual temporary female assistance. Again, too, did Brahmâ come at the moment of birth, but found easy admittance as Subrahmanya had now become acquainted with him owing to the previous event. Again did Brahmâ take an oath from him not to communicate the fortunes of the second child, with the curse that if he broke his oath, his head wouldsplit into a thousand pieces. This child was a female, and the nail had written that her fate was to be that of a frivolous woman. Extremely vexed was our young philosopher. The thought vexed him to such a degree, that language has no words to express it. After worrying a great deal he consoled himself with the soothing philosophies of the fatalists, that fate alone governs the world.The old sage in due course returned, and our young disciple spent two more happy years with him. After a little more than ten years had been thus spent the boy reached to five years and the girl to two. The more they advanced in years the more did the recollection of their future pain Subrahmanya. So one morning he humbly requested the old sage to permit him to go on a long journey to the Himâlayas and other mountains, and Jñânanidhi, knowing that all that he knew had been grasped by the young disciple, permitted him with a glad heart to satisfy his curiosity.Our hero started, and after several years, during which he visited several towns and learned men, reached the Himâlayas. There he saw many sages, and lived with them for some time. He did not remain in one place, for his object was more to examine the world. So he went from place to place, and after a long and interesting journey of twenty years he again returned to the banks of the Tuṅgabhadrâ,at the very place where he lived for ten years and imbibed philosophical knowledge fromJñânanidhi. But he saw there neither Jñânanidhi nor his old wife. They had long since fallen a prey to the lord of death. Much afflicted at heart at seeing his master and mistress no more, he went to the nearest town, and there after a deal of search he found a coolie with a single buffalo. The fate which Brahmâ’s nail had written on his master’s son rushed into the mind of Subrahmanya. He approached the coolie, and, on closely examining him from a distance, our hero found distinct indications of his master’s face in the labourer. His grief knew no bounds at seeing the son of a great sage thus earning his livelihood by minding a buffalo. He followed him to his home, and found that he had a wife and two children. One sack of corn he had in his house and no more, from which he took out a portion every day and gave it to his wife to be shelled. The rice was cooked, and with the petty earnings of a coolie, he and his family kept body and soul together. Each time the corn in the sack became exhausted he used to be able to save enough to replenish it again with corn. Thus did he (according to the writing of Brahmâ’s nail) pass his days. Kapâlî was the name of this coolie, the sage’s son.“Do you know me, Kapâlî?” said our hero, as he remembered his name.The coolie was astonished to hear his name so readily pronounced by one who was apparently a stranger to him, but he said:—“I am sorry that I do not know you, Sir.”Subrahmanya then explained to him who he was, and requested him to follow his advice.“My dear son,” said he, “do as I bid you. Early morningto-morrowleave your bed and take to the market your buffalo and the corn sack. Dispose of them for whatever amount they will fetch. Do not think twice about the matter. Buy all that is necessary for a sumptuous meal from the sale proceeds and eat it all up at once without reserving a morsel for the morrow. You will get a great deal more than you can eat in a day; but do not reserve any, even the smallest portion of it. Feed several otherBrâhmiṇswith it. Do not think that I advise you for your ruin. You will see in the end that what your father’s disciple tells you is for your own prosperity.”However, whatever the sage might say, Kapâlî could not bring himself to believe him.“What shall I do to feed my wife and children to-morrow if I sell everything belonging to me to-day?”Thus thought Kapâlî, and consulted his wife.Now she was a very virtuous and intelligent woman. Said she:—“My dear lord, we have heard that your father was a greatmahâtmâ. This disciple must equally be amahâtmâ. His holiness would not advise us to our ruin. Let us follow the sage’sadvice.”WhenKapâlî’swife thus supported the sage, he resolved to dispose of his beast and sack the next morning, and he did so accordingly.The provisions he bought were enough to feed fiftyBrâhmiṇsmorning and evening, as well as his own family. So that day he fedBrâhmiṇsfor the first time in his life. Night came on, and after an adventurous day Kapâlî retired to sleep, but sleep he could not. Meanwhile Subrahmanya was sleeping on the bare verandah outside the house, and he came to the sage and said:—“Holy sage, nearly half the night is spent, and there are only fifteenghaṭikâsmore for the dawn. What shall I do for the morrow for my hungry children? All that I had I have spent. I have not even a morsel of cold rice for the morning.”Subrahmanya showed him some money that he had in his hand, enough to buy a buffalo and a sack of corn in case the great god did not help him, and asked him to spend that night, atleastthe remainder of it, in calm sleep. So Kapâlî, with his heartatease, retired to rest.He had not slept more than tenghaṭikâswhen he dreamt that all his family—his wife and children—were screaming for a mouthful of rice. Suddenly he awoke and cursed his poverty which always made such thoughts dwell uppermost in his mind. There were only fiveghaṭikâsfor the lord of the day to make his appearance in the eastern horizon, and before this could happen he wanted to finish his morning bath and ablutions, and so he went to his garden to bathe at the well. The shed for the buffalo was erected in the garden, and it had been his habit daily before bathing to give fresh straw to his beast. That morning he thought he would be spared that duty. But, wonder of wonders! He saw another buffalo standing there. He cursed his poverty again which made him imagine impossibilities. How could it be possible that his beast should be standing there when he had sold it the previous morning? So he went into the shed and found a real buffalo standing there. He could not believe his eyes, and hastily brought a lamp from his house. It was, however, a real buffalo, and beside it was a sack of corn! His heart leapt with joy, and he ran out to tell his patron, Subrahmanya. But when the latter heard it he said with a disgusted air:—“My dear Kapâlî, why do you care so much? Why do you feel so overjoyed? Take the beast at once with the corn-sack and sell them as you did yesterday.”Kapâlî at once obeyed the orders and changed the money into provisions. Again fiftyBrâhmiṇswere fed the next day too, and nothing was reserved for the third day’s use. Thus it went on in Kapâlî’s house. Every morning he found a buffalo and a sack of corn, which he sold and fedBrâhmiṇswith the proceeds. In this way a month passed. Said Subrahmanya one day:—“My dear Kapâlî, I am your holy father’s disciple, and I would never advise you to do a thing prejudicial to your welfare. When I came to know that you were the son of the great sage, Jñânanidhi, and were leading so wretched a life, I came to see you in order to alleviate your miseries. I have now done so, having pointed out the way to you to live comfortably. Daily must you continue thus. Do as you have been doing for the past month, and never store away anything, for if you reserve a portion all this happiness may fail, and you will have to revert to your former wretched life. I have done my duty towards you. If you become ambitious of hoarding up money this good fortune may desert you.”Kapâlî agreed to follow the advice of the sage to the uttermost detail and requested him to remain in his house. Again said Subrahmanya:—“My son! I have better work before me than living in your house. So please excuse me. Butbefore leaving you, I request you to inform me as to where your sister is. She was a child of two years of age when I saw her twenty years ago. She must be about twenty-two or twenty-three now. Where is she?”Tears trickled down the eyes of Kapâlî when his sister was mentioned. Said he:—“Do not, my patron, think of her. She is lost to the world. I am ashamed to think of her. Why should we think of such a wretch at this happy time?”At once the inscription made by Brahmâ’s nail rushed into Subrahmanya’s mind and he understood what was meant. Said he:—“Never mind; be open and tell me where she is.”Then her brother, Kapâlî, with his eyes still wet with tears, said that his sister, the daughter of the sageJñânanidhi, was leading the worst of lives in an adjoining village, and that her name wasKalyânî.Subrahmanya took leave of Kapâlî and his wife, after blessing his little children and again warning his friend. He had conferred what happiness he could upon his master’s son, and now the thought of reforming his master’s daughter reigned supreme in his heart. He went at once to the village indicated and reached it at about nightfall. After an easy search he found her house and knocked atthe door. The door was at once opened. But on that day she was astonished to see a face such as she could never expect to approach her house.“Do you know me, Kalyânî?” said Subrahmanya, and she in reply said that she did not. He then explained who he was, and when she came to know that it was a disciple of her father that was standing before her she wept most bitterly. The thought that after having been born of such a holy sage, she had adopted so wretched a life, the most shameful in the world, made her miserable at heart. She fell down at his feet and asked to be forgiven. She then explained to him her extreme misery, and the hard necessity which had compelled her to take to her present way of living. He then consoled her and spoke thus:—“My dear daughter! My heart burns within me when I see that necessity has driven you to this wretched life. But I can redeem you if you will only follow my advice. From this night you had better shut your door, and never open it to any other person except to him who brings to you a large measure full of pearls of the first water. You follow this advice for a day and I shall then advise you further.”Being the daughter of a great sage, and having been compelled by necessity to take to a wretched life, she readily consented to follow her father’sdisciple when he promised to redeem her. She bolted the door, and refused admission to anyone unless they brought a large measure full of pearls. Her visitors, fancying that she must have gone mad, went away. The night was almost drawing to a close and all her friends had gone away disappointed. Who was there in the village to give to her one measure full of pearls? But as the nail of Brahmâ had appointed for her such a life as stated, some one was bound to comply with her terms. And as there was no human being who could do so, the god Brahmâ himself assumed the shape of a young man, and, with a measure full of pearls, visited her in the last watch of the night and remained with her.When morning dawned he disappeared, and when Kalyânî explained to the disciple of her father the next morning that after all one person had visited her with a measure full of pearls on the previous night, he was glad to hear of it. He knew that his plan was working well. Said he:—“My dear daughter, you are restored to your former good self hereafter from this day. There are very few people in this world who could afford to give you a measure full of pearls every night. So he that brought you the pearls last night must continue to do so every night, and he shall be hereafter your only husband. No other person must ever hereafter see your face, and you must obey myorders. You must sell all the pearls he brings you every day and convert them into money. This money you should spend in feeding the poor and other charities. None of it must you reserve for the next day, neither must you entertain a desire to hoard up money. The day you fail to follow my advice you will lose your husband, and then you will have to fall back on your former wretched life.”Thus said Subrahmanya, and Kalyânî agreed to strictly follow his injunctions. He then went to live under a tree opposite to her house for a month to see whether his plan was working well, and found it worked admirably.Thus, after having conferred happiness, to the best of his abilities, on the son and daughter of his former master, Subrahmanya took leave of Kalyânî, and with her permission, most reluctantly given, he pursued his pilgrimage.One moonlight night, after a long sleep, Subrahmanya rose up almost at midnight, and hearing the crows crowing he mistook it for the dawn and commenced his journey. He had not proceeded far, when on his way he met a beautiful person coming towards him, with a sack of corn on his head and a bundle of pearls tied up in the end of his upper cloth on his shoulder, leading a buffalo before him.“Who are you, sir, walking thus in this forest?” said Subrahmanya.When thus addressed, the person before him threw down the sack and wept most bitterly.“See, sir, my head is almost become bald by having to bear to Kapâlî’s house a sack of corn every night. This buffalo I lead to Kapâlî’s shed and this bundle of pearls I take to Kalyânî’s house. My nail wrote their fate on their respective heads and by your device I have to supply them with what my nail wrote. When will you relieve me of these troubles?”Thus wept Brahmâ, for it was no other personage. He was the creator and protector of all beings, and when Subrahmanya had pointed out the way for his master’s children, and they had conquered fate, Brahmâtoo wasconquered. So the great god soon gave them eternal felicity and relieved himself of his troubles.

