The Goat and the Brahmin

From The Jataka, Volume I, translated by Robert Chalmers, online at: Sacred Texts.

Notes. This is the Matakabhatta Jataka; the title means "the food offered for the dead," as referred to in the story's "Feast for the Dead." This is a great fable about how karma always finds a way!

Summary: The goat both laughs and weeps at the prospect of dying in a sacrifice at the Feast for the Dead.

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THE GOAT AND THE BRAHMIN

(Indian goat)

Once on a time when Brahmadatta was reigning in Benares, a brahmin, Who was versed in the Three Vedas and world-famed as a teacher, being minded to offer a Feast for the Dead, had a goat fetched and said to his pupils, "My sons, take this goat down to the river and bathe it; then hang a garland round its neck, give it a pottle of grain to eat, groom it a bit, and bring it back."

"Very good," said they, and down to the river they took the goat, where they bathed and groomed the creature and set it on the bank.

The goat, becoming conscious of the deeds of its past lives, was overjoyed at the thought that on this very day it would be freed from all its misery, and laughed aloud like the smashing of a pot. Then at the thought that the brahmin by slaying it would bear the misery which it had borne, the goat felt a great compassion for the brahmin, and wept with a loud voice.

"Friend goat," said the young brahmins, "your voice has been loud both in laughter and in weeping; what made you laugh and what made you weep?"

"Ask me your question before your master."

So with the goat they came to their master and told him of the matter. After hearing their story, the master asked the goat why it laughed and why it wept.

Hereupon the animal, recalling its past deeds by its power of remembering its former existences, spoke thus to the brahmin, "In times past, brahmin, I, like you, was a brahmin versed in the mystic texts of the Vedas, and I, to offer a Feast for the Dead, killed a goat for my offering. All through killing that single goat, I have had my head cut off five hundred times all but one. This is my five hundredth and last birth; and I laughed aloud when I thought that this very day I should be freed from my misery. On the other hand, I wept when I thought how, whilst I, who for killing a goat had been doomed to lose my head five hundred times, was to-day being freed from my misery, you, as a penalty for killing me, would be doomed to lose your head, like me, five hundred times. Thus it was out of compassion for you that I wept."

"Fear not, goat," said the brahmin; "I will not kill you."

"What is this you say, brahmin?" said the goat. "Whether you kill me or not, I cannot escape death to-day."

"Fear not, goat; I will go about with you to guard you."

"Weak is your protection, brahmin, and strong is the force of my evil-doing."

Setting the goat at liberty, the brahmin said to his disciples, "Let us not allow anyone to kill this goat;" and, accompanied by the young men, he followed the animal closely about.

The moment the goat was set free, it reached out its neck to browse on the leaves of a bush growing near the top of a rock. And that very instant a thunderbolt struck the rock, rending off a mass which hit the goat on the outstretched neck and tore off its head. And people came crowding round.

In those days the Bodhisatta had been born a Tree-Fairy in that selfsame spot. By his supernatural powers he now seated himself cross-legged in mid-air while all the crowd looked on. Thinking to himself, "If these creatures only knew the fruit of evil-doing, perhaps they would desist from killing," in his sweet voice he taught them the Truth in this stanza:

If folk but knew the penalty would be
Birth unto sorrow, living things would cease
From taking life. Stern is the slayer's doom.

Thus did the Great Being preach the Truth, scaring his hearers with the fear of hell; and the people, hearing him, were so terrified at the fear of hell that they left off taking life.

And the Bodhisatta after establishing the multitude in the Commandments by preaching the Truth to them, passed away to fare according to his deserts.

The people, too, remained steadfast in the teaching of the Bodhisatta and spent their lives in charity and other good works, so that in the end they thronged the City of the Devas.

0172. The Lion and the Doe

From The Jataka Volume 1 translated by Robert Chalmers, online at: Sacred Texts Archive.

Notes. This is the Vissasabhojana Jataka.

Summary: The lion is undone by his love for a doe.

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THE LION AND THE DOE

(MaxPixel)

Once upon a time when Brahmadatta was reigning in Benares, the Bodhisatta was a very wealthy merchant. He had a herdsman who, when the corn was growing thick, drove his cows to the forest and kept them there at a shieling, bringing the produce from time to time to the merchant.

Now hard by the shieling in the forest there dwelt a lion; and so afraid of the lion were the cows that they gave but little milk. So when the herdsman brought in his ghee one day, the merchant asked why there was so little of it. Then the herdsman told him the reason.

"Well, has the lion formed an attachment to anything?"

"Yes, master; he's fond of a doe."

"Could you catch that doe?"

"Yes, master."

"Well, catch her, and rub her all over with poison and sugar, and let her dry. Keep her a day or two, and then turn her loose. Because of his affection for her, the lion will lick her all over with his tongue, and die. Take his hide with the claws and teeth and fat, and bring them back to me."

So saying, he gave deadly poison to the herdsman and sent him off. With the aid of a net which he made, the herdsman caught the doe and carried out the Bodhisatta's orders.

As soon as he saw the doe again, the lion, in his great love for her, licked her with his tongue so that he died.

And the herdsman took the lion's hide and the rest, and brought them to the Bodhisatta, who said, "Affection for others should be eschewed. Mark how, for all his strength, the king of beasts, the lion, was led by his sinful love for a doe to poison himself by licking her and so to die."

So saying, he uttered this stanza for the instruction of those gathered around:

Trust not the trusted, nor th’ untrusted trust;
Trust kills; through trust the lion bit the dust.

0166. The Drummer in the Forest

From The Jataka Volume 1 translated by Robert Chalmers, online at: Sacred Texts Archive.

Notes. This is the Bherivada Jataka. Compare the story of the Boddhisatta trying to teach a wayward young deer in The Self-Willed Deer.

Summary: A drummer's foolish son comes to grief in a forest infested by robbers.

THE DRUMMER IN THE FOREST

(maddalam drum)

Once on a time when Brahmadatta was reigning in Benares, the Bodhisatta came to life as a drummer, and dwelt in a village. Hearing that there was to be a festival at Benares, and hoping to make money by playing his drum to the crowds of holiday-makers, he made his way to the city, with his son. And there he played, and made a great deal of money.

On his way home with his earnings he had to pass through a forest which was infested by robbers; and as the boy kept beating away at the drum without ever stopping, the Bodhisatta tried to stop him by saying, "Don't behave like that, beat only now and again, as if some great lord were passing by."

But in defiance of his father's bidding, the boy thought the best way to frighten the robbers away was to keep steadily on beating away at the drum.

At the first notes of the drum, away scampered the robbers, thinking some great lord was passing by. But hearing the noise keep on, they saw their mistake and came back to find out who it really was. Finding only two persons, they beat and robbed them.

