THE TRIUMPH of TRUTH

THE TRIUMPH OF TRUTH

A Hindu Story

There was once a Rajah who was both young and handsome, and yet he had never married. One time this Rajah, whose name was Chundun, found himself obliged to make a long journey. He took with him attendants and horsemen, and also his Wuzeer. This Wuzeer was a very wise man,—so wise that nothing was hid from him.

In a certain far-off part of the kingdom the Rajah saw a fine garden, and so beautiful was it that he stopped to admire it. He was surprised to see growing in the midst of it a small bingal tree that bore a number of fine bingals, but not a single leaf.

“This is a very curious thing, and I do not understand it,” said Chundun Rajah to his Wuzeer. “Why does this tree bear such fine and perfect fruit, and yet it has not a single leaf?”

“I could tell you the meaning,” said the Wuzeer, “but I fear that if I did you would not believe me and would have me punished for telling a lie.”

“That could never be,” answered the Rajah; “I know you to be a very truthful man and wise above all others. Whatever you tell me I shall believe.”

“Then this is the meaning of it,” said the Wuzeer. “The gardener who has charge of this garden has one daughter; her name is Guzra Bai, and she is very beautiful. If you will count the bingals you will find there are twenty-and-one. Whosoever marries the gardener’s daughter will have twenty and one children,—twenty boys and one girl.”

Chundun Rajah was very much surprised at what his Wuzeer said. “I should like to see this Guzra Bai,” said he.

“You can very easily see her,” answered the Wuzeer. “Early every morning she comes into the garden to play among the flowers. If you come here early and hide you can see her without frightening her, as you would do if you went to her home.”

The Rajah was pleased with this suggestion, and early the next morning he came to the garden and hid himself behind a flowering bush. It was not long before he saw the girl playing about among the flowers, and she was so very beautiful the Rajah at once fell in love with her. He determined to make her his Ranee, but he did not speak to her or show himself to her then for fear of frightening her. He determined to go to the gardener’s house that evening and tell him he wished his daughter for a wife.

As he had determined, so he did. That very evening, accompanied only by his Wuzeer, he went to the gardener’s house and knocked upon the door.

“Who is there?” asked the gardener from within.

“It is I, the Rajah,” answered Chundun. “Open the door, for I wish to speak with you.”

The gardener laughed. “That is a likely story,” said he. “Why should the Rajah come to my poor hut? No, no; you are some one who wishes to play a trick on me, but you shall not succeed. I will not let you in.”

“But it is indeed Chundun Rajah,” called the Wuzeer. “Open the door that he may speak with you.”

When the gardener heard the Wuzeer’s voice he came and opened the door a crack, but still he only half believed what was told him. What was his amazement to see that it was indeed the Rajah who stood there in all his magnificence with his Wuzeer beside him. The poor man was terrified, fearing Chundun would be angry, but the Rajah spoke to him graciously.

“Do not be afraid,” said he. “Call thy daughter that I may speak with her, for it is she whom I wish to see.”

The girl was hiding (for she was afraid) and would not come until her father took her hand and drew her forward.

When the Rajah saw her now, this second time, she seemed to him even more beautiful than at first. He was filled with joy and wonder.

“Now I will tell you why I have come here,” he said. “I wish to take Guzra Bai for my wife.”

At first the gardener would not believe him, but when he found the Rajah did indeed mean what he said he turned to his daughter. “If the girl is willing you shall have her,” said he, “but I will not force her to marry even a Rajah.”

The girl was still afraid, yet she could not but love the Rajah, so handsome was he, and so kind and gracious was his manner. She gave her consent, and the gardener was overjoyed at the honor that had come to him and his daughter.

Chundun and the beautiful Guzra Bai were married soon after in the gardener’s house, and then the Rajah and his new Ranee rode away together.

