0200. Gautama the Ungrateful

From Indian Fables and Folklore by Shovona Devi, online at: Hathi Trust.

Notes. You can read a long version of this story in the Mahabharata. The crane in the story is a "prince of cranes" by the name of Rajadharman, and Virupaksha is a king of the rakshasas.

Summary: An ungrateful brahmin wrongs the bird who was his benefactor.

GAUTAMA THE UNGRATEFUL

(Crane, circa 1770)

Gautama was a Brahmin reduced to such straits that he used to beg for his meals. One day he met with a stranger and said to him, holding out his right hand with the sacred thread wound round the thumb, "O give me alms in exchange for a Brahmin’s blessing."

The stranger thus accosted was a robber, on his way to steal and murder; so for good luck he offered the Brahmin a coin, instead of robbing him as he had half a mind to do.

"Are you not ashamed to beg, O Brahmin?" said the robber to Gautama, without revealing who he was. "Come with me, and I will see to it that you lack for nothing."

Gautama followed him to his village and lived with him, and in time became a robber himself. For his meals he used to snare birds and kill animals and indulge in all manner of cruelty, hateful to the creed of the true Brahmin.

It so fell out that one day, while he was returning home with a number of bleeding birds tied together by the legs and flung over his shoulder, he met with a Brahmin acquaintance of his.

"Can it be Gautama?" cried the Brahmin, surprised and shocked at his appearance. "What a fall for a Brahmin."

The friends talked together for some time, and Gautama told him the whole story before they parted. The sight of a fellow-Brahmin filled Gautama with a yearning to revisit his own home and people, so he left the village of the robbers secretly by night.

On and on he walked until, wearied out, he lay down under a tree and fell asleep.

In the tree there lived a Crane. Seeing a stranger trusting the hospitality of its tree, it lit fires to frighten off the wild beasts, and itself stood by him, guarding him against harm.

Gautama got up early next morning and was about to resume his journey when the bird thus said to him, "O Brahmin, I must not let you go empty-handed. You must call on my friend Viru-Paksha. He will give you as much gold as you can carry."

Gladly the Brahmin visited Viru-Paksha, and received, even as the bird had told him, a bag full of gold coins. Flinging the bag over his shoulder he trudged along, almost bent down by the weight of the gold. He reached the same tree and lay down beneath it to rest for the night. The bird again came down from the tree, lit fires around, and stood guard over its guest.

Gautama was awake, but pretended to be asleep, and thus thought to himself, "I have still a long distance to go, but have no food with me to eat on the way. It would be wise to kill and roast the bird over the fire, and carry it with me."

Following this wicked resolve, the ungrateful Brahmin wrenched off the head of the Crane, plucked out its feathers, and roasted it over the fire, and then went on his way.

Next morning Viru-paksha waited long for his friend the Crane, but he did not appear, so he sent a messenger to enquire the cause of the delay. When the messenger reached the tree, what should he see but strewn feathers and stains of blood upon the ground beneath. Alas, the poor bird had been murdered!

There, plain enough on the ground, were the footmarks of its murderer.

These he followed up, step by step, until at last he came upon Gautama, whom he seized by the arm, saying, "It was you who slew the pious Crane." For further proof the body of the Crane was found on the Brahmin’s person.

Gautama was taken before Viru-Paksha with the evidence of his crime still fresh upon him. Viru-Paksha ordered the wicked murderer of his friend to be cut to pieces and cast to the dogs and vultures.

Thus died Gautama the Ungrateful, and pieces of his flesh were thrown to the vultures.

"O Vultures! O Vultures!" cried the Executioner; "here is the flesh
of an ungrateful wretch for you to eat."

"We eat not the flesh of the Ungrateful, O Executioner!" replied the vultures.

Next he threw the flesh to the dogs and jackals. "O Dogs and Jackals! O Dogs and Jackals!"’ cried the Executioner; "here is the flesh of an ungrateful wretch for you to eat."

"We eat not the flesh of the Ungrateful, O Executioner!" replied the dogs and jackals.

Thus the vultures, dogs, and jackals refused to touch the meat, and, last of all, it was offered to the worms.

"O Worms! O Worms!" cried the Executioner. "Here is the flesh of an ungrateful wretch for you to eat."

"We eat not the flesh of the Ungrateful, O Executioner!" replied the worms.

So heinous is Ingratitude that not even the vile worms would eat the flesh of the treacherous Gautama.

The vilest creatures, with abhorrence viewed,
Loathe the corruption of Ingratitude.

0198. The Frog-King's Folly

From Indian Fables and Folklore by Shovona Devi, online at: Hathi Trust.

Notes. This is a story you will also find in the Panchatantra.

Summary: A snake tricks the foolish king of the frogs by offering him a ride... but the frog ends up paying a high price for the ride.

