Part 1 — The Prince who did not go to School

In a certain country there is a King, it is said, and there are two Princes of the King. The two Princes are sent to school, and as they are going from the palace the two go along together. After they have walked a little way, the younger brother goes along the path to the school, and having arrived at the school, learns his letters and returns home. The elder brother, after playing and playing in the water of the river, puts the school aside, it is said; and having come round that way and joined the younger brother, again comes to the palace with him.

After many days had gone by in that manner, the King one day told the two Princes, “To-day I must look at your lessons.”

The younger brother said, “Father-King, I indeed go to the school, and having said my lessons return. Elder brother and I having met here, and set off together, after we have gone part of the way, where elder brother goes I do not know. Having gone somewhere or other, when I have left the school and am returning, elder brother meets me on the road, and we two come again to the palace. I can say my lessons; elder brother indeed cannot.”

After that, the King looked into the lessons of the two Princes. When he looked, the younger Prince’s lessons were good. When he asked the elder Prince, he knew nothing. So the King settled to behead the elder Prince.

The King had, besides, a Prince older than that Prince. He said to that elder Prince, “Behead this one.”

Then the Prince having taken a sword to the chena jungle, and killed a “Blood-sucker” lizard (Calotes sp.), returned after rubbing the blood on the sword, and showed it to the King. “Behold! Father-King, I cut younger brother,” he said. Afterwards their mother having cooked a bundle of rice, and given it, and also a sword, to the Prince who was ordered to be beheaded, said, “Go to any place you like.”

As the Prince was going away taking the bundle of cooked rice and the sword, he met with a man. The man having uprooted Palmira trees and Coconut trees, was taking them away and tying a fence. Having seen this, the Prince said to that man, “Come thou and go with me.”

The man having said “Hā,” as the two persons were going along together, another man was cutting the earthen ridges in a rice field. The blade of the man’s digging hoe was as large as a liyadda (one of the squares into which the rice field was divided). Having seen that, the Prince said to that man who was cutting the ridge in the field, “Come thou and go with me.”

The man having said “Hā,” and laid down his digging hoe at that very place, came away with those two persons. As the three were going along together, they saw yet a man ploughing. Having seen that the man ploughed a liyadda at one ploughing (furrow), the Prince said, “Come thou and go with me.” The man said “Hā,” and laying down his plough at that very place, went with the three persons. The three persons whom the Prince had met with on the way were three giants.

The four persons having gone on and on, went near the house of a Rākshasī at a city. Sitting down there, the Prince said to one of the giants, “There! Go to that house and bring thou cooking pots and fire.” So that giant went to the house of the Rākshasī.

As he arrived there, the Rākshasī was pouring water over (i.e. bathing) a child. The giant went near the Rākshasī, and said, “Anē! Give me fire and cooking pots.” The Rākshasī told him the way to the house in which she ate human flesh, and said, “There! They are in that house; take them.” After that, at the time when the giant was going into the house, the Rākshasī went running and shut the door, so that the giant could not come out.

Those two giants and the Prince remained a long time looking out; the giant did not come. Afterwards the Prince again told a giant to go. The giant having gone, asked the Rākshasī, “Didn’t a man come here?”

The Rākshasī said, “He did not come here.”

Then the giant said, “If so, give me cooking pots and fire.” Then the Rākshasī, in the same manner in which she told that giant, showed him the way to the house in which she ate human flesh. As the giant was going into the house, the Rākshasī, having gone running, shut the door.

That Prince and the third giant having been there a long time, neither of the giants came. Afterwards the Prince told the other giant to go. The giant went, and asked the Rākshasī, “Didn’t two men come here?”

The Rākshasī said, “They did not come here.”

So the giant said, “If so, give me cooking pots and fire.” The Rākshasī, in that very way having told him the path to the house in which she ate human flesh, at the time when the giant was going into it shut the door.

The Prince remained looking out for a long time; the three giants did not come. Afterwards the Prince, taking his sword, came near the Rākshasī, and asked, “Didn’t three men come here?”

The Rākshasī said, “They did not come here.”

Then the Prince, seizing the Rākshasī’s hair knot, prepared to chop at her with the sword. “Give me quickly my three men; if not, I shall chop thy head off,” he said.

