Jataka 437
Pūtimaṇsa Jātaka
The Story of Pūtimaṇsa
as told by Eric Van Horn
originally translated by H.T. Francis and R.A. Neil, Cambridge University
originally edited by Professor Edward Byles Cowell, Cambridge University
This is another story about the dangers of sense desire. It is interesting that in the story in the beginning, the form of sense desire is sexual, but in the Jātaka tale, the form of sense desire is food. This makes the point that all sense desire is the same.
“Why do you do this, Pūtimaṅsa?” The Master told this story while he was at Jetavana. It is about tempering the senses. For at one time there were many monks who were not mindful of sense desire. The Master said to the elder Ānanda, “I must admonish these monks.” And due to their lack of self-restraint, he called together the assembly of the Saṇgha. He sat down on a richly-adorned couch and addressed them: “Brothers, it is not right that a monk under the allure of personal beauty should set his affections on mental or physical attributes. For should he die at such a moment, he will be reborn in hell and similar evil states. Therefore, do not set your affections on material forms and the like. A monk should not feed his mind on mental and physical attributes. They who do so—even in this present condition of things—are utterly ruined. Therefore it is good, brothers, that the eye of the senses should be touched with a red-hot iron pin.” And here he gave other details, adding, “There is a time for you to regard beauty, and a time to disregard it. And when you do regard it, do not do so under the influence of what is agreeable, but of what is disagreeable. In this way you will not fall away from your proper sphere. What then is this sphere of yours? Even the four earnest meditations (the satipatthanas), the noble eight-fold path, the nine transcendent conditions (jhānas). If you walk in this your proper domain, Māra will not find an entrance. But if you are subject to passion and regard things under the influence of personal beauty, like the jackal Pūtimaṅsa, you will fall away from your true sphere.” And with these words he told them this story from the past.
Once upon a time when Brahmadatta reigned as the King of Benares, many hundreds of wild goats lived in a mountain cave in a wooded area on the slopes of the Himālayas. Not far from this place a jackal named Pūtimaṅsa with his wife Veṇī lived in a cave. One day—as he was ranging about with his wife—he saw those goats and thought, “I must find some way to eat the flesh of these goats.” And by some method he was able to kill a single goat. Over time both he and his wife became strong and stout by feeding on goat’s flesh.
Gradually the goats diminished in number. Among them was a wise she-goat named Meḷamātā. The jackal—even though he was a skilled hunter—could not kill her. And talking with his wife he said, “My dear, all the goats have died out. We must find a way to get this she-goat. Now here is my plan. You go by yourself and become friendly with her, and when confidence has sprung up between you, I will lie down and pretend to be dead. Then you draw near to the goat and say, ‘My dear, my husband is dead and I am desolate. Except for you I have no friends. Come, let us weep and lament and bury his body.’ And with these words come and bring her with you. Then I will spring up and kill her by a bite in the neck.” She readily agreed.
And after making friends with the goat, when confidence was established, she addressed her in the words suggested by her husband. The goat replied, “My dear, everyone I know has been eaten by your husband. I am afraid. I cannot come.” “Do not be afraid. What harm can the dead do you?” “Your husband is cruel. I am afraid.” But afterwards being repeatedly implored the goat thought, “He certainly must be dead,” and she agreed to go with her.
But on her way there she thought, “Who knows what will happen?” So being suspicious, she made the she-jackal go in front, keeping a sharp lookout for the jackal. He heard the sound of their steps and thought, “Here comes the goat.” He lifted up his head, rolled his eyes, and looked around him. When the goat saw him do this she said, “This wicked wretch wants to kill me. He lies there pretending to be dead.” Then she turned around and fled. When the she-jackal asked why she ran away, the goat gave the reason and spoke the first stanza:
Why does this Pūtimaiṅsa stare?
His look does not like me.
Of such a friend one should beware,
And far away should flee.
With these words she turned around and made straight for her own cave. The she-jackal, having failed to stop her, was enraged with her. She went to her husband and sat down lamenting. Then the jackal rebuked her speaking the second stanza:
Veṇī, my wife, seems dull of wit,
To boast of friends that she has made.
Left in the lurch she can but sit
And grieve, by Meḷa’s art betrayed.
On hearing this the she-jackal spoke the third stanza:
You too, my lord, were hardly wise,
And, foolish creature, raised your head,
Staring about with open eyes,
Though faking to be dead.
At fitting times they that are wise
Know when to open or close their eyes,
Who look at the wrong moment, will,
Like Pūtimaṅsa, suffer ill.
This stanza was inspired by Perfect Wisdom.
But the she-jackal comforted Pūtimaṅsa and said, “My lord, do not be upset. I will find a way to bring her here again, and when she comes, be on your guard and catch her.” Then she went to see the goat and said, “My friend, your arrival proved of service to us, for as soon as you appeared, my lord recovered consciousness. Now he is alive. Come and have a friendly chat with him.” And so saying she spoke the fifth stanza:
Our former friendship, goat, once more revive,
And come with well-filled bowl to us, I pray,
My lord I took for dead is still alive,
With kindly greeting visit him today.
The goat thought, “This wicked wretch wants to take me in. I must not act like an easy prey. I will find a way to trick her.” And she spoke the sixth stanza:
Our former friendship to revive,
A well-filled bowl I gladly give.
With a big escort I will come,
To feast us well, go hasten home.
Then the she-jackal asked about her followers, and then she spoke the seventh stanza:
What kind of escort will you bring,
That I am bid to feast you well?
The names of all remembering
To us, I pray you, truly tell.
The goat spoke the eighth stanza and said:
Hounds grey and tan, four-eyed one too,
With Jambuk form my escort true.
Go hurry home, and quick prepare
For all abundance of good fare.
(Jambuka is a spirit in the realm of Skanda, the Hindu god of war.)
Figure: Calling the jackal’s bluff
“Each of these,” she added, “is accompanied by 500 dogs. So I will appear with a guard of 2,000 dogs. If they do not find food, they will kill and eat you and your mate.”
On hearing this the she-jackal was so frightened that she thought, “I have had quite enough of her coming to us. I will stop her from coming,” and she spoke the ninth stanza:
Don’t leave your house, or else I fear
Your goods will all soon disappear.
I’ll take your greeting to my lord,
Don’t stir, no, not another word!
With these words she ran away in great haste, as if for her life, and taking her lord with her, she fled away. And they never dared return to that spot.
The Master here ended his lesson and identified the Birth: “In those days I was a god who lived there in an old forest tree.”
