The Penguin Book of Classical Indian Love Stories and Lyrics Read online

  ‘I will give you a daughter,’ replied the clear sweet voice.

  The fire died down and the figure faded.

  And not long afterwards there was great rejoicing in the king’s palace. A daughter was born to the queen—a girl so radiantly beautiful that her parents were convinced that she was heaven-born, and sent out a proclamation saying that the child was to be called ‘Savitri’ after the wife of Brahma.

  As Savitri grew up, her father began to think about her marriage, and he decided that she should choose a husband for herself from among the princes of the neighbouring states. He had no intention of imposing his will upon her.

  ‘Daughter,’ he said one day, ‘do you wish to marry? You may, if you wish, visit the palaces of our neighbouring kings and choose a husband for yourself from among the princes. I know that you are as wise as you are lovely, and that your choice will be pleasing to me.’

  Savitri decided that she would seek her husband not among her wealthy and royal neighbours, but among the remote dwellings of the hermits in the forest. She had her chariot prepared for a longjourney, and ordered her drivers to take the path that led into the wilderness.

  After driving through the forest for several hours, the chariot-drivers told Savitri that a hermitage lay ahead. Savitri and her handmaidens got down from the chariot and approached a small temple, beside which stood a hut made of leaves and branches.

  Inside the hut they found an old man who, though blind and white-haired, had an upright bearing. He was, in fact, not a priest, but a king: many years ago he had gone blind and had been driven from his kingdom by a rival who took over his throne and threatened death to any of the king’s family who tried to return.

  As Savitri stood watching the blind old man, a youth on a black horse came riding through the forest and up to the door of the hut.

  ‘He dresses like a peasant,’ said Savitri to herself, ‘but he sits on his horse like a prince.’ And when she saw his face, her own lit up, for she knew that she had seen the man she would marry.

  The youth dismounted, tethered his horse, greeted the old man with tender affection, and went into the hut.

  ‘We need search no further,’ said Savitri to her handmaidens. ‘Let us ask the hospitality of these good people, and then in a few days we will return home.’

  The old king made them welcome. He told them of his misfortunes and of how he, and his wife, and their little son Satyavan, had been driven from the kingdom of Shalwa twenty years ago, and had lived ever since among the hermits of the forest. Satyavan stood aside, watching Savitri, and falling further in love with her every moment. Not many days had passed before they had vowed to marry each other, but Savitri said that first she must return to her father’s kingdom and obtain his consent to the marriage, after which she would come back to the forest and follow Satyavan for the rest of her life.

  ‘But do not tell your parents as yet,’ she said. ‘Let me first speak to my father.’

  Savitri returned to her father’s palace and found him holding counsel with Narada. The sage had suggested that it was time a husband was found for Savitri.

  ‘Well, here she is,’ said the king, as Savitri approached. ‘She will tell you whether or not she has found a husband.’

  ‘Yes, father, I have,’ she said, as she knelt at his feet for blessing. ‘In his dress and his possessions he is a poor man’s son, but by birth he is a prince.’

  ‘And his name?’

  ‘Satyavan.’

  Before she could say another word, Narada, looking horrified, stood up and with raised hand, said: ‘No, Princess, not Satyavan!’

  ‘There can be no other,’ said Savitri with a smile.

  The king turned to Narada and asked: ‘Is there something wrong with the youth? Is he not all that my daughter takes him for?’

  ‘He is all that she says—’

  ‘Then is he already betrothed? Is there a curse upon him?’

  Narada bowed his head and in a low voice said: ‘He is destined for an early death. Yama, the God of Death, has set his noose for him. Within a year the prince must die.’

  Savitri went pale and almost fainted. But she summoned up all her courage and said, ‘Narada, you have prophesied his doom, I can but pray and hope. But even the knowledge of this terrible fate cannot shake my purpose. Satyavan shall be my husband for a year, even if for fifty I must be a widow!’

  The sage stood silent, his head sunk upon his breast. Then finally he raised his hands towards Savitri in blessing.

  ‘Peace be with you, daughter of the Lord-of-Horses,’ he said, and turned and walked away.

