by Visnu Sarma
The conclusion of Book I with the trial and execution of the villainous jackal that are part of the extra-Indian versions is totally different from that in the Panćatantra corpus and wholly alien to the spirit of the Indian work. It is also contrary to the objectives set out in the Preamble of the work—the education of princes; the ‘awakening of their young minds’; the teaching of nīti. Presumably it was not part of the original or of the text that Burzoē used for his Pehlevi version. Otherwise it would have shown up in one or other of the recensions of the text. It is highly probable that it was introduced into the Pehlevi text to adapt the original to a different culture so that it conformed to the mores and tastes of another society: Islamic society.
In certain recensions which Kale seems to have used, the lion, Tawny is consoled by Wily’s predictably specious arguments and carries on, forgetting his grief and continuing to rule his kingdom with the two-timing Wily as minister. It is business as usual, it seems. On the other hand, the conclusion in the Pūrnabhadra recension is different; it is inconclusive. Wily does not replace the noble Lively as chief minister. Wary, having waited for his friend (or brother?) Wily to return, seeks him out and finds him in the lion’s presence. ‘Seating himself beside the lion’, Wary now addresses Wily. The last words in Book I (429. -9, to the end, 436. +8) are given to Wary and not to Wily as in the other recensions referred to above.
Now, Wary is on centre-stage for the first time in the narrative. Up to now he has stood outside of the action, on the sidelines as it were. A minister out of office as noted at the beginning of the frame story of Book I, he keeps his distance from the court, watching the events as they take shape, from a vantage point on the periphery. He has made observations to Wily from time to time, disagreeing with the latter; or drawing his friend out shrewdly as if to unmask Wily’s inmost thoughts, though not all his plans. Wary serves as a kind of sounding-board for his friend. Sometimes he makes a remark that seems ingenuous on the surface but is in fact made tongue-in-cheek. ‘Can success really follow on a well-devised plan…,’ he asks Wily, ‘Even if it is a deceitful plan?’ (I.193.+1 to 3). And though he is well-versed in statecraft, as we realize at the end of Book I, Wary makes an observation or asks Wily a question as if he wants to know and learn. In fact, he is leading Wily on; e.g. 1.153.+1, ‘Evils?’ queried Wary. ‘What are these evils… ?’ And Wily gives him and the audience the benefit of a long exposition on an aspect of polity—dangers to a state. Wary now eggs him on to disclose the bent of his mind. ‘Your Honour has no power. How then can Lord Tawny be separated from Lively?’ In reply, Wily hints that he is planning on doing some ‘dirty tricks’ (part of a scheming politician’s ‘stock-in-trade’); a clever ruse.
Wary is set up as a foil to Wily. Cautious, well-versed in statecraft, and learned, he articulates the principles that ought to govern the proper and rightful exercise of sovereignty, and the proper administration of the state by ministers and other high officials, as they are set down in the treatises; and of which Wily makes such a travesty (I. 345 to 349) In these verses two views are juxtaposed, of the politician and the statesman. To Wily, expediency, in the pejorative sense of the term, is the governing principle in all matters. For, in his world, expediency as prescribed in texts on polity and statecraft is not devising and carrying out a policy that is in the best interests of the state—the subjects and the ruler—but in his own personal interests, that is, self-aggrandizement. Wary’s is the other voice that articulates the ethical concerns in the text. And he begins doing this after the first round of the fight to death of Tawny and Lively, lion and bull, monarch and minister (I. 353.-9 to 375). In this long passage of verse and prose, Wary is outspoken and tells Wily in a forthright manner what he had only subtly hinted at before.
From the point of view of structure, Wary’s questions and observations that convey his misgivings, provide the opening for the ‘emboxed’ tales—the tales set within the frame story. They also give the author a way of introducing the discourses on ethics and polity and of marshalling opposing sets of opinions and arguments. We see that in Book III, such discourses and setting forth of different points of view on policy are also present, but handled with less art and artistry.