Now Chundun Rajah’s mother, the old Ranee, was of a very proud and jealous nature. When she found her son had married a common girl, the daughter of a gardener, and that Chundun thought of nothing but his bride and her beauty, she was very angry. She determined to rid herself of Guzra Bai in some way or other. But Chundun watched over his young Ranee so carefully that for a long time the old Queen could find no chance to harm her.

But after a while the Rajah found it was again necessary for him to go on a long journey. Just before he set out he gave Guzra Bai a little golden bell. “If any danger should threaten or harm befall you, ring this bell,” said he. “Wherever I am I shall hear it and be with you at once, even though I return from the farthest part of my kingdom.”

No sooner had he gone than Guzra Bai began to wonder whether indeed it were possible that he could hear the bell at any distance and return to her. She wondered and wondered until at last her curiosity grew so great that she could not forbear from ringing it.

No sooner had it sounded than the Rajah stood before her. “What has happened?” he asked. “Why did you call me?”

“Nothing has happened,” answered Guzra Bai, “but it did not seem to me possible that you could really hear the bell so far away, and I could not forbear from trying it.”

“Very well,” said the Rajah. “Now you know that it is true, so do not call me again unless you have need of me.”

Again he went away, and Guzra Bai sat and thought and thought about the golden bell. At last she rang it again. At once the Rajah stood before her.

“Oh, my dear husband, please to forgive me,” cried Guzra Bai. “It seemed so wonderful I thought I must have dreamed that the bell could bring you back.”

“Guzra Bai, do not be so foolish,” said her husband. “I will forgive you this time, but do not call me again unless you have need of me.” And he went away.

Again and for the third time Guzra Bai rang the bell, and the Rajah appeared.

“Why do you call me again?” he asked. “Is it again for nothing, or has something happened to you?”

“Nothing has happened,” answered Guzra Bai, “only somehow I felt so frightened that I wanted you near me.”

“Guzra Bai, I am away on affairs of state,” said the Rajah. “If you call me in this way when you have no need of me, I shall soon refuse to answer the bell. Remember this and do not call me again without reason.”

And for the third time the Rajah went away and left her.

Soon after this the young Ranee had twenty and one beautiful children, twenty sons and one daughter.

When the old Queen heard of this she was more jealous than ever. “When the Rajah returns and sees all these children,” she thought to herself, “he will be so delighted that he will love Guzra Bai more dearly than ever, and nothing I can do will ever separate them.” She then began to plan within herself as to how she could get rid of the children before the Rajah’s return.

She sent for the nurse who had charge of the babies, and who was as wicked as herself. “If you can rid me of these children, I will give you a lac of gold pieces,” she said. “Only it must be done in such a way that the Rajah will lay all the blame on Guzra Bai.”

“That can be done,” answered the nurse. “I will throw the children out on the ash heaps, where they will soon perish, and I will put stones in their places. Then when the Rajah returns we will tell him Guzra Bai is a wicked sorceress, who has changed her children into stones.”

The old Ranee was pleased with this plan and said that she herself would go with the nurse and see that it was carried out.

Guzra Bai looked from her window and saw the old Queen coming with the nurse, and at once she was afraid. She was sure they intended some harm to her or the children. She seized the golden bell and rang and rang it, but Chundun did not come. She had called him back so often for no reason at all that this time he did not believe she really needed him.

The nurse and the old Ranee carried away the children, as they had planned, and threw them on the ash heaps and brought twenty-one large stones that they put in their places.

When Chundun Rajah returned from his journey the old Ranee met him, weeping and tearing her hair. “Alas! alas!” she cried. “Why did you marry a sorceress and bring such terrible misfortune upon us all!”

“What misfortune?” asked the Rajah. “What do you mean?”

His mother then told him that while he was away Guzra Bai had had twenty-one beautiful children, but she had turned them all into stones.

Chundun Rajah was thunderstruck. He called the wicked nurse and questioned her. She repeated what the old Ranee had already told him and also showed him the stones.

