Panchatantra

by Vishnu Sharma

  At this, the friends looked at each other in concern. ‘Friends, did you hear what the fishermen said?’ asked the frog. ‘Under these circumstances, what do you think we should do? Should we stay here? Or should we run away?’

  ‘Friend, don’t be afraid of their words, it is only talk,’ replied Sahastrabuddhi with a laugh. ‘One must not be frightened by mere words. Look, the wishes of evil people are never fulfilled, for if they were, this world would have ended long ago. Besides, I don’t think they will really come, and even if they do, I will protect you and keep you safe, for I know a thousand ways to outwit them in the water.’

  ‘You are right, my friend,’ agreed Shatabuddhi, ‘for you are truly as intelligent as your name declares. After all, there is no problem that an intelligent man’s wit cannot solve, no darkness it cannot penetrate.’ Turning to the frog, he continued, ‘Do not be afraid my friend. We should not leave our homes only because of some words uttered by a few fishermen in passing. Besides, I am here, and with all my great good sense, I will surely outwit the fishermen.’

  The frog looked at the two fishes and replied, ‘Friends, I am not as smart as you, nor do I have your discernment in worldly matters. But my limited intelligence tells me that it is dangerous to stay here any longer. So I have decided to leave this pond at once, taking my wife with me.’ The frog hopped away and, that very night, left the pond with his wife and took refuge in a nearby well.

  The next morning, the fishermen arrived with their nets, and caught all the water creatures that lived in the pond. Fishes, turtles, frogs and crabs—all were caught in their nets. Shatabuddhi and Sahastrabuddhi tried everything they knew to elude the fishermen and evade their nets and traps, but, in the end, they too were caught and killed, along with their wives, their children and their relatives.

  As the sun began to set, the fishermen, greatly satisfied with their haul, turned to return to their village. One of the fishermen carried Shatabuddhi, who had been a large and heavy fish, upon his head, while another carried Sahastrabuddhi, who had been a long fish, upon a string slung over his shoulders.

  The frog, sitting at the edge of the well, saw the fishermen go by with their catch. ‘Beloved wife, look,’ he called. ‘There, upon that fisherman’s head is Shatabuddhi, and there, look, slung on the other man’s shoulder, is Sahastrabuddhi! There go those two clever fishes, as dead as can be, while I am living it up here in the clear waters of this well.’

  ‘And that is why I say,’ concluded Chakradhara, ‘that if fate turns against you, no amount of discernment or intelligence can help you.’

  ‘Even so, is it wise to disregard a friend’s advice?’ asked Suvarnasiddhi. ‘I tried to stop you, but what could I do? You were driven by greed, and so arrogant and opinionated, that you would not listen to me. As it has been said and truly so,

  You would not stop your singing, Uncle

  Though I begged you not to bray

  So now around your neck, dear Uncle

  Hangs your just reward!’

  ‘And how is that?’ asked Chakradhara.

  So Suvarnasiddhi told him the story of the singing donkey.

  The Story of the Singing Donkey

  There once lived a donkey called Uddhata. All day long he worked for his master, the washerman, carrying heavy bundles of dirty and washed clothes to and from the river. At night, the washerman would set him loose, and he would wander freely across the fields. And every morning, as the sun rose over the trees, he would return to the washerman’s house. He dared not be late returning—because what if his master beat him, or worse, kept him tied up at night so he could not roam free under the stars?

  One night, as he wandered across the fields, he ran into a jackal. The two animals began talking, and very soon had struck up a firm friendship. They began to spend the nights together, wandering from field to field. The donkey, who was big and strong, would break through the hedges, and the jackal would follow. The two friends would stuff themselves on the tender young cucumbers that grew in the fields, and once they had eaten as much as they could, each would return to his own home. This became their nightly routine.

  One starlit night, as the two stood in the middle of a cucumber field, the donkey said to the jackal, ‘Nephew, look how clear and bright is the night. Seeing its beauty, I feel like singing. Tell me now, which raga shall I sing?’

