by Visnu Sarma
Lightwing now alighted on a tree growing beside the lake and having deposited Goldy in a little hollow, hopped on to a branch and cried out in sharp, high tones. ‘Hey there! Slowcoach, come here; here I am, your friend Lightwing. After a long absence I have arrived here at the lake, and my heart is filled with longing to see you, dear friend. So, come quickly, embrace me; for it is aptly said:
(45) Can sandal-paste blended with chill camphor
or snowflakes delightfully cool, compare
with the refreshing touch of a friend’s body?
They are not a sixteenth part of this delight.’
When he heard Lightwing call out to him, Slowcoach made a close inspection of the caller and recognizing his friend, quickly emerged from the water. His body quivered with delight, his eyes brimmed over with tears of joy as he said apologetically: ‘I did not at first recognize you; do forgive this lapse on my part.’ With these words, the tortoise embraced Lightwing who had flown down from the tree on to the ground.
Then the two friends after exchanging embraces sat down together at the base of the tree with their bodies still thrilling with happiness; and they began exchanging news, and recounting all the events that had happened in their lives over the long period of time that they had not seen each other.
Goldy now came down from the tree and having bowed to Slowcoach also sat close to them. Looking him over carefully, the tortoise asked Lightwing, ‘Hey, friend, who is this mole? And why have you brought him here with such care letting him ride on your back, when he is your natural food?’
‘This is Goldy,’ replied Lightwing, ‘this mole is my good friend; he is almost my second life. Why explain at great length:
(46) As the showers of the Rain-god,
as the stars in the sky,
as particles of dust on the earth.
defy enumeration,
so also the virtues of this noble soul
are beyond all reckoning;
but disaffected with the world
he now seeks your presence.’
‘And what may his reason be for turning away from wordly matters?’ queried Slowcoach.
‘I asked him that very same question, and his answer was that after arriving at this place, he would tell me all about it; but he has not said anything as yet. Friend Goldy, now that we are here won’t you tell us the reason for your aversion from all wordly things?’
Then Goldy began the tale of Goldy’s Sorrows.
In the southern land is the fair city known as Pramadāropya, not far from which is situated the shrine of the Great Lord.13 In the neighbouring monastery lived a mendicant monk named Crumplyear,14 who would visit the city on his daily rounds to receive alms.15 During his rounds he would get his almsbowl filled with all kinds of goodies flavoured and stuffed with crystallized sugar, jaggery,16 pomegranates, that were moist and deliciously-melting-in-the-mouth. Returning to the monastery, the monk would partake of just the amount prescribed by the rules of his order; the rest he would put away in the bowl which he would hang on an ivory peg in his cell, keeping it for the early morning meal of the attendants. I, with my family and friends, lived on this food; and so the days passed.
The monk noticed that however careful he was in hiding the food, I still got to it and had a good tuck in. Upset by this and out of fear of my inroads into his bowl he moved it from place to place and hung it higher each time. But I got at it easily enough and continued eating the food.
It happened one day that the monk got a visitor, named Broadbottom,17 whom Crumplyear received with all the rites of hospitality extended to a guest, providing him with all the comforts needed to relieve his travel-fatigue.
That night lying side by side on the same pallet-bed the two friends began discoursing on religious themes.18 Now Crumplyear, with moles and mice on his mind kept striking his almsbowl with a rotten old bamboo stick, while making irrelevant responses in an abstracted manner to Broadbottom’s conversation. Soon the guest became nettled and burst out with, ‘Ho-ho! Crumplyear, it is plain that your friendship for me has cooled off, for I can see that you do not care to converse with me with any zest. Therefore, although it is night now, I shall straight away depart from your monastery and go elsewhere. How true is the saying:
(47) Come in, please enter, sir, do sit down,
here’s a seat; long time no see; how come?
What news? You look pulled down:
trust all is well with you?