In the concluding portion of the narrative in the frame story of Book I, Wary lays out the guiding principles that the monarch and minister are expected to follow— Nīti. The Panćatantra is a nitiśāstra, but it is not simply a manual of instruction for princes and others. It is much more than that; otherwise it would not have retained the sustained and continuing appeal it has had for more than two millennia. It is a nītiśāstra of the type of which the Mahābhārata is the supreme example. It poses questions and problems that arise daily in the lives of all, princes or peasant. These are presented in real life situations that demand solutions. Saints, villains, fools, learned persons, rogues, decent men and women—it is a vast gallery—and it is their actions that are held up in a mirror.
Nīti is a word like some others in Sanskrit, dharma for example, that is impossible to render into English by the use of a single word. It comprises meanings that convey several closely linked ideas. In fact it signifies an attitude and conduct that expresses and represents a whole way of life. The concept of nīti would include carrying out duties and obligations, familial and socio-political, and the exercise of practical wisdom in affairs private and public: the wisdom not of a saint or a sage but the wisdom that has to govern the thinking and conduct of persons who are of the world, and who are in the world. Nīti would entail resolute action taken after careful scrutiny and due deliberation. A discriminating judgement has to be brought to bear on all issues, problems and situations. Stark distinctions of black and white, right and wrong, good and evil can seldom be made in the sphere of human actions, though they are being made all the time. And this is specially true in the case of princes, rulers, administrators and the like. An all-round and harmonious development of human powers is the basis of nīti; obsessions have no part in it, but good sense and good feeling do. To live wisely and well in the truest sense of these two terms—that is nīti.
The Panćatantra might have been originally designed for the use of monarchs as a mirror for princes, a pattern for a just ruler in the art of government and in the conduct of his private life and relationships. Because the private and the public areas of living are both parts of a whole, the two cannot be separated and compartmentalized. Nīti applies at all levels. Further, this work goes beyond the education of princes. It is meant for all men and women. Many of the tales are about ordinary people going about the normal business of living rightly or wrongly.
In the colophon of our text, the redactor, Pūrṇabhadra, characterizes Viṣṇu Śarma’s work as a manual on the art of government—nripanītisāstra, (also known as rājanītisāstra)—thus somewhat limiting its validity and applicability. It suggests that nripanīti or rājanīti, the wise conduct of rulers is a category of conduct separate and on its own. That is not so. It is Wily who, as we remember, draws a stark distinction between ‘the nature and norms of the commoner’ and those of princes whose policy is ‘protean’, assuming ‘many forms like a courtesan’. (1.428)
What are vices in ordinary men,
those very vices are virtues in kings.
(I. 427.3,4)
But the text clearly indicates that nīti applies to all persons.
Wary’s last speech addressed to monarch and minister and to the audience is like an epilogue spoken before the curtain comes down on a quasi-tragic drama. He is even-handed in apportioning blame and proffering good counsel. The responsibilities of both ruler and minister are spelled out clearly and emphatically. The epilogue sums up the essence of what has been stated and exemplified many times already in the narrative through precept and story.
There is a short but perhaps significant phrase in the sentence that Wary speaks before he begins castigating Wily severely (I. 428. +1, 2). It describes Wary thus: ‘Seated properly beside the lion, he addressed him
self to Wily’17. Does that suggest that Wary might have become Tawny’s chief minister? We cannot say, because, the text is open-ended. Questions are raised in our minds and uncertainties surface. It is not certain whether the ruler, Tawny, saw the wisdom couched in the words of the elder statesman, Wary and profited by it or not. Up to now Tawny has been a weak and irresolute ruler, gullible and easy to manipulate, though he certainly possesses some fine qualities: magnanimity, loyalty and a basic sense of right and wrong. But he is wanting in judgement and in Wary’s words, ‘a person whose mind retreats before the persuasive speech of others’. He is not ‘master of his own thinking, uninfluenced by other pressures.…’ (I. 436. +1, 2). And, needless to say, Wily is extremely clever and knows the texts on statecraft well enough to use them to his own advantage. The question to ask therefore is, whether the prince (Tawny) remained as he was, unchanged by any part of his experience; or did he weigh the two opposed sets of views placed before him in the last scene, one, callously opportunistic by Wily (I. 427.-2 to 428), and the other, by Wary, wise and well thought out, pointing out the qualities necessary in a wise and loyal minister and a wise and discerning ruler. The firefly is not fire; what is false appears to be true; the true seems false. So do not be deceived by appearances but look carefully into the rights and wrongs of a case. A crafty retainer might be motivated by sheer self-interest and therefore a monarch should consult several ministers, deliberate over their counsel and come to his own decision. This is the gist of Wary’s cautionary comments to his king, Tawny. This is the way of nīit. Did Tawny follow nīti?
