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suninagarajan · 4 years ago

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THE SEVEN BROTHERS OF HADISH

The Fable of The Seven Brothers of Hadhish although sometimes performed as a musical or poetic drama, is oft told today as a story for children, and is both spiritual and instructive in meaning while containing for artists great music and poetry. It’s origins are thought to lie in the Hindu Marathi Vedics of the early Mahrati period.

Scholars, inevitably disagree, but it is widely believed to be a wisdom sent by Brahma to his people, in the form of a Marathi proverb, in Persian iambic metre, contained in a Hindu saying which when discovered in the vedics of the early Marathi period led to the founding of the Temple of Hadhish, and of the Oracle of Khassi, and the school of vedic research specialising in fables has made some progress in this area.

The fable tells the story of The Seven Brothers of Hadhish, and although the fable can be sung, told in iambic metre, performed, prayed and chanted, due to its many versions and translations, the version in the Marathi which lacks the iambic flow of the Persian, and is closer to the children’s story is the favoured version of court storytellers which has furthered the spoken art of Marathi oratory in the Royal Court.

The fable goes

in the village, of Hadhish, before the great Goddess laid with her barking lover, lived seven brothers all delivered on the same day of the same womb and the same mother.

The brothers being poor toiled in the fields for their bread as their fathers and grandfathers had done from dawn to dusk until there came a time when the King’s procession passed by the village at a distance far off. From his lowly perch in the fields, the youngest brother, Karim, smelt the almond sweet cakes the king used to tickle his appetites and those of his concubines to come play in his earthly garden of delights.

The Royal bakers having just finished a batch of the sweet cakes, laid them out on the kitchen’s windows to cool before presenting them to their royal master. The aromas of such concoctions as flour, almonds and sugarpaste when combined and heated to the appropriate degree being such, and the winds in Hadhish being in the East at that time of the year when the king makes his annual progress, the moon being ascendant in the sixth house, lady Temptation came looking for young Karim as he toiled in the field at his labours. With no more form than a pickpocket at a bazaar, she stole into his desires and offered herself up as an apple in a garden.

Karim being raw and untested and having, prior to the arrival of the pastry known no more of temptation that his honourable father and the temple priests and chosen to inform him, followed the lady’s whisper of “eat me”, and left his post making his way to the temple of sin where the Royal bakers were ploughing their trade.

Sweet lady temptation, the dancing girl of young Karim’s desires who did no more than to bid him follow his nose and his appetites and his desires, led him, like a lover to the king’s own doorstep with little travail and no bother. Temptation being a stern mistress and the chaos of royal arrangements being what they were.

Furthermore, the sight of Karim in the Royal complex, who could have been taken for a latrine or a kitchen gulama, as he passed by guard, and scribe and flutist or any of the many celestial bodies that followed the kings star, was left un-accosted by eye and nose and notice as he trespassed over judgement, and reason and logic to the object of his want.

So, when he, with no more concern for the matter than if he were eating a kul-kul from his mother’s hand, popped the heavenly morsel of warm, sweet, sugary, almondy, matter into his mouth, sleepwalking to the tantric drum of his own destruction as his longings beat the rhythm and the drool poured down his chin. For temptation though, naked as the truth, may be a severe mistress, but she is also a wicked one.

You would be forgiven therefore for thinking it of small concern.

But no matter that concerns the King is small, and as Karim’s very being melted into that cloud of pure sweet, warm, gooey, happiness that only very good cakes can bestow, assailing his taste buds and entrancing his consciousness, he had no awareness of error or folly nor for what insult and impudence Royal guards had placed him in irons.

The lady, his paramour being of fickle and flighty demeanour then satisfied, departed as Karim sat alone in the royal gaol like a philosopher expecting hemlock, awaiting his fate.

Crime having been committed and judgement being issued, in accordance with the statues of the time, young Karim had been sentenced to lose that hand that did offend the king so.

News spread and shortly it came to the ears of Karim’s brothers that one of their number was thus condemned. The brothers being brothers baked a loaf of a scheme in the bake house of fraternity and next morn then, when the offending protuberance was scheduled to depart, switch had been made and brother stood for brother.

For in place of Karim, slave to the tea cake, was Kadar next youngest, who though similar to Karim in every other particular was a grinder of corn, which exercises did afford to his wrist’s strengths of such capacity that the people did take them for iron.

