The Story of the Rakshasas

There was a poor half-witted Brahman who had a wife but no children. It

was only with difficulty he could supply the wants of himself and his

wife. And the worst of it was that he was rather lazily inclined. He

was averse to taking long journeys, otherwise he might always have

had enough, in the shape of presents from rich men, to enable him

and his wife to live comfortably. There was at that time a king in a

neighbouring country who was celebrating the funeral obsequies of his

mother with great pomp. Brahmans and beggars were going from different

parts with the expectation of receiving rich presents. Our Brahman was

requested by his wife to seize this opportunity and get a little money;

but his constitutional indolence stood in the way. The woman, however,

gave her husband no rest till she extorted from him the promise that

he would go. The good woman, accordingly, cut down a plantain tree

and burnt it to ashes, with which ashes she cleaned the clothes of

her husband, and made them as white as any fuller could make them. She

did this because her husband was going to the palace of a great king,

who could not be approached by men clothed in dirty rags; besides,

as a Brahman, he was bound to appear neat and clean. The Brahman at

last one morning left his house for the palace of the great king. As

he was somewhat imbecile, he did not inquire of any one which road

he should take; but he went on and on, and proceeded whithersoever

his two eyes directed him. He was of course not on the right road,

indeed he had reached a region where he did not meet with a single

human being for many miles, and where he saw sights which he had

never seen in his life. He saw hillocks of cowries (shells used as

money) on the roadside: he had not proceeded far from them when he

saw hillocks of pice, then successively hillocks of four-anna pieces,

hillocks of eight-anna pieces, and hillocks of rupees. To the infinite

surprise of the poor Brahman, these hillocks of shining silver coins

were succeeded by a large hill of burnished gold-mohurs, which were

all as bright as if they had been just issued from the mint. Close

to this hill of gold-mohurs was a large house which seemed to be

the palace of a powerful and rich king, at the door of which stood

a lady of exquisite beauty. The lady, seeing the Brahman, said,

"Come, my beloved husband; you married me when I was young, and

you never came once after our marriage, though I have been daily

expecting you. Blessed be this day which has made me see the face of

my husband. Come, my sweet, come in, wash your feet and rest after the

fatigues of your journey; eat and drink, and after that we shall make

ourselves merry." The Brahman was astonished beyond measure. He had

no recollection of having been married in early youth to any other

woman than the woman who was now keeping house with him. But being

a Kulin Brahman, he thought it was quite possible that his father

had got him married when he was a little child, though the fact had

made no impression on his mind. But whether he remembered it or not,

the fact was certain, for the woman declared that she was his wedded

wife,--and such a wife! as beautiful as the goddesses of Indra's

heaven, and no doubt as wealthy as she was beautiful. While these

thoughts were passing through the Brahman's mind, the lady said again,

"Are you doubting in your mind whether I am your wife? Is it possible

that all recollection of that happy event has been effaced from your

mind--all the pomp and circumstance of our nuptials? Come in, beloved;

this is your own house, for whatever is mine is thine." The Brahman

succumbed to the loving entreaties of the fair lady, and went into the

house. The house was not an ordinary one--it was a magnificent palace,

all the apartments being large and lofty and richly furnished. But one

thing surprised the Brahman very much, and that was that there was

no other person in the house besides the lady herself. He could not

account for so singular a phenomenon; neither could he explain how

it was that he did not meet with any human being in his morning and

evening walks. The fact was that the lady was not a human being. She

was a Rakshasi. [10] She had eaten up the king, the queen, and all

the members of the royal family, and gradually all his subjects. This

was the reason why human beings were not seen in those parts.

