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On hearing this, Hiraṇyaka too reflected: “This Laghupatanaka seems both eloquent and truthful, so it would be right to make friends with him. But he must never set foot inside my fortress. For it is said—

An enemy creeps forward at first with timid, hesitant movements,

Then freely over the ground, like a lover’s hand over a woman’s body.

Hearing this, the crow said, “My friend, so be it.” From that time onward, the two lived in the pleasure of conversations filled with wise sayings. They passed their days doing kindnesses for each other. Laghupatanaka brought Hiraṇyaka choice morsels of meat left over from offerings, as well as delicacies of cooked food lovingly gathered for him. Hiraṇyaka, in turn, collected rice and other fine things to eat at night, and offered them to Laghupatanaka when he came at the appointed hour. Indeed, such conduct befitted them both. For it is said—

Giving and receiving, sharing secrets and asking about them,

Eating together and offering food: these are the six marks of affection.

No one’s affection can ever arise without some kindness;

Even the gods grant wishes in return for promised offerings.

Affection in this world lasts only as long as gifts are given;

When the milk runs dry, the calf abandons its mother.

Behold the power of giving, which inspires immediate trust:

By its influence, even hatred turns to friendship in an instant.

Giving, I believe, is dearer even than offspring,

Even to an animal devoid of understanding.

See how the buffalo cow, though she has a calf,

Yields all her milk each day when given oilcake.

Why say more?

Having formed an unbroken affection, inseparable as nail and flesh,

The mouse and the crow became friends by their own choice.

So delighted was the mouse by the crow’s kindness, and so complete was his trust, that he would nestle between his wings and converse with him at all times. Then one day the crow approached him with eyes full of tears and said in a faltering voice, “Dear Hiraṇyaka, I have now grown weary of this country. I shall go elsewhere.”

Hiraṇyaka asked, “My friend, what has caused this discontent?”

The crow replied, “Listen, my friend. A terrible drought has brought famine upon this country. Tormented by hunger, people no longer put out even the smallest offering of food. Worse still, in every house hungry people have set snares to catch birds. I myself was caught in a snare and escaped only because my allotted span of life was not yet over. That is the reason for my discontent. And now, as I am leaving for another land, I cannot hold back my tears.” Hiraṇyaka asked, “Where, then, are you going?”

The crow replied, “In the southern country, deep in a dense forest, there is a great lake. There lives a turtle named Mantharaka, a very dear friend, even dearer to me than you. He will give me pieces of fish to eat. Sustained by that food, I shall pass my days happily with him, enjoying conversations full of wise sayings. I do not wish to remain here and watch the birds perish in snares. For it is said—

When drought has ravaged a country and its crops have perished,

Fortunate are those, my dear, who do not stay to see their land ruined and their families destroyed.

What burden is too heavy for the strong? What distance too great for the enterprising?

What country is foreign to the learned? Who is a stranger to those who speak kindly?

Learning and kingship can never be equal:

A king is honored in his own country; a learned man is honored everywhere.”

Hiraṇyaka said, “If that is so, I too shall go with you. I also have a great sorrow.”

The crow asked, “What sorrow is yours, my friend? Tell me.”

Hiraṇyaka replied, “There is much to say about it. Once we arrive there, I shall tell you everything in detail.”

The crow said, “But I travel through the air. How can you accompany me?”

The mouse replied, “If you wish to save my life, you must take me on your back and carry me there. I have no other way.”

Hearing this, the crow said joyfully, “Then I am truly fortunate, for I shall have your company there as well. I know eight different ways of flying, beginning with the steady flight. Climb onto my back, and I shall carry you comfortably to that lake.”

Hiraṇyaka said, “I should like to hear the names of these kinds of flight.”

The crow replied—

“Steady flight, sweeping flight, plunging flight, descending flight,

Curving flight, sideways flight, upward flight, and the eighth, called light flight.”

At these words, Hiraṇyaka immediately climbed onto his back. Carrying him gently, the crow set off in steady flight and in due course reached the lake. Even from a distance, Mantharaka saw Laghupatanaka with a mouse upon his back. Knowing what caution the time and place required, and taking him for no more than an ordinary crow, he quickly slipped into the water. Laghupatanaka placed Hiraṇyaka in a hollow tree on the bank, perched on the tip of a branch, and called out loudly, “Mantharaka! Come out, come out! It is I, your friend, the crow Laghupatanaka. After so long, I have come longing to see you. Come and embrace me! For it is said—

What use is sandalwood mixed with camphor, or cool snow?

None of these is worth a sixteenth part of the touch of a friend.

And again—

Who created this nectar, the two syllables of ‘mitra,’ friend—

A refuge from calamity, a remedy for the burning pain of sorrow?”