Oh! How delighted I am to see you, sir—
when dear friends greet arriving guests
with such pleasant words,
welcoming them with respect to their homes,
it is only natural for friends to come always
to those houses
without fear of feeling ill at ease.
‘On the other hand:
(48) Those who visit a house where the host
on arrival of a guest looks down, or
in every other direction but his—
what are they but oxen? Without horns?
(49) Where the host does not rise and come forward
to greet his guest, engage him in pleasant talk
and converse with him on virtue and vice,
should never set foot in that house.
‘Now, you, puffed up with pride at becoming Master of some small monastery have thought fit to abandon an old friendship; what you don’t understand is, that under the semblance of presiding over a monastery, what you have in fact earned is a place in Hell. As the proverb wisely states:
(50) If you have a mind to go to Hell,
act as a family-priest
for just one year:
Or better still become the Master
of a monastery
for three days only.
‘Therefore, you miserable fool! That you should feel so proud when in truth you are to be really pitied… !’
At these words Crumplyear trembled in fear, ‘Oh! No, Your Reverence, please do not say such things; truly, I have no other friend but yourself. Pray hear the real reason for what you perceive as a certain coldness on my part in our conversation. You see, sir, there is a wicked mole around here who jumps high up and climbs into my almsbowl, however high I hang it, and he eats up the leavings, so that the attendants not receiving their share fail to clean and tidy up the cell. It is only to frighten this mole off that I repeatedly strike the almsbowl with this bamboo stick. Believe me, there is no other reason. And one thing more; the surprising thing about this evil creature is, he is so nimble in jumping that he puts to shame cats, monkeys and other such creatures.’
‘Have you any idea where this mole has his hole?’ asked Broadbottom.
‘Oh, no, sir, I don’t,’ answered Crumplyear.
‘It is quite certain that the mouth of this hole has to be right on top of his store; it is the hot vapours arising from his store that makes this creature jump so spiritedly, no doubt about that. For the old adage says:
(51) When the mere warmth of wealth is sufficient
to enhance the spirit and rouse energy,
how much would its enjoyment be
specially when sharing is a part of it!
‘Moreover:
(52) If Mother Śāndilee19 sells hulled sesame
for unhulled seeds, it’s not by chance, believe me!
There has to be some good reason for it.’
Crumplyear asked with some curiosity, ‘Pray, Your Reverence, how did that happen?’ Then Reverend Broadbottom began the tale of Mother Śāndilee.
Some time back, once, I earnestly requested a certain Brāhmana living in a certain settlement for a place to serve as a retreat20 which he readily agreed to. I lived there performing all the rites of worship to divinities as ordained. One day it happened that very early in the morning I was listening attentively to a conversation between the Brāhmana and his wife.
The Brāhmana was saying, ‘Lady, the winter solstice falls tomorrow at dawn; it is a profitable time and I shall sally
forth to another village in expectation of priestly largesse. You too should feed some Brāhmana tomorrow as part of the worship of the sun—according to our means of course.’ At this the Brāhmana’s wife burst out, reviling him with harsh words, ‘Who do you think can be fed in the home of a poverty-stricken Brāhmana like you? Are you not embarrassed talking this way? Besides:
(53) Since the day you first took my hand in yours
I have not enjoyed the least happiness;
fine, flavourful food have I not tasted;
what to speak of ornaments and the like.’
Listening to her harsh words, the Brāhmana, somewhat cowed spoke very gently to her, ‘Lady, it is not proper to say such things; for there is great wisdom in the saying:
(54) You may have only a morsel yourself,
why not give half of it to a suppliant?
Who gains prosperity sufficient,
and when, to satisfy his heart’s desires?
‘Moreover:
(55) The poor man can only offer his mite,
but the reward he reaps, the Vedas say,
is just the same as that which great lords gain
from the munificent gifts they dispense.
(56) What does the raincloud give but water,
yet the whole world dearly loves him;
while with outstretched ray-hands
the sun continually stands;
yet who can bear to see him?
