The Jackal and the Rooster
In a farmyard at the edge of a forest lived a proud rooster named Kukkuta. He had bright red feathers, a loud crow, and a haughty strut. Every morning, he perched on the fence and announced the sunrise. The farmer’s family loved him, and the hens admired him.
A hungry jackal named Jambuka lived in the nearby woods. He had tried many times to catch the rooster, but the farmhouse was guarded by a fierce dog and a high fence. So the jackal decided to use trickery.
One evening, the jackal crept to the fence and called out in a soft, admiring voice, “O great rooster! I have traveled from distant lands just to hear you crow. Your voice is sweeter than a nightingale’s. Will you not come closer so I may hear you properly?”
The rooster puffed out his chest. “I am indeed famous for my crow. But why should I trust a jackal?”
The jackal said, “I am no ordinary jackal. I have taken a vow of vegetarianism. I eat only berries and fallen fruit. Look at my thin body does that look like a hunter’s?”
The rooster looked. The jackal was indeed thin. The rooster thought, “He seems harmless. And it would be nice to be admired.”
He hopped down from the fence and strutted toward the jackal. But as he came within reach, the jackal’s eyes narrowed. He leaped forward, but the rooster was faster. He flapped his wings and jumped back just in time, scratching the jackal’s nose with his sharp claws.
“Liar!” screamed the rooster. “You tried to eat me!”
The jackal, bleeding from the nose, snarled, “You are lucky. Next time I will not announce myself.”
The rooster flew back to the fence and crowed loudly, waking the farmer’s dog. The dog came running, barking. The jackal fled into the forest.
The rooster told the other farm animals, “Flattery that comes from a hungry mouth is a hook with no worm. When a predator praises you, run, do not preen.”
The farmer heard the story and placed a bell around the rooster’s neck, so he could hear him coming and going. The rooster lived a long life, but he never again stepped off the fence for a stranger’s compliment.
The Old Man and His Wife
In a small town lived an elderly merchant named Jarasandha. He was seventy years old, rich, and widowed. His children had married and moved away. Lonely, he married a young woman named Tarunika, who was barely twenty.
At first, Tarunika was happy. She had silk clothes, a large house, and servants. But soon she grew bored. Her husband was old and frail. He could not dance, could not ride a horse, and fell asleep before sunset.
One evening, Tarunika said to her husband, “I want a gift. All my friends have young husbands who bring them flowers and sing love songs. You have never given me anything like that.”
The old man smiled. “What would you like, my dear? Gold? Jewels? A new house?”
“No,” she said. “I want a young man’s heart. Go to the forest and bring me the heart of a young deer. That will make you young again.”
The old man knew this was foolish, but he loved his wife and wanted to please her. The next morning, he went to the forest with a knife. He walked for hours but saw no deer. Tired and hungry, he sat under a tree.
A monkey swung down and sat beside him. The monkey was old, with gray fur and missing teeth. The old man sighed. “Even the monkey is old like me.”
The monkey chattered and pointed at the old man’s knife. The old man said, “My wife wants a young deer’s heart. But I cannot find any deer.”
The monkey scratched his head. Then he picked up a fallen fruit, shaped roughly like a heart, and placed it in the old man’s hand. The old man understood. He took the fruit, wrapped it in a leaf, and went home.
That evening, he gave the leaf‑wrapped “heart” to Tarunika. She opened it and saw the shriveled fruit. “This is not a heart! This is a rotten fruit!”
The old man said, “It is the heart of an old monkey. The monkey told me: ‘Young hearts are for young men. Old men who try to steal young hearts end up with rotten fruit.’ So I brought you what I could find.”
Tarunika was furious. She threw the fruit at the wall. But the old man’s words stayed with her. She realized that she had married an old man and could not expect him to become young. Either she accepted him as he was, or she left.
She did not leave. Instead, she learned to appreciate his wisdom, his stories, and his gentle hands. And the old man, in turn, bought her a young horse to ride, so she could feel the wind in her hair.
They lived together in peace. And the neighbors said, “A young wife who demands the impossible from an old husband will get only disappointment. But a young wife who loves the old man for what he is will find joy in unexpected places.”
The Potter’s Son
In a certain town lived a potter named Kulala. He made clay pots, water jugs, and children’s toys. He was not rich, but he was content. His son, Tarunakulala, was a lazy young man who hated the sight of clay and the spin of the potter’s wheel. He wanted wealth without work.
One day, the king of the city rode past the potter’s shop. The king wore silk robes, a diamond necklace, and a golden crown. He sat on a white horse with a jeweled saddle. The potter’s son watched and said to himself, “That is the life I want. Why should I spin clay when I can wear diamonds?”
He went to his father and said, “Give me all the money we have. I am going to the city to become rich like the king.”
The potter warned, “Son, wealth is not worn on the outside. That king inherited his kingdom. You have only your two hands. Stay and learn the potter’s trade.”
But the son would not listen. He took the small bag of savings copper coins and a few silver pieces and walked to the city.
