Tales Of The Punjab.
by Flora Annie Steel.
PREFACE
Many of the tales in this collection appeared either in the _Indian Antiquary_, the _Calcutta Review_, or the _Legends of the Punjab_. They were then in the form of literal translations, in many cases uncouth or even unpresentable to ears polite, in all scarcely intelligible to the untravelled English reader; for it must be remembered that, with the exception of the Adventures of Raja Rasalu, all these stories are strictly folk-tales pa.s.sing current among a people who can neither read nor write, and whose diction is full of colloquialisms, and, if we choose to call them so, vulgarisms. It would be manifestly unfair, for instance, to compare the literary standard of such tales with that of the _Arabian Nights_, the _Tales of a Parrot_, or similar works. The manner in which these stories were collected is in itself sufficient to show how misleading it would be, if, with the intention of giving the conventional Eastern flavour to the text, it were to be manipulated into a flowery dignity; and as a description of the procedure will serve the double purpose of credential and excuse, the authors give it,--premising that all the stories but three have been collected by Mrs. F. A. Steel during winter tours through the various districts of which her husband has been Chief Magistrate.
A carpet is spread under a tree in the vicinity of the spot which the Magistrate has chosen for his _darbar_, but far enough away from bureaucracy to let the village idlers approach it should they feel so inclined. In a very few minutes, as a rule, some of them begin to edge up to it, and as they are generally small boys, they commence nudging each other, whispering, and sn.i.g.g.e.ring. The fancied approach of a _chuprasi_, the "corrupt lictor" of India, who attends at every _darbar_, will however cause a sudden stampede; but after a time these become less and less frequent, the wild beasts, as it were, becoming tamer. By and by a group of women stop to gaze, and then the question "What do you want?" invariably brings the answer "To see your honour" (_ap ke darshan ae_). Once the ice is broken, the only difficulties are, first, to understand your visitors, and secondly, to get them to go away. When the general conversation is fairly started, inquiries are made by degrees as to how many witches there are in the village, or what cures they know for fever and the evil eye, _etc_. At first these are met by denials expressed in set terms, but a little patient talk will generally lead to some remarks which point the villagers" minds in the direction required, till at last, after many persuasions, some child begins a story, others correct the details, emulation conquers shyness, and finally the story-teller is brought to the front with acclamations: for there is always a story-teller _par excellence_ in every village--generally a boy.
Then comes the need for patience, since in all probability the first story is one you have heard a hundred times, or else some pointless and disconnected jumble. At the conclusion of either, however, the teller must be profusely complimented, in the hopes of eliciting something more valuable. But it is possible to waste many hours, and in the end find yourself possessed of nothing save some feeble variant of a well-known legend, or, what is worse, a compilation of oddments which have lingered in a faulty memory from half a dozen distinct stories. After a time, however, the attentive collector is rewarded by finding that a coherent whole is growing up in his or her mind out of the shreds and patches heard here and there, and it is delight indeed when your own dim suspicion that this part of the puzzle fits into that is confirmed by finding the two incidents preserved side by side in the mouth of some perfectly unconscious witness. Some of the tales in this volume have thus been a year or more on the stocks before they had been heard sufficiently often to make their form conclusive.
And this accounts for what may be called the greater literary sequence of these tales over those to be found in many similar collections.
They have been selected carefully with the object of securing a good story in what appears to be its best form; but they have not been doctored in any way, not even in the language. That is neither a transliteration--which would have needed a whole dictionary to be intelligible--nor a version orientalised to suit English tastes. It is an attempt to translate one colloquialism by another, and thus to preserve the aroma of rough ready wit existing side by side with that perfume of pure poesy which every now and again contrasts so strangely with the other. Nothing would have been easier than to alter the style; but to do so would, in the collector"s opinion, have robbed the stories of all human value.