In the Dakshinadêśa there lived a Brâhmiṇ boy who from his childhood was given a very liberal education in Sanskṛit. He had read so much in philosophy that before he reached the sixteenth year of his life he began to despise the pleasures of the world. Everything which he saw was an illusion (mithyâ) to him. So he resolved to renounce the world and to go to a forest, there to meet with some great sage, and pass his days with him in peace and happiness.

Having thus made up his mind, he left his home one day without the knowledge of his parents and travelled towards theDandakâranya. After wandering for a long time in that impenetrable forest, and undergoing all the miseries of a wood inhabited only by wild beasts, he reached the banks of the Tuṅgabhadrâ. His sufferings in his wanderings in a forest untrodden by human feet, his loneliness in the midst of wild beasts, his fears whether after all he had not failed in his search for consolation ina preceptor to teach him the higher branches of philosophy, came up one after another before his mind. Dejected and weary, he cast his glance forward as far as it could reach. Was it a reality or only imagination? He saw before him a lonely cottage of leaves (parṇaśâlâ). To a lonely traveller even the appearance of shelter is welcome, so he followed up his vision till it became a reality, and an aged hoary Brâhmiṇ, full fourscore and more in years, welcomed our young philosopher.

“What has brought you here, my child, to this lonely forest thus alone?” spoke in a sweet voice the hoary lord of the cottage of leaves.

“A thirst for knowledge, so that I may acquire the mastery over the higher branches of philosophy,” was the reply of our young adventurer, whose name was Subrahmanya.

“Sit down my child,” said the old sage, much pleased that in this Kaliyuga, which is one long epoch of sin, there was at least one young lad who had forsaken his home for philosophy.

Having thus seen our hero safely relieved from falling a prey to the tigers and lions of the Dandakâranya, let us enquire into the story of the old sage. In the good old days even of this Kaliyuga learned people, after fully enjoying the world, retired to the forests, with or without their wives, to pass the decline of life in solemn solitude and contemplation.When they went with their wives they were said to undergo thevânaprasthastage of family life.

The hoary sage of our story was undergoingvânaprastha, for he was in the woods with his wife. His name while living was Jñânanidhi. He had built a neatparṇaśâlâ,or cottage of leaves, on the banks of the commingled waters of the Tuṅgâ and Bhadrâ, and here his days and nights were spent in meditation. Though old in years he retained the full vigour of manhood, the result of a well-spent youth. The life of his later years was most simple and sinless.

“Remote from man, with God he passed his days;Prayer all his business, all his pleasures praise.”

“Remote from man, with God he passed his days;

Prayer all his business, all his pleasures praise.”

The wood yielded him herbs, fruits, and roots, and the river, proverbial1for its sweet waters, supplied him with drink. He lived, in fact, as simply as the bard who sang:—

“But from the mountain’s grassy sideA guiltless feast I bring;A bag with herbs and fruits supplied,And water from the spring.”

“But from the mountain’s grassy side

A guiltless feast I bring;

A bag with herbs and fruits supplied,

And water from the spring.”

His faithful wife brought him these, while Jñânanidhi himself devoted his whole time to the contemplation of God.

Such was Jñânanidhi—the abode of all wisepeople—to whom the boy-philosopher, Subrahmanya, resorted. After questioning each other both were mightily pleased at the fortune which had brought them together. Jñânanidhi was glad to impart his hard-earned knowledge during his leisure moments to the young student, and Subrahmanya, with that longing which made him renounce the city and take to the woods eagerly swallowed and assimilated whatever was administered to him. He relieved his mother—for as such he regarded his master’s wife—of all her troubles, and used, himself, to go out to bring the fruits, herbs, and roots necessary for the repasts of the little family. Thus passed five years, by which time our young friend had become learned in the many branches of Aryan philosophy.

Jñânanidhihad a desire to visit the source of the Tuṅgabhadrâ, but his wife was eight months advanced in her pregnancy. So he could not take her; and to take care of her he had to leave behind his disciple, Subrahmanya. Thus after commending the lady to Subrahmanya’s care, and leaving for female assistance another sage’s wife, whom he had brought from a distant forest, Jñânanidhi went his way.

Now, there is a strong belief among Hindus that Brahmâ, the great creator, writes on everyone’s head at the time of his birth his future fortunes in life. He is supposed to do this just at the momentof birth. Of course, the great god when he enters the room to discharge his onerous duty, is invisible to all human eyes. But the eyes of Subrahmanya were not exactly human. The supreme knowledge which Jñânanidhi had imparted to him made it easy for him to discern at once a person entering most impolitely the room in which his master’s wife had been confined.

“Let your reverence stop here,” said the disciple angrily though respectfully.

The great god shuddered, for he had been in the habit of entering hourly innumerable buildings on his eternal rounds of duty, but never till then had a human being perceived him and asked him to stop. His wonder knew no measure, and as he stood bewildered the following reprimand fell on his ears:

“Hoary Brâhmiṇ sage (for so Brahmâ appeared), it is unbecoming your age thus to enter the hut of my master, unallowed by me, who am watching here. My teacher’s wife is ill. Stop!”

Brahmâ hastily—for the time of inscribing the future fortune on the forehead of the baby to be born was fast approaching—explained to Subrahmanya who he was and what had brought him there. As soon as our young hero came to know the person who stood before him he rose up, and, tying his upper cloth round his hips as a mark of respect, went round the creator thrice, fell down beforeBrahmâ’s most holy feet and begged his pardon. Brahmâ had not much time. He wanted to go in at once, but our young friend would not leave the god until he explained what he meant to write on the head of the child.

“My son!” said Brahmâ, “I myself do not know what my iron nail will write on the head of the child. When the child is born I place the nail on its head, and the instrument writes the fate of the baby in proportion to its good or bad acts in its former life. To delay me is merely wrong. Let me go in.”

“Then,” said Subrahmanya, “your holiness must inform me when your holiness goes out what has been written on the child’s head.”

“Agreed,” said Brahmâ and went in. After a moment he returned, and our young hero at the door asked the god what his nail had written.

