Punchkin

There was once a Raja who had seven beautiful daughters. They were all good girls, but the youngest, Balna, was the cleverest. Their mother had died when they were very small, so the seven princesses had no mother to look after them.

Every day, while their father was away discussing the business of the kingdom with his ministers, the girls took turns cooking his dinner. Around that time the Prudhan, the king’s chief minister, died, leaving a widow and one daughter. And every single day, while the princesses were preparing their father’s meal, the Prudhan’s widow and her daughter came to ask for a little fire from their hearth.

“Send that woman away, send her away!” Balna would say to her sisters. “Let her get fire at her own house. Why does she want ours? If we let her keep coming here, we shall be sorry for it one day.”

“Hush, Balna,” the others would answer. “Why are you always quarrelling with this poor woman? Let her take some fire if she wants it.” Then the Prudhan’s widow would go to the hearth and pick up a few burning sticks, and when nobody was looking, she would quickly throw a little mud into the dishes that were being made for the Raja’s dinner.

The Raja loved his daughters dearly. Ever since their mother died, they had cooked his food with their own hands, so that his enemies would have no chance to poison him. When he found mud in his dinner, he thought it must be because the girls were careless, since it did not seem likely that anyone would put it there on purpose. Being very kind, he did not like to scold them, though his curry was spoiled day after day.

At last he decided to hide and watch them cooking to see how it happened. He went into the next room and peeped at them through a hole in the wall. He saw his seven daughters carefully washing the rice and preparing the curry and setting each dish by the fire, ready to cook. Then he saw the Prudhan’s widow come to the door and beg for a few sticks to cook her own dinner.

Balna turned to her angrily. “Why don’t you keep firewood in your own house, instead of coming here every day to take ours? Sisters, don’t give this woman any more wood. Let her buy it herself.”

“Balna, let the poor woman take the wood and the fire,” said the eldest sister. “She does us no harm.”

“If you let her come so often, perhaps she will harm us one day, and we shall be sorry,” said Balna.

Then the Raja saw the Prudhan’s widow go to where all his dinner stood ready, and as she took the wood, she threw a little mud into every dish. He was very angry and had the woman seized and brought before him. But she told him she had played the trick only so that she could get a chance to speak to him, and she spoke so cleverly and pleased him so much with her cunning words that, instead of punishing her, the Raja married her and made her his queen. So she and her daughter came to live in the palace.

The new queen hated the seven princesses and wanted to be rid of them, so that her own daughter could have all their riches and live in the palace as a princess in their place. Instead of being grateful for their kindness, she did everything she could to make them miserable. She gave them nothing but a little bread to eat and very little water to drink. The seven princesses had always had good food and fine clothes, and now they were wretched. Every day they went and sat by their mother’s tomb and wept. “Oh, Mother, Mother,” they cried, “can’t you see how unhappy your poor children are, and how our cruel stepmother starves us?”

One day, as they sat sobbing, a beautiful pomelo tree sprang up out of the grave, covered with fresh, ripe fruit. The children ate some of the pomelos and were satisfied. After that, instead of trying to eat the bad food their stepmother gave them, they went to their mother’s grave every day and ate the fruit from the beautiful tree.

“I don’t understand it,” the queen said to her daughter. “Every day those seven girls say they don’t want any dinner, and they won’t eat anything, yet they never grow thin or look ill. They look better than you do!” And she told her daughter to watch the princesses and see whether anyone was feeding them.

So the next day, when the princesses went to their mother’s grave and were eating the pomelos, the Prudhan’s daughter followed them and saw them picking the fruit.

“Look, that girl is watching us,” said Balna. “Let’s chase her away or hide the pomelos, or she will tell her mother, and that will be very bad for us.”

“Oh no, Balna, don’t be unkind,” said her sisters. “She would never be so cruel as to tell. Let’s invite her to have some fruit.” So they called her over and gave her a pomelo.

As soon as she had eaten it, the Prudhan’s daughter went home and told her mother, “No wonder the princesses won’t eat the dinner you give them. There is a beautiful pomelo tree growing by their mother’s grave, and they go there every day and eat the fruit. I had one, and it was the best I ever tasted.”

The cruel queen was furious. All the next day she stayed in her room and told the Raja she had a terrible headache. The Raja was very worried and asked what he could do.