Read the story below:

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THE FROG-KING'S FOLLY

(source)

Once upon a time a snake had grown too old to catch prey, so it went and took up its quarters beside a pool where there were many frogs.

The King of the Frogs, named Yal-Pada, the Web-Footed One, was apprised of the coming of this dangerous stranger. He went to the snake, attended by all the frogs, to enquire why, of all places on earth, it had chosen the vicinity of this particular pool for its home.

"I am named Manda-Vish, Slow Poison, O King Yal-Pada," said the snake, lowering its hood. "I am under a curse and forbidden to harm frogs without the leave of their king. Once I pursued a frog and by accident bit a Brahmin. He died, pronouncing this curse on me: May you die if you eat a frog again unless with the leave of the King of the Frogs. O King Yal-Pada, I mean to do penance for my sin in slaying the Brahmin," said the snake. "Let it be my penance to bear your majesty on my head wherever it shall please you to ride."

Without more ado Yal-Pada leaped onto the hood of the snake, which crawled away, swaying its body gracefully to and fro.

The other frogs looked on amazed, but some bolder spirits amongst them followed their king at a distance.

After a time the snake stopped, gasping. "Why do you stay, O Manda-Vish?" asked Yal-Pada.

"O King of the Frogs, I am famished and faint," replied the wily serpent. "I cannot bear you back to the pool unless you grant me something to eat. To eat a frog without your leave, I have told you, would mean my death."

King Yal-Pada had enjoyed his ride immensely, and did not like the idea of losing his dignity by hopping back to the pool, so he offered one of his attendant frogs to the snake.

Having thus appeased its hunger, Manda-Vish took the King of the Frogs up on its hood again and crawled away back to the pool.
In this way the snake was provided with a frog every day, and in return for its meals it took Yal-Pada out on its hood for a ride. Thus one by one all the frogs were eaten up.

When there were no more frogs left for it, Manda-Vish made its last meal off King Yal-Pada, and then departed to find fresh folly to be the victim of its guile.

0197. The Moon in the Well

From Indian Fables and Folklore by Shovona Devi, online at: Hathi Trust.

Notes. You can find more stories about the "moon in the well" at Dan Ashliman's website: The Moon in the Well.

Summary: When the moon disappears behind the clouds, the monkeys decide to find and rescue her.

THE MOON IN THE WELL

(Pixabay)

Once upon a time a troop of monkeys had been raiding the fruit trees in an orchard by moonlight. All of a sudden the Moon disappeared behind a bank of clouds, and the monkeys began to search about them for her as if she had dropped down from her place in heaven.

Beside them was a well, and lo! in its water they beheld the reflection of the Moon as the clouds drifted away.

"The Moon has fallen down the well! Let us rescue her," cried the monkeys, setting to work to raise her by forming themselves into a sort of ladder, each hanging on to the tail of the other, and thus letting themselves down the well.

Suddenly the branch supporting them broke, and all the monkeys were hurled into the well.

0196. The Hungry Elephant

From Indian Fables and Folklore by Shovona Devi, online at: Hathi Trust.

Notes. You can find out more about Ganesha, the elephant-headed god of wisdom, at Wikipedia.

Summary: A merchant tries to fool a hungry elephant, but the elephant is persistent.

THE HUNGRY ELEPHANT

(Wikimedia)

The elephant is not always so foolish as other tales would make him out. On the contrary he is a sagacious beast, cautiously feeling his ground before putting his feet forward. There is reason enough for representing Ganesha, the Hindu God of Wisdom, with an elephant's head. Here is a story from an old novel to show how an elephant can use both sense and strength.

Once a crafty old elephant named Futtehgurrh, the Fort-Winner, felt extremely hungry and, breaking loose from his shackles, wandered into a bazaar stocked with grain. As soon as the grain-sellers saw him coming, they shut up their shops and ran away. One had only time enough to put up the shutters before the elephant came and stood in front of his shop.

"Ho there! I want some rice," cried out the elephant.

"No rice," said a voice from within.

"Flour, then," said the elephant.

"No flour," was the reply.

"Ghee then," said the elephant again.

"No ghee," responded the shopkeeper.

"Very well, molasses," cried the elephant, angrily.

"No molasses," answered the shopkeeper with a hearty laugh, as if it were a good joke.

"I’ll find out the truth for myself then," said the elephant, with a snort.

The angry animal butted at the shutters with its full force, and crash! They went to pieces in an instant, and the shopkeeper was discovered in the midst of plenty, tumbling affrighted over his baskets of grain,

"Oh mercy mercy!" he cried; "here is rice, flour, ghee, and molasses, O good Futtehgurrh! — take what you will," and Futtehgurrh had such a feast off them as he had never had before in his life.

0184. The Elephant-Fighting Hare

From Indian Fables and Folklore by Shovona Devi, online at: Hathi Trust.

Notes. Devi refers to the elephant as having a "Juggernauth" weight; you can find out more about that Indian word here: juggernaut.

