The motif of overhearing conversations

A. The story of Sundaraka and Kālarātri:

Note: this text is extracted from Book III, chapter 20.

“Then the terrified Sundaraka, beholding Kālarātri arriving in such a guise, called to mind the spells that drive away Rākṣasas, and bewildered by these spells Kālarātri did not see him croucing secretly in a corner, with his limbs drawn together from fear. Then Kālarātri with her friends recited the spells that enable witches to fly, and they flew up into the air, cow-house and all. And Sundaraka heard the spell and remembered it; but Kālarātri with the cow-house quickly flew through the air to Ujjayinī”.

See Veckenstedt’s Wendische Sagen, p. 289, where a young man overhears a spell with similar results. See also Bartsch’s Sagen, Märchen und Gebräuche aus Meklenburg, vol. i, p. 115.—This well-known motif has already occurred in the Ocean of Story (Vol. I, p. 48), where Vararuci discovers why the fish laughed by overhearing the conversation of a female Rākṣasa. I gave a few analogues in a short note (p. 48n²) and will add some more in a note in Vol. III, Chapter XXIX. I shall, therefore, chiefly confine myself here to a brief discussion of the origin of the motif with special reference to the art of learning the languages of animals.

That birds and beasts have a language of their own which can sometimes be understood by human beings is a most natural and universal motif of folktales. All manner of ways in which this great gift can be obtained have suggested themselves to the story-teller. It is sometimes given as a reward for some kind service rendered to an animal, it may be acquired by the aid of magic, it can be a boon from a god, or the hero may be actually born with the power. Primitive minds have always credited animals with great wisdom and understanding, and as possessing important secrets which can only be discovered if the language is understood. Stories have, therefore, naturally arisen to explain how the hero acquired this most useful gift.

The language of birds enters into folk-lore much more than the language of beasts. This is not to be wondered at, owing, I think, to the simple fact that a bird can get to inaccessible places much more easily than a beast. Thus the bird can fly to a magic island, to an enchanted tree or a hidden cave—it can perch on the window-sill of a room and see and hear what goes on inside. In fact it becomes a most useful Deus ex machina to the story-teller. The English expression “ a little bird told me” contains the same idea. Cf. Eccles. x, 20.

But to return to the motif of overhearing. A bird or beast meets his mate and proceeds to tell his most recent adventures—what strange place he has visited, what rare jewel he has found, or the latest scandal from the palace in the neighbouring city. The hero in nearly all cases happens to be hiding or sleeping in the tree on which the birds perch or under which the animals are resting.

In other cases it is supernatural beings who converse—Rākṣasas, giants, vampires, etc. Sometimes they give away a secret which is fatal to themselves—a snake will tell his companion what is the only way he could be killed, and, of course, the hero takes the tip at the earliest opportunity, usually securing some hidden jewel or gold.

The above gives, roughly, the usual uses to which this motif is put. The origin of the idea can perhaps be traced to homoeopathic or imitative magic. Thus if you wish to acquire a certain quality of an animal all you have to do is to kill it and eat it, and, ipso facto, the particular quality of your victim becomes yours. In a widely distributed number of stories the eating of a snake imparts the power of understanding the language of birds and beasts. The exact reason for this is not clear unless it is because the snake (or dragon) is often considered as half-way between a beast and a bird. It is interesting to note that Pliny (Hist. Nat., x, 137; xxix, 72) reports Democritus to have said that serpents were generated from the mixed blood of certain birds, and that in consequence anyone who ate a serpent would acquire the power to understand the bird language. In describing the “Dragons of India,” Apollonius of Tyana (iii, 9) says that the Indians eat the dragon’s heart and liver in order to be able to understand the language and thoughts of animals. During his sojourn among the Arab tribes he is said to have mastered this great art and to have listened to the birds, as these predict the future (i, 20). See Thorndike, A History of Magic and Experimental Science, vol. i, p. 261 . For other examples of the use of the snake to give the power of understanding the language of birds see J. A. Macculloch, The Childhood of Fiction, p. 41; Frazer, Golden Bough, vol. viii, p. 146.