The Rakshasi and the Brahman lived together for about a week, when

the former said to the latter, "I am very anxious to see my sister,

your other wife. You must go and fetch her, and we shall all live

together happily in this large and beautiful house. You must go early

to-morrow, and I will give you clothes and jewels for her." Next

morning the Brahman, furnished with fine clothes and costly ornaments,

set out for his home. The poor woman was in great distress; all the

Brahmans and Pandits that had been to the funeral ceremony of the

king's mother had returned home loaded with largesses; but her husband

had not returned,--and no one could give any news of him, for no one

had seen him there. The woman therefore concluded that he must have

been murdered on the road by highwaymen. She was in this terrible

suspense, when one day she heard a rumour in the village that her

husband was seen coming home with fine clothes and costly jewels for

his wife. And sure enough the Brahman soon appeared with his valuable

load. On seeing his wife the Brahman thus accosted her:--"Come with

me, my dearest wife; I have found my first wife. She lives in a

stately palace, near which are hillocks of rupees and a large hill

of gold-mohurs. Why should you pine away in wretchedness and misery

in this horrible place? Come with me to the house of my first wife,

and we shall all live together happily." When the woman heard her

husband speak of his first wife, of hillocks of rupees and of a hill

of gold-mohurs, she thought in her mind that her half-witted good man

had become quite mad; but when she saw the exquisitely beautiful silks

and satins and the ornaments set with diamonds and precious stones,

which only queens and princesses were in the habit of putting on,

she concluded in her mind that her poor husband had fallen into the

meshes of a Rakshasi. The Brahman, however, insisted on his wife's

going with him, and declared that if she did not come she was at

liberty to pine away in poverty, but that for himself he meant to

return forthwith to his first and rich wife. The good woman, after a

great deal of altercation with her husband, resolved to go with him

and judge for herself how matters stood. They set out accordingly

the next morning, and went by the same road on which the Brahman had

travelled. The woman was not a little surprised to see hillocks of

cowries, of pice, of eight-anna pieces, of rupees, and last of all a

lofty hill of gold-mohurs. She saw also an exceedingly beautiful lady

coming out of the palace hard by, and hastening towards her. The lady

fell on the neck of the Brahman woman, wept tears of joy, and said,

"Welcome, beloved sister! this is the happiest day of my life! I have

seen the face of my dearest sister!" The party then entered the palace.

What with the stately mansion in which he was lodged, with the most

delectable provisions which seemed to rise as if by enchantment, what

with the caresses and endearments of his two wives, the one human and

the other demoniac, who vied with each other in making him happy and

comfortable, the Brahman had a jolly time of it. He was steeped as

it were in an ocean of enjoyment. Some fifteen or sixteen years were

spent by the Brahman in this state of Elysian pleasure, during which

period his two wives presented him with two sons. The Rakshasi's son,

who was the elder, and who looked more like a god than a human being,

was named Sahasra Dal, literally the Thousand-Branched; and the son

of the Brahman woman, who was a year younger, was named Champa Dal,

that is, branch of a champaka tree. The two boys loved each other

dearly. They were both sent to a school which was several miles

distant, to which they used every day to go riding on two little

ponies of extraordinary fleetness.

The Brahman woman had all along suspected from a thousand little

circumstances that her sister-in-law was not a human being but a

Rakshasi; but her suspicion had not yet ripened into certainty, for

the Rakshasi exercised great self-restraint on herself, and never

did anything which human beings did not do. But the demoniac nature,

like murder, will out. The Brahman having nothing to do, in order

to pass his time had recourse to hunting. The first day he returned

from the hunt, he had bagged an antelope. The antelope was laid in the

courtyard of the palace. At the sight of the antelope the mouth of the

raw-eating Rakshasi began to water. Before the animal was dressed for

the kitchen, she took it away into a room, and began devouring it. The

Brahman woman, who was watching the whole scene from a secret place,

saw her Rakshasi sister tear off a leg of the antelope, and opening her

tremendous jaws, which seemed to her imagination to extend from earth

to heaven, swallow it up. In this manner the body and other limbs of

the antelope were devoured, till only a little bit of the meat was

kept for the kitchen. The second day another antelope was bagged,

and the third day another; and the Rakshasi, unable to restrain her

appetite for raw flesh, devoured these two as she had devoured the

first. On the third day the Brahman woman expressed to the Rakshasi her

surprise at the disappearance of nearly the whole of the antelope with

the exception of a little bit. The Rakshasi looked fierce and said,

"Do I eat raw flesh?" To which the Brahman woman replied, "Perhaps you

do, for aught I know to the contrary." The Rakshasi, knowing herself

to be discovered, looked fiercer than before, and vowed revenge. The

Brahman woman concluded in her mind that the doom of herself, of

her husband, and of her son was sealed. She spent a miserable night,

believing that next day she would be killed and eaten up, and that her

husband and son would share the same fate. Early next morning, before

her son Champa Dal went to school, she gave him in a small golden

vessel a little quantity of her own breast milk, and told him to be

constantly watching its colour. "Should you," she said, "see the milk

get a little red, then conclude that your father has been killed; and

should you see it grow still redder, then conclude that I am killed:

when you see this, gallop away for your life as fast as your horse

can carry you, for if you do not, you also will be devoured."