  ‘Uncle, why do you wish to invite trouble?’ asked the jackal, alarmed. ‘We have come here only to steal the farmers’ crops, and as you well know, thieves and lovers should not draw attention to themselves. Your voice is harsh, and carries a long away across the fields. If you sing, the farmers will hear you, and then who knows what will happen? They may beat you, or even kill you. So it is best to remain silent.’

  The donkey was greatly offended at the jackal’s words. ‘You are a wild animal, living in the forest. That is why you know nothing about the pleasure of fine singing on a moonlit night!’ retorted the donkey.

  ‘But, Uncle, you do not know how to sing,’ protested the jackal. ‘All you can do is bray, and your braying is sure to wake up the farmers and bring them running here. Why bring trouble upon yourself?’

  ‘You are a fool to think I cannot sing!’ exclaimed the donkey. ‘I know all there is to know about music. Now listen as I explain it to you—there are seven notes and three scales, twenty-one modulations and forty-nine measures, and three moods and tempos. There are nine emotions that music expresses, and ragas and raginis appropriate for each season, mood and moment. Gods and men alike declare music to be the highest bliss. Now do you see how much I know about music? How, then, can you stop me from singing?’

  ‘All right, Uncle,’ said the jackal, ‘if you must sing, then I will hide by the hedge and keep a lookout for the farmers.’ And the jackal ran off to hide in the shadows by the hedge.

  The donkey raised his head and began to bray. The racket woke up the farmers, who picked up their sticks and came running. When they saw the donkey standing in the middle of their cucumber crop, they shouted and yelled and beat him with their sticks till the poor animal fell to the ground. Then, picking up a millstone, they tied it round his neck. Leaving the poor donkey lying on the ground, the farmers went home. The donkey lay there for a while, then recovering, stood up shakily, his neck and head weighed down by the millstone. He crashed unsteadily through the hedge and went unhappily home.

  The jackal, who had been watching from the shelter of the hedge, shook his head and muttered, ‘You would not listen to advice, Uncle. So now you have your reward, a millstone around your neck!’

  ‘And in the same way, you would not listen to me,’ said Suvarnasiddhi. ‘Though I begged you not to go any further, you continued.’

  ‘You are right, my friend,’ admitted Chakradhara sadly. ‘Someone has rightly said that he who has no wit of his own, nor listens to a friend’s advice, ends up like Mantharaka the weaver.’

  ‘Why, what happened to him?’ asked Suvarnasiddhi.

  So Chakradhara told him the story of the weaver and the yaksha.

  The Story of the Weaver and the Yaksha

  In a certain town, there lived a weaver called Mantharaka. One day, as he sat working at his loom, the wooden frame of the loom broke. Picking up an axe, he set off to cut some wood to repair his loom. He wandered here and there, looking for a suitable tree. At last he reached the seashore, and saw growing there a rosewood tree. ‘This tree is big and tall, and it will give me enough wood to repair my loom and make as many tools as I will ever need,’ he declared, and prepared to cut down the tree.

  Now, in that tree lived a yaksha. (Yakshas, as you know, are semi-divine beings who care for the trees and forests and gardens in the world; they often live in the trees they look after). When he saw the weaver raise his axe to strike the tree, he called out, ‘Stop! Do not hurt this tree. This tree is my home. Soothed by the ocean breeze, I live here in peace and happiness.’

  The weaver replied, ‘Sir, I need wood to repair my loom. Otherwise,
I will not be able to weave any cloth and my whole family will starve to death. I must cut this tree.’

  ‘Spare this tree,’ said the yaksha, ‘and in return, ask of me any boon that you want and I will grant it.’

  ‘Well, in that case,’ said the weaver putting down his axe, ‘I need to return home to discuss this with my friends and my wife. I will then come back to you with my request.’

  ‘All right,’ agreed the yaksha.

  The delighted weaver set off for home. As he neared his town, he saw his friend, the barber, coming towards him. Hurrying up to the barber, he said, ‘Friend, I met a yaksha by the seashore. He has promised to grant me any boon that I demand. So tell me, what should I ask of him? I have hurried here to seek your advice.’

