The Long Path to Wisdom Read online

  “My argument exactly,” roared the tiger, teeth bared. Trembling, Po begged for a second opinion. “All right,” hissed the tiger, “but only because it is you who is asking.”

  They turned to a large banyan tree. “You are old and wise,” said Po. “Please decide which of us is right.”

  The tree listened attentively as they described their disagreement, and then immediately reached a decision. “There is no such thing as owing someone a debt of gratitude. When the hot sun burns down from above, the villagers gather beneath me to rest in the shade of my leaves, and yet they break my branches and steal my flowers. They would chop me down without a second thought if it struck their fancy. Is this how they repay me? Where is the gratitude in that? Let the tiger eat the human child.”

  The beast approached the boy and opened his mouth wide.

  “Please don’t,” screamed Po. “I have the right to a third judgment!”

  “This is your last chance,” cried the tiger angrily. “No one may appeal a verdict more than twice.”

  Shortly thereafter, they met a hare who was highly esteemed in the entire jungle for his shrewdness and wisdom. They told him of their disagreement and asked his opinion.

  “Hmm,” he answered. “This is a difficult case. Show me exactly where it all started.”

  It being the middle of the night, they all walked back into Po’s village.

  “Where were you when this all began?” the hare asked the tiger.

  “In the cage.”

  “Where exactly?”

  The tiger trotted back into the cage. “And you, Po? Lock the door and show me how you opened it.”

  Po slid the lock back into place.

  “Stop!” cried the hare suddenly. “Leave the door closed! I have restored the proper order of things. The tiger is in the cage. The boy is standing outside it. All is just as it was before the argument began, and so it is settled.” Without another word, the hare hopped away and was gone. Po turned and ran back to his mother and father as quickly as his legs could carry him.

  A few days later the tiger was dead, vanquished by hunger and thirst.

  There was once an old monk who lived as a hermit on the outskirts of a small village. He had once been a wealthy man but after the death of his wife, he had given up his riches and withdrawn to the forest, where he could meditate undisturbed and devote himself to the teachings of the Enlightened One. The one valuable thing he had secretly kept for himself was a single pot of gold, and this he had hidden under a nearby banyan tree. Though it was well concealed, the monk still worried that the pot of gold might sometime be discovered. If the villagers found it, they would spread the word far and wide that he had not truly renounced all worldly wealth.

  The villagers, who knew nothing of his concerns, greatly respected the old monk for his modesty and wisdom and came to the forest often to pay their respects and to bring him offerings.

  One day, a farmer and his wife arrived with a plate of fruit and rice cakes. They told the monk of their son, who was now old enough to train as a novice. With heads bowed, they humbly asked the monk to accept the boy as his student. The monk agreed. The next day, they brought him their son, whose name was Moonface, and in the months that followed, both parents came to the forest often to visit their child. Over time, the old monk befriended the couple and came to trust them so much that one day he revealed his secret pot of gold to them. He asked the farmer and his wife to take it home with them and to hide it on their farm. The couple was hesitant at first, but after thinking it over, they agreed.

  One day a few weeks later, the farmer came running through the forest in a panic. In his hands, he held the old monk’s pot, but the coins inside no longer shimmered yellow. “I cannot explain how it happened,” the man declared breathlessly, “but your gold seems to have turned to copper overnight.”

  The monk ground his teeth angrily, for he knew that the farmer was lying to him. Without betraying his anger, he took back the pot and said: “It is all right. There is nothing to be done.”

  After that, the monk lay awake night after night contemplating how to get revenge on the dishonest farmer until he finally knew what to do.

  The monk began to tame one of the monkeys that lived in the nearby trees. Using the fruit and biscuits that the villagers brought him, he was soon able to teach the animal a few tricks. After a while, the monkey was so tame that he came running when called. To summon him, the monk needed only to cup his hands to his mouth and loudly call out “Moonface!”

  The next day, the monk led his student to a spot deep in the forest and instructed him to stay there alone to meditate until the monk returned. He then hurried back to his hut. That very afternoon, the farmer arrived to visit his son.

  The old monk called for him loudly: “Moonface!” Almost immediately the monkey came bounding out of the trees.

  “That is not my son!” cried the outraged farmer.

  “Indeed it is,” declared the monk.

  “Nonsense! How could a child turn into a monkey?”

  A brief smile flashed over the old monk’s face. “If gold can turn into copper,” he explained, “then a child can also turn into a monkey.”

  A long, long time ago, in the mountains of Burma, there lived a family of puppet makers. The father, his wife, and their son crafted the most beautiful marionettes, which they sold to children, puppeteers, and circus artists in the nearby villages.

  The son, Aung, soon grew to be an ambitious young man who longed to go out into the world. He dreamed of traveling and someday starting his own puppet workshop. He asked his parents for permission to carry out his plan, and after considering his request for a while, they finally consented.

  Before he left, his mother packed him a large bundle of provisions. “Lest you turn to skin and bones during your travels,” she said with a sad smile as she bid him farewell. His father, on the other hand, gave him four puppets to accompany him on his adventures.