The Rakshasi on getting up from bed--and she had prevented the Brahman

overnight from having any communication with his wife--proposed that

she and the Brahman should go to bathe in the river, which was at

some distance. She would take no denial; the Brahman had therefore

to follow her as meekly as a lamb. The Brahman woman at once saw from

the proposal that ruin was impending; but it was beyond her power to

avert the catastrophe. The Rakshasi, on the river-side, assuming her

own proper gigantic dimensions, took hold of the ill-fated Brahman,

tore him limb by limb, and devoured him up. She then ran to her house,

and seized the Brahman woman, and put her into her capacious stomach,

clothes, hair and all. Young Champa Dal, who, agreeably to his mother's

instructions, was diligently watching the milk in the small golden

vessel, was horror-struck to find the milk redden a little. He set

up a cry and said that his father was killed; a few minutes after,

finding the milk become completely red, he cried yet louder, and

rushing to his pony, mounted it. His half-brother, Sahasra Dal,

surprised at Champa Dal's conduct, said, "Where are you going,

Champa? Why are you crying? Let me accompany you." "Oh! do not come

to me. Your mother has devoured my father and mother; don't you come

and devour me." "I will not devour you; I'll save you." Scarcely

had he uttered these words and galloped away after Champa Dal, when

he saw his mother in her own Rakshasi form appearing at a distance,

and demanding that Champa Dal should come to her. He said, "I will

come to you, not Champa." So saying, he went to his mother, and with

his sword, which he always wore as a young prince, cut off her head.

Champa Dal had, in the meantime, galloped off a good distance, as

he was running for his life; but Sahasra Dal, by pricking his horse

repeatedly, soon overtook him, and told him that his mother was no

more. This was small consolation to Champa Dal, as the Rakshasi,

before being killed, had devoured both his father and mother; still

he could not but feel that Sahasra Dal's friendship was sincere. They

both rode fast, and as their horses were of the breed of pakshirajes

(literally, kings of birds), they travelled over hundreds of miles. An

hour or two before sundown they descried a village, to which they made

up, and became guests in the house of one of its most respectable

inhabitants. The two friends found the members of that respectable

family in deep gloom. Evidently there was something agitating them

very much. Some of them held private consultations, and others were

weeping. The eldest lady of the house, the mother of its head, said

aloud, "Let me go, as I am the eldest. I have lived long enough;

at the utmost my life would be cut short only by a year or two." The

youngest member of the house, who was a little girl, said, "Let me

go, as I am young and useless to the family; if I die I shall not be

missed." The head of the house, the son of the old lady, said, "I am

the head and representative of the family; it is but reasonable that

I should give up my life." His younger brother said, "You are the main

prop and pillar of the family; if you go the whole family is ruined. It

is not reasonable that you should go; let me go, as I shall not be

much missed." The two strangers listened to all this conversation

with no little curiosity. They wondered what it all meant. Sahasra

Dal at last, at the risk of being thought meddlesome, ventured to

ask the head of the house the subject of their consultations, and

the reason of the deep misery but too visible in their countenances

and words. The head of the house gave the following answer: "Know

then, worthy guests, that this part of the country is infested by a

terrible Rakshasi, who has depopulated all the regions round. This

town, too, would have been depopulated, but that our king became a

suppliant before the Rakshasi, and begged her to show mercy to us his

subjects. The Rakshasi replied, 'I will consent to show mercy to you

and to your subjects only on this condition, that you every night put

a human being, either male or female, in a certain temple for me to

feast upon. If I get a human being every night I will rest satisfied,

and not commit any further depredations on your subjects.' Our king

had no other alternative than to agree to this condition, for what

human beings can ever hope to contend against a Rakshasi? From that

day the king made it a rule that every family in the town should in

its turn send one of its members to the temple as a victim to appease

the wrath and to satisfy the hunger of the terrible Rakshasi. All the

families in this neighbourhood have had their turn, and this night

it is the turn for one of us to devote himself to destruction. We are

therefore discussing who should go. You must now perceive the cause of

our distress." The two friends consulted together for a few minutes,

and at the conclusion of their consultations, Sahasra Dal, who was the

spokesman of the party, said, "Most worthy host, do not any longer be

sad: as you have been very kind to us, we have resolved to requite

your hospitality by ourselves going to the temple and becoming the

food of the Rakshasi. We go as your representatives." The whole

family protested against the proposal. They declared that guests

were like gods, and that it was the duty of the host to endure all

sorts of privation for the comfort of the guest, and not the duty of

the guest to suffer for the host. But the two strangers insisted on

standing proxy to the family, who, after a great deal of yea and nay,

at last consented to the arrangement.