"Alas!" cried the Bodhisatta; "by your ceaseless drumming you have lost all our hard-earned takings!"

And, so saying, he repeated this stanza:
Go not too far, but learn excess to shun;
For over-drumming lost what drumming won.

0163. The Farmer and the Bar of Gold

From The Jataka Volume 1 translated by Robert Chalmers, online at: Sacred Texts Archive.

Notes. This is the Kancanakkhandha Jataka.

Summary: A farmer finds a bar of gold in a field so heavy that he cannot carry it.

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THE FARMER AND THE BAR OF GOLD

(farmer in southern India)

Once on a time when Brahmadatta was reigning in Benares, the Bodhisatta came to life as a farmer in a village, and was ploughing one day in a field where once stood a village.

Now, in bygone days, a wealthy merchant had died leaving buried in this field a huge bar of gold, as thick round as a man's thigh, and four whole cubits in length. And full on this bar struck the Bodhisatta's plough, and there stuck fast. Taking it to be a spreading root of a tree, he dug it, out; but discovering its real nature, he set to work to clean the dirt off the gold.

The day's work done, at sunset he laid aside his plough and gear, and essayed to shoulder his treasure-trove and walk off with it. But, as he could not so much as lift it, he sat down before it and fell a-thinking what uses he would put it to.

"I'll have so much to live on, so much to bury as a treasure, so much to trade with, and so much for charity and good works," thought he to himself, and accordingly cut the gold into four.

Division made his burthen easy to carry; and he bore home the lumps of gold. After a life of charity and other good works, he passed away to fare thereafter according to his deserts.

0157. The Clever Deer

From The Jataka Volume 1 translated by Robert Chalmers, online at: Sacred Texts Archive.

Notes. This is the Tipallattha Miga Jataka. There is a Wikipedia article about animals playing dead.

Summary: As taught by the Bodhisatta, a young deer learns a series of tricks he can use to escape from a hunter.

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THE CLEVER DEER

(Indian deer)

Once on a time a certain king of Magadha was reigning in Rājagaha; and in those days the Bodhisatta, having been born a stag, was living in the forest at the head of a herd of deer.

Now his sister brought her son to him, saying, "Brother, teach your nephew here the ruses of deer."

"Certainly," said the Bodhisatta; "go away now, my boy, and come back at such and such a time to be taught." Punctually at the time his uncle mentioned, the young stag was there and. received instruction in the ruses of deer.

One day as he was ranging the woods he was caught in a snare and uttered the plaintive cry of a captive. Away fled the herd and told the mother of her son's capture. She came to her brother and asked him whether his nephew had been taught the ruses of deer.

"Fear not; your son is not at fault," said the Bodhisatta. "He has learnt thoroughly deer's ruses, and will come back straightway to your great rejoicing." And so saying, he repeated this stanza:

In all three postures--on his back or sides
Your son is versed; he's trained to use eight hoofs,
And save at midnight never slakes his thirst;
As he lies couched on earth, he lifeless seems,
And only with his under-nostril breathes.
Six tricks my nephew knows to cheat his foes.

Thus did the Bodhisatta console his sister by shewing her how thoroughly her son had mastered the ruses of deer.

Meantime the young stag on being caught in the snare did not struggle, but lay down at full length on his side, with his legs stretched out taut and rigid. He pawed up the ground round his hoofs so as to shower the grass and earth about; relieved nature; let his head fall; lolled out his tongue; beslavered his body all over; swelled himself out by drawing in the wind; turned up his eyes; breathed only with the lower nostril, holding his breath with the upper one; and made himself generally so rigid and so stiff as to look like a corpse. Even the blue-bottles swarmed round him; and here and there crows settled.

The hunter came up and smacked the stag on the belly with his hand, remarking, "He must have been caught early this morning; he's going bad already."

So saying, the man loosed the stag from his bonds, saying to himself, "I'll cut him up here where he lies, and take the flesh home with me."

But as the man guilelessly set to work to gather sticks and leaves to make a fire with, the young stag rose to his feet, shook himself, stretched out his neck, and, like a little cloud scudding before a mighty wind, sped swiftly back to his mother.

0111. The Merchant Who Overcame All Obstacles

From Eastern Stories and Legends by Marie L. Shedlock, online at: Baldwin Project.

Notes. You can see other versions of this jataka here: Vaṇṇupatha Jataka.

Summary: Stranded in a waterless desert, the wise merchant must find a way to save his caravan.

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THE MERCHANT WHO OVERCAME ALL OBSTACLES

(Pixabay)

ONCE upon a time the Buddha (to be) was born in a merchant's family; and when he grew up he went about trafficking with five hundred carts.

One day he arrived at a sandy desert twenty leagues across. The sand in that desert was so fine that when taken in the closed fist it could not be kept in the hand. After the sun had risen it became as hot as a mass of charcoal, so that no man could walk on it.

Those, therefore, who had to travel over it took wood and water and oil and rice in their carts, and traveled during the night. And at daybreak they formed an encampment, and spread an awning over it, and, taking their meals early, they passed the day sitting in the shade. At sunset they supped; and when the ground had become cool, they yoked their oxen and went on. The traveling was like a voyage over the sea: a so-called land-pilot had to be chosen, and he brought the caravan safe to the other side by his knowledge of the stars.

On this occasion the merchant of our story traversed the desert in that way. And when he had passed over fifty-nine leagues, he thought: "Now in one more night we shall get out of the sand."

And after supper he directed the wood and water to be thrown away, and the wagons to be yoked, and so set out. The pilot had cushions arranged on the foremost cart, and lay down looking at the stars, and directing them where to drive. But, worn out by want of rest during the long march, he fell asleep, and did not perceive that the oxen turned around and taken the same road by which they had come.

The oxen went on the whole night through. Towards dawn the pilot woke up, and, observing the stars, called out: "Stop the wagons! Stop the wagons!" The day broke just as they had stopped, and were drawing up the carts in a line.

Then the men cried out: "Why, this is the very encampment we left yesterday! Our wood and water is all gone! We are lost!" And unyoking the oxen, and spreading the canopy over their heads, they lay down in despondency, each one under his wagon.

But the Bodisat, saying to himself, "If I lose heart, all these will perish," walked about while the morning was yet cool.

And on seeing a tuft of Kusa grass, he thought: "This must have grown by attracting some water which there must be beneath it."
And he made them bring a hoe and dig in that spot. And they dug sixty cubits deep.

And when they had got thus far, the spade of the diggers struck on a rock, and as soon as it struck, they all gave up in despair. But the Bodisat thought, "There must be water under that rock," and, stooping down, applied his ear to it and tested the sound of it. And he heard the sound of water gurgling beneath.

