Who is Birbal?
Flash Fiction
Birbal, a poet, philosopher and musician, was Emperor Akbar’s closest adviser and friend. Unlike previous (and indeed future future) Mughal Emperors of India, he was keen to develop unity among the diverse groups on the subcontinent, which is why, the moderate Muslim that he was, surrounded himself with Hindu advisers, and welcomed Hindu artists and musicians to his court. Birbal became legendary for his wisdom and the advice he gave to emperor and subjects. These have inspired many stories_ some true. I begin with, what to me was the best:
A fisherman and his wife lived a modest life on one bank of the river, but her family lived on the other side. She had decided that she would visit her mother once every week, and would cross in the small fishing boat her husband had made, but one time he was repairing the craft. Piari, he said, I can’t let you go this time. I can swim, she said. But the currents are strong and will sweep you away. One thing about the woman was that she had a contrary nature, as her husband (and everybody else) well knew, but she was very dear to him and he did not want to lose her. He knew she would react angrily, but had to put his foot down. She immediately became very angry and started a shouting match with him. Finally he said she could only go if she took the cow and hanged on to her tail.
Angrily she fetched the ghai from the stable and started wading across. Soon she was mid-stream, and could feel the pull of the currents. Shut up, she told the currents angrily, I am a strong swimmer. Why did that man order me to take the cow? Am I an idiot to obey all the nonsensical orders he spouts at me? Her bad temper reaching boiling point, she let go of the cow’s tail, convinced that she would easily cross to the other side, but the current was too strong and she began drifting.
Some dhobis washing their clothes on the river bank began shouting for help, and who would turn up but Birbal himself, who had been composing poetry at a nearby ghat. He was a friend of the fisherman, and was very concerned. I am trying to save my wife, he explained, but the emperor’s adviser grabbed his arm. Where are you going? Downstream, he said. With her contrary nature, the wise man explained, you will only find your wife upstream.
Here follow a few new, hitherto unheard tales of Birbal:
Two Fishermen and One Fish
At the narrowest part of the river, two fishermen, on opposite banks had cast their lines, and by strange coincidence, both men had felt the tug on their lines at exactly the same time. When they tried to pull their catch in, to their amazement they found that a large bhekti of about twenty kilograms dangling on their lines, having simultaneously swallowed the hooks of both men.
Birbal, as was his wont, had been composing poetry nearby and was attracted to the sound of the angry words the men were throwing at each other, each finding a reason to claim that the fish belonged solely to him. When they recognised Emperor Akbar’s adviser, they calmed down and begged him for advice.
There was nothing Birbal loved more than to arbitrate. Yes, he said, I can find a solution for you. One of you cut the bhekti in two equal pieces, and the other can choose one portion first. And the matter was solved to everybody’s satisfaction.
In itself, this is a simple tale, and would have been forgotten, but many centuries before, King Solomon was faced with a similar situation, with the difference that the bone of contention was a baby, claimed by two women. History, as the esteemed reader knows, often suffers mutations. Solomon was not the fount of wisdom that historians now recount, but he did indeed have powers of divination, which enabled him to look into the future. He had little idea how to deal with the issue, but he closed his eyes, and the events leading to Birbal’s judgement on the bank of the river played in his inward eye like in a film. He nodded to himself and drew out his sword. Seeing this, one woman desisted, and it was the crowd who saw who the real mother was and shouted their disapproval at the false mother. With Solomon gaining a reputation for wisdom that he never deserved.
The Litmus Test
A keen observer of human nature, Birbal had become aware that whilst people pinched their noses when someone farted, they took some perverse pleasure inhaling their own emission. Although he had the best possible rapport with the flatulent Akbar, emperor though he was, his fart had such a stench it verged on the nauseous. But he never failed to notice a faintly discernible smirk of satisfaction on the imperial face every time he passed flatus. The wise man himself had to make an effort to hide his reaction when it happened. He concluded that only unalloyed love can make one bear the smell of someone’s fart.
Naturally Birbal used this knowledge in his judgements and decisions.
The emperor was very disturbed when his favourite nephew Jawaad informed him that he had fallen in love with a nautch girl, a dancer called Jamila, and wanted to marry her. Being a thoughtful and progressive fellow, he did not immediately rule this out. He decided to consult Birbal, and confided to him that his sister was dead against her son marrying Jamila, but on the other hand, Jawaad said that he would die of grief if the emperor forbade him. Do young lovers really ever die of grief? He asked Birbal. If the love is genuine, thwarting it can indeed lead to death, he replied, but if the love is not pure and all consuming, the frustrated inamorato would recover, some in days or weeks, but never more than a few months. Yes Birbal, but is there a way to discover the quality of the amour? Can you discover if Jawaad and Jamila truly love each other; if they do I’ll talk my sister into giving her blessing, otherwise I shall forbid the union. I think so, said Birbal.
He got the emperor to organise a banquet for the two young people. Jamila arrived in an emerald jibab abaya, bedecked with amethyst and jades_ for she had no pearls or diamonds_ and looked so stunning that Akbar himself was dazzled. If he is besotted with her, he thought, I can see why. There was music and dancing, and Bahadur, lord of the imperial kitchen, (following instructions from Birbal) had laid out platefuls of besan barfi, ras malaï, motichoor laddoo, and many other delicacies all full of chickpea flour, cream and butter. In other words, the sort of thing full of fibres which conduce flatulence, and even, I blush to admit, diarrhea.
Birbal surreptitiously kept close to the pair, awaiting the firing of gaseous cannonades. Soon enough Jamila let out a loud one, and the wise man detected the smirk that he had seen before, and noticed Jawaad’s head recoiling in disgust, like a gun after a bullet had been shot. And in no time at all, Jawaad responded with a similar outburst, with exactly the same reaction, Jamila could not stand Jawaad’s emission either. Akbar was watching Birbal; the latter pursed his lips and shook his head.
