| The Brahmin Ghost -- By Sayantani DasGupta |
|
There is an old man in the coconut tree He catches bad children will not let them free Like long white radishes, two teeth hang His back’s like a drum that no one dare bang Floppy ears waggle in the north breeze His eyes blaze like coals that make your blood freeze A knotty old rope twists round his waist He wanders through homes for children to taste The boys who wail, he throws in a pail He’ll box their ears with ghostly sneers
Be careful you children from far and from near Be sure when you cry, the old man doesn’t hear!
--------
A long time ago, in a land called Bharat – a place that is now known as India, lived a man of the priestly caste, who was very poor. Despite being learned and good, the Brahmin knew there was no possibility of him finding a good wife without a hefty bride price.
“You’ll have to ask all our friends and neighbors to lend you the money,” his mother told him. “Lord knows you’ve done them enough favors over the years.”
And even though he was ashamed, this is what the Brahmin did. In those days, it would be unthinkable not to have a wife to complete his home. Besides, his father was long dead and although they loved each other, he and his mother sometimes got on each other’s nerves. It would be nice to have someone else around to talk to.
So beloved was the good Brahmin by all who knew him, that within a few weeks he had two enormous pots filled with gold. The Brahmin had enough to marry, and to feed all his friends and neighbors in great style. There was feasting and merry-making for days, and everyone went home with a full heart and even fuller waistline.
The Brahmin now had a beautiful and loving wife to talk to in the long evenings. And the Brahmin’s mother had someone young and strong to do all the things she didn’t like to do around the house, like fetch wood for the stove and cook the family meal.
Whenever the daughter-in-law would leave the house to gather wood, the Brahmin’s mother would say, “Remember to tie your hair neat and tight, daughter. They say the trees at the edge of the village are filled with ghosts.”
Now this may sound bizarre to you and me, but in those days, everyone knew that hollowed out trees were the favorite hiding spot for ghosts. Bhoot, petni, shakchunni, there were as many different types of ghosts in Bharat as there were people. These weren’t the boo-ing, chain-clanking, white-sheeted ghosts you’re used to. No, these were green-skinned, red-eyed monsters who drooled, and howled, and smelled like rotting cabbage mixed with cow dung. Needless to say, they were horrible. And almost all these ghosts shared the same favorite sport: capturing unsuspecting travelers and throwing them into their tree trunks for an eternity, or until they got bored and decided to crack the traveler’s neck – which ever came first.
“I’ll remember, Ma,” said the Brahmin’s wife. She knew that a shakchunni, a ghost of a young wife, would want nothing more than to exchange places with a wife who still was alive. This was the deepest wish of any ghost – to become a part of a human family again and have a place in this world. The Brahmin’s wife knew that open, sloppy hair was a sure invitation to a shakchunni to grab on and not let go.
But the Brahmin’s wife was too smart, and too particular about her hygiene, to ever allow a ghost to take her place. She always tied her dark hair in a tight bun, and never dillied or dallied in the ghostly grove outside the village.
If only the same could be said of her husband. I can’t speak to his hygiene, or his tendency to dilly or dally, but smart, he was not.
You see, money has a way of making even good men hungry for more. And now that the good Brahmin had let greed into his heart, it was hard to get rid of it again. He stared at those two empty pots and imagined them once again filled with gold. Against the pleadings of his wife, he decided to put aside his priestly studies and go out in the world to find his fortune.
With tears in their eyes, and fear in their hearts, the Brahmin’s wife and mother bid goodbye to the Brahmin as he set off down the river for the big city. But they had only just dried their eyes with the ends of their saris and settled down to their evening meal of plain rice and cauliflower curry, when the Brahmin appeared once again at their door.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he beamed, “I couldn’t turn my back on my family and my duty.”
They were all overjoyed.
The Brahmin, his wife, and his mother spent a happy few months together. Until, one day, when a familiar looking man came to the door.
“Wife! Mother!” The man called, “I have been to the city and made my fortune! Just see all the gold and jewels I have brought home!”
The women were shocked into silence. Who was this? But the ‘Brahmin’ acted quickly. He grabbed the man by the neck of his kurtaand shoved him out of the house – sending him flying into a nearby coconut tree.
