The Laughing Skull Read online

  The Tiger King’s Gift

  Long ago, in the days of the ancient Pandya kings of South India, a father and his two sons lived in a village near Madura. The father was an astrologer, but he had never become famous, and so was very poor. The elder son was called Chellan; the younger Gangan. When the time came for the father to put off his earthly body, he gave his few fields to Chellan, and a palm leaf with some words scratched on it to Gangan.

  These were the words that Gangan read:

  ‘From birth, poverty;

  For ten years, captivity;

  On the seashore, death.

  For a little while happiness shall follow.’

  ‘This must be my fortune,’ said Gangan to himself, ‘and it doesn’t seem to be much of a fortune. I must have done something terrible in a former birth. But I will go as a pilgrim to Papanasam and do penance. If I can expiate my sin, I may have better luck.’

  His only possession was a water jar of hammered copper, which had belonged to his grandfather. He coiled a rope round the jar, in case he needed to draw water from a well. Then he put a little rice into a bundle, said farewell to his brother, and set out.

  As he journeyed, he had to pass through a great forest. Soon he had eaten all his food and drunk all the water in his jar. In the heat of the day he became very thirsty.

  At last he came to an old, disused well. As he looked down into it, he could see that a winding stairway had once gone round it down to the water’s edge, and that there had been four landing places at different heights down this stairway, so that those who wanted to fetch water might descend the stairway to the level of the water and fill their water pots with ease, regardless of whether the well was full, or three-quarters full, or half full or only one-quarter full.

  Now the well was nearly empty. The stairway had fallen away. Gangan could not go down to fill his water jar so he uncoiled his rope, tied his jar to it and slowly let it down. To his amazement, as it was going down past the first landing place, a huge striped paw shot out and caught it, and a growling voice called out: ‘Oh Lord of Charity, have mercy! The stair is fallen. I die unless you save me! Fear me not. Though King of Tigers, I will not harm you.’

  Gangan was terrified at hearing a tiger speak, but his kindness overcame his fear, and with a great effort, he pulled the beast up.

  The Tiger King—for it was indeed the Lord of All Tigers—bowed his head before Gangan, and reverently paced around him thrice from right to left as worshippers do round a shrine.

  ‘Three days ago,’ said the Tiger King, ‘a goldsmith passed by, and I followed him. In terror he jumped down this well and fell on the fourth landing place below. He is there still. When I leaped after him I fell on the first landing place. On the third landing is a rat who jumped in when a great snake chased him. And on the second landing, above the rat, is the snake who followed him. They will all clamour for you to draw them up.

  ‘Free the snake, by all means. He will be grateful and will not harm you. Free the rat, if you will. But do not free the goldsmith, for he cannot be trusted. Should you free him, you will surely repent of your kindness. He will do you an injury for his own profit. But remember that I will help you whenever you need me.’

  Then the Tiger King bounded away into the forest.

  Gangan had forgotten his thirst while he stood before the Tiger King. Now he felt it more than before, and again let down his water jar.

  As it passed the second landing place on the ruined staircase, a huge snake darted out and twisted itself round the rope. ‘Oh, Incarnation of Mercy, save me!’ it hissed. ‘Unless you help me, I must die here, for I cannot climb the sides of the well. Help me, and I will always serve you!’

  Gangan’s heart was again touched, and he drew up the snake. It glided round him as if he were a holy being. ‘I am the Serpent King,’ it said. ‘I was chasing a rat. It jumped into the well and fell on the third landing below. I followed, but fell on the second landing. Then the goldsmith leaped in and fell on the fourth landing place, while the tiger fell on the top landing. You saved the Tiger King. You have saved me. You may save the rat, if you wish. But do not free the goldsmith. He is not to be trusted. He will harm you if you help him. But I will not forget you, and will come to your aid if you call upon me.’

  Then the King of Snakes disappeared into the long grass of the forest.

  Gangan let down his jar once more, eager to quench his thirst. But as the jar passed the third landing, the rat leaped into it.