Hearing this and recognizing him clearly, Mantharaka hurried out of the water, his body thrilling with joy and his eyes filled with happy tears. “Come, come, my friend!” he said. “Embrace me! It has been so long that I did not recognize you properly. That is why I took refuge in the water. For it is said—

‘Do not associate with one whose strength, family,

And conduct are unknown to you,’ said Bṛhaspati.”

At these words, Laghupatanaka came down from the tree and embraced him. Indeed, it has been well said—

What are streams of nectar poured over the body

Beside the priceless embrace of a friend after a long separation?

Having embraced, the two sat beneath the tree, their bodies still trembling with delight, and told each other the stories of their lives. Hiraṇyaka too bowed to Mantharaka and sat down beside the crow. When Mantharaka looked at him and asked about him, Laghupatanaka said, “My friend, this mouse is named Hiraṇyaka. He is my dear companion, a second life to me. Why say more?

As the streams of rain, as the stars in heaven,

As the grains of sand are beyond counting,

So beyond counting are the virtues of this noble soul.

But he has become deeply disheartened, and has come here to you.”

Mantharaka asked, “What has caused his disillusionment?” The crow replied, “I asked him, but he said, ‘There is much to tell. I shall tell you when we get there.’ So he has not told me either. Now, dear Hiraṇyaka, tell us both what has caused your disillusionment.” Hiraṇyaka began: “Story 1. The Tale of Hiraṇyaka and Tāmracūḍa. In the southern country there is a city called Mahilāropya. Not far from it stands a monastery with a shrine to the blessed Lord Mahādeva. There lived a wandering ascetic named Tāmracūḍa. He sustained himself by going about the city begging for alms. Whatever food remained, he put into his begging bowl, hung the bowl on a wall peg, and then went to sleep for the night. At dawn he gave this food to the servants and instructed them to sweep, plaster, and decorate the shrine thoroughly. One day my kinsmen told me, ‘Master, in that monastery there is always cooked food, kept in a begging bowl hung on a wall peg for fear of mice. We cannot reach it to eat it, but nothing is beyond your reach, master. Why wander elsewhere in vain? Today,

let us go there and, through your favor, eat our fill.’

“Hearing this, I went there at once, surrounded by my entire troop. With a leap I landed on the begging bowl. First I handed out the delicacies to my followers, and then ate myself. When everyone was satisfied, I returned home. In this way I ate his food every day. The ascetic guarded it as best he could, but whenever he fell asleep, I climbed up and went about my business. Then one day he made a great effort to keep me away. He brought an old, split bamboo stick, and even as he dozed, he struck the begging bowl with it for fear of me. Though the food remained uneaten, I kept retreating for fear of a blow. Thus he spent the whole night at war with me. Now one day a wandering ascetic named Bṛhatsphig, a friend of his who was traveling on pilgrimage, arrived at the monastery as a guest. Tāmracūḍa rose to welcome him, treated him respectfully, and offered him all the customary hospitality. That night the two lay down together on a bed of kuśa grass and began to discuss matters of religion. But while Bṛhatsphig was speaking, Tāmracūḍa, distracted by his efforts to frighten the mouse, kept striking the begging bowl with the split bamboo and giving his guest empty answers. Absorbed in this, he contributed nothing to the conversation. At last the guest grew very angry and said, ‘Tāmracūḍa! Now I understand: you are no true friend. That is why you take no pleasure in talking with me. I shall leave your monastery this very night and go to another. For it is said—

“Come, come in! Take this seat. Why have we not seen you for so long? What news? You look very thin. Are you well? How glad I am to see you!”

One may always enter without misgiving the homes of those who greet their visiting friends with such affectionate words.

Those who enter a house where the master, on seeing a guest,

Looks away or hangs his head, are bulls without horns.

Where no one rises to welcome you, where there is no sweet conversation,

And no discussion of merits and faults, that is a house you should not visit.

“‘Merely acquiring a monastery has made you proud. You have cast aside affection for your friends. Do you not realize that, under the pretext of taking charge of a monastery, you have earned yourself a place in hell? For it is said—

If your heart is set on hell, serve as a household priest

For a year—or, to save yourself the trouble, manage a monastery for three days.

“‘Fool! You are to be pitied, so puffed up with pride. I shall leave this monastery of yours and go.’

“Hearing this, Tāmracūḍa became frightened and said, ‘Reverend sir, do not speak so! I have no other friend like you. But listen to the reason for my inattention to our conversation. This wicked mouse leaps up to my begging bowl, however high I hang it, and eats the food left in it. Without that food, I cannot even get the monastery swept. To frighten the mouse,

I keep striking the bowl. There is no other reason. And consider this marvel: in leaping, the wretched creature outdoes even cats and monkeys!’

“Bṛhatsphig asked, ‘Do you know where his burrow is?’

“Tāmracūḍa replied, ‘Reverend sir, I do not know exactly.’

“His friend said, ‘His burrow must surely lie above a buried treasure. It is the warmth of that treasure that gives him such spring. For it is said—

Even the warmth that wealth gives off increases a creature’s vigor;

How much more the enjoyment of wealth, joined with generosity!

