The Bird and the King

The sages told the Pandavas of Pujani, the wise bird who dwelt in a king's palace, and of how a single act of vengeance between her and the king destroyed a long friendship - a tale of the bitter cycle of injury and revenge, and of why trust, once broken by blood, can never be wholly restored.

In the palace of King Brahmadatta there lived a bird named Pujani, a creature of great wisdom and long life, who had made her home in the royal apartments and had become a dear friend and companion to the king. Pujani was no ordinary bird; she was learned and far-seeing, and the king valued her counsel and her company. And it happened that at the same time the queen bore the king a son, the bird Pujani also hatched a young one of her own; and so the prince and the young bird grew up together side by side in the palace, companions from birth, while the king and Pujani looked on as friends.

Pujani, devoted to both children, would fly out each day and bring back rare and excellent fruits from distant places, and she shared them equally, giving one to her own nestling and one to the king's son, so that the two grew up nourished alike by her care. All was harmony between the bird and the king, and between their two young ones, for a long and happy season.

But one day the king's son, the young prince, grew rough in his play with the little bird, and in a fit of childish cruelty or temper he seized Pujani's nestling and killed it. The mother bird returned to find her only child dead at the hands of the prince she had nourished with her own care. Her grief was terrible, and with it came a bitter sense of betrayal: that the very child she had fed and tended should repay her by slaying her own. The long harmony was shattered in a moment by this first shedding of blood, and the friendship of the bird and the king's house was poisoned at its root.

Pujani, maddened with grief and the desire to avenge her slain child, fell upon the young prince who had killed her nestling, and with her claws she put out the eyes of the prince, blinding him in revenge for the murder of her young. An eye for a life, a wound for a wound: she repaid the cruelty done to her in kind, and the king's son was left blinded by the bird he and his family had befriended.

Having taken her revenge, Pujani prepared to fly away, for she knew that she could no longer remain in the palace; the friendship was broken, and blood had been shed on both sides. But before she left, the king and the bird fell to talking, each troubled by what had passed - the king grieving for his blinded son, the bird grieving for her murdered nestling, both of them caught now in the bitter aftermath of vengeance. And the king, though his own son had been blinded, spoke to her with seeming calm, urging her to stay, to remain his friend as before, assuring her that he bore her no ill will and that the matter could be set aside between them.

But Pujani, wise as she was, would not be persuaded to stay, for she saw clearly what the king's smooth words concealed. 'O King,' she said, 'you ask me to remain and to be your friend as before, as though nothing had happened; but I know that it cannot be. For there has been blood between us now - your son killed my child, and I have blinded your son - and where blood has been shed, where injury has been done on both sides, true friendship and true trust can never again be restored. You may say you bear me no ill will; but in your heart the memory of your blinded son will remain, and the desire for revenge upon me will lie hidden there, however you mask it. And I, for my part, cannot forget my murdered child, nor cease to fear your hidden anger.

'If I stay, one of us will surely, sooner or later, seek the other's harm; the wound between us is too deep to heal, and dwelling together, we would only wait, each watching the other, for the vengeance that is bound to come. It is wiser, then, for me to go - not in anger, but in the clear knowledge that where such injury has passed, parting is safer than a false peace. For a reconciliation that is only on the lips, while the heart still remembers the wound, is no reconciliation at all, but only a trap waiting to spring.'

Pujani spoke on, unfolding the hard truth she had learned about enmity and trust. 'Once enmity has arisen between two,' she said, 'and blood has been shed, the friendship that was before can never be made whole again, however both may wish it or pretend it. For the memory of the injury remains, lodged in the heart, and with it the fear and the desire for revenge; and these, though hidden under fair words, do not die. The one who has been wronged cannot fully trust again, and the one who did the wrong cannot be fully trusted; and so the two, if they remain together, live in a hidden war, each guarding against the other, each awaiting the other's stroke.

'It is the nature of beings, when they have once injured one another deeply, to remain enemies in their hearts even while they smile; and the wise, knowing this, do not deceive themselves with false reconciliations, but keep apart from those with whom such blood has passed. Better an open parting in clear knowledge than a false friendship that hides a waiting blade. For trust, once broken by such injury, cannot be rebuilt by words; and to pretend otherwise is only to endanger oneself.'

And so, despite the king's urgings that she stay, the wise bird Pujani took her leave, parting from the king and his palace where she had dwelt so long and so happily before the blood came between them. She bore the king no open hatred, and he professed none toward her; but both knew, as she had said, that the friendship was ended and could not be restored, and that to part was wiser than to dwell together with so deep a wound unhealed.

Pujani flew away and did not return, and the king was left with his blinded son and the memory of the friendship that vengeance had destroyed. So the long companionship of the bird and the king, which had begun in harmony and care, ended in grief and parting, broken beyond mending by a single act of cruelty and the revenge it bred. Neither could undo what had been done; neither could trust the other again; and the only wisdom left was to part. The friendship was gone, and the shedding of blood had made its loss final.

There was in the tale a sober teaching about the cycle of injury and revenge. For it had begun with a single cruel act - the prince's killing of the nestling - which led to a revenge, the blinding of the prince, which in turn left a wound that no reconciliation could heal, and ended in the destruction of a long friendship. One injury had bred another, and the two together had poisoned forever what had been good; and had the bird stayed, the cycle would surely have gone on, vengeance breeding vengeance, until one destroyed the other.

The wisdom of Pujani lay in seeing the cycle for what it was and refusing to be drawn further into it. She did not seek to add a new revenge to the old, nor to deceive herself that the wound could be wished away; she parted, and so broke the chain. The tale taught that vengeance, once begun, tends to feed upon itself without end, each stroke calling forth another; that injuries deeply done leave wounds that words cannot heal; and that often the only way to escape the deadly cycle is to part from the one with whom the enmity has arisen, rather than to prolong a false peace that must end in blood.

The sages drew the lessons of the tale for the Pandavas.

'See, first, how a single act of cruelty can destroy a long and precious friendship, and how vengeance breeds a wound that cannot be healed. The prince killed the bird's nestling, the bird blinded the prince, and the friendship of years was broken beyond mending; and the wise bird saw that trust, once shattered by such blood, can never be wholly restored by words, for the memory of the injury and the fear of revenge remain hidden in the heart. The tale warns how easily good is destroyed by a moment of cruelty, and how the cycle of revenge, once begun, poisons all that was between two beings.

'And see the hard wisdom of Pujani, who would not deceive herself with a false reconciliation. The king urged her to stay and be friends as before; but she knew that a peace on the lips, while the heart still remembers the wound, is only a trap, and that where such injury has passed, parting is safer than a false friendship hiding a waiting blade. The tale teaches us to beware of reconciliations that are only pretended, to know that deep injuries leave lasting wounds, and that sometimes the only safety lies in parting cleanly rather than dwelling together in a hidden war. Guard, then, against the cruelty that breeds such enmity in the first place; and where trust has truly been broken by blood, do not be deceived by fair words.'

And the Pandavas, who stood on the edge of a war among kinsmen where blood would break all trust forever, took most soberly to heart the tale of the bird and the king whom vengeance parted.