The Tribes and Castes of the Central Provinces of India, Volume 3. Robert Vane Russell
Lingo, I will ask her
For my sixteen scores of Koitūrs.
‘Tell me, O Moon!’ said Lingo,
‘Tell, O Brightener of the darkness!
Where my sixteen scores are hidden.’
But the Moon sailed onwards, upwards,
And her cold and glancing moonbeams
Said, ‘Your Gonds, I have not seen them.’
And the Stars came forth and twinkled
Twinkling eyes above the forest.
Lingo said, “O Stars that twinkle!
Eyes that look into the darkness,
Tell me where my sixteen scores are.”
But the cold Stars twinkling ever,
Said, ‘Your Gonds, we have not seen them.’
Broke the morning, the sky reddened,
Faded out the star of morning,
Rose the Sun above the forest,
Brilliant Sun, the Lord of morning,
And our Lingo quick descended,
Quickly ran he to the eastward,
Fell before the Lord of Morning,
Gave the Great Sun salutation—
‘Tell, O Sun!’ he said, ‘Discover
Where my sixteen scores of Gonds are.’
But the Lord of Day reply made—
“Hear, O Lingo, I a Pilgrim
Wander onwards, through four watches
Serving God, I have seen nothing
Of your sixteen scores of Koitūrs.”
Then our Lingo wandered onwards
Through the arches of the forest;
Wandered on until before him
Saw the grotto of a hermit,
Old and sage, the Black Kumāit,
He the very wise and knowing,
He the greatest of Magicians,
Born in days that are forgotten,
In the unremembered ages,
Salutation gave and asked him—
‘Tell, O Hermit! Great Kumāit!
Where my sixteen scores of Gonds are.
Then replied the Black Magician,
Spake disdainfully in this wise—
“Lingo, hear, your Gonds are asses
Eating cats, and mice, and bandicoots,
Eating pigs, and cows, and buffaloes;
Filthy wretches! wherefore ask me?
If you wish it I will tell you.
Our great Mahādeva caught them,
And has shut them up securely
In a cave within the bowels
Of his mountain Dewalgiri,
With a stone of sixteen cubits,
And his bulldog fierce Basmāsur;
Serve them right, too, I consider,
Filthy, casteless, stinking wretches!”
And the Hermit to his grotto
Back returned, and deeply pondered
On the days that are forgotten,
On the unremembered ages.
But our Lingo wandered onwards,
Fasting, praying, doing penance;
Laid him on a bed of prickles,
Thorns long and sharp and piercing.
Fasting lay he devotee-like,
Hand not lifting, foot not lifting,
Eye not opening, nothing seeing.
Twelve months long thus lay and fasted,
Till his flesh was dry and withered,
And the bones began to show through.
Then the great god Mahādeva
Felt his seat begin to tremble,
Felt his golden stool, all shaking
From the penance of our Lingo.
Felt, and wondered who on earth
This devotee was that was fasting
Till his golden stool was shaking.
Stepped he down from Dewalgiri,
Came and saw that bed of prickles
Where our Lingo lay unmoving.
Asked him what his little game was,
Why his golden stool was shaking.
Answered Lingo, “Mighty Ruler!
Nothing less will stop that shaking
Than my sixteen scores of Koitūrs
Rendered up all safe and hurtless
From your cave in Dewalgiri.”
Then the Great God, much disgusted,
Offered all he had to Lingo,
Offered kingdom, name, and riches,
Offered anything he wished for,
‘Only leave your stinking Koitūrs
Well shut up in Dewalgiri.’
But our Lingo all refusing
Would have nothing but his Koitūrs;
Gave a turn to run the thorns a
Little deeper in his midriff.
Winced the Great God: “Very well, then,
Take your Gonds—but first a favour.
By the shore of the Black Water
Lives a bird they call Black Bindo,
Much I wish to see his young ones,
Little Bindos from the sea-shore;
For an offering bring these Bindos,
Then your Gonds take from my mountain.”
Then our Lingo rose and wandered,
Wandered onwards through the forest,
Till he reached the sounding sea-shore,
Reached the brink of the Black Water,
Found the Bingo birds were absent
From their nest upon the sea-shore,
Absent hunting in the forest,
Hunting elephants prodigious,
Which they killed and took their brains out,
Cracked their skulls, and brought their brains to
Feed their callow little Bindos,
Wailing sadly by the sea-shore.
Seven times a fearful serpent,
Bhawarnāg the horrid serpent,
Serpent born in ocean’s caverns,
Coming forth from the Black Water,
Had devoured the little Bindos—
Broods of callow little Bindos
Wailing sadly by the sea-shore—
In the absence of their parents.
Eighth this brood was. Stood our Lingo,
Stood he pondering beside them—
“If I take these little wretches
In the absence of their parents
They