‘Aware of this truth, even the poorest of the poor ought to give a little out of his little, to the right person, at the right time. There is a saying about this:
(57) A worthy recipient, great devotion;
giving the right gift at the right moment;
(when these come together)
what is given by a discerning person
always redounds to his Eternal Good.
‘While some others say this too:
(58) Keep a tight rein on excessive desire;21
but do not give up desire altogether.
But one, by excessive desire obsessed
soon grew a crest on the top of his head.’
‘O, really?’ exclaimed the Brāhmana lady, ‘And however did that happen?’ And the Brāhmana began the tale of The Greedy Jackal.
In a certain country there lived a man of the Pulinda22 tribe who set out one day in search of more sins to add to his stock.23 As he walked along he encountered a wild boar who seemed the very image of the peak of the Great Sooty Mountain. Seeing the boar the hunter drew his bowstring right back to his ear as he recited this verse:
(59) ‘He sees my bow and the fitted arrow,
yet no signs of alarm does he show.
As I watch his firm resolve I am sure
it is Death that has directed him here.’
The hunter then shot a sharp arrow into the animal who in turn charged in fury and tore open his entrails with the sharp point of his tusk that shone like the crescent-moon. The man dropped dead. Having killed the hunter, the wild boar convulsed with pain from the fatal arrow-wound and died.
At this juncture, a starving jackal whose death was imminent arrived at that place in the course of his wanderings here and there in search of food. When he saw a hunter and a boar both lying dead his joy knew no bounds as he reflected deeply: ‘Ah! Fortune is in my favour for she has provided this unexpected feast for me; there is such wisdom in the saying:
(60) The fruits of action good and bad
done in a previous life still attend us
put in place by Fate,
without further effort on our part.
‘And again:
(61) Whosoever does an act good or bad
at any time or place
or at any age, reaps
its inevitable consequence.
‘Now, I shall consume this food in such a way that it lasts for many days to sustain my life. So, let me start with this nice clump of muscle caught at the bow’s curved end and eat it slowly holding it between my paws:
(62) Bit by bit, the wise enjoy,
the wealth they earn, slowly, very slowly,
as some precious elixir is savoured
drop by drop, not gulped unceremoniously.’
Having resolved how to do this, the jackal seized the meat hanging from the bow’s tip and started gnawing it. When the ligament he was chewing on snapped, the tip of the arrow pierced the roof of his mouth and came out through the centre of his skull forming a crest on the top of his head. Writhing in violent pain he fell dead.
‘Therefore I say to you,’ concluded the Brāhmana: “Do not lust after anything…” and so on.’ Once again he addressed his wife.’ Lady, have you not heard of this?
(63) For every living being, these five are fixed
while still in the womb:
length of life, fortune and knowledge, wealth,
and the precise moment of death.’
Thus instructed the lady said, ‘Well, if this is so, then I shall see what can be done. There is a bit of sesame seed in the house which I can grind and make into little sesame cakes to feed a Brahmana with.’ Accepting her words her husband set out for the next village.
The lady then soaked the sesame seeds in hot water, cleaned and hulled them and laying them out in the sun to dry went about her household chores. While she was thus preoccupied a dog came along and pissed on the sesame seeds, noticing which the lady began to reflect sadly. ‘Ah, dear me! See how tricky Fate can be when it has turned against you! It has contrived to make even this miserable bit of sesame seed unfit for human consumption. I think I had better take it around to some neighbour’s house and see if I can exchange my hulled sesame for someone’s unhulled seed. Any one should be happy to make such an exchange.’
So she placed the sesame in a winnowing-pan made of palm leaf and went from house to house crying her wares, ‘Ho there! Hi there! Who’ll take hulled sesame for unhulled….’ Hawking her hulled sesame seeds the Brāhmana lady soon entered the house where I had entered at that moment seeking alms, and made her offer—hulled for unhulled sesame. The lady of the house was delighted at such a bargain and exchanged her unhulled sesame for the caller’s hulled seed.
