There once was a young farmer named Jitandra who lived in the countryside of India. He came from a poor family. He grew rice on his family’s land and worked hard each year until his hands were rough and crisscrossed with scars.
Now there was a young woman named Aadab in the neighboring town whom this young man loved, and she loved him. They had known each other since childhood and dreamed of being married one day. The man’s family had arranged with the girl’s family to get her as his bride, after he earned enough money and established himself. So he labored hard year after year, and finally the year came when they could be married.
Their wedding day was a day of celebration for the people of both villages. Food and drink, song and dance, they lasted until the sun set, and after. Jitandra’s bride sat beside him on a cushion, with gold earrings and nose ring, with finely embroidered red, blue and gold cloth hanging elegantly over the smooth curves of her brown shoulders. Her eyes were vibrant and mesmerizing. Best of all, they looked back at Jitandra with joy and love.
Several months after the wedding, Aadab was walking to the creek near Jitandra’s house, with a pot for water. Jitandra was standing knee-deep in a rice paddy, watching her from a distance, daydreaming about how happy he was to have won such a woman. His contemplation was interrupted by a group of horsemen—maybe 10 or 15—approaching down the creek. By their elaborate colors and banners, he judged they must be officials of the king of the province. They halted in front of Aadab, and Jitandra suddenly felt nervous. He began wading hurriedly toward the edge of the paddy.
***
“What have we here?” said one of the men on horseback, eyeing Aadab with interest. Aadab bowed and nervously corrected the shoulder of her garment, which had slipped low.
“A fine blossom! What says the prince?” said another, with a red banner billowing behind his turban. A third rider kicked his mount forward and pressed out in front of the two. Aadab instantly knew this must be the son of the king, for he wore a red sash with a symbol that matched the banner, and there was a gold medallion on his turban. She lowered her eyes reverently from his gaze.
“Indeed, a fair flower,” said the prince. Aadab bowed lower, not out of respect, but to shrink away from their lustful stares. The first rider nudged the prince. “Better than that woman you got from the south province, in my eyes. I think she’d make a fine addition to the palace.”
“I am the wife of your servant, a humble farmer,” said Aadab, face still lowered, hear heart fearful. The prince was known to do whatsoever he pleased, caring little for the well being of his father’s subjects.
“Married – the blossom has to be plucked out of some weeds,” said another of the riders, and the group laughed. The prince dismounted and slowly encircled Aadab, his eyes evaluating her with growing interest.
“What is a rice-paddy rat to me? Such beauty is worthy of a nobler house.” He stood in front of Aadab now and lifted her chin with his finger until she looked back at him reluctantly. “Wouldn’t you say so?”
“My lord…” Aadab’s voice quivered fearfully. “I don’t…”
***
Jitandra saw the man with the medallion on his turban dismount and circle his wife. The prince,he realized, and scowled. Royal pickpocket, rather. Jitandrawas on solid ground now, and he broke into a sprint. But even as he did, the prince gestured to his retinue, and a mounted man grabbed Aadab and swung her onto his horse. The prince remounted his own horse.
“Stop!” he shouted. “My lord, wait!” Jitandra rushed up to the horses just as they were turning to leave. He slowed, panting, as the prince reared his horse around.
“The paddy rat, I presume?” said the prince.
“I am the humble servant of your father the king. That woman is no virgin, but my wife. We are only these three months married. Respect the gods, I adjure you! Return her.”
The prince looked over the poor farmer with legs coated to the knee in mud from the rice field. He sniffed in disgust. “Go back to your mud hovel before you regret this impertinence. The woman is mine now. You should be grateful that I have rescued her from your sad existence.”
Before Jitandra could reply, the prince kicked his mount with a “Hee!” His retinue followed, laughing at the poor farm boy as the hooves of their steeds began to thunder on the ground.
“Noo!” screamed Jitandra, following. He tried to reach Aadab, but the rider drew his blade and jabbed it at him threateningly. “Respect royal blood, dungheap!” In a moment, the horses were shrinking into the distance. Aadab craned her head around and met her husband’s eyes with a tearful gaze that cried out to him in desperation.