Summary: This is the story of a trickster rabbit who manages to terrorize a whole herd of elephants.

Read the story below:

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THE ELEPHANT-FIGHTING HARE

(MaxPixel)

Once upon a time a little hare saw a herd of elephants in a wood, and challenged their leader to a fight, but the latter went on breaking off branches and putting these into his capacious mouth, only now and then winking at the hare out of the corner of one eye.

The hare thought the elephant was unwilling to fight, so he called him a coward.

The elephant then lost his temper and went straight at the saucy little thing with trunk up, bellowing, but the hare, with the characteristic nimbleness of its race, kept dodging him about, slipping in and out, round and under him, among his legs.

Of a sudden the mighty animal flung himself down, as if to crush his puny enemy under his Juggernauth weight, but the hare slipped out by his tail, and, clambering on to his back, lay down there quietly.

The elephant, no more conscious of its presence than the wheel was of the fly sitting on it, still kept pressing himself to the ground, as if to crush to pulp the impudent hare supposed to be beneath him. The other elephants, seeing the hare lying on the back of their leader, fancied it must be keeping him down by superior physical force, so they became frightened and bolted.

The leader of the herd, finding himself thus deserted by his companions, and tormented by an army of ants that his gusty breathing had drawn into his nostrils, then rose and dashed away.

Thus were the elephants vanquished by the hare.

0065. The Cow of Plenty

From Indian Fables and Folklore by Shovona Devi, online at: Hathi Trust.

Notes. You might remember both Vashishtha and Vishvamitra from the Ramayana; you can read more about them both at Wikipedia, and also about Kamadhenu.

Summary: The Kshatriya (warrior) Vishvamitra is impressed by the wish-granting cow that belongs to the Brahmin Vashishtha, and sets out to take possession of the cow for himself.

Read the story below:

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THE COW OF PLENTY

(rishi, Parijata tree, and Kamadhenu)

In the far-away past there lived hard by the Sone in Upper India a warrior-Prince and hero of ancient story of the name of Vishvamitra, son of King Gadhi. He went about the world at the head of a chosen band of valiant men, after the fashion of the knights-errant of old. 

In the course of his wanderings he once chanced to come to the hermitage of Vashishtha, high-priest to the powerful Vedic king, Sudasa.

"Vashishtha is a great Sage," said Vishvamitra to himself. "Let me see how he can entertain this large army of mine." 

Chuckling to himself at the perplexity he hoped to create, he went before Vashishtha and did him obeisance. "Thou art welcome to my humble hermitage with all your retinue," said Vashishtha to the Prince, guessing his thought. 

"Nay," replied Vishvamitra, with feigned humility, "let me kiss your holy feet, and depart with your blessing. I dare not put you to the trouble of entertaining such a large body of men." 

"Set your mind at ease about that," said the great Vashishtha, with a smile. He turned to his Cow of Plenty, called Sabala or Kamadhenu, which, as its name implies, had the miraculous power of furnishing its owner with whatever he desired, and said, "O Kamadhenu, entertain right royally this mighty Prince and his followers." 

No sooner said than done. The Prince with all his army was treated to delicacy after delicacy such as had never before delighted mortal tongue. 

Carried away by his covetousness, Vishvamitra fell before Vashishtha and, clinging at his feet, besought him to give him the Cow of Plenty. 

"Aught else but that, O Prince," replied Vashishtha. "Without her I should be unable to entertain my guests and perform my sacrifices, duties indispensible to a Brahmin. She is worth more than all the kine of the world put together. There is nothing that could recompense me for parting with her." 

Still the Prince prayed and cajoled, and cajoled and prayed by turns, but all in vain. At last he lost his temper and said to Vashishtha, "The son of the King of the World begs on his knees for your Cow, yet you, proud Brahmin, refuse to make him a gift of it. A Kshatriya never begs for a thing he has set his heart upon — he takes it by the strength of his right hand. Yet have I humbled myself on my knees for your Cow, but without avail. Now I seize her by force, by right of conquest as becomes a Kshatriya." 

Without more ado he ordered his followers to carry away the Cow of Plenty; but before they could lay violent hands upon her she cried "Hamba," and lo! A herd of horned cattle sprang suddenly into existence from the ground beneath her feet and, bellowing fiercely, attacked the warriors and gored every one of them to death.

The news of the humiliation of Vishvamitra flew apace, and his hundred sons came to the rescue of their father. Vashishtha but looked upon them, and they all turned to ashes on the spot! 

Thus baffled and humiliated by a mere Brahmin, Vishvamitra went into a wood and paid his devotions to Mahadeva (Shiva), until the God appeared before him and asked him to choose a boon. 

"If it be your will, O God," said Vishvamitra to the Deity of Destruction, "equip me with divine weapons against my enemy." 

