The young elephant served the carpenters faithfully and did his work well. After work, he liked to bathe in the river. The carpenters’ children would play with him, in the water and on the land. Now, well born (ājānīya) animals like elephants and horse never make dung in the water, but only on the land. But one day after a heavy rain, some of the young elephant’s dung washed into the river and was carried down-stream. It went all the way to Bārāṇasī where it got stuck in a bush by the river-bank.
When the king’s elephant trainer brought the royal elephants down to the river to bathe, they caught the scent of the dung of a well-born elephant and refused to enter the water. With their tails up in the air, they all ran away from there. The elephant trainer found the dung and told the king he would do well to secure such a noble animal for his own service.
So the king and his company set out by boat up the river until they reached the carpenter’s camp. The carpenters for their part did honour to the king and were willing to surrender the elephant to him, but the elephant refused to go. “What is the matter, good elephant?” “You should pay the carpenters a fee to cover the expense of feeding me.” So the king ordered that one hundred thousand kahāpaṇa (a unit of money) be placed by the elephant’s trunk, and another by his tail and each of his four feet. But still the elephant would not go until each of the carpenters, together with their wives and children, were given cloth for new garments as well. Then, with a last look at the carpenters, the elephant went away with the royal company.
When the king reached Bārāṇasī he had the whole city richly decorated and led the elephant in a circumambulation around the city and thence into the elephant’s stable. This too was richly adorned and equipped and the elephant was sprinkled all over. The king always treated the elephant like his own dear friend and he gave over half the kingdom to him. From the time of the coming of the elephant, the king came to rule over the whole of Jambudīpa.
It came to pass that the queen conceived, and while the baby was still in her womb, the old king died. No one told the elephant that the king had died, for fear of breaking his heart. But the king of Kosala, hearing of the death of the king of Bārāṇasī, decided to attack the city and seize it. He laid siege to it, but the city did not yield hoping for the birth of a royal prince.
When the queen gave birth to a boy, she brought it to be shown to the elephant. She entered the elephant stable surrounded by her royal councillors and laid the baby, wrapped in richly decorated cloth, before the feet of the elephant. “Lord (sāmi), your friend is dead, we did not tell you for fear of breaking your heart. This is your friend’s son. The king of Kosala is making war upon him and he is being defeated. You must either kill the boy yourself, or win him back his kingdom!”
The elephant caressed the child with his trunk, then lifted him up to his head before handing him back to the queen, saying “I shall defeat the Kosalan king!” The royal councillors dressed the elephant and fitted him out with richly adorned armour. They opened the city-gates and he issued forth trumpeting. The enemy army scattered and ran away in great fear as the elephant smashed up their fortifications. He took the king of Kosala by the top-knot, carried him into the city and flung him down at the feet of the young prince. Some of the men of Bārāṇasī took up weapons to kill the Kosalan king, but the elephant stopped them. He admonished the Kosalan, “Do not be heedless because our king is young.” and let him go. After that, all of Jambudīpa fell into the hands of the young king of Bārāṇasī and no enemy ever dared oppose him. (Jāt 156)
Some elephants have magical powers. We are told that elephant kind is divided into ten tribes. The kāḷāvaka (“black”) or common elephant has the strength of ten men. Each of the nine successively higher tribes has the strength of ten elephants of the previous tribe. The names of these elephant tribes, in order, are: gaṅgeyya (“of the Ganges”), paṇḍara (“white”), tamba (“copper”), piṅgala (“tawny”), gandhahatthi (“fragrant elephant”), maṅgala (“auspicious”), hemavata (“Himalayan”), uposatha (“holy day”), chaddanta (“six-tusked”). This means that a chaddanta elephant has the strength of ten billion men.349 The higher elephant tribes are sometimes attributed with the power of flight (Jāt 122).