  ‘If that is so, then ask for a kingdom,’ replied the barber. ‘That way, you will become king and I your prime minister, and together we will rule the land and enjoy all the pleasures of this world.’

  ‘What a wonderful idea,’ exclaimed the weaver. ‘Now let me go home and ask my wife what she thinks. I never do anything without first consulting her.’ Taking leave of his friend, the weaver hurried home to his wife.

  ‘Beloved,’ he cried, taking her in his arms, ‘I met a yaksha by the seashore. He has promised to grant me any boon that I demand. So tell me, what should I ask for? My friend, the barber, says that I should ask for a kingdom and become king. But I want to know what you think, and have come home to seek your advice.’

  ‘Husband, do not listen to the barber. His advice is unsound. Being king is difficult and troublesome. A king has to worry about so many things—he has to look after his people, administer the kingdom, worry about flood and famine, battles and treaties, armies and enemies, peace and war and diplomacy. A king can never sleep in peace, for even his dearest friends and closest family may plot to kill him for his crown. So what is the point of asking the yaksha for a kingdom?’

  ‘You are right, beloved wife,’ said the weaver. ‘So tell me then, what should I ask for?’

  ‘Well, you weave one piece of cloth a day, and all our needs are met through the sale of that piece of cloth,’ said the wife. ‘So why don’t you ask the yaksha for an extra pair of hands and another head? That way you will be able to weave two pieces of cloth a day. The money you get by selling the first piece will continue to give us enough for our expenses, while the money from the second piece of cloth will give us a little bit extra—we can use that additional money to enjoy life’s luxuries.’

  ‘Now, that is indeed a wonderful idea,’ said the weaver, greatly impressed by his wife’s logic. He ran back to the seashore where the yaksha stood waiting and said, ‘Sir, please give me an extra pair of hands and another head so I can weave another piece of cloth every day!’ No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the yaksha had granted his wish.

  The weaver set off for home, proudly waving his four arms and looking about him with his two heads. But when the townspeople saw him, they did not recognize him. ‘Look, look, a monster!’ they cried and rushed at him with sticks and stones, and beat him till he died.

  ‘And that is why I say, that one who has no wit of his own nor listens to his friends meets a fate similar to that of Mantharaka the weaver,’ said Chakradhara. ‘Besides,’ he continued sadly, ‘the man who is ensnared by the imp of unattainable and unreasonable desires becomes an object of ridicule and ends up on the floor covered in flour, as did Somasharma’s father.’

  ‘Why, what happened to him?’ asked Suvarnasiddhi.

  So Chakradhara told him the story of Somasharma’s father.

  The Story of Somasharma’s Father

  In a certain town, there lived a miserly brahmin. Each day he would beg for alms in the town, collecting grain and flour for his meal. He would eat part of what he received, and store away a portion of the flour in an earthen pot that he had hung from the ceiling. Every night, he would lie upon his bed and gaze at his pot of hoarded flour till he fell asleep.

  One night, he said to himself, ‘The day will come when this pot will be filled to the top with flour. Then famine will strike the land, there will be no food to be had, and I will sell my pot of flour for a hundred silver coins. With the hundred coins I will buy two goats, who will give birth to a kid every six months. Very soon, I will have a flock of goats. I will sell the goats and buy some cows, and when the cows begin to calve, I will sell the cows and buy some buffaloes, then sell the buffaloes and buy some mares. The mares will give birth to foals, and very soon I will have a stable full of horses. I will sell the horses for a fortune in gold, with which I will build myself a grand house with several courtyards. Then one day, a rich man will come up to me and offer me the hand of his beautiful daughter in marriage. I will marry her and soon we will have a son. I will name him Somasharma. Somasharma will learn how to crawl, and one day I will sit with a book in my lap in the garden behind the stables. Somasharma will see me, and, wriggling out of his mother’s arms, will crawl towards me. But he will go too close to the horses. I will shout to his mother to pick him up, but she will be busy with her chores, and will not hear me. I will then spring forward to save my son, thus . . .’ And he leapt out of bed, knocking his shoulder against the pot of flour hanging from the ceiling above him.

