The Precious Ruby

“Grandpa! Tell us about the story of the Red Ruby!”- 6-year-old Kiba tugged hard at Dorji’s sleeves, her eyes sparkling jubilantly. Sonam, her twin brother and partner in all sorts of mischiefs, nodded vigorously while Pema, their feline companion purred coyly. Dorji’s eyes crinkled up with a knowing smile. “Again? Why not some other tale? Grandpa is so worn out narrating the same story over and again!” – Dorji inquired with a facetious annoyance on his face. “What’s narrating?” – Sonam asked, crinkling up his tiny nose. “Oh, it must be to do with Storytelling, is it not Grandpa? C’mon then!” – Kiba sounded impatient now. Dorji, finding no way out, sighed loudly and bade the children sit down on the bench in their favourite corner of the garden, which was under a large and aged apple tree, Pema following their lead quietly. It was a crisp and cool autumn morning.

The foliage all around wore a resplendent shade of red while the sky was a brilliant azure. Bhutanese valleys bear a serene yet splendid appearance during this time of the year. The Wangmo household, located in the town of Trongsa, perched high up in the Himalayas and holding immense importance for the royal family was a revered one. Dorji Wangmo, though quite a reclusive old man, was a respected man and proclaimed as being of an amiable nature by those who knew him. Although beginning from a humble background, Dorji had been able to build a name for his family through sheer hard work and business acumen; delving into all sorts of trades ranging from cottage industries dealing in exquisite Handicrafts and dried fruits to tourism and was even rumoured to have gained royalty as clients.

The old patriarch having handed over his responsibilities to his successors now loved spending his time in gardening and with his grandchildren. Dorji began his tale, having settled down comfortably with the children. ‘It was a beautiful day in autumn, quite like how it is today. The Festival of the Dance of the Ox was on in the town of Wangdue Phodrong. The markets all around had been teeming with people buying all sorts of paraphernalia for the festivity- the little ones trying to get the parents to buy them colourful and gilded dragon masks, the adults haggling about the prices of the wares with the shopkeepers; it was indeed a lively sight. The air had begun turning chillier. The last winter had been severe and longer than usual.

People had to please the deities better this time, thereby leading to an enhanced vigour in the preparations of the festival. Now in one of the villages near the town lived a poor woodcutter along with his widowed mother in a thatched hut upon a lonely hill. The hut was rather in a ramshackle condition, drafty more often than desirable thanks to the holes in the roof and cracks in the window panes. The impoverished dwellers could not do anything much about it for they hardly had enough to feed themselves and survive. Poverty only served as a shield from thieving strangers for even thieves were richer than them.

Our woodcutter did resent his fate from time to time; resented himself for not being capable enough to buy his mother even a tiny hairpin from the markets as he would tread wearily towards home after a long day in the woods; resented festivals all the more as he stared back and forth at his and his mother’s shabby habiliments and at the richly embellished garments of so many others around him as they rejoiced and prepared busily for the celebrations. Misfortune had been a stubborn companion since he had barely learnt to understand the world. His father had been taken away from him when he had just begun to comprehend the warmth of parental affection. His mother would often recollect the ill-fated day when his father had gone out as his won't, for collecting fire wood in the forests and never returned, as they sat down to their dinner of radish gruel and boiled wild herbs that could be found growing haphazardly alongside the little brook running close to the hill where they dwelt.

His body had been found next day by the local villagers and the young widow and her child had been given baskets of potatoes by a few sympathetic neighbours, to help prepare for the funeral ritual. Although wracked by grief and despair at their sudden loss, they could not help savouring the taste of the potatoes which they could not otherwise afford to have. One night as the woodcutter lay slumbering, there was a sudden knock on the door. He edged towards the door cautiously. There was yet another wrap on the door. Grabbing his axe, he proceeded to open the door. The doorway was flooded with a strange light, bearing an almost other worldly aura.

A monk, a straw hat shielding his head stood facing away from the house. Without a word, the monk began walking away briskly. Curiosity got the better of the woodcutter and he followed suit. They walked on and on till them came to the dense forest and still they did not stop. They went deeper and deeper until they came to the foot of a cliff.

On and on the monk climbed without flinching even a bit. The woodcutter followed too. The climb up to the cliff-top was an arduous one. When they had almost reached their destination and could spot a tiny monastery like structure, the monk suddenly turned to face his companion. It was his father’s face. The woodcutter gasped aloud and awoke with a start. Daylight was yet far away. He could hardly believe that his adventures had only been part of a dream. Why had his dead father appeared to him after all these years? There had to be a meaning to his dream, notwithstanding its eerie nature. He slept fitfully for the remainder of the night.

Next morning, he asked his mother to pack him an extra rice ball citing weakness from hunger as his reason. The poor mother, though hungry herself, could only pity her child and made him an extra rice ball, not caring if she had any rice left for herself. With a pang of guilt but with an unwavering determination, the woodcutter set out for the day. He walked on and on until he reached the nearby woods. Instead of pausing at his usual haunts where he would chop wood for the day, he proceeded towards the deeper parts of the jungle. He did not know how long he walked. Not a soul did he come across.

Twilight had begun drawing in and with it, the seemingly familiar woods resumed a threatening appearance. Wild beasts prowled about in the darkness of foliage menacingly. Exhausted and frightened as he was, he knew he could not rest yet for unknown terrors lurked everywhere to engulf him at any moment. He began munching on one of the rice balls as he walked. His tired feet were now slowing down his progress and he had to put in every ounce of strength left in him, the seemingly endless forests weighing down on his body and soul. But wait! Was that light ahead? An opening? Who was that standing clad in Orange?