“Only one thing will cure my headache,” she said. “By your dead wife’s tomb there is a fine pomelo tree. You must bring it here and boil it, roots, branches and all, and put a little of the water on my forehead.” So the Raja sent servants to pull up the beautiful tree by its roots, and did as the queen asked. When a little of the water was put on her forehead, she said her headache was gone and she felt perfectly well.

The next day, when the seven princesses went to their mother’s grave, the pomelo tree had vanished, and they all burst into tears. But beside the tomb was a small pool, and as they cried, they saw it fill up with something rich and creamy that quickly set into a thick white cake. The princesses were delighted. They ate some of the cake and found it good, and the next day the same thing happened, and so it went on for many days. Every morning they went to their mother’s grave and found the little pool full of the nourishing cake.

“I don’t understand it,” the stepmother said to her daughter. “I have had the pomelo tree by the old queen’s grave destroyed, and still the princesses grow no thinner and look no sadder, though they never eat the dinner I give them. I don’t understand it!”

“I’ll watch,” said her daughter.

The next day, while the princesses were eating the cream cake, along came their stepsister. Balna saw her first. “Look, sisters, here comes that girl,” she said. “Let’s sit around the edge of the pool so that she can’t see it. If we give her any cake, she will tell her mother, and that will be very unlucky for us.”

But her sisters thought she was being too suspicious, and instead of taking her advice, they gave the Prudhan’s daughter some of the cake, and she went home and told her mother everything.

When the queen heard how well the princesses were doing, she was beside herself with rage. She sent servants to knock down the dead queen’s tomb and fill the little pool with the rubble. Not content with that, the next day she pretended to be terribly ill, even dying. The Raja was heartbroken and asked whether there was any cure he could find for her.

“Only one thing can save my life,” she said, “but I know you won’t do it.”

“Whatever it is, I will do it,” he said.

“Then to save my life,” she said, “you must kill the seven daughters of your first wife, and put some of their blood on my forehead and on the palms of my hands. Their death will be my life.”

The Raja was filled with sorrow, but because he was afraid to break his word, he went out with a heavy heart to find his daughters. He found them crying by the ruins of their mother’s grave. He could not bring himself to harm them, so he spoke to them kindly and told them to come into the jungle with him. There he made a fire, cooked some rice and gave it to them. In the afternoon it was very hot, and the seven princesses all fell asleep. When the Raja saw that they were fast asleep, he crept away and left them, for he was afraid of his wife. “It is better for my poor daughters to die here,” he said to himself, “than to be killed by their stepmother.”

He shot a deer, and when he got home he put some of its blood on the queen’s forehead and hands. She believed he really had killed the princesses, and she said she felt quite well.

Meanwhile the seven princesses woke up and found themselves all alone in the thick jungle. They were terrified, and they called out as loudly as they could, hoping their father would hear. But he was far away by then and would not have heard them even if their voices had been as loud as thunder.

It happened that on that very day the seven young sons of a neighbouring Raja were hunting in the same jungle. As they were riding home after the day’s sport, the youngest prince said, “Wait, I think I hear someone crying and calling. Can’t you hear voices? Let’s go towards the sound and find out what it is.”

So the seven princes rode through the forest until they came to the place where the seven princesses sat weeping and wringing their hands. The princes were astonished to see them, and even more astonished when they heard their story. They agreed that each of them would take one of the poor, lonely girls home and marry her. So the eldest prince married the eldest princess, the second married the second, and so on down the line, and the seventh prince, the handsomest of them all, married the lovely Balna. When they reached their own country, the whole kingdom rejoiced at the marriage of the seven princes to seven such beautiful princesses.

About a year later Balna had a baby son. His uncles and aunts loved him so much that it was as if he had seven fathers and seven mothers. None of the other princes and princesses had children, so they all agreed that Balna’s son should be their heir.

They had lived very happily together for some time when one fine day the seventh prince, Balna’s husband, went out hunting. They waited and waited for him, but he did not come home. His six brothers set out to find out what had happened to him, but they did not come home either. The seven princesses grieved bitterly, for they feared their kind husbands must have been killed.

Not long afterwards, Balna was rocking her baby’s cradle upstairs while her sisters were busy in the room below, when a man in a long black robe came to the palace door. He said he was a fakir, a holy beggar, and had come for alms.

“You can’t come into the palace,” said the servants. “The Raja’s sons have all gone away, and we think they must be dead. Their widows mustn’t be disturbed by your begging.”