Immediately after candle-light, Sahasra Dal and Champa Dal, with

their two horses, installed themselves in the temple, and shut the

door. Sahasra told his brother to go to sleep, as he himself was

determined to sit up the whole night and watch against the coming of

the terrible Rakshasi. Champa was soon in a fine sleep, while Sahasra

lay awake. Nothing happened during the early hours of the night, but

no sooner had the gong of the king's palace announced the dead hour

of midnight than Sahasra heard the sound as of a rushing tempest,

and immediately concluded, from his knowledge of Rakshasas, that

the Rakshasi was nigh. A thundering knock was heard at the door,

accompanied with the following words:--

"How, mow, khow!

A human being I smell;

Who watches inside?"

To this question Sahasra Dal made the following reply:--

"Sahasra Dal watcheth,

Champa Dal watcheth,

Two winged horses watch."

On hearing this answer the Rakshasi turned away with a groan, knowing

that Sahasra Dal had Rakshasa blood in his veins. An hour after,

the Rakshasi returned, thundered at the door, and called out--

"How, mow, khow!

A human being I smell;

Who watcheth inside?"

Sahasra Dal again replied--

"Sahasra Dal watcheth,

Champa Dal watcheth,

Two winged horses watch."

The Rakshasi again groaned and went away. At two o'clock and at three

o'clock the Rakshasi again and again made her appearance, and made

the usual inquiry, and obtaining the same answer, went away with a

groan. After three o'clock, however, Sahasra Dal felt very sleepy:

he could not any longer keep awake. He therefore roused Champa,

told him to watch, and strictly enjoined upon him, in reply to the

query of the Rakshasi, to mention Sahasra's name first. With these

instructions he went to sleep. At four o'clock the Rakshasi again

made her appearance, thundered at the door, and said--

"How, mow, khow!

A human being I smell;

Who watches inside?"

As Champa Dal was in a terrible fright, he forgot the instructions

of his brother for the moment, and answered--

"Champa Dal watcheth,

Sahasra Dal watcheth,

Two winged horses watch."

On hearing this reply the Rakshasi uttered a shout of exultation,

laughed such a laugh as only demons can, and with a dreadful noise

broke open the door. The noise roused Sahasra, who in a moment

sprung to his feet, and with his sword, which was as supple as a

palm-leaf, cut off the head of the Rakshasi. The huge mountain of a

body fell to the ground, making a great noise, and lay covering many

an acre. Sahasra Dal kept the severed head of the Rakshasi near him,

and went to sleep. Early in the morning some wood-cutters, who were

passing near the temple, saw the huge body on the ground. They could

not from a distance make out what it was, but on coming near they

knew that it was the carcase of the terrible Rakshasi, who had by

her voracity nearly depopulated the country. Remembering the promise

made by the king that the killer of the Rakshasi should be rewarded

by the hand of his daughter and with a share of the kingdom, each of

the wood-cutters, seeing no claimant at hand, thought of obtaining

the reward. Accordingly each of them cut off a part of a limb of the

huge carcase, went to the king, and represented himself to be the

destroyer of the great raw-eater, and claimed the reward. The king,

in order to find out the real hero and deliverer, inquired of his

minister the name of the family whose turn it was on the preceding

night to offer a victim to the Rakshasi. The head of that family, on

being brought before the king, related how two youthful travellers,

who were guests in his house, volunteered to go into the temple

in the room of a member of his family. The door of the temple was

broken open; Sahasra Dal and Champa Dal and their horses were found

all safe; and the head of the Rakshasi, which was with them, proved

beyond the shadow of a doubt that they had killed the monster. The

king kept his word. He gave his daughter in marriage to Sahasra Dal

and the sovereignty of half his dominions. Champa Dal remained with

his friend in the king's palace, and rejoiced in his prosperity.