"So be it. Behold them," said Mahadeva, and forthwith a number of weapons were placed in Vishvamitra's grasp. Armed with these he quickly made his way to the hermitage of Vashishtha to wreak his vengeance on him. 

Arriving there he twanged his bow and discharged a shower of arrows of fire. The denizens of the wood were panic-stricken, and rushed hither and thither for shelter against the flames. The hermits fled to Vashishtha for protection, crying aloud, "The sacred wood is on fire! Save us, save us from destruction, O mighty Sage." 

"Fear not! I will protect you," said the Sage to the panic-stricken hermits, and then, seizing his sacred staff, he exclaimed in a voice of thunder, "O wicked Vishvamitra, you have set our grove of penance on fire. Your sacrilege has earned you punishment, and soon shall you meet with your deserts." 

"Let us see on whom the punishment falls," cried Vishvamitra, at the same time loosing his arrow of fire at Vashishtha, who caught it on his staff, where it broke into pieces. 

Vishvamitra again discharged fresh arrows of fire and raised a conflagration, but Vashishtha put it out with a touch of his staff. 

Then the Sage hurled his staff at Vishvamitra, his eyes darting forth living fire, while from his every pore issued a stream of flames. Vishvamitra cried out: "Call back your weapon! Call back your weapon! I confess myself vanquished. Virtue is mightier than Valour." 

Having learnt his lesson, Vishvamitra wished to win for himself the rank of a Brahmin; so to this end he began to practise great austerities, hanging himself bat-like, head downwards. The Gods were frightened lest he might aspire to the throne of Indra, so they brought Vashishtha to him and said: "Arise, Vishvamitra, for now you are a Brahmarshi." 

"If I am a Brahmarshi," replied Vishvamitra, "let the mighty Sage Vashishtha, the head of the Brahmins, acknowledge me so." 

"Thou art indeed a Brahmarshi, as the Gods would have me say," declared Vashishtha, and Vishvamitra became as great a Sage as Vashishtha himself. He is called "Vashishtha vacha Brahmarshi," that is a Brahmarshi by the acknowledgment of Vashishtha. 

0064. Atreya's Heaven

From Indian Fables and Folklore by Shovona Devi, online at: Hathi Trust.

Notes. You can find out more about the sage Atri and about his son Atreya at Wikipedia, and you can also read there about the god Visva-Karma, the All-Maker.

Summary: After a visit to the heaven of the god Indra, the sage Atreya decides that he wants to create a "heaven on earth," but things do not turn out as he expected.

Read the story below:

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ATREYA'S HEAVEN

(Vishwakarma)

Once upon a time there was a renowned Sage, Atreya by name, so called because he was the son of the Sage Atri. He had acquired the power of transferring himself anywhere and everywhere at will.

One day he took it into his head to visit the Heaven of Indra, and the King of the Gods welcomed him with all fitting honours. He was entertained with the dances of the Apsaras (nymphs) and the songs of the Gandharvas (elf musicians), and had a dainty repast in place of his usual fare of herbs and roots. He enjoyed his sojourn in Heaven, as you might well expect.

He then returned to his poor cottage, disgusted with his proper belongings and surroundings. "Give me something to eat," said the Sage to his wife, for his appetite had grown with the delicate fare of Heaven. The poor Brahmani brought him a dish of boiled herbs and roots, all she could find in the wood.

"Ah!" said Atreya, with a grunt, turning up his nose at the dish before him. "What! Shall I have no more of the dainty sweets I had yesternight?"

"My lord forgets," replied the wife, meekly, "he was in Heaven yesternight; but this is his humble cottage, and not Heaven."

"Then I must turn this cottage into a Heaven," exclaimed Atreya. "This very instant will I summon Vishva-Karma, the Artisan of the Gods."

Vishva-Karma was summoned, and presented himself at once before the Sage. "May I know your desire, O great Sage?" said the Artisan-God, in fear and trembling.

"O Vishva-Karma," said the Sage, "build me a Heaven like unto that of Indra, furnished with all celestial delights—Apsaras, Gandharvas and all—and parks beautifully laid out with sparkling fountains and trees of silver and gold."

Vishva-Karma dared not refuse, for Sages were known to be master-cursers. And lo, there arose before Atreya's eyes a new Swarga or Heaven, in no way distinguishable from Indra's. Atreya was delighted with the Heaven thus built for him, and dismissed the Smith-God with a Brähmin’s blessing for reward. Now was his cup of happiness full to the brim.

But there had been an age-long feud between the Gods and Giants, and the latter had made many attempts to invade and ruin Heaven. One day the Giants discovered by chance the Heaven of Atreya.

"What!" said they to each other; "has Indra built a new Heaven on earth? Let us glut our ancient grudge against him and level it to the ground."

