III
BUDHIBANTA, THE BOY WEAVER
IN a certain village in rural Bengal there lived a young weaver, Budhibanta by name. He had a mother to whom he was very obedient. The power of judging for himself was not to be found in him, and he did everything his mother told him to do. He was married, but his wife was too young to leave her father's house, and live in her husband's. It was necessary, however, that husband and wife should sometimes meet, and so one day our hero's mother wished him to visit his better half. But how the weak and foolish boy would behave in society was a source of anxiety to his mother. She at length thought that it would be best to send her son with a friend, as his protector and guide, after giving him some good advice, and accordingly, on the most auspicious day named by the village astrologer, Budhi left home with his friend and the parting instructions of his mother, which were to bow deeply to any grave-looking lady of his father-in-law's house, for there were several ladies there who were worthy of his respect; to put as much food into his mouth as could be taken up with only five fingers, that is, to eat as little food as possible, for to appear greedy in one's father-in-law's house was an inexcusable indecency; and to take the shortest and the most direct path when returning home alone, for his friend might not find it convenient to wait during the whole time he might be detained by his mother-in-law.
With these words of advice stored in his mind, and his friend Juggo accompanying him, he reached his destination, and was at once taken into an inner apartment, where he beheld, though at a distance, his veiled wife, who appeared anxious to avoid him, according to the immemorial custom of her country that no girl wife should show her face to her lord before marriage. Running towards her, he bowed low to her, touching her feet with his forehead. This made every one in the house titter, but unconscious of his stupidity, he went in, squaring his chest and bearing himself proudly.
Sometime afterwards, a dish containing fruits and sweets was laid before him, and he could without difficulty put each of these into his mouth, agreeably to his mother's advice. But when the noon-day meal was served, being naturally voracious, he invoked the most fearful curses on his mother's head, on account of the restraint her commands enjoined upon him.
The day passed without anything noteworthy happening, and at night, when the last meal was served, he was in the same predicament as at dinner, or even in a greater, for the dish before him was then khichuri, a mixture of boiled rice and pulse, seasoned with ghee and spices. The greater portion of the food was liquid, and poor Budhi was at a loss to discover how to quiet the cravings of hunger. But his mother's command was his law, and with great regret he was forced to leave most of the dish uneaten. Finally the whole house retired for the night. Budhi, of course, was in the same room with his wife, and his friend was in the room in the outer apartments. The wife, too young to enter into a long conversation with him, soon fell asleep; but the burning of his empty stomach kept him awake, and, on tiptoe, he crept out into the room occupied only by his friend. He roused him, and with tears informed him of his distress. Together he and his friend began searching about the room, with the result that they found a trap-door leading into a room below. Budhi bent his head to try and see if there was any food there, and to his delight he saw a harhi full of molasses. He got down through the trap-door, by means of a rope tied round his waist, asking his friend to draw him up when he felt a jerk. Greedily he disposed of the contents of the harhi and many handfuls of rice which he found close by. Then taking the harhi still more than half full of molasses on his head and a bundle of rice in his right hand, with the intention of hiding them somewhere and appeasing his hunger on future occasions, he gave the signal to his friend. The latter felt a jerk on the rope and began pulling it up, but the weight of Budhi and of the things he was carrying was too much for it, and it snapped, throwing the greedy wretch to the floor, his whole body smeared with molasses mixed with rice. He greatly feared that the house might awake, owing to the noise his fall had made, so in order to scare them away, his brain, dull in useful matters, but prolific in mischievous plans, quickly evolved a scheme, which was to impersonate a ghost by uttering aloud some indistinct nasal sounds. The plan was carried out, and the inmates of the house, believing that an evil spirit was the sole actor in the scene, could not call up courage enough to enter the storeroom, and one of them ran to the Rojhah, the exorcist, and called him in. The Rojhah muttered some charms and entered the room, when Budhi, to make the scene more terrible, rushed towards him with gaping mouth. This was too much for the exorcist, and he fainted. The whole house was in dismay: women tore their hair in anguish and the men were paralysed. At length Budhi's wife, aroused from her heavy sleep, left her room, and joined them with the report that her husband was not in their room. This increased the uneasiness of her people, for they thought that he had been spirited away; and not only the women, but the men even cried aloud at the mishap.
