‘A rich man may give vast amounts of wealth as alms, but the reward that he reaps as a result is the same that a poor man gets for giving the little bit that he can afford. A poor man who gives freely of what he has is respected by the world, while a rich man who gives nothing is derided by everyone. A well that provides sweet water to drink gives more pleasure than the vast ocean with its salty water. So poor though we might be, we must give to others according to our ability.
‘And though I do not say that we must not desire anything for ourselves, we must not be excessively greedy. For it is well known that the jackal was killed because he tried to hoard what he had.’
‘Oh really? And how did that happen?’ asked his wife.
So the brahmin told her the story of the huntsman, the boar and the jackal.
The Story of the Huntsman, the Boar and the Jackal
Once, in a certain forest far away, a huntsman in search of game suddenly saw a huge wild boar amidst the trees. The boar was as enormous as a mountain and as black as night, with tusks that curved like the crescent moon and were as bright. Spying the boar, the huntsman immediately fitted an arrow to his bow and, taking aim, let fly.
The arrow pierced the boar’s rough skin so that the boar, mad with pain, charged the huntsman and, goring him with his sharp tusks, killed him. Then, mortally wounded by the arrow, the boar too died.
A short while later, a hungry jackal in search of food came upon the huntsman and the boar lying dead next to each other. ‘Oh my, what a feast!’ he exclaimed in delight. ‘Here lie not one but two delicious corpses. This food will last me a long time. I must be careful how I eat it.’ He walked around the bodies, thinking how best to conserve the food he had found so unexpectedly. ‘First, I will eat the bowstring,’ he said to himself. ‘After all, I must be frugal and savour this feast slowly. There is no point in rushing to eat up all this meat!’
And having so decided, the jackal began to gnaw upon the taut string of the bow. A few seconds later, the bowstring snapped, and the bow, thus suddenly released, whipped back and pierced the jackal through the roof of his mouth. Of course, the jackal died.
‘And so I say,’ concluded the brahmin, ‘let us not be greedy, but give what we can to others.’
‘Well, let me see what I can spare,’ said his wife after listening to the story. ‘I do have some sesame seeds put away. Maybe I can clean them and hull them and pound them into little cakes for a brahmin.’ And off she went to her kitchen to clean and soak the sesame. The brahmin, satisfied, left for the next village.
The brahmin’s wife did as she had promised. She soaked the sesame seeds in hot water, cleaned them and hulled them, and then, spreading them out to dry in the sun, busied herself with her chores. As the seeds lay drying in the sun, a dog came wandering by and, liking the look of the seeds, raised its leg and urinated upon them. The brahmin’s wife saw the dog but could not stop it in time. ‘Oh, what a waste,’ she lamented. ‘Now what shall I do?’
After thinking a while, she gathered up the sesame seeds and tied them in a little bundle. ‘I will go to my neighbour and ask her to take my cleaned and hulled seeds in exchange for unhulled ones,’ she said to herself. ‘I am sure she will not refuse such an exchange.’
So, off she went to her neighbour’s house with her bundle of seeds, and knocking upon her door, offered the hulled seeds in exchange for unhulled ones. The neighbour was delighted at the offer, and was about to make the exchange when her son, who had overheard the brahmin’s wife, came into the room. ‘Mother, stop, do not accept her offer,’ he said.
‘Why not?’ asked his mother. ‘It is an excellent offer, hulled seeds in exchange for unhulled ones!’
‘Mother, there must be a good reason why she is willing to make this exchange. I am sure there is something wrong with her seeds, for otherwise why would she give you cleaned seeds for unhulled ones? Do not accept her offer!’
At this the neighbour turned away from the brahmin’s wife and refused her offer.
‘And so you see,’ concluded Brihatsphik, ‘there is always a reason behind everything: I am sure that just as the dog was the reason behind the brahmin’s wife’s offer, a hidden store of food is the reason behind this mouse’s ability to jump. Now tell me, do you know the path this mouse takes to come here?’