In the Chaddanta Jātaka the Bodhisatta is reborn as a chaddanta or “six toothed” elephant and it includes this detailed description:
In bygone times 80,000 mighty elephants (hatthināgā) travelled through the sky by their magical power (iddhimanta) and settled in the Himavā beside Lake Chaddanta. At that time, the Bodhisatta came to be born as the son of the elephant chief. He was white all over except for his face and his feet, which were red. When he came of age, he was 88 hattha high and one 120 hattha long.350 His trunk was like a silver rope and was 58 hattha long; his tusks were 15 hattha around and 30 hattha long and they shone with rays of six colours. (Jāt 514)
The Goose (haṃsa) features in eleven Jātakas. The Bodhisatta, Ānanda, Moggallāna and Sāriputta were all recorded as having been born as geese. The bird called haṃsa in Pali is variously translated as goose, swan and duck but is most likely meant to be the bar-headed goose, anser indicus. This is a bird that has always been considered sacred in India because of its unusual beauty and because of its remarkably high altitude flights. The bar-headed goose migrants between Central and South Asia, flying over the high passes of the Himalayas.351
Just as the lion is reckoned as king of the beasts, the goose is the king of birds. His election to this position was however a contested one:
At the beginning of the kappa (world-cycle), human beings assembled and chose among themselves one who was best-looking, endowed with good conduct and other suitable qualities and made him their king (rāja). The four-footed animals assembled and made a certain lion their king and in the great ocean the fish made the fish Ānanda their king. The birds assembled together on a flat rock in the Himavā and said among themselves, “The humans have elected a king, so have the four-footed animals and the fish. But we have no king, and it is not fitting that we continue in this lawless manner (appatissavāso). It is fitting that we choose a king, let us find someone with the suitable qualities and raise him to the state of kingship.”
They looked around and chose an owl. “This is the one we like.” A proclamation was made three times and all the birds consented twice, but on the third proclamation a crow spoke up. “If this bird makes such a face while he is being consecrated as king, what would he look like if he were angry? If he made a face at us while he were angry, we would be broken and scattered like salt thrown into a hot pan. I do not like it, I do not want this bird made king.”
The crow flew up into the air crying, “I do not like it! I do not like it!”, the owl chasing after him. The remaining birds chose a golden goose (suvaṇṇahaṃsa) for their king and went their separate ways.
(This story was told to explain the eternal animosity between owls and crows). (Jāt 270)
In a sequel, the newly elected king of the birds chooses a mate for his beloved daughter:
At the beginning of the kappa, men chose a king amongst themselves and the four-footed animals made a lion their king, the fish made Ānanda theirs and the birds elected a goose to be their king. Now, the goose king had a beautiful daughter and he gave her a boon, that she might choose a husband of her own liking.
So the king of the birds bade all the kinds of birds to assemble and they all came, geese and peacocks and many other kinds, and assembled on a big flat stone. The king called forth his daughter and said, “My dear, choose now a husband to your own liking.” The young goose looked over the various birds and saw the peacock with his jewel-like neck and his decorated feathers. “This one shall be my husband.”
The birds told the peacock that he was the choice of the king’s daughter and he was overcome with joy. He cried out, “Before today, you have not seen my power!” and he spread out his wings and throwing aside all shame began to dance, exposing his body.
The goose-king saw this
and said, “I will not give my daughter to one who is so shameless. He has neither self-respect nor does he care what others think.” Instead, the king chose one of his own nephews to be his daughter’s husband. The peacock was disgraced and flew away from there. (Jāt 32)
Geese are particularly admired for their power of very high and swift flight. Sometimes this is taken to a super-normal level:
Once, when Brahmadatta was king of Bārāṇasi the Bodhisatta came to birth as a very swift goose (javanahaṃsa) living on Cittakūṭa Mountain with a following of ninety thousand geese. He was a good friend of the human king.
It came to pass that two of the youngest geese in the flock decided to run a race with the sun. Despite being forbidden by the Bodhisatta, they left one morning before the sun had arisen and flew up to Mt Yugandhara and sat there waiting.352 When he learnt where they had gone, the Bodhisatta said, “They cannot race with the sun, they will perish midway. I must save their lives.”