So, when the King’s executioner took aim with his second-best travelling sword, for cakes thieves warrant no more, he only knew of his failure when he heard the people shout as his sword did bounce in the air leaving Karim Kadar unsevered and un-asunder to the wonder of all.

But the King’s pleasure will not be outdone, so that evening after verdict once more was tightened, Keedem brother the third, similar to Karim and Kadar in every other particular, sat temperament judged, in his cell, sentence in hand. To be taken to the quarry and there to be crushed to death under layers of stone. As befalls all who would forget his duty and think his majesty a mere mortal.

Once again brothers will be brothers and as the yeast rises in the loaf, so the scheme rises in the need and Keedem of the third, similar in every other particular to Kadar and Karim was well used to hammer and pick as a miner of minerals, in the caves surrounding Hadhish and feared not rock or stone or rubble.

Although the king’s men did oppress brother, bolder on bolder as could be transported by beasts, still brother whose lungs, from a lifetime of mining were all turned to stone, did impute to breathe all the while.

Once mantras and prayers and offerings had ended and the sun in her suffering was preparing to die, the judge of the law court looked not with amusement on brother who, for pastry had laughed in his eye. Pronounced he with venom, sweet cake of memory having long been forgotten, for the crime of disobedience, brother must die.

Brother proved brother, as the swordsman was called for, the head preparing to severe in the morning was Kamil’s. Neither oldest nor youngest who was called to the fray. And though similar in every other particular to Keedem, Kadar, and Karim after his years of moving water in colossal Phahsoi pots through the desert, balancing the vessels like battleships on the crown of his head, walking like a dancer through the desert for a lifetime, his neck has been girded by the god of necessity.

The swordsman, disappointed, blunted sword with tantric bang, and the people were amazed and prayed to mother Naga to save them. Alas, brother now resurrected at the hanging tree, on his punishments ran.

As the verdict was hanging so the bread also rises, and Kadeen, though similar in every other particular to Kamil, Kaeedem, Kadar and Karim, had already spent many seasons in the forest where the rubber trees grew and such proximity to wonder had transcended his nature, his neck as it swung then in the noose did stretch and twist and dangle, and stubbornly refused to expire.

Now judges are judges but when wonders of such dangles reach the temple priests, such wickedness to the Gods was condemned, and “drown him” they cried in unique unification which the people did hail as proof of the Gods many wonders.

But brothers are brothers and not so outdone. So it is that brother six of the bake house now steps to the bar, and once the priests have said the prayers and made the correct offerings escorted to the place of execution and thrown down a well.

And it is that Kaazim, his mother’s favourite, though similar in every other particular to Kadeen, and Kamil and Keedem and Kadar and Karim of the morsel, is a digger who knows from which marvels of rivulets and channels and gullies which wells must run, appears unharmed, though cleaner, some miles from his drowning.

When the priests did discover the iniquity of wells, befuddled they consulted the astronomers. Said astronomers after pondering the cosmos till the moon tide called time announced that as bull was in mercury and the house was in shadow, so the culprit should be burned.

Here we come then to the Adam of the brothers, named for Karzim who though similar in every other particular to Kaazim and Kadeen and Kamil and Keedem and Kadar and Karim of the mouthful had, since boyhood worked the beasts of the desert, thus his skin though flesh and sinew, had been hammered on golden sunshine’s anvil was not harmed by flames and blazes of infernos and astronomers were baked.

Thus, it came that order in the kingdom was in hazard of a tea cake, so his majesty as Judge of Heaven was troubled to intervene. When his highness, in his wisdom, did learn of brother’s trespass like a knot undone more by reason than by logic, did his answer he pronounced.

For that Prince of Earthly Knowing when he understood the meaning did look for justice in the tasting and concluded “he is blessed by the gods, let him go”. It was done then that brother returned to fields and to mines and to digging, and the forest and the desert in knowledge, that brothers seven, blessed in heaven, is the proverb’s holy tale.

“Sata bha u, svargata dhan’ya”, in the Marathi from the Persian, usually translates to “brothers seven, blessed in heaven”, and is the blessing that all strata’s of Kuru Panchala society from Royal Court to rural villages use when greeting friends, family, business acquaintances and children. It’s meaning is still hotly debated by scholars with debate reaching such a heated pitch in the middle Marathi period that separate academy’s now service different calendars.

