VISHNU SHARMA
Panchatantra
Translated from the Sanskrit by Rohini Chowdhury
Introduction By Nilanjana S. Roy
PUFFIN BOOKS
Contents
Introduction
Prologue
Part 1: The Falling Out of Friends
The Story of Sanjivaka the Bull and Pingalaka the Lion
The Story of the Meddlesome Monkey
The Story of the Jackal and the Drum
The Story of Dantila and Gorambha
The Story of the Jackal, the Hermit and Ashadhbhuti
The Story of the Crow and the Cobra The Story of the Heron and the Crab
The Story of the Lion and the Rabbit
The Story of the Tiger, the Monkey, the Snake and the Man
The Story of the Louse and the Bedbug
The Story of the Jackal Who Fell into a Vat of Indigo Dye
The Story of the Wild Goose and the Owl
The Story of the Camel, the Jackal and the Crow
The Story of the Tittibh Bird and the Sea The Story of the Foolish Turtle and the Swans
The Story of the Three Fishes
The Story of the Sparrow and the Elephant
The Story of the Wild Geese and the Bird Catcher
The Story of How the Jackal Tricked the Wolf and the Lion
The Story of the Monkeys and the Tailorbird
The Story of the Monkey and the Sparrow
The Story of Dharmabuddhi and Papabuddhi The Story of the Heron and the Mongoose
The Story of the Iron Scales and the Merchant
The Story of the King and the Monkey
The Story of the Thief and the Four Merchants
Part 2: The Gaining of Friends
The Story of the Crow, the Mouse, the Turtle and the Deer
The Story of the Mouse and the Mendicant The Story of the Brahmin’s Wife and the Sesame Seeds The Story of the Huntsman, the Boar and the Jackal
The Story of the Unfortunate Weaver
The Story of the Elephants and the Mice
Part 3: Of Crows and Owls
The Story of the Crows and the Owls
The Story of How the Birds Chose a King The Story of the Rabbits and the Elephants
The Story of the Hare, the Sparrow and the Cat
The Story of the Three Clever Thieves, the Brahmin and His Goat
The Story of the Brahmin and the Cobra The Story of the Golden Swans
The Story of the Turtle Dove and the Bird Catcher
The Story of the Merchant and the Thief
The Story of the Brahmin, the Thief and the Pishach
The Story of the Two Snakes
The Story of the Mouse-maiden Who Married a Mouse
The Story of the Bird with the Golden Droppings
The Story of the Talking Cave
The Story of the Serpent and the Frogs
Part 4: The Loss of Gains
The Story of the Monkey and the Crocodile
The Story of the Frog King and the Serpent
The Story of the Donkey and the Lion
The Story of Yudhishthira the Potter The Story of the Jackal Who Was Adopted by a Lioness
The Story of the Donkey in the Tiger’s Skin
The Story of the Fox in the Woods
The Story of the Camel Who Had a Bell around His Neck
The Story of the Clever Jackal
The Story of the Dog in a Foreign Land
Part 5: Unconsidered Actions
The Story of the Foolish Barber
The Story of the Brahmin’s Wife and the Mongoose The Story of the Man with the Wheel upon His Head The Story of the Learned Men Who Had No Common Sense
The Story of the Two Fishes and the Frog
The Story of the Singing Donkey
The Story of the Weaver and the Yaksha
The Story of Somasharma’s Father
The Story of King Chandra
Translator’s Note
Classic Plus
Footnotes
Introduction
Translator’s Note
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Copyright
Introduction
Strange things, stories. They seem so harmless—words on a page, pinned flat in a book. You would laugh if someone said to you, ‘Stories are alive, did you know? As alive as you, or me—and be careful around them, they’re older than us.’
But it’s true. Many years ago, I read the stories in the Panchatantra for the first time. I swear I’d never read about Sanjivaka the bull and Pingalaka the lion, or about the jackal and the drum, or the dainty little mouse-maiden before. Halfway through, I felt my neck prickle with a creepy sense of familiarity. I hadn’t read these ancient stories, written centuries ago, in print—but I knew them already.
There are two explanations for this. Because the Panchatantra is so famous, one explanation, the easy one, is that I had overheard someone telling someone else these stories. This was in the days before everyone had a television set at home, so people had a lot of different ways to fill the evening hours. They sang songs, the sensible ones went out and climbed trees, and the others stayed home and told stories.
So yes, it’s always possible that I had heard them before, perhaps even seen paintings from the Panchatantra in some friend’s house, but forgotten that I had heard or seen these very old stories. That must be why I felt I knew them. Except that I was the kind of child who liked stories a lot. I forgot people’s faces, often. I forgot my homework (all right, sometimes that was on purpose). I forgot to eat my breakfast (not when it was yummy, though). But I never forgot song lyrics, or books I had read, or stories I had heard. Never ever.