And he got out and called his page. "My lad, if you give up now, we shall all be lost. Don't you lose heart. Take this iron hammer, and go down into the pit and give the rock a good blow."

The lad obeyed, and though they all stood by in despair, he went down full of determination, and struck at the stone. And the rock split in two and fell below, and no longer blocked up the stream. And water rose till its brim was the height of a palm-tree in the well.

And they all drank of the water, and bathed in it. Then they split up their extra yokes and axles, and cooked rice and ate it, and fed their oxen with it. And when the sun set, they put up a flag by the well and went to the place appointed.

There they sold their merchandise at double and treble profit, and returned to their own home, and lived to a good old age, and then passed away according to their deeds. And the Bodisat gave gifts, and did other virtuous acts, and passed away according to his deeds.

0155. The Mountain-Stag and the Doe

From The Jataka Volume 1 translated by Robert Chalmers, online at: Sacred Texts Archive.

Notes. This is the Kandina Jataka.

Summary: A stag, for love of a doe, willingly enters into danger.

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THE MOUNTAIN-STAG AND THE DOE

(Sambar stag)

Once on a time in the kingdom of Magadha the king was reigning in Rajagaha, and when the crops were grown the deer were exposed to great perils, so that they retired to the forest.

Now a certain mountain-stag of the forest, having become attached to a doe who came from near a village, was moved by his love for her to accompany her when the deer returned home from the forest.

Said she, "You, sir, are but a simple stag of the forest, and the neighbourhood of villages is beset with peril and danger. So don't come down with us."

But he because of his great love for her would not stay, but came with her.

When they knew that it was the time for the deer to come down from the hills, the Magadha folk posted themselves in ambush by the road; and a hunter was lying in wait just by the road along which the pair were travelling.

Scenting a man, the young doe suspected that a hunter was in ambush, and let the stag go on first, following herself at some distance. With a single arrow the hunter laid the stag low, and the doe seeing him struck was off like the wind.

Then that hunter came forth from his hiding place and skinned the stag and lighting a fire cooked the sweet flesh over the embers. Having eaten and drunk, he took off home the remainder of the bleeding carcass on his carrying-pole to regale his children.

Now in those clays the Bodhisatta was a fairy dwelling in that very grove of trees, and he marked what had come to pass. "’Twas not father or mother, but passion alone that destroyed this foolish deer. The dawn of passion is bliss, but its end is sorrow and suffering, the painful loss of hands, and the misery of the five forms of bonds and blows. To cause another's death is accounted infamy in this world; infamous too is the land which owns a woman's sway and rule; and infamous are the men who yield themselves to women's dominion."

And therewithal, while the other fairies of the wood applauded and offered perfumes and flowers and the like in homage, the Bodhisatta wove the three infamies into a single stanza, and made the wood re-echo with his sweet tones as he taught the truth in these lines:

Cursed be the dart of love that works men pain!
Cursed be the land where women rule supreme!
And cursed the fool that bows to woman's sway!

Thus in a single stanza were the three infamies comprised by the Bodhisatta, and the woods re-echoed as he taught the Truth with all the mastery and grace of a Buddha.

0118. The Banyan Deer

From Eastern Stories and Legends by Marie L. Shedlock, online at: Baldwin Project.

Notes. The Pali title of this story is Nigrodhamiga Jataka, and you can read another version of the story here: The Banyan Deer.

Summary: A human king learns a powerful lesson about devotion and sacrifice from the king of the deer.

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THE BANYAN DEER

(deer in India)

LONG ago the Bodisat came to life as a deer. When he was born he was of a golden color; his eyes were like round jewels; his horns were white as silver; his mouth was red as a cluster of kamala flowers; his hoofs were as bright and hard as lacquer-work; his tail as fine as the tail of a Tibetan ox; and his body as large in size as a foal’s.

He lived in the forest with an attendant herd of five hundred deer, under the name of the King of the Banyan Deer; and not far from him there dwelt another deer, golden as he, under the name of the Monkey Deer, with a like attendant herd.

The King of that country was devoted to hunting, never ate without meat, and used to summon all the townspeople to go hunting every day to the destruction of their ordinary work. The people thought, "This King puts an end to all our work. Suppose we make a park, provide food and drink for the deer. Then we will drive them into the park, close the entrance and deliver them to the King."

This they did, surrounding the very place where the Banyan Deer and the Monkey Deer were living. When the King heard this, he went to the park, and seeing there the two golden-colored deer, he granted them their lives. But henceforth he would go himself to shoot the deer and bring it home. Sometimes his cook would go and shoot one. The deer, as soon as they saw the bow, would quake with fear of Death, and run away; but when they had been hit once or twice, they became weary or wounded and were killed. And the herd told their King, who sent for the Monkey Deer and said: "Friend, almost all the Deer are being destroyed. Now, though they certainly must die, yet henceforth let them not be wounded with arrows. Let the deer take it by turns to go to the place of execution. One day let the lot fall on my herd, and the next day on yours."

He agreed, and thenceforth the deer whose turn it was used to go down and lie down after placing his neck on the block of execution. And the cook used to come and carry off the one he found lying there.

But one day the lot fell upon a roe in the Monkey Deer who was with young. She went to the Monkey Deer and said: "Lord! I am with young. When I have brought forth my son, we will both take our turn. Order the bows to pass me by."

"I cannot make your lot," said he, "fall upon the others. You know well enough it has fallen upon you. Go away!"

Receiving no help from him, she went to the Bodisat and told him the matter. He listened to her quietly and said: "Be it so! Do you go back. I will relieve you of your turn." And he went himself and laid his head on the block of execution.

The cook, seeing him, exclaimed: "The King of the Deer whose life was promised to him is lying in the place of execution. What does it mean?" And he went hastily, and told the King.

The King no sooner heard it than he mounted his chariot and proceeded with a great retinue to the place, and beholding the Bodisat, said: "My friend, the King of the Deer! Did I not grant you your life? Why are you lying here?"

"O great King! A roe with young came and told me that the lot had fallen upon her. Now I could not ask another to take her place, so I, giving my life for her, have lain down. Harbor no further suspicion, O great King!"

"My Lord, the golden-colored King of the Deer! I never yet saw, even among men, one so full of forbearance, kindness and compassion. I am pleased with thee in this matter! Rise up. I grant your lives, both to you and to her!"

"But though we be safe, what shall the rest do, O King of men?"

"Then I grant their lives to the rest, my Lord."

"Thus, then, great King, the deer in the park will have gained security, but what will the others do?"

"They also shall not be molested."

"Great King! even though the deer dwell secure, what shall the rest of the four-footed creatures do?"

"They shall also be free from fear."

"Great King, even though the quadrupeds are in safety, what shall the flock of birds do?"

"Well, I’ll grant the same boon to them."

