Piddhi-Ke-Bapu

This is a story my Grandma narrated to us long, long ago. My Grandma was blind but was witty and insightful. Before I start the story about Piddhi-ke-Bapu, I have to introduce you to my Grandma. You will appreciate the story better if you know her a bit. By the way, my Grandma died at the age of 104. We are all grown up and have our own kids now. But this story is set when we all were kids. A flashback, you can say.

 I have often observed her closely when she told us stories, and at times I found strange things happening to her. Unlike others, I was the quiet one; the quintessential thumb sucker, small and hidden away from public glare, and so quiet that I used to go almost unnoticed by people around me. I guess that my thumb sucking left me with few options. If people noticed me around they would constantly pick on me and force me to stop sucking my thumb. It was therefore imperative that I remain as far away from the glare of the public as was possible. My thumb, which was like a friend or a toy rather than a part of me, pleaded constantly to me to soothe it with my mouth. It is difficult to say whether I was addicted to my thumb friend or my thumb friend was addicted to my mouth; but they, like eternal lovers, remained locked most of the time, talking and playing with each other. I was just their slave, unable to convince either of them that the society looked down upon such a public display of emotions. What this activity did for me is that I could not speak much. And those who do not speak much do two things; they see and they listen with great intensity. Like Grandma who cannot see, therefore listens and speaks intensely.

The point to be noted is that I was an outcast in my own immediate society. Not exactly outcast, but more like ghosts that move around us every time without being visible to the naked eye. When Grandma held her gullible kid team enthralled with her fables, I was there in the shadows, sitting with all but visible to none, not even Grandma with her inner vision. With mouth and thumb forever locked in their embrace, I had my three eyes and a pair of ears to work with. Two of my eyes worked like surveillance cameras; you know those that watch you without being seen? While the ears strained to capture every sound made. The third eye saw and registered the emotions, yes, emotions. I learnt by myself that the third eye did not care to see physical objects that the other two eyes saw. The third eye saw emotional and subtle objects. So there I sat, always, looking at people around me doing funny things when they were under Grandma’s spell. And Grandma herself did strange things. It was apparent that her stories were dictated by her senses and what they perceived at that point in time. And the most important thing I noticed was that more often than not, Grandma got carried away by her own stories! Now, you may wonder how that happens. Let me tell you this single important insight, most original, that I discovered.

Grandma started her stories in a lighter vein and gradually as the story unfolded to the audience, Grandma transformed from the narrator to the listener herself! Yes, it is true. The story just seemed to take over her and push her aside, as if someone from inside emerged from her and hijacked her plot. It was just not possible for anyone to see this sight with physical eyes. But I saw this happen with my inner eye. And when this happened, Grandma used to look bewildered by her own tale, as if she had wanted to narrate a different story from the one that happened to pour out from her mouth. At times, when the plot was on its way to getting confused, she would pause, and the others would think it was a deliberate attempt by the narrator to create a dramatic effect. At these times, I watched Grandma fighting with herself to carry the tale forward as if she had suddenly reached a dead end and did not know how to proceed. It lasted for seconds or a minute at the most and then there would be a twist and the story would continue to flow. I watched Grandma’s relief and even delight at the new twist as if she herself was not expecting it to happen that way.

The fact is that I was the least noticed of the lot and the most observant. Being what I was, a confirmed thumb sucker, I was naturally at the butt end of jokes and wisecracks. People somehow enjoy laughing at others, though I must say this is a very bad thing to do. It is hateful and humiliating to be laughed at all the time, particularly when the reason was something like the delightful habit of thumb-sucking. It’s crazy to see how one habit like thumb-sucking can change your personality.