The monk had come to his rescue. Relief flooded in through the woodcutter. He felt calm and contented. The monk turned to face him. His father was here, the most beautiful of smiles enlightening up his face. He reached to soothe his son’s troubled and sweat-drenched brow. Such was the soothing effect of those hands that the woodcutter could feel his clenched insides unfurl. Tears streamed down his eyes. ‘Father!’- The woodcutter opened his eyes. His face felt moist. Dawn had broken in. He found himself lying in a little clearing. He must have faded out and not even realized it, so tired the toil of the previous day had made him. He got up, brushing himself of dead leaves. Fog clouded his vision and rendered the surroundings a touch of an enigma. He moved forward tentatively. Strangely, the place seemed familiar.

Chilled to the bones, he realized with a shock that it was all from his dream. His steps became bolder and firmer with the realization. His steps led him to the feet of the cliff that he had dreamed of. The ledge to the top was narrow and made further treacherous due to the enveloping fog. One false step could be fatal. Clinging to the rocky wall for dear life, he edged forward tentatively, his foot often sending loose pebbles tumbling down into the abysmal depths on the other side. The steep climb was soon draining out his energy, the thinning air as he gained altitude causing him breathlessness and ear-aches while nips of chilled air biting on the exposed parts of his skin. Resting from time to time and saving his breath, the woodcutter moved forward and at long last, reached his destination. The monastery bore an ancient air, ivy covering its crumbling walls.

Crumbling frescoes decorated the dilapidated walls of the monastery while two massive dragon statues stood guarding the entrance. He entered the monastery, his heart throbbing wildly, whether from exertions or from anticipation he knew not. The insides were mostly gloomy, excepting one spot which glowed with red iridescence. The spot contained a great statue of the meditating Lord Buddha. With cowered steps and bowing down with reverence, the woodcutter approached the Buddha. There, in the out-turned palms of the statue, lay a bright red Ruby. Fear gripped the poor woodcutter. What was he to do? Was he required to pick this precious stone up and make it his own?

Or would he be considered greedy and punished if he were to do so? For a moment he considered turning back without doing anything. But his mother’s pitiable face began haunting him. Perhaps fate was showing him a way to take a call, to build his mother and himself a life of prosperity and fullness. Begging the Buddha’s forgiveness, he grasped the Ruby and ran out as if death itself had been set loose on his feet. Open air, however, instilled confidence and wrapping the prized possession in a piece torn out of the already tattered cloak he wore and placing it close to his chest, he set off on his return journey.’ “Did the monastery not crumble down further? It usually happens in other stories!” – Kiba quipped in.

“Well…Perhaps our hero was not to be tested that way.” – Dorji smiled at his granddaughter. No matter how many times the story was told, the children were always inquisitive. Dorji resumed his tale again. ‘Bearing this piece of sudden luck, the woodcutter, feeling joy and apprehension, made his way down the difficult and slippery ledge and once more through the dense woods. The possession of the precious Ruby put his senses on the edge. He refused to pay any heed to his aching muscles and the nasty sores on his feet. After walking for nearly a day and a half, he could spot the road up to his village. But he could not go home yet. He needed to dispose of his precious burden. He trudged towards the local Gem polisher’s shop.

The shopkeeper, despite his initial distaste at the sight of so tatterdemalion a visitor, found him immensely interesting after having a look at the Ruby. Such a perfectly cut and polished piece of beauty the red stone was as had never been beheld by him. Striking a bargain with the poor woodcutter that stood to profit him well and yet could not be detected by his customer- him being ignorant about the trade- the clever gem polisher offered the woodcutter a glass of water and bid him off. The woodcutter, blissful and hopeful about his new-found riches turned homewards with gay steps, thinking of how he could finally be an able son. He had not gone far when a little ragamuffin blocked his way, begging him for food.

Before this one could be driven off, yet another three such urchins came running towards him, staring at him with expectant eyes. He could not ignore the dirt-stricken, upturned faces; he well understood the pangs of hunger. He bought each one of them enough rice that could feed a family of 4 for at least a month, besides spending on warm broth to fill them up presently. This group had barely frolicked away on their way, when the poor woodcutter was assailed by yet another little group of street urchins. His beneficiaries must have spread the word about his generosity. Saddened as he was, having to come across so many wretchedly poor children, he did his best to feed them as well.

As the day progressed, he turned out to be a benefactor to adults and children alike, thus leaving him with hardly any of his earnings by the time he reached home. He could only offer his mother a good meal and recount his incredible adventures. Although he had not been frugal with his money, he felt a singular sense of satisfaction and slept well, after a hearty meal. Destiny is a funny business truly. It mocks and plays with humans, choosing and abandoning at whim. It so happened that among the many that the woodcutter had entertained the previous day, the king too was present in disguise.

Curious as to how this shabbily garbed man came across the resources to feed so many, he called for his presence at the Royal court. The simple woodcutter, fearful that he was eventually done for, appeared at his summoning. He recounted the entire tale to His Majesty. The Gem Polisher was subsequently sent for and directed to bring the Ruby. He complied immediately, for no matter how sly he was, he was afraid of upsetting the King. So impressed was His Majesty at the generosity and courage of the woodcutter that he decided to reward him handsomely. The woodcutter’s fortune was turned overnight.

He began investing the riches acquired this time sagaciously and gained name and fame not only as a rich man but also as a rather charitable one.’ “What happened to the Ruby?”- Sonam inquired. “Well, it was placed in a safe in the King’s private chamber. But that was long ago. Dynasties have come and gone. Its whereabouts are a mystery now.” “When I grow up, I will go seeking it for sure.” – Kiba said with determination. Pema meowed her approval. “Did this woodcutter really exist grandpa? Why do you never say what his name was?” – Sonam had another interesting question. “You never know. He might be somewhere here, standing very close to you!” – Dorji replied, his eyes twinkling.