The Three Calamities

From the time of the camel judgment, four young men became King Alakesa’s confidential advisers. Because they feared dangers arising at night, they took turns watching the city of Alakapuri—each patrolling three hours. One night the First Minister, Bodhaditya, finished his watch, checked that the royal bedchamber was guarded, then went to Kali’s temple. There he heard what seemed a woman lamenting. Hidden behind the temple’s vad-tree he called, “Who are you, poor woman, and why weep?”

The cries stopped. A voice asked who questioned her. Knowing it was Kali herself, he threw himself down, rose, and cried, “O my mother—Kali—Sambhavi—Mahamayi! Why weep?”

“What use is it telling you? Can you help?”

With her favour, he said, there was nothing he could not do. Then she told him: a calamity was coming upon the king, and she wept to think so good a monarch might leave the world. He trembled, fell before her, and begged with tears that she save him. Pleased by his devotion, she spoke:

“Tomorrow three dangers threaten him, any one enough to kill. First, carts of newly reaped paddy will arrive; the king will order a measure shelled and cooked for his morning meal. That field is a serpents’ abode; two snakes fighting there once emitted poison into the grain. Only the first handful will carry the deadly dose. Should he escape, at noon the king of Vijayanagara will send baskets of sweetmeats—arrows hidden in the first. Suspecting nothing, Alakesa will open it and die. Should he escape that too, at night a deadly serpent will descend by the chain of his hanging bed and bite him. If he survives all three, he will live prosperously to a hundred and twenty years.”

Kali spoke in sorrow. The Minister prostrated and said that with her favour he could avert every evil. She smiled and vanished. Taking the smile as favour, he went home and slept.

At dawn, after ablutions, he went to the palace, telling no one—not even his three colleagues—the secret. Before the sun was two ghatikas high, carts of finest paddy for the king rolled into the courtyard. Alakesa ordered a measure shelled and cooked at once. The match with Kali’s words nearly broke the Minister’s courage; then her smile steadied him. He went to the kitchen and asked to be told when the king sat to dinner. After storing the grain, Alakesa retired for morning rites.

Meanwhile a carriage of sweetmeat jars from Vijayanagara arrived; the emissary said he must deliver them to Alakesa in person. The First Minister understood, promised to bring the king, then dressed a servant like Alakesa and led him out. The officer set the first jar before the false king; when it opened, arrows darted forth—one pierced the servant’s heart and he fell dead. Instantly the emissary was seized. Lament rose for the good king—until the real Alakesa appeared. Officers stared at one Alakesa dead and another alive. Bodhaditya explained how, suspecting treachery, he had sent a servant in royal dress who died in his master’s place. Alakesa thanked him for so ingeniously saving his life. Thus the noon calamity was averted.

At dinner the king and courtiers sat—all but the First Minister, who stood without taking a leaf. The king smiled and pointed to one; Bodhaditya would not sit—he wished to stay near and abstain that day. Food was served; hands mingled rice, ghi, and dhal for the first course. When the king raised the first handful, “Stop, my master!” cried the Minister. “I have long hoped for this handful as a present from your royal hands. Give it to me, and feast on the rest.” The tone was nearer command than request. Alakesa was highly incensed—such a demand of a king is insult—yet remembering the morning’s rescue he gave the handful. Bodhaditya received it with delight, grateful to Kali for help against the poisoned grain. The company muttered that he was insolent and proud; the king swallowed anger for the sake of the service rendered.

Night approached; the Minister’s heart throbbed—the third peril remained. After his watch he examined the royal bedroom: light burning, king and queen asleep side by side in an ornamented swing cot hung by four chains. Presently, with horror, he saw a fierce black snake—said in the tale to be deadly even by its smell—gliding down the chain near the queen’s head. Noiselessly he stepped forward and with one stroke of his sharp sword cut the brute in two. Not wishing to wake anyone at that hour, he threw the pieces over the canopy, rejoicing that the last calamity was averted. Then fresh horror: a drop of poison had fallen on the queen’s exposed bosom. “Alas, sacred goddess,” he muttered, “why raise new obstacles? In saving the king I have killed his beloved queen.” Briefly reflecting, he wiped the poison with the tip of his little finger, then—lest contact kill him—cut the fingertip off and threw it on the canopy too.