Piddhi; Pidh-dhi; you know what it means? Puny, or tiny, or cowardly or docile or submissive. Or one who is all of these combined. Yes, Piddhi is what they called me, Grandma including, and she was the originator of the word. So contagious was the name and so fitting my profile that even I forgot my original and human name. Being called Piddhi over and over again is like people brainwashing you into believing that you are what you are called. This happens with many a child in India, where elders consult holy scriptures and other material to discover the best names for you and then start calling you by your colour (as in Pinky), size (chotu or small),sex (Munna and Munni), your position in the family hierarchy amongst the kids (Choti, Badi, Majli etc) and so many discriminating attributes. I can cite instances of children being called Einstein because they were considered brilliant; or Buddhu (which means stupid) because their parents thought they were dull and stupid; or Hema Malani ( a movie starlet who is considered beautiful) or even Jackie, Tommy and such names that are normally associated with the canine variety of living beings. So you see if I was Piddhi that is what I became.

Now, the interesting part of my revelation, no doubt associated with my acquired name, is the origin of the name itself. Names do not get made just like that; they always have a story behind them, and the story about Piddhi is what I intend telling you. Unlike other stories made up by Grandma and which could be claimed and credited to her as original, this one, Grandma says, is borrowed stuff. Yet the sweep and impact of the story are such is that it beats all and therefore I consider this to be the mother of all tales. Don’t ask me who invented this story for this is something no one knows. It’s like the other epics in India, the Ramayana and the Mahabharata, which, though ascribed to certain authors, actually developed into what they are over hundreds of years. So this is an epic, and let us keeps it that way. Since I heard this from Grandma, for me, and the rest of the kids, she is the author.

This is the story of long-ago times. Once upon a time, there lived a couple with their daughter Piddhi. The daughter herself plays no great role in the story but the story carries her name. It was a strange convention in India that husbands and wives did not address each other by their name; just as they did not address their children by theirs. The husband and wife of this story are, therefore “Piddhi- ki- Ma” (Piddhi’s mother) and “Piddhi -Ke -Bapu” (yes, you guessed it right, Piddhi’s father). They made a poor family, the kind of poor that lived in those times, and for the record, Piddhi was married and with her husband.

I consider this important before I go on with the narration. This is a story told best on a slow boil. Those of you who know a bit about cooking will understand this phrase “slow boil” better. Like food, there are different ways to cook a story. Some stories, as you may have seen, are told best in one quick burst. The story moves on a trot with the climax reached quickly. Some stories are told with a slower pace with the narrator taking some time to establish the plot and characters and how they will deal with situations. This story, I am afraid, is going to take more of your valuable time than usual. This story needs to be cooked slowly and the plot will drag on with the characters in tow till you will begin to wonder where all this leading to. I am afraid I cannot compromise on this, and beg your indulgence and patience.

Some more caveats. This is not a story for kids. This is not a story for the young and mobile. This is neither for the middle-aged, the old, and the healthy nor for the infirm. Nor it is for males or females. This is a story for all; everyone will find some interesting aside or dimension. So those who are courageous enough to read this till it ends will stand benefited. That I guarantee.

There is a strong possibility that you will be confused about the narrator. Me, or my dear departed Grandma. Switching between narrations of the writer and the narrator is difficult and I will therefore save the confusion. I will keep the narrative simple and therefore you will not have to deal with quotes with inverted commas etc. You decide how much of the story is mine, how much is Grandma’s and how much of the original is retained. 

Finally, let me tell you how this story was actually told. It was basically an outdoor story, remember that. We kids were treated to a short picnic in a park with swing and slides. The entire brood was assembled and food in tons was at hand for consumption. While the boys and girls were going berserk over who will do what first, there I sat, amongst the elders, invisible as usual. One of the elders, noticing me with his inner eye no doubt, immediately attracted the attention of other elders towards me. 

