# The Panchatantra (Purnabhadra's Recension of 1199 CE)/Book 2/Self-defeating Forethought

SELF-DEFEATING FORETHOUGHT
There was once a hillman in a certain place who set out to increase his sins by hunting. As he walked ​along, he met a boar that resembled the top of Sooty Mountain. Straightway he drew an arrow as far as his ear, and recited this verse:
The fitted shaft and bow-string's tension He sees, and shows no apprehension; The psychological conclusion Is: Death has prompted this intrusion.
Then with a sharp arrow he shot the boar, who in turn angrily tore the hillman's stomach with a pointed fang that shone like the crescent moon, so that the man fell dead. The boar also, after killing the hunter, died in torment from the arrow-wound.
At this point a starving jackal reached the spot in his aimless wanderings. When he spied a boar and a hunter, both dead, he gleefully thought: "Fate is kind to me, providing this unlooked-for store of food. There is wisdom in the verse:
The fruit of actions good or bad In each preceding state, Without a further effort, comes Upon us, brought by fate.
And again:
Each deed from every time and place And age, as consequence Brings good or evil in exact And fitting recompense.
Consumption of a treasure earned Should very slowly follow, As wise men sip elixir down, Not bolt it at a swallow.
After these reflections, he took into his mouth the sinew with its end hanging from the bow. And when the gut snapped, the bow-tip pierced the roof of his mouth and came out like a topknot. And the jackal perished from the pain of it.
"And that is why I say:
Indulge in no excessive greed, . . . .
and the rest of it."
Then the Brahman continued: "My dear, did you never hear this?
These five are fixed for every man Before he leaves the womb: His length of days, his fate, his wealth His learning, and his tomb."
After this preachment, the wife said: "Well, I believe I have a bit of sesame grain in the house. I will grind it into flour and feed a Brahman." And her husband, having received her promise, went off to another village.
Then the wife softened the sesame grains in hot water, hulled them, placed them in the hot sun, and returned to her chores in the house. In this state of affairs a dog made water in the dish of grain, and she thought when she saw it: "Dear me! See how shrewd ​fate is, when it has turned against you. Even these poor sesame grains it has made unfit to eat. Well, I will take them to some neighbor's house, and make an exchange, unhulled for hulled. For anybody will bargain on those terms." So she put her grain in a basket and went from house to house, saying: "Who cares to exchange sesame unhulled for sesame hulled?"
Now she happened to enter with her grain a house which I had entered to beg alms, and she made her offer there. The housewife was delighted and took the hulled grain in exchange for unhulled. Later, her husband came home and asked: "My dear, what does this mean?" And she told him: "I made a bargain hulled sesame for unhulled."
Over this he pondered, then said: "To whom did this grain belong?" And his son Kamandaki told him: "To Mother Shandilee." Then he said: "My dear wife, she is mighty shrewd at a bargain. You had better throw this sesame away.
'Tis certain Mother Shandilee, If bargaining in sesame— Her hulled grains for the unhulled kind— Has some good reason in her mind."
"So," said Wide-Bottom, "he surely derives this vigor in jumping from the smell of his hoard." And he continued: "Do you know his manner of attack?" "Yes, holy sir, I do," answered Crop-Ear. "He comes not alone, but with a school of mice."
"Well now," said Wide-bottom, "is there any ​digging tool about?" "Indeed there is," said Crop-Ear. "Here is a handy pickaxe, solid iron." "In that case," said the guest, "you and I must wake early, so as to follow their tracks together, while the footprints still dirty the floor."
Now when I heard the villain's speech fall like a thunderbolt, I thought: "Ah, this spells ruin for me. For his words imply something more. Just as he has marked my hoard, so he will surely discover my fortress, also. Of this his implied meaning convinces me. For the proverb says:
Shrewd characters at sight Can estimate aright Their man, as some are deft To gauge an ounce by heft.
And again:
The budding fancy first betrays The character that strives For birth as recompense of good Or ill in former lives: No marking tail has grown, yet when You see the beggar pick His mincing steps about the pond, You cry: 'A peacock chick!'"
So I was terrified, deserted the beaten track to my fortress, and with my followers started on another track.
Then a prodigious cat met us, and seeing the whole pack before him, pounced into our midst. And the mice who survived the slaughter scolded me for picking a bad trail, and sought shelter in the old fortress, ​drenching the floor with blood. Yes, there is wisdom in the old story:
A deer there was that burst his bonds; He flung the trap aside; He violently broke apart The hobbling snare that tied;
From woods uncouth with tufted flames Around him bristling, fled; The hunters' arrows left behind; To seeming safety sped;
Into a well at last he tumbles: On hostile fate all effort stumbles.
Then I departed, alone. The others—poor dolts! plunged into the old fortress. Thereupon the holy man, perceiving that the floor was smeared with drops of blood, followed the trail to the fortress, and began to ply the pickaxe. As he dug, he came upon the hoard over which I had lived so long, and the smell of which used to guide me back to the fortress.
Then Wide-Bottom was filled with glee and said: "Now, Crop-ear, sleep in peace. It was the smell of this that enabled the mouse to wake you." So they took the hoard and turned to the cell.
Now when I returned to the spot, I could not bear to look at the sad, disturbing sight. And I reflected: "Ah, what shall I do? Where shall I go? How may I win peace of mind?" In such reflections the day dragged drearily away.
Still, when the sun had laid his thousand beams to ​rest, I went with my companions to the same cell, though I was troubled and lacking in vigor. And when Crop-Ear heard the patter of our pack, time and again he started to strike the alms-bowl with his frazzled bamboo.
