The Hawk and the Dove

As the Pandavas wandered the holy places in their years of exile, the sage Lomasha pointed out to them the ancient land of the Shibis and told them of the king whose name that country still honored. "There ruled here long ago," he said, "a king named Shibi, of the line of Ushinara, who was renowned across all the worlds for one thing above every other: his compassion. It was said of him that he would give anything - his wealth, his kingdom, his very body - to protect a creature that came to him for shelter. And because such fame travels even to heaven, the gods themselves came down to test whether it was true."

Yudhishthira, who held mercy and the protection of the helpless among the highest of duties, asked to hear the whole of it, and Lomasha told him the story of the hawk and the dove.

In the court of the gods, the fame of King Shibi's mercy was spoken of so often and so highly that two of the great ones resolved to put it to the proof. Indra, king of the gods, and Agni, the lord of fire, agreed upon a trial. Agni would take the form of a dove, a small and trembling creature, hunted and afraid. Indra would take the form of a hawk, swift and fierce, pursuing it. And between the two, the dove would flee straight to the lap of King Shibi and beg for its life - and there the king's famous compassion would be caught between two duties, and they would see what he was truly made of.

So it was done. One day, as King Shibi sat performing a great sacrifice, a dove came hurtling down out of the sky in mortal terror, its wings beating wildly, and dropped into the king's lap, pressing itself against him and trembling in every feather. And close behind it, swooping down with talons spread, came a hawk, hungry and relentless, that perched nearby and fixed its bright eyes upon the king and his small shivering guest.

The dove found a voice and spoke, as creatures did in those days, pleading for its life. "O King, I have flown to you for refuge, for you are the protector of all who are afraid. The hawk hunts me to kill me. Save me. Do not give me up to death."

King Shibi looked at the small terrified thing in his lap and his heart went out to it. "You have come to me for shelter," he said, "and you shall have it. I will not abandon you. While I live, no hawk shall take you from my lap."

But then the hawk spoke, and its words were not those of a mere beast but of one who reasoned. "O King, you are called a lover of righteousness, and yet you would do me a grave injustice. This dove is my food. By the law of my own nature, given to me by the maker of the world, I live by hunting such birds; this is my appointed sustenance and my right. I have pursued it fairly. I am hungry, and I have young in the nest who will starve if I do not eat. If you take my lawful prey from me to save it, you save one life only to destroy mine and my children's. Is that the justice of the famous Shibi? In protecting your refugee, you become my murderer."

The king was caught, exactly as the gods had meant him to be, between the duty to protect the helpless and the duty not to rob the hawk of its rightful food. He sat in deep thought, for both spoke truly.

At last King Shibi found what seemed to him the path of dharma. He turned to the hawk and said, "You speak rightly that you must not be robbed of your food, and I will not rob you. But this dove has taken refuge with me, and to surrender it to death would be a sin I cannot commit; I have given my word. So let us both keep our dharma. You shall not lose your meal, and the dove shall not lose its life. I will give you other flesh in the dove's place - and more. Ask of me an ox, a boar, a deer, whatever feast you wish, and it is yours, only spare this one small creature that has trusted me."

But the hawk would not be turned aside so easily. "I do not want an ox, nor a boar, nor a deer, O King," it said. "I want what fate gave me today: this dove, and no other meat. But since you are so determined to ransom its little life - I will tell you the only price I will take instead. Give me flesh from your own body, cut with your own hand, equal in weight to this dove. Weigh the dove in a balance, and against it weigh your own flesh, and when the scales are even, the meat is mine and the bird may go free."

The court fell silent in horror. But King Shibi's face did not change. "You have asked a hard thing," he said, "but a just one, and I am glad of it. I will do exactly as you say."

A great balance was brought and set up in the hall. In one pan the king placed the trembling dove. Then, without flinching, King Shibi took up a knife and cut from his own thigh a portion of his flesh, and laid it in the other pan to weigh against the bird.

But a strange thing happened. The dove outweighed the flesh. The pan with the small bird sank down, and the pan with the king's flesh rose up light. So the king cut again, more flesh from his body, and added it to the pan - and still the dove weighed more. Again and again he cut, taking flesh from his thigh, his arm, his sides, heaping it into the balance, and each time, however much he added, the little dove sank lower and his own flesh weighed less, as though the bird grew heavier the more he gave.

The blood ran down, and the king grew weak, and the watching court wept and cried out for him to stop. But Shibi would not stop, for he had given his word, and to a king of that line a word was worth more than a body. He went on cutting away himself, piece by piece, and still the scale would not come even.

At last King Shibi understood that no portion of his flesh, however great, would ever balance the dove, for there was a power at work in it beyond nature. And so he made the final offering. Wasted and bleeding, he rose, and with the last of his strength he climbed up into the balance pan himself, giving not a piece of his body now but the whole of it - his entire self - to ransom the life of the one small creature that had trusted him.

"Let my whole body go for the dove's life, if that is what the scales demand," he said. "I give it gladly. A king is the refuge of the afraid; I will not fail the one that came to me, though it cost me everything."

And in that moment, when the king offered his entire self without reserve, a sound of celestial drums rolled through the sky, and flowers fell from heaven upon the king, and a divine fragrance filled the hall. The hawk and the dove vanished from their forms.

Where the hawk had perched now stood Indra, king of the gods, shining in his true form; and where the dove had trembled now stood Agni, the lord of fire, radiant and smiling. They looked upon the broken, bleeding king with love and wonder.

"O Shibi," said Indra, "there is none like you in all the worlds. We came in the forms of hawk and dove to test whether your fame was true - whether you would truly give your own body to protect a creature that sought your shelter. We have seen it now with our own eyes. You did not waver even when the price was your whole life. Your compassion is greater than any we have known among mortals or immortals."

At the gods' touch the king's torn body was made whole again, more beautiful and more radiant than before; not a scar remained. His flesh was restored, his strength returned, and a glory now clung to him that marked him forever as one beloved of heaven.

The gods blessed King Shibi before they departed. "Your name and this deed," said Indra, "will be remembered as long as the earth endures and men tell stories of mercy. Wherever the protection of the helpless is spoken of, the name of Shibi will be spoken first. You have purchased an undying fame, and a place in the highest worlds, with the coin of your own flesh freely given."

And it was so. King Shibi ruled long and justly, and his deed passed into the memory of the whole land as the very measure of compassion. When men wished to name the most merciful act they could imagine, they spoke of the king who weighed his own body against a dove, and gave himself entire rather than betray a creature that had come to him in fear.

The gods rose into the heavens, and the king, healed and glorified, returned to his throne, and the land of the Shibis kept his story for all the ages after.

Lomasha ended the tale, and Yudhishthira sat a long while in silence on the soil of the Shibi land, deeply moved.

"You see, son of Pandu," said the sage, "what it can mean to be a true protector. A king is the refuge of all who are afraid, and the giving of refuge is the most sacred of duties - so sacred that this king would sooner cut away his own body, piece by piece, and offer his whole life, than surrender one trembling creature that had trusted him. He held his given word above his flesh, and mercy above his own life, and for that the gods themselves came down to honor him."

Yudhishthira took the lesson to heart, for he too had vowed to be the shelter of the helpless, and he had learned how high a price that vow might one day ask. The brothers honored the holy land of King Shibi and went on along their road, carrying with them the memory of the hawk, the dove, and the king who would not let a frightened guest be taken from his lap.