“I am a holy man,” he said. “You must let me in.” The servants accepted his claim and let him walk through the palace. They did not know that he was no fakir at all, but a wicked magician named Punchkin.

Punchkin wandered through the palace looking at all its beautiful things, until he came to the room where Balna sat singing beside her little boy’s cradle. The magician thought her more beautiful than anything else he had seen, and he asked her to come home with him and marry him.

“I fear my husband is dead,” said Balna, “but my little boy is still very young. I will stay here and bring him up to be a wise man, and when he is grown he shall go out into the world and try to find news of his father. Heaven forbid that I should ever leave him, or marry you!”

The magician was furious. He turned her into a little black dog and led her away. “Since you won’t come with me willingly,” he said, “I will make you.” So the poor princess was dragged away, with no way to escape or let her sisters know what had become of her. As Punchkin went out through the palace gate, the servants asked, “Where did you get that pretty little dog?”

“One of the princesses gave it to me as a present,” he said, and they let him go without any more questions.

Soon afterwards the six elder princesses heard the baby crying, and when they went upstairs, they were surprised to find him all alone and Balna nowhere to be seen. They questioned the servants, and when they heard about the fakir and the little black dog, they guessed what had happened. They sent people out in every direction to search, but neither the fakir nor the dog could be found. Their searches had brought no answer. They gave up hope of seeing their husbands, their sister or her husband ever more, and from then on they devoted themselves to bringing up and caring for their little nephew.

Time passed, and when Balna’s son was fourteen, his aunts told him the story of his family. As soon as he heard it, he longed to go and search for his father, mother and uncles, and bring them home if they were alive. His aunts were alarmed and tried to talk him out of it. “We have lost our husbands, our sister and her husband,” they said, “and you are our only hope. What shall we do if you go away?”

“Please don’t lose heart,” he said. “I will come back soon, and if I possibly can, I will bring my father, mother and uncles with me.” So he set out on his travels, but for months he could find out nothing that helped him.

At last, after many hundreds of weary miles, when he had almost given up hope, he came to a country that seemed to be full of stones, rocks and trees. There stood a large palace with a high tower, and close beside it the little house of a malee, a gardener. As he was looking around, the gardener’s wife saw him and ran out. “My dear boy,” she said, “who are you, to dare to come to such a dangerous place?”

“I am a Raja’s son,” he said, “and I have come to look for my father, my uncles and my mother, whom a wicked magician bewitched.”

“This country and this palace belong to a great magician,” said the gardener’s wife. “He is all-powerful, and he can turn anyone who displeases him into stones and trees. All the rocks and trees you see here were living people, and the magician turned them into what they are now. Some time ago a Raja’s son came here, and soon afterwards his six brothers came, and they were all turned into stones and trees. And they are not the only unlucky ones. Up in that tower lives a beautiful princess, whom the magician has kept prisoner for twelve years because she hates him and will not marry him.”

“These must be my parents and my uncles,” thought the young prince. “At last I have found what I was looking for.” So he told the gardener’s wife his story and begged her to help him stay there for a while and find out more about the unhappy people she had spoken of. She promised to be his friend, and she advised him to disguise himself in case the magician saw him and turned him to stone as well. The prince agreed, so she dressed him in a sari and pretended he was her daughter.

Not long afterwards, as the magician was walking in his garden, he saw the little girl, as he thought, playing there, and asked who she was. She said she was the gardener’s daughter. “You are a pretty little girl,” said the magician, “and tomorrow you shall take a present of flowers from me to the beautiful lady who lives in the tower.”

The young prince was overjoyed and ran to tell the gardener’s wife. Together they decided that it would be safest for him to keep his disguise and wait for a good chance to let his mother know who he was, if it really was she.

Now, when Balna was married, her husband had given her a small gold ring with her name engraved on it. She had put it on her baby son’s finger, and as he grew, his aunts had had it made larger so that he could still wear it. The gardener’s wife told him to tie this well-known ring to one of the bunches of flowers he took to his mother and trust that she would recognise it. That was not easy, because the poor princess was watched so closely, for fear she might get word to her friends, that the magician or one of his slaves was always in the room when the gardener’s daughter brought the flowers.

