The Big Book of Animal Stories Read online

  He had started on his pilgrimage with his copper water jar and nothing more. After months of wanderings, it was still the only thing he owned. The first prophecy on the palm leaf had already come true: ‘From birth, poverty.’

  During his wanderings Gangan had never once thought of the Tiger King and the others, but as he walked wearily along in his rags, he saw a ruined well by the roadside, and it reminded him of his wonderful adventure. And just to see if the Tiger King was genuine, he called out: ‘Oh King of Tigers, let me see you!’

  No sooner had he spoken than the Tiger King leaped out of the bushes, carrying in his mouth a glittering golden helmet, embedded with precious stones.

  It was the helmet of King Pandya, the monarch of the land.

  The king had been waylaid and killed by robbers, for the sake of the jewelled helmet; but they in turn had fallen prey to the tiger, who had walked away with the helmet.

  Gangan, of course, knew nothing about all this, and when the Tiger King laid the helmet at his feet, he stood stupefied at its splendour and his own good luck.

  After the Tiger King had left him, Gangan thought of the goldsmith. ‘He will take the jewels out of the helmet, and I will sell some of them. Others I will take home.’ So he wrapped the helmet in a rag and made his way to Tenkasi.

  In the Tenkasi bazaar he soon found the goldsmith’s shop. When they had talked a while, Gangan uncovered the golden helmet. The goldsmith—who knew its worth far better than Gangan—gloated over it, and at once agreed to take out the jewels and sell a few so that Gangan might have some money to spend.

  ‘Now let me examine this helmet at leisure,’ said the goldsmith. ‘You go to the shrines, worship, and come back. I will then tell you what your treasure is worth.’

  Gangan went off to worship at the famous shrines of Tenkasi. And as soon as he had gone, the goldsmith went off to the local magistrate.

  ‘Did not the herald of King Pandya’s son come here only yesterday and announce that he would give half his kingdom to anyone who discovered his father’s murderer?’ he asked. ‘Well, I have found the killer. He has brought the king’s jewelled helmet to me this very day.’

  The magistrate called his guards, and they all hurried to the goldsmith’s shop and reached it just as Gangan returned from his tour of the temples.

  ‘Here is the helmet!’ exclaimed the goldsmith to the magistrate. ‘And here is the villain who murdered the king to get it!’

  The guards seized poor Gangan and marched him off to Madura, the capital of the Pandya kingdom, and brought him before the murdered king’s son. When Gangan tried to explain about the Tiger King, the goldsmith called him a liar, and the new king had him thrown into the death cell, a deep, well-like pit, dug into the ground in a courtyard of the palace. The only entrance to it was a hole in the pavement of the courtyard. Here Gangan was left to die of hunger and thirst.

  At first Gangan lay helpless where he had fallen. Then, looking around him, he found himself on a heap of bones, the bones of those who before him had died in the dungeon; and he was watched by an army of rats who were waiting to gnaw his dead body. He remembered how the Tiger King had warned him against the goldsmith, and had promised help if ever it was needed.

  ‘I need help now,’ groaned Gangan, and shouted for the Tiger King, the Snake King, and the Rat King.

  For some time nothing happened. Then all the rats in the dungeon suddenly left him and began burrowing in a corner between some of the stones in the wall. Presently, Gangan saw that the hole was quite large, and that many other rats were coming and going, working at the same tunnel. And then the Rat King himself came through the little passage, and he was followed by the Snake King, while a great roar from outside told Gangan that the Tiger King was there.

  ‘We cannot get you out of this place,’ said the Snake King. ‘The walls are too strong. But the armies of the Rat King will bring rice cakes from the palace kitchens, and sweets from the shops in the bazaars, and rags soaked in water. They will not let you die. And from this day on the tigers and the snakes will slay tenfold, and the rats will destroy grain and cloth as never before. Before long the people will begin to complain. Then, when you hear anyone passing in front of your cell, shout: “These disasters are the results of your ruler’s injustice! But I can save you from them!” At first they will pay no attention. But after some time they will take you out, and at your word we will stop the sacking and the slaughter. And then they will honour you.’

  ‘For ten years, captivity.’

  For ten years the tigers killed. The serpents struck. The rats destroyed. And at last the people wailed, ‘The gods are plaguing us.’

  All the while, Gangan cried out to those who came near his cell, declaring that he could save them; they thought he was a madman. So ten years passed, and the second prophecy on the palm leaf was fulfilled.

  At last, the Snake King made his way into the palace and bit the king’s only daughter. She was dead in a few minutes.

  The king called for all the snake charmers and offered half his kingdom to any one of them who would restore his daughter to life. None of them was able to do so. Then the king’s servants remembered the cries of Gangan and remarked that there was a madman in the dungeons who kept insisting that he could bring an end to all their troubles. The king at once ordered the dungeon to be opened. Ladders were let down. Men descended and found Gangan, looking more like a ghost than a man. His hair had grown so long that none could see his face. The king did not remember him, but Gangan soon reminded the king of how he had condemned him without enquiry, on the word of the goldsmith.