‘Yes, I do, for I have often seen him enter and leave my hut. He never comes alone but always with his clan of followers, all of whom run about here and there as they come and go.’
‘And do you have something we can dig with?’
‘Yes, here you are, I have this pickaxe,’ said Tamrachuda, pulling out a heavy iron pickaxe and handing it to his friend.
‘Excellent,’ approved Brihatsphik. ‘Now we must rise early tomorrow morning, and before anyone or anything else wipes them out, we must follow the tracks made by the mouse to his mouse-hole.’
When I heard this (continued Hiranyaka), I was terrified. This Brihatsphik was a cunning fellow. He had guessed, quite correctly, that I had a store of food buried under my home, and I was certain that he would be able to follow my tracks and find my hole. I was sure that I was about to die.
That night, in an attempt to throw off Brihatsphik from our trail, I abandoned our usual route and led my followers back by a different path. All might have been well, but suddenly, looming up in our way, stood a huge cat. The cat pounced upon us and caught and killed several of my companions. Several others were injured. The ground was red with our blood. Those of us who could get away from the cat did so and ran back to their holes. My companions cursed me and blamed me for leading them to the cat. I, overwhelmed with grief, also hid away somewhere.
A little later, the two men arrived, following our tracks. They followed the trails of blood to our mouse-holes, and digging around our homes, they found my precious hoard of food. They dug this up and carried it back with them to Tamrachuda’s hut. When I saw that I had been robbed of all my wealth, I was greatly troubled. ‘What shall I do? Where shall I go?’ I asked myself in despair. Somehow the day passed and soon it was evening.
That night, I led my remaining companions back to Tamrachuda’s hut. The mendicant heard us go in, and as before, began to beat his bamboo stick upon his begging bowl.
‘Friend, can you not sleep in peace even now?’ asked Brihatsphik.
‘Those mice have returned,’ cried Tamrachuda, ‘and that clever one will be at my food again. That is why I am beating upon the bowl.’
‘Don’t worry any more,’ laughed Brihatsphik. ‘We have taken away his hoard, so he will have no energy to jump as high as before. After all, a man who is full of energy, who overcomes obstacles with confidence, and is haughty and arrogant and mocks others, is who he is because of the power he derives from his wealth.’
Hearing his words (said Hiranyaka), I was so angry that I gathered all my energy and jumped as high as I could towards the begging bowl. But that night I could not reach it, and fell upon the floor with a splat.
Seeing my plight, my enemy, Brihatsphik, laughed and said to the mendicant, ‘Look at that mouse now, Tamrachuda. Have you seen a more pitiable sight? Truly it is said that it is wealth that sets a man apart; even the best of men, once he loses his wealth, becomes as ordinary as the others. A man without wealth is like a snake without poison, harmless and powerless. And so it has been with this mouse. So sleep in peace tonight, my friend. This mouse can longer cause you any harm.’
Sad and unhappy, I returned to my mouse-hole. Brihatsphik was right—without my store of food, I was powerless. I could no longer jump, and my friends and followers no longer wanted to have anything to do with me. ‘He cannot provide for us any more,’ they said. ‘To follow him is to invite death, for the good-for-nothing fellow can lead us only to the cat,’ they mocked. Truly, a rich man who loses his wealth suffers more than a man who never had any.
Very soon, my followers chose another leader, and now I was completely on my own. No one came to visit me, and no one spoke to me. Instead, my
friends, who had always looked up to me before, now began to openly laugh at me. I had noticed, on my last visit, that the mendicant had stuffed my precious store of food into a bag, and was using it as a pillow. At last, unable to deal with the mockery of my erstwhile friends and the loneliness that poverty had imposed upon me, I decided to return to the mendicant’s hut and steal back my hoard of food. Even if I were to die in the attempt, that dying would be better than the life I now led.
That night, I returned to the mendicant’s hut. The man lay fast asleep with my hoard under his head. I began to gnaw at the bag as quietly as I could, but before I could make a hole in it, the fellow woke up and, grabbing his bamboo stick, began to beat me with it. My time to die had not yet come, so I somehow managed to escape with my life. Perhaps I was not destined to recover my store of food, for it has been said and truly so that
We get that which we are meant to get
Even the gods cannot change that
And so, I do not despair
Nor am I surprised at loss or gain
That which is mine will be mine
No other can take it away.
