Panchatantra

by Vishnu Sharma

  The other swans heeded the old swan’s warning, and the whole flock rose as one into the air and flew away. They could never return to the lake again, and thus, by refusing shelter to the golden bird, they lost their beloved and beautiful home.

  ‘And that is why I say,’ concluded the brahmin, ‘that those who refuse to protect those who come to them seeking shelter lose what is most precious to them.’

  The next day, the brahmin carried his usual offering of milk to the cobra. Placing the saucer upon the anthill, he began calling loudly to the snake. The snake ignored his calls, but the brahmin refused to give up and begged the snake to appear. After a while, the snake replied from within the anthill, ‘You have put aside your grief for your son and come to me only out of greed. Your son attacked me viciously with a stick and injured me. I, in anger, bit him and killed him. How can I forgive your son’s attack upon me? And how can you forgive his death? With such matters between us, it is not possible for you and me to be friends any more.’ So saying, the snake emerged from the anthill and handed the brahmin a large and glittering jewel. ‘Now go away and never come back here again,’ he said.

  The brahmin accepted the truth of the snake’s words, and, lamenting his son’s foolishness, returned home.

  ‘And that is why I say that friendship, once broken, cannot be mended,’ concluded Raktaksha. ‘Your best course of action is to kill this crow, and, with his death, your kingdom will become free of your enemies.’

  The king of the owls now turned to the second of his counsellors, Kruraksha. ‘And what is your opinion, noble lord?’ he asked him with respect.

  ‘Sire, Raktaksha’s suggestion is harsh and cruel,’ replied Kruraksha. ‘It is not right to kill someone who comes seeking sanctuary. The turtle dove welcomed even his enemy, who came looking for shelter, and went as far as to give him his own flesh to eat.’

  ‘And how was that?’ asked Arimardana.

  So Kruraksha told him the story of the turtle dove and the bird catcher.

  The Story of the Turtle Dove and the Bird Catcher

  Once, there lived a cruel and wicked bird catcher. He had no family, no friends and no well-wishers, for he was so evil that no one wanted to have anything to do with him. He would spend all his days in the forest, cages, traps and snares in hand, searching for birds to trap.

  One day, a little turtle dove was caught in his snare. He immediately picked her up and locked her in a cage. Even as the bird catcher stood there, gloating over his catch, a great storm blew up out of nowhere. Within moments, the sky became overcast, a strong wind began to blow and the rain to come down in sheets. The river began to flood and it seemed as though the forest, so calm and peaceful just a few minutes ago, would be swept away in a fury of thunder and rain. The bird catcher, trembling and terrified, took shelter under a large tree.

  After several hours, the rain lessened, then stopped, and the clouds blew away. But, by then, night had fallen and the forest was cloaked in darkness. The only light came from the stars twinkling in the now clear sky. The bird catcher shivered with fear and cold, and through chattering teeth muttered a short prayer. ‘Whoever lives in this tree, I come to them seeking shelter. May they protect me. I am cold and very hungry.’

  Now it so happened that that very tree was the home of the little turtle dove he had caught and her husband. The male turtle dove sat all alone in their hollow, worrying that his beloved wife had still not returned home. ‘What a terrible storm that was! What if my dear wife was caught in it? What if she is hurt or in danger?’ he wept. ‘Our lovely home lies empty and silent without her. As for me, my life is meaningless without her by my side.’

  His wife, the little turtle dove, trapped in the bird catcher’s cage, heard him sigh and weep. Sad and afraid though she was, her heart filled with tenderness at her husband’s words, and she called out to him, ‘Dear husband, do not weep, but listen to me. Here is the bird catcher, come to our tree. He has asked us for shelter, and he is cold and hungry. He is our guest and it is our duty to take care of his needs.’

  Hearing his wife’s voice, the male turtle dove was overjoyed, but when he realized that she was a prisoner in the bird catcher’s cage, he grew angry.

  ‘Beloved husband, do not be angry with the bird catcher,’ said the little turtle dove. ‘I fell into his trap because of my own carelessness. Even in our grief, let us not forget our duty.’