Then the Rākshasī, saying, “Anē! Do not kill me. At any place where you want it I will assist you,” gave him the three men.

After that, the Prince and the three giants having gone away without killing the Rākshasī, the Prince caused the three giants to stay at a city; and having given into their hands a Blue-lotus flower, said, “Should I not be alive, this Blue-lotus flower will fade, and the lime trees at your house will die.” So saying, the Prince, taking his sword, went quite alone.

After going a long way he came to a city, and having gone to the house of a Rākshasa, when he looked, the Rākshasa had gone for human flesh as food and only a girl was there. The Prince asked the girl for a resting-place.

The girl said, “Anē! What have you come here for? A Rākshasa lives at this house. The Rākshasa having eaten the men of this city they are now finished.”

Then the Prince asked, “How does he come to eat men?”

The girl said, “Having come twelve miles—(three gawwas)—away, he cries, ‘Hū’; having come eight miles away, he cries, ‘Hū’; and having come four miles away, he cries, ‘Hū’; and then he comes to this house.”

After that, the Prince having spread out, from the stile at the fence, the menēri seed and the dried coconuts, over the whole of the open ground near the front of the house, went to sleep in the veranda, placing the sword near him, and laying his head on the waist pocket of the girl.

Then the Rākshasa, when twelve miles away, cried, “Hū.” Tears fell from the girl’s eyes, and dropped on the Prince’s head. The Prince arose, and said to the girl, “What are you weeping for?”

Then the Rākshasa cried, “Hū,” eight miles away. The girl said, “There! The Rākshasa cried, ‘Hū,’ eight miles away.” Continuing to say, “He will cry, ‘Hū,’ the next time, and then come here,” the girl wept.

The Prince, having told the girl not to weep, took the sword in his hand, and while he was there the Rākshasa, crying “Hū,” came into the open space near the house.

Then the Prince chopped at the Rākshasa with his sword, and the Rākshasa went backward. Thereupon the Prince said, “Will not even the Rākshasī whom I set free that day without killing her, render assistance in this?”

The Rākshasī came immediately, and struck a thorn into the crown of the Rākshasa’s head, and at that very instant the Rākshasa died. After that, the Prince buried the body, and marrying the girl remained there.

When he had been there a long time, a widow-mother came and said to the Prince and the girl, “Children, I will come and live with you, as you are alone.” Both of them said “Hā,” so the woman stayed there.

After she had lived there a long time, the woman said to the girl, “Daughter, ask in what place is the life of the Prince.”

Afterwards the girl said to the Prince, “Mother is asking where your life is.”

The Prince said, “My life is in my neck.”

The girl told the woman, “I asked him; he said his life is in his neck.”

The woman said, “It is not in the neck. He is speaking falsely. Ask again.” So the girl asked again.

The Prince said, “My life is in my breast.”

The girl told the woman, “He said it is in his breast.”

The woman said, “It is not in the breast. Tell him to speak the truth.”

Afterwards she said again to the Prince, “Mother says it is not in your breast. She said that you are to speak the truth.”

Then the Prince said, “My life is in my sword.”

So the girl told the widow-mother, “He said it is in his sword.”

When a long time had gone by, one day the Prince, laying down the sword, went to sleep. After the Prince had gone to sleep, the widow woman and that girl having quietly taken the sword, put it in the fire on the hearth. Then as the sword burnt and burnt away the Prince died.

After that, the widow woman took the girl, and gave her to the King, and the woman also stayed at the palace.

Then the Blue-lotus flower which the Prince gave to those three giants on going away, faded, and the lime trees died. When the giants saw this they said, “Aḍē! Our elder brother will have died,” and having spoken together, the three giants came to seek the Prince.

Having come there, and asked the men of the city at which the Prince stayed, regarding him, they went to the house in which he lived, and searched for him. As they were digging in a heap of rubbish, they found that a little bit of the end of the sword was there, and they took it. Afterwards the giants placed it on a bed, and after they had tended it carefully, the sword little by little became larger. When the sword became completely restored, the Prince was created afresh.