“My child!” said Brahmâ, “I will inform you what it wrote; but if you disclose it to anyone your head will split into a thousand pieces. The child is a male child. It has before it a very hard life. A buffalo and a sack of grain will be its livelihood. What is to be done. Perhaps it had not done any good acts in its former life, and as the result of its sin it must undergo miseries now.”

“What! Your supreme holiness, the father of this child is a great sage! And is this the fatereserved to the son of a sage?” wept the true disciple of the sage.

“What have I to do with the matter? The fruits of acts in a former life must be undergone in the present life. But, remember, if you should reveal this news to any one your head will split into a thousand pieces.”

Having said this Brahmâ went away, leaving Subrahmanya extremely pained to hear that the son of a great sage was to have a hard life. He could not even open his lips on the subject, for if he did his head would be split. In sorrow he passed some days, when Jñânanidhi returned from his pilgrimage and was delighted to see his wife and the child doing well, and in the learned company of the old sage our young disciple forgot all his sorrow.

Three more years passed away in deep study, and again the old sage wanted to go on a pilgrimage to the sacred source of the Tuṅgabhadrâ. Again was his wife expecting her confinement, and he had to leave her and his disciple behind with the usual temporary female assistance. Again, too, did Brahmâ come at the moment of birth, but found easy admittance as Subrahmanya had now become acquainted with him owing to the previous event. Again did Brahmâ take an oath from him not to communicate the fortunes of the second child, with the curse that if he broke his oath, his head wouldsplit into a thousand pieces. This child was a female, and the nail had written that her fate was to be that of a frivolous woman. Extremely vexed was our young philosopher. The thought vexed him to such a degree, that language has no words to express it. After worrying a great deal he consoled himself with the soothing philosophies of the fatalists, that fate alone governs the world.

The old sage in due course returned, and our young disciple spent two more happy years with him. After a little more than ten years had been thus spent the boy reached to five years and the girl to two. The more they advanced in years the more did the recollection of their future pain Subrahmanya. So one morning he humbly requested the old sage to permit him to go on a long journey to the Himâlayas and other mountains, and Jñânanidhi, knowing that all that he knew had been grasped by the young disciple, permitted him with a glad heart to satisfy his curiosity.

Our hero started, and after several years, during which he visited several towns and learned men, reached the Himâlayas. There he saw many sages, and lived with them for some time. He did not remain in one place, for his object was more to examine the world. So he went from place to place, and after a long and interesting journey of twenty years he again returned to the banks of the Tuṅgabhadrâ,at the very place where he lived for ten years and imbibed philosophical knowledge fromJñânanidhi. But he saw there neither Jñânanidhi nor his old wife. They had long since fallen a prey to the lord of death. Much afflicted at heart at seeing his master and mistress no more, he went to the nearest town, and there after a deal of search he found a coolie with a single buffalo. The fate which Brahmâ’s nail had written on his master’s son rushed into the mind of Subrahmanya. He approached the coolie, and, on closely examining him from a distance, our hero found distinct indications of his master’s face in the labourer. His grief knew no bounds at seeing the son of a great sage thus earning his livelihood by minding a buffalo. He followed him to his home, and found that he had a wife and two children. One sack of corn he had in his house and no more, from which he took out a portion every day and gave it to his wife to be shelled. The rice was cooked, and with the petty earnings of a coolie, he and his family kept body and soul together. Each time the corn in the sack became exhausted he used to be able to save enough to replenish it again with corn. Thus did he (according to the writing of Brahmâ’s nail) pass his days. Kapâlî was the name of this coolie, the sage’s son.

“Do you know me, Kapâlî?” said our hero, as he remembered his name.

The coolie was astonished to hear his name so readily pronounced by one who was apparently a stranger to him, but he said:—

“I am sorry that I do not know you, Sir.”

Subrahmanya then explained to him who he was, and requested him to follow his advice.

“My dear son,” said he, “do as I bid you. Early morningto-morrowleave your bed and take to the market your buffalo and the corn sack. Dispose of them for whatever amount they will fetch. Do not think twice about the matter. Buy all that is necessary for a sumptuous meal from the sale proceeds and eat it all up at once without reserving a morsel for the morrow. You will get a great deal more than you can eat in a day; but do not reserve any, even the smallest portion of it. Feed several otherBrâhmiṇswith it. Do not think that I advise you for your ruin. You will see in the end that what your father’s disciple tells you is for your own prosperity.”

However, whatever the sage might say, Kapâlî could not bring himself to believe him.

“What shall I do to feed my wife and children to-morrow if I sell everything belonging to me to-day?”

Thus thought Kapâlî, and consulted his wife.

Now she was a very virtuous and intelligent woman. Said she:—

“My dear lord, we have heard that your father was a greatmahâtmâ. This disciple must equally be amahâtmâ. His holiness would not advise us to our ruin. Let us follow the sage’sadvice.”

WhenKapâlî’swife thus supported the sage, he resolved to dispose of his beast and sack the next morning, and he did so accordingly.The provisions he bought were enough to feed fiftyBrâhmiṇsmorning and evening, as well as his own family. So that day he fedBrâhmiṇsfor the first time in his life. Night came on, and after an adventurous day Kapâlî retired to sleep, but sleep he could not. Meanwhile Subrahmanya was sleeping on the bare verandah outside the house, and he came to the sage and said:—

“Holy sage, nearly half the night is spent, and there are only fifteenghaṭikâsmore for the dawn. What shall I do for the morrow for my hungry children? All that I had I have spent. I have not even a morsel of cold rice for the morning.”

Subrahmanya showed him some money that he had in his hand, enough to buy a buffalo and a sack of corn in case the great god did not help him, and asked him to spend that night, atleastthe remainder of it, in calm sleep. So Kapâlî, with his heartatease, retired to rest.

He had not slept more than tenghaṭikâswhen he dreamt that all his family—his wife and children—were screaming for a mouthful of rice. Suddenly he awoke and cursed his poverty which always made such thoughts dwell uppermost in his mind. There were only fiveghaṭikâsfor the lord of the day to make his appearance in the eastern horizon, and before this could happen he wanted to finish his morning bath and ablutions, and so he went to his garden to bathe at the well. The shed for the buffalo was erected in the garden, and it had been his habit daily before bathing to give fresh straw to his beast. That morning he thought he would be spared that duty. But, wonder of wonders! He saw another buffalo standing there. He cursed his poverty again which made him imagine impossibilities. How could it be possible that his beast should be standing there when he had sold it the previous morning? So he went into the shed and found a real buffalo standing there. He could not believe his eyes, and hastily brought a lamp from his house. It was, however, a real buffalo, and beside it was a sack of corn! His heart leapt with joy, and he ran out to tell his patron, Subrahmanya. But when the latter heard it he said with a disgusted air:—

“My dear Kapâlî, why do you care so much? Why do you feel so overjoyed? Take the beast at once with the corn-sack and sell them as you did yesterday.”

Kapâlî at once obeyed the orders and changed the money into provisions. Again fiftyBrâhmiṇswere fed the next day too, and nothing was reserved for the third day’s use. Thus it went on in Kapâlî’s house. Every morning he found a buffalo and a sack of corn, which he sold and fedBrâhmiṇswith the proceeds. In this way a month passed. Said Subrahmanya one day:—

“My dear Kapâlî, I am your holy father’s disciple, and I would never advise you to do a thing prejudicial to your welfare. When I came to know that you were the son of the great sage, Jñânanidhi, and were leading so wretched a life, I came to see you in order to alleviate your miseries. I have now done so, having pointed out the way to you to live comfortably. Daily must you continue thus. Do as you have been doing for the past month, and never store away anything, for if you reserve a portion all this happiness may fail, and you will have to revert to your former wretched life. I have done my duty towards you. If you become ambitious of hoarding up money this good fortune may desert you.”

Kapâlî agreed to follow the advice of the sage to the uttermost detail and requested him to remain in his house. Again said Subrahmanya:—

“My son! I have better work before me than living in your house. So please excuse me. Butbefore leaving you, I request you to inform me as to where your sister is. She was a child of two years of age when I saw her twenty years ago. She must be about twenty-two or twenty-three now. Where is she?”

Tears trickled down the eyes of Kapâlî when his sister was mentioned. Said he:—

“Do not, my patron, think of her. She is lost to the world. I am ashamed to think of her. Why should we think of such a wretch at this happy time?”

At once the inscription made by Brahmâ’s nail rushed into Subrahmanya’s mind and he understood what was meant. Said he:—

“Never mind; be open and tell me where she is.”

Then her brother, Kapâlî, with his eyes still wet with tears, said that his sister, the daughter of the sageJñânanidhi, was leading the worst of lives in an adjoining village, and that her name wasKalyânî.