There is another possibility—the second explanation. If you believe, really believe, that stories are alive, then I must tell you also that the older a story is, and the longer it’s lasted, the more powerful it becomes. This is not so hard to believe. Storytelling and writing are magic. You take the same twenty-six letters of the alphabet everyone gets, and you make something that will live inside people’s heads for a very long time indeed—that is magic, making something out of nothing. So, old stories, the kind that have lived in the heads of many humans, across many centuries, for longer than we can imagine, carry the most potent magic of all. The truly magical stories, the old ones, the unforgettable ones? Maybe, just maybe, they already live inside your head. You’re shaking your head right now, thinking, ‘Mmm-hmmm, nope. Not in my head, they don’t.’
But consider this. The Panchatantra is very, very old. No one knows exactly how old, but some experts who’ve spent years studying manuscripts and storytelling and other important subjects, think that Pandit Vishnusharma might have written it in the third century CE. That’s a lot of centuries. Now consider this, too: you have roughly four human generations in each century. I hope you like maths, because this is a fun exercise that you can do on your own—count the number of centuries between our time and the third century CE, and multiply by four. That big number you’re looking at? That is the number of human generations the Panchatantra has reached over time.
Stories are alive, fiercely so. No one knows why one cycle of stories—maybe something that the Neanderthals told each other under a star-filled sky—splutters out in one generation, never crossing over to other centuries. No one knows why these stories from the third century CE to ours have survived, what makes them special enough to be read, and remembered, and rewritten by one generation of humanity after another. Once you believe that some stories have a powerful life-force, here’s the other thing that becomes apparent: some stories like to travel.
***
One of the most beautiful illustrated pages I’ve seen comes from an ancient manuscript called Kalila-wa-Dimna. It shows a rocky but
beautiful landscape, with trees and shrubs and pretty flying birds above the grey rock. Inside the stone, cut away by the clever painter, encased in velvet under-the-ground blackness, lies a beautiful red jackal, Dimna, reaching out his paws to his brother, Kalila, asking to be freed from his imprisonment.* It is known as Calila e Dimna in Castile, and is read around all of the Arab world in Urdu, Persian and other languages—the two jackals, Kalila and Dimna, are from the Panchatantra, and take centrestage in these retellings. How did two jackals from India sail across to the Arab world, taking these tales with them?
In a few hundred years, the Panchatantra had acquired a reputation. Across the traders’ routes, carried by caravans and spice merchants, shipped along with other cargo, the Panchatantra’s fame had started to spread. The king of kings, Anushirwan the Just, who ruled over the Sassanian Empire in Iran around 501–579 CE, heard from travellers of these Sanskrit tales from India. It was said that these stories would teach rulers wisdom, cunning and more. Anushirwan sent his physician-vizier, Barzoi, to bring back medicines from India—along with the equally powerful medicine embedded in these tales. From Sanskrit, the old stories found their way into the Iranian language of Pahlavi.
A powerful lesson: books are fragile, paper is easily lost, manuscripts can be destroyed, what you write on the Internet can’t be found five years from now. But stories have a way of surviving—against the odds, as empires rise and fall, and the centuries pass, and ancient libraries are lost, these stories stayed alive.
I’ve never been very comfortable with the animals in the Panchatantra. They speak and think like humans, and they make evil plans or extract revenge like humans. But why didn’t the author just write human stories, then?
Because the Panchatantra’s jackals and lions, bulls and monkeys, swans and owls don’t need to be all that bird-or-animal-like—since they are creatures from fable, meant to be neither human, nor animal. And fable is a completely different country. It’s where you put the stories that float between the world of the forest and the kingdom—or in our times, city and the wilderness.
Animals in fables are like us—friendly, curious, generous, but also greedy, cunning, jealous—but with their wild side exaggerated, so that in them, we can see more clearly that ‘human’ is just another animal in the forests of the world. The animals in the Panchatantra are not like any animal I know, and I’ve made friends with plenty in my lifetime—but that forest they occupy?—it’s very familiar, as beautiful and as filled with hidden dangers as any city you know.
The fable forest has troubles, and pitfalls, and old wells and rivers that contain lions and crocodiles. Stories tumble out from every corner in fables, teaching you how to stay alive in the jungle, whom to make friends with, how to survive, and sometimes, how to be good and generous while you do all of this.
Perhaps the Panchatantra has lasted because you’re not really looking for sweet, light fun when you turn to stories. You think you are, but the truth is that a story that began with, ‘They were the happiest people in the world . . .’ and went on to say, ‘ . . . and they did many happy things every single day’, and ended with ‘. . . and they lived happily ever after’, would be one of the most boring stories ever.
What do you want when you come to stories? Happy endings, yes—but also, just maybe, stories that teach you how the weak might sometimes win against the strong, or that remind you that forests have dark places, and wild creatures cannot be tamed.
Some of the stories in the Panchatantra are scary, and some are shocking, because the creatures in it are neither nice nor good. Sometimes the rabbit wins—sometimes a monkey goes too far, and it loses. Sometimes the lion is the hero; sometimes he’s the wicked evil monster whom everyone hates. But over the centuries, the animals and the old dark woods they come from have survived in our hearts and our minds. Part of this is because of the storyteller’s skill—they nested the stories, like boxes, so that just when you’re getting bored with one story, another one starts up. And part of this might be because something deep inside us, the wild part of our selves, the part that doesn’t belong in a city but remembers caves, jungles, open skies, responds to something deep inside the Panchatantra itself.