“This man is an imposter! A ghost taking on my form!” The ‘Brahmin’ yelled.
“What?” said the man, rubbing his sore head, “You are the imposter! You are a bhoot who has taken on my face and fooled my wife and mother into thinking you are me!”
For of course, the two men looked exactly alike.
The truth of the matter, as you’ve probably figured out by now, is that the real Brahmin had gone away to make his fortune. But while he was gone, a sneaky bhoot had disguised himself as the Brahmin and weaseled his way into the Brahmin’s life.
The Brahmin’s mother eyed all the gold and jewels, but she couldn’t believe the man she had lived with for these many months was not her son. She threw a shoe at the poor Brahmin. “Go back to your coconut tree, you evil bhoot, and leave us good people alone!”
The Brahmin’s wife was not so quick to judge, but she too was torn. How could she know who was her real husband?
“Perhaps we should see the king,” she suggested. “He will have a solution.”
The miserable, sore-headed Brahmin agreed. What else could he do?
But the king had no ready answers for them. “Who is the real Brahmin?” He shouted in his royal way, “Declare yourself or feel my wrath!”
“I am the real Brahmin,” said the Brahmin, folding his hands together in a respectful namaste.
“No, I am the real Brahmin,” said the ghost, bowing low before the king.
The king looked from one man to the other, and shook his head. He wasn’t the brightest of monarchs. “Er, come back tomorrow,” he said.
The next day, the king was very proud. He was sure he had come up with a foolproof solution. He asked the Brahmin to name three generations of his forefathers.
“Khogen, Bogen, and Mogen,” he said promptly.
“Is that correct?” The king asked the Brahmin’s mother.
When she nodded, the king pointed to the bhoot. “Now you name three generations of your forefathers.”
The ghost smiled. Before he could speak, the Brahmin interrupted, “But your majesty, he just heard me say the names.”
The king scratched his head. “Oh, er, so he did.”
Over the next weeks, they all appeared in the royal court again and again. The Brahmin used up almost all his newfound wealth to pay off guards, ministers, and lawyers. But still, they were no closer to a solution.
One day, the king asked the mother what food her son liked the best.
“He loves my sweet rasagollas,” said the Brahmin’s mother.
“Bring two tubs of rasagollas!” shouted the king, “Whoever eats the most is the real Brahmin!”
The two men began to eat, stuffing the fluffy white sweets into their mouths. Soon the poor Brahmin was exhausted and full. Sticky syrup dripped off his chin. He burped, feeling more than a little nauseated. But the bhoot kept going, eating all of his tub, and what remained in the Brahmin’s too.
“He’s the real Brahmin!” The king leaped up and pointed to the ghost. Then he pointed at the burping Brahmin. “Kill the bhoot!”
“Wait, your highness!” The Brahmin’s wife pleaded, “I don’t know the truth, but I do know that ghosts can eat much more than we humans.”
The king sat down on his throne with a thump. “I suppose you’re right,” he said grumpily, “come back again tomorrow.”
That evening, on the way home, the Brahmin’s wife lagged behind her mother-in-law and her ghostly ‘husband.’ She was weeping, and stopped to wipe her dark eyes with the end of her red cotton sari. Just then, she noticed a group of young cowherds in a field. One of the cowherds was sitting on the dangling branch of a Banyan tree, playing king. He was listening to the other cowherds’ complaints about each other – who had let whose cow wander off and the like - and handing down what seemed like fair judgments.
The Brahmin’s wife had an idea.
The next morning, she showed up at court with the young cowherd, much to the shock of everyone else at court.
“Your highness, I think that this boy may be able to help us,” the Brahmin’s wife said softly.
“Why not? I’m getting tired of this all,” grumbled the king. “Come up here, boy, what have you to say?”
The cowherd was poor, just as the Brahmin had once been. But he was pure of heart and quick of mind. Despite his dusty feet and ragged clothes, he walked up to the king’s throne with his head held high.
“Your majesty, if you will,” he said, bowing before the monarch, “ask one of your courtiers to bring me a long necked bottle with a tight cork.”
The king waved his royal hand and a bejeweled courtier showed up in a few minutes with just such a bottle.
The cowherd smiled, holding the bottle in his rough hands. “Alright, gentlemen,” he said, “whoever can squeeze himself into this bottle and come out again will be declared the real Brahmin.”