Just then the queen awoke, saw a man hastily leaving, and cried, “Who are you?”

“Most venerable mother, I am your son, Bodhaditya,” he answered respectfully, and retired.

She thought, “Is there no good man left in the world? I have called him my son, and yet he has disgraced me while we slept.” She gently woke the king, tears on her face, and told him everything, ending, “Tonight your First Minister was in our chamber. When I asked who he was, he answered without shame and went away.” Alakesa, enraged at the violation of his chamber, meant to put such a servant to death—but first told his other Ministers.

When the Second Minister, Bodhachandra, finished his watch and came to inspect the guard, the king called him in and, almost choking with rage, described the offence and asked if any punishment could be too severe. Bodhachandra humbled himself: such a crime merits heavy requital—one cannot tie fire in cloth and think a small spark harmless. If Bodhaditya is truly guilty he must be signally punished. Yet carefully inquire first; anger without reasons may leave repentance useless.

Inquiry followed. Bodhaditya sent for a thief in prison and gave him the handful of rice snatched from the king’s leaf the previous day; the thief ate it and died on the spot. A servant fetched from the canopy the serpent pieces and the little fingertip, laid them before the wonderstruck king and counsellors. Then Bodhaditya addressed them. “We four watch the town by quarters of the night, and mine is the first. The day before yesterday I heard weeping at the temple, found Kali sobbing, and learned of three calamities: Vijayanagara’s arrows in sweetmeats, poisoned rice, and the serpent. In averting them I entered the harem.” He explained all from first to last. King and assembly rejoiced at his fidelity: he had done no wrong, but saved the king three times—and the queen too, by wiping poison from her bosom.

Where this story comes from

This retells the second part and the later resolution of the long Lost Camel romance in Tales of the Sun, published in London in 1890 by Mrs. Howard Kingscote and Pandit Natesa Sastri. Bodhaditya is the first of the four ministers who won King Alakesa’s favour by reading a camel’s tracks.

The four ministers keep watch over the city in turn during the night, and Bodhaditya has the first watch, which is why he hears the goddess weeping at her temple. The arrows, the poisoned rice and the serpent are kept as in the source. The servant’s death, the queen’s accusation and the later killing of a prisoner to test the rice are retained. The intervening cautionary tales are available separately through the related-story links.

Read the original: Kingscote and Natesa Sastri, Tales of the Sun, 1890 (Project Gutenberg #37002)

Reading guidance: For mature readers. The story includes deliberate sacrifice of a servant, fatal poisoning of a prisoner, self-amputation and a threatened execution following an accusation of intimate misconduct.

A closer reading

Bodhaditya knows the threats in advance, but the court sees only his unexplained interference. The queen sees a man leaving her private room and lacks the information the reader has. Her alarm does not make her foolish; the failure is the rush toward punishment before hearing him. The second minister creates time for evidence to replace assumption.

The king’s praise is not a complete moral judgment. Bodhaditya knowingly sends a servant to open the dangerous gift and later uses a prisoner as a fatal test of the rice. Both lives are treated as expendable beside royal safety. Readers can recognize his fidelity and the unfair accusation while rejecting those sacrifices as a model of service.

The poisoned grain, deadly smell and instant danger from contact with venom belong to the tale’s extraordinary world. Its dramatic solution should not be read as information about snakes or as an example of how to test food safely.

Try this with the story

For each calamity, record who knows the danger, whose life is saved and who is harmed. Then list what the queen actually witnesses separately from what the narrator has told us. Use both lists to assess the final claim that the minister ‘had done no wrong.’

Talk about it

• Why didn’t Bodhaditya tell anyone about Kali’s warning?
• Why do you think the king nearly punished the man who had saved his life?
• What would you have done if you knew a terrible secret that nobody would believe?

Related stories

• The Lost Camel — the first part of this romance, telling how the four ministers came to the king
• The Poisoned Food — a later part of the same romance in which poison again causes a false accusation
• The Wonderful Mango Fruit — another part of the cycle where a king acts too quickly and regrets it