I have not told you about myself too vividly. Along with the meek demeanour that you can associate with my name, I was the only kid in the family to be wearing thick, black-rimmed spectacles. Add to it my twin pleats of hair that my mother took immense pleasure in doing thrice every day, and that completes my picture for you. The elders were exhorting me to move out of my hibernation and join the kids at play. I was refusing the offer with suitable violent gestures, my mouth as usual locked in an embrace with the thumb. The verbal encouragement soon shifted to physical violence with them pushing me around to get up and go. This activity happened with a periodicity, the pause apparently to help elders to suitably change their strategies about me. Intermittently, I would successfully disengage my thumb from its cave and tried to explain that I was afraid of the swings and slides. I was happy watching kids play.

It was then that Grandma brought up the story. She called me by my name, Piddhi, and asked me if I knew what it meant, and then went on to explain what I have already explained about the name. Let me tell you the story of Piddhi-ke-Bapu, she said. I immediately jumped up, surprised at my own energy, and shouted to others, that Grandma was ready to tell a story. After a few strong shouts, the message got communicated through a chain messaging system to all, and soon enough, the kids were all at their posts near Grandma. That is how it started, this story. I told you it is too long to be told in one breath, even for Grandma. So we heard it over a couple of months, all out of doors. To be precise, the story unfolded in three installments, and that is how it is going to be told now. I will try, I know my capability and observation skill, to keep the story close to Grandma; but I do not guarantee that, for this story may actually be high jacked by the storyteller hidden inside me, as it happened with Grandma.

Let us now return to the story. This is a story about Piddhi, and it is necessary to establish the characters for you to get a proper feel. Piddhi, by now, is generically used for people like me. The father of the girl in the story, Piddhi-ke-Bapu (PKB for short) fell squarely into this generic definition, or so his wife had concluded. PKB was a wastrel, good for nothing husband and such types are rare to come by. PKM (short for Piddhi- Ki -Ma), was one of those many unfortunate wives to be tied in matrimony with a Piddhu like PKB.

What did PKB do to earn this reputation? He simply had to do nothing, and this he did with ruthless efficiency. He was incapable of earning bread for the family, which role PKM played with equal efficiency. He was highly introverted, like me, and all other Piddhi’s of the world. This meant he spoke more to himself than others. When he spoke, it was a joke, for he hardly could speak anything sensible. Turning to his physique, he was every lady’s nightmare. If you have seen photographs or movies or documentaries depicting the essential downtrodden farmer anywhere in the world, you will get the picture. PKB looked famished and undernourished all the time, eyes sunk into the sockets more deeply than normal; his salt peppered hair tousled which gave him the perfect harried look. Long legs wrapped in the traditional Indian dhoti of the northern parts of the country. His upper torso usually bare lending his ribs to be easily counted. The chronic coughing, dry type, added colour to this image. Top it up with the enormous stupidity he had been gifted with and you will but pity PKM.

PKM, on the other hand, was the traditional Indian woman. Her rigid beliefs in religion and tradition, in faith and destiny, in karma and its consequences; nothing deterred her from being cunning. This is how Indian women are, strong layers of traditions and a solid core of cunning, made necessary by the dictatorial male-dominated society and the consequential vagaries it brought upon women in India. If they survive the trauma of being dominated by men, you must credit their cunning. This cunning has resulted in derailing many a family, as well putting back derailed families on track, depending on what sort of cunning she develops. That is exactly why women are worshiped in India as deities and goddesses.

PKM had the cunning of a fox and she used it to run her family headed by a wastrel and Piddhi like PKB. In fact, she named the child, their only offspring, by that name so that she could get at PKB. Through the child, she was able to call PKB what he was. And I doubt whether this logic and cleverness of his wife ever dawned on PKB. 

She ran the household with an iron hand, determined to get the best out of her husband. She would ask him every day to go out and do something. And to give him company she sent their only prized possession, the donkey. Without fail, she would pack his lunch and push him out with the donkey to work.

One should not underestimate PKB. He had his own mind when it came to things, and the fact that he was considered a Piddhi was never lost on him. He would fume within for being a coward and good for nothing. On his sojourn with the donkey, he carried a stick. Every day, he went to an opening on the outskirts of the village where a large gathering of trees stood. He would beat the trees with his stick, one by one, forty of them a day. And every time he struck a tree, he would say with venom, “take that you thief, take that you robber”, as if he was a brave warrior with no fear whatsoever of the thieves, one or forty. On his return home he would tell PKM how he had confronted the 40 robbers and thieves and had outwitted them.