As the transaction was completed the man of the house came home and exclaimed, ‘My dear; what is this?’ To which his wife replied, ‘Look I have got sesame cheap.’
The husband thought over this for a moment and then asked, ‘And whose sesame seed was this?’ To which his son, Kamandaki, replied promptly, ‘Mother Śāndilee’s.’
‘Ah,’ replied the man, ‘Mother Śāndilee’s is it? O, my dear, she is a sharp person, extremely clever at driving a bargain. You had better throw this sesame out; for Mother Śāndilee is not one to barter hulled sesame for unhulled without some good reason to do so.’
‘Therefore,’ continued Broadbottom, ‘it is certain that the warmth exuded by his stockpile is what gives this mole his ability to jump as he does.’ And the visitor asked his friend again: ‘Have you any idea, friend Crumplyear, as to how this mole tackles his job?’
‘Oh, yes, Your Reverence; I do know that; this chap never comes by himself, but always with his whole clan,’ said Crumplyear.
‘I see,’ said Reverend Broadbottom, ‘now tell me, do you have something in the way of a digging instrument around here.’
‘Indeed, I do, sir,’ answered Crumplyear, ‘here, I have a pickaxe of solid iron.’
Reverend Broadbottom then said, ‘Good: you had better wake up at the first streak of dawn, when I get up, so that we can both follow the trail of pawmarks still fresh on the ground.’
When I heard these words of that evil-hearted person, that fell on me like a thunderbolt, I began to reflect anxiously, ‘Oh, God! I am done for; for this man’s words sound purposive; for once he locates my hoard, it is very easy to know the whereabouts of my fortress; and that is his aim, it is quite plain. As the wise proverb puts it:
(64) A wise person takes a man’s true measure
at one shrewd glance,<
br />
as an expert jeweller gauges the true weight
of metal by simply holding it on his palm.
‘And again:
(65) It is the first stir of desire that points
ahead of time to the coming event—
reward for good or evil done in former lives.
As yet he has not grown the gorgeous train
that marks his kind; but watching his mincing steps
as he walks backwards24 from the lake, you say,
Ah! There goes a peacock chick.’
Terrified, I therefore abandoned the road to the fortress and with my dependants started on another path. But there right in front was an enormous cat, who seeing a whole pack of moles facing him, hurtled right into our midst. The moles that survived the slaughter, reproaching me for leading them on a dangerous path, ran for safety into our selfsame fortress, drenching the ground with their blood as they ran. O, what wisdom is in the verse!
(66) Bursting his bonds, flinging aside the trap;
tearing asunder the net that held him fast,
fleeing far from woods encircled by twisting fires
with crested flames angrily bristling;
leaping and bounding with incredible swiftness
out of reach of the arrows of hunters,
the stag raced only to tumble into a well.
Alas! What can manly effort avail
when the fates themselves prove hostile!
Alone, I went elsewhere while the others, poor fools, rushed into the old fortress. The visiting monk noticing the drops of blood on the ground, followed the trail to the fortress and fell to digging with the pickaxe; and soon he came upon the hoard over which I had my residence and the warm odours of which had always guided me back to the fortress. Delighted he turned to his friend and remarked, ‘So now, Crumplyear, you can sleep in peace. It is exactly as I said; it is the warm odours of this hoard that enabled the rascally mole to disturb your sleep.’ With those words they both cleaned out my hoard and taking it with them set out towards the monastery.
As I returned to that spot I could scarcely endure the unlovely sight it presented; it made my blood curdle. I fell into anxious thought, ‘Alas! Alas! What shall I do now?’ I asked myself; ‘Where can I go? How can I find any peace of mind?’ I spent the day with great difficulty in anxious thought. Then when the thousand-rayed god had gone to his rest, I gathered my clan and though dejected and lacking enthusiasm, went back to the monastery.