“So be it,” boomed the king. “And whoever is not the real Brahmin will be killed!” The king was really quite bored of the controversy, and besides, he hadn’t ordered anyone’s death in a long time. He wanted some entertainment.
The real Brahmin was in tears. “But your majesty, how can I squeeze into a bottle? It’s not possible! I can’t do it!”
“And you, sir?” The cowherd gestured at the bhoot.
The ghost grinned. “Of course I can do it! Just watch me!”
And with that, the ghost assumed his real form, which was gangly-armed and warty-skinned. He became as see-through as a wisp of air and slithered his way easily into the bottle.
“Gotcha!” The cowherd promptly stuck the cork in the bottle and pointed at the Brahmin. “There’s the real Brahmin, your majesty!” He held up the bottle, where a now enraged ghost was having a spirited tantrum. “And here is your ghost!”
The cowherd turned to the Brahmin, who was near collapse and being held up by his mother and wife. “Good Brahmin, go to the river and throw in this bottle. May this ghost never again bother anyone in our village.”
And so it was that the Brahmin, his wife, and mother lived together in peace and harmony the rest of their days, even though they were as poor as they had always been.
The king decided to keep the young cowherd at court, and appointed him a royal judge. He was known throughout the land for being wise, fair and good.
The ghosts in the trees trembled when they heard the tale of the Brahmin bhoot. And for a while, they even stopped torturing travelers. But no one can deviate from his or her path in life – or death – for too long. Soon enough, they were back to their smelly, grisly, tricksy ways.
Set as favorite
Bookmark
Email this
Hits: 16703 Comments (64)Subscribe to this comment's feed...
Secret Name, I'm shocked you're not freaking out about the complete awesomeness of the poem before the story...
,
December 20, 2010
thanks!
thanks for the love! Bengali demons and ghosts all like to rhyme - a lot. Which is why I included the poem too. I think it's hilarious that these vicious creatures all speak in rhyme (and can come up with things to rhyme with "decapitate"...)
,
December 20, 2010
|
...
AWESOMENESS
 ,I love the story,ghosts,greedy husbands,and dumb kings,again awesomeness,keep writing!!
,
December 20, 2010
|
...
(*Freaks out* AHHHH DID YOU GUYS SEE THAT?!!!
 ) Yes, awesomeness does describe the story perfectly! "Decapitate", hahaha!!!  Okay Secret Name get out your computer and a thesaurus, we're going to try to see how many poems we can write with "decapitate"... This is going to be hard...
,
December 20, 2010
poems with decapitate
PB - I smell a contest coming on (for folks to write poems with 'decapitate') let me get you started Agent SD with some suggestions:
instigate, elaborate, gravitate, reprobate, extricate.... 
,
December 20, 2010
|
...
Oh wow!!!!! Hahaha!!!! Thank you so much!
I'll try to write a few a little later... By the way, my real name is Sarah.  Appreciate, educate, create, state, elate, great, late, ate, plate... To the thesaurus!
,
December 20, 2010
...
Alleviate, regenerate, eliminate, demonstrate... I'm going to have fun with this!
Do all of the lines have to have a word that rhymes with decapitate in them?
,
December 20, 2010
...
AAAHHH!!! Stolen identities... sounds like the queen of Lilimania... DUN DUN DUN... I loved the story!! It was awesome!!!
,
December 20, 2010
...
The poem WAS AWESOME!! Her's actually made sense!
I can't make poems on command. Especially with certain words... I will try though!
,
December 20, 2010
...
There once was a man
who followed a pricy bait. I must not elaborate for I might follow his fate of being a decapitate. He had a clean slate but decided to gravitate and follow a nasty trait which is how he became a decapitate. (decapitate being a noun, describing a person who got decapitated. Only thing I coudl thing of using.)
,
December 20, 2010
...
@Secret Name-- AWESOME!!! So I guess the official rules that we make up as we go along state that only one line has to have decapitate in it?
There is a Queen Who is very mean She slices spleens And eats them with greens She loves to decapitate At any unfortunate rate She dresses all in red For the blood shed Of those now dead When she shouts "OFF WITH THEIR HEADS!!!!!!!!!" You'll be quite sad If the Queen of Hearts is mad For I'm afraid you must face The Queen's Ace Well... There you go!
