Shiva, the mighty God with the blue throat, lives high up in the Himalaya mountains with his beautiful wife, Parvati. Sometimes, life is not much fun for her, for Shiva is often away for years at a time on his usual business of creating and destroying people and dancing on top of the world to keep it going. On one occasion Parvati did not know when he might return. She was bored. There was not much she could do all by herself on a mountain peak, and she was feeling exceedingly lonely. It suddenly occurred to her that she was, after all, a goddess and could do whatever she wished. What she needed was a playmate ... not a playmate that would annoy Shiva, as his anger could be deadly in more senses than one, but a sweet, innocent playmate.
High in the Himalayas there lived a tribe of 80,000 monkeys, ruled over by a mighty monkey king. The river Ganga flowed over the rocky bed of the valley where they lived, giving them pure water for their thirst and coolness in the summer heat as it rushed downwards to the plain where men had built their cities. The river also fed another gift. A tree grew in the heart of the valley, by the bank of the river. In the spring, the scent of its white blossom sweetened the air. The shade of its branches was kind against the summer sun, and autumn brought a crop of the sweetest and largest fruit in India. The monkeys rejoiced in the good fortune that provided so precious a gift for them.
But the great king warned that if others came to hear of the tree and its fruit, they would want them for themselves and would drive the monkeys away. He feared the men from the cities especially. The monkeys must take care that no fruit ever fell into their hands. As the tree grew on the river bank, all the great branches on one side leaned out far across the water. On the orders of the king, every spring, the monkeys ate the flower blossom of those branches and searched them again in the summer for the fruit of any flower they might have missed. That way they hoped no fruit would ever fall into the current and find its way down the river to the plain and the homes of men.
One spring the monkeys missed a flower but the bees did not. The leaves shielded it through the summer heat and by autumn the wizened stem could not carry the weight of fruit on it. The fruit fell into the water. Round the rocks it tumbled on the current, along the valleys to the quiet, wide waters of the plain. There, close to the favourite bathing place of King Brahmadatta, a group of fishermen caught it in their nets. They marvelled at its size and its scent that hinted at juicy sweetness. It was surely a fruit fit for a king’s table, so they brought it to the king as their gift. It was the taste that delighted the king and the court. It seemed to linger on the tongue and create a craving for more. Brahmadatta decreed that the source of this fruit must be found and organised an expedition to search for it.
Brahmadatta led the searchers upwards along the banks of the river, and within days they found the tree. It was still laden with fruit but a host of monkeys had found it first and were feeding there, to the horror of the king. It was such a waste that those heavenly fruits should feed monkeys. Brahmadatta decided there was only one solution. Next day, they would kill the monkeys so that they would never return to the tree. Then they would harvest the remains of the crop for this year, confident that all of it would be theirs in the years to come. A guard was set around the tree to prevent the monkeys’ escape in the night.
The monkeys watched the preparations from the shadows of the leaves and heard the plot for the next day’s slaughter. In great agitation they came to their king and laid it all before him. “We cannot escape” they said. “The distance between our tree and the next is too far for us to leap. We shall all die.”
For some time the king pondered their plight. Then he called all to listen to his plan. “I am great-bodied, long and strong,” said the king of the monkeys. “Tomorrow those shall all be useful.”
At dawn, next morning the king made a mighty leap from the fruit tree, out across the river to a tree that grew opposite, on the other bank. From the trunk of that tree he unwound a rope of vine reed that grew around it, a length of 100 bows, to equal his mighty leap. Then he tied one end of the rope tightly to a long branch of the tree. The other end he tied to his ankle. Again, he gathered his strength and leaped out into space, his long arms reaching for a branch of the fruit tree. They caught but as they did, the monkey king realised that the vine rope would not be long enough to bridge the gap between the two trees. He had forgotten to allow for the lengths that tied the rope to the tree opposite and to his ankle. There was only one way to save the tribe. Hanging there in space, the king ordered his subjects to run along his back to the bridge of the vine rope and so save themselves. For hours, he hung there as 80,000 monkeys raced along him until his mighty back could no longer take the strain. As the last of his subjects reached safety, his back failed and the king fell to the ground, limp and broken, in great pain. King Brahmadatta had been wakened by all the movement and commotion. He had watched the escape and the great feat of the monkey king. Now he raced to him, calling for water and oil to bathe and soothe the great body.
“You have given your life and all your strength to save your people,” Brahmadatta praised him.
“They trusted me so I must care for them like a father. It is a joy for me that all are safe. I can rest now. You know, Brahmadatta, that it is love and not power that makes a great king.”
Brahmadatta never forgot those dying words of the king. He showed him every reverence as long as he had life and when he died, he built a temple in his honour. From that time, too, he ruled his people with care and compassion so that he and they were happy.
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