"Great King! the birds then will obtain peace; but what of the fish who dwell in the water?"

"They shall have peace as well."

Then the Great Being having interceded with the King for all creatures, said: "Walk in righteousness, O great King! Doing justice to fathers and mothers, to townsmen and landsmen, you shall enter, when your body is dissolved, the happy world of Heaven."

The roe gave birth to a son as beautiful as buds of flowers; and he went to playing about with the Monkey Deer’s herd. But when its mother saw that, she said, "My son, henceforth go not in his company. You may keep to the Banyan Deer’s herd."

Now after that, the deer, secure of their lives, began to eat men’s crops. And the men dared not strike them or drive them away, recollecting how it had been granted to them that they should dwell secure. So they met together in front of the King’s palace, and told the matter to the King.

"When I was well pleased, I granted to the leader of the Banyan herd a boon," said he. "I may give up my kingdom but not my oaths! Begone with you! Not a man in my kingdom shall be allowed to hurt the deer."

When the Banyan King heard that, he assembled his herd, and said: "Henceforth you are not allowed to eat other people’s crops." And so forbidding them, he sent a message to the men: "Henceforth let the husbandmen put up no fence to guard their crops: but let them tie leaves round the edge of the field as a sign."

From that time, they say, the sign of the tying of the leaves was seen in the fields, and from that time not a single deer trespassed beyond it: for such was the instruction they received from (their King) the Bodisat.

And the Bodisat continued thus his life long to instruct the deer, and passed away with his herd, according to his deeds.

113. The Faithful Friend

From Eastern Stories and Legends by Marie L. Shedlock, online at: Baldwin Project.

Notes. You can see another version of this story here: The Elephant and the Dog.

Summary: An elephant and a dog become such good friends that they cannot live without each other.

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THE FAITHFUL FRIEND

(Huffington Post)

LONG ago, when Brahmadatta was reigning in Benares, the Bodisat became his Minister.

At that time a dog used to go to the state elephant's stable, and feed on the lamps of rice which fell where the elephant fed. Being attracted there by the food, he soon became great friends with the elephant, and used to eat close by him. At last neither of them was happy without the other; and the dog used to amuse himself by catching hold of the elephant's trunk, and swinging to and fro.

But one day there came a peasant who gave the elephant-keeper money for the dog, and took it back with him to his village. From that time the elephant, missing the dog, would neither eat nor drink nor bathe. And they let the King know about it.

He sent the Bodisat, saying: "Do you go, Pandit, and find out what's the cause of the elephant's behavior."

So he went to the stable, and seeing how sad the elephant looked, said to himself: "There seems to be nothing bodily the matter with him. He must be so overwhelmed with grief by missing some one, I should think, who had become near and dear to him."

And he asked the elephant-keepers: "Is there anyone with whom he is particularly intimate?"

"Certainly, Sir! There was a dog of whom he was very fond indeed."

"Where is it now?"

"Some man or other took it away."

"Do you know where the man lives?"

"No, Sir!"

Then the Bodisat went and told the King. "There's nothing the matter with the elephant, your majesty; but he was great friends with a dog, and I fancy it's through missing it that he refuses his food."

When the King heard what he said, he asked what was now to be done.

"Have a proclamation made, O King, to this effect: 'A man is said to have taken away a dog of whom our state elephant was fond. In whose house soever that dog shall be found, he shall be fined so much!' "

The King did so; and, as soon as he heard of it, the man turned the dog loose. The dog hastened back, and went close up to the elephant. The elephant took him up in his trunk and placed him on his forehead, and wept and cried, and took him down again, and watched him as he fed. And then he took his own food.

Then the King paid great honor to the Bodisat for knowing the motives even of animals.

0109. The Monkey That Saved the Herd

From Eastern Stories and Legends by Marie L. Shedlock, online at: Baldwin Project.

Notes. See the notes to this version of the story: The Monkeys and the Hollow Canes.

Summary: The wise monkey king and his monkey troop confront a fierce water-ogre who refuses to let them drink the water of his lake.

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THE MONKEY THAT SAVED THE HERD

(lake with reeds and water lily)

It came to pass that the Buddha was re-born as the King of the monkeys. He lived with his herd of 80,000 monkeys in a thick forest, near a lake. In this lake there lived an ogre who used to devour all those who went down to the water.

The Buddha spoke to his subjects and said: "My friends, in this forest there are trees that are poisoned, and lakes that are haunted by ogres. Eat no fruit and drink no water of which you have not already tasted without consulting me."

This they agreed to. And one day, having arrived at a spot which they had never visited before, they found a great lake. They did not drink, but awaited the return of their King.

Now when he arrived he went round the lake, and found that all the footsteps led down to the lake, but none came up again. And he said: "Without doubt this is the haunt of an ogre."

When this water-ogre saw that they were not invading his domain he appeared in the form of a terrible monster with a blue belly, a white face, and bright red hands and feet. In this shape he came out of the water and said to the King: "Why are you seated here? Go down to the lake to drink." 

But the King said: "Are you not the ogre of this water?" 

"Yes, I am," was the answer. 

"Do you take as your prey all those who go down into this water?"

"Yes, I do, from small birds upwards. I never let anything go which comes down into this water. I will eat the lot of you, too." 

"But we shall not let you eat us." 

"Just drink the water." 

"Yes, we will drink the water, and yet not fall into your power." 

"How do you propose to drink the water, then?" 

"Ah, you think we shall have to go down to the water to drink; whereas we shall not enter the water at all, but the whole eighty thousand of us will take a cane each and drink therewith from your lake as easily as through the hollow stalk of a lotus. And so you will not be able to eat us."

So saying the King had a cane brought to him, and in true belief that the miracle would take place he blew down the cane, which straightway became hollow throughout, without a single knot being left in its length. In this fashion he had another, and another brought, and blew down them. Then he made the tour of the lake, and commanded, saying, "Let all canes growing here become hollow throughout."

Now, thanks to the saving goodness of their re-born chiefs, their commands are always fulfilled. And henceforth every single cane that grew round that lake became hollow throughout. 

After giving his commands the King seated himself with a cane in his hand. All the other 80,000 monkeys, too, seated themselves round the lake each with a cane in his hands. At the same moment when the King sucked up the water through his cane, they all drank in the same manner as they sat on the bank. This was the way they drank, and the ogre could get no power over any one of them, so he went off in a rage to his habitation. The King, with his following of 80,000 monkeys, went back into the forest.

0110. The Golden Mallard

From Eastern Stories and Legends by Marie L. Shedlock, online at: Baldwin Project.

Notes. See the notes to this version of the story: The Golden Goose.

Summary: Reborn as a Golden Mallard, a brahmin tries to help his wife and daughters, but the wife is greedy.