  The first figurine was a celestial being, a Burmese angel called Day Wa. The second was called Yo Kha, a giant who was legendary for his size and strength. The third puppet represented the well-known Saw Gyi—a magician in a red robe who wielded a white staff.

  The last of the puppets was called Khe Ma. He was an old hermit in a simple robe with a bowl under his arm that he used when seeking alms.

  Touched, Aung accepted the masterfully crafted marionettes and thanked his parents for all they had done for him. He then slung his pack, with the puppets fastened to the outside, up onto his back and set out on his journey.

  Aung walked until evening fell and then paused under a banyan tree. Thinking it might be a good spot to rest for the night, he set down his pack to inspect the area. As he looked around, the figure of Day Wa, which dangled from his pack, caught his eye. Absentmindedly and almost without noticing that he had spoken the words aloud, Aung asked the puppet, “What do you think, Day Wa? Should I sleep here tonight?”

  The last thing Aung expected was a response, yet seconds later he heard a voice answer: “I don’t know, my dear Aung. I would look around carefully to make sure that it is safe here.”

  The young man stared wide-eyed at the wooden figure, which had now apparently begun to move and talk on its own. It was only the beginning of his journey. Was he already losing his mind? He looked over at the other puppets and saw that one after the other they, too, were coming to life! The giant Yo Kha pounded his fists together; the magician Saw Gyi stretched his stiff little body, and Khe Ma, the hermit, leaned back to gaze at the sunset.

  Amazed by the mysteries of the universe, but dutifully following Day Wa’s advice, Aung inspected the area he had chosen as his camp. It did not take him long to find tiger tracks! He was well and truly frightened and decided it would be best to spend the night high in the crown of the tree with his pack and puppets. Unable to sleep comfortably in his perch, he was awake in the middle of the night to see that t
wo tigers did indeed appear beneath him to sniff and scratch at the tree trunk below. The next morning, Aung thanked his faithful puppets from the bottom of his heart for their sound guidance.

  Aung continued on his way in good company through the mountains of Burma. Before long, in one of the mountain passes, he came upon a long caravan of rich traders. Aung was amazed by the treasures he saw as he beheld their many oxcarts piled high with valuable goods. He said to Yo Kha: “Why is the world so unfair? I wish more than anything that I could also have such riches!”

  The likeness of the legendary giant nodded slowly. “Watch this,” the puppet said, stomping his feet so fiercely that the ground began to tremble. The merchants looked around in alarm. An earthquake in the mountains could trigger landslides and falling rocks! When the shaking did not stop, a mortal terror overcame them. They jumped from their carts and ran, leaving their wares behind.

  Once again overwhelmed, Aung rushed over to the abandoned carts. Was all of this now his? He ran his hands over the luxurious fabrics, tossed silver coins into the air, and hung a shining gold chain around his neck.

  It was then that he heard the sound of sobbing from within the last wagon. Aung pulled back the tarp and there, looking up at him with angry, tear-stained eyes, was a young woman. It was Mala, the daughter of one of the merchants who had fled in panic. For Aung, it was love at first sight, but Mala, for her part, refused even to speak to him.

  With his newly acquired riches, the young man built a large house for himself and his four marionettes, and he established a thriving business. His happiness would have been complete if only Mala had begun to speak to him. Though they lived under the very same roof, she refused to utter even one word and avoided Aung whenever possible. It seemed that she was simply waiting for the return of her father. Day Wa and Yo Kha advised him not to worry about the girl, but instead to concentrate on his business and increasing his wealth.

  All the same, Aung tried very hard to win her favor. He gave her presents and pampered her with the most delicious food and drink. By this time, his riches had multiplied many times over, and he was convinced that Mala would at some point learn to be happy with her new life. At times he felt guilty about the way he had come by his fortune, but three of the puppets always reassured him. Only the hermit remained silent.

  One day, during one of their many uncomfortably silent dinners, the leaden stillness was suddenly broken—Mala spoke! “I beg you: Give my father back his belongings. You now have much more than he ever did.” No sooner did she speak these words than she immediately withdrew behind her curtain of impenetrable silence.

  Aung consulted his puppets. He understood Mala well and was inclined to do as she asked, but Day Wa, Yo Kha, and Saw Gyi scoffed at him, calling him a fool and a weakling for entertaining such thoughts.

  Before Aung had time to reach a decision, Mala received an unexpected visitor. Her father, who had long been searching, finally found her, and the two fled that same night. When Aung noticed the next morning that she had gone, he was overcome with grief and anger. He remained in his room and refused to speak to the three puppets he believed had served him so poorly. Eventually, the fourth puppet, Khe Ma the hermit, went in and sat down next to him. Although he had never paid much attention to Khe Ma, Aung now turned to him in desperation and begged him for guidance.

  Khe Ma shook his head thoughtfully. For a long time he stared out the window in silence. Then he spoke: “My dear Aung, I own nothing save the bowl I use to collect alms. I have nothing to give you. But listen carefully, for what I tell you is true: I am content and happy, for I have everything I need.”