So he too flew up to Mt Yugandhara. Just then the sun rose and the young geese flew after it, with the Bodhisatta following behind. It was still morning when the younger of the geese grew tired, he felt like the joints of his wings were on fire. “Brother, I cannot do it!” he cried out. The Bodhisatta replied, “Fear not, I will save you.” He caught the young goose in his out-stretched wings, comforted him and took him back to Mt Cittakūṭa. After placing him among the other geese, the Bodhisatta flew off again to catch up with the sun. Close to noon, the elder of the young geese also grew exhausted and the Bodhisatta saved him too.
Just then the sun was at its zenith and the Bodhisatta said, “Today I will test the sun’s power.” With one swift motion he soared to the top of Mt Yugandhara again and then with another he caught up with the sun. Having reached the sun he flew sometimes in front of it, and sometimes behind it. Then the Bodhisatta considered, “There is no purpose (attha) in my racing with the sun; it is a pursuit born out of unwise reflection (ayonisomanasikāra). What does this matter to me? I should go to Bārāṇasi and teach the Dhamma to my friend the human king.”
The Bodhisatta went to Bārāṇasi. There, the king gave him a golden stool to perch upon, anointed his wings with oil refined a hundred thousand times and gave him sweet corn to eat off a golden platter, and sweet water to drink from a crystal goblet. The goose told the human king about his race with the sun, and the king asked if he could show him. “Great king, it is not possible to see such swiftness, but I can show you something like it.”
So the Bodhisatta arranged that four of the king’s best archers would stand with their backs to a pillar in the courtyard facing the four directions. He himself perched atop the pillar with a bell fixed around his neck. “When I display my swiftness, you will not be able to see me but you will hear the bell.” At the same instant the four archers fired each an arrow into the four directions. The goose caught all four arrows in flight and laid them on the ground by the feet of the archers.
“This, great king, is not by swiftest speed, nor even my middling speed but only an inferior and lesser speed.”
“My dear, is there then anything at all faster than you?”
“Yes indeed. Faster than my swiftest speed, a hundred time faster, a thousand times, a hundred thousand times is the wasting away, the destruction and the breaking up of the life-principle (āyusaṅkhāra) of beings.” Then he discoursed on the moment by moment cessation (khaṇikanirodha) of the physical and mental factors. On hearing this teaching, the king was overcome by the fear of death and fell to the earth unconscious. The crowd of onlookers were also filled with terror. They sprinkled water on the king’s face and he regained consciousness. The Bodhisatta said to him, “Great King, fear not but always practice recollection of death, walk in the Dhamma, give gifts and make merit. Be vigilant, King!”353
We cannot leave the topic of animal stories in the Jātakas without looking at the Sabbadāṭha Jātaka in which a jackal leads an army of animals in a bid for world domination:
At one time, Brahmadatta was king in Bārāṇasī and the Bodhisatta was his purohita (chief brahmin adviser to the king). He had studied the Three Vedas and the Eighteen Sciences and was versed in a spell (manta) called the “earth conquering spell” (pathavījayamantaṃ). He was sitting on a rock one day practising this spell when he was overheard by a jackal lurking in his den. (The jackal was Devadatta). Now, this jackal had been a brahmin in his last life and had learnt that spell then, so he was able to master it even in his jackal existence. Having finished his repetition the brahmin said, “Surely I have mastered the spell now.” The jackal left his hole and said, “Ho, brahmin, I have learnt the spell better than you!” and ran off as quick as he could go. The brahmin gave chase crying out: “Stop that jackal! He will do great harm!” But the jackal escaped.
He came across a female jackal and gave her body a little nip. “What is this, sir?” “Do you know me or not?” “Yes, I know you.” And she accepted him. He used the earth conquering spell and brought several hundred jackals under his command, as well as elephants, horses, lions, tigers, boars and many other animals. He made himself their king, taking the name Sabbadaṭṭha (“All-Fang”) and the she-jackal became his queen consort. He had two elephants stand side by side with a lion on top straddling both and he himself together with his queen sat on the lion’s back. Great was his glory and becoming intoxicated by it he determined to take the city of Bārāṇasī. With his whole army of the four-footed he approached the city, and his host spread over twelve yojana.