The friend, Juggo, was awake all the while, but he remained silent. Up till then, he had not thought it advisable to betray the secrets of his friend, but when he saw that the scene was painful beyond endurance, he revealed the facts of the case, and the whole house rang with the noise of laughter. Nothing like this had happened in their experience before, and they were all much amused. The excitement being over, they crowded into the pantry, and found our hero sitting on his haunches, and grinning at the alarm he had caused. They washed him clean, made him change his clothes, and cracked jokes at him, but he still remained puffed up with pride at the consternation he had caused.
Next morning the matter was forgotten; and the attentions the son-in-law received were as usual. His relations by marriage pressed him to remain with them a few days more, but Juggo, disgusted with the night's occurrence, took leave of his friend, and returning home, told Budhi's mother of his folly. His mother was greatly distressed on her son's account, and anxiety for his safe return made her very miserable. She trembled with fear, lest he, having no protector but himself, should run into danger, and finally she made up her mind to go to his father-in-law's house, and bring her darling home, even though, according to the custom of her country, it was not the correct thing to do. She had the most favourable day pointed out to her on the almanac by a Brahmin, and started on her journey. But that journey she was not destined to complete, for having passed over about half the distance she found her son lying dead a little way off from the beaten path. It can be easily conceived what a shock she received at the sight. Wild with grief, she beat her head against the ground, tore her hair, uttered cries of lamentation that rent the air, and sang a dirge of the thousand and one good traits of her son's character.
She was, however, gifted with a strong mind, and so she soon collected herself and began to think of the removal of the body for cremation. She returned home to bring her neighbours to the spot, in order that they might help her to perform the last duties to her son, and in a short time, nothing remained of poor Budhibanta on earth save a heap of ashes.
No one at the time knew the cause of the boy's death. But the narrator of the story by means of later inquiries ascertained the circumstances under which the tragic event had happened, and from him we have heard that the poor weaver was returning home that same morning, when on reaching a palmyra-tree, where two roads branched off in different directions, he feared that by taking the longer one by accident he would be acting contrary to his mother's advice to take the shortest path, and he therefore climbed up to the top of the tree to get a view of the two roads. Having done so he laid hold of one of the branches, and swung himself down so as to fall on his feet on the other side of it, whereupon one of the Fatal Sisters attempted to cut the thread of his life as he fell. His feet touched the head of a man underneath him mounted on an elephant. The man laid hold of our hero's feet, and the elephant moved quickly away. It was a terrible sight, Budhi hanging from the top of the palmyra-tree, with the new-comer dragging him down, but the weaver, too stupid to understand the danger of the position, began interrogating his companion in distress who he was, whence he had come, and to whom the elephant belonged. The man, aware of their dangerous position, hastily exclaimed, "I have never seen such a fool as you. Both of us are on the point of death, and instead of calling on the gods, you indulge yourself in frivolous talk. Don't disturb me, I am calling on Ma Kali to save me."
But the foolish Budhi only laughed. "Ha, ha, that's no use," he said. "Your life is in my hands. Refuse to answer, and I will let go my hold. You know what that means."
The other man was naturally furious. "What a pest you are!" he exclaimed. "There is no escape from you, however. So listen. I am a blind man, and have hitherto lived on my earnings as a singer. Last evening I entertained the king of this place with my songs, and he feasted me during the night, and dismissed me this morning with the elephant you have seen. Now you are satisfied, I hope. Trouble me no more."
"Not yet, my friend," said Budhi. "I must hear the song that brought you so valuable a reward. You had better begin singing at once."
But the man protested. "I entreat you to spare me," he said. "Don't draw me away from my meditations."
"You can't escape me so easily," replied Budhi. "Remain silent a minute longer, and I will let go my hold. See, I am just on the point of doing so."
"Hear the song, then," exclaimed the unfortunate man, "and then go to the infernal regions."
Saying this, the man began to sing. After he had sung for about a minute, the foolish Budhi took his hands off the branch to clap them in approval, whereupon down fell both of them with a tremendous thud, and their souls were carried to the feet of Yama. Some of the blind man's friends in the palace chanced to be passing that way a little after the occurrence, and they removed his body to dispose of it with fitting funeral rites; but the body of the weaver, who was a perfect stranger to them, they left lying where they found it. A fool has no honour even in his death.