The Lushei Kuki Clans 37

The Lushei Kuki Clans 37

The following tale told by the Kolhen resembles in many particulars

the story of Kungori told by Colonel Lewin, which is given below:--

 

 

 

The Story of Fachirang and Rangchar.

 

"Once upon a time there lived a widow; she had a daughter whose beauty

attracted many young men of the village. One day a tiger came in the

shape of a man and asked to marry the girl. She was much frightened and

kept silence. The tiger-man was angry at her behaviour, and recited

a charm which made her ugly. Her mother said, 'Look! my daughter who

was the most beautiful girl in the village has become ugly; if a man

can restore her beauty he may marry her, and if a woman can do it she

shall be my friend.' On hearing this, the tiger-man came to the old

woman and said, 'Oh! Granny, I am a stranger, and have come from a

distant village; let me put up in your house.' The old lady agreed,

and after a few days he said, 'Oh! Granny, why are you so sad? Tell

me the cause of your sorrow. Perhaps I can remove it.' 'Alas, my boy,

it is beyond your power to do so,' she replied. The tiger-man, however,

pressed her to tell him, and at last she did so, whereupon he replied,

'All right, if I cure her you will give her to me,' and in a few days

he had restored her beauty, and they were married and lived together

in her mother's house for many years. At length he asked permission to

take his wife to his own home, and they started, but no sooner had they

passed the village gate than he was changed into the shape of a tiger,

and his wife wept much at seeing him thus. An old woman of the village

saw them and came and told the people that a tiger was carrying off the

girl, so the villagers assembled to consult, but no one would volunteer

for the task of rescuing the girl. At last Fachirang and Rangchar,

two brothers, set off with a dao and a spear to kill the animal, but

after going a very little way Fachirang, the elder brother, said,

'Oh! Rangchar, I don't know what is the matter, but my heart beats

so fast that I must remain here; you go and see if you can kill the

beast alone.' So the younger brother went on alone till he came to

the place where the tiger and the girl were living happily. Rangchar

thrust his spear into the breast of the tiger, and it died at once,

and Rangchar carried off the girl and returned to where his brother

was waiting, and they all three set out for home together. The elder

brother married the girl, and they all lived happily together."

 

 

 

The Story of Kúngóri.

 

(From "Progressive Colloquial Exercises in the Lushai Dialect" by

Captain H. Lewin, 1874.)

 

Her father, who was unmarried, was splitting cane to make a winnowing

basket when he ran a splinter into his hand: the splinter grew into

a little child; (after a time) the child was brought forth motherless

and they called her Kúngóri. They fed her with single grains of millet

and rice, and so little by little she grew big. Two or three years

passed by and she attained puberty; she was very pretty, and all the

young-men of the village wanted to marry her, but her father refused

them all. Then the young tiger-man, Keimi, took up the impression of

her foot and wrapped it up and placed it on the bamboo grating over

the house fire to dry. Then Kúngóri became ill.

 

Kúngóri's father said, "If there be anyone that can cure her, he

shall have my daughter." All the villagers tried, but not one of

them could do any good. Then the young tiger-man came. "I will cure

her, and I will marry her afterwards," said he. Her father said,

"Cure the girl first and you may then have her."

 

So he cured her; the footprint which he had placed to dry on the

fire-shelf he opened out and threw away. Kúngóri became well and Keimi

married her. "Come, Kúngóri," said he, "will you go to my house?" So

they went; on the road Keimi turned himself into a tiger, Kúngóri

caught hold of his tail, and they ran like the wind. Some women of

the village were gathering wood and they saw this, so they went back

home and said to Kúngóri's father, "Your daughter has got a tiger for

a husband." Kúngóri's father said, "Whoever can go and take Kúngóri

may have her," but no one dared to take her. However, Hpohtir and

Hrangchal, two friends, said, "We will take her." Kúngóri's father

said, "If you are able to take her you may have her," so Hpohtir and

Hrangchal set off. Going on they came to Keimi's village. The young

tiger-man, Keimi, had gone out hunting; before he reached his house

Hpohtir and Hrangchal went to Kúngóri. "Kúngóri," said they, "where

is your husband?" "He is gone out hunting," she said, "but will be

home directly." On this they became afraid, and Hpohtir and Hrangchal

climbed up on to the top of the high fire-shelf. Kúngóri's husband

arrived. "There is the smell of a human being," said he. "It must

be my smell," said Kúngóri. Night fell; everyone ate their dinners

and lay down to rest. In the morning Kúngóri's husband again went

out to hunt. A widow said (to the two friends), "If you are going

to run away with Kúngóri take fire-seed, thorn-seed, and water-seed

(with you)." So they took fire-seed, thorn-seed, and water-seed,

and they took Kúngóri also and carried her off.

 

Kúngóri's husband returned home. He looked and found Kúngóri was

gone, so he followed after them in hot haste. A little bird called

to Hrangchal. "Run! run! Kúngóri's husband will catch you," said the

bird. So (the friends) scattered the fire-seed, and the jungle and

undergrowth burnt furiously, so that Kúngóri's husband could not come

any further. When the fire subsided he again resumed the pursuit.

 

The little bird cried to Hrangchal, "He is catching you up." So they

scattered the water-seed, and a great river rose. However, Kúngóri's

husband waited for the water to go down, and when the water went down

he followed after them as before.

