There is a strongly cautionary Jataka about a jealous monk that I would like to retell. The story could also be seen as an instance of workplace competition. I was not a big fan of monkhood at first since it took able-bodied men out of the workforce and made them go on the dole instead of living a ‘productive’ life. However, I realised over time that an individual has the right to follow his chosen path and perhaps be of service to society like many modern Indian monks are. Alas, the monk in this tale had no reason to find a purpose in life beyond filling his belly.
As to what was eaten in ancient India, Xuan Zang, a 7th-century Chinese Buddhist pilgrim touring India, reportedly noted in his journal that ‘Among the products of the ground, rice and barley are most plentiful. With respect to edible herbs and plants, we may name ginger and mustard, melons, pumpkins and others. Onions and garlic are little known and few people eat them. The most usual food is milk, butter, cream, soft sugar, sugar candy, the oil of the mustard seed, and all sorts of cakes made of grain.’ The list sounds very familiar even today and the last sounds like rotis and puris, which modern Indians continue to relish.
This may have well been the daily portion of the monk in this tale, who lived alone in a little village in the Upper Gangetic Plains. He was greatly enabled in his existence by a rich man in the village.
Life was totally secure for this village monk, with his belly always full. He lived in simple but cosy quarters and received only respect and courtesy from all. He slept as peacefully as a happy child and was entirely free to bathe, meditate and take long afternoon naps.
Into this idyll, one morning came an older monk, of peaceful, learned ways. The village monk met him with due courtesy. He gave him a welcome drink of buttermilk. He offered the visitor his best spare robe. He heated water and kept out bowls of soapnut powder and oil for the visitor’s bath—all of which he was well-provided for by charity. Indeed, the village monk bustled about his preparations as proudly as a diligent housewife to demonstrate the many comforts of his cottage.
After the bath, it was time to eat, which again was no problem. The village monk led the visiting monk to the rich man of the village, who promptly invited them for the midday meal. A feast was offered to which both mendicants did full justice after chanting the customary blessing.
After the meal, the visiting monk conversed knowledgeably and eloquently with his host on any number of subjects. They ranged from religious topics to insightful observations on the seasons and festivals, the overt and subtle difficulties of chaturmaas—the four-month halt during the rains when travel was forbidden—and news of the towns and villages visited along his travels.
The rich man was charmed and took greatly to the visiting monk. He showed him the utmost respect and entreated him to come by every day for food and conversation.
That night, for the first time ever, the village monk was unable to sleep. The worm of jealousy had entered his head and writhed about so much that it kept him awake. Burnt up by his night of misery, the village monk found himself unable to properly wake his visitor for the morning round of alms.
The Jataka says that he scratched so softly on the visiting monk’s door that not even a mouse could have heard him. He did not go home to share the morning alms but spitefully ate them under a tree. When he had to go home, he could scarcely mask his animosity and spoke curtly several times to the visitor, finally leaving the cottage in a foul temper.
The visiting monk felt hurt by such bad behaviour. But being wiser, he also understood the agony that the village monk was going through and pitied him deeply. He meditated all day until he achieved a higher level of inner peace that transcended the village monk’s harsh, negative vibrations.
Later that day, the village monk went to call on the rich man, who asked after the visiting monk. The village monk glibly lied that he had knocked on the visitor’s door but heard no answer.
The rich man then filled the village monk’s alms bowl with madhupayasa made of rice, milk, ghee, sugar and honey. After the monk had eaten this treat, the rich man took away the bowl, washed it in scented water and refilled it to be taken back to the visiting monk.
Unwilling to share this rich, delicious offering, although he had fully eaten his share, the village monk wondered frantically how best to dispose of it. After searching hastily around the village, he found a field that had just been burnt by farmers to make the soil better. It glowed with live coals on which the village monk viciously poured the madhupayasa to the last drop. It went hissing up in smoke, leaving behind the miasma of burnt milk. The smell was like the sweet scent of roses and jasmine to the village monk.
But when he went home triumphantly, he found that the visiting monk had quietly gone away without a word to anybody. This was a massive anti-climax which left the village monk feeling flat and drained after the violence of the jealousy that had convulsed and consumed him.
The Jataka says that it took the village monk 1,001 lives after that to recover his peace of mind, which had burnt to ashes as utterly as the madhupayasa that he had flung away with such hatred for the visiting monk. And it’s just as likely, going by Indian values, that there were karmic consequences to wasting precious food, the product of hard work by so many people.
Renuka Narayanan