At times (see for instance Tawney’s Prabandhacintāmaṇi, p. 174) it is an ordinary human conversation that is overheard, but I would not include these examples under this motif (as does Bloomfield, Life and Stories of Pārçvanātha, p. 185), as such an ordinary and commonplace occurrence ceases to have the same degree of interest and importance as the overheard conversation of the animal world. As we shall see in my note in Chapter XXIX, the motif of overhearing is found in the Mahābhārata, the Jātakas, Pañcatantra, Kathākoça, Pariśiṣṭaparvan and numerous collections of Indian tales—such as those by Temple, Frere, Steel, Day, etc. For further references see Clouston, Popular Tales and Fictions, vol. i, pp. 242-248; ditto, A Group of Eastern Romances and Stories, pp. 505, 510; Chauvin, Bibliographie des Ouvrages Arabes, v, p. 180, and G. Nicasi, “Le credenze religiose delle popolazioni rurali dell’alte valle del Taveri,” in Lares, vol. i (1912), p. 169.— n.m.p.

B. The “overhearing” motif:

Note: this text is extracted from Book VI, chapter 29.

I have already given notes on this motif of overhearing in Vol. I, p. 48n^l, and Vol. II, p. 107n^l et seq. It also occurred in the “Story of the Golden City” (Vol. II, p. 219), and in Vol. III, pp. 48, 49-

Several good examples of the motif are found in the Jātakas. In the Siri-Jātaka, No. 284 (Cambridge edition, vol. ii, p. 280), two cocks are overheard talking on a tree, their indiscretion being their undoing.

They abuse one another, and one says: “What power have you?”

The other replies:

“Anybody who kills me, and eats my flesh roasted on the coals, gets a thousand pieces of money in the morning!”

But the first cock continues:

“Pooh, pooh, don’t boast about a little thing like that! Anybody who eats my fleshy parts will become king; if he eats my outside, he’ll become commander-in-chief or chief queen, according as he’s a man or woman; if he eats the flesh by my bones he’ll get the post of royal treasurer, if he be a householder; or, if a holy man, will become the king’s favourite!”

In the Kharaputta-Jātaka, No. 386 (Cambridge edition, vol. iii, p. 175), which I consider to be the original of the well-known “Tale of the Bull and the Ass” in the Nights (Burton, vol. i, p. 16 et seq.), four young Nāga youths enter a king’s room to “destroy him like chaff by the breath of their nostrils” and are luckily persuaded to desist from their intention by overhearing a conversation between the king and his consort.

An ordinary case of human overhearing occurs in the Takkala-Jātaka, No. 446 (Cambridge edition, vol. iv, p. 29).

In Tawney’s Kathākoça (Oriental Translation Fund, New Series, ii, 1895, Royal Asiatic Society) there are several examples of the motif under discussion. In the “Story of the Couple of Parrots” (p. 42 et seq.), which begins with the Dohada motif (see Vol. I, p. 224), the soul of the hen-parrot is troubled by discovering that her Vidyādhara brother has unwittingly carried off his own mother with the intention of marrying her. She wishes to save the situation in as tactful a manner as possible, and considers the best way is for them to overhear a conversation. They are sitting under a tree and so the hen-parrot assumes two forms, that of a male and that of a female ape, and comes to the tree.

Then the male ape said to the female ape:

“My dear, this is called the bathing-place of the aspirant: animals that plunge in this water attain the condition of humanity; men that plunge in here acquire, owing to the virtue of this bathing-place of the aspirant, the condition of gods; about this there is no doubt. Now there are two human beings sitting here in the shade of this fragrant mango-tree.”

The female ape said:

“Think intently of their form, and leap into this well, that you may become a woman, and I will become a man.”

Then the monkey said:

“Fie! fie! who would mention the name of this man who has carried off his mother with the idea of marrying her? What desire have we for the form of that villain?”

When they heard this speech of the monkey, both the Vidyādhara and his mother were astonished.