Sahasra Dal and Champa Dal lived together happily for some time, when

a misunderstanding arose between them in this wise. There was in the

service of the queen-mother a certain maid-servant who was the most

useful domestic in the palace. There was nothing which she could not

put her hands to and perform. She had uncommon strength for a woman;

neither was her intelligence of a mean order. She was a woman of

immense activity and energy; and if she were absent one day from the

palace, the affairs of the zenana would be in perfect disorder. Hence

her services were highly valued by the queen-mother and all the ladies

of the palace. But this woman was not a woman; she was a Rakshasi, who

had put on the appearance of a woman to serve some purposes of her own,

and then taken service in the royal household. At night, when every

one in the palace was asleep, she used to assume her own real form, and

go about in quest of food, for the quantity of food that is sufficient

for either man or woman was not sufficient for a Rakshasi. Now Champa

Dal, having no wife, was in the habit of sleeping outside the zenana,

and not far from the outer gate of the palace. He had noticed her going

about on the premises and devouring sundry goats and sheep, horses and

elephants. The maid-servant, finding that Champa Dal was in the way of

her supper, determined to get rid of him. She accordingly went one day

to the queen-mother, and said, "Queen-mother! I am unable any longer

to work in the palace." "Why? what is the matter, Dasi? [11] How can

I get on without you? Tell me your reasons. What ails you?" "Why,"

said the woman, "nowadays it is impossible for a poor woman like

me to preserve my honour in the palace. There is that Champa Dal,

the friend of your son-in-law; he always cracks indecent jokes with

me. It is better for me to beg for my rice than to lose my honour. If

Champa Dal remains in the palace I must go away." As the maid-servant

was an absolute necessity in the palace, the queen-mother resolved

to sacrifice Champa Dal to her. She therefore told Sahasra Dal that

Champa Dal was a bad man, that his character was loose, and that

therefore he must leave the palace. Sahasra Dal earnestly pleaded on

behalf of his friend, but in vain; the queen-mother had made up her

mind to drive him out of the palace. Sahasra Dal had not the courage

to speak personally to his friend on the subject; he therefore wrote

a letter to him, in which he simply said that for certain reasons

Champa must leave the palace immediately. The letter was put in his

room after he had gone to bathe. On reading the letter Champa Dal,

exceedingly grieved, mounted his fleet horse and left the palace.

As Champa's horse was uncommonly fleet, in a few hours he traversed

thousands of miles, and at last found himself at the gateway of what

seemed a magnificent palace. Dismounting from his horse, he entered

the house, where he did not meet with a single creature. He went from

apartment to apartment, but though they were all richly furnished he

did not see a single human being. At last, in one of the side rooms,

he found a young lady of heavenly beauty lying down on a splendid

bedstead. She was asleep. Champa Dal looked upon the sleeping beauty

with rapture--he had not seen any woman so beautiful. Upon the bed,

near the head of the young lady, were two sticks, one of silver and the

other of gold. Champa took the silver stick into his hand, and touched

with it the body of the lady; but no change was perceptible. He then

took up the gold stick and laid it upon the lady, when in a trice

she woke up, sat in her bed, and eyeing the stranger, inquired who

he was. Champa Dal briefly told his story. The young lady, or rather

princess--for she was nothing less--said, "Unhappy man! why have you

come here? This is the country of Rakshasas, and in this house and

round about there live no less than seven hundred Rakshasas. They

all go away to the other side of the ocean every morning in search of

provisions; and they all return every evening before dusk. My father

was formerly king in these regions, and had millions of subjects, who

lived in flourishing towns and cities. But some years ago the invasion

of the Rakshasas took place, and they devoured all his subjects,

and himself and my mother, and my brothers and sisters. They devoured

also all the cattle of the country. There is no living human being in

these regions excepting myself; and I too should long ago have been

devoured had not an old Rakshasi, conceiving strange affection for

me, prevented the other Rakshasas from eating me up. You see those

sticks of silver and gold; the old Rakshasi, when she goes away in

the morning, kills me with the silver stick, and on her return in

the evening re-animates me with the gold stick. I do not know how

to advise you; if the Rakshasas see you, you are a dead man." Then

they both talked to each other in a very affectionate manner, and

laid their heads together to devise if possible some means of escape

from the hands of the Rakshasas. The hour of the return of the seven

hundred raw-eaters was fast approaching; and Keshavati--for that

was the name of the princess, so called from the abundance of her

hair--told Champa to hide himself in the heaps of the sacred trefoil

which were lying in the temple of Siva in the central part of the

palace. Before Champa went to his place of concealment, he touched

Keshavati with the silver stick, on which she instantly died.