Subrahmanya took leave of Kapâlî and his wife, after blessing his little children and again warning his friend. He had conferred what happiness he could upon his master’s son, and now the thought of reforming his master’s daughter reigned supreme in his heart. He went at once to the village indicated and reached it at about nightfall. After an easy search he found her house and knocked atthe door. The door was at once opened. But on that day she was astonished to see a face such as she could never expect to approach her house.

“Do you know me, Kalyânî?” said Subrahmanya, and she in reply said that she did not. He then explained who he was, and when she came to know that it was a disciple of her father that was standing before her she wept most bitterly. The thought that after having been born of such a holy sage, she had adopted so wretched a life, the most shameful in the world, made her miserable at heart. She fell down at his feet and asked to be forgiven. She then explained to him her extreme misery, and the hard necessity which had compelled her to take to her present way of living. He then consoled her and spoke thus:—

“My dear daughter! My heart burns within me when I see that necessity has driven you to this wretched life. But I can redeem you if you will only follow my advice. From this night you had better shut your door, and never open it to any other person except to him who brings to you a large measure full of pearls of the first water. You follow this advice for a day and I shall then advise you further.”

Being the daughter of a great sage, and having been compelled by necessity to take to a wretched life, she readily consented to follow her father’sdisciple when he promised to redeem her. She bolted the door, and refused admission to anyone unless they brought a large measure full of pearls. Her visitors, fancying that she must have gone mad, went away. The night was almost drawing to a close and all her friends had gone away disappointed. Who was there in the village to give to her one measure full of pearls? But as the nail of Brahmâ had appointed for her such a life as stated, some one was bound to comply with her terms. And as there was no human being who could do so, the god Brahmâ himself assumed the shape of a young man, and, with a measure full of pearls, visited her in the last watch of the night and remained with her.

When morning dawned he disappeared, and when Kalyânî explained to the disciple of her father the next morning that after all one person had visited her with a measure full of pearls on the previous night, he was glad to hear of it. He knew that his plan was working well. Said he:—

“My dear daughter, you are restored to your former good self hereafter from this day. There are very few people in this world who could afford to give you a measure full of pearls every night. So he that brought you the pearls last night must continue to do so every night, and he shall be hereafter your only husband. No other person must ever hereafter see your face, and you must obey myorders. You must sell all the pearls he brings you every day and convert them into money. This money you should spend in feeding the poor and other charities. None of it must you reserve for the next day, neither must you entertain a desire to hoard up money. The day you fail to follow my advice you will lose your husband, and then you will have to fall back on your former wretched life.”

Thus said Subrahmanya, and Kalyânî agreed to strictly follow his injunctions. He then went to live under a tree opposite to her house for a month to see whether his plan was working well, and found it worked admirably.

Thus, after having conferred happiness, to the best of his abilities, on the son and daughter of his former master, Subrahmanya took leave of Kalyânî, and with her permission, most reluctantly given, he pursued his pilgrimage.

One moonlight night, after a long sleep, Subrahmanya rose up almost at midnight, and hearing the crows crowing he mistook it for the dawn and commenced his journey. He had not proceeded far, when on his way he met a beautiful person coming towards him, with a sack of corn on his head and a bundle of pearls tied up in the end of his upper cloth on his shoulder, leading a buffalo before him.

“Who are you, sir, walking thus in this forest?” said Subrahmanya.

When thus addressed, the person before him threw down the sack and wept most bitterly.

“See, sir, my head is almost become bald by having to bear to Kapâlî’s house a sack of corn every night. This buffalo I lead to Kapâlî’s shed and this bundle of pearls I take to Kalyânî’s house. My nail wrote their fate on their respective heads and by your device I have to supply them with what my nail wrote. When will you relieve me of these troubles?”

Thus wept Brahmâ, for it was no other personage. He was the creator and protector of all beings, and when Subrahmanya had pointed out the way for his master’s children, and they had conquered fate, Brahmâtoo wasconquered. So the great god soon gave them eternal felicity and relieved himself of his troubles.

1GaṅgâsnânaTuṅgapâna.The Ganges for bath andTuṅga(Tuṅgabhadrâ) for drink.

1GaṅgâsnânaTuṅgapâna.The Ganges for bath andTuṅga(Tuṅgabhadrâ) for drink.

XX.The Brâhmaṇ Priest who became an Amildâr.1In the Karnâta dêśa there reigned a famous king named Châmunḍa, who was served by an household priest, namedGunḍappa, well versed in all the rituals at which he officiated.Châmunḍa, one day, while chewing betel-leaves, thus addressedGunḍappa, who was sitting opposite him:—“My most holy priest, I am greatly pleased at your faithfulness in the discharge of your sacred duties; and you may ask of me now what you wish and I shall grant your request.”The priest elated replied: “I have always had a desire to become theAmildâr2of a district and to exercise power over a number of people; and if your Majesty should grant me this I shall have attained my ambition.”“Agreed,” said the king, and at that time theAmildârshipof Nañjaṅgôḍ happening to be vacant, his Majesty at once appointed his priest to the post, thinking that his priest, who was intelligent in his duties, would do well in the new post. Before he sent him off, however, he gave Gunḍappa three bits of advice:—(1).Mukha kappage irabêku.(2).Ellâru kevianna kachchi mâtan âḍu.(3).ellâr juṭṭu kayyalii irabêku.The meaning of which is:(1). You should always keep a black (i.e.frowning) countenance.(2). When you speak about State affairs you should do it biting the ear (i.e.secretly—close to the ear).(3.) The locks of every one should be in your hand (i.e.you must use your influence and make every one subservient to you).Gunḍappa heard these words so kindly given by the king, and the way in which he listened to them made his Majesty understand that he had taken them to heart. So with a smiling face the king gave the letter containing the appointment toGunḍappa, who returned home with an elated heart.He told his wife about the change that had come over his prospects, and wished to start at once to take charge of the new post. The king and hisofficers at once sent messengers toNañjaṅgôḍinforming the officers of theAmîldârîthat a newly appointedAmîldârwould be coming soon. So they all waited near the gate of the town to pay their respects to the newAmîldârand escort him into it.Gunḍappa started the very next morning to Nañjaṅgôḍ with a bundle containing clean clothes, six by twelve cubits long, on his head. Poor priest! Wherever he saw thekuśagrass on the road, he was drawn to it by its freshness, and kept on storing it up all the way. The sacred grass had become so dear to him, that, though he would have no occasion to use it asAmîldârof Nañjaṅgôḍ, he could not pass by it without gathering some of it. So with his bundle of clothes on his head and his belovedkuśagrass in his hands, Gunḍappa approached the city ofNañjaṅgôḍabout the twentiethghaṭikâof the day.Now, though it was very late in the day, none of the officers, who had come out to receive theAmildârhad returned home to