  Aung understood. The next morning, he went away, leaving behind the house and all of his possessions. He resolved to live from then on in solitude and to make do with whatever others were willing to share. In this way Aung wandered from place to place until one day he came to a small, meager hut out of which a young woman emerged to give him food. Thankful for this kindness, he sank to his knees and waited, gaze averted, for her to fill his bowl. Then the woman spoke to him and the sound of her voice made him start. He looked up into her face and saw with surprise that the woman was Mala. With tears in his eyes, Aung revealed his identity and begged for forgiveness. Mala, impressed by his transformation but still wary, led him into the hut, where he fell to his knees before her father and apologized, begging his forgiveness as well. The father and his daughter forgave him and welcomed him with open arms into their home. They agreed to share equally everything they had.

  The three set out and soon reached the large house. As he entered the yard, Aung spied the four puppets standing in the doorway. With a knowing smile they said: “So now you have found true happiness. Welcome home.”

  Long ago the fabled city of Bagan in Myanmar was among the finest places in the world. The simple reason for its excellence was that its people did not lie. Regardless of how unpleasant it might sometimes be, they always told the truth and only the truth. According to legend, there was a device in the city with a mystical property: When a person who had lied in its presence held some part of his or her body in its opening, the device would slice that part off. With such an incentive close at hand, people lived together in harmony.

  One day a woman called on a monk who also worked as a goldsmith and asked him kindly to fashion some gold that she owned into a ring. The monk willingly agreed, but as soon as she had left, he stashed the gold away with no intention of making anything from it.

  A short time later the woman returned inquiring about the monk’s progress, but the monk insisted that she had never given him any gold, that he had no idea what she was talking about.

  The woman was flabbergasted. She had never experienced anything like it. Such a thing was unheard of in Bagan! She returned to the monk twice more, hoping each time to reason with him, but he would not be moved. It was unfathomable.

  In the end the woman demanded that the monk go with her to the device to settle the matter once and for all. He agreed, asking her to wait one moment, during which he ran into his room to fetch the nugget of gold. Next he took his hollow bamboo walking stick, tucked the gold inside it, and sealed it up again. With the gold safely concealed in his staff, he set off with the woman and a handful of curious onlookers.

  When they came to the device, the woman was the first to go. She put her hand into the opening and bitterly laid out her side of the story: She had trusted the scoundrel with her gold—a circumstance he flatly denied—and now he would not give it back to her.

  No response from the device. It was plain for all to see that the woman was telling the truth. A murmur ran through the crowd, and people cast dim glances at the accused.

  Now the monk stepped up to the device. Just a moment earlier he had turned to his adversary and requested that she hold his walking stick. To everyone’s great astonishment he then put not his hand but his entire head into the machine and declared loudly and clearly: “I have already returned the gold to her, but she doesn’t want to believe me.” The assembled onlookers held their breath; surely the monk was lying.

  But the machine did not stir. Pleased with himself, the monk rose and retrieved his walking stick. Looking down his nose at the woman, he then strode off. The stunned crowd eventually directed their disappointment and anger toward the device, pounding and tearing at it until nothing was left of it but scraps.

  With the device destroyed, the era of truth in Bagan was at its end. In the absence of any mechanism to restrain it, dishonesty spread like an infectious disease.

  Once upon a time there was a young traveler named Khun San Lo. During a visit to a distant village he met a beautiful young woman named Nang Oo Pyin. The two fell in love and married. For some time they lived with the bride’s parents and were very happy.

  Eventually Khun San Lo asked his wife to return with him to his village, for he had not seen his mother in ages and missed her. Nang Oo Pyin agreed, and so they journeyed back to Khun
San Lo’s village, where his mother welcomed them both. Nang Oo Pyin became pregnant shortly thereafter. The overjoyed couple eagerly anticipated the birth of their first child.

  Shortly before his wife’s confinement Khun San Lo was compelled to travel on business. Promising to return as quickly as possible and certainly before the birth of their child, he left his bride in his mother’s care.

  Khun San Lo had hardly left the house when his mother revealed her true feelings. She was hopelessly jealous of Nang Oo Pyin and hated her from the bottom of her heart. In the days that followed she tormented her pregnant daughter-in-law in any way she could. She had Nang Oo Pyin doing all the housework, even scrubbing floors on her hands and knees. She would force the young woman to cook for her only to throw all of the food away. She found fault with everything Nang Oo Pyin did and required her to do everything twice. On many a night the exhausted young woman would cry herself to sleep.

  When Nang Oo Pyin had had her fill of mistreatment she summoned all her courage and said to her mother-in-law: “I have done all that you ask, and still you torment me! Worse than that, you are endangering the life of my unborn child. I have no choice; I am going back to my own village to bring my child into the world.”

  Full of despair, Nang Oo Pyin set off on the arduous trek back home. Eventually the inevitable came to pass: Utterly drained and half-starved, she bore her child by the side of the road only to find, after all of her exertions, that her child had been stillborn.

  Nang Oo Pyin wailed bitterly, disconsolate at the loss of both her child and her bright future. Her mother-in-law had robbed her of everything. She nestled her child in the branches of a nearby tree and dragged herself the rest of the way back home, where she tearfully recounted her misadventures and then died in her parents’ arms.