Reflecting upon this, I stopped worrying about recovering my store of food and returned home. Laghupatanaka arrived at my doorstep that very instant, and told me that he was going away. Given my distress at the events that had taken place, I decided to join him. And so here I am.
‘And you are very welcome,’ said Mantharaka, graciously. ‘Hiranyaka,’ he continued, ‘this crow, Laghupatanaka, is a true friend. He was hungry and starving, and you are his natural prey. He could have eaten you; instead, he carried you on his back and brought you safely all the way here. A friend who remains a friend even in times of trouble is a true friend indeed. We must always treasure such friends, for they are rare and hard to find. You are fortunate to have found a friend as good and true as Laghupatanaka.
‘So stay here with me, both of you, on the shores of this lake, and consider it your home. Hiranyaka, do not worry any more about the loss of your hoard. Riches come and riches go, and may be enjoyed only for a short time. They are as transient as the clouds that hide the sun for a while, giving us temporary relief from its fierce rays. A wise man uses his wits to acquire wealth, but he is never miserly about spending it, because he knows that if destiny so decrees, he may lose it all one day. Just as Somilaka the weaver lost all his wealth the moment he entered the forest.’
‘Oh, and how did that happen?’ asked the crow and the mouse.
So Mantharaka told them the story of the unfortunate weaver.
The Story of the Unfortunate Weaver
In a city far away, there lived a weaver called Somilaka. He was a gifted craftsman, weaving beautifully patterned silk in rich hues of red and purple and green and gold. The cloth he wove was so gorgeous and so expensive that only the king and the noblemen of his court could afford it.
Despite the fine and expensive silks he wove, Somilaka was a poor man, barely earning enough to feed and clothe himself and his family. The other, less talented weavers in the town, who wove only heavy, coarse cloth, were better off than him—a state of affairs that Somilaka found intolerable.
One day, unable to bear it any more, he said to his wife, ‘Beloved, see how wealthy these other weavers have grown. They have no skill, their cloth is rough and without beauty, yet they have more money than I do. My work is not valued in this town. If I want to make my fortune, I must leave this place and go somewhere far away.’
‘Husband, this is nonsense!’ protested his wife. ‘It is not necessary to go away to strange and foreign places to earn your fortune! A man may run away to the clouds or hide himself in hell or travel to the other end of the world, but if he is not destined to be wealthy, he will not be, no matter where he goes. So I would say, remain here, and continue to weave your cloth as you have always done.’
‘Beloved, you are wrong,’ said the weaver. ‘Destiny alone will not give us wealth, we must make some effort and do what needs to be done to earn. Just as we need both hands to clap, we need both destiny and right effort to get rich. Even if the most sumptuous meal is set before us, it does not reach our mouths unless we make the effort to pick up the morsels and put them in our mouths! Only a combination of hard work and talent gives wealth. To rely solely on destiny is foolish, for only toil and industry bring work to fruition; only hard work leads us to the fulfilment of our dreams! So I will not rely on fate, but I will do as I have decided—I will travel to foreign lands and there, with hard and honest work, I will make my fortune.’
The weaver left his home and travelled till he reached the faraway city of Bardhaman. There, he lived and worked for three years, at the end of which he had earned and saved up 300 gold coins. He then decided to return home, taking his wealth with him.
In his path lay a dense forest that he had to cross to reach home. He was only halfway through the forest when the sun set. The weaver, afraid of running into thieves or wild animals in the dark, climbed a large banyan tree nearby and, settling himself comfortably upon a sturdy branch, fell fast asleep.
As he slept, he had a fearsome dream. In his dream, two huge men stood under his tree and argued. Said the first, ‘Hey Karta, you are well aware that he is not destined to have more than he needs to clothe and feed himself and his family! So why then have you given Somilaka 300 gold coins?’