“No, no, no, no,” Jitandra mumbled incoherently as his head pounded in a mixture of rage and dread. His vision was blurring as the party disappeared in a cloud of dust. Disoriented, he fell to his knees.
***
Aadab’s parting glance haunted Jitandra as the moon rose. He couldn’t sleep. There was only one way to get her back – to appeal to the king himself. But a commoner entering the king’s presence without invitation could mean imprisonment or death, and if the commoner was bringing an accusation against the king’s son, then…. But then Jitandra thought about the prince lying with his beloved, while he lay there doing nothing. Death was better. Before dawn he rose and gathered rice cakes, a gourd of water, and Aadab’s wedding jewelry. Putting these three things into a small satchel, he set out on the three-day journey to the capital city.
Jitandra arrived there more dirty than usual, and his feet were sore and bleeding. His clothes puffed dust when he touched them. He found his way through throngs of people in the frenetic bazaar until he recognized the spire of the government citadel. He had seen it once when he was a boy, when his parents took him on a religious pilgrimage. The gate was guarded: half a dozen burly bronze-plated guards brooded with expressions that suggested they would gladly sculpt an impetuous commoner with their swords just to liven up their day. Jitandra decided to find an alternative route. Waiting until dusk, he left his satchel in a narrow alley that ran along the back side of the government citadel. He waited for silence, then climbed onto a cart and from there, and leaped up to grab an ornamental sconce of the wall. That provided a toehold from which he stood and extended himself another body’s length, until his fingers barely caught the top of the wall. A moment later he over, dropping into the shadows on the inside of the wall.
Nearby, an enormous building exuded light and sounds of mirth from its windows – the royal court. As Jitandra weighed out his next move, a guard appeared to his left with a torch.
“Ay! Intruder!”
Three guards stepped out of nowhere at the call and their eyes converged on Jitandra. He cursed. No time to think. Now it was either die in the courtyard, or in the courtroom. He sprinted for the glowing entrance to the court, guards on his trail. He made it there and the big doors creaked as he slipped inside.
In an instant his eyes took it all in. Guards, like statues, lined the sides of the long hall. Fires burned in braziers hanging from brass hooks on the sides of monstrous wooden pillars. Golden idols lined the alcoves between the pillars, and glowed, danced in the light of the fires. The room was filled with plumed magistrates, administrators, attendants, musicians, and servant girls bringing food and wine. At the far end of the room, the king’s throne towered over the scene, laid with intricate gold depictions of Vishnu and the ancestral gods, and atop the throne sat the king.
Before anyone knew what was happening, Jitandra ran past the dining lords and flung himself prostrate in front of the throne. The clang of plates and goblets, the chatter, all froze. Guards rushed toward him and were about to seize him.
“Justice!” cried Jitandra, so loud that the hall rang with it. “My lord, give me justice!”
The guards formed a circle around Jitandra and seized him, dragging him to his feet. The king size him up for a moment. “Peasant fool! Did you not know that the price of your caste interrupting a royal feast is your life?” He raised his hand to order the guards, but exchanged glances with his wife, who sat on a cushion beside the throne. His face softened slightly. “But we are beneficent and merciful, and so we will hear you first. Tell me, who is it who entreats the king’s justice?” he asked.
“My name is Jitandra Ahbaraja, of the northern province, your servant. My life is yours, my king, only correct the wrong that has been done to me.”
“What injustice?” asked the king.
Jitandra related to him the story, how the king’s son had three days ago stolen his bride of three months. “So my lord, there is none but you I can appeal to. Surely you know the love of woman, that is no different in noble or ignoble blood. Please give me back my bride!”
The king glared down at Jitandra. “A surf dares challenge the integrity of my son! For this dishonor, birds will dishonor your corpse in the city square!” He raised his hand to command, but stopped it in midair as his eyes made contact with his chief adviser. They exchanged a knowing glance, and the king’s voice became cool and calculated.