Cunning as she was, PKM listened to her husband without a word, knowing full well his capabilities. One day, she decided to call his bluff and hit upon a cunning plan to teach her husband a lesson of his life.

That day, after PKB was gone with the donkey, the lady disguised herself like a bandit, fierce-looking, hooded to avoid recognition; she borrowed a horse from a friendly neighbour and rode off behind PKB. At the clearing, she saw her husband dealing with the thieves with his stick and sniggered to herself. She suspected that even the donkey was laughing behind his back at his antics.

When she thundered on horseback and parked herself before her husband, she could see the terrified look on his face. 

What the hell are you doing? She demanded in a voice that curdled his blood. 

Nothing my lord, my master; what can I possibly do? I am just checking the trees, how strong they are.

 The hooded bandit roared at the villager: Is that all you are doing or are you up to some other mischief? Why do you hit the poor trees? Do you think they don’t hurt? I must punish you. Now, before I count five, you take off your clothes, all of them but one.

 By the time the count reached three, the clothes were off and PKB was sprinting away. The donkey, dazed at being abandoned, decided it would not follow his master and return home by itself. The bandit was roaring with laughter and soon sped away with the clothes.

Now you need to understand the predicament of a man who had just lost his clothes. How can he walk back to his house without attracting the attention of the villagers? PKB hid behind bushes till dusk and then used the most unfrequented paths to make his way back home.

PKM had a concern and worry writ large all over her. The donkey had long since returned without his master. When PKB rushed into the house, PKM was stunned to see the naked man, streaking past her. She demanded an explanation. PKB stammered as he did usually, but now all the more pronounced: I...I...I met a dreaded ba ba...bandit today and you mus..mus must thank your lucky stars and my courage that I managed to come back al..al...alive.

PKM said: And your clothes?

 PKB: In my ha..ha..haste to escape, I allowed my co..co..clothes to leave my body, or else the ba..ba..bandit could have caught me easily.

PKM roared with laughter at the sight of her stammering husband and threw a pack of clothes at him.

 He saw the clothes, his, and looked at his dear wife. I no..no..knew it was you. He said, smiling sheepishly. I just wanted to ta..ta..test you. 

You see, PKB was an Indian male, and Indian males do not allow women to strip their ego whatever the circumstance may be.

Time passed, and the second part of the story unfolds.

PKM asked her husband, one day, to go and meet their daughter in the next village. He could spend some time and enquire and find out how Piddhi was doing in her marriage. So it was decided that PKB and the donkey would travel together with some gifts for their daughter and her husband and family. He had to start early to reach the village by dusk. Traveling after dusk was risky because of the thick forest that had to be crossed.

Though time was of the essence, it did not matter much for PKB. And sure enough, he could just reach the forest at dusk. He, however, kept going and lost his way soon. The donkey and PKB were wandering aimlessly in the forest and it was dark. It was time for the animals of the jungle to prowl and hunt, and PKB and the donkey were sitting ducks for the predators. 

Fortune favours the cowards too, for PKB saw a hut with a lamp lighted. He hastened to the hut, determined to have something to eat and sleep there during the night. Outside the hut, he left the donkey with instructions to stay alert and not to wander anywhere. 

Inside, he found an old woman all by herself. Soon he discovered she was blind and quite old. He introduced himself and told her his story in brief, and prayed for her help. She gave him some bread with curry to eat and spread a sheet on the floor for him to sleep. She gave the donkey some leftover food, which he ate thankfully before falling asleep.

PKB wondered how the old lady lived alone in the forest. Was she not afraid of the wild animals, and thieves and bandits? 

She laughed and said: I fear nothing but Tappu Gada.