Afterwards, when the Prince looked to see if the girl whom he had taken in marriage was there, neither the girl nor the widow-mother was there. Then the Prince went with the three giants to the King’s palace, and on looking there they learnt that the girl was married to the King, and that the widow woman also was there. So the Prince said to the widow woman, “Quickly give me the Princess whom I married.”

The woman said, “Anē! The Princess whom I knew is not here. She did not come with me.”

Then the Prince cut off the woman’s head with his sword, and having gone to the King, asked, “Where is my Princess? You must give her to me.”

The King said, “No Princess will be here.”

Thereupon the Prince cut off the King’s head with his sword; and he and the three giants having cut down all the servants who were in the palace, summoning the Princess, remained in that very palace.

North-western Province.

The giving a plant or flower as a life index, which fades when illness or danger besets the giver, and dies at his death, is a very common incident in folk-tales.

In Wide-Awake Stories (Steel and Temple), p. 52—Tales of the Punjab (Steel), p. 47—it was a barley plant.

In Folk-Tales of Bengal (Day), p. 189, a Prince planted a tree as his life index, and said, “When you see the tree green and fresh then you know that it is well with me; when you see the tree fade in some parts, then you know that I am in an ill case; and when you see the whole tree fade, then know that I am dead and gone.”

In Totā Kahānī (Small), p. 43, when a man was about to leave his wife, she gave him a nosegay of flowers which would retain their freshness if she were faithful to him, and fade if she misconducted herself.

In The Indian Antiquary, vol. xvii, p. 54, a plant was given to each of two persons, as a Prince’s life index. He said, “If this plant should fade, know that I am sick or in danger; if it should die know that I also am dead.”

The notion that a person’s life may be concealed in some external object, usually a bird or a bee, is one of the commonest features of folk-tales.

In the story numbered 24 in this volume, the King’s life was in a golden parrot.

In Wide-Awake Stories, p. 59—Tales of the Punjab, p. 52—a Jinni’s life was in a bee, which was in a golden cage inside the crop (?) of a Maina [bird].

At pp. 62, 63, Tales of the Punjab, p. 55, a Prince’s life was in his sword. When this was placed in the fire he felt a burning fever, and when it was made red-hot and a rivet came out of the hilt, his head came off. Afterwards, when the sword was repaired and repolished, the Prince was restored to life.

At p. 83, Tales of the Punjab, p. 75, the life of a Princess was in a nine-lakh necklace, which was in a box inside a bee that lived in the body of a fish. When asked about it, she first said that her life was in each of the seven sons of the wicked Queen who wanted to kill her, all of whom were murdered by the Queen.

In Folk-Tales of Kashmir (Knowles), 2nd ed., p. 49, the lives of Rākshasas were in seven cocks, a spinning-wheel, a pigeon, and a starling.

At p. 134, the life of one was in a veranda pillar at his house; when it was broken he died.

At p. 383, the life of one was in a queen-bee in a honey-comb hanging on a tree.

In Folk-Tales of Bengal (Day), pp. 2 and 6, the life of a Prince was in a golden necklace deposited in a wooden box which was in the heart of a fish.

At pp. 85 and 86, the lives of seven hundred Rākshasas were in two bees which were on the top of a crystal pillar, deep in the water of a tank. If a drop of their blood fell on the ground, a thousand Rākshasas would start up from it.

At p. 121, the life of a Rākshasī was in a bird that was in a cage. As its limbs were torn off, a corresponding limb dropped off the Rākshasī who had been made the Queen.

At p. 253, the lives of two Rākshasas (m. and f.) were in two bees that were in a wooden box at the bottom of a tank. If a person who killed them allowed a drop of their blood to fall on the ground, he would be torn into seven hundred pieces by the Rākshasas.

In The Indian Antiquary, vol. i, p. 86, in a Dardu legend (G. W. Leitner), the life of a King of Gilgit was in snow, and he could only die by fire.

At p. 117, in a Bengal story (G. H. Damant), the lives of Rākshasas were in two bees in a gourd which was inside a crystal pillar at the bottom of a tank. If one drop of the bees’ blood fell on the ground, the Rākshasas would be twice as numerous as before. The bees were killed by being squeezed to death.

At p. 171, in a Bengal story (G. H. Damant), the lives of Rākshasas were in a lemon, and a bird. When the lemon was cut in Bengal, the Rākshasas in Ceylon died. As the bird’s wings were broken, the Rākshasī Queen’s arms were broken; when the bird died, she died.