  The male turtle dove, hearing his wife’s kind and virtuous words, did as she said. Flying down to the bird catcher, he said, ‘You have asked for shelter under my tree, so you are my honoured guest. Make yourself at home, and I will strive to look after your every need.’

  ‘Oh bird, I am dying of cold,’ said the bird catcher, ‘help me get warm again.’

  At this, the turtle dove flew off and came back with a live coal in his beak. He dropped it into a pile of leaves and soon a merry fire was blazing away. The bird catcher gratefully held out his hands to the fire and warmed himself.

  ‘Our guest is still hungry, but I have nothing that I can offer him to eat except myself,’ said the turtle dove. And so saying, he flew into the flames, killing himself, so that his guest could eat his roasted flesh.

  At this, even the cruel bird catcher was moved to tears. ‘I am a vile and wicked man! All my life I have caused grief and pain to others. No longer will I live this life of evil!’ he cried. He threw away his traps and snares and freed the little turtle dove from her cage. The little turtle dove, though, was heart-broken at her husband’s death, and followed him into the flames.

  Though the two turtle doves perished in the flames, their spirits rose up into the sky in a blaze of gold. As for the bird catcher, he gave up his evil ways and plunged himself into prayer and meditation. He did not harm another creature again, but lived out the rest of his days in the forest as an ascetic.

  ‘And that is why I say, taking a lesson from the turtle dove who welcomed his enemy and even gave him his own flesh to eat, we must not kill someone who has come to us seeking our protection,’ concluded Kruraksha.

  Arimardana now turned to the third counsellor, Diptaksha, and asked, ‘Respected sir, what is your opinion? What would you advise me to do in this situation?’

  ‘Sire, it would not be right to kill the crow,’ replied Diptaksha. ‘Sometimes, even an enemy has his uses. See how the thief unwittingly helped the rich old merchant he had come to rob!’

  ‘Oh, and how was that?’ asked Arimardana.

  So Diptaksha told him the story of the merchant and the thief.

  The Story of the Merchant and the Thief

  In a certain town there once lived a rich, old merchant. His wife had died a few years ago and, unwilling to spend his old age alone, he had offered a handsome sum of money to a poor merchant for his daughter’s hand in marriage. The poor merchant had agreed and married his daughter to the old man.

  Now the rich merchant, though very wealthy, had straggly grey hair and wrinkly skin. His new bride, who was young and beautiful, did not like him at all. She would barely look at him, leave alone come near him or spend any time in his company. This made the merchant even more despondent than before. ‘Though I have a lovely new wife, I am still a lonely old man,’ he wept.

  One night, as the merchant and his new wife lay asleep, a thief entered their house. The wife, hearing a noise, woke up, and saw the thief skulking around their room. Terrified, she grabbed her husband’s arm. The old merchant woke up, pleasantly surprised to find his wife clinging to him. ‘Why this sudden love for me?’ he wondered. He peered into the darkness to see the thief standing at the foot of their bed, and understood the reason for his wife’s sudden affection. ‘Hey there, thank you!’ he said to the thief. ‘My wife refuses to even speak to me, but today, thanks to you, see how she is willing to let me hold her in my arms! This has made me very happy! Take whatever you want from my house, all my riches are yours!’

  ‘Keep your riches, merchant. You have nothing that I want tonight! I shall retur
n another time when you have something worth stealing,’ said the thief. ‘Or if your wife stops loving you again!’ he added with a chuckle, and disappeared nimbly through the window.

  ‘So, you see, sometimes even an enemy who means you harm can turn out to be quite useful!’ concluded Diptaksha. ‘Besides,’ he continued, ‘this crow has been treated so badly by his own people that he may be willing to work for us and even tell us their weaknesses. That is why I would say, do not kill him.’

  Arimardana heard Diptaksha’s words, then turned to the fourth of his counsellors, Vakranasa, and asked him, ‘Minister, what would you advise? What should I do?’