The Vidyādhara said to himself:

“How can I be her son?”

The queen said to herself:

“How can this Vidyādhara be my son?”

While they were both engaged in these reflections, the Vidyādhara said to the male monkey:

“Great sir, how can this be true?”

The monkey replied:

“It is indeed true; about this matter there can be no doubt; if you do not believe it, in this mountain-thicket there is a hermit, who possesses absolute knowledge, now performing austerities in the statuesque posture; go and ask him.”

When the two monkeys had finished this conversation they disappeared. Thereupon the Vidyādhara prince, accompanied by his mother, went into the mountain-thicket, and said to the hermit that possessed absolute knowledge:

“Reverend sir, is the thing asserted by the monkey true?”

The hermit replied:

“It is indeed true....”

The ingenious introduction of the motif in the above extract is a fine example of the story-teller’s art.

In the next story in the same collection Queen Madanāvalī is confined to a lonely palace in the middle of the forest owing to an evil bodily smell that nothing can eradicate. The queen bears her exile with fortitude, consoling herself with the thought that her fate must be due to evil actions in a former life. Here is an excellent opportunity for the “overhearing” motif.

A hen-parrot and her mate are chatting in a fragrant mango-tree. The queen listens and is surprised to hear a recital of her present and former lives. The evil smell is discussed.

“My lord,” asks the hen-parrot,

“is there any remedy for her complaint?”

The cock-parrot said:

“This evil smell has attached to her in this life because in a former birth she showed disgust at a hermit; if for seven days she worships the mighty Jina three times with sweet-smelling substances, she will be relieved from this affliction in the form of an evil smell.”

Then Madanāvalī, hearing this, threw down all her ornaments as a present in front of the parrot couple; but they, after holding this conversation, instantly disappeared.

To quote a final tale from the Kathākoça (p. 164), we find in the “Story of Lalitāṅga” (already mentioned in Vol. I, p. 48n², and Vol. II, pp. 113n¹ and 220n) that a blind prince is sitting under a banyan-tree when some bhāruṇda birds begin to converse. An old bird is relating to a young one the happenings in the neighbouring city, where the princess is also blind.

“Father,” says the young bird,

“is there any means by which her eyes may be restored afresh?”

The old bird said:

“My child, I will tell you in the day, after looking round, and not at night; Very cunning people wander about under the banyan-tree, like Vararuci.

For that reason do not ask now; at the time of dawn I will tell you of a means.”

The young bird would not desist from its importunity, but asked very persistently, saying:

“I will not let you off without telling me.”

The old bird said:

“A creeper embraces the root of this banyan-tree, and extends over it. If her eyes are sprinkled with the juice of that plant they will be restored again immediately.”

When the prince, who was under the banyan-tree, heard this speech of the bird, he first sprinkled that juice into the sockets of his own eyes. His eyes became clear as before.

The prince then proceeds to the city, and cures the princess, receiving her and half the kingdom as a reward. Cf. Suvābahuttarīkathā, 72 (J. Hertel, “Ueber die Suvābahuttarīkathā,” Festschrift für Ernst Windisch, pp. 150-151).

Similar tales occur in Frere’s Old Deccan Days; thus in the seventh story we read (p. 121) of a king who suffered agony owing to a cobra which had become lodged in his throat and could not be extracted. His bride happens to overhear two cobras talking about her affairs.

“Can no one get it out?” asked the first cobra, referring to the snake in the king’s throat,

“No,” replied the other; “because they do not know the secret.”

“What secret?” asked the first cobra.

“Don’t you know?” said the second.

“Why, if his wife only took a few marking-nuts and pounded them well, and mixed them in coco-nut oil, and set the whole on fire, and hung the Rajah, her husband, head downwards up in a tree above it, the smoke, rising upwards, would instantly kill the cobra in his mouth, which would tumble down dead.”

“I never heard of that before,” said the first cobra.

“Didn’t you!” exclaimed the second.

