by Visnu Sarma
That the author was probably connected with some royal court, perhaps even a court official, is suggested by the tone of the work as a whole and by several passages specifically; e.g. 1.23 to 28; 59 to 66. These indicate that here is a man who has observed the ways of courtiers and men who aspire to be royal favourites. It is not the kind of knowledge gleaned from books.
The Panćatantra is a work of great art and artistry. Some of the rhetorical devices employed can be carried over into a translation; others not. There are several examples of the former; for instance the repetition of a single word or phrase to achieve an effect that is cumulative:
Lost are a hundred kindnesses
shown to the base;
lost are a hundred wise maxims
spoken to fools;
(1.239)
and so on, over two verses where examples are piled one on top of the other with the repetition of the phrase ‘lost are a hundred’ in the first stanza, and the single word ‘lost‘ in the second. They come down like hammer blows to show the utter waste of the acts named in the two verses. Clauses are balanced antithetically or in a complementary manner:
Princes without retainers,
retainers without princes;
the situation cannot hold.
(1.67)
and again,
Honey flows freely in her speech,
deadly poison lurks in her heart.
(1.141)
Or:
Easily filled is a tiny stream;
easily filled the cupped paws of a mouse;
easily pleased a scurvy fellow;
he gives thanks for crumbs.
(1.14)
And again:
A trouble to acquire; a trouble to protect;
a trouble if it’s lost; a trouble if it’s spent;
money is nothing but trouble;
alas! From beginning to end.
(1.119)
On the other hand, certain kinds of wordplay are untranslatable; where words in Sanskrit have a sonic identity but are different in meaning (like the English word ‘still’), or have their meanings changed by an affix or prefix.
The Panćatantra is a work known in Sanskrit as champū, written in a mixture of verse and prose. The two forms are used for different and distinctive purposes. Verse is employed for articulating maxims, proverbs and precepts, sententiaea generally, and for conveying heightened emotion; prose for the narrative and dialogue. A verse, always identical, comes at the beginning and end of a tale, thus marking some kind of separation of the tale from the rest of the narrative. It lays out the content of the tale in brief and points out the moral. Generally the prose is simple and straightforward so as not to detract from the story-interest. Occasionally, a passage is written in an ornate style with long compounds, drawing attention to itself in various ways, as noted earlier.
The structure of the work with a frame story or several frame stories, one for each tantra—in a sense every tale and subtale is framed—and emboxing tales within it, has a precedent. The Mahābhārata is structured similarly with a grand frame and a second frame within it; the story of the epic itself and hundreds of other stories and legends are set within this second frame. But, the Mahābhārata as we now have it is vast and unwieldy, because its aim has been to be encyclopaedic. The kind of art and artistry of the Panćatantra is not possible of accomplishment in a work like the former which is a saga of a people and their history and culture.
III
We now come to the date of this fabulous work, the Panćatantra, which I have left to the last because dates are a marginal concern especially in texts that belong to oral literature. What the text says and how it says it are more important to examine and consider.
Hertel was of the opinion that ‘the original’ Panćatantra was composed in Kashmir around 200 BC. (He is believed to have revised this date and placed it a few centuries later).
Regarding the provenance of the work, I would like to note that the text itself begins the ‘telling’ in a place other than Kashmir—Mahilāropya in ‘the southern lands’. Four out of the five frame stories are located ‘in the southern lands’ (Books I, II, III, V) and Book IV is placed ‘by the shores of the great ocean where a mighty rose-apple tree grows’. That the prime frame story, the Preamble, is situated in the southern lands, seems quite significant.
Some of the ‘emboxed’ tales are located in places that are identifiable: Pātaliputra (Patna), Vardhamāna (Burdhwan), Kosala (a district of Uttar Pradesh). These place names might have been carried over with the specific tales originally current in those places which were taken into the Panćatantra and reworked. But, generally, the stories are set in places that are described vaguely as, ‘in a certain woodland’; ‘by the edge of a certain pool’; ‘in a lotus pool’, or ‘in a certain town or settlement’, and so on. These are places in an undefinable landscape of the imagination that seems eminently right and proper to set stories in.