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THE GOLDEN MALLARD

(12th century, Sri Lanka)

AND it came to pass that the Buddha (to be) was born a Brahmin, and growing up was married to a bride of his own rank, who bore him three daughters.

After his death he was born again as a Golden Mallard, and he determined to give his golden feathers one at a time to enable his wife and daughters to live in comfort. So away he flew to where they dwelt, and alighted on the central beam of the roof.

Seeing the Bodisat, the wife and girls asked where he had come from, and he told them that he was their father who had died and been born a Golden Mallard, and that he had come to bring them help. "You shall have my golden feathers, one by one," he said. He gave them one and departed. From time to time he returned to give them another feather, and they became quite wealthy.

But one day the mother said: "There's no trusting animals, my children. Who's to say your father might not go away one of these days and never return? Let us use our time, and pluck him clean the next time he comes, so as to make sure of all his feathers."

Thinking this would pain him, the daughters refused. The mother in her greed plucked the Mallard herself, and as she plucked them against his wish, they ceased to be golden and became like a crane’s feathers. His wings grew again, but they were plain white; he flew away to his own abode and never came back.

0106. The Bull That Demanded Fair Treatment

From Eastern Stories and Legends by Marie L. Shedlock, online at: Baldwin Project.

Notes. The Pali title of this story is Nandivisala Jataka; Nandi Visala is the name of the wise bull, and it means Joy (Nandi) - Great (Visala).

Summary: The owner of a bull learns the difference between treating the animal harshly and treating him kindly.

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THE BULL THAT DEMANDED FAIR TREATMENT

(relef in Mahabalipuram)

LONG ago the Bodisat came to life as a Bull.

Now, when he was yet a young calf, a certain Brahmin, after attending upon some devotees who were wont to give oxen to priests, received the bull. And he called it Nandi Visala, and grew very fond of it, treating it like a son, and feeding it on gruel and rice.

When the Bodisat grew up, he said to himself: "This Brahmin has brought me up with great care; and there's no other ox in all the continent of India can drag the weight I can. What if I were to let the Brahmin know about my strength, and so in my turn provide sustenance for him!"

And he said one day to the Brahmin: "Do you go now, Brahmin, to some Squire rich in cattle, and offer to bet him a thousand that your ox will move a hundred laden carts."

The Brahmin went to a rich farmer, and started a conversation thus:
"Whose bullocks hereabout do you think the strongest?"

"Such and such a man's," said the farmer, and then added: "But, of course, there are none in the whole country-side to touch my own!"

"I have one ox," said the Brahmin, "who is good to move a hundred carts, loads and all!"

"Tush!" said the Squire. "Where in the world is such an ox?"

"Just in my house!" said the Brahmin.

"Then make a bet about it!"

"All right! I bet you a thousand he can."

So the bet was made. And he filled a hundred carts (small wagons made for two bullocks) with sand and gravel and stones, ranged them all in a row, and tied them all firmly together, cross-bar to axle-tree.

Then he bathed Nandi Visala, gave him a measure of scented rice, hung a garland round his neck, and yoked him by himself to the front cart. Then he took his seat on the pole, raised his goad aloft, and called out: "Gee up! you brute!! Drag 'em along, you wretch!!"

The Bodisat said to himself: "He addresses me as a wretch. I am no wretch!" And, keeping his four legs as firm as so many posts, he stood perfectly still.

Then the Squire that moment claimed his bet, and made the Brahmin hand over the thousand pieces. And the Brahmin, minus his thousand, took out his ox, went home to his house, and lay down overwhelmed with grief.

Presently Nandi Visala, who was roaming about the place, came up and saw the Brahmin grieving there, and said to him: "What, Brahmin! Are you asleep?"

"Sleep! How can I sleep after losing the thousand pieces?"

"Brahmin! I've lived so long in your house, and have I ever broken any pots, or rubbed up against the walls?"

"Never, my dear!"

"Then why did you call me a wretch? It's your fault. It's not my fault. Go now and bet him two thousand; and never call me a wretch again—I, who am no wretch at all!"

When the Brahmin heard what he said, he made the bet two thousand, tied the carts together as before, decked out Nandi Visala, and yoked him to the foremost cart.

He managed this in the following way: he tied the pole and the cross-piece fast together, yoked Nandi Visala on one side; on the other he fixed a smooth piece of timber from the point of the yoke to the axle-end, and wrapping it round with the fastenings of the cross-piece, tied it fast, so that when this was done the yoke could not move this way and that way, and it was possible for one ox to drag forwards the double bullock-cart.

Then the Brahmin seated himself on the pole, stroked Nandi Visala on the back, and called out: "Gee up! my beauty! Drag it along, my beauty!"

And the Bodisat, with one mighty effort, dragged forwards the hundred heavily-laden carts, and brought the hindmost one up to the place where the foremost one had stood.

Then the cattle-owner acknowledged himself beaten, and handed over to the Brahmin the two thousand; the bystanders, too, presented the Bodisat with a large sum, and the whole became the property of the Brahmin. Thus, by means of the Bodisat, great was the wealth he acquired.

0141. Birds of a Feather

From The Giant Crab, and Other Tales from Old India by W. H. D. Rouse with illustrations by W. Robinson, online at: Internet Archive.

Notes. The traditional title of this story is Suhanu Jataka.

Summary: As the king and a horsedealer attempt to trick and out-trick one another, they learn a lesson about how like-likes-like.

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BIRDS OF A FEATHER

(W. Robinson)

Once upon a time there was a big horse called Chestnut. He was as fierce as a fury, and bit everybody who came near him; his groom always had a broken bone, or a bruise at the least; and, as for the other horses, let Chestnut loose in the herd, and there was a fine to-do: a kick for one, a bite for another; it was hurry, skurry, worry, till they took themselves off and left him alone in the clover.

Now the King wanted to buy some horses, and a dealer had driven down a couple of hundred of them for the King to buy. But the King was a skinflint, and wanted to get them cheap; so he dropped a hint to his groom, that it would not be a bad thing if Chestnut made acquaintance with these horses; at the same time, he dropped a gold piece in the groom’s hand.

So the groom led Chestnut by this new herd, and, all of a sudden, he quietly flicked Chestnut with his whip; Chestnut reared and plunged, the groom shouted, and, pretending to find the horse too strong for him, let go the halter. Off galloped Chestnut, kicking up his heels in the air, roaring and whinnying; and fine fun he had among the new horses! By the time he had done with them, hardly one had a whole skin.

The poor dealer was in despair. He would be ruined!

And next day, when the King came to see the horses, he turned up his nose. “Pooh! do you suppose I want bruised old hacks like that? Look at that sore! And here is a broken jaw! Why, half of them limp!”