  ‘Sire, this crow must not be killed, not for any reason, or under any circumstance,’ replied Vakranasa. ‘He has fallen out with his king, and discord between one’s enemies is always beneficial. For

  Look how the thief saved the brahmin’s life

  And the pishach his two calves.’

  ‘Oh, and how did that happen?’ asked Arimardana.

  So Vakranasa told him the story of the brahmin, the thief and the pishach.

  The Story of the Brahmin, the Thief and the Pishach

  In a certain town there lived a very poor brahmin called Drona. He was so poor that he had no money even to buy food. He somehow survived on the generosity of the townspeople and the alms they gave him in charity. He had never seen fine clothes or jewels, while sweet-smelling perfumes and betel leaves were luxuries he could not even dream of. Living as he did a life of hunger and hardship, his skin had grown dry and wrinkled, his hair and beard were matted and unkempt, and his nails were so long that they looked like talons.

  One day, a kind man, taking pity on him, gave him two little calves as a gift. From the very first day, the brahmin took very good care of the two small creatures. Forgetting his own needs, he spent all day begging for food for his calves. He fed them the best fodder and the sweetest grass that he could get, so that in no time at all the calves grew fat and strong.

  A thief noticed the two young calves. ‘I will steal these calves from the brahmin,’ he thought, ‘for they will grow up into fine cows and give me plenty of milk and butter.’ So, one night, taking a long rope with him, he set off for the brahmin’s house. On the way he saw a strange and terrifying man coming towards him. He had sharp, pointed teeth and a long, upward-curving nose. His eyes were huge and red, his cheeks gaunt and grey, and his beard, which was so long that it fell all the way to his waist, blazed as though on fire. His arms and legs were covered with veins and knotted sinews. The thief plucked up his courage and asked, ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Satyavachan,’ said the man. ‘I am a pishach, the evil spirit of a man who was unutterably cruel when he was alive. Now tell me who you are.’

  ‘My name is Krurakarma,’ replied the thief. ‘I am a thief, and I am on my way to a poor brahmin’s house to steal his two plump calves.’

  ‘Friend, I have not eaten for six days and I am starving,’ declared the pishach. ‘I had set out in search of food when I ran into you. So let me come with you—I will eat the brahmin, while you steal his calves.’

  The two continued on their way together, congratulating themselves on their good fortune in running into each other. Reaching the poor brahmin’s house, they stole inside and hid themselves in a dark corner waiting for the right moment to carry out their plan.

  Soon the brahmin lay down upon his mat and fell asleep. ‘Now’s my chance,’ thought the pishach, and made to step out of his corner. But the thief stopped him and whispered, ‘No, no, my friend. First let me steal the calves, and once I have got away with them, you can stay behind and have your meal.’

  ‘No, no, I should go first,’ whispered the pishach. ‘What if you or the calves make a noise and wake the brahmin up? Then my plan to eat him will come to nothing! So I will go first.’

  ‘No, absolutely not!’ retorted the thief. ‘I will go first! What if someone comes while you are sitting there eating your dinner? That will put an end to all my plans! I will go first.’

  The two argued back and forth in this way, getting angrier and angrier with each other. Very soon they forgot to whisper and began to shout and yell loudly at each other, creating such a commotion that the brahmin woke up. ‘What’s going on? Who are you?’ he demanded, sitting up.

  ‘Brahmin, this pishach wants to eat you!’ cried the thief, pointing at Satyavachan.

  ‘Brahmin, this thief wants to steal your calves!’ cried the pishach, pointing at Krurakarma.

  The brahmin was now wide awake. He stood up and, calling upon the gods, began to chant all the sacred spells he knew. This frightened the pishach so much that he ran away as fast as he could. The brahmin then picked up a stout stick, which frightened the thief so much that he too ran away.

  ‘So that is how discord between his enemies saved the brahmin’s life and his calves as well. And so I say that this crow must not be killed,’ concluded Vakranasa.

  Arimardana now turned to the fifth counsellor, Prakarakarna and asked, ‘What do you think I should do?’