  The brahmin fell on to the floor with a thump. As he watched, helpless, the pot of flour overturned and fell upon his head, covering him from head to toe in flour and shattering into a million pieces, together with his impossible and impractical dreams.

  ‘And that is how, by yearning for the impossible, Somasharma’s father ended up on the floor covered in flour,’ concluded Chakradhara.

  Suvarnasiddhi nodded. ‘But it is not your fault that you are in this difficult situation,’ he said. ‘Men, when they fall prey to greed and act without thinking of the consequences of their actions, often find themselves in trouble, as did King Chandra.’

  ‘Oh, and what happened to him?’ asked Chakradhara.

  So Suvarnasiddhi told him the story of King Chandra.

  The Story of King Chandra

  Once, in a kingdom far away, there ruled a king called Chandra. His son, the prince, loved to play with monkeys, and for his entertainment, the king kept a troop of monkeys. The animals were fed the choicest delicacies by the prince and lived a life of ease and luxury. The chief of this troop was a wise and learned old monkey, well versed in the ways of the world.

  Now the king also kept a herd of sheep. One of them, a huge ram, was somewhat of a glutton. He would steal into the royal kitchens whenever he could and eat up whatever food he would find there. The cooks were fed up of him, and whenever he appeared, they would hit him with whatever lay closest to hand. Sticks, earthenware, copper pots and big brass plates—they would hurl them all at the ram to chase him away.

  When the chief of the monkeys saw this, he grew worried. ‘What if they throw a burning stick at him one day?’ he thought. ‘The ram’s woolly fleece will surely catch fire, and if he is to run into the stables nearby, he will set those on fire. The king’s horses will be injured, and everyone knows that monkey fat is the favourite remedy prescribed by vets for burns. The king will not spare us. He will have us all killed for the sake of his horses. This ram’s antics are not good for us, and we must leave at once.’ He summoned all the monkeys and, explaining this to them, urged them to come away with him to the forest.

  But the monkeys only laughed at him. ‘You are growing old and clearly losing your mind that you think such foolish thoughts,’ they scoffed. ‘Why should we leave this comfortable life and give up all the fine food that the prince himself feeds us—for your imaginary fears?’

  ‘You foolish creatures, you do not understand the danger you are in,’ exclaimed the chief of the monkeys. ‘This happy existence of yours will end in death and destruction. I cannot bear to watch the end of my people. So even though you will not come with me, I must go away.’ The monkey chief said goodbye and left for the forest at once.

  Some time passed,
and then one day, it happened exactly as the chief of the monkeys had foreseen: the ram made his way into the kitchen, one of the cooks picked up a burning piece of wood from the fire and threw it at the ram; his coat caught fire and, in a desperate attempt to save himself, the ram ran into the stables. The stables were built of wood and full of hay and straw—they caught fire in seconds. The horses were wild with terror, and many of them were badly burnt before the stable hands could rescue them. The poor ram, of course, perished in the flames.

  The king was distraught. He summoned the ablest vets in his kingdom and ordered them to heal his horses. The vets put their heads together and said, ‘Sire, only an ointment made of monkey fat can heal the burns the horses have suffered.’

  At this, the king ordered all the monkeys in his palace and gardens to be rounded up and killed. His men carried out his orders so that not a single monkey was left alive.

  Now, the chief of the monkeys, who was at this time living peacefully in the forest, heard of the slaughter. Overwhelmed with grief and anger, he swore that he would avenge his murdered clan. He gave up eating and wandered heart broken through the forest night and day.

  One day, he came to a large and beautiful lake covered with lotus flowers. He was about to bend down for a drink when he noticed several sets of footprints leading into the lake, but none coming out. ‘Now, that is indeed curious,’ he thought to himself. ‘There must be some vicious creature in the lake that drags in men and animals and eats them. It is not wise to step into the lake. Instead, I will drink the water from a distance through a hollow lotus stem.’