Then the Rajah believed them. He still loved Guzra Bai too much to put her to death, but he had her imprisoned in a high tower, and would not see her nor speak with her.

But meanwhile the little children who had been thrown out on the ash heap were being well taken care of. A large rat, of the kind called Bandicote, had heard them crying and had taken pity on them. She drew them down into her hole, which was close by and where they would be safe. She then called twenty of her friends together. She told them who the children were and where she had found them, and the twenty agreed to help her take care of the little ones. Each rat was to have the care of one of the little boys and to bring him suitable food, and the old Bandicote who had found them would care for the little girl.

This was done, and so well were the children fed that they grew rapidly. Before long they were large enough to leave the rat hole and go out to play among the ash heaps, but at night they always returned to the hole. The old Bandicote warned them that if they saw anyone coming they must at once hide in the hole, and under no circumstances must any one see them.

The little boys were always careful to do this, but the little girl was very curious. Now it so happened that one day the wicked nurse came past the ash heaps. The little boys saw her coming and ran back into the hole to hide. But the little girl lingered until the nurse was quite close to her before she ran away.

The nurse went to the old Ranee, and said, “Do you know, I believe those children are still alive? I believe they are living in a rat hole near the ash heap, for I saw a pretty little girl playing there among the ashes, and when I came close to her she ran down into the largest rat hole and hid.”

The Ranee was very much troubled when she heard this, for if it were true, as she thought it might be, she feared the Rajah would hear about it and inquire into the matter. “What shall I do?” she asked the nurse.

“Send out and have the ground dug over and filled in,” the nurse replied. “In this way, if any of the children are hidden there, they will be covered over and smothered, and you will also kill the rats that have been harboring them.”

The Ranee at once sent for workmen and bade them go out to the rat holes and dig and fill them in, and the children and the rats would certainly have been smothered just as the nurse had planned, only luckily the old mother rat was hiding near by and overheard what was said. She at once hastened home and told her friends what was going to happen, and they all made their escape before the workmen arrived. She also took the children out of the hole and hid them under the steps that led down into an old unused well. There were twenty-one steps, and she hid one child under each step. She told them not to utter a sound whatever happened, and then she and her friends ran away and left them.

Presently the workmen came with their tools and began to fill in the rat holes. The little daughter of the head workman had come with him, and while he and his fellows were at work the little girl amused herself by running up and down the steps into the well. Every time she trod upon a step it pinched the child who lay under it. The little boys made no sound when they were pinched, but lay as still as stones, but every time the child trod on the step under which the Princess lay she sighed, and the third time she felt the pinch she cried out, “Have pity on me and tread more lightly. I too am a little girl like you!”

The workman’s daughter was very much frightened when she heard the voice. She ran to her father and told him the steps had spoken to her.

The workman thought this a strange thing. He at once went to the old Ranee and told her he dared no longer work near the well, for he believed a witch or a demon lived there under the steps; and he repeated what his little daughter had told him.

The wicked nurse was with the Ranee when the workman came to her. As soon as he had gone, the nurse said: “I am sure some of those children must still be alive. They must have escaped from the rat holes and be hiding under the steps. If we send out there we will probably find them.”

The Ranee was frightened at the thought they might still be alive. She ordered some servants to come with her, and she and the nurse went out to look for the children.

But when the little girl had cried out the little boys were afraid some harm might follow, and prayed that they might be changed into trees, so that if any one came to search for them they might not find them.

Their prayers were answered. The twenty little boys were changed into twenty little banyan trees that stood in a circle, and the little girl was changed into a rose-bush that stood in the midst of the circle and was full of red and white roses.

The old Ranee and the nurse and the servants came to the well and searched under every step, but no one was there, so went away again.

All might now have been well, but the workman’s mischievous little daughter chanced to come by that way again. At once she espied the banyan trees and the rose-bush. “It is a curious thing that I never saw these trees before,” she thought. “I will gather a bunch of roses.”

