reading

Author’s Note

This collection of stories came about after a lunchtime conversation with a friend of mine. It was one of those casual, almost throwaway suggestions that unexpectedly grew into a rather good idea, and one that I was excited to pursue. However, as a British-born child of Indian parents, my knowledge of Indian folk tales was shamefully poor. Of course I knew the famous ones such as the stories of Rama and Sita, but my parents never had the privilege of hearing any such stories because they never went to school. As a result, they had no way of passing these tales on to me.

And in my British schools when I was growing up, the concept of Indian storytelling was almost non-existent. We were never taught about India’s rich folk-tale heritage and ancient cultures. Most of us didn’t realize that fairy tales and stories of talking animals existed in our parents’ cultural backgrounds too. Folk tales, and stories generally, seemed to be a Western thing.

So when the casual idea became a reality, I had to discover India’s rich folk-tale heritage as a beginner. I found amazing and often magical tales, full of adventure and trickery, and infused with deeper messages about morality, life and the world around us. From wicked magicians to wise old priests, charming princes and beautiful princesses – every aspect of the Western tales I’d heard in childhood were present here too.

Perhaps the most surprising aspect was how similar these Indian tales were to those of the Western tradition. Of particular interest were the Indian tales compiled by Joseph Jacobs (1854–1916). These were published in 1912, and form the basis for much of this collection. Punchkin immediately reminded me of Rumpelstiltskin, and many of the animal tales would find a happy home in Aesop or Rudyard Kipling.

Of course, there are many differences too. The Indian tales feel darker in places, and perhaps more moralistic too. Neither do they make allowances for the sensitivity or age of readers. Although a story meant for children, in ‘The Peacock and the Crane’, the penalty for pride and boastfulness is death, rather than a lesson well learnt. The same goes for any modern concepts of political correctness – there are helpless and passive princesses, and wizened old crones aplenty, not to mention heroes who seem only to relish the acquisition of material wealth. However, this reflects their Western counterparts, so perhaps I shouldn’t be too critical.

The rest of the collection comprises retellings of the Akbar and Birbal tales from India’s Mughal period, and other gems that I discovered in passing. Better known than most other Indian tales and widely read throughout the country, the Akbar and Birbal stories are wonderfully simple yet leave a lasting impression. Birbal is the patient and wise teacher and Akbar an often impetuous and boastful pupil. Their friendship is warm and full of charm and makes these tales a delight.

In reworking these stories, I will admit to plenty of creative licence. I wanted to make them accessible and readable for Western audiences of all backgrounds. As such, many of the previously published versions needed polishing. Editing stories from Indian Fairy Tales by the folklorist Joseph Jacobs was the most challenging and they have seen the greatest changes, although the other tales that I’ve included have been reimagined too. Keen to keep this collection secular, I have steered clear of religion where possible. I have also removed archaic and often offensive terms, as well as reworking the roles of women in one or two cases.

Continuity and plotting were also an issue. For some of these tales, my starting point was just a few, badly translated lines found online, or in obscure, often self-published books. For others, I had dense passages to work through, most of which lacked clarity. In one case, an entire section seemed to be missing. Where possible, I stuck to the original plot lines rigidly. For others, this was almost impossible and so I imagined and wrote new connecting scenes. All of this was done to enhance the reading experience and simplify often complicated language.

The aim of this project is to widen the potential readership, and take some of the most popular Indian folk tales to an audience yet to benefit from reading them. Reworking folk tales can be a hazardous business, and often people become attached to their own versions of a particular story. I mean no disrespect by modernizing these tales. Think of them simply as remixes, intended to engage and enchant modern readers, and to lure them further into Indian folklore.

Regardless, I have thoroughly enjoyed compiling these tales. I hope that they give you as much delight as they did me. Happy reading.

Akbar and Birbal Meet

Akbar, third emperor of Mughal India, felt listless. Despite living in a huge palace, surrounded by wealth beyond imagination, he longed for excitement. He tired of jewels and gold, and the finest of foods.

‘Majesty, you look so glum. What’s the matter?’ asked one of his advisors, Abdul Qadir.

‘There must be more to life,’ Akbar replied.

‘I shall summon the jester,’ Abdul suggested. ‘Or perhaps Your Majesty might prefer musicians and dancers?’

Akbar dismissed all with a wave of his hand. ‘Horses!’ he eventually ordered. ‘Ready my horses. I wish to go hunting.’

