He showed me the mango-tree
which had acted the part of the bridegroom on the occasion, but the
bride had disappeared from his side. 'And where is the bride, the
tamarind?' 'The only tamarind I had in the grove died', said the old
man, 'before we could bring about the wedding; and I was obliged to
get a jasmine for a wife for my mango. I planted it here, so that we
might, as required, cover both bride and bridegroom under one canopy
during the ceremonies; but, after the marriage was over, the gardener
neglected her, and she pined away and died.'
'And what made you prefer the jasmine to all other trees after the
tamarind?'
'Because it is the most celebrated of all trees, save the rose.'
'And why not have chosen the rose for a wife?'
'Because no one ever heard of marriage between the rose and the
mango; while they [_sic_] take place every day between the mango and
the _chambeli_ (jasmine).'[3]
After returning from the groves, I had a visit after breakfast from a
learned Muhammadan, now guardian to the young Raja of Uchahara,[4]
who resides part of his time at Jubbulpore. I mentioned my visit to
the groves and the curious notion of the Hindoos regarding the
necessity of marrying them; and he told me that, among Hindoos, the
man who went to the expense of making a tank dared not drink of its
waters till he had married his tank to some banana-tree, planted on
the bank for the purpose.
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