  The king grovelled in the dust before Gangan, begged forgiveness, and entreated him to restore the dead princess to life.

  ‘Bring me the body of the princess,’ said Gangan.

  Then he called on the Tiger King and the Snake King to come and give life to the princess. As soon as they entered the royal chamber, the princess was restored to life.

  Glad as they were to see the princess alive, the king and his courtiers were filled with fear at the sight of the Tiger King and the Snake King. But the tiger and the snake hurt no one, and at a second prayer from Gangan, they brought life to all those they had slain.

  And when Gangan made a third petition, the Tiger, the Snake and the Rat Kings ordered their subjects to stop pillaging the Pandya kingdom, so long as the king did no further injustice.

  ‘Let us find that treacherous goldsmith and put him in the dungeon,’ said the Tiger King.

  But Gangan wanted no vengeance. That very day he set out for his village to see his brother, Chellan, once more. But when he left the Pandya king’s capital, he took the wrong road. After much wandering, he found himself on the seashore.

  Now it happened that his brother was also making a journey in those parts, and it was their fate that they should meet by the sea. When Gangan saw his brother, his gladness was so sudden and so great that he fell down dead.

  And so the third prophecy was fulfilled:

  ‘On the seashore, death.’

  Chellan, as he came along the shore road, had seen a half-ruined shrine of Pillaiyar, the elephant-headed god of good luck. Chellan was a very devout servant of Pillaiyar, and, the day being a festival day, he felt it was his duty to worship the god. But it was also his duty to perform the funeral rites for his brother.

  The seashore was lonely. There was no one to help him. It would take hours to collect fuel and driftwood enough for a funeral pyre. For a while Chellan did not know what to do. But at last he took up the body and carried it to Pillaiyar’s temple.

  Then he addressed the god. ‘This is my brother’s body,’ he said. ‘I am unclean because I have touched it. I must go and bathe in the sea. Then I will come and worship you, and afterwards I will burn my brother’s body. Meanwhile, I leave it in your care.’

  Chellan left, and the god told his attendant ganas (goblins) to watch over the body. These ganas are inclined to be mischievous, and when the god wasn’t looking
, they gobbled up the body of Gangan.

  When Chellan came back from bathing, he reverently worshipped Pillaiyar. He then looked for his brother’s body. It was not to be found. Anxiously he demanded it of the god. Pillaiyar called on his goblins to produce it. Terrified, they confessed to what they had done.

  Chellan reproached the god for the misdeeds of his attendants. And Pillaiyar felt so much pity for him that by his divine power he restored dead Gangan’s body to Chellan, and brought Gangan to life again.

  The two brothers then returned to King Pandya’s capital, where Gangan married the princess and became king when her father died.

  And so the fourth prophecy was fulfilled:

  ‘For a little while happiness shall follow.’

  But there are wise men who say that the lines of the prophecy were wrongly read and understood, and that the whole should run:

  ‘From birth, poverty;

  For ten years, captivity;

  On the seashore, death for a little while;

  Happiness shall follow.’

  It is the last two lines that are different. And this must be the correct version, because when happiness came to Gangan it was not ‘for a little while’. When the goddess of good fortune did arrive, she stayed in his palace for many, many years.

  Eyes of the Cat

  I wrote this little story for the schoolgirl who said my stories weren’t scary enough. Her comment was ‘Not bad’, and she gave me seven out of ten.

  HER EYES seemed flecked with gold when the sun was on them. And as the sun set over the mountains, drawing a deep red wound across the sky, there was more than gold in Kiran’s eyes. There was anger; for she had been cut to the quick by some remarks her teacher had made—the culmination of weeks of insults and taunts.

  Kiran was poorer than most of the girls in her class and could not afford the tuitions that had become almost obligatory if one was to pass and be promoted. ‘You’ll have to spend another year in the ninth,’ said Madam. ‘And if you don’t like that, you can find another school—a school where it won’t matter if your blouse is torn and your tunic is old and your shoes are falling apart.’ Madam had shown her large teeth in what was supposed to be a good-natured smile, and all the girls had tittered dutifully. Sycophancy had become part of the curriculum in Madam’s private academy for girls.

  On the way home in the gathering gloom, Kiran’s two companions commiserated with her.

  ‘She’s a mean old thing,’ said Aarti. ‘She doesn’t care for anyone but herself.’

  ‘Her laugh reminds me of a donkey braying,’ said Sunita, who was more forthright.

  But Kiran wasn’t really listening. Her eyes were fixed on some point in the far distance, where the pines stood in silhouette against a night sky that was growing brighter every moment. The moon was rising, a full moon, a moon that meant something very special to Kiran, that made her blood tingle and her skin prickle and her hair glow and send out sparks. Her steps seemed to grow lighter, her limbs more sinewy as she moved gracefully, softly over the mountain path.

  Abruptly, she left her companions at a fork in the road.

  ‘I’m taking the short cut through the forest,’ she said.

  Her friends were used to her sudden whims. They knew she was not afraid of being alone in the dark. But Kiran’s moods made them feel a little nervous, and now, holding hands, they hurried home along the open road.