Soon, with the sun shining high up above, Akbar and his men galloped through his kingdom, heading for a nearby jungle. Thrilled by the change of scenery, Akbar’s spirits soared. His mighty white horse was the fastest in all of India, and the bravest too. The wind cooled his brow as they passed through village after village, cheered on by his subjects.

‘A gold coin to the first to bring down a deer!’ Akbar cried as they entered the dense jungle. ‘A thousand gold coins for a tiger!’

For an hour, Akbar’s party toiled deeper and deeper into the trees. Sweat poured from every brow, and soon their horses began to tire. The foliage grew denser still, encroaching from all sides, and they saw no sign of prey. Eventually, exhausted and irritable, Akbar realized that they were lost.

‘Which way?’ he asked his closest advisors.

‘I cannot say, Your Majesty,’ replied one.

‘We do not know this part of the jungle,’ said the next.

‘Then what good are you?’ the emperor snapped. ‘Am I surrounded by imbeciles?’

Dismounting, his men drew their swords and began to hack through the undergrowth, searching for a path of some sort. As Akbar reached for his water gourd, he heard a soft whistling.

‘Ssh!’ he told his men. ‘Do you hear that?’

When none replied, Akbar drew his own sword. ‘There is someone here with us,’ he whispered.

‘Be careful, Majesty – it may be a demon!’ warned Abdul.

Akbar, although young, was a wise and rational ruler. He shook his head. Such superstitions were the stuff of children’s tales. Demons indeed!

‘It’s just a man,’ Akbar told his men. ‘A man who might lead us from this place.’

And true enough, the whistling drew closer and a young man in shabby clothes appeared. In his left hand, he held a ball of string; in his right, a sturdy mahogany staff.

‘Your Majesty!’ the young man replied, falling to his knees.

‘Yes, yes!’ Akbar replied. ‘Enough of that – who are you?’

The stranger rose and addressed the emperor without eye contact.

‘I am just a humble village boy,’ the stranger replied. ‘My name is Mahesh Das.’

‘Well, Mahesh Das, I am Akbar, and I wish to find a way out of this jungle. Can you help us?’

The boy nodded. ‘I know this jungle as well as any person can,’ he told Akbar. ‘It would be an honour to escort you out of here and back to your palace.’

Mahesh held up the ball of string. ‘As I walk into the denser parts of the jungle, I tie this string to the trees and bushes …’

‘To show you the way home …’ Akbar replied.

‘Yes, Your Majesty. The jungle is a living beast. It changes every day.’

The boy turned and followed the string line.

‘I shall accompany you on foot,’ Akbar told him.

Turning to his men, he pointed to his horse. ‘Follow behind,’ he ordered. ‘And learn from this boy …’

As they wound their way back, Akbar and the boy chatted and found that they enjoyed one another’s company. Once they reached the gates of the palace, Akbar thanked Mahesh Das and rewarded him with a golden ring. Incredulous and envious, Abdul Qadir seethed.

‘But I do not need this,’ the boy replied.

‘It is a gift,’ Akbar told him. ‘I insist.’

‘Thank you, Majesty.’

‘Come to the palace in two days’ time,’ Akbar told him. ‘I wish to offer you a posting at my court.’

Mahesh nodded eagerly, bade his goodbyes, and ran home in excitement. A court role would secure his future.

On the emperor’s order, Mahesh returned two days later, only to find a guard barring his way.

‘I wish an audience with the emperor,’ Mahesh protested.

‘Really?’ the guard teased. ‘Each day a hundred wretched scoundrels beg an audience with His Majesty. What makes you so exceptional?’

Mahesh held out the ring Akbar had given him. ‘Here is my pass,’ he replied.

The guard considered the ring. A crafty smirk creased his face. Drawing his sword, he ordered Mahesh to follow. In the shadow of a watchtower, he put the blade to Mahesh’s throat.

‘If he gave you that ring,’ the guard said, ‘he is sure to give you much more.’

Mahesh, fearing certain death, did not move. His heart pounded against his chest.

‘What will prevent me from killing you and taking this expensive ring for myself?’

‘N-n-nothing!’ gasped Mahesh.

‘Let us strike a bargain, then,’ the guard told him. ‘I will allow you to enter with one condition. I want half of whatever the emperor gives to you. Do you accept – on the life of your mother?’

Mahesh agreed and the guard relaxed his hold.

‘Remember well,’ the guard warned. ‘For if you break your promise, I will kill you!’