Thus saying, they attacked Atreya's Heaven with loud yells. The Sage was then lying on his couch of gold, listening to the enchanting songs of his Apsaras. He jumped up from his seat and went out to see what was happening, and was terrified almost out of his wits to find an army of Giants hurling boulders and trees against his Heaven.

Bruised and stunned by the hurtling rocks, Atreya cried out to the Giants, raising his right hand with the sacred thread wound round the thumb: "Stop, stop, O ye Giants! I am not Indra, your ancient enemy, but a poor harmless Brahmin, as this sacred thread, the badge of my caste, betokens. Stay your hands and receive a Brahmin’s blessing as reward for your forbearance."

His Heaven was by this time in ruin on the ground.

"What is a Brahmin doing playing at Indra?" exclaimed the Giants. "Put away the dress of our enemy and put on a hermit’s bark. And learn to keep within your own degree, lest evil again befall your presumption."

"I have acted foolishly," said the Brahmin, "and it has come near costing me death at your hands. Never more will I court disaster thus."

The Giants then went away, and no sooner were they gone than Atreya again summoned Vishva-Karma. "What is your will, O Sage?" said the Artisan-God, presenting himself before him. "Alas! What destruction has o’erwhelmed the beauteous Heaven I created for you!"

Atreya told him how the Giants, mistaking it for Indra's Heaven, had demolished it by hurling rocks and trees against it.

"Shall I then build you another Heaven?" asked Vishva-Karma, laughing.

"Nay," cried the Sage, "give me the home that tempts no enemies. Be pleased to replace the wreckage of my Heaven with mine old humble cottage."

Vishva-Karma did as he was bid, and then re-ascended to Heaven, much amused.

And back to his cottage and his dish of boiled herbs and roots went the Sage Atreya, never to grumble again.

Though Heaven's joys be his, the fable shows a mortal cannot combat Heaven’s foes.

0063. The Sun's Gifts

From Indian Fables and Folklore by Shovona Devi, online at: Hathi Trust.

Notes. You can read more about the sage Jamadagni and the sun god, Surya, at Wikipedia. You can read an ancient version of this story in the Mahabharata.

Summary: A powerful sage challenges the Sun when the Sun's heat bothers the sage's wife.

Read the story below:

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THE GIFTS OF THE SUN

(Surya - Wikimedia)

Once upon a time there was a mighty Sage of the name of Jamadagni, dreaded alike of Gods and mortals. "Let us take the bow and spend an hour in archery, O Reunka," said Jamadagni to his wife one morning. The Brahmani gladly consented, for it always gave her pleasure to fall in with the wishes of her husband.

Jamadagni tucked up the sleeves of his garment of bark (the material worn by all Sages before the art of weaving was invented), and fetched a bow and an arrow. "Get ready, my dear wife," said the Sage, fixing the arrow to the bow. "Yonder tree shall be our target. Let us shoot the arrow at the tree by turns."

Jamadagni shot at the tree, and Reunka ran to the tree, picked up the arrow, and brought it back to her husband. This she went on doing for a time, while the Sun rose higher and the heat increased.

"O my dear husband," cried Reunka, "the sand is burning my feet, and the Sun is burning my head, and I have not the strength to bring back the arrow again."

Jamadagni had by this time grown interested in the game, and did not relish the idea of having to give it up so soon. He went up to the tree himself, picked up the arrow, and then, fixing it to the bow, pointed it skywards, crying aloud, "How dare you, O Sun, molest my wife in her pastime? Moderate your rays so as to make them bearable to her, or this arrow flies at you and brings you down."

The Sun was frightened, but he mustered up sufficient courage to say to the irate Sage, "O Jamadagni, restrain thy wrath! I cannot control my fiery horses before eventide; but I have that which will protect the head and feet of thy spouse. Here is a parasol and a dainty pair of slippers for her."

Reunka put on the slippers, and the sand no longer burnt her feet. She spread out the parasol over her head, and the Sun no longer burnt her head; and merrily she went on with her sport.

Such is the myth of the origin of parasols and shoes, the gifts of the Sun.

0062. A Rat's Swayamvara

From Indian Fables and Folklore by Shovona Devi, online at: Hathi Trust.

Notes. For more stories of this type, see Dan Ashliman's collection: The Mouse who Was to Marry the Sun. For more about the swayamvara tradition of the bride choice in India, see Wikipedia.

Summary: A powerful sage turns a rat into a woman, and then that woman decides she wants to marry the most powerful being in the world: who will she marry?

Read the story below:

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A RAT'S SWAYAMVARA

(Sun Carriage; Murudeshwar India)

A mighty Sage was Yagna-valkya. He would stand in water even in the coldest winter, worshipping the Sun with hands uplifted. One day, as he stood in the Ganges chanting his hymn to the Sun, a baby rat dropped into his hands from the talons of a hawk flying overhead. The Sage gave the wee creature to his wife and asked her to rear it.