Shortly after sunset Champa Dal heard from beneath the heaps of the

sacred trefoil the sound as of a mighty rushing wind. Presently he

heard terrible noises in the palace. The Rakshasas had come home

from cruising, after having filled their stomachs, each one, with

sundry goats, sheep, cows, horses, buffaloes, and elephants. The old

Rakshasi, of whom we have already spoken, came to Keshavati's room,

roused her by touching her body with the gold stick, and said--

"Hye, mye, khye!

A human being I smell."

On which Keshavati said, "I am the only human being here; eat me if you

like." To which the raw-eater replied, "Let me eat up your enemies;

why should I eat you?" She laid herself down on the ground, as long

and as high as the Vindhya Hills, and presently fell asleep. The other

Rakshasas and Rakshasis also soon fell asleep, being all tired out on

account of their gigantic labours in the day. Keshavati also composed

herself to sleep; while Champa, not daring to come out of the heaps

of leaves, tried his best to court the god of repose. At daybreak all

the raw-eaters, seven hundred in number, got up and went as usual to

their hunting and predatory excursions, and along with them went the

old Rakshasi, after touching Keshavati with the silver stick. When

Champa Dal saw that the coast was clear, he came out of the temple,

walked into Keshavati's room, and touched her with the gold stick,

on which she woke up. They sauntered about in the gardens, enjoying

the cool breeze of the morning; they bathed in a lucid tank which

was in the grounds; they ate and drank, and spent the day in sweet

converse. They concocted a plan for their deliverance. They settled

that Keshavati should ask the old Rakshasi on what the life of a

Rakshasa depended, and when the secret should be made known they would

adopt measures accordingly. As on the preceding evening, Champa, after

touching his fair friend with the silver stick, took refuge in the

temple beneath the heaps of the sacred trefoil. At dusk the Rakshasas

as usual came home; and the old Rakshasi, rousing her pet, said--

"Hye, mye, khye!

A human being I smell."

Keshavati answered, "What other human being is here excepting

myself? Eat me up, if you like." "Why should I eat you, my darling? Let

me eat up all your enemies." Then she laid down on the ground her huge

body, which looked like a part of the Himalaya mountains. Keshavati,

with a phial of heated mustard oil, went towards the feet of the

Rakshasi, and said, "Mother, your feet are sore with walking; let me

rub them with oil." So saying, she began to rub with oil the Rakshasi's

feet; and while she was in the act of doing so, a few tear-drops from

her eyes fell on the monster's leg. The Rakshasi smacked the tear-drops

with her lips, and finding the taste briny, said, "Why are you weeping,

darling? What aileth thee?" To which the princess replied, "Mother,

I am weeping because you are old, and when you die I shall certainly

be devoured by one of the Rakshasas." "When I die! Know, foolish girl,

that we Rakshasas never die. We are not naturally immortal, but our

life depends on a secret which no human being can unravel. Let me

tell you what it is that you may be comforted. You know yonder tank;

there is in the middle of it a Sphatikasthambha, [12] on the top of

which in deep waters are two bees. If any human being can dive into

the waters, and bring up to land the two bees from the pillar in one

breath, and destroy them so that not a drop of their blood falls to

the ground, then we Rakshasas shall certainly die; but if a single

drop of blood falls to the ground, then from it will start up a

thousand Rakshasas. But what human being will find out this secret,

or, finding it, will be able to achieve the feat? You need not,

therefore, darling, be sad; I am practically immortal." Keshavati

treasured up the secret in her memory, and went to sleep.