In vol. xvi, p. 191, the life of a giant was in a parrot; when it was killed he died.

In vol. xvii, p. 51, a Prince’s life was in a sword; if it rusted he was sick, and if it broke he died.

In Folk-Tales of Hindustan, Allahabad (Shaik Chilli), p. 51, the life of a Prince was in the brightness of his sword. When it was placed in a furnace and lost the brightness, he died. A giant who was his friend found it, and discovering that a little brightness remained at the tip, rubbed it until it regained its lustre, on which the Prince revived.

At p. 114, the lives of Rākshasas were in a number of birds; they died when these were killed.

In a tale of the interior of W. Africa in Contes Soudanais (C. Monteil), p. 154, the life of a King was in a little box inside a small goat-skin, which was in a little pot placed inside a large pot. When the King was told this he died.

Doubtless this strange notion of a life safeguarded by being hidden away, is of early date, and may be due originally to the early magical idea prevalent in Egypt, Assyria, and India, that a person might be killed from any distance by piercing the heart of a figurine formed to represent him. This action is mentioned in the Commentary on the Atharva Veda (Bloomfield’s translation, p. 359); and in the Rigveda, i, 29, 7 (Griffith’s translation), prayer is made to Indra for the destruction of “him who in secret injures us.”

In the Jātaka story No. 208 (vol. ii, p. 111), a monkey escaped from a crocodile that was going to kill it in order to get its heart, by telling it that monkeys kept their hearts hanging on trees.

In the Mahā Bhārata, Vana Parva, 135, 52, a Ṛishi caused buffaloes to shatter a mountain, and thereby killed a child whose life was dependent on its existence, if not supposed to be actually in it.

The recovery of the three giants from the house of the Rākshasī is evidently based on the story of Wijaya, the first King of Ceylon, and Kuwēnī, a female Yakkha or aboriginal Princess, who, taking the form of a devotee, had captured his followers one by one, and imprisoned them.

The story is given in the Mahāvansa, chapter vii, as follows:—“All these persons not returning, Wijaya becoming alarmed, equipping himself with the five weapons of war, proceeded after them; and examining the delightful pond [to which they had gone to bathe], he could perceive footsteps leading down only into the tank; and he there saw the devotee. It occurred to him: ‘My retinue must surely have been seized by her.’ ‘Woman, hast thou seen my attendants?’ said he. ‘Prince,’ she replied, ‘what need hast thou of attendants? Do drink and bathe ere thou departest.’ Saying to himself, ‘Even my lineage, this Yakkhinī is acquainted with it,’ proclaiming his title, and quickly seizing his bow, he rushed at her. Securing the Yakkhinī by the throat with a ‘nārācana’ ring, with his left hand seizing her by the hair, and raising his sword with his right hand, he exclaimed, ‘Slave! restore me my followers, or I will put thee to death.’ The Yakkhinī, terrified, implored that her life might be spared. ‘Lord! spare my life; on thee I will confer this sovereignty; unto thee I will render the favours of my sex, and every other service according to thy desire.’ In order that she might not prove herself treacherous, he made the Yakkhinī take an oath. While he was in the act of saying, ‘Instantly produce my followers,’ she brought them forth” (Mahāvansa, i, p. 32).

The idea of the thorn which was driven into the head of the Rākshasa, is borrowed from magical practice. In the case of a figurine made for the destruction or injury of a person, pins or nails or thorns were run into various parts of the body, one being inserted in the crown of the head. In a variant of the story numbered 73 in this work, a female Yakā was kept in subjection by means of an iron nail that was driven into the crown of the head.

In Indian Fairy Tales (Stokes), p. 12, a pin was fixed in the head of a woman who had been transformed into a bird. When it was drawn out she resumed her human form.

In The Illustrated Guide to the South Indian Railway, 1900, p. 232, it is stated regarding the great stone Bull, 12 feet high, at the Tanjore temple, that “it was popularly supposed by the natives that this bull was growing, and as they feared it might become too large for the mandapam [stone canopy] erected over it a nail was driven into the back of its head, and since this was done the size of the monolith has remained stationary.”