The sweat cake in the fable, the sakhara chumbana, or sugar kiss, has become such a well-loved addition to the Kuru Panchala diet, much adored and fondly remembered by children, and is one of the many acceptable delicacies enjoyed on high holy and holy high days, a is still a well-known and requested specialism of the Royal pastry cooks.

But the most significant impact of the fable The Seven Brothers of Hadhish on Kuru Panchala life is the workers guilds set up to honour each of the seven brothers’ labours. The guild of farmers, the Guild of Karim, of the millers, the Guild of Kadar, of miners the Guild of Keedem, of watercarriers, Guild of Kamil, of foresters, Guild of Kadeen, of diggers, Guild of Kaazim and of camel-drivers, Guild of Karzim are the oldest of the now many guilds of Kuru Panchala.

When Karzim Hundrapolithor – Bi of the Guild of Karzims, though no longer a camel driver since the Goddess Nagamaan brought the great forest to the dessert and his people went from sand dwellers to mountain hill tribe, says “Sata bha u, svargata dhan’ya”, it is with love in his heart and pride in his soul, as his grandfathers did before him, Karzims all.

At the end of his long day and with gratitude in his heart, he finishes his prayers and makes his offerings to Pravrantiaaa goddess of joy, for in her happiness she has blessed him with a family and a home and a profession.

Though his ancestors once scratched out a living in the desert, Karzim Hundrapolitihor – Bi of the Guild of Karzims one-time walker of camels, can consider himself a lucky man. From his mountain plateau home in Khassi on the Kur pass he can see The Sacred Land of Divine Bilhal, Pleasing of the Gods and home of the Bilhali Kingdom.

The arctic temperatures and soft humidity of the climate, which gives the mountain region its name, Thanda praavata, or cold mountain, showers the region in light so pure and fragile, it can only have come from heaven. It paints greens of every hue made so beautiful by light and nothingness as to fool the eye and delight the fancy, appearing that fairies made of glass infest the region.

As it often is with mountain paradises, the light of Khassi has convinced itself that it is grace on earth so wondrous is its existence. An opinion shared by those such as Karzim Hundrapolitihor – Bi who are wise enough to know that the Goddess’ bounty is manifest and magnificent.

It is that same climate, which attracts the Gizabuthi flying monkeys of the long golden lissom, lively tails and sleek golden chests who like naughty honey creatures prance around the pools of Khassi as gymnasts stealing bananas and nuts from each other and annoying the daughters of Karzim Hundrapolitihor – Bi, who with their cousins and cousins, stir the Khassi pools with their giant paddles.

Those same Pools of Khassi store in the mountains beneath, such wonders of the earth now crushed to pulp by stone, as fruits and berries and quartz and ambers and chestnuts, heated by that’s stone’s ancient past into a heady alcoholic lava of such delicious wonder and pumped through to the famous pools above by no more than erosion, rock against rock, a natural wonder so intoxicating in its flavours as to douse a Goddess and leave her seeking love.

It is the relationship between lava and climate and monkey that givens the nectar of the Goddess such hallucinogenic charm so the daughters of Karzim Hundrapolitihor – Bi, all seven of them, and their cousins and cousins, like their mothers before them stir the pools all day in their bud-hood and like the Goddess, think of love.

It is only by continuous motion that the mountain heated substance combines in a geological synthesis, it’s fusion of elemental flavours liquidised and oozed through the mountain canopy like a melody from a squeezebox. This force of loving kindness creates the Pools of Khassi, but the recipe is not done.

Once the liquid, as hot as the dessert from the granite caresses of the mountain, meets the cooler Khassi climate the mixture is condensed creating a creaminess to the gooey honey golden liquid that is pourable in its unctuousness.

But it is the inclusion of the Kaahril fly, that lives exclusively in the fur of the Gizabuthi flying monkeys, and in their stupor will know no other home. Who once satiated on monkey sap will fall into the pooled liquid in such numbers so as to cascade from the coat of that impish primate, and gives the cocktail of nature it’s kaleidoscope of flavours.

So, it is by toil and drudgery that the daughters of Karzim Hundrapolitihor – Bi, and their cousins, and cousins, stir their paddles in the Khassi pools as if cursed by the gods in an interminable torment, as they labour in servitude to the Goddess of Joy.