She ran past the banyan trees without giving them a thought and began to break the flowers from the rose-tree. At once a shiver ran through the tree, and it cried to her in a pitiful voice: “Oh! oh! you are hurting me. Do not break my branches, I pray of you. I am a little girl, too, and can suffer just as you might.”

The child ran back to her father and caught him by the hand. “Oh, I am frightened!” she cried. “I went to gather some roses from the rose-tree, and it spoke to me;” and she told him what the rose-tree had said.

At once the workman went off and repeated to the Ranee what his little daughter had told him, and the Queen gave him a piece of gold and sent him away, bidding him keep what he had heard a secret.

Then she called the wicked nurse to her and repeated the workman’s story. “What had we better do now?” she asked.

“My advice is that you give orders to have all the trees cut down and burned,” said the nurse. “In this way you will rid yourself of the children altogether.”

This advice seemed good to the Ranee. She sent men and had the trees cut down and thrown in a heap to burn.

But heaven had pity on the children, and just as the men were about to set fire to the heap a heavy rain storm arose and put out the fire. Then the river rose over its banks, and swept the little trees down on its flood, far, far away to a jungle where no one lived. Here they were washed ashore and at once took on their real shapes again.

The children lived there in the jungle safely for twelve years, and the brothers grew up tall and straight and handsome, and the sister was like the new moon in her beauty, so slim and white and shining was she.

The brothers wove a hut of branches to shelter their sister, and every day ten of them went out hunting in the forest, and ten of them stayed at home to care for her. But one day it chanced they all wished to go hunting together, so they put their sister up in a high tree where she would be safe from the beasts of the forest, and then they went away and left her there alone.

The twenty brothers went on and on through the jungle, farther than they had ever gone before, and so came at last to an open space among the trees, and there was a hut.

“Who can be living here?” said one of the brothers.

“Let us knock and see,” cried another.

The Princes knocked at the door and immediately it was opened to them by a great, wicked-looking Rakshas. She had only one red eye in the middle of her forehead; her gray hair hung in a tangled mat over her shoulders, and she was dressed in dirty rags.

When the Rakshas saw the brothers she was filled with fury.

She considered all the jungle belonged to her, and she was not willing that any one else should come there. Her one eye flashed fire, and she seized a stick and began beating the Princes, and each one, as she struck him, was turned into a crow. She then drove them away and went back into her hut and closed the door.

The twenty crows flew back through the forest, cawing mournfully. When they came to the tree where their sister sat they gathered about her, trying to make her understand that they were her brothers.

At first the Princess was frightened by the crows, but when she saw there were tears in their eyes, and when she counted them and found there were exactly twenty, she guessed what had happened, and that some wicked enchantment had changed her brothers into this shape. Then she wept over them and smoothed their feathers tenderly.

After this the sister lived up in the tree, and the crows brought her food every day and rested around her in the branches at night, so that no harm should come to her.

Some time after this a young Rajah came into that very jungle to hunt. In some way he became separated from his attendants and wandered deeper and deeper into the forest, until at length he came to the tree where the Princess sat. He threw himself down beneath the tree to rest. Hearing a sound of wings above him the Rajah looked up and was amazed to see a beautiful girl sitting there among the branches with a flock of crows about her.

The Rajah climbed the tree and brought the girl down, while the crows circled about his head, cawing hoarsely.

“Tell me, beautiful one, who are you? And how come you here in the depths of the jungle?” asked the Rajah.

Weeping, the Princess told him all her story except that the crows were her brothers; she let him believe that her brothers had gone off hunting and had never returned.

“Do not weep any more,” said the Rajah. “You shall come home with me and be my Ranee, and I will have no other but you alone.”

When the Princess heard this she smiled, for the Rajah was very handsome, and already she loved him.

She was very glad to go with him and be his wife. “But my crows must go with me,” she said, “for they have fed me for many long days and have been my only companions.”