their meals. Everyone was waiting in the gate and when Gunḍappa turned up, no one took him to be anything more than a priest. The bundle on his head and the green ritual grass in his hands proclaimed his vocation. But everyone thought that, as a priest was coming by the very road theAmildârwould take, he might bring news of him—whether he had halted on the road andwould or might be expected before the evening. So the next officer in rank to theAmildârcame to the most reverend priest and asked him whether he had any news of the comingAmildâr; on which our hero put down his bundle and taking out the cover containing the order of his appointment with a handful ofkuśagrass, lest his clothes be polluted if he touched them with his bare hands informed his subordinate that he was himself theAmildâr!All those assembled were astonished to find such a wretched priest appointed to so responsible a post, but when it was made known that Gunḍappa was the newAmildârthe customary music was played and he was escorted in a manner due to his position, into the town. He had been fasting from the morning, and a grand feast was prepared for him in the house of the next senior official, which Gunḍappa entered for a dinner and rest. He there informed the officials that he would be at the office at the twenty-fifthghaṭikâof the evening. From the way in which he issued the order all thought that he was really an able man, and that he had come in the guise of a simple priest in order to find out the real state of his district. So every officer went home, bathed, had his meal in haste and attended at the office.The chief assistant took theAmildârto his house, and entertained his guest as became his position.Gunḍappa, being a priest, was a very good eater, for never for a day in his life had he spent money out of his own pocket on meals, so what reason had he to enquire about the price of provisions? It was at the expense of others he had grown so fat! And doing more than full justice to all the good things, much to the secret amusement of his host and assistant, Gunḍappa rose up from his food, and washed his hands. He then wanted betel-leaves though to ask for these before the host offers them is very impolite. But his subordinate interpreted it as an order from a master and brought the platter containing the necessary nutmeg, mace, nut, leaves, andchuṇam(lime).“Where is the dakshiṇa?”3next asked theAmildâr. His host did not quite understand whether this was meant in earnest or in joke, but before he could solve the question in his mind:—“Where is thedakshiṇâ?” reiterated theAmildâr, and his assistant, thinking that his new superior was prone to taking bribes, at once brought a bag containing 500moharsand placed it in the platter. Now adakshiṇato aBrâhmiṇis not usually more than a couple of rupees, but should anAmildârask for one, his assistant would naturally mistake him, and think he was hinting at a bribe!Gunḍappagreatly pleased at a princelydakshiṇasuch as he had never seen before in all his life, at once opened the bag and counted out every gold piece in it, carefully tying them up in his bundle. He then began to chew his betel, and at one gulp swallowed up all the nutmeg and mace in the platter! All this made his assistant strongly suspect the real nature of the newAmildâr; but then there was the order of the king, and it must be obeyed! Gunḍappa next asked his assistant to go on in advance of him to the office, saying that he would be there himself in aghaṭikâ. The assistant accordingly left a messenger to attend on theAmildâr, and being very anxious to see things in good order, left his house for the office.Gunḍappa now remembered the three bits of advice given by the king, the first of which was that he should always put on, when in office, a black countenance. Now he understood the word “black” in its literal sense, and not in its allegorical one of “frowning,” and, so going into the kitchen, he asked for a lump of charcoal paste. When this was ready he blackened the whole of his face with it, and covering his face with his cloth—as he was ashamed to show it—entered the office. With his face thus blackened and partly covered with a cloth, the newAmildârcame and took his seat. Now and then he would remove the cloth from his eyes to seehow his officers were working, and meanwhile all the clerks and others present were laughing in their sleeves at the queer conduct of their chief.The evening was drawing to a close, and there were certain orders to be signed: so taking them all in his hand the assistant approached theAmildâr, and stood at a respectful distance.Gunḍappa, however, asked him to come nearer, and nearer the assistant came.“Still nearer,” saidGunḍappa, and nearer still came the assistant.The second bit of advice from the king now rushed into theAmildâr’smind that he should bite the ears of his officials when he enquired into State affairs, and asGunḍappa’swant of sense always made him take what was said literally, he opened his mouth and bit the ear of his assistant, while in a muffled voice he asked him whether all his people enjoyed full prosperity! The assistant, now in very fear of his life, roared out that all the people were enjoying the greatest prosperity. ButGunḍappawould not let go his ear till the poor assistant had roared out the answer more than twenty times. The poor wretch’s ear soon began to swell enormously, and leaving the office in disgust, he started to report to the king the insane acts of the newAmildâr.Two out of the three bits of advice from the king had now been duly obeyed, but the third, that thelocks of all the people must be in his hands, remained unfulfilled, and Gunḍappa wished to carry out that also quickly. Night had now set in, and as theAmildârstill remained in his seat, all his officers were compelled to do the same. In this way the tenthghaṭikâof the night approached, and still theAmildârwould not get up, but sat with his black face secured in his cloth, now and then peeping out to see whether they were all asleep or awake. The fact was, he was waiting for an opportunity to have all the locks of his officers in his hand! As soon as all his officers fell asleep he intended to cut off all their locks, as usual understanding the words in their literal sense! At about midnight, never dreaming of the stupid act that theAmildârwas contemplating in his mind, every one fell asleep, and Gunḍappa rose up, and with a pair of scissors cut off all the locks of his officers. He then tied them all up in a bundle and returned to his assistant’s home late at night, where the servants gave him something to eat; after which he started with his bag ofmoharsand bundle of locks to his king to inform him of how well he had obeyed his orders!In the early morning he reached the presence of his Majesty only a nimisha after his assistant had arrived. Seeing theAmildârhe was too afraid to to lodge any complaint, but his swollen ear drew the attention of every eye in the assembly.Gunḍappa now stood before the king with the charcoal on his face and said:—“Most noble king, you ordered me to blacken my face for my new duty. See, I have not even yet removed the dye! You ordered me next only to speak while biting an ear. Look, please, at my assistant’s ear, who stands before you and tell me whether I have not obeyed you!! And as for having the locks of my officers in my hands; why here they are in this bundle!!!”Never had the king seen a similar instance of such stupidity, and the thought that Gunḍappa had shorn so many respectable heads of their locks, and had really bitten the ear of a worthy gentleman, brought much shame to his heart. He begged pardon of the injured man and from that day forward was very careful in the choice of his officers! Poor Gunḍappa was dismissed even from the priestship, and his belly grew lean from having no longer the privilege of eating rich food at others’ cost!1A Kanarese tale related by a risâldâr.2Headman of the village.3Dakshiṇâs(fees given in donation toBrâhmiṇs) are ordinarily given to priests.