The Bodhisatta spoke to the king, “Do not fear, my lord, this jackal is my responsibility and I know how to deal with him.” Standing above the gate of the city he called out to the jackal, “Jackal, how do you think you can take this city?” “I shall make the lions roar and while the people are trembling with fear, we shall kill them all and take the city.” “These noble lions, red in paw and with their royal manes, will never obey an old jackal like you.” With stubborn pride the jackal replied, “I shall make this lion I am sitting on roar,” and he gave it a sign by kicking it with his foot.
With his mouth near to the elephant’s head, the lion roared ferociously three times. The elephants trembled in fright causing Sabbadaṭṭha to fall to the ground where the elephants trampled his head, crushing it to bits and killing him. The rest of the elephants also panicked and began attacking one another, and all the other animals as well, even down to the hares and cats. Only the lions managed to escape to the forest, the rest were all reduced to a heap of carcasses covering twelve yojana in front of the city.
The Bodhisatta had an announcement made throughout the city, to the beat of drums. “Whoever wishes to have fresh meat, take whatever you like.” The people took as much meat as they could eat and they dried the rest to keep it. It was at this time that people first learnt the art of drying meat. (Jāt 241)
3:2:3 MAKARA MONSTER FISH
The largest of all animal kind are the makara “sea monsters” or mahāmaccha “great fish.” These are enormous fish that live in the ocean reaching lengths of many hundred yojana. The sources are somewhat inconsistent in describing them. The Mahāsutasoma Jātaka (Jāt 537) describes them as living on sea-weed (sevāla) but in most other places they are depicted as being ferociously carnivorous, even taking delight in the devouring of ocean-going ships (APa 1: 49).
There are various lists of these great fish. These lists are not consistent with each other and it is not entirely clear whether these are meant to represent species or individuals:
A list of three: timi, timiṅgala, timitimiṅgala. The timiṅgala can devour the timi (as the name implies, galo means “devouring”) and the timitimiṅgala can devour the other two (UDa 5:5).
A list of six—ānanda, timinanda, ajjhāroha—these three are all 500 yojana long: timiṅgala, timirapiṅgala, mahātimirapiṅgala—these three are all 1000 yojana long (Jāt 537).
A list of seven—timi—200 yojana long, timiṅgala- 300 yojana long, timirapiṅgala- 500 yojana lon
g, ānanda, timinanda, ajjhāroha, mahātimi—these four are all 1000 yojana long (DN-a 15).
A list of eight—The same as above but adding the timipiṅgala which is 400 yojana long (SN-a 12:60).
One passage illustrates the fantastic size of these makaras:
In the great ocean there is a fish called Timi that is 200 yojana long … (the rest of the list of seven is given as above). Let us illustrate the size of the Timirapiṅgala (which is 500 yojana long). When it flaps its right fin, the water of the sea is agitated for 500 yojana around. Likewise, for its left fin, its tail and its head. But when it sports in the water, flapping both its fins and shaking its head and tail from side to side, then the water is stirred up for 700 or 800 yojana around that place like water boiling in a pot. Even water 300 yojana deep cannot cover its back. Thus it thinks, “They say the ocean is deep, but how can it be called deep when it cannot even cover my back?” (SN-a 12:60 & DN-a 15)
This description is given by the commentary as a simile to explain an exchange between the Buddha and his disciple Ānanda; when Ānanda says he understands dependent origination the Buddha says, “Say not so! This dependent origination is deep.” The intention of the commentator is to say that it is not deep for the wise Ānanda, but is so for other beings.354
It was mentioned above that one of these makara was elected by the fish as their king. His reign did not end well:
In bygone times there were six great fish in the ocean. Of these, Ānanda,355 Timinanda, Ajjhāroha were all five hundred yojana long and Timiṅgala, Timirapiṅgala, Mahātimirapiṅgala were all one thousand yojana long. They all ate sea-weed (pāsāṇasevāla). Of these, Ānanda lived alone in one part of the ocean and many fish came to see him. One day the fish spoke among themselves, “The two-footed and the four-footed beings have all chosen kings for themselves, but we have no king. Let us make a king!” They were all of one mind and one wish and made Ānanda their king. From that day on, the fish would come morning and evening to pay their respects to him.
The Buddhist Cosmos Page 24