The goddess who obeyed a servant’s command

The Living Stream

There was a village. It had a wealthy headman. Thimmi was a servant in his household. She talked excessively as if she had lost her mind. No one in the village liked her.

The village had a tiny tank lined by a narrow bund. Taken in by their charm, a few stonecutters passing by built a small mantapa (pandal) on the bund. A few days later, a weary old woman, who stopped by to rest in the pandal’s shade, built a small stove inside the pandal to let other wayfarers cook their food.

The following day, a potter, who was travelling in a cart full of pots, halted near the pandal to rest. While departing from there, he placed a clay pot on the stove as that might come in handy for other travelers. Subsequent passersby also contributed in various ways. One of them filled the pot with water, another dropped rice grains into it, a third put some jaggery inside the mix and a fourth brought some firewood and lit the stove to let the rice cook.

Soon thereafter, Thimmi walked by, carrying a headload of manure to the headman’s banana grove, which was close to the pandal. After dropping the manure inside the grove, she stood still. A lovely fragrance emanated from somewhere. Intrigued, she went inside the pandal and found perfectly cooked rice and jaggery inside the pot. She was feeling hungry then. To avoid being seen by anyone, she decided to have the food in the Kalagattamma shrine in the distance. She spread the meal on a plaintain leaf she had plucked from the headman’s grove and started eating it. When she lifted her eyes, she saw the goddess looking at her. “How dare you look at me, Kalagattamma?” she cried out. “Turn around, I say!”

The stone idol didn’t move. “I came here to eat by myself, but here you are looking at me!” Thimmi continued angrily. “Turn around right now! Or I’ll scratch your face with a broom!” The goddess turned her back thinking, “Why should I get my face scratched by her?” Thimmi then finished her meal in peace.

Later in the day, the priest of the Kalagattamma shrine noticed the reversed position of the idol. Shocked, he raised an alarm all over the village. Everyone came running towards the shrine. Try as they might to move the idol, it wouldn’t budge.

Anyone who restored the idol’s position, the headman announced, would be rewarded with the land attached to the shrine. No one volunteered. Thimmi then stepped forward, “I’ll do it.” While people wondered if she had gone mad, someone among them said she ought to be given a chance.

A large number of people assembled outside the shrine the next day. Thimmi alone went inside. She put the cooked rice she had taken along on a plaintain leaf and sat down to eat, facing the goddess. Looking at the goddess, she said: “I wanted to eat without being seen by anyone. But you are now staring at me. Turn around!” The idol didn’t move. “Wait, I’ll teach you.” Picking up the broom from the corner, Thimmi threatened her, “Will you turn around or should I thrash you with this broom?” The goddess thought, “Why should I let her hit me?” She returned to her original position.

Thimmi walked outside and announced, “Everyone can go in now.” The villagers were thrilled to see the idol as it had always stood. They exclaimed, “No one is as truthful as our Thimmi!” The land attached to the shrine passed on to Thimmi. She then left the headman’s household and lived a life of contentment.

(Note: The selfless charity of the travellers, the willingness of the goddess to yield to Thimmi, but not to the other villagers, which elevates the moral worth of the servant girl and makes suspect that of her despisers, the affirmation of a life outside bondage and servitude, all of these narrative elements lets us glimpse the imagination of a rural community grappling with ethical matters. The story which I have translated in abridged form above is found in Kannada Janapada Kathegalu (Sagar Publishers, 1970), a classic anthology of folktales compiled by the famous folklorist, Ji. Sham. Paramashivaiah, 50 years ago. He had recorded this tale from Rame Gowda, a 30-year-old man from Ambala Jeerahalli, a village in Bellur taluk, Mandya district, two years earlier).