  The next day it was announced that the princess Savitri would soon marry a prince in a distant region, and that, since the journey would be long and tedious, only her father would accompany her. Preparations were soon made, and the Lord-of-Horses and his beautiful daughter set out for the forest, They took with them many costly gifts for the parents of the bridegroom. But when the old king of the Shalwas heard what had brought them to his home, he was taken aback.

  ‘But how can this be?’ he asked. ‘How will your heaven-sent daughter fare in this rough country? There are no maids to tend on her. And what shall we feed her? We eat the fruits of the forest. We sleep on an earthen floor.’

  Savitri took the blind old man by the hand, and spoke to him so sweetly and gently that she removed all his fears.

  That same evening, when Satyavan returned from hunting, Savitri was given to him in marriage. The only guests were the hermits who lived near by. All they brought as gifts were their blessings; and Savitri pleased them by removing her jewels and replacing her rich garments with humble clothes.

  The Lord-of-Horses bade his daughter farewell, and rode alone back to his kingdom.

  The days and weeks and months slipped by and it seemed to Satyavan that his wife grew lovelier and more gentle by the hour. No man was as happy as he. Savitri, too, was happy; but as the day of doom approached, she became quiet and pensive. She decided she would not leave his side by day or night. So she watched and waited, and seldom slept.

  One morning the blind old king asked Satyavan to go to a part of the forest where there was a bamboo grove. He asked him to cut and bring home several stout pieces of bamboo.

  When Satyavan set out, Savitri decided to follow not far behind. ‘I will watch the dancing peacocks,’ she told him.

  Satyavan, whistling cheerfully, soon reached the place where the bamboos grew, and raised his axe. He had scarcely lifted it above his head for the first stroke, when it fell from his hands. He gave a cry of pain and sank to the ground.

  Savitri, following close behind, knew that the fatal moment was at hand. She ran forward and took his head in her arms. A shadow fell over them, and she became aware of a terrible form bending over her. It was tall and gaunt, greenish in hue, and with eyes of a fiery red. He carried a noose in one of his hands.

  This was Yama, the God of Death.

  Savitri rose slowly from the ground, and bending low before Yama, said: ‘What do you want, O mighty one?’

  ‘I have come for Satyavan, whose term of life is ended.’ And Yama leant forward and drew the prince’s soul right out of his body.

  Then, turning to the south, he fled at lightning speed, in the direction of his kingdom, Patola.

  But Savitri, too, was fleet of foot. Love lent her wings, and she followed close at Yama’s heels. They came at last to the edge of the world, beyond which no mortal may pass alive, and here the God of Death stopped and spoke.

  ‘Return, Savitri! You have followed far enough. Return and bury your husband’s body with due rites.’

  ‘No, great Yama,’ answered Savitri. ‘When I wed my lord, I vowed to follow him, wherever he went or was taken. I have done no wrong since I made that vow, and so the Gods have no power over me to make me break it.’

  ‘That is true,’ said Yama, ‘and your answer pleases me. Ask a boon of me—but not the gift of your husband’s life!’

  Savitri th
ought for a moment, and then asked that the old king of the Shalwas should regain his sight.

  ‘It is granted,’ said Yama. ‘Now return. No mortal may pass this spot alive.’

  But Savitri stood her ground. She knew that no one loved Yama, that he was friendless even among the gods, so she decided to flatter him.

  ‘Is it true, O Yama, that a mortal is pleasing to the gods if she mingles with those who are virtuous?’

  ‘It is true,’ said Yama.

  ‘Then you cannot force me to go, for you are virtuous, and I become more pleasing to the gods every moment I stay beside you.’

  Yama was delighted and told Savitri that, for her good sense, she might obtain another boon from him.

  ‘Then grant that my father-in-law may regain his former kingdom,’ she said. Yama assented and told her for the third time to go back and find her husband’s body before it was devoured by jackals.

  ‘It does not matter,’ said Savitri, ‘if the jackals devour the corpse. Of what use is the body without the soul? Another body can be found for the soul, if it is released from your noose, but never another soul for the body.’

  ‘You speak with more wisdom than most mortals,’ said the God. ‘Yet one more boon will I grant you.’

