The perils of allowing a third party into a quarrel were recognised long ago and ancient Indian advice cautions strongly against it through stories that contain this message. The medium of the story was the preferred device in our culture for conveying a moral since people preferred entertainment to lectures and preachments, for a story could be told and retold, conveying its message forever.
Also, a number of ancient Indian stories, such as the Panchatantra, Hitopadesa or Jatakas, used animals as their characters. This may have been done not only to make the stories more amusing and interesting but also to diplomatically and indirectly convey their morals to human beings, who might have been offended if told off directly. Such stories could be related to both children and adults and their lessons be left to sink in. Perhaps that is why these stories, or parables, have stayed with us millennia later, continuing to delight and inform us. The ‘quarrel moral’, for instance, is well-known in Hindi even today as ‘bandar baant’ or ‘monkey division’, where, in a fight between two cats over a roti, the monkey, as arbitrator, keeps defrauding them little by little while pretending to help them divide it, and in this way, eats up all the bread himself, making a fool of them and leaving them hungry.
A variation of this theme is found in a tale told by the Sakyamuni during a retreat at Jetavana or ‘Jeta’s Forest’. This forest was obtained for the Buddha by his disciple, the merchant Anantapindika, who bought it from its owner Prince Jeta, the son of King Prasenajit of Kosala. This is why it was called Jetavana. Anantapindika was one of the Buddha’s chief patrons and according to tradition, actually covered the floor of the forest with gold coins to buy it for the Buddha. Jetavana was next to Shravasti, which was one of the six great cities of the Upper Gangetic Plain during the Buddha’s time. Today, the remains of Jetavana and Shravasti are jointly known as the Sahet-Mahet historical park in Uttar Pradesh.
The Buddha spent 19 of the 45 retreats he conducted in his life at Jetavana. Here he would tell the monks a story, which was essentially a warning against letting outsiders take advantage of in-house quarrels or disagreements. How very pleasant it must have been for the rows of assembled monks in their ochre robes to sit in the cool, dark shade of the mango trees and listen quietly to a story told by the Sakyamuni himself. One may well imagine that he spoke in a low, clear voice with humorous inflections and a steady thread of common sense, casting a spell on listeners and making his stories memorable.
Long ago, he is said to have said, when Brahmadatta was king of Varanasi, there lived a jackal named ‘Mayavi’—an apt name, meaning ‘illusionist’ or ‘deceiver’. The jackal found himself a mate and they lived happily by the River Varuna or perhaps it was the Assi, which are both minor tributaries of the Ganga and combine to give Varanasi its name. One day, Mrs Mayavi told her husband that she longed to eat fresh river fish. Happy to oblige, the jackal went scouting by the riverbank hoping to steal something from a fishwife’s basket. And then he saw a most interesting sight.
Two sleek, handsome otters were out by the river in search of lunch. One of them spotted a fine, big fish and leapt into the water after it. But the fish was strong, and helped by the current, it almost got away.
“Help me!” called the otter in the water and its friend on the bank jumped in at once, so that between them they landed the catch.
The otters happened to rejoice in fine classical names. One was called ‘Gambhir’, meaning ‘serious’, ‘thoughtful’ and ‘influential’ and the other was called ‘Anuthi’, meaning ‘unique’ and ‘extraordinary’. Despite their grand, meaningful names, the two otters failed to live up to them. They might as well have been called something short and sweet like ‘Pittu’ and ‘Bittu’. Instead of behaving like an Anuthi and a Gambhir, they fell into a wholly unnecessary squabble about how to share their lunch, although it must be said that they argued very politely.
“You caught this, so please do the sharing,” said Anuthi first, with a deep Namaste.
“Not without your help, so you must do the honours,” bowed Gambhir with exquisite courtesy. Neither party would budge from its stand. And so it went on for a good half hour, driven by silly pride about which of the two was the most mannerly. Meanwhile, the fine big fish lay patiently between them, waiting to be eaten. The jackal had hidden himself behind a big tree at some distance from the bank and watched these proceedings with keen interest.
When the two otters, worn out by arguing, flopped down on either side of the catch, the jackal judged it the right moment to step out. He went up to them and greeted them most civilly.
“What seems to be the matter?” he asked, in a concerned voice.
“Welcome, friend,’ said the two exhausted otters. “Perhaps you can settle our dispute for us. Help us divide this fish we caught.”
“Why, certainly,” grinned the jackal. “Here’s how.” And very swiftly, he bit the fish into three portions with his sharp teeth.
“Here’s the head for you,” he said, pushing it to Gambhir. “And here’s the tail for you,” he said, pushing that to Anuthi. “And here’s my share for settling your dispute.”
And, in the blink of an eye, he seized the entire fat mid-section of the fish and bounded up the riverbank, home to his delighted wife.
“But you can’t swim. How did you get this?” she marvelled between bites.
The jackal told her how and they both laughed heartily. “Serves them right for fighting,” they said scornfully, of the two silly otters.
Renuka Narayanan
Slug: Faithline