“However…so that royal blood can be vindicated before the gods,” he indicated the golden figures that surrounded the room, “we shall bring the woman here, and she shall declare to us which of you is her rightful husband.” The king gave orders that the woman be found and brought to the king’s court.
The courtroom was bubbling with murmurs among the nobles when the woman was brought in the next hour. The prince was with her, his red sash glistening confidently. He stepped up to Jitandra almost lazily and spat at his feet.
Aadab was wearing a thin, golden band around her forehead, and a blue dress. Her eyes flicked upward to Jitandra, but she lowered them almost immediately.
“Tell me, Aadab daughter of Kurshan,” called the king from the throne, in a regal bellow directed as much to the gathered nobility as to her. “Who is your husband, this peasant or the prince?”
Aadab didn’t move. Jitandra could see her body trembling.
The king grew impatient. “Kurshan’s daughter, who is your husband?”
Aadab slowly raised her arm toward the prince. “The prince is my husband, my lord.” She faced Jitandra. “I have never seen this peasant in my life.” The nobles erupted in approval, and the king clapped his hands, satisfied. Jitandra could not believe what he had just heard.
“Aadab, my love, do you not know me?” he pleaded to her.
She looked back at him, brow furrowed, jaw set. “I’m sorry,” she said. The prince’s lips curled upward into a grin and his eyes feasted on Jitandra’s ghastly expression.
The king slammed his fist. “This lying scum has wasted enough of my time. Go and hang him in the city center!” The guards began to drag Jitandra away. He let his feet slide limply – at Aadab’s denial, all energy had drained out from him.
At that moment a Buddhist priest approached the throne. His head was shaved, a rich, maroon cloth his only garment. From his careful shuffle and reptilian skin, he seemed to be as old as the wooden pillars that lined the courtroom. Jitandra’s mind was reeling so much that he did not hear what the priest was saying to the king, but when the guards let him go and bowed low before the priest, things came back into focus. This was Saji-dulal, the Great Sage, who some people in the mountains even called an avatar of the gods.
“My Lord the King, I suspect that this woman is lying,” said the sage. “My wisdom tells me she cannot be trusted. However, I have here a potion,” he held up a small onyx vile, “that causes a man to speak the truth, compulsively, once he drinks it. Let us administer it to the two men, the prince and the peasant, and in half an hours’ time they will speak the truth for themselves. After all, the king knows that the testimony of a man is more valuable in the royal court.”
The king squirmed, but his counselors nodded in approval. Finally he agreed. “The royal family will be vindicated,” he said confidently. “Let the potion be administered.”
So the prince and Jitandra approached the old priest, and he poured half of the potion into each of their mouths. Jitandra swallowed it with a bitter gulp. “Now, my lord, let each of these men be put into seclusion with the woman, each for a quarter of an hour, while the potion does its work.”
“Why is that necessary?” demanded the king.
“This truth potion requires the presence of lies, my lord, in order to mend them. When the woman speaks to each man, the power of the potion will perceive that which is false, and when its effect ripens, it will speak that which is true instead.” So the king allowed the woman to be taken to the storage chamber adjoining the courtroom. The prince was admitted first, and spent the allotted time. When he returned to the room, his eyes were as infuriatingly lazy and confident as ever.
Then Jitandra was admitted to the room. It was full of large barrels of wine and crates of food. As soon as the door was closed, Aadab lept into his arms. “Oh Jitandra, I’m so sorry! They made me say that I was the prince’s wife. They made me say that I didn’t know you!”
Joy and disbelief washed over him. “What?”
Aadab explained how the prince had threatened to kill Jitandra if Aadab did not disown him. “It was the only way to keep you alive!”
Jitandra exhaled, relief washing over him. “You still love me,” he smiled.
“More that life. I would gladly bear imprisonment in the harem for you sake, but I could not see you die for mine.” Jitandra embraced his wife, afraid it might be the last time he would touch her.
***
“The time has passed. Have them speak!” said the king. The nobles were on edge, the room was quiet. Jitandra and the prince stood before the throne, with Saji-dulal between them, sitting on the floor, his hands supine in meditation.