  ‘After the Tiger King, what is a rat?’ said Gangan to himself, and pulled the jar up.

  Like the tiger and the snake, the rat did reverence, and offered his services if ever they were needed. And like the tiger and the snake, he warned Gangan against the goldsmith. Then the Rat King—for he was none other—ran off into a hole among the roots of a banyan tree.

  By this time, Gangan’s thirst was becoming unbearable. He almost flung the water jar down the well. But again the rope was seized, and Gangan heard the goldsmith beg piteously to be hauled up.

  ‘Unless I pull him out of the well, I shall never get any water,’ groaned Gangan. ‘And after all, why not help the unfortunate man?’ So with a great struggle—for he was a very fat goldsmith—Gangan got him out of the well and on to the grass beside him.

  The goldsmith had much to say. But before listening to him, Gangan let his jar down into the well a fifth time. And then he drank till he was satisfied.

  ‘Friend and deliverer!’ cried the goldsmith. ‘Don’t believe what those beasts have said about me! I live in the holy city of Tenkasi, only a day’s journey north of Papanasam. Come and visit me whenever you are there. I will show you that I am not an ungrateful man.’ And he took leave of Gangan and went his way.

  ‘From birth, poverty.’

  Gangan resumed his pilgrimage, begging his way to Papanasam. There he stayed many weeks, performing all the ceremonies which pilgrims should perform, bathing at the waterfall, and watching the Brahmin priests feeding the fishes in the sacred stream. He visited other shrines, going as far as Cape Comorin, the southernmost tip of India, where he bathed in the sea. Then he came back through the jungles of Travancore.

  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 Tenkas
i. 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.

  The Ghost and the Idiot

  In a village near Agra there lived a family who was under the special protection of a Munjia, a ghost who lived in a peepul tree. The ghost had attached himself to this particular family and showed his fondness for its members by throwing stones, bones, night-soil and other rubbish at them, and making hideous noises, terrifying them at every opportunity. Under his patronage, the family dwindled away. One by one they died, the only survivor being an idiot boy, whom the ghost did not bother because he felt it beneath his dig
nity to do so.

  But in an Indian village, marriage (like birth and death) must come to all, and it was not long before the neighbours began to make plans for the marriage of the idiot.

  After a meeting of the village elders it was decided, first, that the idiot should be married; and second, that he should be married to a shrew of a girl who had passed the age of twenty without finding a suitor!

  The shrew and the idiot were soon married off, then left to manage for themselves. The poor idiot had no means of earning a living and had to resort to begging. He had barely been able to support himself before, and now his wife was an additional burden. The first thing she did when she entered the house was to give him a box on the ear and send him out to bring something home for dinner.

  The poor fellow went from door to door, but nobody gave him anything, because the same people who had arranged the marriage were annoyed that he had not given them a wedding feast. In the evening, when he returned home empty-handed, his wife cried out: ‘Are you back, you lazy idiot? Why have you been so long, and what have you brought for me?’

  When she found he hadn’t even a paisa, she flew into a rage and, removing his head-cloth, tossed it into the peepul tree. Then, taking up her broom, she belaboured her husband until he fled from the house.

  But the shrew’s anger had not yet been assuaged. Seeing her husband’s head-cloth in the peepul tree, she began venting her rage on the tree-trunk, accompanying her blows with the most shocking abuse. The ghost who lived in the tree was sensitive to both her blows and her language. Alarmed that her terrible curses might put an end to him, he took to his heels and left the tree in which he had lived for so many years.

  Riding on a whirlwind, the ghost soon caught up with the idiot who was still fleeing down the road away from the village. ‘Not so fast, brother!’ cried the ghost. ‘Desert your wife, by all means, but don’t abandon your old family ghost! That shrew has driven me out of the peepul tree. What powerful arms she has—and what a vile tongue! She has made brothers of us—brothers in misfortune. And so we must seek our fortunes together! But first promise me you will not return to your wife.’