I don’t know what exactly the magic is that took the Panchatantra halfway across the ancient and modern worlds, and made it so influential that you can catch echoes from it even in today’s Disney and Pixar films. But it is ancient magic, and I suspect these stories will stay alive centuries from now, continuing to hop from one human mind to another down generations yet unborn.
New Delhi
January 2017
Nilanjana S. Roy
Prologue
Long ago, in a kingdom in the south, lay the fair city of Mahilaropya, where ruled the good king Amarashakti. Raja Amarashakti was a just and generous king, and wise and learned as well. He was loved by his people, and revered by kings and princes all over the world.
Raja Amarashakti had three sons—the princes Bahushakti, Ugrashakti and Anantashakti. The three boys were the bane of their father’s life. Lazy and foolish, they showed no desire to study, and were as unlike their father as could be. The king employed tutor after tutor, engaged teacher after teacher, but it was no use—the princes refused to learn and remained illiterate boors. At last, at his wits’ end, the king called an emergency meeting of his council of ministers.
‘My beloved sons are ignorant blockheads,’ said the king to his ministers, not mincing his words. ‘They have neither wit nor wisdom, and lie around all day like three useless lumps of clay. I have employed the best teachers and spent copious amounts of gold and silver on their education, but the boys refuse to learn. I am known the world over for my wisdom. My court is full of clever men. Poets, philosophers and thinkers come here from far and wide. But my sons are my shame and despair! It is an intolerable situation!’ The king paced agitatedly up and down the throne room several times. ‘You, ministers, are the cleverest men in my kingdom!’ he declared. ‘So tell me now—what can we do to educate these moron sons of mine?’
The ministers shuffled their feet and looked at the floor. Educating the princes? That was impossible. They all knew that. The king would have more success educating three blocks of stone! After a few minutes of uncomfortable wriggling, one of the ministers plucked up his courage enough to speak. ‘Oh king,’ he said, ‘learning is like a banyan tree—it does not spring up overnight, but takes years and years to grow.’
‘There is so much to learn,’ added another. ‘For instance, grammar, which alone takes twelve years to master . . .’
‘And law, which takes even longer,’ said a third.
‘And philosophy . . . and economics,’ chimed in a fourth.
‘And the sciences . . . and mathematics,’ declared a fifth.
‘And then the arts,’ counted a sixth.
‘Therefore, as your Highness can see . . .’ said the seventh with a sigh.
‘Educating the princes is an impossible task!’ concluded the eighth. He was especially doleful and especially triumphant.
The king looked sadly at his ministers. Was it truly his destiny to have foolish and ignorant sons? Just then, another minister stepped forward and begged to speak. This was Sumati, a man known for his common sense and practical approach to life. He had been thinking hard while the other ministers had been sighing and moaning.
‘Speak then,’ said Amarashakti, not really expecting a solution.
‘O king,’ said Sumati, ‘it is true that knowledge takes many years to acquire, but true knowledge does not come from learning the rules of grammar, the points of law, or even by mastering one or all of the many branches of learning. True knowledge must be distilled and extracted from life itself. The princes do not need years and years of lessons. Instead, they need a new method of learning, and a teacher who can open their minds and guide them towards worldly wisdom.’
‘And do you know of such a teacher?’ asked the king hopefully.
Sumati nodded. ‘Yes, s
ire. His name is Vishnusharma. He is an experienced teacher of great renown, and, what’s more, he lives here, in our own city of Mahilaropya.’
The king wasted no more time, but summoned Vishnusharma to the palace at once, and when the old teacher stood before him, he greeted him with folded hands. ‘Your fame as a teacher has reached my ears, O Vishnusharma, and I have called you here to educate my three sons,’ said the king. ‘The princes are ignorant louts. If you can turn them into wise and learned men, I will give you a hundred villages in reward, and you shall never want for anything in your life.’
‘O king,’ replied Vishnusharma, ‘I will not sell learning, not even for a hundred villages. I am now eighty years old. At my age, I am not interested in wealth and have no need for it. But to fulfil your wishes, I will tutor your sons in how to live wisely and well. Within six months from now, I will make your sons learned beyond all. And if I fail to do so, you may sentence me to death and bar my way to heaven!’
Raja Amarashakti, somewhat taken aback at Vishnusharma’s words, but relieved and hopeful as well, entrusted his sons to his care.
Then Vishnusharma, to educate the three princes, devised the stories of the Panchatantra. The three princes were captivated by his tales of wit and practical wisdom and within six months, had become knowledgeable and wise young men, just as Vishnusharma had promised.
Since then, the Panchatantra has become known throughout the world and is used to teach, simply and quickly, practical wisdom to young people and to awaken in them curiosity and a desire to learn about the world.
Part 1
The Falling Out of Friends
Vishnusharma said to the three princes, ‘I will now begin the first part of your lessons, on how friends may be lost and friendships broken. Listen then to the story of the lion and the bull and their growing friendship that was destroyed by a wicked and greedy jackal. Now listen, this is how it happened.’
Panchatantra Page 1
