The Vulture and the Jackal

The sages told the Pandavas of the vulture and the jackal who disputed over a dead child, and of the two voices that war in every grieving heart - the voice that says let go, and the voice that says hold on - and of the grace that answered a love that would not yield. It is a tale of grief, of hope and acceptance, and of the hidden self-interest that plays upon our sorrow.

There was once a family whose only child, a young boy, died; and the grief of the parents and kinsfolk was beyond all telling. Following the custom, they carried the body of the child to the burning ground outside the town, the place where the dead are given their last rites. But when they came there, their grief was so great that they could not bring themselves to perform the rites and depart; they lingered by the body, weeping and lamenting, unable to let go of the child, unable to turn away and leave him there. And so they stayed, clinging to the little body, as the day wore on.

As the grieving family lingered by the body, a vulture came and settled nearby, and spoke to them in human speech, urging them to let go and depart. 'O people,' said the vulture, 'why do you linger here weeping over the dead? The dead never return; not by all your weeping will this child come back to life. Such is the way of the world: all who are born must die, and the dead are gone beyond recall. Perform the rites and go home; do not waste your hearts in grief over what cannot be undone. The sun is sinking; the burning ground is no place to stay. Leave the body and go, for lingering helps neither the dead nor yourselves.'

The vulture spoke the voice of acceptance and renunciation: that grief is useless, that the dead cannot return, that the living must let go and turn back to life. And there was truth in its words, hard truth that the grieving heart most needs and most resists. Yet the vulture had its own reason for speaking so; for it was a creature of the day, and it wished the family gone before nightfall, that it might have the body for itself. So even its true and useful counsel was not wholly disinterested, but served its own hunger; and the family, half-persuaded by its words, began to think of leaving.

But as the family rose to leave, a jackal came and spoke to them in human speech, urging them to the very opposite - to stay and not abandon the child. 'O cruel-hearted people,' said the jackal, 'how can you leave your beloved child here and go? Is your love so weak? Stay yet a while; do not give up so soon. Who knows what may happen? Perhaps by some grace, by some turn, the child may yet revive; perhaps the sun, sinking now, will rise again and bring him with it. Do not abandon him while there is any hope at all. Such love as yours should not yield so easily; stay by him, watch by him, and do not give up the one you love.'

The jackal spoke the voice of hope and love that will not let go: that one should not abandon the beloved, that while there is any hope one should hold on, that love demands we do not give up. And there was truth in this too, the truth of the heart that cannot bear to let go. Yet the jackal also had its own reason; for it was a creature of the night, and it wished the family to stay until darkness, and then to leave the body when night came, that it might have the corpse for itself after dark. So its tender counsel, like the vulture's harsh one, served its own hunger; and the family, moved by it, sat down again to wait.

So the grieving family was pulled back and forth between the two voices all the long day. The vulture, eager for them to go by daylight, pressed upon them the truth of acceptance: the dead do not return, grief is vain, let go and depart. And no sooner had they risen to leave than the jackal, eager for them to stay till nightfall, pressed upon them the truth of hope: do not abandon your beloved, stay while any hope remains. And the parents, torn between the two, rose and sat, turned to go and turned back, now persuaded by the vulture to let go, now by the jackal to hold on, swaying between acceptance and hope as the day declined.

The two beasts, each speaking eloquently and each speaking a kind of truth, were in fact only contending for the body, the one wanting it by day and the other by night; and the grieving family, in their sorrow, were the helpless prize of this contest, dragged this way and that by counsels that wore the face of wisdom and love but served only the hunger of the speakers. So the tale shows how, in our grief, we are pulled between the voice that says let go and the voice that says hold on, and how both voices may have their hidden self-interest, playing upon our sorrow for ends of their own.

Through all the long contest of the two voices, one thing held firm and true amid the family's swaying: the depth and steadfastness of their love for the child. For though they were pulled this way and that by the vulture and the jackal, beneath all their wavering was a love that would not simply abandon the child, a devotion that clung to him and would not give him up easily, and that turned, in its helplessness and grief, toward the divine, praying for their child even against all hope.

For when human counsel fails and the heart is torn beyond bearing, the grieving turn at last to the only refuge left, the grace of the Lord; and the parents, in the depth of their sorrow and the steadfastness of their love, lifted up their hearts to the divine, beseeching that their child might be restored to them, surrendering their grief and their hope alike to a power greater than the vulture's harsh truth or the jackal's tender deceit. And it was this steadfast love, turned in devotion to the divine, that would prove not to be in vain; for grace answers the love that does not yield, even when reason and the contending voices of the world have nothing left to offer.

And the steadfast love of the parents, turned in devotion to the divine, was answered by grace. For the great Lord, moved by the depth of their love and their devotion, and by the long ordeal of their grief, was pleased to grant what neither the vulture's counsel nor the jackal's could give: the child was restored to life, given back to his parents whole and living, their grief turned in a moment to overflowing joy. The little one who had lain dead between the contending beasts rose up alive, and the family embraced him, weeping now for gladness.

And the vulture and the jackal, their long contest ended and their prize taken from them both, slunk away thwarted - the day-creature and the night-creature alike disappointed of the corpse they had each schemed to gain, their self-interested counsels exposed and undone by the grace that had restored the child. So the tale ended not in the bleakness of mere acceptance nor in the false comfort of mere hope, but in the grace that answered a steadfast and devoted love; and the two voices that had played upon the family's grief were left with nothing, while the parents went home rejoicing with their living child.

There was in the tale a teaching about the two voices that war in every grieving heart, and about the hidden self-interest that may lie behind even the most persuasive counsel. For the vulture and the jackal each spoke a kind of truth - the one the truth of acceptance, that the dead do not return and grief is vain; the other the truth of hope and love, that we should not lightly abandon the beloved. And each truth has its place, and the grieving heart must somehow hold both: knowing when to let go and accept, and when to hold on and hope.

But the tale warns, too, that those who counsel us in our grief may have their own hidden hungers, and that we are most easily played upon when we are most sorrowful. The vulture wanted the body by day, the jackal by night; and each dressed its hunger in the language of wisdom or of love, the better to move the grieving family to serve its ends. So we must be wary, even in grief, of the counsels pressed upon us, and look to see whose hunger they may secretly serve; and we must learn to discern the two voices within ourselves, the voice of acceptance and the voice of hope, and to heed each in its season, governed not by the self-interest of others but by wisdom and by love.

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

'See, first, the two voices that war in every grieving heart, each with its truth. The vulture spoke the truth of acceptance - that the dead do not return, that grief is vain, that we must let go; and the jackal spoke the truth of hope and love - that we should not lightly abandon the beloved. The grieving heart must hold both, knowing when to accept and let go, and when to hope and hold on. But the tale warns, too, that those who counsel us in grief may serve their own hidden hungers, as the vulture craved the body by day and the jackal by night; and that we are most easily played upon when we are most sorrowful. Be wary, then, of the counsels pressed upon you in grief, and discern whose hunger they may serve.

'And see the grace that answers a steadfast and devoted love. The parents, torn between the voices, held firm in their love and turned in devotion to the divine; and grace, moved by their love, restored their child, while the self-interested beasts were left with nothing. The tale teaches that love which does not yield, turned in devotion to the divine, is not in vain; that there is a grace beyond both the harsh truth of acceptance and the false comfort of hope; and that the steadfast and devoted heart may be answered by a power greater than all the contending voices of the world. Hold fast, then, in love and devotion, even in your deepest grief.'

And the Pandavas, who would know such grief and such love, took to heart the tale of the vulture, the jackal, and the child restored by grace.