And again—

Mother, Śāṇḍilī would not exchange her sesame seeds without a reason—

Hulled seeds for unhulled ones. There must be some cause behind it.’

“Tāmracūḍa asked, ‘How was that?’ His friend replied: ‘Story 2. The Tale of the Sesame-Meal Bargain. Once, during the rainy season, I asked a certain brahmin for lodging in a place where I wished to observe a religious vow. He agreed and attended to my needs, and I lived there happily, devoting myself to worship. One day I awoke at dawn and listened closely to a conversation between the brahmin and his wife. The brahmin said, “Wife, tomorrow morning the sun enters its southward course, an occasion when gifts bring boundless rewards. I shall go to another village to receive offerings. You must give some food to a brahmin here in honor of the blessed Sun.” Hearing this, his wife rebuked him harshly: “Where are you, poverty-stricken as you are, to get food to give away? Aren’t you ashamed to talk like that? Since I took your hand in marriage, I have never known any happiness—not a taste of fine food, nor ornaments for my hands, feet, or neck.” Frightened though he was by her words, the brahmin gently replied, “Wife, you should not speak so. For it is said—

Why should one not give a petitioner even half one’s morsel?

When has anyone ever possessed wealth equal to all his desires?

Does not sacred teaching tell us that the reward a rich man gains through lavish gifts

A poor man may gain by giving a single small coin?

A generous man, though humble, is worth seeking out; a miser is not, however great his wealth.

A well with sweet water delights people, not the ocean.

And again—

What use is the empty title ‘King of Kings’ to one who has never shown the greatness of giving?

The wise do not honor the lord of wealth merely for guarding his treasures.

Moreover—

The lordly elephant, though always lean from the flow of his ichor, is praised;

The donkey, though plump, is despised, for he gives nothing.

The water pot, though well formed and well rounded, goes down because it gives nothing;

The crooked, one-eyed ladle rises because it gives.

The cloud, though it gives only water, becomes dear to all the world;

The sun, though called ‘friend,’ forever stretches out his rays like grasping hands, and cannot be looked upon.

“‘“Knowing this, even those overwhelmed by poverty should give something, however little, to a worthy person at the proper time. For it is said—

A gift to a worthy recipient, given with deep faith,

At the proper place and time, by one of understanding, bears boundless fruit.

And again—

One should not be excessively greedy, nor abandon desire altogether;

For one overcome by excessive greed, a crest sprouts from his head.”

“‘The brahmin’s wife asked, “How was that?” He replied: “Story 3. The Tale of the Hunter and the Boar. In a certain woodland lived a tribesman, a Pulinda. One day he set out into the forest to pursue his sinful hunt. As he made his way along, he came upon a huge boar, like the summit of a mountain of black collyrium. Drawing his bow to his ear, he struck it with a sharp arrow. The boar, enraged, ripped open the hunter’s belly with the tip of a tusk that gleamed like the crescent moon, and the Pulinda fell lifeless to the ground. After killing the hunter, the boar too died from the pain of the arrow wound. Meanwhile a jackal, tormented by hunger and near death, came wandering to that spot. When he saw the boar and the tribesman lying there, he was overjoyed and thought, ‘Ah, fate favors me! Here is a meal I never even dreamed of. Indeed, it has been well said—

Even without effort, the fruits of deeds done in a former birth,

Good or bad, come to a man as fate ordains.

And again—

Whatever deed, good or bad, a man has done,

Its fruit he tastes in the appointed place, at the appointed time, and at the appointed age.

“‘“‘Now I shall eat in such a way that this food will sustain me for many days. First I shall eat this sinew cord fastened to the end of the bow. For it is said—

The wise should consume the wealth they have acquired little by little,

Like an elixir of life, never carelessly.’

“‘“Having made up his mind, he put the curved tip of the bow into his mouth and began to chew the sinew. As soon as the cord snapped, the end of the bow tore through his palate and came out through the crown of his head. He too died on the spot. That is why I say: One should not be excessively greedy.” ***********************************************************************

“‘The brahmin continued, “Wife, have you not heard—

Life span, deeds, wealth, learning, and death:

These five are determined while a creature is still in the womb.”

“‘Thus persuaded by him, the brahmin’s wife said, “Very well. I have a small store of sesame seeds in the house. I shall hull them and feed a brahmin with sesame meal.”

“‘Hearing this, the brahmin went off to the village. His wife soaked and rubbed the sesame seeds in warm water, pounded off their husks, and spread them in the sun. But while she was busy with her household work, a dog urinated among the seeds. Seeing it, she thought, “Ah, see how cleverly fate works when it turns against us! These seeds have been made unfit to eat. I shall take them to someone’s house and exchange these hulled seeds for unhulled ones. Anyone would agree to such a bargain.”’