Mahesh made his way into court, his mind racing. What could he do but fulfil his bargain, forced though it was? He did not see the disdainful glances from the courtiers, the pained expressions of Akbar’s closest advisors, particularly Abdul Qadir. Not even the splendour within the palace took his attention.

‘Who are you?’ another guard demanded.

‘I am Mahesh Das,’ the boy replied. ‘His Majesty asked me to attend.’

Akbar, on hearing this, called the boy forward, and Mahesh produced his ring.

‘Mahesh Das!’ the emperor exclaimed with joy. ‘You have come!’

‘I am here to do your bidding, Majesty,’ the boy replied.

Akbar ordered coconut water to be brought for the boy.

‘Fruit, sweets?’ he added.

Mahesh shook his head but took a little of the water offered. It was cool and sweet, and he savoured it.

‘Then tell me, Mahesh Das, what other reward can I give you?’

Mahesh smiled to himself.

‘I expect only fifty lashes of the whip, Your Majesty,’ he replied. ‘Nothing more.’

Akbar was stunned. His courtiers gasped and whispered to one another. Who was this desperate boy? Was he a madman?

‘But how can this be?’ Akbar asked. ‘For what reason do you demand so cruel a reward?’

‘Please, Your Majesty,’ said Mahesh. ‘Allow me to explain after my reward has been received.’

Akbar, proud to be known as a man of his word, nodded sorrowfully. ‘So be it,’ he whispered. ‘Bring the lash.’

As a guard stripped him to the waist and began to administer his reward, Mahesh remained silent. He counted each stroke and upon the twenty-fifth, he asked to speak to Akbar.

‘Of course!’ the emperor cried. ‘Stop at once and send for my physician!’

Mahesh found his breath before revealing all. ‘As I entered the palace grounds, the guard accosted me,’ he explained. ‘He threatened my life and forced on me a pact …’

Akbar rose to his feet, his cheeks scarlet with rage. ‘FETCH THIS GUARD NOW!’ he roared.

‘He asked for half of my reward,’ Mahesh continued. ‘That is why I requested fifty lashes.’

Despite his anger, Akbar found himself smiling. What a sharp and resourceful young man Mahesh Das was! What a wonderful advisor he would make.

‘I must ensure your promise is kept, then,’ declared Akbar. ‘After all, what good is a man whose word cannot be trusted?’

Akbar ordered the guard be given his part of the reward and thrown in jail thereafter. To honour Mahesh, he gave him a new name and position, much to the consternation of his existing advisors. From that day onwards, Mahesh was called Rajah Birbal to signify his cleverness – and he became Akbar’s chief minister and friend.

A Most Important Lesson

Akbar was just a boy of thirteen when he became emperor. Surrounded by luxury and revered by his people, he was occasionally guilty of arrogance. For his best friend and chief advisor Rajah Birbal, these rare lapses offered a chance to remind Akbar that, despite his great empire and all of his wealth, he was just a person like any other. So when one morning, after one of their long walks, Akbar attempted to better his advisor with a childish trick, Birbal decided to teach his friend a valuable lesson about life.

It began when Akbar challenged Birbal, as they sat drinking fresh, cool water in the palace gardens.

‘Tell me, Birbal,’ said Akbar, ‘do you know how many bangles your wife wears?’

Birbal shrugged. ‘I cannot say that I’ve given it much thought,’ he replied. ‘Bangles are bangles, after all.’

‘Ha!’ Akbar exclaimed with pride verging on arrogance. ‘So, you see her hands every day yet you do not notice how many bangles she wears. How can that be?’

Birbal, feeling annoyed, took a deep breath. ‘Your Majesty,’ he replied softly. ‘Let us take a walk by the lake and I will explain.’

They finished their drinks and walked through the gardens and on to the path that surrounded the lake. The water shimmered in the sunshine and everywhere birds chorused in the trees and shrubs. At the far end, a small stone staircase led up to the emperor’s private residence.

‘You take these stairs every day, Your Majesty,’ said Birbal. ‘Tell me, how many steps are there?’

The emperor shook his head. ‘I see what you are saying,’ he said, ‘but it is not the same thing. We do not notice things as much as we notice the people around us. Your wife is a person, not a staircase and you should know how many bangles she wears. Besides, I own everything, so I don’t care if there are six steps on this staircase or twenty. Nor do I care if there are two roses on a certain bush, or many more. They are all mine, regardless.’