It is perhaps, unfortunate, that as the condensing and fusing and eroding of chemikline enchantment takes place it leaves in its wake, a vapour of smells and mists that hides gasses with the power to make the hair of the daughters of Karzim Hundrapolitihor-Bi and their cousins and cousins contract into matted carpets of tuffs and of clumps of brittle and frizz resembling quite ugly halos of never ending dirt.

For the daughters of Karzim Hundrapolitihor - Bi, and their cousins and cousins, whose arms, through the stirring, could shame the King’s Hammers have been punished enough.

No wonder then when Sunitra, third daughter of Karzim Hundrapolitihor – Bi, sits at her father’s evening table at the end of her day’s sentence of stirring. And instead of enjoying an evening of feast and family, or of hearing her father’s pride as his well-contented voice offers the blessing, “Sata bha u, svargata dhan’ya” , she hear’s:

“Sunita!......., get those off!”

“papa” she whines

“get those off now!!” the God of the Hearth has been angered

“please” she bemoans, ……………..the heretic will not recount.

“I WILL NOT TELL YOU ----- AGAIN!” booms the God of Hell Fire from his throne in the heavens

“but,,,…………..why not?” she is building her cross

“if the gods wanted you pretty, ………………..they would have made you pretty”

“yes papa………” The final damnation has dawned as she surrenders her will.

“you are bringing disgrace on your name, your home and your people”

The condemnation continues

“on your father, on your mother, on your sisters, on your cousins, on your grandmothers, and on anyone else I can think off!”

It’s a hard enough life as a stirrer of pools for the daughters of Karzim Hundrapolitihor – Bi. It’s not easy to get a boyfriend in Khassi when you have limbs that could make a Hammer blush and hair that looks like it could brush clean the latrines.

Her father, though loving and benevolent and always right, cannot understand that his dutiful daughter who stands all day submissively stirring her paddles, might keep her eyes forever fixed, with her cousins and cousins, on the Sacred and Divine land of Bilhal, Pleasing to the Gods, and home of the Blessed Kingdom. It’s very presence is so beautiful as to tantalise the Gods. Or though her burdens be heavy and her sentence is long, like her cousins and cousins with heart and eye and longing, she might dream…………..

When she and those cousins and cousins gossip and giggle as they toil about their labours, those lilies of the pools, of the House of Women, or the lives of their betters, or the King’s favourite dancing girl, Karzim of the brothers, is bathing in grace. Brothers seven, blessed in heaven

Who can blame her then when, in her budding womanhood she spies a pair of Phashoi gold earrings on the gypsy peddler woman at the crossroads and in a rush of madness, acts?

The soft, warm, sweet, gooey feelings of “pretty” that surround her in a haze of happiness when the sparkles graced her ears are both novel and brief moments of heaven, before her father throws his thunderbolts and dams her to hell.

Overwhelmed by HIS disapproval like a boulder on her chest she removes the ornaments from her lobes and head bent low, takes the Shameful Walk of the Wicked. Her penance is to dispose of those trinkets of sin or never again bother the House of Karzim. Despondent she walks the path of the mundane and the familiar, and finds herself again at those pools of hell. She throws in the trinkets, the sacrifice to her girlhood and casts away any dreams of earrings and pretty and Houses and pandals and Palaces and Maharaja’s or love of any kind.

Little does she know as she faces the first night of her life as forever “not pretty,” a soul impoverished and in bondage to a torment of existence from which genetics and the God’s had condemned her, that the African gold of the trinkets will dissolve and combine with the luxurious liquid compounds of the pools, and cause again a change of those evolving wonderous properties.

As she sleeps the vapours from the pool that she stirs in her daily labours will, by next moontide, instead of the toxic fumes of her miseries, and because of the inclusion of Phahsoi minerals, mist vapours of such magical natures as to silken her hair to a shining, bouncing, moving, river of soft autumn browns and forest sunsets, which are lovely to behold.

But the wonder of the Goddess is fickle, and it will take her some time yet to reveal that the offering thrown into the pool by the stirring girl so pleased her that it brought girlishness to her lobes and impulsivity to her fingers. She will take its tinklings and sparklings and with it brew a potion of magic crystals, she returns to the girl, shortly the Virgin of the Pools, in a redeeming infusion of divine divinations.

It is some centuries now, since the people make the pilgrimage to the Temple of the Pools to beseech the Virgin to avail them of answers so lofty that they fear to approach lest the Virgin be displeased, as she smokes in her high holy and her holy high her revelations to

Prophecii

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