"Rear a ratl" exclaimed his wife, laughing. "What a queer idea!" 

To please her the Sage turned the rat into a beautiful little girl, for such superhuman powers he had acquired by his austerities. They had no child of their own, so the woman took great delight in rearing the child. 

The girl grew up little by little till she bloomed to womanhood, and then the Sage thought of her marriage. 

"Let the girl marry the golden Sun," said the Sage to his wife. "There is none mightier than he." 

So the Sun was summoned, but the girl asked him, "Is there no one mightier than thou, O Sun?" 

The Sun was puzzled by the question. However, he said, "The Cloud seems mightier than I, O maiden, for he can obscure my brightness." 

So the Sun was dismissed, and the Cloud summoned; but the girl said to it, "Is there no one mightier than thou, O Cloud?"

The Cloud was astounded, but after a pause it made answer. "The Wind seems mightier than I, O maiden, for he drives me whither he likes." 

So the Cloud was dismissed, and the Wind summoned; and the girl repeated the same question to it. "Is there no one mightier than thou, O Wind?" 

The Wind, too, was taken aback, but said, "The Mountain seems mightier than I, O maiden, for he can stay my blast as none else can." 

So the Wind was dismissed, and Mount Himalaya summoned; and the maiden put the same query to it. "Is there no one mightier than thou, O Mountain?"

The Mountain frowned, and thus replied. "The Rat seems mightier than I, O maiden, for he bores holes through me with his teeth." 

So the Mountain was dismissed, and a jungle Rat summoned. "Marry the Rat and be happy," said the Sage to the girl, "for he is of thine own race," and he turned her back into the rat she was at first. 

So ended the Rat's Svayamvara.

0061. The Hare in the Moon

From Indian Fables and Folklore by Shovona Devi, online at: Hathi Trust.

Notes. This is a folktale about an animal trickster who invokes the "Hare in the Moon" as part of his trick. There is a different story from India about the hare in the moon, a Buddhist jataka story that tells how there came to be a hare in the moon. For another story about a rabbit who tricks a larger and more powerful animal, see The Hare and the Lion. For more about "lunar pareidolia" (i.e. the "man in the moon," "the rabbit in the moon," etc.), see Wikipedia. You will recognize the "Karna" ("ear") part of the hare's name in this story as in the name Karna, a hero of the Mahabharata, and also in the name Kumbhakarna, Ravana's brother in the Ramayana. This story comes from the Panchatantra tradition, and the illustration below is from a Syrian edition of the Panchatantra-based Kalila-wa-Dimna, circa 1354.

Summary: A quick-witted little hare invents a trick to drive the elephants away from the pond where the hares live.

Read the story below:

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THE HARE IN THE MOON

(Syrian Kalila-wa-Dimna)

You must have noticed in the round of the full moon something like a little animal with two long ears erect. That is what the Hindus call the Hare in the Moon.

A herd of elephants once took up their quarters by a lake near which dwelt a colony of hares, and many of these little creatures were crushed to death under their feet. The survivors, loath to depart from their ancient home, were in great despair.

One saucy little hare, however, volunteered to drive the intruders away. He waited for an opportunity, and when he saw the leader of the herd, a fine big four-tusker, disporting himself in the lake, he coolly walked up and thus addressed him: “O Chatur-danta (Four-Tusked One), how dare you stir up and muddy the waters of this sacred Lake of the Moon? I am Lamba-Karna (Long-Eared One), the Hare in the Moon, come down to warn you of the consequences of this impiety.”

The full Moon had just disclosed itself, and its image was seen quivering in the agitated waters.

“Do you not see the Moon herself, down by your wicked feet!” continued Lamba-Karna, nothing daunted. “Beware of her resentment!”

Chatur-Danta, the four-tusked rogue, scarce troubled even to glance at the hare, and went on gamboling in the water.

“What! Still bent on troubling her sacred waters?” said the hare again. “Tarry no more, for if once your leg is in her grip she will give you cause to rue it!”

The elephant at last grew alarmed. He looked down at his feet, and indeed the Moon was there already, not one alone, but multiplied a hundred-fold! He jumped back in fright half-a-dozen yards, but the Moon still followed him as if to catch him by the leg.

“Alas for my folly! There's the Moon!” cried the elephant, and then turned up his trunk and stampeded, followed by the whole herd.

The hares were no longer molested and lived in peace ever after.

Before the hare the tusker quails: No need for Strength when Wit prevails.

0059. The Hermit Cat

From The Orient Pearls: Indian Folklore by Shovona Devi, online at: Internet Archive.

Notes. You can find a different version of the story here: The Hypocritical Cat.

Summary: An old cat pretends to be a pious pilgrim, hoping to catch some mice to eat.

