Folktales for children: A peppercorn saves the day and wins the princess’s hand in marriage

Once upon a time, the king of a land had a terrible headache.

“Aiyyo, Rama! I cannot bear this. My head is going to split into a thousand pieces,” he moaned, and he groaned and wished he could have loaned his splitting head to someone else.

His vaidyar, the court doctor, told him, “I will make you a special potion with seven black peppercorns ground into it. It will cure your headache in a jiffy.”

So he brought forth his mortar and pestle, and filled it with all kinds of spices and medicinal extracts. Then he counted seven dark-as-themoonless-night peppercorns and sprinkled them on the other ingredients. What he didn’t notice was that one of the peppercorns had rolled out of the mortar and his special potion ended up having only six peppercorns. Blissfully unaware, the vaidyar went ahead.

He took up his pestle and made a thick ground paste of the ingredients. He added it to some tulsi water and, satisfied with the result, presented it to the king. The king, eagerly looking forward to getting rid of his headache, drank the potion in one big gulp.

“GMMMKYUMMMM!” he swallowed.

And lo! And behold! Nothing happened. You know why.

It was because of that escaped peppercorn.

Now, what happened to that escaped little spice? He went rolling along the side of the mortar, down the vaidyar’s room, out of the palace and into the streets by the bazaar.

When he finally paused to take a breath, what did he see?

He saw a paati dishing up some heavenly appams, each filled with melting jaggery, ghee and bits of coconut. They were brought out of the pan, freshly deep-fried, a ripe, rich brown glistening in the sun and the oil. This was obviously Paati’s secret recipe, probably handed down to her by her own grandmother years ago.

How do I know that? Because only a recipe that is so time-tested instantly makes your mouth water.

And did the peppercorn’s mouth water!

The rich scent wafted through the air, tickling his taste buds, making him want to wolf down the whole basket of appams right then and there.

But Paati would have none of that.

“Don’t you dare touch those appams,” she warned the peppercorn. “If you want some for yourself, bring me the ingredients, and I will make them for you.”

So the peppercorn went off in search of the ingredients for his own batch of appams.

As he rolled down the street, he saw an empty barrel by the roadside. He rolled the barrel down to the merchant’s shop, and because he was so small, nobody could see a peppercorn when he filled the barrel with jaggery and ghee and coconut and flour and oil. He then rolled it back to Paati and said, “Here you go. Now make my own barrelful of appams.”

And so Paati whipped up the most delicious batch of appams for the peppercorn.

The peppercorn set off with his barrel of appams and settled down inside a temple of Goddess Kali. He then proceeded to chomp down on one appam after another.

“GLOMPPP GLOMPPPP!” he went. “CHOMMMPPPP. THBKKKK. GLOMPPPP!” It wasn’t long before the scent and sight of the appams attracted Kali’s attention.

She eyed the appams longingly, trying to keep her mouth from watering too much, and asked the peppercorn, “Will you please give me one appam?”

Without diverting his attention from the appam he was gorging, the pepper absentmindedly answered, “Yes, yes. Hold on while I eat this one.”

Kali somehow managed to control her cravings for a few more minutes, but the sight of the fast-disappearing appams was too much for her to bear.

“I hope you will leave me one appam?” she pleaded to the peppercorn.

“Haven’t I already told you I will?” he snapped at her, continuing to wolf down more appams.

And before he knew it, he had wiped out the entire barrel of appams.

When Kali saw there were no more left for her, she faced the wall in a huff, turning her back to the world.

When the temple pujari arrived in the evening, he was alarmed to see the goddess facing the wall, instead of the sanctum’s door. He begged her to turn around; he made all kinds of promises and entreaties, chanted many a mantra, but to no avail.

At his wits’ end, he finally sent word to the king, fearing that a great misfortune might befall the land if the deity could not be convinced to turn around again.

When the king came to the temple and saw the dreaded scene for himself, he proclaimed that whoever could get Goddess Kali to do a volte face would get half his kingdom and his daughter’s hand in marriage.

All manner of people came forth and tried, but no one could get Kali to budge.

By this time, the peppercorn – that same seventh black peppercorn who had escaped the king’s vaidyar’s mortar and pestle – woke up from his post-appam slumber and overheard what was going on.

He stepped up to the king and proclaimed that he could do what none of the others had been able to.

He sent everyone out of the temple, shut the door behind him and whispered in the goddess’s ear, “Would you like to eat some appams?”

At once, Kali turned around with a smile and agreed.

The peppercorn had achieved the impossible. The king was overjoyed but also faced a quandary. How could he give half his kingdom and his daughter to a peppercorn?

I’m sure you have guessed by now that this was no ordinary peppercorn.

As soon as the king expressed his concerns, the peppercorn turned into a handsome prince and married the princess.

And they all lived happily ever after

Excerpted with permission from ‘Kali and the Seventh Black Pepper’ in Folktales from Tamil Nadu, Narayan Devanathan, Red Panda/Westland.