In the city, he saw a merchant selling fine clothes. He bought a silk robe and a turban with a fake ruby. He saw a horse seller and traded the rest of his money for a thin, old horse, which he painted with white polish to look proud. He tied a piece of shiny glass to a string and hung it around his neck like a jewel.
Dressed like a nobleman, he rode through the city gates. People stared. Some whispered, “Who is that prince?” Others laughed, noticing the horse’s tired eyes and the fake ruby.
The potter’s son came to the king’s palace and announced, “I am a prince from a distant land. I wish to marry the king’s daughter.”
The king was amused. He invited the young man to dinner. During the feast, the king clapped his hands. Servants brought a golden plate piled with rice and meat. The potter’s son had never eaten such food. He grabbed handfuls and stuffed his mouth, spilling rice on his silk robe. He burped loudly and wiped his hands on the tablecloth.
The princess, watching from behind a screen, whispered to her father, “No prince eats like that. This man is a fake.”
The king ordered his guards to search the young man’s room. They found the cheap horse, the glass necklace, and a bag of clay dust still on his shoes from his father’s workshop.
The next morning, the king summoned the potter’s son. “You are not a prince. You are a potter’s boy who spent his family’s savings on a costume. For your lies, you will spend one month in prison.”
After a month, the young man was released, penniless and ashamed. He walked back to his father’s shop. The old potter was spinning clay on his wheel.
“Father,” said the son, “I tried to wear wealth like a coat, but it fell off. Now I have nothing.”
The potter handed him a lump of wet clay. “Then make something. A pot you shape with your own hands will never pretend to be gold. But it will hold water, and water is worth more than a thousand fake rubies.”
The son sat at the wheel and began to learn. In time, he became a fine potter, richer in skill than he ever could have been in lies.
The Foolish Barber
In a certain kingdom lived a barber named Kshuraka. He was the king’s personal barber, trusted to shave the royal beard and cut the royal hair. Every morning, he entered the palace with his sharp razors and left with a bag of gold coins. He was content but greedy.
One day, while shaving the king, the barber noticed that the king’s private chambers were filled with treasure chests overflowing with gold, diamonds, and emeralds. The barber thought, “If I could get just one of those chests, I would never have to work again.”
That evening, the barber saw a holy man sitting under a tree, meditating. The holy man had long matted hair, a saffron robe, and a calm face. The barber asked, “Holy one, how can I become rich without working?”
The holy man opened his eyes. “There is a mantra that turns stones into gold. But it requires great discipline. You must fast for seven days, then stand on one leg for seven hours, then whisper the mantra seven times. If you make even one mistake, you will turn into a donkey.”
The barber was not a patient man, but greed made him bold. He went home, fasted for one day not seven and grew so hungry that he ate a loaf of bread. “The holy man said seven days,” he told himself, “but surely one day is enough.”
Then he stood on one leg for seven minutes, not seven hours. His leg cramped, and he fell. “Close enough,” he muttered.
Finally, he whispered the mantra seven times, but he forgot the order of the words. Instead of “Om hrim shrim kam,” he said, “Om shrim hrim kam.”
Nothing happened. He tried again. Still nothing. Angry, he shouted the mantra at a pile of stones. The stones did not turn to gold. But a donkey grazing nearby lifted its head, brayed, and walked away.
The barber decided to use his razor instead. That night, he crept into the palace with a sack. He sneaked into the king’s treasure room, but the chests were locked. He tried to pry one open with his razor. The razor slipped, cut his finger, and he yelped in pain.
The guards heard him. They rushed in, found the barber with a sack and a bloody razor, and arrested him.
The next morning, the king said, “You, whom I trusted to hold a blade to my throat, tried to steal from me. You are not a barber. You are a thief. You will lose your right hand.”
The barber wept and begged. The king, remembering years of good shaves, spared his hand but banished him from the kingdom forever.
The barber wandered into the forest, hungry and alone. He saw the same holy man under the same tree. “You lied!” shouted the barber. “The mantra does nothing!”
The holy man smiled. “I did not lie. I told you it requires discipline. You fasted one day instead of seven. You stood one minute instead of seven hours. You mispronounced the words. The mantra works, but only for those who follow the rules. You wanted the treasure without the work. So you got nothing but a donkey’s fate and the donkey, at least, has grass to eat.”
The barber sat down and wept. And the forest creatures learned: shortcuts that skip the path lead only to cliffs.
The Merchant’s Son and the Wise Woman
In a prosperous city lived a wealthy merchant named Arthapala. He had one son, Dhanavardhana, who was handsome but reckless. The merchant gave his son a bag of gold coins and sent him to a neighboring city to learn the trade of silk.
Instead of trading, the young man gambled away all the gold in three days. He lost his clothes, his sandals, and even the ring his father had given him. Naked and ashamed, he hid in a cemetery on the edge of the city.
In that cemetery lived an old woman known as the Wise Widow. She was poor but sharp-minded. She found the merchant’s son shivering behind a tombstone.
“Why are you here, young man?” she asked.
He told her everything. She sighed. “Foolish boy. But your father is rich. If you return home empty-handed, he will disown you. I can help you, but you must obey me without question.”