In vain the dealer protested that it was Chestnut’s fault; the King only laughed, and asked if he expected him to believe that one horse could do all that mischief. (And yet, as you know, it was one horse, and at the King’s own bidding too.)

However, it was a pity that he should have to take them back again, the King said; so, if he liked, as a favour, he would buy the horses, at half price.

The dealer was not taken in by this, but he pretended to be very grateful, and went home again, wondering what he could do. He was afraid to offend the King, and, indeed, very few people were rich enough to buy his splendid horses. So he knew that he would be obliged to take some more down to the King another time.

Then he suddenly remembered he had just such another vicious brute at home, named Strongjaw, that nobody could do anything with. “Aha!” said he; “I have it! I’ll take Strongjaw down with me next time, and if he does not prove a match for Chestnut I am very much mistaken.” He chuckled with glee as he thought what a fine fight there would be between the two.

Next time, as he had resolved, he brought Strongjaw with the drove, and as soon as the King’s groom came by with Chestnut, and let him go as he did before, the dealer’s eyes twinkled, and he let out Strongjaw.

Chestnut pricked up his ears, and Strongjaw pricked up his; then, without taking any notice of the rest, they trotted up to each other and rubbed noses, and began to lick each other all over. They did not fight at all, but in a moment they became bosom friends.

The dealer could not understand this, neither could the King.

However, this time the King had to pay a good price for the horses, and as he saw his little trick was found out, he felt rather ashamed of himself, and so he paid the man for the other horses as well. Still, they kept wondering and wondering what the reason could be that these two horses, each so fierce and wild, were quiet as a pair of kittens together.

The King asked the wisest man in all his kingdom to explain it; and the man, who was a minstrel, that is, he used to sing songs to the King about all that had happened or would happen in the world, took up his harp and sang:

If the reason you would know,
Like to like will always go;
Here’s a pair of vicious horses
Just the same in all their courses;
Both are wild, and bite their tether:
Birds of a feather flock together.

0139. The Foolish Farmer and the King

From The Giant Crab, and Other Tales from Old India by W. H. D. Rouse with illustrations by W. Robinson, online at: Internet Archive.

Notes. The traditional title of this story is Somadatta Jataka.

Summary: Coached by his son, a poor farmer nervously prepares to make a request of the king.

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THE FOOLISH FARMER AND THE KING

(W. Robinson)

Once there was a foolish Farmer, who had a son at court, serving the King. This Farmer was a very poor man, and all he had to plough his fields with was one pair of oxen. Two oxen was all he had, and one of them died.

The poor Farmer was in despair. One ox was not enough to draw the plough over the heavy land; and he had no money to buy another. So he sent a message to his son, that he was wanted at home.

When the son came, his father told him that one of his oxen was dead, and he had no money to buy another. So he begged his son to ask the King to give him an ox.

“No, no,” said his son, “I am always asking the King for something. If you want an ox, you must ask him yourself.”

“I can’t do it!” said the poor Farmer. “You know what a muddle-head I am. If I go to ask the King for another ox, I shall end by giving him this one!”

“Well, what must be, must be,” said his son. “Anyhow, I cannot ask the King: but I’ll train you to do it.”

So he led his father to a place which was dotted all over with clumps of grass. The young courtier tied up a number of bundles of this grass, and arranged them in rows. “Now, look here, father,” said he, “this is the King, that is the Prime Minister, that is the General, here are the other grandees,” pointing to each bundle as he said the name. “When you come into the King’s presence, you must begin by saying: ‘Long live the King!’ and then ask your boon.”

To help him to remember, the son made up a little verse for his father to say, and this is the verse:
“I had two oxen to my plough, with which my work was done.
Now one is dead: O, mighty king, please give me another one!”

“Well,” said the Farmer, “I think I can say that.” And he repeated it over and over, bowing and scraping to the bunch of grass that he called the King.

Every day for a whole year the Farmer practised; and how the ploughing got on meanwhile I do not know. Perhaps he lived on the seed-corn, and did not plough at all.

At the end of the year he said to his son: “Now I know that little verse of yours! Now I can say it before any man! Take me to the King!”

So together father and son trudged away to the King’s palace. There on a throne he sat, in gorgeous robes, with his courtiers all around him, the Prime Minister, the General, and all, just as the young man had told his father. But the poor Farmer! his head was beginning to swim already.

“Who is this?” said the King to the Farmer’s son, who, as you know, was a courtier, so the King knew him.

“It is my father, Sire,” he answered.

“What does he want?” the King asked.

All eyes were turned on the Farmer, who by this time was as red as a turkey-cock, and hardly knew whether he stood on head or heels. However, he plucked up courage, and out came the verse, as pat as a pancake:

“I had two oxen to my plough, with which my work was done.
Now one is dead: O, mighty king, please take the other one!”

The King couldn’t help laughing; and he saw there must be a mistake somewhere. “Plenty of oxen at home, eh!” said he, keeping up the joke.

“If so, Sire,” said the Farmer’s son with a bow, “you must have given them.”

The King thought that rather neat. “If I have not given you any so far,” said he, smiling, “I will do it now.”

And when the pair got home, the Farmer in despair at his blunder, lo and behold in his cowhouse were half a dozen of the finest oxen he had ever seen! So the poor old Farmer got his oxen, though he did make a muddle of the verse.

0182. The Cock who Crowed at the Wrong Time

From The Jataka Volume 1 translated by Robert Chalmers, online at: Sacred Texts Archive.

Notes. This is the Akalaravi Jataka.

Summary: Things do not turn out well for the rooster who crows at the wrong time.

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THE COCK WHO CROWED AT THE WRONG TIME

(MaxPixel)

This story was told by the Master while at Jetavana, about a Brother who used to be noisy at wrong seasons. He is said to have come of a good Sāvatthi family and to have given up the world for the Truth, but to have neglected his duties and despised instruction. He never took count of the hours for duties, for ministry or for reciting the texts. Throughout the three watches of the night, as well as the hours of waking, he was never quiet; so that the other Brethren could not get a wink of sleep. Accordingly, the Brethren in the Hall of Truth censured his conduct. Entering the Hall and learning on enquiry what they were talking about, the Master said, "Brethren, as now, so in past times, this Brother was noisy out of season, and for his unseasonable conduct was strangled."

So saying he told this story of the past.
_____________________________

Once on a time when Brahmadatta was reigning in Benares, the Bodhisatta was born into a northern brahmin family, and when he grew up, learned all knowledge and became a teacher of world-wide fame with five hundred young brahmins studying under him.

Now these young brahmins had a cock who crowed betimes and roused them to their studies. And this cock died.

So they looked all about for another, and one of their number, when picking up firewood in the cemetery-grove, saw a cock there which he brought home and kept in a coop. But, as this second cock had been bred in a cemetery, he had no knowledge of times and seasons, and used to crow casually, at midnight as well as at daybreak.