“Why, if they did the same thing at the mouth of your hole they’d kill you in no time, and then, perhaps, they might find all the fine treasure you have there!”

“Don’t joke in that way,” said the first cobra, “I don’t like it,” and he crawled away quite offended, and the second cobra followed him.

Needless to say the princess cures the king and gets the cobra’s jewels. The cure somewhat resembles that in our present text (p. 49). Cf. with this story that in the Pañcatantra (Benfey, vol. ii, pp. 257, 258) in which the princess learns, from overhearing the conversation of two snakes, secrets which bring about their own death.

In story No. 9 of the same collection the Panch-Phul Ranee learns from two jackals how to restore her dead husband’s life. The juice of the leaves of a tree is the medium of the miracle (p. 139).

The fifth tale also contains the “overhearing” motif, where the owl tells Luxman’s future adventures as he listens below the tree (p. 75).

Very similar is an incident in the tale of Phakir Chand in Lai Behari Day’s Folk-Tales of Bengal, p. 40 et seq. Both these latter references have already been given (p. 29») as analogues to the story of “The Prince and the Merchant’s Son” (p. 28 et seq.). See also Day (op. cit., pp. 106, 107), where the Brāhman overhears a conversation between two calves in the cow-house. As will be seen, this story is similar to that of the “Two Parrots” in the Kathākoça already mentioned.

In the story of Prince Sobur in the same collection (pp. 135, 136) the princess overhears from two divine birds, whom she has just saved from being devoured by a serpent, how she can bring back to health Prince Sobur, who is dying through a trick played on him by his sisters-in-law.

To conclude, I would give one final example of this motif. It is found in Bernhard Jülg’s Mongolische Märchen Sammlung, Die Neun Märchen des Siddhi-Kür und die Geschichte des Ardschi-Bordschi Chan, Innsbruck, 1868, tale 15, p. 147 et seq.

Long ago there lived, in Western India, a king who had a very clever son. This son he sent with the minister’s son into the Diamond Kingdom of Central India to learn every kind of wisdom. Here they stayed for many years as pupils of two wise lamas. Finally they started on their homeward journey. While they travelled along the ministers son thought to himself: “The king has been equally generous to us both, but his son has profited far more than I have,” and in this manner he plotted against the prince.

One night they halted on the top of a mountain and there the minister’s son killed the prince, who with his last breath cried out: “Abaraschika.” Then the son of the minister returned to his country, where he reported that the prince had died suddenly of a fatal disease, and had only been able to utter the word “Abaraschika.” Then the king commanded all the wise men of the land to come before him, and he asked them what that word meant, but no one could tell him. Thereupon they were given seven days in which to find out the meaning, after which, if they failed, they were all to be executed.

Six days went by and the wise men were prepared to die. In the meantime one of their number, a priest of little significance, had crept away and taken flight. He hid himself at the foot of a tree in the forest, and while he sat there a child began to cry in the top of the tree.

His father cried:

“Do not cry, my son; to-morrow the king is to have a thousand men executed; if we do not eat their flesh, who will do so?”

After a time the child cried again: “I am hungry.”

Then his mother comforted him, saying:

“Do not cry, my son; to-morrow the king is to have a thousand men executed; who but we will eat their flesh and blood?”

When the boy asked them why the thousand men were to be executed, the father answered:

“Because they do not know the meaning of the word ‘Abaraschika.’”

“What is the meaning?” asked the boy.

“The meaning,” answered the father,

“is easy. It is: ‘This, my bosom friend, led me into a dense wood. There he wounded me and trod on my neck and beat me and cut off my head.’”

Hardly had the priest heard that than he ran off and told the other wise men what he had heard. Thus the wicked minister’s son was found out and duly punished for his crime.

Other references to examples of the motif will be found in Bloomfield, Life and Stories of Pārçvanātha, p. 185. For ancient Jewish legends containing the “Overhearing” motif see Gaster, Exempla of the Rabbis, Nos. 110, 447 and 449 (pp. 79, 180 and 181), and the variants on p. 269.—n.m.p.