The text does not impose an ending, narratively or otherwise. It leaves it open to listeners and readers to ponder over the matter and wrestle with the disturbing possibilities. I suggest that this inconclusiveness is deliberate; Viṣṇu Śarma (in this recension) has a purpose in so doing, as I shall endeavour to show presently.
There are other doubts and uncertainties that surface. Some of Wary’s comments and the despair he is plunged into suggest two possibilities; that the lion may not have survived as ruler, or that he may not have survived at all. ‘Seeing his master in a pitiable condition’, Wary laments, ‘Alas, alas! What calamity is this that has befallen our lord… all from listening to evil counsel!’ He adds that by listening to ‘the counsels of base men’, rulers ‘enter the cage of evils thronged by rivals’.(I. 364. +1 to 2; 365). He also says: ‘By your actions, sir, you have brought disorder and confusion into this whole forest-domain.’ (I.353.-4 to -2) An ill-considered and unjust act has repercussions in the whole kingdom. But that is not all. The downfall of the minister (Wily), and his family is also hinted at. ‘The pity of it however is, that you have striven hard to bring about not only the destruction of your own family but of our master as well. Since you have thus chosen to reduce our lord even to this pitiable condition, it is clear that you care for no one but yourself.’ (I. 399 +1 to 5). Even this, self-interest, is at risk. For,
Expert in recounting the vices of others,
devoted to praise of his own virtues,
skilled in engineering everyone’s ruin,
the villain—wills his own retribution.
(I. 397)
Wary’s many comments suggest a general ruination of ruler and state, as a possibility.
The three princes who are the first of the many audiences that the Panćatantra has addressed itself to, would have listened carefully to the epilogue, for it contains the final words, the advice that the first narrator/storyteller leaves his audience with. Questions would have been raised in their minds as they have been in ours; disturbing questions pointing the way to several possibilities that have been suggested in the previous pages. If at this point, we look carefully at the words spoken by Viṣṇu Śarma to the king at the start of the work, we are on to something significant. The eighty-year-old teacher proclaims that if he did not succeed in making the princes gain unrivalled knowledge and understanding of nīti in six months’ time, the king would be at liberty to boot him out in disgrace. A tall claim and preposterous? An incredible one indeed, but only if we were to take the ‘lion-roar’ of the venerable teacher at its face value and interpret it literally. But, obviously, we are not meant to do that. For to do so would be to make Viṣṇu Śarma’s claim an idle boast, and not a ‘lion-roar’. The king himself who had a lot more at stake than we (the readers) have, kept an open mind, very wisely. The opening lines of the Preamble gives us a character sketch of the king: a powerful monarch of a prosperous and extensive kingdom; brave and learned; a warrior and scholar.
