Once, in a tiny village, there lived a rich and miserly old woman. She was so mean and so miserly that she would not spend a paisa of her money if she could help it. Her house was the most ramshackle in the village, her clothes were old and ragged, and she lived on the most frugal of diets.

She had no friends because she trusted no one. ‘They are after my money!’ she would say to herself and turn away anyone who tried to be friends with her. She had no family because, fed up of her miserly ways, they had all moved away. So she lived all alone.

She didn’t trust the banks, so she kept her money hidden away in her house – no one knew where. None of the villagers had entered her house in decades – she wouldn’t let anyone enter. ‘They’re after my money!’ she would say, and shut the door on their faces.

The villagers would whisper amongst themselves about her fabulous wealth, and wonder to whom it would go once she died, for children she had none. One day a young man on his way to the city in search of a fortune was passing through the village. He heard the villagers talking amongst themselves about the rich old woman.

‘This is a good way to make my fortune!’ thought the young man. ‘I will make the old woman leave all her money to me!’

He picked up his bundle and walking up to the old woman’s house knocked at her door.

‘Go away!’ cried the old woman.

‘Aunt, don’t you recognize me?’ said the young man. ‘I am your long-lost nephew. Don’t you remember me?’

The young man refused to go away. Instead, he made himself indispensable. He would fetch and carry, cook and clean, and do anything and everything that the old woman asked. Of course, he also kept a sharp eye out for the treasure – perhaps the old woman would let slip where she had hidden her fortune. But the old woman was always very careful, and despite all the young man’s efforts, he could not find her money.

Months passed, and the old woman became quite fond of the young man.

One day the old woman fell ill. The young man ran for the doctor and did all he could to make her comfortable. But the old woman grew steadily worse. She knew that she was going to die soon. She called the young man to her and said to him, ‘Son, my time has come. When I am gone, this house and all that it contains will be yours. But on one condition only – when I am dead, you must place me on my funeral pyre with my pillow. I love my pillow. It will give me comfort even in death. Do you promise?’

The young man promised solemnly. After all, the old woman was giving him her house and ALL that it contained – by which, he was sure, she meant all her money. Her request was a small condition to fulfill in return for her fortune.

Soon after, the old woman died. The young man did as he had promised. He performed the old woman’s last rites, and upon her pyre he placed the tattered old pillow she had loved so much. He lit the pyre, and as he watched it burn, the only thought in his head was of the old house that she had left him, and the treasure hidden inside it.

As soon as the funeral was over, he rushed back to the house and began his search. He turned out the cupboards, tore down the walls and ceilings, and dug up the floor. But treasure he found none. Where could the old woman have kept her money? It HAD to be in the house somewhere…but where? He went over every inch of the house again and again…with no success. Exhausted, he cursed the old woman. ‘Where did the old crone hide her money?’ he cried. ‘Did she take it with her when she died?’

And of course she had – in the pillow she had asked the young man to burn on her funeral pyre.