Roused by his crowing at midnight, the young brahmins fell to their studies; by dawn they were tired out and could not for sleepiness keep their attention on the subject; and when he fell a-crowing in broad day they did not get a chance of quiet for repeating their lesson. And as it was the cock's crowing both at midnight and by day which had brought their studies to a standstill, they took the bird and wrung his neck. Then they told their teacher that they had killed the cock that crowed in and out of season.

Said their teacher, for their edification, "It was his bad bringing up that brought this cock to his end."

So saying, he uttered this stanza:
No parents trained, no teacher taught this bird:
Both in and out of season was he heard.

Such was the Bodhisatta's teaching on the matter; and when he had lived his allotted time on earth, he passed away to fare according to his deserts.
_____________________________

His lesson ended, the Master identified the Birth as follows, "This Brother was the cock of those times, who did not know when not to crow; my disciples were the young brahmins; and I their teacher."

0173. Names and Destiny

From The Jataka Volume 1 translated by Robert Chalmers, online at: Sacred Texts Archive.

Notes. This is the Namasiddhi Jataka. Chalmers used the English word "Quick" below (as in the archaic phrase "the quick and the dead"), but I have replaced that with "Lively" to make the meaning more clear, and I have replaced his use of "Base" with "Shabby" since "base" has so many meanings in English.

Summary: A young brahmin learns that a name is not destiny.

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NAMES AND DESTINY

(Ghandaran Buddhist sculpture)

Once on a time the Bodhisatta was a teacher of world-wide fame at Takkasilā, and five hundred young brahmins learnt the Vedas from his lips.

One of these young men was named Shabby. And from continually hearing his fellows say, "Go, Shabby" and "Come, Shabby," he longed to get rid of his name and to take one that had a less ill-omened ring about it. So he went to his master and asked that a new name of a respectable character might be given him.

Said his master, "Go, my son, and travel through the land till you have found a name you fancy. Then come back and I will change your name for you."

The young man did as he was bidden, and taking provisions for the journey wandered from village to village till he came to a certain town. Here a man named Lively had died, and the young brahmin seeing him borne to the cemetery asked what his name was.

"Lively," was the reply.

"What, can Lively be dead?"

"Yes, Lively is dead; both Lively and Dead die just the same. A name only serves to mark who's who. You seem a fool."

Hearing this he went on into the city, feeling neither satisfied nor dissatisfied with his own name.

Now a slave-girl had been thrown down at the door of a house, while her master and mistress beat her with rope-ends because she had not brought home her wages. And the girl's name was Rich. Seeing the girl being beaten, as he walked along the street, he asked the reason, and was told in reply that it was because she had no wages to shew.

"And what is the girl's name?"

"Rich," said they.

"And cannot Rich make good a paltry day's pay?"

"Be she called Rich or Poor, the money's not forthcoming any the more. A name only serves to mark who's who. You seem a fool."

More reconciled to his own name, the young brahmin left the city and on the road found a. man who had lost his way. Having learnt that he had lost his way, the young man asked what his name was. "Guide," was the reply.

"And has Guide lost his way?"

"Guide or Misguide, you can lose your way just the same. A name only serves to mark who's who. You seem a fool."

Quite reconciled now to his name, the young brahmin came back to his master.

"Well, what name have you chosen?" asked the Bodhisatta.

"Master," said he, "I find that death comes to 'Lively' and 'Dead' alike, that 'Rich' and 'Poor' may be poor together, and that 'Guide' and 'Misguide' alike miss their way. I know now that a name serves only to tell who is who, and does not govern its owner's destiny. So I am satisfied with my own name, and do not want to change it for any other."

Then the Bodhisatta uttered this stanza, combining what the young brahmin had done with the sights he had seen:
Seeing Lively dead, Guide lost, Rich poor,
Shabby learned content nor travelled more.

0171. The Poisoned Dice

From The Jataka Volume 1 translated by Robert Chalmers, online at: Sacred Texts Archive.

Notes. This is the Litta Jataka.

Summary: A gambler almost loses his life as a result of his cheating at dice.

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THE POISONED DICE

(ancient dice from Mohenjo Daro)

Once on a time when Brahmadatta was reigning in Benares, the Bodhisatta was born into a well-to-do family, and when he grew up, he became a dice-player. With him used to play a sharper, who kept on playing while he was winning, but, when luck turned, broke up the game by putting one of the dice in his mouth and pretending it was lost, after which he would take himself off.

"Very good," said the Bodhisatta when he realised what was being done; "we'll look into this." So he took some dice, anointed them at home with poison, dried them carefully, and then carried them with him to the sharper, whom he challenged to a game. The other was willing, the dice-board was got ready, and play began.

No sooner did the sharper begin to lose than he popped one of the dice into his mouth. Observing him in the act, the Bodhisatta remarked, "Swallow away; you will not fail to find out what it really is in a little time."

And he uttered this stanza of rebuke:
He bolts the die quite boldly, knowing not
What burning poison thereon lurks unseen.
Aye, bolt it, sharper! Soon you'll burn within.

But while the Bodhisatta was talking away, the poison began to work on the sharper; he grew faint, rolled his eyes, and bending double with pain fell to the ground.

"Now," said the Bodhisatta, "I must save the rascal's life." So he mixed some simples and administered an emetic until vomiting ensued. Then he administered a draught of ghee with honey and sugar and other ingredients, and by this means made the fellow all right again. Then he exhorted him not to do such a thing again.

After a life spent in charity and other good works, the Bodhisatta passed away to fare thereafter according to his deserts.

0170. The Hermit, The Gold, and the Straw

From The Jataka Volume 1 translated by Robert Chalmers, online at: Sacred Texts Archive.

Notes. This is the Kuhaka Jataka.

Summary: The Bodhisatta is not fooled by a greedy hermit's false honesty.

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THE HERMIT, THE GOLD, AND THE STRAW

(Kushan gold coins)

Once on a time when Brahmadatta was reigning in Benares, there lived hard by a certain little village a shifty rascal of an ascetic, of the class which wears long, matted hair. The squire of the place had a hermitage built in the forest for him to dwell in, and used to provide excellent fare for him in his own house.

Taking the matted-haired rascal to be a model of goodness, and living as he did in fear of robbers, the squire brought a hundred pieces of gold to the hermitage and there buried them, bidding the ascetic keep watch over them.

"No need to say that, sir, to a man who has renounced the world; we hermits never covet other folks' goods."

"It is well, sir," said the squire, who went off with full confidence in the other's protestations.

Then the rascally ascetic thought to himself, "There's enough here to keep a man all his life long." Allowing a few days to elapse first, he removed the gold and buried it by the wayside, returning to dwell as before in his hermitage.