  ‘Sire, this crow must not be killed—of that I am certain. It is quite possible that by letting him live, friendship may develop between the two of you, and from that between our two peoples. And then this age-old enmity between the crows and the owls may even come to an end and we could live together in peace and prosperity. After all, those who reveal and attack each other’s weaknesses will perish like the two snakes who lived in the anthill and the prince’s belly.’

  ‘Oh, and how did that happen?’ asked Arimardana, intrigued.

  So Prakarakarna told him the story of the two snakes.

  The Story of the Two Snakes

  In a certain town, there lived a king called Devashakti. In his son’s belly there lived a snake, because of which the prince grew weaker and weaker every day. The king consulted every doctor, every physician and every wise man in his kingdom, but no one could cure the prince. One day, the prince, tired and fed up of his existence, left the palace and went away to a neighbouring country. There, he made his home in a temple and lived on whatever alms he could beg.

  Now, the king of that country had two beautiful daughters. Every morning, the two young women would greet their father at dawn. The older daughter would say, ‘Sire, may you be victorious and live forever. It is your grace alone that gives me all the joys of life,’ while the younger daughter would only say, ‘Sire, may you receive the fruits of your actions.’ The king loved his older daughter’s flattery, but grew more and more irritated with the words of his younger daughter. One day, he could bear it no longer, and, calling his ministers, ordered them to take her away and get her married off to a stranger so that he may never have to see her again. ‘Let her taste the fruits of her words and see how she likes it,’ roared the king in anger.

  ‘As you say, sire,’ said the ministers, and taking away the younger princess, they married her to the prince living in the temple. ‘Serves her right,’ they said, and went away.

  But the princess liked her prince immensely, and very soon the two young people fell in love. The princess did not want to live in her father’s kingdom any more, so the two went away to another land far away where they made their home by the side of a pond. The prince was growing weaker by the day, but the princess looked after him with great affection, making sure that he was always comfortable and had everything he needed.

  One day, she left her husband at home and went to the market to buy ghee, oil, spices, salt and rice so she could cook their evening meal. When she returned, she found her husband fast asleep under a tree, his head resting close to an anthill. Suddenly she saw coming out of her husband’s mouth the hooded head and neck of a snake, and another snake emerging from the anthill. The princess quickly hid behind a tree and watched in stunned surprise.

  As the two snakes saw each other, their eyes reddened and they spread their hoods angrily. Said the snake from the anthill, ‘You awful creature! Why do you live in the prince’s belly and
torture him in this manner? Can you not see how ill you have made him?’

  ‘And why do you defile the two pots full of gold that lie buried in the anthill?’ retorted the snake from the prince’s belly.

  ‘Do you think you are indestructible?’ hissed the snake from the anthill. ‘The prince has only to swallow a mixture of ground cumin and mustard seeds with hot water, and you will die!’

  ‘Ha, and do you think you are indestructible?’ sneered the snake from the prince’s belly. ‘Someone has only to pour hot oil or boiling water into the anthill, and you will die!’

  The two snakes, hissing and arguing in this fashion, did not notice the princess behind the tree. She had heard everything, and did exactly as the snakes said. She killed the first snake with a mixture of cumin and mustard seeds and thus cured her husband; once the prince was well and strong, she killed the second snake by pouring boiling water into the anthill and dug out the treasure that lay beneath it. Thus, the princess received the fruits of her actions, and lived happily with her husband for the rest of their long lives.

  ‘But the snakes who had quarrelled and argued, and revealed each other’s weaknesses, died,’ concluded Prakarakarna. ‘That is why I say, it is better to cooperate than to fight. Do not kill the crow, sire, but make of him a friend.’

  Arimardana, after considering the advice of his counsellors, decided to spare Sthirajivi’s life.

  Raktaksha, who had been listening to the discussion, shook his head in disagreement. ‘This is terrible! You have given our king wrong advice and ensured his destruction!’ he said to the other ministers. ‘Mark my words, nothing good will come of this!’ But the other owls paid no heed to his warning, and set off with Sthirajivi to their cave.