‘It is my duty, O Karman, to reward hard-working people,’ replied the second. ‘Now, whether he is able to enjoy his hard-earned wealth or not is in your hands.’
The weaver awoke with a start and untied the little bundle at his waist in which he was carrying his gold. The bundle was empty, the gold coins gone. ‘How did this happen?’ he exclaimed. ‘My money has vanished—all those coins I had worked so hard to earn! How can I go home empty-handed? What will I tell my wife and my friends?’
Sadly, Somilaka turned away from home and went back to the city of Bardhaman. There, he worked even harder than before, and in a single year had amassed 500 gold coins. Tying up his wealth securely in a bundle at his waist, he set off for home once more. And once again, as he walked through the forest, the sun set just as he neared that same banyan tree.
This time Somilaka did not stop. Though it was pitch dark and he was tired, he did not stop to rest. Not willing to risk losing his money again, and eager to reach home, he kept walking briskly through the forest. Suddenly he saw, walking towards him, the same two terrifying men he had seen before in his dream. He could hear their conversation quite clearly.
Said one to the other, ‘Hey Karta, have you given this weaver 500 gold coins? Why can you not understand that he is not destined to earn more than what will fulfil his basic needs?’
Replied the other, ‘You know that I reward the industrious, O Karman. It is my job to do so. But whether they are able to enjoy the fruits of their hard work is in your hands. So why do you berate me needlessly?’
Alarmed by their talk, Somilaka undid the little bundle in which he carried his wealth and found the bundle quite empty. His 500 gold coins had vanished as before. He looked at his empty bundle in despair. ‘What is the point of living if I can never keep the wealth I earn?’ he thought. ‘I might as well kill myself right now.’ And making a rope from some kusha grass, he decided to hang himself from a branch of the banyan tree.
Just as he was preparing to die, a voice from the sky called his name. ‘Somilaka!’ boomed the voice. ‘Do not kill yourself. There is no need for you to show this false courage. It is I, Destiny, who has taken away your gold. It is not decreed that you should have more wealth than you need to feed and clothe yourself and your family. But seeing your state, I will take pity on you and grant you one boon. So ask of me anything that you wish.’
‘In that case,’ replied Somilaka, ‘I ask you to give me uncountable riches.’
The voice replied, ‘What will you do with that wealth? You have no use for it. It will lie in your home, of no use to anyone. What is the point of acquiring wealth that does not
benefit others?’
‘Even if I have no use for it, that wealth is still mine and I should get it,’ replied Somilaka. ‘After all, a man who has wealth is respected and revered by everyone, even if he is a miser or lacking in other graces.’
‘If that is how you feel,’ said the voice, ‘then return to the city of Bardhaman. There live two merchants—Guptadhana the miser and Upabhuktadhana the profligate. Observe how they behave and then tell me which one you would rather be like—would you rather be Guptadhana, who has a lot of money but who cannot enjoy it because he does not spend it, or would you rather be Upabhuktadhana, who has no savings because he enjoys spending and spends all he has. I will make you like the one you prefer.’ So saying, the voice from the sky fell silent.
Once more Somilaka turned away from home and went back to the city of Bardhaman. He reached the city at sundown, tired and hungry, and found his way to Guptadhana’s house, where he asked shelter for the night. Guptadhana, together with his wife and his children, scolded and reviled him. But Somilaka, mindful of what the voice had asked him to do, ignored the merchant’s cursing and remained as a guest in his house. When it was time for the evening meal, Guptadhana and his wife rudely served him a measly meal and left him alone to eat it.
After his meal, Somilaka fell asleep, and as he slept, he heard the two fearsome men again. Said one, ‘Hey Karta, why did you make Guptadhana take in Somilaka for the night and feed him? Why did you make him spend his money? Do you not know that Guptadhana is destined to have money but not spend it? Why did you make him give so much to the weaver?’
Replied the other, ‘What could I do, O Karman? It is my job to assign who gives and who gets. The final outcome of that giving and getting is up to you, so why do you blame me?’
Panchatantra Page 12