Next day, after a meal of rice at the squire's house, the ascetic said, "It is now a long time, sir, since I began to be supported by you; and to live long in one place is. like living in the world, which is forbidden to professed ascetics. Wherefore I must needs depart." And though the squire pressed him to stay, nothing could overcome this determination.

"Well, then, if it must be so, go your way, sir," said the squire; and he escorted the ascetic to the outskirts before he left him.

After going a little way the ascetic thought that it would be a good thing to cajole the squire; so, putting a straw in his matted hair, back he turned again.

"What brings you back?" asked the squire.

"A straw from your roof, sir, had stuck in my hair; and, as we hermits may not take anything which is not bestowed upon us, I have brought it back to you."

"Throw it down, sir, and go your way," said the squire, who thought to himself, "Why, he won't take so much as a straw which does not belong to him! What a sensitive nature!" Highly delighted with the ascetic, the squire bade him farewell.

Now at that time it chanced that the Bodhisatta, who was on his way to the border-district for trading purposes, had halted for the night at that village. Hearing what the ascetic said, the suspicion was aroused in his mind that the rascally ascetic must have robbed the squire of something; and he asked the latter whether he had deposited anything in the ascetic's care.

"Yes, a hundred pieces of gold."

"Well, just go and see if it's all safe."

Away went the squire to the hermitage, and looked, and found his money gone. Running back to the Bodhisatta, he cried, "It's not there."

"The thief is none other than that long-haired rascal of an ascetic," said the Bodhisatta; "let us pursue and catch him."

So away they hastened in hot pursuit. When they caught the rascal they kicked and cuffed him, till he discovered to them where he had hidden the money.

When he procured the gold, the Bodhisatta, looking at it, scornfully remarked to the ascetic, "So a hundred pieces of gold didn't trouble your conscience so much as that straw!"

And he rebuked him in this stanza:
How plausible the story that the rascal told!
How heedful of the straw! How heedless of the gold!

When the Bodhisatta had rebuked the fellow in this wise, he added, "And now take care, you hypocrite, that you don't play such a trick again."

When his life ended, the Bodhisatta passed away to fare thereafter according to his deserts.

0169. The Hermit and the Caravan

From The Jataka Volume 1 translated by Robert Chalmers, online at: Sacred Texts Archive.

Notes. This is the Asamkiya Jataka.

Summary: Thanks to his ascetic lifestyle, the hermit is able to save the caravan from being robbed.

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THE HERMIT AND THE CARAVAN

(ascetic Buddha)

Once on a time when Brahmadatta was reigning in Benares, the Bodhisatta came to life as a brahmin. Arriving at years of discretion, he became aware of the evils that spring from Lusts, and so forsook the world to live as a recluse in the country round the Himalayas.

Need of salt and vinegar having led him to make a pilgrimage for alms through the countryside, he travelled in the course of his wanderings with a merchant's caravan. When the caravan halted at a certain spot in the forest, he paced to and fro at the foot of a tree, hard by the caravan, enjoying the bliss of Insight.

Now after supper five hundred robbers surrounded the caravan to plunder it; but, noticing the ascetic, they halted, saying, "If he sees us, he'll give the alarm; wait till he drops off to sleep, and then we'll plunder them."

But all through the livelong night the ascetic continued to pace up and down; and never a chance did the robbers get!

So they flung away their sticks and stones and shouted to the caravan-folk; "Hi, there! You of the caravan! If it hadn't been for that ascetic walking about under the tree, we'd have plundered the lot of you. Mind and fēte him tomorrow!" And so saying, they made off.

When the night gave place to light, the people saw the clubs and stones which the robbers had cast away, and came in fear and trembling to ask the Bodhisatta with respectful salutation whether he had seen the robbers.

"Oh, yes, I did, sirs," he replied.

"And were you not alarmed or afraid at the sight of so many robbers?"

"No," said the Bodhisatta; "the sight of robbers causes what is known as fear only to the rich. As for me, I am penniless; why should I be afraid? Whether I dwell in village or in forest, I never have any fear or dread."

And therewithal, to teach them the Truth, he repeated this stanza:
The village breeds no fear in me;
  No forests me dismay.
I've won by love and charity
  Salvation's perfect way.

When the Bodhisatta had thus taught the Truth in this stanza to the people of the caravan, peace filled their hearts, and they shewed him honour and veneration. All his life long he developed the Four Excellences, and then was re-born into the Brahma Realm.

0168. The Fish who Brought the Rain

From The Jataka Volume 1 translated by Robert Chalmers, online at: Sacred Texts Archive.

Notes. This is the Maccha Jataka, the "Fish" Jataka. The Pajjunna invoked in this story is a rain-god. The god Vishnu also took form as a fish in order to save the world: Matsya.

Summary: When drought threatens the fish and other water creatures, the Bodhisatta brings the rain.

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THE FISH WHO BROUGHT THE RAIN

(dragon-eye fish)

Once on a time, in this selfsame kingdom of Kosala and at Sāvatthi too, there was a pond where the tank of Jetavana now is, a pond fenced in by a tangle of climbing plants. Therein dwelt the Bodhisatta, who had come to life as a fish in those days.

And, then as now, there was a drought in the land; the crops withered; water gave out in tank and pool; and the fishes and tortoises buried themselves in the mud. Likewise, when the fishes and tortoises of this pond had hidden themselves in its mud, the crows and other birds, flocking to the spot, picked them out with their beaks and devoured them.

Seeing the fate of his kinsfolk, and knowing that none but he could save them in their hour of need, the Bodhisatta resolved to make a solemn Profession of Goodness, and by its efficacy to make rain fall from the heavens so as to save his kinsfolk from certain death. So, parting asunder the black mud, he came forth, a mighty fish, blackened with mud as a casket of the finest sandal-wood which has been smeared with collyrium.

Opening his eyes which were as washen rubies, and looking up to the heavens he thus bespoke Pajjunna, King of Devas, "My heart is heavy within me for my kinsfolk's sake, my good Pajjunna. How comes it, pray, that, when I who am righteous am distressed for my kinsfolk, you send no rain from heaven? For I, though born where it is customary to prey on one's kinsfolk, have never from my youth up devoured any fish, even of the size of a grain of rice; nor have I ever robbed a single living creature of its life. By the truth of this my Protestation, I call upon you to send rain and succour my kinsfolk."

Therewithal, he called to Pajjunna, King of Devas, as a master might call to a servant, in this stanza:
Pajjunna, thunder! Baffle, thwart, the crow!
Breed sorrow's pangs in him; ease me of woe!

In such wise, as a master might call to a servant, did the Bodhisatta call to Pajjunna, thereby causing heavy rains to fall and relieving numbers from the fear of death. And when his life closed, he passed away to fare according to his deserts.