To this the Rajah willingly consented, and he took her home with him to the palace; and the crows circled about above them, following closely all the way.

The Rajah brought the girl down, while the crows circled about his head.

When the old Rajah and Ranee (the young Rajah’s father and mother) saw what a very beautiful girl he had brought back with him from the jungle they gladly welcomed her as a daughter-in-law.

The young Ranee would have been very happy now in her new life, for she loved her husband dearly, but always the thought of her brothers was like a weight upon her heart. She had a number of trees planted outside her windows so that her brothers might rest there close to her. She cooked rice for them herself and fed them with her own hands, and often she sat under the trees and stroked them and talked to them while her tears fell upon their glossy feathers.

After a while the young Ranee had a son, and he was called Ramchundra. He grew up straight and tall, and he was the joy of his mother’s eyes.

One day, when he was fourteen years old, and big and strong for his age, he sat in the garden with his mother. The crows flew down about them, and she began to caress and talk to them as usual. “Ah, my dear ones!” she cried, “how sad is your fate! If I could but release you, how happy I should be.”

“Mother,” said the boy, “I can plainly see that these crows are not ordinary birds. Tell me whence come they, and why you weep over them and talk to them as you do?”

At first his mother would not tell him, but in the end she related to him the whole story of who she was, and how she and her brothers had come to the jungle and had lived there happily enough until they were changed into crows; and then of how the Rajah had found her and brought her home with him to the palace.

“I can easily see,” said Ramchundra, when she had ended the tale, “that my uncles must have met a Rakshas somewhere in the forest and have been enchanted. Tell me exactly where the tree was—the tree where you lived—and what kind it was?”

The Ranee told him.

“And in which direction did your brothers go when they left you?”

This also his mother told him. “Why do you ask me these questions, my son?” she asked.

“I wish to know,” said Ramchundra, “for sometime I intend to set out and find that Rakshas and force her to free my uncles from her enchantment and change them back to their natural shapes again.”

His mother was terrified when she heard this, but she said very little to him, hoping he would soon forget about it and not enter into such a dangerous adventure.

Not long afterward Ramchundra went to his father and said, “Father, I am no longer a child; give me your permission to ride out into the world and see it for myself.”

The Rajah was willing for him to do this and asked what attendants his son would take with him.

“I wish for no attendants,” answered Ramchundra. “Give me only a horse, and a groom to take care of it.”

The Rajah gave his son the handsomest horse in his stables and also a well-mounted groom to ride with him. Ramchundra, however, only allowed the groom to go with him as far as the edge of the jungle, and then he sent him back home again with both the horses.

The Prince went on and on through the forest for a long distance until at last he came to a tree that he felt sure was the one his mother had told him of. From there he set forth in the same direction she told him his uncles had taken. He went on and on, ever deeper and deeper into the forest, until at last he came to a miserable looking hut. The door was open, and he looked in. There lay an ugly old hag fast asleep. She had only one eye in the middle of her forehead, and her gray hair was tangled and matted and fell over her face. The Prince entered in very softly, and sitting down beside her, he began to rub her head. He suspected that this was the Rakshas who had bewitched his uncles, and it was indeed she.

Presently the old woman awoke. “My pretty lad,” said she, “you have a kind heart. Stay with me here and help me, for I am very old and feeble, as you see, and I cannot very well look out for myself.”

This she said not because she really was old or feeble, but because she was lazy and wanted a servant to wait on her.

“Gladly will I stay,” answered the lad, “and what I can do to serve you, that I will do.”

So the Prince stayed there as the Rakshas’ servant. He served her hand and foot, and every day she made him sit down and rub her head.

One day, while he was rubbing her head and she was in a good humor he said to her, “Mother, why do you keep all those little jars of water standing along the wall? Let me throw out the water so that we may make some use of the jars.”

“Do not touch them,” cried the Rakshas. “That water is very powerful. One drop of it can break the strongest enchantment, and if any one has been bewitched, that water has power to bring him back to his own shape again.”