,
December 20, 2010
...
Oh wait... Drat... What ends with an "ate" sound and means "red in color"?
,
December 20, 2010
I ate the color red. What did YOU do?
red-ate? Haha!
Nice one though!! Awesome!!
,
December 20, 2010
...
Red-inate? LOL!
YOU ATE THE COLOR RED?!  The Queen won't be happy! HAHAHA!!!!!!!!! Thanks, your poem was really awesome, especially since EVERY LINE rhymed with decapitate, unlike mine....
,
December 21, 2010
...
Yeah I ate the color red? Whatcha' gona do 'bout it?!
Haha... Your poem actually made SENSE! And, it had to do with Alice in Wonderland! I think... THe Queen? Alice in Wonderland right?
,
December 21, 2010
But now my clothes are all gray! What a terrible day, and for you I'm sad to say have made me mad but don't be sad you'll soon be decapitated, as I've always demonstrated
Yes absolutely!
It was the first thing I thought about when I heard "decapitate"...
,
December 21, 2010
...
Great job, Sayantani! I will have to look this story at my local bookstore!
,
December 21, 2010
...
Hey all you 'decapitating' poets - I love your posts! I also love the idea, shared by "Agent SD... aka Sarah" of having more such poetry writing spaces made available. YOu could easily have a weekly word of inspiration/amusement (you could pick words you like, or just put your finger in the dictionary and see what word stares up at you) or, if you do it here (ahem, P. Bosch, is there a way to facilitate that?) you could ahve those words be of ghostly/ghoulish/secret/dangerous relevance...
Great job all of you!
,
December 22, 2010
|
...
Thanks, Sayantani and Sam.
(Quiche... I seriously think the idea is really awesome. Just saying... )
,
December 23, 2010
WOW!!!!
When I first read this I was totally freaked out at first, but now it makes total sense.
,
December 23, 2010
...
Fantastic story! Reminds me a bit of the movie Paheli. But only a little bit!
,
December 26, 2010
|
...
That was a great story. You should totally work with psedonymous bosch!!! You would be great at it.
,
December 30, 2010
I've driven myself insane with curiosity about the Secret. Whoops! Did I mention the Secret?
Poetry seriously rocks. ;-)
,
January 07, 2011
Poems? I'm in!
The Brahmin was a lonely man
he said: "I'll find a wife! I can!" He asked all his friends for some money and he found a good wife, sweet as honey. then along came a dastardly Bhoot So Brahmin spent all of his loot proving to wife and to mother there's only one Brahmin, no other!! And so a poor boy, good and wise got the Bhoot out of disguise. In a bottle the bhoot sure would quiver when he was tossed down a river they would hide, all the ghosts, for miles!! And so there was peace...for a while.  haha lol poems were great guys!!
,
January 09, 2011
that poem is amazing
Rowan Hood - I just came over here (was copying the web address for something else) and saw your poem. It is just fantastic! Hah! Many thanks for it!
,
January 10, 2011
|
...
There once was a man who would investigate
Where someone would decapitate For they took the bait To create a great state And accepted the trait For they suffered the fate To drown in greed at a terrible rate THIS IS FUN!!!   
,
January 13, 2011
|
...
Sayantani, YOUR STORY AND POEM ARE AWESOME!!!
I am terrible at poetry unlike all you decapitating poets!!  
,
January 13, 2011
|
wow! awesome!!
WOW!! thanks Sayantani!!haha this is great!! huge honor to be thanked by such a great author!! hhmmm.... honor...author....IDEA! gimme a minute.
,
January 13, 2011
...
that story was amazing! I loved it! it was sooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo awesome!
,
January 13, 2011
Ladies and Gentlemen (and bunnies Quiche) a limerick for your enjoyment.
*ahem ahem*....
Ladies and Gentleman, a limerick for your enjoyment... Once, a girl named Rowan Hood Wrote a poem and it was quite good Sayantani, the author thanked her. What an honor! Ro thanked back in verse as she thought she should!! haha that one wasn't as good as the other one because i composed it in a few minutes and i spent half an hour on the other one. Any way huge honor thanks Sayantani!!