XX.The Brâhmaṇ Priest who became an Amildâr.1

In the Karnâta dêśa there reigned a famous king named Châmunḍa, who was served by an household priest, namedGunḍappa, well versed in all the rituals at which he officiated.Châmunḍa, one day, while chewing betel-leaves, thus addressedGunḍappa, who was sitting opposite him:—“My most holy priest, I am greatly pleased at your faithfulness in the discharge of your sacred duties; and you may ask of me now what you wish and I shall grant your request.”The priest elated replied: “I have always had a desire to become theAmildâr2of a district and to exercise power over a number of people; and if your Majesty should grant me this I shall have attained my ambition.”“Agreed,” said the king, and at that time theAmildârshipof Nañjaṅgôḍ happening to be vacant, his Majesty at once appointed his priest to the post, thinking that his priest, who was intelligent in his duties, would do well in the new post. Before he sent him off, however, he gave Gunḍappa three bits of advice:—(1).Mukha kappage irabêku.(2).Ellâru kevianna kachchi mâtan âḍu.(3).ellâr juṭṭu kayyalii irabêku.The meaning of which is:(1). You should always keep a black (i.e.frowning) countenance.(2). When you speak about State affairs you should do it biting the ear (i.e.secretly—close to the ear).(3.) The locks of every one should be in your hand (i.e.you must use your influence and make every one subservient to you).Gunḍappa heard these words so kindly given by the king, and the way in which he listened to them made his Majesty understand that he had taken them to heart. So with a smiling face the king gave the letter containing the appointment toGunḍappa, who returned home with an elated heart.He told his wife about the change that had come over his prospects, and wished to start at once to take charge of the new post. The king and hisofficers at once sent messengers toNañjaṅgôḍinforming the officers of theAmîldârîthat a newly appointedAmîldârwould be coming soon. So they all waited near the gate of the town to pay their respects to the newAmîldârand escort him into it.Gunḍappa started the very next morning to Nañjaṅgôḍ with a bundle containing clean clothes, six by twelve cubits long, on his head. Poor priest! Wherever he saw thekuśagrass on the road, he was drawn to it by its freshness, and kept on storing it up all the way. The sacred grass had become so dear to him, that, though he would have no occasion to use it asAmîldârof Nañjaṅgôḍ, he could not pass by it without gathering some of it. So with his bundle of clothes on his head and his belovedkuśagrass in his hands, Gunḍappa approached the city ofNañjaṅgôḍabout the twentiethghaṭikâof the day.Now, though it was very late in the day, none of the officers, who had come out to receive theAmildârhad returned home to their meals. Everyone was waiting in the gate and when Gunḍappa turned up, no one took him to be anything more than a priest. The bundle on his head and the green ritual grass in his hands proclaimed his vocation. But everyone thought that, as a priest was coming by the very road theAmildârwould take, he might bring news of him—whether he had halted on the road andwould or might be expected before the evening. So the next officer in rank to theAmildârcame to the most reverend priest and asked him whether he had any news of the comingAmildâr; on which our hero put down his bundle and taking out the cover containing the order of his appointment with a handful ofkuśagrass, lest his clothes be polluted if he touched them with his bare hands informed his subordinate that he was himself theAmildâr!All those assembled were astonished to find such a wretched priest appointed to so responsible a post, but when it was made known that Gunḍappa was the newAmildârthe customary music was played and he was escorted in a manner due to his position, into the town. He had been fasting from the morning, and a grand feast was prepared for him in the house of the next senior official, which Gunḍappa entered for a dinner and rest. He there informed the officials that he would be at the office at the twenty-fifthghaṭikâof the evening. From the way in which he issued the order all thought that he was really an able man, and that he had come in the guise of a simple priest in order to find out the real state of his district. So every officer went home, bathed, had his meal in haste and attended at the office.The chief assistant took theAmildârto his house, and entertained his guest as became his position.Gunḍappa, being a priest, was a very good eater, for never for a day in his life had he spent money out of his own pocket on meals, so what reason had he to enquire about the price of provisions? It was at the expense of others he had grown so fat! And doing more than full justice to all the good things, much to the secret amusement of his host and assistant, Gunḍappa rose up from his food, and washed his hands. He then wanted betel-leaves though to ask for these before the host offers them is very impolite. But his subordinate interpreted it as an order from a master and brought the platter containing the necessary nutmeg, mace, nut, leaves, andchuṇam(lime).“Where is the dakshiṇa?”3next asked theAmildâr. His host did not quite understand whether this was meant in earnest or in joke, but before he could solve the question in his mind:—“Where is thedakshiṇâ?” reiterated theAmildâr, and his assistant, thinking that his new superior was prone to taking bribes, at once brought a bag containing 500moharsand placed it in the platter. Now adakshiṇato aBrâhmiṇis not usually more than a couple of rupees, but should anAmildârask for one, his assistant would naturally mistake him, and think he was hinting at a bribe!Gunḍappagreatly pleased at a princelydakshiṇasuch as he had never seen before in all his life, at once opened the bag and counted out every gold piece in it, carefully tying them up in his bundle. He then began to chew his betel, and at one gulp swallowed up all the nutmeg and mace in the platter! All this made his assistant strongly suspect the real nature of the newAmildâr; but then there was the order of the king, and it must be obeyed! Gunḍappa next asked his assistant to go on in advance of him to the office, saying that he would be there himself in aghaṭikâ. The assistant accordingly left a messenger to attend on theAmildâr, and being very anxious to see things in good order, left his house for the office.Gunḍappa now remembered the three bits of advice given by the king, the first of which was that he should always put on, when in office, a black countenance. Now he understood the word “black” in its literal sense, and not in its allegorical one of “frowning,” and, so going into the kitchen, he asked for a lump of charcoal paste. When this was ready he blackened the whole of his face with it, and covering his face with his cloth—as he was ashamed to show it—entered the office. With his face thus blackened and partly covered with a cloth, the newAmildârcame and took his seat. Now and then he would remove the cloth from his eyes to seehow his officers were working, and meanwhile all the clerks and others present were laughing in their sleeves at the queer conduct of their chief.The evening was drawing to a close, and there were certain orders to be signed: so taking them all in his hand the assistant approached theAmildâr, and stood at a respectful distance.Gunḍappa, however, asked him to come nearer, and nearer the assistant came.“Still nearer,” saidGunḍappa, and nearer still came the assistant.The second bit of advice from the king now rushed into theAmildâr’smind that he should bite the ears of his officials when he enquired into State affairs, and asGunḍappa’swant of sense always made him take what was said literally, he opened his mouth and bit the ear of his assistant, while in a muffled voice he asked him whether all his people enjoyed full prosperity! The assistant, now in very fear of his life, roared out that all the people were enjoying the greatest prosperity. ButGunḍappawould not let go his ear till the poor assistant had roared out the answer more than twenty times. The poor wretch’s ear soon began to swell enormously, and leaving the office in disgust, he started to report to the king the insane acts of the newAmildâr.Two out of the three bits of advice from the king had now been duly obeyed, but the third, that thelocks of all the people must be in his hands, remained unfulfilled, and Gunḍappa wished to carry out that also quickly. Night had now set in, and as theAmildârstill remained in his seat, all his officers were compelled to do the same. In this way the tenthghaṭikâof the night approached, and still theAmildârwould not get up, but sat with his black face secured in his cloth, now and then peeping out to see whether they were all asleep or awake. The fact was, he was waiting for an opportunity to have all the locks of his officers in his hand! As soon as all his officers fell asleep he intended to cut off all their locks, as usual understanding the words in their literal sense! At about midnight, never dreaming of the stupid act that theAmildârwas contemplating in his mind, every one fell asleep, and Gunḍappa rose up, and with a pair of scissors cut off all the locks of his officers. He then tied them all up in a bundle and returned to his assistant’s home late at night, where the servants gave him something to eat; after which he started with his bag ofmoharsand bundle of locks to his king to inform him of how well he had obeyed his orders!In the early morning he reached the presence of his Majesty only a nimisha after his assistant had arrived. Seeing theAmildârhe was too afraid to to lodge any complaint, but his swollen ear drew the attention of every eye in the assembly.Gunḍappa now stood before the king with the charcoal on his face and said:—“Most noble king, you ordered me to blacken my face for my new duty. See, I have not even yet removed the dye! You ordered me next only to speak while biting an ear. Look, please, at my assistant’s ear, who stands before you and tell me whether I have not obeyed you!! And as for having the locks of my officers in my hands; why here they are in this bundle!!!”Never had the king seen a similar instance of such stupidity, and the thought that Gunḍappa had shorn so many respectable heads of their locks, and had really bitten the ear of a worthy gentleman, brought much shame to his heart. He begged pardon of the injured man and from that day forward was very careful in the choice of his officers! Poor Gunḍappa was dismissed even from the priestship, and his belly grew lean from having no longer the privilege of eating rich food at others’ cost!

In the Karnâta dêśa there reigned a famous king named Châmunḍa, who was served by an household priest, namedGunḍappa, well versed in all the rituals at which he officiated.

Châmunḍa, one day, while chewing betel-leaves, thus addressedGunḍappa, who was sitting opposite him:—

“My most holy priest, I am greatly pleased at your faithfulness in the discharge of your sacred duties; and you may ask of me now what you wish and I shall grant your request.”

The priest elated replied: “I have always had a desire to become theAmildâr2of a district and to exercise power over a number of people; and if your Majesty should grant me this I shall have attained my ambition.”

“Agreed,” said the king, and at that time theAmildârshipof Nañjaṅgôḍ happening to be vacant, his Majesty at once appointed his priest to the post, thinking that his priest, who was intelligent in his duties, would do well in the new post. Before he sent him off, however, he gave Gunḍappa three bits of advice:—

(1).Mukha kappage irabêku.

(2).Ellâru kevianna kachchi mâtan âḍu.

(3).ellâr juṭṭu kayyalii irabêku.

The meaning of which is:

(1). You should always keep a black (i.e.frowning) countenance.

(2). When you speak about State affairs you should do it biting the ear (i.e.secretly—close to the ear).

(3.) The locks of every one should be in your hand (i.e.you must use your influence and make every one subservient to you).

Gunḍappa heard these words so kindly given by the king, and the way in which he listened to them made his Majesty understand that he had taken them to heart. So with a smiling face the king gave the letter containing the appointment toGunḍappa, who returned home with an elated heart.

He told his wife about the change that had come over his prospects, and wished to start at once to take charge of the new post. The king and hisofficers at once sent messengers toNañjaṅgôḍinforming the officers of theAmîldârîthat a newly appointedAmîldârwould be coming soon. So they all waited near the gate of the town to pay their respects to the newAmîldârand escort him into it.

Gunḍappa started the very next morning to Nañjaṅgôḍ with a bundle containing clean clothes, six by twelve cubits long, on his head. Poor priest! Wherever he saw thekuśagrass on the road, he was drawn to it by its freshness, and kept on storing it up all the way. The sacred grass had become so dear to him, that, though he would have no occasion to use it asAmîldârof Nañjaṅgôḍ, he could not pass by it without gathering some of it. So with his bundle of clothes on his head and his belovedkuśagrass in his hands, Gunḍappa approached the city ofNañjaṅgôḍabout the twentiethghaṭikâof the day.

Now, though it was very late in the day, none of the officers, who had come out to receive theAmildârhad returned home to their meals. Everyone was waiting in the gate and when Gunḍappa turned up, no one took him to be anything more than a priest. The bundle on his head and the green ritual grass in his hands proclaimed his vocation. But everyone thought that, as a priest was coming by the very road theAmildârwould take, he might bring news of him—whether he had halted on the road andwould or might be expected before the evening. So the next officer in rank to theAmildârcame to the most reverend priest and asked him whether he had any news of the comingAmildâr; on which our hero put down his bundle and taking out the cover containing the order of his appointment with a handful ofkuśagrass, lest his clothes be polluted if he touched them with his bare hands informed his subordinate that he was himself theAmildâr!

All those assembled were astonished to find such a wretched priest appointed to so responsible a post, but when it was made known that Gunḍappa was the newAmildârthe customary music was played and he was escorted in a manner due to his position, into the town. He had been fasting from the morning, and a grand feast was prepared for him in the house of the next senior official, which Gunḍappa entered for a dinner and rest. He there informed the officials that he would be at the office at the twenty-fifthghaṭikâof the evening. From the way in which he issued the order all thought that he was really an able man, and that he had come in the guise of a simple priest in order to find out the real state of his district. So every officer went home, bathed, had his meal in haste and attended at the office.

The chief assistant took theAmildârto his house, and entertained his guest as became his position.Gunḍappa, being a priest, was a very good eater, for never for a day in his life had he spent money out of his own pocket on meals, so what reason had he to enquire about the price of provisions? It was at the expense of others he had grown so fat! And doing more than full justice to all the good things, much to the secret amusement of his host and assistant, Gunḍappa rose up from his food, and washed his hands. He then wanted betel-leaves though to ask for these before the host offers them is very impolite. But his subordinate interpreted it as an order from a master and brought the platter containing the necessary nutmeg, mace, nut, leaves, andchuṇam(lime).