PKB was puzzled for he had never heard of anyone called Tappu Gada. The old lady said that of everything that lived on heaven and earth, it was Tappu Gada, which was the most fearsome and devastating. When he came, he would wreak havoc on her, throwing her life in disarray. She could not face his wrath on her own, neither could any mortal. That is why she feared none but Tappu Gada. 

For those who are wondering what the woman was speaking about, in her native lingo, she was referring to the rains. When rains came they flooded her hut which had broken her roof and forced her to seek asylum elsewhere. There was nothing she could do about it, being an orphan. And she, therefore, dreaded the rains.

For those like PKB, Tappu Gada was a demon of the most horrific kind. PKB failed to understand the import and meaning of the woman’s fear. And he got terrified by the description he had just heard of the monster. He could not sleep that night and decided to return home first thing in the morning.

PKB was wide awake and terrified when dawn broke into the forest. Without as much as a goodbye to his patron, he rushed out to find his donkey fast asleep. It was still dark and PKB cursed the donkey for being lazy. He shouted at it to wake up but it slept. Furious with this asinine indifference to a danger which was present and clear, he kicked and slapped the donkey. When this too did not work, he picked up a stick and started beating it furiously.

Grandma once said that anger clouds your vision and judgment. It was true for PKB now as he went about, blind in rage and fear, beating the poor donkey. The truth was, and PKB was too blind to see the truth; it was not the poor donkey he was thrashing but a tiger! And the sudden wrath that rained on it had paralyzed the tiger and terrorized it. He wondered why God had suddenly brought hell down upon him, and who was this monster who had been sent to beat him to death? Had the tiger sinned? Had he made the mistake of devouring the delicious donkey mistakenly; perhaps the donkey was some divine instrument with a divine mission or something. The donkey made up for several days of missed food for the tiger, and perhaps was more than what he should have eaten. His stomach was overfull and an overfull stomach brought sloth and sleep. 

The tiger reckoned in its wisdom that the only way to escape was to follow instructions of this great master. Mortals ran away at his mere look, and this master was fearlessly attacking him. There is only one rule of the law, obedience to the mightiest, and he was in the divine presence of the mightiest of them all.

When the tiger stood to obey his new master, the master jumped over it, baggage and all, and goaded it to rush home. The tiger ran, still in fear and terror at this humiliating experience that had been forced on him. Together they managed to reach home in good time. 

The entry of a man, Piddhi-ke-Bapu, whom all the village folk knew to be the worst of the cowards, riding a tiger? The very sight had villagers running into their homes and to safety. They were more concerned about the tiger than the man whom they knew as PKB. Least to say, PKM, brave and cunning as we know her to be, had shut herself in and secured the bolts. The sight of her husband riding home on a tiger who was a donkey when he started the journey jarred her already frayed nerves. Wives always expected their husbands to be unpredictable and do the unexpected and had tools to prepare for this, but what she now witnessed was beyond imagination.

The moment he reached home, PKB jumped off the tiger, gave it a few pats and lots of kicks instructing it to rest for some time, and rushed to the door. PKM took time to open it, and when she did, she was amazed to see the tiger already tired and sleeping! And her husband standing before her, with no trace of fear or terror! Something had happened to him; she was convinced that the spirits of the jungle had possessed her husband.

Without much ado, she pulled her husband within and closed the door. She was panting hard as if she had run a thousand miles. Mistaking her expression of fear and distress for anger at him for returning home without meeting their daughter, PKB launched into his stammering narrative and replayed the story for her benefit.

PKM realized then that her husband did not know anything about the tiger. She gently told him to look cautiously out at the donkey. The sight of a sleeping tiger in place of his favourite donkey shocked PKB. He trembled when he was told how he rode that ferocious tiger like he was riding a simple harmless donkey, how he had slapped and hit at a tiger, which no sane person would do.