Read the story below:

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THE HERMIT CAT

(prayer beads)

The old cat, the mouse, and the pigeon

Once upon a time a torn cat, grown too old and infirm to catch his prey, stationed himself before the door of a temple, and fed on the crumbs of the offerings made to the idol by its votaries. Sometimes he used to sally out, holding up a rosary in one fore-paw, carrying a begging-bowl in the other, and limping along on his hind legs, in the hope of catching his prey by pious fraud instead of force, after the fashion of robber-mendicants.

On one of these sallies, the cat met with a mouse, and the latter, surprised to see a cat turned hermit, was bold enough to ask him whither he was bound.

"I have been abroad on a pilgrimage," said the cat. "I have just returned, and am now bound for my temple."

The mouse, prostrating himself before the cat, at a sufficiently safe distance, for "what is bred in the bone will come out in the flesh," begged to be allowed to accompany him. Of course, the request was granted, the mouse following the hermit at a respectful distance.

The cat could not, even if he would, catch the mouse on open ground, lacking the energy to pursue his prey; but, once inside the temple, he could, said he to himself, pen him in and capture him with ease.

A little further on, a pigeon with a tuft of feathers on his head joined the party.

In the temple

Arrived at the temple, the cat made his companions walk in, and himself stood at the door, telling the rosary as if he were engaged in prayer, so as to disarm the suspicions of his intended victims.

In the meantime the mouse, suspecting foul play, made a sufficiently long hole for himself in the floor of the temple, while the pigeon perched himself on the canopy over the idol, beyond the cat's reach.

After a time, hungry as he was, the cat lost patience, and cast about for an excuse before attacking his intended victims. In a tone of haughtiness he demanded of the pigeon why he wore a tuft of feathers on his head.

"The tuft of feathers," said the bird with much humility, "is worn as a badge of caste."

The cat next turned to the mouse and demanded, in a still more haughty tone, why he wore a beard and whiskers.

"My beard and whiskers, thy holiness," replied the mouse, "are as much symbols of my religion as thy rosary and begging-bowl are of thine."

The cat, who now saw he had been found out, at once sprang upon the mouse, but, before his palsied paws could touch him, the little animal had slipped into the newly-made hole, while, as for the pigeon, it flew away to a place of safety.

The cat under the tree

Balked of his prey, the cat sulkily left the temple, and went and sat under a tree by a mouse-hole, with three paws up, sustaining his whole weight upon the fourth. The mice issued out of the hole, and, seeing the cat standing on one paw, enquired why he was practising austerities in front of their hole, of all places on earth.

The cat winked at them and said: "I am a cat turned hermit. I am standing on one paw out of consideration for mother Earth, because, if I stood on all four, she would be burdened with a greater weight."

The mice took him to be a very religious cat, and ceased to have any fear of him, and so, as they filed past, they prostrated themselves before him.

The wily cat used to snap up the last of the mice as they went past him, and, after they were gone out of sight, would devour him.

The revenge of the mice

In this way his religious garb stood him in good stead, but, on the other hand, the mice kept missing some one or other of their numerous family every day. One missed her husband, another his wife, a third his sister, and so on, and there was much weeping and lamentation among the survivors, and their suspicions naturally fell upon the cat-hermit, the hereditary enemy of their tribe.

They accordingly determined to keep watch over the doings of the cat-hermit, and, as they filed out of the hole, the head of the party kept looking behind until the last mouse had left, and lo! as the latter came out, he was seized! The party then turned back, and the cat instantly let go his prey and resumed his former attitude.

The mice filed back into the hole, and, acting on the principle of "union is strength," caught hold of the cat's tail and dragged him, by sheer force of numbers, into the hole, and made a feast off him, which lasted for many and many a day.

0050. Kali and Raktabija

From Indian Fables and Folklore by Shovona Devi, online at: Hathi Trust.

Notes. Devi includes this story about the goddess Kali as part of her story about Ratnakar. You can read more about Kali at Wikipedia, and there is also an article about the demon Raktabija.

Summary: This is the story of how Kali defeated the demon Raktabija.

Read the story below:

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KALI AND RAKTABIJA

(Kali Killing Raktabija)

In distant ages a demon infested the earth and devoured mankind as soon as created. The water did not reach his waist even in the most unfathomable parts of the ocean, so terrific a monster was he. He strode over the world unrestrained, rioting in the destruction of the human race, until the Goddess came to the rescue. 

She attacked the demon and cut him down, but from every drop of his blood another demon arose; and though the Goddess continued to cut down these new-created demons with wonderful adroitness, fresh broods of demons sprang from their blood, as from that of their progenitors. 

But the Goddess is furnished with a tongue of extraordinary dimensions, and when she found the drops of blood thus rapidly changing into demons, she promptly licked them away after every blow, and thus put an end to the demoniac race. 

0049. Ratnakar, The Robber-Chief

From Indian Fables and Folklore by Shovona Devi, online at: Hathi Trust.