,
January 13, 2011
Awesome!
That was so great! I loved it! So captivating and entertaining. I kind of want more...
,
January 21, 2011
ghostly impersonations
We'll never know, will we???? (buah hah hah)
No actually, dear readers, it was the author commenting on Rowan's poem. No impersonations, please. Although that is consistent with the story.....
,
January 28, 2011
|
OMG!!
HI!!! sayantani i love folk tales and this one is soo awesome....lol and i liked the poem that related to the story...ravan wood? anyways yea
p.s. im sorta indian so ive heard something like this before but i cant really remember it
,
February 12, 2011
luvvvv it
my younger sister and i love this story im thinking about buying the books. i even read it 2 my dog and she fell right asleep. thanks to you i dont have 2 hear barking all night long and i got a good read. thanks for being so talented
,
February 22, 2011
My beginings
A legend was born here
I may not be a seer But here was born a star I know I will go far Rowan Hood has spoken
,
March 12, 2011
BREAKING NEWS!! BREAKING NEWS!! READ!!
PSEUDONYMOUS BOSCH'S TRUE IDENTITY REVEALED!!! EMAIL ME AT '>
This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it
'>
This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it
TO GET TONS OF INFORMATION ON HIM!!!*
*P.S. The email I send back will be written in CODE. AKA Pseudonymous Bosch's code specifically. *P.P.S. NO MIDNIGHT SUN ARE ALLOWED TO EMAIL ME. IT'S AGAINST THE LAW (IN MY BOOK) *P.P.P.S. NO SPAM!!!!! *P.P.P.P.S. Can you read the TERCES Secret code? It's required... *P.P.P.P.P.S. The extra P's are not included. *P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Midnight Sun dorkies are prohibited. *P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. I have a butt itch. *P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Monkies have moles on their dimples. *P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. This message will self destruct after the P's. *P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. And no, Bosch is NOT the following people: Megan McDonald, Rick Riordan, Heinrich Hoffmann, Daniel Handler (a.k.a. Lemony Snicket), Graeme Williams, Jon Scieszka, Trenton Lee Stewart, or Edie Bilmann. *P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. My butt still itches... *P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Should I do a but carpet scooch like a dog? *P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Nah, I'll just scratch it with my hand. More civilized.
,
March 23, 2011
P.S. Anyone Who's Smart Gets This: TERCES
QDFP PQLOY WTP TWSPRJB! F HRVSC MQ! FQ WTP GFKC LA WSLOC QDLUBD....
PFKRSOSHY, L. J. PSRSQ
,
April 01, 2011
A poem of school,bad principals, and untimely deaths.
Once Upon a time,
A boy decided to rhyme, He did it at a bad time, The principal made him eat thyme The boy got rather mad, Not realizing what he had, (in his hand) His principal evaluated, He never should have dated, that lady with the MK-47 Or punished that boy,age 11 The principal was decapitated, And the boy died 'cause he got constipated, And the devil was elated. Signed, Batclaw of The Hero Squad
,
September 02, 2011
led street light
The miserable, sore-headed Brahmin agreed. What else could he do?
,
September 16, 2011
|
Love it!
Awesome story! nicely thought-provoking. i also happen to know a DasGupta... probably not a relation, but an interesting coincidence.
,
October 23, 2011
http://www.cheapoakleysunglassessales.org/
I like to wear the Cheap Oakley Sunglasses Cheap Oakley Sunglasses to enjoy the sunshine in the summer.I like to shop Discount Oakley Sunglasses Discount Oakley Sunglasses from Oakley Sunglasses Outlet Online Store.I think this is the best way and it can save a lot of money.
,
March 21, 2012
|
tory burch
Most of the trouble in the world is caused by people wanting to be important.
,
April 26, 2012
|
poem
I came to a place
And there sat a face. Her eyes were bright and yellow. She seemed quite nice and mellow. I payed her a dime. She returned me a lime, We went to a camp where the lake has alligators and kids named Joe Spivy get poison ivy. We then traveled west and met the best country we'd ever met. It was our best bet. The place started with an I ended in an a. It had a few rivers all over the place. In one we found a bottle, we were sure it was a model. So we opened it and out came a ghost...
,
May 05, 2012
Write comment |
|||||||
 |
 |