PKB was at a loss of words to express his feelings. Having done the unthinkable, he had now put a whole village in danger, thereby becoming enemy of the village. He would be jailed for this offence and spend the rest of his life in solitary confinement. He wept and asked his wife to do something.

We have already seen how cunning PKM was and an Indian woman that she was, no situation was beyond her understanding and no problem defied a solution for her. As her husband wept, she was already thinking and scheming. By the time PKB had exhausted his tears, she was ready with her plan and was her calm and composed self.

Look PKB. She said to her husband. What has been done has been done. We now have to prepare for the next steps, and you must listen very carefully to me. One wrong step and we are doomed. As it stands now, we have a tiger who, in his own stupid belief, sits there outside, completely terrorized by you. We also have PKB, who, in his own stupid belief that a tiger is his donkey, beat the tiger black and blue and rode it home. You have realized your stupidity, and look how terrorized you are now! Once the tiger realizes its own stupidity, imagine what revenge it would wreak on us. It is, therefore, most important that for some more time at least, we let the tiger believe that you are its master. As for you, you will now and forthwith, ride the tiger to the king and hand it over to him as a present.

PKB looked at his wife, mouth agape in amazement. How could she, his life partner and well-wisher, throw him to the tiger’s mercy? How dare he ride it again, now knowing it was not a donkey? And what will the king say when he rode into the courtroom on a tiger? The soldiers will shoot him and the tiger at sight. He could never bring himself to ride that tiger again.

At this stage of the story, and I recall this vividly, Grandma looked at me with her blind eyes. A message was coming up for me, as this story was meant for me. Grandma pulled me to her and said: now my dear Piddhi; you see you are like PKB in some respects. Always lost in yourself and never confident of doing things on your own. You are not a coward, neither was PKB, but often, circumstances you create or are created around you force you to take positions; brave or coward. As we proceed with the story you will see that both cowardice and bravery are creations of our mind, and even the most cowardly can be brave when they are not conscious about it. Like PKB.

After a great deal of hesitation, PKM managed to convince PKB about her plan. PKB set out once again, this time with fear in his heart, and upon reaching the tiger did what he had done outside the old lady’s hut. The tiger woke up from its slumber and the horrors of the day returned to haunt it again. PKB jumped on its back and away rode the tiger to the king’s palace.

At the palace gates, the soldiers, sighting the man and the tiger stood paralyzed. On the back of the tiger, PKB sat paralyzed in anticipation of being shot at by the soldiers, which did not happen. Into the gates they rode, the tiger and PKB; and by the time they reached the king he had already been alerted and informed about the man riding a tiger.

Your majesty, said PKB to the king. I am a loyal subject. Please allow me to gift this tiger to you. My wife joins me in saluting you and all the ministers. 

The king sat amazed at this unbelievable sight of one of the poorest looking subjects riding into his court on the fiercest looking tiger. The king ordered the tiger to be taken away and confined to a cage. He then turned his attention to the man before him, the bravest of the brave he had ever seen or heard of. Now, what could he give this man in a reward that would be appropriate for this act of daredevilry?

The king consulted his ministers and after confabulations, the king made this stunning announcement. Let it be heard and understood that the king and the ministers appreciate this brave man who rode the tiger so fearlessly. The kingdom is indebted to him forever and the king would like to announce a reward befitting of the person who deserves this. It is therefore decided that with immediate effect, Piddhi-ke-Bapu will be the head of our armed forces, and will head the court as defence minister.

PKB was zapped. Suddenly he wanted his wife to be by his side. Her plans were going in a different direction, one that was never thought of or foreseen. There he was, planning to make a bow and a quick exit, back to his own world of solitude; all that now seemed to be moving away from him, and he had the nasty sensation of standing on quicksand. He was physically lifted by a handful of commoners and shouts in his praise resounded. The king left the court and the people dispersed.

When he returned home, he was looking morose and depressed. His wife had already learnt about his appointment as chief of army and defence minister, for villagers had come rushing to her house with congratulatory messages. The village could not believe PKB’s change in fortune. Imagine Piddhi-ke-Bapu moving from his hut to the palace!