At last, one day, his chance came. When nobody was looking, the boy tied the ring to a posy and threw it at Balna’s feet. It fell to the floor with a clink, and Balna, looking to see what had made the odd sound, found the little ring tied to the flowers. When she recognised it, she believed at once the story her son told her about his long search. She begged him to tell her what she should do, but she also pleaded with him not to risk his life trying to rescue her. She told him that for twelve long years the magician had kept her shut up in the tower because she refused to marry him, and that she was guarded so closely that she saw no hope of escape.

Balna’s son was a bright, clever boy. “Don’t be afraid, dear Mother,” he said. “The first thing is to find out how far the magician’s power goes, so that we can free my father and uncles, whom he has turned into rocks and trees. For twelve long years you have spoken angrily to him. Now speak kindly instead. Tell him you have given up hope of seeing the husband you have mourned for so long, and that you are willing to marry him. Then try to find out where his power comes from, and whether he can die or lives for ever.”

Balna decided to take her son’s advice. The next day she sent for Punchkin and spoke to him as her son had suggested. The magician was delighted and begged her to let the wedding take place as soon as possible. But she said that he must give her a little more time to get to know him, because after being enemies for so long, they could only become friends little by little.

“And do tell me,” she said, “are you truly immortal? Can death never touch you? Are you too great a magician ever to feel pain like other people?”

“Why do you ask?” he said.

“Because if I am to be your wife,” she said, “I would like to know everything about you, so that if any danger threatens you, I can help you to overcome it, or avoid it if I can.”

“It is true that I am not like other people,” he said. “Far, far away, hundreds of thousands of miles from here, there is a lonely country covered with thick jungle. In the middle of the jungle grows a ring of palm trees, and in the centre of the ring stand six water jars, piled one on top of another. Underneath the sixth jar is a small cage with a little green parrot inside it. My life depends on the parrot’s life. If the parrot is killed, I must die. But it is impossible for the parrot to come to any harm, because the country is so hard to reach, and because, by my command, many thousands of genies surround the palm trees and kill anyone who comes near.”

Balna told her son what Punchkin had said, but she begged him to give up any idea of getting the parrot.

“Mother,” said the prince, “unless I can get that parrot, you and my father and uncles can never be set free. Don’t be afraid. I will be back soon. Meanwhile, keep the magician in a good mood and keep putting off the wedding with one excuse or another, and I will be here before he finds out why.” And off he went.

He travelled many, many weary miles until at last he came to a thick jungle, and, being very tired, he sat down under a tree and fell asleep. He was woken by a soft rustling and saw a large snake sliding up towards an eagle’s nest in the tree above him, where there were two young eagles. Seeing the danger the young birds were in, the prince drew his sword and killed the snake. At that very moment there was a rushing sound in the air, and the two parent eagles, who had been out hunting for food for their young, came back. They saw the dead snake and the young prince standing over it, and the mother eagle said to him, “Dear boy, for many years that cruel snake has eaten all our young ones. Now you have saved our children’s lives. Whenever you need help, send for us, and we will help you. And take these two young eagles to be your servants.”

The prince was very glad. The two young eagles crossed their wings, he climbed onto them, and they carried him far, far away over the thick jungles until he came to the ring of palm trees with the six jars of water in the middle. It was midday and very hot. All around the trees the genies lay fast asleep, but there were so many thousands of them that nobody could ever have walked through their ranks to the jars. Down swooped the strong-winged eagles, and down jumped the prince. In a flash he had knocked over the six water jars, snatched the little green parrot and wrapped it in his cloak. As he rose into the air, all the genies below woke up and, finding their treasure gone, set up a wild and mournful howl.

Away, away flew the eagles, until they reached their home in the great tree. “Take back your little ones,” said the prince to the parent eagles. “They have served me well. If ever I need help, I will be sure to come to you.” Then he went on foot until he reached the magician’s palace, where he sat down by the door and began playing with the parrot.

Punchkin saw him and hurried over. “My boy,” he said, “where did you get that parrot? Give it to me, please.”

“Oh no,” said the prince. “I can’t give away my parrot. It is a great pet of mine. I have had it for years.”

“If it is an old favourite, I can understand that you don’t want to give it away,” said the magician. “But come, what will you sell it for?”

“Sir,” said the prince, “I will not sell my parrot.”

Then Punchkin grew frightened. “Anything, anything!” he cried. “Name any price, and it shall be yours.”

“Then set free at once the seven Raja’s sons whom you turned into rocks and trees,” said the prince.