“Where is the dakshiṇa?”3next asked theAmildâr. His host did not quite understand whether this was meant in earnest or in joke, but before he could solve the question in his mind:—

“Where is thedakshiṇâ?” reiterated theAmildâr, and his assistant, thinking that his new superior was prone to taking bribes, at once brought a bag containing 500moharsand placed it in the platter. Now adakshiṇato aBrâhmiṇis not usually more than a couple of rupees, but should anAmildârask for one, his assistant would naturally mistake him, and think he was hinting at a bribe!

Gunḍappagreatly pleased at a princelydakshiṇasuch as he had never seen before in all his life, at once opened the bag and counted out every gold piece in it, carefully tying them up in his bundle. He then began to chew his betel, and at one gulp swallowed up all the nutmeg and mace in the platter! All this made his assistant strongly suspect the real nature of the newAmildâr; but then there was the order of the king, and it must be obeyed! Gunḍappa next asked his assistant to go on in advance of him to the office, saying that he would be there himself in aghaṭikâ. The assistant accordingly left a messenger to attend on theAmildâr, and being very anxious to see things in good order, left his house for the office.

Gunḍappa now remembered the three bits of advice given by the king, the first of which was that he should always put on, when in office, a black countenance. Now he understood the word “black” in its literal sense, and not in its allegorical one of “frowning,” and, so going into the kitchen, he asked for a lump of charcoal paste. When this was ready he blackened the whole of his face with it, and covering his face with his cloth—as he was ashamed to show it—entered the office. With his face thus blackened and partly covered with a cloth, the newAmildârcame and took his seat. Now and then he would remove the cloth from his eyes to seehow his officers were working, and meanwhile all the clerks and others present were laughing in their sleeves at the queer conduct of their chief.

The evening was drawing to a close, and there were certain orders to be signed: so taking them all in his hand the assistant approached theAmildâr, and stood at a respectful distance.Gunḍappa, however, asked him to come nearer, and nearer the assistant came.

“Still nearer,” saidGunḍappa, and nearer still came the assistant.

The second bit of advice from the king now rushed into theAmildâr’smind that he should bite the ears of his officials when he enquired into State affairs, and asGunḍappa’swant of sense always made him take what was said literally, he opened his mouth and bit the ear of his assistant, while in a muffled voice he asked him whether all his people enjoyed full prosperity! The assistant, now in very fear of his life, roared out that all the people were enjoying the greatest prosperity. ButGunḍappawould not let go his ear till the poor assistant had roared out the answer more than twenty times. The poor wretch’s ear soon began to swell enormously, and leaving the office in disgust, he started to report to the king the insane acts of the newAmildâr.

Two out of the three bits of advice from the king had now been duly obeyed, but the third, that thelocks of all the people must be in his hands, remained unfulfilled, and Gunḍappa wished to carry out that also quickly. Night had now set in, and as theAmildârstill remained in his seat, all his officers were compelled to do the same. In this way the tenthghaṭikâof the night approached, and still theAmildârwould not get up, but sat with his black face secured in his cloth, now and then peeping out to see whether they were all asleep or awake. The fact was, he was waiting for an opportunity to have all the locks of his officers in his hand! As soon as all his officers fell asleep he intended to cut off all their locks, as usual understanding the words in their literal sense! At about midnight, never dreaming of the stupid act that theAmildârwas contemplating in his mind, every one fell asleep, and Gunḍappa rose up, and with a pair of scissors cut off all the locks of his officers. He then tied them all up in a bundle and returned to his assistant’s home late at night, where the servants gave him something to eat; after which he started with his bag ofmoharsand bundle of locks to his king to inform him of how well he had obeyed his orders!

In the early morning he reached the presence of his Majesty only a nimisha after his assistant had arrived. Seeing theAmildârhe was too afraid to to lodge any complaint, but his swollen ear drew the attention of every eye in the assembly.

Gunḍappa now stood before the king with the charcoal on his face and said:—

“Most noble king, you ordered me to blacken my face for my new duty. See, I have not even yet removed the dye! You ordered me next only to speak while biting an ear. Look, please, at my assistant’s ear, who stands before you and tell me whether I have not obeyed you!! And as for having the locks of my officers in my hands; why here they are in this bundle!!!”

Never had the king seen a similar instance of such stupidity, and the thought that Gunḍappa had shorn so many respectable heads of their locks, and had really bitten the ear of a worthy gentleman, brought much shame to his heart. He begged pardon of the injured man and from that day forward was very careful in the choice of his officers! Poor Gunḍappa was dismissed even from the priestship, and his belly grew lean from having no longer the privilege of eating rich food at others’ cost!

1A Kanarese tale related by a risâldâr.2Headman of the village.3Dakshiṇâs(fees given in donation toBrâhmiṇs) are ordinarily given to priests.

1A Kanarese tale related by a risâldâr.

2Headman of the village.

3Dakshiṇâs(fees given in donation toBrâhmiṇs) are ordinarily given to priests.

XXI.The Gardener’s Cunning Wife.In a certain village there lived with his wife a poor gardener who cultivated greens in a small patch in the backyard of his house. They were in thirty little beds, half of which he would water every day. This occupied him from the fifth to the fifteenthghaṭikâ.His wife used to cut a basketful of greens every evening, and he took them in the mornings to sell in the village. The sale brought him a measure or two of rice, and on this the family lived! If he could manage any extra work of an evening he got a few coppers which served to meet their other expenses.Now in that village there was a temple to Kâlî, before which was a fine tank with a mango tree on its bank. The fish in the tank and the mangoes from the tree were dedicated to the goddess, and were strictly forbidden to the villagers. If any one was discovered cutting a mango or catching a fish,he was at once excommunicated from the village. So strict was the prohibition.The gardener was returning home one morning after selling his greens and passed the temple. The mangoes, so carefully guarded by religious protection, were hanging on the tree in great numbers, and the gardener’s eyes fell on them! His mouth watered. He looked round about him, and fortunately there was no one by, at least, as far as his eyes could reach. So he hastily plucked one of the mangoes and with nimble feet descended into the tank to wash it. Just then a most charming shoal of fish met his eyes. These protected dwellers in the tank had no notion of danger, and so were frolicking about at their ease. The gardener looked about him first and finding no one by caught half a dozen stout fish at one plunge of his hand. He hid them and the mango underneath the rice in his basket and returned home, happy in the thought that he had not been caught. Now he had a special delight in fish, and when he reached his house he showed what he brought to his wife and asked her to prepare a dish with the newly caught fish and the never-till-then tasted mango.Meanwhile he had to water his garden, and went to the backyard for the purpose. The watering was done by apikôṭa. He used to run up and down the pole while a friend of his, theson of his neighbour, lifted the water and irrigated the garden.Meanwhile his wife cooked the dish of mango and fish in a pan, and found the flavour so sweet that even while the fish was only half cooked she began to taste one bit of it after another till more than half had already gone down her throat! The dish was at last cooked, and the few remaining slices in the pan were taken off the fire, so she went into the verandah and from thence saw her husband running up and down thepikôṭa. She beckoned to him that the dish was ready and that he should come in and taste it. However, he never noticed her, but kept on running up and down thepikôṭa, and while running up and down he was obliged to wave his hands about, and this his wife mistook as an indication that she might eat up her portion of the dish. At any rate her imagination made her think so; and she went in and ate a slice, and then went out into the verandah again to call her husband who was still running up and down thepikôṭa. Again, her husband, so she thought, waved his hands in permission to go on with her dinner. Again she went in and had another slice. Thus it went on for a fullghaṭikâtill the last slice was consumed.“Alas!” thought she, “With what great eagerness my husband fetched the fish and the mango, and how sadly, out of greediness, have I disappointedhim. Surely his anger will know no bounds when he comes in. I must soon devise some means to save myself.”So she brought the pan in which she cooked the fish and mango out of the house and covered it with another pan of similar size and sat down before it. Then she undid her hair and twisted it about her head until it was dishevelled. She then began to make a great noise. This action by a woman in an illiterate family of low caste is always supposed to indicate a visitation from a goddess and a demon; so when her husband from thepikôṭatree saw the state of his wife, his guilty conscience smote him. The change in his wife alarmed him, and he came down suddenly and stood before her. As soon as she saw him she roared out at him:—“Why have you injured me to-day by plundering my mango and fish? How dare you do such an irreligious act? You shall soon see the results of your impertinence!”“The goddess has come upon my wife most terribly,” thought the poor man. “Her divine power may soon kill her! What shall I do?”So he fell at the feet of the divine visitation as he thought it to be, and said:—“My most holy goddess, your dog of a servant has this day deviated from the straight path.Excuse him this time, and he will never do so a second time.”“Run then with the pan which contains the fruits of your robbery and dip it deep into my tank. Then shall the fish become alive and the mango shall take its place in the tree.”The gardener received the order most submissively, and taking the pan in his hand flew to the tank. There he dipped it in the water and came back to his house fully believing that his sin that day had been forgiven, and that the cooked fish had become alive again and the mango a living one. Thus did the cunning wife save herself from her husband’s wrath!