Grandma paused. Valour and bravery cut both ways. Nobody can say that PKB was a brave man; now none can deny that he was fearless enough to ride a tiger! Poor PKB; imagine his predicament; what was he to do now?

He squarely blamed PKM for the mess he was in. He could not digest the fact that he would become minister tomorrow. What would he do? It was not possible for PKM to be at his side always. He would be exposed in a day, if not hours, and then the dungeons would gladly receive him as their guest.

PKM realized her folly and cursed herself for trying to be bright and cunning. Like PKB, she too realized that it was a matter of time that her husband would get exposed and consigned to the ignominy of jails. And with it she would be chased out of community and village, disowned by all and sundry.

Meanwhile, unknown to anyone, a new dimension was being added to PKB’s story. The reigning chief of army and defence minister was naturally upset at a stupid simpleton being appointed to such an important position just because he came to the king on a tiger. Humiliated and insulted, they seethed with a vengeance. Together they conspired to teach PKB and the king a good lesson.

The conspirators went to the rival king. There they unfolded their plans for a war against their ex-king. The army was weakened by the appointment of a stupid idiot, and this was the right time to attack and annex. In return, they would be given important positions in the new regime.

Even as PKB took charge of his new assignment and was uneasily pushing time till the fateful day of his exposè and imprisonment arrived, the conspiracy was taking deep roots. Forces were mobilized and kept in readiness for the imminent war between the two kingdoms. And finally, one fateful day, the war was declared.

The king summoned PKB and his ministers and directed them to prepare for the war. He gave a moving speech about PKB and his fearlessness and assured everyone that they would win under his leadership. PKB knew his final days had come, and his doom, along with the king, was writ large and clear.

As usual, he rushed to his wife for her wise counsel. PKM racked her brain and summoned all her cunning to hit upon yet another brilliant plan for saving her husband. She asked PKB to approach the king and request to be allowed to choose a horse of his choice for the war. The king would not say no. PKB had to be careful in the selection of the right horse, or else he would fail. He should, advised PKM, select a horse that was lame or weak. This would mean that the horse would tire soon and drop out of the battleground affording the opportunity to PKB to avoid the war, yet save his credibility and skin.

The king was surprised at the request. He thought to himself, this is what makes brave warriors. He was surprised that a simple villager could be so intelligent enough to be able to choose the best horse for the war. He appreciated the leadership qualities of PKB and ordered him to be shown the stables.

There were hundreds of horses, each one finer than the other. The stable chief proudly took PKB around explaining him the quality of the horses. PKB, to their amazement, appeared to be more interested in inspecting the legs of horses than anything. Can this be another of his brilliant strategies, those around him thought, secretly admiring the brave warrior for showing remarkable foresight in a war situation. There was no doubt he would select the best and the fittest of the horses.

It took some time for PKB to decide the horse he would ride. All the horses he saw were standing on four legs and looked hale and healthy. Suddenly, he spotted one, splendid beast and the tallest of the horses in the stable standing on three legs. His heart leapt; here was a horse which appeared to be having problems, one of its feet was either fractured or not fit to carry the load. He immediately pointed out to the horse and said that one. That is the horse I want. The master of the stables was looking at PKB with eyes that could pop out any time. How could a person, he wondered, who, just two weeks ago, could not even ride a donkey properly, choose the best horse in the stable? This horse was the king’s personal favourite and had stood by the king in many a war.

When the king was told about the selection, he proudly told his ministers that his choice of PKB as head of the army was correct. And again, he predicted, they would win any war, any battle with PKB in the front. Those of the ministers who secretly had grave misgivings about the kind’s choice, now hung their heads in the shameful realization that they were wrong and the king was right.