Early next morning the Rakshasas as usual went away; Champa came

out of his hiding-place, roused Keshavati, and fell a-talking. The

princess told him the secret she had learnt from the Rakshasi. Champa

immediately made preparations for accomplishing the mighty deed. He

brought to the side of the tank a knife and a quantity of ashes. He

disrobed himself, put a drop or two of mustard oil into each of his

ears to prevent water from entering in, and dived into the waters. In

a moment he got to the top of the crystal pillar in the middle of the

tank, caught hold of the two bees he found there, and came up in one

breath. Taking the knife, he cut up the bees over the ashes, a drop

or two of the blood fell, not on the ground, but on the ashes. When

Champa caught hold of the bees, a terrible scream was heard at a

distance. This was the wailing of the Rakshasas, who were all running

home to prevent the bees from being killed; but before they could reach

the palace, the bees had perished. The moment the bees were killed,

all the Rakshasas died, and their carcases fell on the very spot on

which they were standing. Champa and the princess afterwards found

that the gateway of the palace was blocked up by the huge carcases

of the Rakshasas--some of them having nearly succeeded in getting to

the palace. In this manner was effected the destruction of the seven

hundred Rakshasas.

After the destruction of the seven hundred raw-eating monsters, Champa

Dal and Keshavati got married together by the exchange of garlands of

flowers. The princess, who had never been out of the house, naturally

expressed a desire to see the outer world. They used every day to

take long walks both morning and evening, and as a large river was

hard by Keshavati wished to bathe in it. The first day they went to

bathe, one of Keshavati's hairs came off, and as it is the custom

with women never to throw away a hair unaccompanied with something

else, she tied the hair to a shell which was floating on the water;

after which they returned home. In the meantime the shell with the hair

tied to it floated down the stream, and in course of time reached that

ghat [13] at which Sahasra Dal and his companions were in the habit

of performing their ablutions. The shell passed by when Sahasra Dal

and his friends were bathing; and he, seeing it at some distance,

said to them, "Whoever succeeds in catching hold of yonder shell

shall be rewarded with a hundred rupees." They all swam towards it,

and Sahasra Dal, being the fleetest swimmer, got it. On examining

it he found a hair tied to it. But such hair! He had never seen so

long a hair. It was exactly seven cubits long. "The owner of this

hair must be a remarkable woman, and I must see her"--such was the

resolution of Sahasra Dal. He went home from the river in a pensive

mood, and instead of proceeding to the zenana for breakfast, remained

in the outer part of the palace. The queen-mother, on hearing that

Sahasra Dal was looking melancholy and had not come to breakfast,

went to him and asked the reason. He showed her the hair, and said

he must see the woman whose head it had adorned. The queen-mother

said, "Very well, you shall have that lady in the palace as soon as

possible. I promise you to bring her here." The queen-mother told her

favourite maid-servant, whom she knew to be full of resources--the same

who was a Rakshasi in disguise--that she must, as soon as possible,

bring to the palace that lady who was the owner of the hair seven

cubits long. The maid-servant said she would be quite able to fetch

her. By her directions a boat was built of Hajol wood, the oars of

which were of Mon Paban wood. The boat was launched on the stream,

and she went on board of it with some baskets of wicker-work of

curious workmanship; she also took with her some sweetmeats into

which some poison had been mixed. She snapped her fingers thrice,

and uttered the following charm:--

"Boat of Hajol!

Oars of Mon Paban!

Take me to the Ghat,

In which Keshavati bathes."

No sooner had the words been uttered than the boat flew like lightning

over the waters. It went on and on, leaving behind many a town and

city. At last it stopped at a bathing-place, which the Rakshasi

maid-servant concluded was the bathing ghat of Keshavati. She landed

with the sweetmeats in her hand. She went to the gate of the palace,

and cried aloud, "O Keshavati! Keshavati! I am your aunt, your mother's

sister. I am come to see you, my darling, after so many years. Are you

in, Keshavati?" The princess, on hearing these words, came out of her

room, and making no doubt that she was her aunt, embraced and kissed

her. They both wept rivers of joy--at least the Rakshasi maid-servant

did, and Keshavati followed suit through sympathy. Champa Dal also

thought that she was the aunt of his newly married wife. They all

ate and drank and took rest in the middle of the day. Champa Dal,

as was his habit, went to sleep after breakfast. Towards afternoon,

the supposed aunt said to Keshavati, "Let us both go to the river and

wash ourselves." Keshavati replied, "How can we go now? my husband

is sleeping." "Never mind," said the aunt, "let him sleep on; let me

put these sweetmeats, that I have brought, near his bedside, that he

may eat them when he gets up." They then went to the river-side close

to the spot where the boat was. Keshavati, when she saw from some

distance the baskets of wicker-work in the boat, said, "Aunt, what

beautiful things are those! I wish I could get some of them." "Come,

my child, come and look at them; and you can have as many as you

like." Keshavati at first refused to go into the boat, but on being

pressed by her aunt, she went. The moment they two were on board,

the aunt snapped her fingers thrice and said:--

"Boat of Hajol!