‘Once upon a time…’ is how stories begin. As noted several times already, storytelling is part of the oral tradition. Precise dates are hard to fix in such cases. The one clear and precise date we have is that of the recension on which the translation in this volume is based, the redaction of the Panćatantra by Pūrṇnabhadra (AD 1199). And we have this date only because Pûrnabhadra Sūri (’Sūri’ is an honorific in Jain terminology, corresponding to guru and āchārya) states his own name, the name of his patron, Minister Soma and the date according to the Indian calendar, in the colophon of his text.
Another important point to consider is that in spite of Edgerton’s reconstruction, we do not possess ‘the original’. The text which Pūrnabhadra used, viz Tantrākhyāyikā, is accepted by Hertel and others as pretty close to ‘the original’. Texts in the oral tradition, of which the Mahābhārata is the supreme example have a habit of growing, like a tree; like a great, spreading banyan tree. This is true of the Panćatantra; and the opening of Book II which sets the tone of the whole tantra, Winning of Friends, epitomizes the work itself.
‘Oh! How was that?’ asked the princes eagerly. And Viṣṇu Śarma began the tale.
‘In the southern land flourished the city known as Pramadāropya26. Not too far away grew a lofty banyan tree with mighty trunk and branches providing a home for all creatures. As it has been said:
Deer recline in its shade;
birds in multitudes gather to roost,
darkening its dark-green canopy of leaves;
troops of monkeys cling to the trunk;
while hollows hum with insect-throngs;
flowers are boldly kissed by honey-bees:
Oh! What happiness its every limb showers
on assemblages of various creatures.
Such a tree deserves all praise,
others only burden the Earth.
(11.2)
PREAMBLE
OM
Salutaṫions to Sarasvati,
Divine Muse
and
Goddess of Wisdom
Viṣṇu Śarma, having delved into all the texts pertaining to matters of polity and worldly wisdom, and having pondered over the pith of the matters dealt in them, composed this work made up of five books of delectable stories.
And this is how it came about:
In the southern land flourished the city of Mahilāropya, where the great king, Amara Śakti1 lived and ruled. Here was a king well-versed in all the known works on practical wisdom. Further, he had crossed over to the far shore of knowledge of all the many arts the world possessed. So many mighty princes kneeled to him that the mass of lustrous rays shooting forth from the gems set in their diadems, illumined his feet. This king had three sons; Vasu Śakti, Ugra Śakti, and Ananta Śakti.2 They were supreme ignoramuses.
Seeing his sons totally averse to the very name of learning, the king one day summoned his ministers and spoke earnestly to them: ‘Honourable counsellors,’ he said, ‘you well know that my sons, all three of them, have set their faces against learning
. They lack proper judgement; when I see them, my kingdom, though free of thorns, brings me no happiness. For is it not aptly said:
(1) Far better that a man have no sons born
or, that born they die; though there be grief, it passes soon;
But, to have living sons, who turn out fools,
and obstinate fools at that, that indeed
is a lifelong misery hard to bear.
‘Again, as the old saying goes:
(2) What good is a cow that neither calves nor yields milk
What good is a son unlettered and stubborn to boot?
‘Therefore, it is high time that something be done to deal with this situation. Some means have got to be adopted to awaken the intelligence of the princes; to rouse them from their present torpor.’
The king looked round at the ministers gathered there. Then each of them, in turn, rose and spoke; and they all said much the same thing; it went something like this, ‘Your Majesty, the study of grammar takes twelve years. And when that has somehow been mastered, there are others to follow; the study of Law, sacred and secular, of polity and statecraft. These at least have to be tackled and mastered. Only then can the mind truly awaken and shine.’