XXI.The Gardener’s Cunning Wife.

In a certain village there lived with his wife a poor gardener who cultivated greens in a small patch in the backyard of his house. They were in thirty little beds, half of which he would water every day. This occupied him from the fifth to the fifteenthghaṭikâ.His wife used to cut a basketful of greens every evening, and he took them in the mornings to sell in the village. The sale brought him a measure or two of rice, and on this the family lived! If he could manage any extra work of an evening he got a few coppers which served to meet their other expenses.Now in that village there was a temple to Kâlî, before which was a fine tank with a mango tree on its bank. The fish in the tank and the mangoes from the tree were dedicated to the goddess, and were strictly forbidden to the villagers. If any one was discovered cutting a mango or catching a fish,he was at once excommunicated from the village. So strict was the prohibition.The gardener was returning home one morning after selling his greens and passed the temple. The mangoes, so carefully guarded by religious protection, were hanging on the tree in great numbers, and the gardener’s eyes fell on them! His mouth watered. He looked round about him, and fortunately there was no one by, at least, as far as his eyes could reach. So he hastily plucked one of the mangoes and with nimble feet descended into the tank to wash it. Just then a most charming shoal of fish met his eyes. These protected dwellers in the tank had no notion of danger, and so were frolicking about at their ease. The gardener looked about him first and finding no one by caught half a dozen stout fish at one plunge of his hand. He hid them and the mango underneath the rice in his basket and returned home, happy in the thought that he had not been caught. Now he had a special delight in fish, and when he reached his house he showed what he brought to his wife and asked her to prepare a dish with the newly caught fish and the never-till-then tasted mango.Meanwhile he had to water his garden, and went to the backyard for the purpose. The watering was done by apikôṭa. He used to run up and down the pole while a friend of his, theson of his neighbour, lifted the water and irrigated the garden.Meanwhile his wife cooked the dish of mango and fish in a pan, and found the flavour so sweet that even while the fish was only half cooked she began to taste one bit of it after another till more than half had already gone down her throat! The dish was at last cooked, and the few remaining slices in the pan were taken off the fire, so she went into the verandah and from thence saw her husband running up and down thepikôṭa. She beckoned to him that the dish was ready and that he should come in and taste it. However, he never noticed her, but kept on running up and down thepikôṭa, and while running up and down he was obliged to wave his hands about, and this his wife mistook as an indication that she might eat up her portion of the dish. At any rate her imagination made her think so; and she went in and ate a slice, and then went out into the verandah again to call her husband who was still running up and down thepikôṭa. Again, her husband, so she thought, waved his hands in permission to go on with her dinner. Again she went in and had another slice. Thus it went on for a fullghaṭikâtill the last slice was consumed.“Alas!” thought she, “With what great eagerness my husband fetched the fish and the mango, and how sadly, out of greediness, have I disappointedhim. Surely his anger will know no bounds when he comes in. I must soon devise some means to save myself.”So she brought the pan in which she cooked the fish and mango out of the house and covered it with another pan of similar size and sat down before it. Then she undid her hair and twisted it about her head until it was dishevelled. She then began to make a great noise. This action by a woman in an illiterate family of low caste is always supposed to indicate a visitation from a goddess and a demon; so when her husband from thepikôṭatree saw the state of his wife, his guilty conscience smote him. The change in his wife alarmed him, and he came down suddenly and stood before her. As soon as she saw him she roared out at him:—“Why have you injured me to-day by plundering my mango and fish? How dare you do such an irreligious act? You shall soon see the results of your impertinence!”“The goddess has come upon my wife most terribly,” thought the poor man. “Her divine power may soon kill her! What shall I do?”So he fell at the feet of the divine visitation as he thought it to be, and said:—“My most holy goddess, your dog of a servant has this day deviated from the straight path.Excuse him this time, and he will never do so a second time.”“Run then with the pan which contains the fruits of your robbery and dip it deep into my tank. Then shall the fish become alive and the mango shall take its place in the tree.”The gardener received the order most submissively, and taking the pan in his hand flew to the tank. There he dipped it in the water and came back to his house fully believing that his sin that day had been forgiven, and that the cooked fish had become alive again and the mango a living one. Thus did the cunning wife save herself from her husband’s wrath!

In a certain village there lived with his wife a poor gardener who cultivated greens in a small patch in the backyard of his house. They were in thirty little beds, half of which he would water every day. This occupied him from the fifth to the fifteenthghaṭikâ.

His wife used to cut a basketful of greens every evening, and he took them in the mornings to sell in the village. The sale brought him a measure or two of rice, and on this the family lived! If he could manage any extra work of an evening he got a few coppers which served to meet their other expenses.

Now in that village there was a temple to Kâlî, before which was a fine tank with a mango tree on its bank. The fish in the tank and the mangoes from the tree were dedicated to the goddess, and were strictly forbidden to the villagers. If any one was discovered cutting a mango or catching a fish,he was at once excommunicated from the village. So strict was the prohibition.

The gardener was returning home one morning after selling his greens and passed the temple. The mangoes, so carefully guarded by religious protection, were hanging on the tree in great numbers, and the gardener’s eyes fell on them! His mouth watered. He looked round about him, and fortunately there was no one by, at least, as far as his eyes could reach. So he hastily plucked one of the mangoes and with nimble feet descended into the tank to wash it. Just then a most charming shoal of fish met his eyes. These protected dwellers in the tank had no notion of danger, and so were frolicking about at their ease. The gardener looked about him first and finding no one by caught half a dozen stout fish at one plunge of his hand. He hid them and the mango underneath the rice in his basket and returned home, happy in the thought that he had not been caught. Now he had a special delight in fish, and when he reached his house he showed what he brought to his wife and asked her to prepare a dish with the newly caught fish and the never-till-then tasted mango.

Meanwhile he had to water his garden, and went to the backyard for the purpose. The watering was done by apikôṭa. He used to run up and down the pole while a friend of his, theson of his neighbour, lifted the water and irrigated the garden.

Meanwhile his wife cooked the dish of mango and fish in a pan, and found the flavour so sweet that even while the fish was only half cooked she began to taste one bit of it after another till more than half had already gone down her throat! The dish was at last cooked, and the few remaining slices in the pan were taken off the fire, so she went into the verandah and from thence saw her husband running up and down thepikôṭa. She beckoned to him that the dish was ready and that he should come in and taste it. However, he never noticed her, but kept on running up and down thepikôṭa, and while running up and down he was obliged to wave his hands about, and this his wife mistook as an indication that she might eat up her portion of the dish. At any rate her imagination made her think so; and she went in and ate a slice, and then went out into the verandah again to call her husband who was still running up and down thepikôṭa. Again, her husband, so she thought, waved his hands in permission to go on with her dinner. Again she went in and had another slice. Thus it went on for a fullghaṭikâtill the last slice was consumed.

“Alas!” thought she, “With what great eagerness my husband fetched the fish and the mango, and how sadly, out of greediness, have I disappointedhim. Surely his anger will know no bounds when he comes in. I must soon devise some means to save myself.”

So she brought the pan in which she cooked the fish and mango out of the house and covered it with another pan of similar size and sat down before it. Then she undid her hair and twisted it about her head until it was dishevelled. She then began to make a great noise. This action by a woman in an illiterate family of low caste is always supposed to indicate a visitation from a goddess and a demon; so when her husband from thepikôṭatree saw the state of his wife, his guilty conscience smote him. The change in his wife alarmed him, and he came down suddenly and stood before her. As soon as she saw him she roared out at him:—

“Why have you injured me to-day by plundering my mango and fish? How dare you do such an irreligious act? You shall soon see the results of your impertinence!”

“The goddess has come upon my wife most terribly,” thought the poor man. “Her divine power may soon kill her! What shall I do?”

So he fell at the feet of the divine visitation as he thought it to be, and said:—

“My most holy goddess, your dog of a servant has this day deviated from the straight path.Excuse him this time, and he will never do so a second time.”

“Run then with the pan which contains the fruits of your robbery and dip it deep into my tank. Then shall the fish become alive and the mango shall take its place in the tree.”

The gardener received the order most submissively, and taking the pan in his hand flew to the tank. There he dipped it in the water and came back to his house fully believing that his sin that day had been forgiven, and that the cooked fish had become alive again and the mango a living one. Thus did the cunning wife save herself from her husband’s wrath!

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