  ‘Grant me a hundred sons, O mighty Yama,’ cried Savitri. And when the God bowed his head in assent, she laughed and clapped her hands. ‘If you are indeed a God who keeps his word with men, then release the soul of Satyavan. There is no other man that I can marry, and only by bringing him back to life can you grant me the sons you have promised!’

  Yama realized that Savitri had been allowed, by a greater power than he, to triumph over him; so he loosened the coil of his rope, and Satyavan’s soul flew up into the air and back to the forest where his body lay. Some time later, Savitri reached the same place and found her husband lying just as she had left him. She lifted his head, and he opened his eyes and stretched himself and yawned.

  ‘I must have fallen asleep,’ he said. ‘Why did you not wake me before? It is almost sunset.’

  Hand in hand they walked home, and on the way she told him all that had happened. And when they came home they found their father and mother rejoicing with the other hermits because the old man had regained his sight, and his enemy had been slain and the people wished their former ruler to return to them.

  The next day Savitri and Satyavan, with their parents, returned to Shalwa, and there they all lived happily for the rest of their lives. We are told that Savitri and Satyavan lived together for four hundred years, and that they had a hundred sons, as Yama had promised.

  Today, when anyone wishes to pay a wife the highest compliment, it is said that she is like Savitri, who brought back her husband’s soul from the edge of the world.

  Ruskin Bond retells his favourite story from the Mahabharata.

  Gwashbrari and Westarwan

  Flora Annie Steel

  Ages ago, when the world was young and the mountains* had just reared their heads to the heavens, Westarwan was the highest peak in all Kashmir. Far away in the west Nanga Parbat stood where it stands now, but its snowy cap only reached to Westarwan’s shoulder, while Haramukh looked but a dwarf beside the giant king. But if Westarwan was the tallest, Gwashbrari was the most beautiful of mountains. Away in the northeast she glinted and glittered with her sea-green emerald glaciers, and Westarwan gazed and gazed at her loveliness till he fell in love with the beautiful Gwashbrari; but her heart was full of envy, and she thought of nothing but how she might humble the pride of the mighty king that reared his head so high above the rest of the world. At last the fire of love grew so hot in Westarwan’s heart that he put aside his pride and called aloud to Gwashbrari, ‘O beautiful far-away mountain, kiss me, or I die.’

  But Gwashbrari answered craftily, ‘How can I kiss you, O Proud King, when you hold your head so high? Even if I could stand beside you my lips would not reach your lips, and behold how many miles of hill and dale lie between us.’

  But still Westarwan pleaded for a kiss, till Gwashbrari smiled, and said, ‘Those above must stoop, Sir King. If you would have a kiss forget your pride, reach that long length of yours towards me, and I will bend to kiss you.’

  Then Westarwan, stretching one great limb over the vale of Kashmir, reached over hill and dale to Gwashbrari’s feet, but the glacier-hearted queen held her flashing head higher than ever, and laughed, saying: ‘Love humbles all.’

  And this is why Westarwan lies for ever stretched out over hill and dale, till he rests his head on Gwashbrari’s feet.

  ‘Gwashbrari and Westarwan’, from ‘Folklore from Kashmir’ by F. A. Steel with notes by Lt. R. C. Temple. The Indian Antiquary Vol. XI, 1882.

  The Story of Khamba and Thoibi

  G. H. Damant

  In the village of Moirang in the country of Manipur, there lived Purelba, slayer of five tigers, son of Pachelba—a prince who had fled from his native village where he had quarrelled with his brother the king.

  Songlel Lalthaba, the king of Moirang, had two grandsons; the eldest was Jarathong Yamba—who afterwards became king—and the second, Chingkhutol Haiba—who became the jubraja, the crown prince.

  King Jarathong Yamba, deeming that Purelba had become famous by having killed the five tigers, gave him his own wife, Gnangko Reima Yareltom Pokpi, and he married her and begot a daughter called Khamnu and a son Khamba. To show his great liking for Purelba, the king also gave him the lands of Nongtholba, Lonoirakpa and Khada Halba, and also the salt well at Tarbung and the Naga villages of Laisang and Kharam Lairel; he also received a tribute of pepper from the Nagas. Purelba had formed a friendship with Thonglel, Chouba, and Kabui Salang Maiba Kharingnag Chumba. When Khamba was born his three friends told him that it would be well to go to the king and ask him to give the child a name. The king told them to wait a while, and after some consideration came back and said, ‘As I have made you wait, let us call your son Khamba.’* The father was pleased with it, and gave a chei, i.e. two tolas, of gold.