Notes. You can read more about Valmiki at Wikipedia. The verses at the end of the story come from the Chandogya Upanishad. This legend is widely known, but some who are devoted to Valmiki reject the story; you can read more about that at OpIndia. Devi includes the story of Kali and Raktabija inside this story, but I have published that as a separate post.

Summary: A robber named Ratnakar undergoes a conversion before becoming Valmiki, the author of the Ramayana.

Read the story below:

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RATNAKAR, THE ROBBER-CHIEF

(Ratnakar-Valmiki)

The robbers who worship Kali

A mighty robber-chief was Ratnākar (“The Mine of Treasures”), the Brahmin. He loved to live under the greenwood tree, whence he would often sally out with his devoted band to rifle and plunder.

Kāli, the Demon-killer, was the patron Goddess they invoked ere setting out on their nocturnal rounds, and her altar reeked with the blood of human victims. Of Kāli, the Deity of Destruction, they were, indeed, the most devout worshippers: in her name they practised their nefarious art, and the victims were held to be immolated in her honour.

On one occasion Ratnākar had made preparations for extensive raids; but the day began unfavourably for him: it rained in torrents, with flashes of lightning and crashes of thunder, the fireworks of the Gods. He wished, therefore, to sacrifice a human victim to his patron Goddess, as a sort of propitiatory offering, and he and his band went out in different directions to look out for one.

Ratnākar soon came upon a man and seized him, saying: “The Gods have thrown you in my way. I claim you as a sacrifice to Kāli, the Goddess of Destruction.”

“Alas!” cried out his victim. “What crimes are committed in the name of your Goddess! Can your wife and children, if such you have, approve of these evil deeds?”

“Of a surety they must,” answered the Robber-Chief, somewhat taken aback by the question.

“Then go and ask them if they do,” said the man. “I will await your return, on my word of honour.”

Ratnakar questions his family

Ratnākar did not trust the word of his victim, so he bound him to a tree before going straight to his wife.

“Tell me, my beloved wife, if you approve of what men call mine evil deeds,” he said.

“Approve of your evil deeds!” exclaimed the wife. “Why, a wife cannot answer to God for the sins of her husband.”

Needless to say, Ratnākar had not expected such a reply, and his conscience began to prick him.

“But,” he urged, “you live on what I earn by robbery and plunder.”

“True,” replied the wife, “but it is the duty of a husband to maintain his wife.”

Ratnākar then repeated the same questions to his children, one by one, and received from them much the same answers. Thus disheartened, he went back to his victim and set him free.

The robbers' victim

In the meantime his band had not been idle. A little girl had by accident strayed into the wood and lost her way. One of his band had found her, brought her to the temple of the Goddess and bound her to the stake for sacrifice. The woods were filled with her cries and lamentations. “Gods of the woodland,” cried the little victim, “have pity on a hapless girl.”

Ratnākar heard her cries. He hastened to the temple, murmuring to himself, “Why does the cry of a girl melt my stony heart to pity, and make tears veil my eyes?”

Astonishment smote him dumb at first when he entered the temple and found a little golden-haired girl bound to the sacrificial stake, and his followers dancing frenziedly before the Goddess with uplifted swords. As their leader walked in they were crying out in chorus: “Hail! Goddess, hail! And crown this night's adventure with success.”

“Stay your hands! Stay your hands!” shouted Ratnākar above the shouts of his followers and the prayers of their victim. “Release the girl at once.”

At first they showed signs of rebellion and refused to release the girl, but in the end they yielded, such was the awe in which they held their chief. Resentment, however, was not allayed. “Madness has seized our chief,” cried his followers. “He is no longer fit to lead us as of old.” So saying, they deserted him and dispersed.

“Back to the Mountains, thou Daughter of the Mountains,” said Ratnākar to the Goddess Kāli, when he was alone. “Never more shall thy altar reek with victims of mine, for my heart hankers after blood no more.”

Ratnakar becomes Valmiki

Then he went into the depths of the wood and began to practise austerities to redeem his sins. A hollow in an ant-hill formed his cell, while the tendrils of many a creeper crept in and out through his matted hair, and birds built their nests in his grizzled beard; into such a trance had he cast himself, this whilom robber, as to be conscious of naught else but Brahman, the God behind the Sun and Moon and Stars, yea, and the shows of the whole Universe.

One day, how long after none can say, Ratnākar awoke from his spiritual trance, enlightened, his face radiant with inward gladness. The Truth had at last flashed on him:

Boundless space and vault of azure, 
Sky and Earth and Ocean broad, 
Sun and Moon and Soul immortal, 
All is Brahmā, all is God;
All this Universe is Brahmā, 
All that live and move and die,
 Born in Him, in Him subsisting, 
Ending in that Being High.

Because Ratnākar had lived in a “Valmik,” or ant-hill, he came to be called Vālmiki, the name by which he is immortalized as the author of the Rāmāyana.