  The short cut took Kiran through the dark oak forest. The crooked, tormented branches of the oaks threw twisted shadows across the path. A jackal howled at the moon; a nightjar called from urgency, and her breath came in short, sharp gasps. Bright moonlight bathed the hillside when she reached her home on the outskirts of the village.

  Refusing her dinner, she went straight to her small room and flung the window open. Moonbeams crept over the windowsill and over her arms which were already covered with golden hair. Her strong nails had shredded the rotten wood of the window-sill.

  Tail swishing and ears pricked, the tawny leopard came swiftly out of the window, crossed the open field behind the house, and melted into the shadows. A little later it padded silently through the forest.

  Although the moon shone brightly on the tin-roofed town, the leopard knew where the shadows were deepest and merged beautifully with them. An occasional intake of breath, which resulted in a short rasping cough, was the only sound it made.

  Madam was returning from dinner at a ladies’ club, called the Kitten Club as a sort of foil to the husbands’ club affiliations. There were still a few people in the street, and while no one could help noticing Madam, who had the contours of a steam-roller, none saw or heard the predator who had slipped down a side alley and reached the steps of the teacher’s house. It sat there silently, waiting with all the patience of an obedient schoolgirl.

  When Madam saw the leopard on her steps, she dropped her handbag and opened her mouth to scream; but her voice would not materialize. Nor would her tongue ever be used again, either to savour chicken biryani or to pour scorn upon her pupils, for the leopard had sprung at her throat, broken her neck, and dragged her into the bushes.

  In the morning, when Aarti and Sunita set out for school, they stopped as usual at Kiran’s cottage and called out to her.

  Kiran was sitting in the sun, combing her long black hair.

  ‘Aren’t you coming to school today, Kiran?’ asked the girls.

  ‘No, I won’t bother to go today,’ said Kiran. She felt lazy, but pleased with herself, like a contented cat.

  ‘Madam won’t be pleased,’ said Aarti. ‘Shall we tell her you’re sick?’

  ‘It won’t be necessary,’ said Kiran, and gave them one of her mysterious smiles. ‘I’m sure it’s going to be a holiday.’

  SECTION-IV

  Poems

  The Bat

  Most bats fly high,

  Swooping only

  To take some insect on the wing;

  But there’s a bat I know,

  Who flies so low,

  He skims the floor;

  He does not enter at the window,

  But flies in at the door,

  Does stunts beneath the furniture…

  Is his radar wrong,

  Or does he just prefer

  Being different from other bats?

  And when sometimes,

  He settles upside down,

  At the foot of my bed,

  I let him be.

  On lonely nights, even a crazy bat

  Is company.

  The Snake

  When, after days of rain,

  The sun appears,

  The snake emerges,

  Green-gold on the grass.

  Kept in so long,

  He basks for hours,

  Soaks up the hot bright sun.

  Knowing how shy he is of me,

  I walk a gentle pace,

  Letting him doze in peace.

  But to the snake, earth-bound,

  Each step must sound like thunder.

  He glides away,

  Goes underground.

  I’ve known him for some years:

  A harmless green grass-snake,

  Who, when he sees me on the path,

  Uncoils and disappears.

  The Owl

  At night, when all is still,

  The forest’s sentinel

  Glides silently across the hill

  And perches in an old pine tree.

  A friendly presence his!

  No harm can come

  From a night bird on the prowl.

  His cry is mellow,

  Much softer than a peacock’s call.

  Why then this fear of owls

  Calling in the night?

  If men must speak,

  Then owls must hoot—

  They have the right.

  On me it casts no spell:

  Rather, it seems to cry,

  ‘The night is good—all’s well, all’s well.’

  Butterfly Time


  April showers

  Bring swarms of butterflies

  Streaming across the valley

  Seeking sweet nectar.

  Yellow, gold, and burning bright,

  Red and blue and banded white.

  To my eyes they bring delight!

  Theirs a long and arduous flight,

  Here today and off tomorrow,

  Floating on, bright butterflies,

  To distant bowers.

  For Nature does things in good order:

  And birds and butterflies recognize

  No man-made border.

  Firefly in My Room

  Last night, as I lay sleepless

  In the summer dark

  With window open to invite a breeze,

  Softly a firefly flew in

  And circled round the room

  Twinkling at me from floor or wall

  Or ceiling, never long in one place,

  But lighting up little spaces…

  A friendly presence, dispelling

  The settled gloom of an unhappy day.

  And after it had gone, I left

  The window open, just in case

  It should return.

  Make Room for Elephants

  I know the world’s a crowded place,

  And elephants do take up space,

  But if it makes a difference, Lord,

  I’d gladly share my room and board.

  A baby elephant would do….

  But, if he brings his mother too,

  There’s Dad’s garage. He wouldn’t mind.

  To elephants he’s more than kind.

  But I wonder what our Mum would say

  If the elephant’s father came to stay!

  God Save the Beetle

  Lord, please give some sense of direction to this beetle

  Who keeps blundering through the open window

  And falling into the goldfish bowl.

  Twice I have kept him from drowning

  And returned him to the garden;

  But he keeps coming back

  Zooming and diving about the room, until