“And why do you keep that crooked stick behind the door? To-morrow I shall break it up to build a fire.”

“Do not touch it,” cried the hag. “I have but to wave that stick, and I can conjure up a mountain, a forest, or a river just as I wish, and all in the twinkling of an eye.”

The Prince said nothing to that, but went on rubbing her head. Presently he began to talk again. “Your hair is in a dreadful tangle, mother,” he said. “Let me get a comb and comb it out.”

“Do not dare!” screamed the Rakshas. “One hair of my head has the power to set the whole jungle in flames.”

Ramchundra again was silent and went on rubbing her head, and after a while the old Rakshas fell asleep and snored till the hut shook with her snoring.

Then, very quietly, the Prince arose. He plucked a hair from the old hag’s head without awakening her, he took a flask of the magic water and the staff from behind the door, and set out as fast as he could go in the direction of the palace.

It was not long before he heard the Rakshas coming through the jungle after him, for she had awakened and found him gone.

Nearer and nearer she came, and then the Prince turned and waved the crooked stick. At once a river rolled between him and the Rakshas.

Without pause the Rakshas plunged into the river and struck out boldly, and soon she reached the other side.

On she came again close after Ramchundra. Again he turned and waved the staff. At once a thick screen of trees sprang up between him and the hag. The Rakshas brushed them aside this way and that as though they had been nothing but twigs.

On she came, and again the Prince waved the staff. A high mountain arose, but the Rakshas climbed it, and it did not take her long to do this.

Now she was so close that Ramchundra could hear her panting, but the edge of the jungle had been reached. He turned and cast the Rakshas’ hair behind him. Immediately the whole jungle burst into fire, and the Rakshas was burned up in the flames.

Soon after the Prince reached the palace and hastened out into the garden. There sat his mother weeping, with the crows gathered about her. When she saw Ramchundra she sprang to her feet with a scream of joy and ran to him and took him in her arms.

“My son! my son! I thought you had perished!” she cried. “Did you meet the Rakshas?”

“Not only did I meet her, but I have slain her and brought back with me that which will restore my uncles to their proper shapes,” answered the Prince.

He then dipped his fingers into the jar he carried and sprinkled the magic water over the crows. At once the enchantment was broken, and the twenty Princes stood there, tall and handsome, in their own proper shapes.

The Ranee made haste to lead them to her husband and told him the whole story. The Rajah could not wonder enough when he understood that the Princes were his wife’s brothers, and were the crows she had brought home with her.

He at once ordered a magnificent feast to be prepared and a day of rejoicing to be held throughout all the kingdom.

Many Rajahs from far and near were invited to the feast, and among those who came was the father of the Ranee and her brothers, but he never suspected, as he looked upon them, that they were his children.

Before they sat down to the feast the young Ranee said to him, “Where is your wife Guzra Bai? Why has she not come with you? We had expected to see her here?”

The Rajah was surprised that the young Ranee should know his wife’s name, but he made some excuse as to why Guzra Bai was not there.

Then the young Rajah said, “Send for her, I beg of you, for the feast cannot begin till she is here.”

The older Rajah was still more surprised at this. He could not think any one was really concerned about Guzra Bai, and he feared the young Rajah wished, for some reason, to quarrel with him. But he agreed to send for his wife, and messengers were at once dispatched to bring Guzra Bai to the palace.

No sooner had she come than the young Ranee began to weep, and she and the Princes gathered about their mother. Then they told the Rajah the whole story of how his mother and the nurse had sought to destroy Guzra Bai and her children, and how they had been saved, and had now come to safety and great honor.

The Rajah was overcome with joy when he found that Guzra Bai was innocent. He prayed her to forgive him, and this she did, and all was joy and happiness.

As for the old Ranee, she was shut up in the tower where Guzra Bai had lived for so many years, but the old nurse was killed as befitted such a wicked woman.