“It is done as you wish,” said the magician. “Only give me my parrot!” With one stroke of his wand, Balna’s husband and his brothers stood there in their own shapes. “Now give me my parrot,” said Punchkin.

“Not so fast, master,” said the prince. “First you must bring back to life everyone you have imprisoned like this.”

At once the magician waved his wand, crying pitifully, “Give me my parrot!” And the whole garden came to life. Where there had been rocks, stones and trees, there now stood Rajas, Punts and Sirdars, great men on prancing horses, pages dressed in jewels and troops of armed attendants.

“Give me my parrot!” cried Punchkin. Then the boy took hold of the parrot and pulled off one of its wings, and as he did so, the magician lost his right arm. Punchkin stretched out his left arm, crying, “Give me my parrot!” The prince pulled off the parrot’s other wing, and the magician’s left arm was gone too. Whatever happened to the parrot happened to Punchkin, and soon the magician was helpless on the ground, but still he rolled his eyes and cried, “Give me my parrot!”

“Then take your parrot!” cried the boy, and he ended the bird’s life and threw it at the magician. As he did so, Punchkin gave a terrible groan and died.

Then they let Balna out of the tower, and she, her son and the seven princes went home to their own country and were happy for the rest of their days. And as for everyone else, they all went home to their own houses.

Where this story comes from

Joseph Jacobs included this tale in Indian Fairy Tales (1892), taking it from Miss Frere’s Old Deccan Days, whose named storyteller was Anna Liberata de Souza. His notes explain that a Prudhan is a prime minister, that Punts are the same, and that Sirdars are nobles. He also points to the magician’s “external soul,” his life hidden in the parrot, as the heart of the story.

The end of the magician is quite gruesome in the book, where each of his limbs falls away in turn. Here it is shortened and told less graphically, though the parrot still holds his life. The stepmother’s demand, abandonment, captivity and violent ending make this complete version a story for mature readers.

Read the original: Joseph Jacobs, Indian Fairy Tales (Project Gutenberg #7128, Punchkin)

Reading guidance: Older teen and adult readers; includes threatened killing of children, parental abandonment, prolonged coercive captivity and the mutilation and killing of a parrot linked to the magician’s death.

A closer reading

The opening separates generosity from ignoring evidence. The sisters initially have reason to help a widow, but once she has repeatedly harmed them, Balna’s warnings concern a particular person’s conduct. The lesson is not that poor petitioners or stepfamilies are untrustworthy. The father’s decision is especially troubling because he sees the sabotage himself, then gives its author authority over his daughters.

The grave’s fruit and cake sustain the sisters after ordinary parental protection fails. The queen attacks those sources of food, and the father removes the tree and later abandons his children rather than refusing her demand. His reluctance to kill them does not make leaving them in the forest a sufficient act of care.

Balna’s captivity repeats the same misuse of power. She explicitly refuses Punchkin, and transformation into a dog removes her ability to communicate that refusal. Her later apparent agreement to marry is a strategy under coercion. It should not be confused with freely changing her mind.

The rescue is distributed across aunts, gardener’s wife, mother, son and eagles. The ring communicates identity when open conversation is dangerous; the gardener’s wife provides a disguise and access; Balna extracts the secret; the birds cross a defended distance. The boy also insists that all the transformed captives be restored, extending the rescue beyond his own family.

The external-life device makes the magician vulnerable through the parrot, but it also directs the final violence onto an animal. The tale treats that link as the means of liberation. Readers can acknowledge its structural role without treating the bird’s suffering as a cheerful reward or ordinary cruelty as acceptable.

Try this with the story

Map the rescue as a chain of people, objects and actions: aunts, gardener’s wife, ring, Balna’s questions, eagles, parrot and restored captives. Remove one link at a time and explain what would become impossible. Then distinguish a freely made promise from an apparent agreement made while imprisoned.

Think about it

• When do Balna’s warnings rest on observed harm rather than mere suspicion?
• What responsibilities does the father fail to meet?
• Why is Balna’s apparent marriage agreement not freely given consent?
• How do the ring and gardener’s wife make the rescue possible?
• Why does the boy demand freedom for captives beyond his own family?

More stories like this

• The Son of Seven Mothers — another Indian tale about a boy raised by seven mothers
• How the Raja’s Son Won the Princess Labam — another long fairy tale from Jacobs’s Indian Fairy Tales
• Loving Laili — another Indian tale of enchantment and a long separation