  Now the king Jarathong Yamba and the jubraja Chingkhutol Haiba had no children, although the king had fifteen wives and the jubraja eleven, so they went and worshipped the god Thangjing, but still the king had no child. However, Khurambi, the first wife of the jubraja, bore a daughter. The king was very much pleased, and said, ‘As I have no child, this daughter of my brother’s will be celebrated above all others; let us therefore call her Thoibi (i.e. ‘famous’).’

  One day after this, as Purelba was returning from the palace he fell ill, and called his two friends Thonglel and Chouba, and said to them, ‘My friends, I am very ill and about to die, therefore I wish to speak to you. My friend Chouba, you have a son, Phairoichamba, and I have a daughter, Khamnu; make her your daughter and marry her to your son.’ So saying he called the child who was then five years old and gave her away. Then he said to Thonglel, ‘You, my friend, although you have nine wives, have no child; therefore take my children Khamnu and Khamba for your own, and also take all my clothes, turban, dao, spear, hunting dress, war dress, necklaces and ornaments, and if you hear of any one ill-treating my children protect them like a father; and you, my friend Chouba, protect their land and wood, as would a mother, and guard them should any one make them slaves or seize their cattle; and you, Thonglel, be a father to them.’ With these words Purelba died.

  After this Khamba gradually began to sit up and to walk, and when Khamnu was old enough to nurse her little brother her mother died. The two friends, Thonglel and Chouba, came and burnt her body, and Thonglel said to Khamnu and Khamba, ‘My children, come to my house and I will be your father; you have none else left to care for you.’ Eut Khamnu refused to leave her father’s house, although Thonglel told her that her father on his deathbed had entrusted all his property to him; and, as it would be spoiled if it remained there, he took it all away with him. When he reached home he said to his wife, Thungselbi, ‘In case I die or fall ill, or forget it, remember that this property all belongs to my friend Purelba
and his wife.’ But afterwards, through the miraculous power of a god, he forgot all about it, and so did the children. In the meantime Khamnu supported her little brother by begging.

  One day, as it fell out, Khamnu went to beg at the house of Ningollakpa of Moirang, and it happened that Thoibi had come there to play at kang,† and was eating with the other ladies of the royal family. When Khamnu came up, the servant at the door would not let her enter, saying that the ladies were at dinner; but just at that moment Thoibi came out to bathe, and seeing Khamnu asked who she was. Khamnu replied that she had come to beg, and that her name was Khamnu and she was the daughter of a Kumal.‡ Thoibi felt pity for her, and asked her where she lived, and why she came to beg, and whether she had no father or mother or brother. Khamnu said she had no father or mother, but supported one young brother, and lived in the quarter of Chingali. Thoibi pitying her replied, ‘Let us be friends and eat together.’ So saying she took her among the other royal ladies and made her eat, and gave her well-cooked rice and vegetables for her brother, and told her to take home with her as much of the rice, fish, and salt that was left as she could carry. Thoibi then asked her brother’s name, and Khamnu told her it was Khamba. Then Thoibi said, ‘Sister, all the royal ladies are going tomorrow to fish in the Logtak (a lake in the south of Manipur); come with me and steer my boat; but it is not proper that you should come among so many people with such ragged clothes; stay awhile.’ And she sent her servant Senu into the house and brought a dhoti, chadar, and pagri for Khamba and a phanek and chadar for Khamnu,§ and gave her some sel¶ as well.

  Khamnu returned home and gave the rice and clothes to her brother. Khamba, finding the food very good, asked her where she had got it. Thereupon she told him how she had formed a friendship with Thoibi, who had given her the food and clothes, and invited her to steer her boat next day when she went fishing; and she told Khamba to stay at home and guard the house. Early next morning the ladies of the royal family, with Thoibi and Khamnu, went down to Logtak, and cast their nets and caught many fish.