When PKB discovered the truth about the horse he had selected, he knew it was all over. One can fight another with cunning, but who can fight fate? His wife, he admitted to himself, was a smart lady endowed with abundant intelligence. She had tried her best, but he once again had failed her. His heart sunk when he thought about his impending fate and that of his family after him.

And so it happened to be, that PKB the stupid who was now acclaimed by most as the bravest person in the land, sat on the king’s best horse and lead the large army to war. The bugles were sounded, and the roar that rent the air sent shivers down his spine. He made a last prayer to God before the horse leapt forward.

The armour he wore was befitting of a trained warrior, and it hung heavy on his pitiful body. The sword he held in his hand was so heavy that he had trouble holding it. And the horse, a warrior horse, powered ahead to plunge itself and its master headlong into the enemy camp. PKB could barely manage to hold on to the sword and the horse. He knew he would topple even before the horse reached its target destination. The poor horse would never know it was carrying a master not worthy of riding him. And when he was flung off from its back, it would look miserably at him and perhaps die in the guilt that it could not carry a warrior to the fight.

And so it was that the war began, with a brave warrior reluctantly sitting on a horse, being thrown from one side to the other. The warrior horse soon left the entire army behind. Imagine PKB, hurtling on the horse towards his death. Like a cartoon, his frail body clothed in heavy armour was swinging and flaying like mad, his sword slipping time and again only to be caught by his desperate hands.

On the other side, the enemy army was awaiting the onslaught. The deeds of the man who rode the tiger were not lost on any chief and soldier. They knew it would be a fierce battle, and seeing the enemy chief pull ahead of his army, they could not help feeling the tingle in their spines. What a brave warrior he would be to charge at the enemy single-handed.

PKB was now at the end of his wits and had given up on his fate. He was prepared to die and had now even stopped struggling for possession of the sword. Then, as if God sent, he saw a huge old tree coming up in front of him. This was his last chance for survival. His mind worked madly, and he was surprised at himself for thinking in such a cunning manner, like his wife PKM. He would jump and cling to a branch of the tree, and would thus be saved. He directed the horse towards the tree.

And the tree was upon him in a flash. He put out his hand and grabbed a branch. To his horror, the old tree shook and trembled before jumping out of the ground and into his hands. Instead of being on the tree, the tree was on him. He madly held on to the great old tree, weakened as it was by years of existence. With two hands, he lifted the tree above his head, fearing that if he lost grip on the tree, it would kill him instantly.

It so happens that the tree which fell into PKB’s hands was the most revered tree in the land, believed by kings and commoners to possess great divine powers. People prayed to the tree for generations for granting their wishes. Everyone bowed before the tree when they happened to pass by it. Soldiers from different lands offered their prayers to the tree before setting out for battles.

The enemy camp watched in horror at the man hurtling towards them with the enormous and divine tree in his hands. How could that be? Who but only the bravest, no, who but the one chosen by the Gods themselves could uproot such a massive tree and use it as his weapon? Which army could stand against a divine weapon, put into the enemy hands by the gods themselves? Definitely, the Gods were on the enemies’ side, and the war was surely against the wishes of the Gods. 

The enemy panicked, and before PKB could reach anywhere close to them, they were gone; vanished. The war had been won without bloodshed; without a single arrow being shot and without a sword clashing against the other.

You can well imagine what happened to PKB. Now you see how a coward and stupid can be suddenly transformed into the bravest warrior. Though he was not really brave, circumstances conspired to make him brave. And there lies the point you must note.

There is no such thing as bravery. You all know how I, your Grandma, threw myself in the waters to save my friend from the crocodile. Was I brave? I don’t think so. I simply followed my instincts. And then the ghosts at the haunted house; Remember? They were ghosts to us only because we feared in our minds about the haunted house and the possibility of ghosts in them. They turned out to be poor villagers. Fear and ghosts lie in our minds, and so my little Piddhi, you are as brave or as cowardly as the rest of us. Now, get up and throw yourself on the slides. See how your fear disappears.

Well, that is the story of Piddhi-ke-Bapu.