A faint shadow of disappointment passed over the king’s features. Then, one among them, Minister Goodsense,3 rose up and spoke: ‘Your Majesty, it is true that life is short, and it is beset by many obstacles. Knowledge knows no bounds, and it takes years to acquire it. Therefore, it is held that the essentials of knowledge have to be extracted and grasped, just as the noble bird, the swan, extracts the milk from the water it is mixed in. A short cut has to be found to educate the princes. Now, in our own city, my lord, lives the Brāhmana, Viṣṇu Śarma, a scholar par excellence who, according to the reputation he has among the body of students here, has mastery over several fields of learning. Why not entrust the princes to his care? He will, I am sure, make their minds blossom in no time.’
The king, highly pleased with Goodsense’s counsel, sent for Viṣṇu Śarma at once. When the learned Brāhmana arrived. King Amara Śakti spoke to him most courteously. ‘Your Reverence, I have three sons, all dunces of the first water, each one more dull-witted than the other. Their intelligence has to be awakened. Do me a favour, sir, and take the princes in hand; teach them, instruct them, so that they become unsurpassed in their mastery over all matters relating to practical wisdom. And I shall reward you with a hundred grants of land, revered sir.’
To this request of the king, Viṣṇu Śarma replied, ‘My lord, I do not sell my learning, not even for the gift of a hundred land-grants. Now hear me speak; I speak the simple, unvarnished truth. I have no craving for wealth, my lord. I am now eighty years of age, and my senses have turned away from their objects. But I shall do what you ask of me. If I do not teach your sons in such a manner that in six months time they do not have complete mastery over all the wide expanse of political and practical wisdom, then let my name be thrown away and forgotten. And Your Majesty may show me His Bare Royal Bottom. So let this day be noted and set down. In six months time, your sons will possess unsurpassed knowledge of all branches of practical wisdom. Hear! This is my lion-roar.’
The king was greatly astonished at hearing the Brāhmana’s extraordinary claim. He sent for the princes and handed them over to Viṣṇu Śarma; a wave of relief swept over him. Viṣṇu Śarma accepted charge of them and took them home with him where he devised a system of education suited to the princes. He composed these five books of stories known as:
1. Estrangement of Friends,
2. Winning of Friends,
3. Of Crows and Owls,
4. Loss of Gains,
5. Rash Deeds.
With the aid of these tales, he instructed the princes. They too, learning through these stories, became in six months what Viṣṇu Śarma had promised they would. Since then, this work on practical wisdom has become celebrated as an excellent means of awakening and training young minds. It has travelled far and wide in this world. Why expatiate on its excellence? Suffice it to say:
(3) Whoever always reads this work;
whoever listens to it told;
he will never face defeat, no,
not even from the Lord of Gods,4Himself.
And this is the preamble to the work.
BOOK I
Estrangement of Friends
Now, we begin at the beginning with the first book of tales, the Estrangement of Friends.
(1) Oh! What a beautiful friendship it was!
of noble bull and lion majestic—
In the deep, dark woods it waxed and grew strong,
then—along came a jackal treacherous;
consumed by greed, he hacked it down.
And—Alas! It died.
And this is how it is told:
Once upon a time, in the southern land flourished the fair city of Mahilāropya, rivalling in splendour even Amarāvatī, City of the Gods. Possessing all excellences that could possibly be imagined, it shone as the Earth’s crest-jewel. Built in the shape of the peak of Kailāsa, it had lofty gates and high watchtowers plentifully stocked with many different kinds of weapons. Its main gateway, gigantic and decorated by beautiful, carved arches had a massive portal of solid wood, wide, fitted with strong bolts and crossbeams. In all, the city resembled nothing less than the fabled Indrakīla mountain. Numerous temples graced the city, placed as prescribed in the texts, in spacious squares formed by broad crossroads. Soaring ramparts resembling the towering ranges of the Himālayas, encircled by a deep moat, ringed the city.
In this beautiful city lived Vardhamāna,1 the merchant-prince, endowed with ever so many fine qualities. The merit of his good works earned in many past lives had blessed him with immense wealth.