That such has been the deliberate choice may be seen at a glance through the only story which has a different origin. The Adventures of Raja Rasalu was translated from the rough ma.n.u.script of a village accountant; and, being current in a more or less cla.s.sical form, it approaches more nearly to the conventional standards of an Indian tale.
The work has been apportioned between the authors in this way. Mrs.
F. A. Steel is responsible for the text, and Major R. C. Temple for the annotations.
It is therefore hoped that the form of the book may fulfil the double intention with which it was written; namely, that the text should interest children, and at the same time the notes should render it valuable to those who study Folklore on its scientific side.
F. A. _Steel_ R. C. _Temple_
TO THE LITTLE READER
Would you like to know how these stories are told? Come with me, and you shall see. There! take my hand and do not be afraid, for Prince Ha.s.san"s carpet is beneath your feet. So now!--"Hey presto!
Abracadabra!" Here we are in a Punjabi village.
It is sunset. Over the limitless plain, vast and unbroken as the heaven above, the hot cloudless sky cools slowly into shadow. The men leave their labour amid the fields, which, like an oasis in the desert, surround the mud-built village, and, plough on shoulder, drive their bullocks homewards. The women set aside their spinning-wheels, and prepare the simple evening meal. The little girls troop, basket on head, from the outskirts of the village, where all day long they have been at work, kneading, drying, and stacking the fuel-cakes so necessary in that woodless country. The boys, half hidden in clouds of dust, drive the herds of gaunt cattle and ponderous buffaloes to the thorn-hedged yards. The day is over, the day which has been so hard and toilful even for the children,--and with the night comes rest and play. The village, so deserted before, is alive with voices; the elders cl.u.s.ter round the courtyard doors, the little ones whoop through the narrow alleys. But as the short-lived Indian twilight dies into darkness, the voices one by one are hushed, and as the stars come out the children disappear. But not to sleep: it is too hot, for the sun which has beaten so fiercely all day on the mud walls, and floors, and roofs, has left a legacy of warmth behind it, and not till midnight will the cool breeze spring up, bringing with it refreshment and repose. How then are the long dark hours to be pa.s.sed? In all the village not a lamp or candle is to be found; the only light--and that too used but sparingly and of necessity--being the dim smoky flame of an oil-fed wick. Yet, in spite of this, the hours, though dark, are not dreary, for this, in an Indian village, is _story-telling time_; not only from choice, but from obedience to the well-known precept which forbids such idle amus.e.m.e.nt between sunrise and sunset. Ask little Kaniya, yonder, why it is that he, the best story-teller in the village, never opens his lips till after sunset, and he will grin from ear to ear, and with a flash of dark eyes and white teeth, answer that travellers lose their way when idle boys and girls tell tales by daylight. And Naraini, the herd-girl, will hang her head and cover her dusky face with her rag of a veil, if you put the question to her; or little Ram Jas shake his bald shaven poll in denial; but not one of the dark-skinned, bare-limbed village children will yield to your request for a story.
No, no!--from sunrise to sunset, when even the little ones must labour, not a word; but from sunset to sunrise, when no man can work, the tongues chatter glibly enough, for that is story-telling time.
Then, after the scanty meal is over, the bairns drag their wooden-legged, string-woven bedsteads into the open, and settle themselves down like young birds in a nest, three or four to a bed, while others coil up on mats upon the ground, and some, stealing in for an hour from distant alleys, beg a place here or there.
The stars twinkle overhead, the mosquito sings through the hot air, the village dogs bark at imaginary foes, and from one crowded nest after another rises a childish voice telling some tale, old yet ever new,--tales that were told in the sunrise of the world, and will be told in its sunset. The little audience listens, dozes, dreams, and still the wily Jackal meets his match, or Bopoluchi brave and bold returns rich and victorious from the robber"s den. Hark!--that is Kaniya"s voice, and there is an expectant stir amongst the drowsy listeners as he begins the old old formula--
"Once upon a time---"
TALES OF THE PUNJAB
FOLKLORE OF INDIA
SIR BUZZ
Once upon a time a soldier died, leaving a widow and one son. They were dreadfully poor, and at last matters became so bad that they had nothing left in the house to eat.