Then his guest said: "My friend, why not go peacefully to sleep at last?" "Holy sir," he replied, "I am sure that villainous mouse has come with his followers. I do this from fear of him."
But Wide-Bottom laughed and said: "Have no fear, my friend. His jumping energy is gone with his property. This rule applies to all creatures without exception. As the saying goes:
The man has constant vigor? Dares On others' backs to mount? Speaks in a self-sufficient tone? He has a bank account."
This angered me so that I made a desperate jump for the alms-bowl, but missed and fell to the floor. And my enemy saw me and said to Crop-Ear: "Look, my friend! It is quite wonderful. You could put it into poetry:
The wealthy men are men of force; And they are scholars all, of course: The mouse who lost his wealthy store, Is now a mouse and nothing more.
And there is point in this:
A fangless snake; an elephant Without an ichor-store;
A man who lacks a cash account— Are names and nothing more."
When I heard this, I reflected: "Alas! It is true, though it is my enemy who says it. For today I have not the power to jump a mere finger's breadth. A curse upon a fellow's life without money! As the saying goes:
After money has departed, If the wit is frail, Then, like rills in summer weather, Undertakings fail.
Forest sesame, crow-barley, Men who have no cash, Owning names but lacking substance, Are accounted trash.
Beggars have, no doubt, their virtues, Yet they do not flash: As the world has need of sunlight, Virtues ask for cash.
Beggars-born less keenly suffer Than the men who crash From a life of comfort to a Deficit of cash.
Like the flabby breasts of widows, Hopes and wishes rash Helpless fall upon the bosom, When there is no cash.
The sun that stuns the eyes that shun, In vain he strains to see: The light so bright is wrapped in night By veils of poverty."
Then my attendants retired and gossiped together. "Look here!" said they, "the fellow has no power to fill our bellies. Those who ride his back get nothing but buffets—from cats, for example. Why pay him reverence? For the proverb says:
A king from whom no bounties come, But only buffets fall, Had better be avoided, and By soldiers first of all."
Such remarks I heard on the trail. And since, when I returned to the fortress, not one of my followers accompanied me (for I was penniless) I began to ponder deeply.
"A curse, a curse on a life of poverty! There is sound sense in the verse:
Even relatives are sure Scornfully to treat the poor; Pride is docked, and virtue's moon Loses luster, waning soon; Friends that were, disgusted fly; Sorrows breed and multiply; Comes the imputation then Of the sins of other men.
When man is crushed by poverty And stricken down by fate, His best of friends become his foes, And tried affection, hate.
Empty is the childless home; Hearts that lack a friendship sure; Wide horizons, to the fool; All is empty to the poor.
And once again:
His passions are entire; his name, Keen wit, and speech are just the same; The man's the same. No! See him change! Cash fails. The life is out! Ah, strange!
"Yet what have folk like me to do with money? Folk whose final fate is such as this? Positively my best course, now that property is gone, is to withdraw to the forest. As the proverb says:
Pride builds a proper house; Never be humble: Spurn cars of heaven, where Pride takes a tumble.
Failure may dog the step; Pride stands erect, Stoops not to widest wealth Tainted, abject."
And I continued my reflections: "Yes, the curse of beggary is dreadful as death. For
Gutted by the forest fire, Stands in sterile soil a tree, Gnarled, and riddled by the worms— Better that than beggar be.
And as for beggary:
It is the shrine of wretchedness, The dwelling-place of tears,
The thief of mind, the soil of doubts, The treasury of fears,
Concreted meanness, home of woe, And haughty honor's knell, A form of death—to self-esteem No different from hell.
And again:
A beggar is a man of shame, Who bids farewell to honor's name; From this, humiliations grow, Then melancholy's gloomy woe; But gloom with sadness dims the sense, And sad men lack intelligence; Now death is folly's certain fruit— Thus, money's lack is evil's root.
And once again:
Thrust your hands between the jaws Of an angry snake; Slumber in the house of Death; Poisoned liquor take; Dash yourself to pieces down Himalaya's side: Do not feast on riches wrung From a villain's pride.
To sum it up:
Feed your body to the flames, Friend, if you are needy; Do not cringe to beg a dole From the selfish-greedy.
Better roam in forest wilds With the beasts of prey Than, by whimpering for gifts, Baseness to betray.
Better let your tongue be tied Than to know that you have lied; Better to be impotent Than adulterously bent; Better die than take delight In the petty pricks of spite; Better beg as monk than feel That you live by what you steal.
Well, then, shall I live on charity? That, too, is damnable, my friends, damnable. That too is a second gate of death. As the saying goes:
Parasite, or exiled scamp, Invalid, or homeless tramp— Life is death for these. The best Would be death. For death is rest.
"Then I must at any cost recover the very treasure that Wide-bottom has stolen. For I saw my money-bag converted into a pillow for those two villains. I must regain my property, and if I die in the attempt, it will be better than this. For
If cowards who see themselves despoiled Too tamely feel the sting, Their fathers in the world beyond Will spurn their offering."
After reaching this conclusion, I went there at night and gnawed a hole in the bag after he had gone ​ to sleep. Thereupon that dreadful holy man awoke and struck me on the head with the frazzled bamboo. Yet somehow I escaped death—predestination, you see. As the old rhyme puts it:
What's duly his, a man receives; This law not even God can break; My heart is not surprised, nor grieves; For what is mine, no strangers take.
"How was that?" asked the crow and the turtle. And Gold told the story of
MISTER DULY