Oars of Mon Paban!

Take me to the Ghat,

In which Sahasra Dal bathes."

As soon as these magical words were uttered the boat moved and flew

like an arrow over the waters. Keshavati was frightened and began to

cry, but the boat went on and on, leaving behind many towns and cities,

and in a trice reached the ghat where Sahasra Dal was in the habit of

bathing. Keshavati was taken to the palace; Sahasra Dal admired her

beauty and the length of her hair; and the ladies of the palace tried

their best to comfort her. But she set up a loud cry, and wanted to be

taken back to her husband. At last when she saw that she was a captive,

she told the ladies of the palace that she had taken a vow that she

would not see the face of any strange man for six months. She was

then lodged apart from the rest in a small house, the window of which

overlooked the road; there she spent the livelong day and also the

livelong night--for she had very little sleep--in sighing and weeping.

In the meantime when Champa Dal awoke from sleep, he was distracted

with grief at not finding his wife. He now thought that the woman,

who pretended to be his wife's aunt, was a cheat and an impostor,

and that she must have carried away Keshavati. He did not eat the

sweetmeats, suspecting they might be poisoned. He threw one of

them to a crow which, the moment it ate it, dropped down dead. He

was now the more confirmed in his unfavourable opinion of the

pretended aunt. Maddened with grief, he rushed out of the house,

and determined to go whithersoever his eyes might lead him. Like a

madman, always blubbering "O Keshavati! O Keshavati!" he travelled

on foot day after day, not knowing whither he went. Six months were

spent in this wearisome travelling when, at the end of that period, he

reached the capital of Sahasra Dal. He was passing by the palace-gate

when the sighs and wailings of a woman sitting at the window of

a house, on the road-side, attracted his attention. One moment's

look, and they recognised each other. They continued to hold secret

communications. Champa Dal heard everything, including the story of

her vow, the period of which was to terminate the following day. It

is customary, on the fulfilment of a vow, for some learned Brahman

to make public recitations of events connected with the vow and

the person who makes it. It was settled that Champa Dal should take

upon himself the functions of the reciter. Accordingly, next morning,

when it was proclaimed by beat of drum that the king wanted a learned

Brahman who could recite the story of Keshavati on the fulfilment

of her vow, Champa Dal touched the drum and said that he would make

the recitation. Next morning a gorgeous assembly was held in the

courtyard of the palace under a huge canopy of silk. The old king,

Sahasra Dal, all the courtiers and the learned Brahmans of the country,

were present there. Keshavati was also there behind a screen that she

might not be exposed to the rude gaze of the people. Champa Dal, the

reciter, sitting on a dais, began the story of Keshavati, as we have

related it, from the beginning, commencing with the words--"There

was a poor and half-witted Brahman, etc." As he was going on with

the story, the reciter every now and then asked Keshavati behind the

screen whether the story was correct; to which question she as often

replied, "Quite correct; go on, Brahman." During the recitation of

the story the Rakshasi maid-servant grew pale, as she perceived that

her real character was discovered; and Sahasra Dal was astonished

at the knowledge of the reciter regarding the history of his own

life. The moment the story was finished, Sahasra Dal jumped up from

his seat, and embracing the reciter, said, "You can be none other

than my brother Champa Dal." Then the prince, inflamed with rage,

ordered the maid-servant into his presence. A large hole, as deep

as the height of a man, was dug in the ground; the maid-servant was

put into it in a standing posture; prickly thorn was heaped around

her up to the crown of her head: in this wise was the maid-servant

buried alive. After this Sahasra Dal and his princess, and Champa

Dal and Keshavati, lived happily together many years.

Thus my story endeth,

The Natiya-thorn withereth, etc.

[10] Rakshasas and Rakshasis (male and female) are in Hindu mythology huge giants and giantesses, or rather demons. The word means literally raw-eaters; they were probably the chiefs of the aborigines whom the Aryans overthrew on their first settlement in the country.

[11] Dasi is a general name for all maid-servants.

[12] Sphatika is crystal, and sthambha pillar.

[13] Bathing-place, either in a tank or on the bank of a river,

generally furnished with flights of steps.