"Mother," said the son, "give me four shillings, and I will go seek my fortune in the wide world."
"Alas!" answered the mother, "and where am I, who haven"t a farthing wherewith to buy bread, to find four shillings?"
"There is that old coat of my father"s," returned the lad; "look in the pocket--perchance there is something there."
So she looked, and behold! there were six shillings hidden away at the very bottom of the pocket!
"More than I bargained for," quoth the lad, laughing." See, mother, these two shillings are for you; you can live on that till I return, the rest will pay my way until I find my fortune."
So he set off to find his fortune, and on the way he saw a tigress, licking her paw, and moaning mournfully. He was just about to run away from the terrible creature, when she called to him faintly, saying, "Good lad, if you will take out this thorn for me, I shall be for ever grateful."
"Not I!" answered the lad. "Why, if I begin to pull it out, and it pains you, you will kill me with a pat of your paw."
[Ill.u.s.tration: Boy pulling thorn out of a tigress"s paw]
"No, no!" cried the tigress, "I will turn my face to this tree, and when the pain comes I will pat _it_."
To this the soldier"s son agreed; so he pulled out the thorn, and when the pain came the tigress gave the tree such a blow that the trunk split all to pieces. Then she turned towards the soldier"s son, and said gratefully, "Take this box as a reward, my son, but do not open it until you have travelled nine miles"
So the soldier"s son thanked the tigress, and set off with the box to find his fortune. Now when he had gone five miles, he felt certain that the box weighed more than it had at first, and every step he took it seemed to grow heavier and heavier. He tried to struggle on-- though it was all he could do to carry the box--until he had gone about eight miles and a quarter, when his patience gave way. "I believe that tigress was a witch, and is playing off her tricks upon me," he cried, "but I will stand this nonsense no longer. Lie there, you wretched old box!--heaven knows what is in you, and I don"t care."
So saying, he flung the box down on the ground: it burst open with the shock, and out stepped a little old man. He was only one span high, but his beard was a span and a quarter long, and trailed upon the ground.
The little mannikin immediately began to stamp about and scold the lad roundly for letting the box down so violently.
"Upon my word!" quoth the soldier"s son, scarcely able to restrain a smile at the ridiculous little figure, "but you are weighty for your size, old gentleman! And what may your name be?"
"Sir Buzz!" snapped the one-span mannikin, still stamping about in a great rage.
"Upon my word!" quoth the soldier"s son once more, "if _you_ are all the box contained, I am glad I didn"t trouble to carry it farther."
"That"s not polite," snarled the mannikin; "perhaps if you had carried it the full nine miles you might have found something better; but that"s neither here nor there. I"m good enough for you, at any rate, and will serve you faithfully according to my mistress"s orders."
"Serve me!--then I wish to goodness you"d serve me with some dinner, for I am mighty hungry! Here are four shillings to pay for it."
No sooner had the soldier"s son said this and given the money, than with a _whiz! boom! bing!_ like a big bee, Sir Buzz flew through the air to a confectioner"s shop in the nearest town. There he stood, the one-span mannikin, with the span and a quarter beard trailing on the ground, just by the big preserving pan, and cried in ever so loud a voice, "Ho! ho! Sir Confectioner, bring me sweets!"
The confectioner looked round the shop, and out of the door, and down the street, but could see no one, for tiny Sir Buzz was quite hidden by the preserving pan. Then the mannikin called out louder still, "Ho! ho! Sir Confectioner, bring me sweets!" And when the confectioner looked in vain for his customer, Sir Buzz grew angry, and ran and pinched him on the legs, and kicked him on the foot, saying, "Impudent knave! do you mean to say you can"t see _me?_ Why, I was standing by the preserving pan all the time!"