Once, in the dark of night, a sudden thought crossed Vardhamāna’s mind and he lay musing after this fashion:
‘Wealth, even an immense fortune, dwindles with constant use… as does the collyrium. On the other hand, even a modest fortune grows, if added to constantly—as an anthill does. So… even immense wealth should be made to grow; whatever remains unearned ought to be earned. Once earned it should be safe-guarded. What is guarded well ought to be increased: well-invested. Wealth guarded in the customary way of the world, that is, hoarded, can disappear in a flash—life is full of dangers. Further, wealth hoarded is as good as wealth not possessed. So wealth gained, should be safe-guarded, increased and made use of. For it is said:
(2) Let the wealth you earn circulate
and you keep it still.
Water in a full tank, lacking an outlet
spills over and goes to waste.
(3) Wealth lures wealth as tame elephants the wild;
wealth cannot be earned by wishful thinking;
there can be no trade without wealth.
(4) The man who lets the wealth that Fortune showers on him,
sit idle, finds no happiness in this world,
nor in the next. What is he then?
A confounded fool performing a watchman’s role.’
Having thus pondered over the matter, Vardhamāna came to a conclusion. He would travel. Having assembled his servants he collected a wagon-load of merchandise that would find a ready market in the city of Mathurā. He then fixed a day and time when the moon and stars were in auspicious positions. After receiving the blessings of his parents he set out, with the blowing of conches and music of pipes going before him, and his friends and kinsmen bringing up the rear. At the water’s edge he bid goodbye to friends and kin and started on his journey to Mathurā.
Now, Vardhamāna possessed two noble bulls, white as clouds and bearing auspicious marks that augured good fortune. Named Joyous and Lively,2 they were yoked to the wagon loaded with merchandise.
In time the caravan reached a great forest; enchanting with densely clustering trees, dhava and acacia, sāl, flame-of-the-forest and numerous other beautiful flowering trees; awe-inspiring from the many powerful beasts that roamed it, elephan
t and bison, buffalo and wild boar, tiger, leopard and bear; delightful with herds of gazelles and bushy-tailed deer; abounding with rills that tumbled down the hillside; and possessing deep, dark glens and caves.
There misfortune struck the noble bull, Lively, when one of his feet chanced upon a patch of soft, wet mud at a certain spot where the far-flung spray of a rushing cascade fell continuously. Struggling under the weight of the heavy, overloaded wagon, the bull fell down, breaking the yoke. Seeing him collapse and lie sprawled on the path, the driver of the wagon jumped out in great consternation and rushed to report the matter to the merchant-prince who was riding not far behind. Bowing ceremoniously and folding his hands, he quavered, ‘My lord, O my noble lord, it is Lively; wearied by the journey, he slipped and fell in the mud; he is lying prostrate.’
Hearing that, the merchant was plunged into dejection on account of Lively’s sad plight. He broke journey and halted five nights, so that Lively could be cared for and get well. But when the bull showed no signs of recovery, the merchant set aside a supply of fodder for him, and detailed some of his servants to stay and look after the bull, exhorting them in the following manner:
‘Now listen, fellows, take good care of Lively; if he recovers and lives, bring him along, and join me. If he dies, perform the last rites; cremate him, and join me.’
Having thus instructed his men, Vardhamāna proceeded on his journey as planned.
Then one day, Vardhamāna’s men, fearful of the many dangers lurking in the great forest, decided to call it a day and abandon Lively to his fate. They quickly rejoined their master and told him the tale of how the bull had breathed his last. ‘O master,’ they cried, ‘Poor Lively is gone, dead; we did all we could. Then we performed his last rites and consigned him to the flames.’ Oh! What a snivelling there was and blowing of noses and wiping of tears!
Vardhamāna heard it all in sorrow; for a moment he remained stunned with grief. Then, as duty bound, he performed all the prescribed ceremonies for the peace of the departed spirit and without encountering any further mishap reached Mathurā safely.