 

The bird said to Hrangchal, "He is after you again--he is fast gaining

on you; sprinkle the thorn-seed," and thorns sprouted in thickets,

so that Kúngóri's husband could not get on. By biting and tearing

the thorns he at length made a way. and again he followed after

them. Hrangchal's [11] party became bewildered and hid in a clump of

reeds. Hpohtir cut the tiger down dead with a blow of his dao. "I am

Hpohtir,"1 said he. So the tiger died.

 

Hrangchal and the others went on again until they came to the three

cross-roads of Khuavang, and there they stopped. Hpohtir and Hrangchal

were to keep guard turn about. Hrangchala went to sleep first while

Hpohtir kept watch.

 

At night Khuavang came. "Who is staying at my cross-roads?" he

said. Hpohtira (spoke out boldly). "Hpohtira and Hrangchala (are

here)," said he, "crouching under the reeds. We cut off the tiger's

head without much ado." Khuavang, hearing and becoming afraid, ran

off. So Hpohtira (woke up Hrangchal, saying), "Hrangchal, get up;

you stay awake now. I am very sleepy; I will lie down. If Khuavang

comes you must not be afraid." Having said this he slept. Hrangchala

watched; presently Khuavang returned. "Who is this staying at my

cross-roads?" he said. Hrangchala was frightened; (however), he

replied, "Hpohtira and Hrangchala (are here); they killed the tiger

that followed them among the reed-roots." But Khuavang was not to

be frightened by this, so he took Kúngóri. Kúngóri marked the road,

trailing behind her a line of cotton thread. They entered into a hole

in the earth, and so arrived at Khuavang's village. The hole in the

earth was stopped up by a great stone. In the morning Hpohtir and

Hrangchala began to abuse each other. Said Hpohtira to Hrangchal,

"Fool man!" said he, "where has Kúngóri gone to? On account of your

faintheartedness Khuavang has carried her off. Away! you will have

to go to Khuavang's village." So they followed Kúngóri's line of

white thread and found that the thread entered (the earth) under a

big rock. They moved away the rock and saw Khuavang's village below

them. Hpohtira called out, "Hoy! give me back my Kúngóri!" Khuavang

replied, "We know nothing about your Kúngóri, whom you were taking

away." "If you do not (immediately) give me Kúngóri I will use my

dao," said Hpohtir. "Hit away," answered Khuavang. With one cut of

the dao a quarter of the village died right off. Again Hpohtir cried,

"Give me my Kúngóri," Khuavang said, "Your Kúngóri is not here." On

this Hpohtir and Hrangchal said, "We will come in." "Come along," said

Khuavang, so they went in and came to Khuavang's house. Khuavang's

daughter was a very pretty girl. "Here is Kúngóri," said they. "This

is not she," said Hpohtir; "give me Kúngóri herself." So (at last)

they gave her to him.

 

They took her away. Kúngóri said, "I have forgotten my comb." "Go,

Hrangchal, and fetch it," said Hpohtir; but Hrangchala--"I dare

not. I am afraid," said he. So Hpohtir went (himself) to fetch (the

comb). While he was gone Hrangchal took Kúngóri out and closed the

hole with the great stone. After this they arrived at the house of

Kúngóri's father. "You have been able to release my daughter," said he,

"so take her." Kúngóri, however, did not agree. Said Kúngóri's father,

"Hrangchal is here, but where is Hpohtira?" "We do not know Hpohtira's

dwelling-place," he said. So Hrangchala and Kúngóri were united. Though

Kúngóri did not wish it, he just married her.

 

Hpohtira was married to Khuavang's daughter. Beside the house he

sowed a koi-seed. It sprouted and a creeper sprang (upwards like

a ladder). Hpohtira, when he was at Khuavang's, had a child (born

to him), and he cooked some small stones, and when his wife was

absent he gave the stones which he had cooked to the child, saying,

"Eat." While it was eating Hpohtir climbed up the stalks of the koi

creeper and got out. He went on and arrived at the house of Kúngóri's

father. They had killed a mithan, and were celebrating the Khuangchoi

and dancing. With one blow Hpohtira cut off the head of Hrangchal!

 

Kúngóri's father cried, "Why, Hpohtira, do you cut off Hrangchala's

head?" "I was obliged to decapitate him," said Hpohtir. "It was I who

released Kúngóri from Keimi's village--Hrangchala dared not do it. When

Khuavang carried off Kúngóri also Hrangchala dared not say him nay--he

was afraid. Afterwards we followed Kúngóri's line of cotton thread,

which led us to Khuavang's village. Kúngóri (after we had released

her from there) forgot her comb; we told Hrangchal to go and fetch

it, but he dared not. 'I am afraid,' said he, so I went to get it. He

then took Kúngóri and left me behind, shutting the hole in the earth

with a great stone. They went away. I married Khuavang's daughter, and

while she was absent I climbed up the stalks of the creeper and came

here." On this, "Is it so?" said they. "Then you shall be united." So

Hrangchala died, and Hpohtira and Kúngóri were married. They were

very comfortable together, and killed many mithan; they possessed

many villages, and lived happy ever after. Thus the story is concluded.

 

I condense the following tale told by the Kolhen from the obviously

embellished version supplied to the Babu:--