“Come, priest!” the king said again.
Saji-dulal opened his eyes. “Bring me largest wine-barrel in the cellar where the woman was.” Bewildered, the king nodded nonetheless and guards went and brought the barrel, placing it in front of the priest. The priest stood up, took a deep, slow breath, then said, “Riki! Come out!”
Suddenly, the top board of the barrel popped off, and a small boy jumped out. Before anyone could wipe the bewilderment from their faces, the boy handed Saji-dulal a piece of parchment. “Did you write just as you heard?” asked the sage.
“Yes, master, every word spoken. Although it was hard to write with one slit of light–”
Saji-dulal unfolded the parchment and examined it. After a long squint he nodded. “Well done, boy.” Then he turned to the king and spoke as loudly as his frail form allowed. “My lord! That potion was not no more magical than the triumph of wisdom over foolishness.” He raised the parchment in the air. “My servant has procured the words spoken in secret between the woman and these two men.” The sage spun around to face Jitandra. “This man spoke love with her…” Then he turned to face the prince, “…while this man spoke threats, lest she confess her heart!”
The nobles gasped. The prince turned as red as his sash and seemed to puff like a peacock with indignation. Saji-dulal raised his hand as if to stifle a retort, turning back around to face the king. “My lord, administer of justice: as surely as I live, this woman is the wife of the peasant man. Your son is a liar and adulterer, whose penalty shall be death.”
At this, pandemonium struck the court. The nobles all stood and began pushing each other and yelling, as if debating whether to defend or accuse the prince. The prince was bellowing and spitting curses at the priest. Shielded by the cacophony, and liberated by the proclamation of truth, Jitandra and Aadab rushed to each other clasped hands, eyes bursting with joy.
The noise suddenly ceased when the king bellowed, “Enough!” The court watched him silently. “My son wishes to speak.”
The prince stood at the foot of the throne and bowed. “My father, these men have conspired against you! This boy has written lies, and the sage lied to you about that potion! They are in league with this peasant!” Murmurs spread throughout the court. Jitandra couldn’t believe his ears. The prince was breathing heavily, still red in the face, and his eyes were on fire with malice. His words tumbled out fast, as if he were improvising to stay one step ahead of panic. “Saji-dulal’s wisdom has inflated his ambitions, father. He has enlisted this peasant boy to play a false role, so that your house would be defamed! He’s creating an opportunity to seize power – seize the loyalty of the nobles!”
“That’s outrageous!” shouted one of the magistrates. “Saji-dulal is a peaceful sage!”
“I have intelligence, spies among you, who say otherwise!” He continued, gathering confidence. “On my honor as the son of the king, this woman is my wife! This filthy priest and his cohorts have failed to defile noble blood. They are conspirators and liars!”
The prince leaned close to the king. The feigned confidence in his eyes flashed to pitiable pleading for an instant. “Father, don’t you see – how this peasant scum will ruin me—us—damage the magistrates’ loyalty to your power? Defend me!” The king’s eyes widened, and he stared back at his son, calculating…thinking. Finally, his expression hardened. He avoided eye contact with the queen as he stood and raised his hand in proclamation.
“A servant boy, an old man, and a peasant are unfit to bring a death sentence upon the heir to this throne. They have dishonored themselves by intruding into this court and levying rash accusations, and they shall be punished accordingly. This is my decree: execute them all!”
Jitandra’s heart sank into black despair even as his veins boiled in rage. He couldn’t hear the roaring of the nobles, or feel the rough grip of the soldiers as they grabbed him and pulled him away from Aadab. He was only aware of her eyes. They were as vibrant and mesmerizing as they had been on their wedding day. But this time they were moist, and her pupils were doors into an abyss of sadness.
As the knife neared Jitandra’s throat, to force life from his body before it was hung up in the city square, one word throbbed in his head with every throb of his pulse. Justice. Justice. Justice.
“I am but a simple farmer, just these three months married,” he whispered to no one.
Ben Taylor 