Folktales from Bengal by Soham Saha Page A

again, and the fish swished its tail and swam deep
into the pond.
    A little further down the
road, she saw a wizened thorn apple lying on the ground beneath a
tree.
    “ Granny,
where are you going?” the thornapple asked.
    “ To the king
to complain about a thief,” she said.
    “ The king
won’t listen to you. He’s got better things to do,” said the
thornapple.
    “ Why is he
king then?” she asked, annoyed.
    “ To be rich
and have fun, like all other kings,” the thornapple said,
wisely.
    “ He has to
listen,” she said.
    “ Go if you
are this stubborn. But pick me up on your way back. I might come in
useful,” said the thornapple, and the old woman walked
again.
    She walked, walked, and
walked, her joints creaking and cane tapping, until she saw a razor
blade lying by the roadside.
    “ Granny,
where are you off too?” the razor asked.
    “ To the king
to complain about a thief, who eats my rice every night,” she
said.
    “ He won’t
listen,” said the razor, his edge glistening.
    “ He will,”
said the old woman.
    “ Take me with
you on your way back,” said the razor.
    The old woman nodded and
went ahead.
    She was passing through
the king’s stables when she came across some cow dung. They had the
same conversation, and the old woman promised she would pick the
dung up on her way back.
    Finally, she reached the
king. The king was in his court room, having a great intellectual
discussion about philosophy and what not, with a bunch of old,
bearded men who looked like prunes. She paid no heed to them, and
went straight up to the king.
    “ Oh mighty
king, please help me by catching this thief that eats my pantabhaat
every night. I do not know what to do.”
    The king looked at her
angrily and said, “What is this pantabhaat, old woman? And more
importantly, how did you get inside my court?”
    “ It’s the
food I eat for breakfast. You take some rice that is left over
and…”
    “ Seriously,
how do these people get in here? Guards, show her out.” He yelled,
then turned to the old woman and said, “If he eats your breakfast,
just buy some more and eat yourself. Don’t bother me with these
trivia. Can’t you see I have more important stuff to ponder about,
like philosophy, music, and religion? Get out!”
    The guards pushed her
out, and she went back to her home, hungry more than sad, and sad
more than hopeless. But she did not forget to pick up the cow dung,
the blade, the thornapple and the catfish.
    It was nearly night time
when she reached home. She asked the strange bunch she had gathered
what to do with them.
    “ Keep me
hidden in the grass,” said the blade.
    “ Keep me on
the balcony floor,” said the cow dung.
    “ Keep me
inside the oven,” said the thornapple.
    “ Keep me
inside your clay bot,” said the catfish.
    The old woman did all
that, and went to sleep.
    Deep in the night, came
the thief. He did not know what arrangements she had made for him.
He tiptoed to the clay pot, and put his hand in. And immediately,
the catfish stabbed his finger with his bony whiskers.
    Swallowing his yelp, the
thief took his bleeding finger to the fire to seal the cut. No
sooner was he in front of the oven did the thornapple burst,
singing his face and eyebrows with its boiling insides.
    Barely covering his
shriek of surprise and fear, he ran out in the balcony, and slipped
on the cow dung, landing on his face on the floor.
    Cut, singed, burned, and
covered in cow dung, the thief rubbed his feet on the grass to
clean it before he ran. Needless to say, he stepped on the blade,
and finally, cried out so loudly, that he woke up the
neighbourhood.
    Everyone in the vicinity
came out of their houses and surrounded the thief, and who would
lose such a golden opportunity to beat a thief up? The thief got
beaten up so bad, that he could not walk for days.
    And the old lady? The
neighbours were so happy that she had helped catch the thief; they
made sure she would never have to beg or go