Three words used in the Preamble give us a clue. Buddhiprabodhanam, awakening of the intellect; prabuddhah, with their intellect fully awakened—both depth and extensive range of understanding are signified by the prefix ‘pra’; and avabodhanartham, for the purpose of awakening the intellect. Buddhi signifies not merely the intellect; it includes understanding and signifies the whole intellective process. All three point to one aim—the awakening of the mind or intellect and understanding. Viṣṇu Śarma’s objective is not providing formal instruction in polity and allied branches of knowledge and learning, using perhaps traditional methods of which learning by rote of definitions, precepts, illustrations is a part, as implied in the statement of the king’s ministers that it takes twelve years to master the ‘science of words’—grammar. That has been tried and failed, as we gather from the opening section of the Preamble, reading between the lines. It appears that instructors have come and gone but the princes have remained ‘unlettered’ and ignorant. I have used a qualifying phrase here—‘reading between the lines’—advisedly, because in the storytelling tradition, every detail in the narrative is not spelled out. The reason being that the storyteller has another language that he makes good use of: gesture, stance, facial expression and tone of voice. A curling of the lip, an arching of the eyebrows, widening or narrowing of the eyes, a sob or sneer or little laugh, these speak volumes. A story writer does not have this ‘other’ language. He/she has only words. It is noticeable that the text frequently or nearly always uses formulaic phrases such as: ‘then he said’; ‘and he replied’; ‘she asked’, and so on. How it was said—wryly, ingenuously, with disbelief or sarcasm—is not stated. The context might in places indicate the particular nuance, or it might not. Without the body-language, ambivalence arises. For example, in the following lines: ‘Whereupon, Wary observed, “Why, in that case, if Your Honour is such a man, one who has made his decision, go ahead; work towards accomplishing your goal; and good luck,”’ (I.215.-15 to - 13), is Wary, in responding to his friend (or brother?) Wily’s observation that he had a stratagem to sow discord between the two friends, the lion and the bull, and had decided to use it, being ironic or ingenuous or indifferent? Or is he genuinely unaware of the lengths to which Wily would go to get what he wanted? This ambivalence provides scope for different interpretations of character in the storytelling tradition.
The image of ‘the noble bird’, ‘the swan’, that separates milk from the water it is mixed with, is significant, because it conveys the idea that the princes should be taught only what is essential. What Minister Goodsense implies here is that the dead wood that forms a good part of all academic curricula in all systems of education, would only burden the minds of the princes, blunt their intelligence and dull their interest in learning.
The princes (and we ought to be clear on this point), are not stupid; they are ‘unlettered’ and ignorant. As the king, their father says, ‘they lack judgement’, being ‘averse to learning’. How to awaken their intelligence is the problem the king faces, and he puts it to his council of ministers that some way of awakening the intelligence of the princes has to be found in the interests of the kingdom.
‘To awaken the intelligence’: this is Viṣṇu Śarma’s objective. He has to educate the princes to fit them for their future high office and all the responsibilities it carries. They have to become able and wise rulers of great kingdoms like their father. The Preamble opens with a des
cription of King Amara Śakti as a warrior, a scholar well-versed and expert in all branches of polity and economics, and accomplished in all the arts. In short, the king is a rounded and versatile man; an ideal ruler. This passage is composed in an ornate and elaborate style with long compounds that sets it apart from the simple narrative and dialogue that follow. It draws attention to itself; it directs the reader to pay attention; for this is a pen-picture of the ideal king.
Viṣṇu Śarma, on his part, is confident that he will succeed in the task he has set himself. This is suggested by the word he uses to describe his solemn promise to the king—‘lion-roar’. His confidence is based on his recognition that the princes need a different system of education which he would provide. Viṣṇu śarma’s pedagogy is different; it is new. His aim is to teach the princes how to think, not what to think.
‘With mere book-learning men remain fools;
the man who acts using his knowledge, he is wise.’
(II. 109.1,2)
says Slowcoach, the tortoise to his friend Goldy, the mole. Further, ‘mere book learning’ without practical good sense, might even turn out dangerous, as the tale of the four Brāhmanas exemplifies. Three of them who prided themselves on their superb scholarship and their mastery over ‘all branches of learning’, put together the skeleton of a lion, clothed it with skin and flesh and revived it by breathing life into the carcass, only to be killed by the lion. Whereas, the fourth Brāhmana whom they had sneered at because he had only common sense and no pretensions to scholarship, climbed up a tree before the lion was revived and lived to tell the tale (V. The Scholars who brought a dead lion to life).