Birbal shrugged. ‘Very well, Your Majesty. I must attend to my duties. May I be excused?’

Akbar grinned. ‘What?’ he asked. ‘No response or new lesson? Perhaps I am becoming as clever as you, dear friend?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Birbal, before walking away.

The following evening, Akbar was strolling past the lake to his quarters, when he spotted a vagrant lying in his rose bushes. Disbelieving, he edged closer and saw that the man was a sadhu – a holy man – dressed in ragged clothing and a once-saffron turban now dulled with grime.

‘You!’ he barked. ‘How dare you lounge so carelessly in my gardens! GUARDS!’

The sadhu raised his head but did not reply.

‘You!’ Akbar said again, wondering where his guards had gone. ‘Get out of here this instant!’

Sleepily, the old man shrugged, stroking his ragged beard. ‘Is this your garden, then?’ he asked.

‘Of course!’ Akbar replied. ‘This garden, the palaces that surround it, the lake, the trees, this entire kingdom belong to me!’

‘And what of the mighty river to the east, or the jungles to the south?’ the sadhu asked. ‘Are they yours too?’

‘YES!’ cried Akbar. ‘Do you know who I am?’

The sadhu shook his head. ‘I know not,’ he replied. ‘And I care not …’

‘But …’

‘Ssh!’ the old man ordered. ‘Tell me this, oh splendid and wealthy man – to whom did these things belong before you?’

Akbar raised an eyebrow, and in that instant, his anger subsided and his curiosity grew. Who was this strange holy man with his questions? Akbar wondered if the man was a friend of Birbal’s. It would be just like his friend to test the emperor so. Regardless, Akbar was a thoughtful person, prone to philosophical debate and open to the thoughts and words of others. Perhaps he could reason with this man, and show Birbal that his was a truly inquisitive mind.

‘Did Birbal send you?’ he asked.

‘I know not this Birbal,’ the sadhu said. ‘And I care not. Answer my question. Who owned these things before you?’

‘Why,’ said Akbar, ‘my father, of course. You must have heard of the mighty Emperor Humayun?’

‘No,’ the sadhu replied. ‘I have not. But tell me, then, who was here before your father?’

Akbar shook his head.

‘That would be Emperor Babar – my grandfather …’ he replied.

‘And before him …?’

‘I … I …’ began Akbar.

‘Think a moment,’ said the sadhu. ‘This garden, these roses, the lake, the palaces – these things are only yours during your lifetime – correct?’

‘Well, yes, but …’

‘And when you are gone, they will belong to your son, and his son after him, and so on …?’

‘Yes, that’s true, but …’

‘Each person only owns these things for as long as they live on this earth, then?’

‘Yes.’

The sadhu smiled, showing blackened teeth. ‘We are but travellers in this world,’ he told Akbar. ‘We travel the road, and when we need shelter from the sun, we rest in the shade of a tree. But eventually we move on, friend. The tree, however, stays where it is, and shades the next traveller, and the next …’

Akbar found himself nodding. He had never considered such things, in such a way, before. He looked around at his beautiful, lush gardens, and at the magnificent building surrounding them. The old man was correct –Akbar was merely their latest owner, and he would not be the last.

‘Oh, wise one,’ he said. ‘I hear your words and I agree with them.’

‘Heed them carefully, then,’ the sadhu replied. ‘For each of us must die one day, and none will take these things with us. The world is not yours, or mine, friend. It belongs to us all …’

Akbar thought of his wealth, and the splendour in which he had spent his life, and he felt ashamed. His riches no more belonged to him than the water in a well, or the birds in the trees. To learn such a lesson, at the hands of this old man …

The sadhu stood wearily. ‘But,’ he said, ‘if you insist I go, then I shall leave at once …’

‘No, no!’ said Akbar. ‘Stay as long as you wish, and let us talk some more about the world.’

The sadhu smiled, and began to remove his turban. Then, spitting tree bark from his mouth, pulling away his fake beard and wiping his face clean, he turned to Akbar.

‘Perhaps it would be better to continue indoors, Your Majesty.’

‘Birbal – it’s you!’ Akbar exclaimed, and once again, he gave thanks that he had been blessed with such a wise and true ally.

‘Now, Your Majesty,’ said Birbal, ‘about my wife’s bangles …’

Akbar grinned sheepishly, shrugged and led his friend away.

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Author’s Note

Akbar and Birbal Meet

A Most Important Lesson