He agreed.
The old woman gave him a torn blanket to cover himself. Then she took him to a potter’s house and borrowed a clay pot. She filled the pot with ashes from the cremation ground. She covered the ashes with a thin layer of rice on top.
“Go to the palace,” she said. “Tell the king that you are a merchant from a distant land and that you have brought a pot of rare saffron as a gift. The king loves saffron. He will open the pot, see the rice, and assume the rest is saffron. He will offer you a high price. Take the money and leave the city before he discovers the truth.”
The young man did as she said. The king was delighted with the “saffron.” He paid a thousand gold coins for the pot. The merchant’s son took the money, bought new clothes, and returned to his father.
“Father,” he said, “I gambled and lost everything. But a wise woman saved me with a trick. Now I have a thousand gold coins, but I have also learned that lies are a ladder that breaks halfway up. I will not gamble again.”
The merchant embraced his son. “You lost gold, but you gained wisdom. That is a fair trade.”
The son repaid the old woman with a hundred gold coins and a new house. He became an honest trader and never cheated anyone again. Years later, when the king discovered the ashes, he laughed and said, “The boy fooled me, but he used the money well. Let him keep it.”
And the story spread: a single deception may save you once, but only truth will save you twice.
The Four Treasure-Seekers
In a certain town lived four Brahmins who were close friends. Three of them were very learned they had memorized the scriptures, mastered grammar, and could recite poetry by heart. The fourth was not learned at all, but he had something the others lacked: common sense.
One day, the three learned Brahmins decided to travel to distant lands to seek their fortunes. They invited the fourth to join them. “You have no learning,” they said, “but you can carry our bags.”
The four set out together. After walking for many days, they came to a forest. There, lying on the ground, they found a pile of old lion bones a skull, a spine, ribs, and four legs.
The first learned Brahmin said, “Let us test our knowledge. I know a mantra that can assemble these bones into a skeleton.”
He chanted, and the bones rose and clicked together into a complete lion skeleton.
The second Brahmin said, “I know a mantra that can add flesh, skin, and fur to a skeleton.”
He chanted, and the skeleton grew muscles, hide, and a golden mane. A lifeless lion lay on the ground, perfectly formed but not breathing.
The third Brahmin said, “I know a mantra that can bring the dead back to life. Watch!”
The fourth Brahmin, the one with common sense, stepped forward. “Stop! If you bring that lion to life, it will kill us all. We are standing right next to it.”
The three learned men laughed. “You are a fool. You know no mantras. What do you understand about power?”
“I understand that a living lion eats meat,” said the fourth. “And we are meat.”
But they would not listen. The third Brahmin began to chant the mantra of life. The fourth Brahmin, seeing he could not stop them, quickly climbed a tall tree nearby.
The third Brahmin finished his chant. The lion opened its eyes, shook its mane, and stood up. It was hungry it had been dead for years. The first thing it saw was the three learned Brahmins standing right in front of it. It roared, leaped, and killed all three with three swipes of its paw.
Then it ate them.
The fourth Brahmin stayed in the tree until the lion finished its meal and walked away. Then he climbed down, went home, and told the townspeople what had happened.
The village elder said, “Learning without wisdom is a sharp knife in a child’s hand. The three fools knew how to create life, but they did not know when not to. Their friend had no mantras, but he had a brain. That brain saved his life.”
From that day, the town taught children: knowledge is good, but knowing when not to use it is better.
The Dog and the Camel
A farmer owned a camel and a dog. The camel carried heavy loads of grain to the market every day. The dog did nothing but sleep in the shade and bark at strangers. The camel was patient and hardworking; the dog was lazy and jealous.
One afternoon, the farmer loaded the camel with sacks of rice and set off toward the city. The dog, bored, followed behind. On the way, they passed a pond. The camel stopped to drink. The dog, not thirsty, snapped at the camel’s heel.
“Why did you bite me?” asked the camel.
“Because you walk too slowly,” said the dog.
The camel said nothing and continued walking.
A little later, they passed a field of ripe melons. The camel, hungry, stretched his long neck and took a bite. The dog barked, “That is stealing! The farmer will beat you!”
The camel replied, “You bite me for walking slowly. Now you scold me for eating. What do you want?”
The dog wanted only to cause trouble. That night, when the farmer unloaded the camel, the dog ran to him and whined, “Master, the camel tried to kick me. He is dangerous. Tie him up.”
The farmer trusted the dog. He tied the camel to a post with a thick rope.
The next morning, the farmer needed to send grain to the city. He untied the camel, but the camel, still angry at the false accusation, refused to move. He sat down and would not get up.
The farmer beat him with a stick. The camel did not move. The farmer beat him harder. Still the camel sat.
Finally, the farmer said, “Dog, you told me the camel is dangerous. But he will not even stand. You are a liar.” He kicked the dog away.
The dog slunk off, tail between his legs. The camel, seeing the dog gone, stood up and walked calmly to the city. The farmer understood that the dog had lied.
From that day, the farmer fed the camel well and gave the dog only scraps. The dog learned that a jealous tongue can bite its own tail.
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