15. True Friendship

In one of his lives, the Bodhisattva was born as a parrot who made his home in the branches of a great fig tree, feasting happily each season on its abundant sweet fruit. For years the tree gave generously of itself, and the parrot lived a contented life among its leaves. But as time passed, the fig tree grew old and tired, its branches bare, and it stopped bearing fruit altogether. One by one, the other parrots who had shared the tree deserted it for younger, more fruitful trees nearby – but the Bodhisattva refused to leave.

Sakka, king of the gods, took notice of this strange loyalty and, curious to understand it, descended to earth disguised as an ordinary goose. Settling near the parrot, he asked, “Friend, every other bird has long since abandoned this barren tree. Why do you alone remain?”

“I cannot forsake my friend,” the parrot replied simply, “who fed me faithfully for so many years of my life. It would be a poor kind of gratitude to leave him now, simply because he has nothing left to give.”

Sakka was deeply moved by this answer. Casting off his disguise and revealing his true form, he said, “Your devotion to this old tree has touched me greatly. Ask of me whatever you wish, and it shall be granted.”

The parrot bowed his head respectfully. “Lord,” he said, “this tree sheltered and fed me for years without asking anything in return. If you would grant me a wish, let it be for his sake, not mine – bless him with the strength to bear fruit again, as abundantly as he once did.”

“So be it,” said Sakka, and with a touch of his power the old fig tree stirred back to life – its bark grew smooth again, its branches thickened, and within days it stood laden once more with ripe, sweet fruit, exactly as it had been in its prime.

Moral: Loyalty to a friend who has given you everything, even when that friend has nothing left to offer, is a devotion worth rewarding.

16. The Great Horse

In one of his lives, the Bodhisattva served the king of Benaras as a magnificent war horse of exceptional strength and intelligence, so attuned to his rider's thoughts that the king named him Great Knowing-One. When seven neighbouring kingdoms banded together and marched on Benaras at once, it was the bravest knight in the king's service who mounted Great Knowing-One and rode out to meet the combined enemy army alone.

Before the battle began, the horse spoke quietly to his rider. “Sir,” he said, “let us try to spare needless bloodshed today. Rather than killing the enemy kings, let us capture them alive – I will carry you wherever you need to go.” With that, Great Knowing-One charged into the heart of the enemy cavalry, weaving through the chaos of battle with astonishing speed and precision, allowing the knight to seize one enemy king after another and take them prisoner, all seven in turn.

But in the final clash of the fighting, an enemy sword found its mark, tearing deep into the great horse's flank. Even as his strength ebbed away and his legs began to fail beneath him, Great Knowing-One did not think of himself. With his last breaths, he pleaded with his own king for one thing only – that the seven captured kings be shown mercy rather than punished for the war they had brought.

Moved by the dying horse's final wish, the king honoured it, pardoning all seven captive rulers and setting them free. What had begun as an invasion ended, because of one horse's noble request, in an alliance – the former enemy kings, humbled by the mercy shown them, became lasting friends of Benaras.

Moral: True nobility shows itself even in defeat – mercy asked for with one's last breath can turn bitter enemies into lasting friends.

17. The King of the World

In one of his lives, the Bodhisattva was born as Clear-sighted, ruler of the prosperous kingdom of Kusavati. From the very start of his reign, he governed by ten firm principles he never once compromised: uprooting ill will wherever he found it, standing firm against open enmity, protecting the innocent from harm, and steadily promoting self-control, patience, gentleness, generosity, straightforwardness, and goodness among his people.

Under such governance, the kingdom flourished. Crime grew rare, prosperity spread evenly through every village, and the people of Kusavati came to regard their king with genuine affection rather than mere obedience. Word of his wisdom travelled beyond his own borders, and before long, rulers of distant lands began sending envoys to seek his counsel on matters of justice and administration.

In time, Clear-sighted's influence spread so widely and was so universally respected that he came to be spoken of as the King of the World – a ruler whose reputation for fairness seemed to touch every corner of the known lands. Some among his people, in their admiration, began to speak of him as though he might live forever, calling him Clear-sighted the Great.

But even the greatest of rulers cannot escape the nature of things. Many years into his long and glorious reign, Clear-sighted fell gravely ill, and as he lay dying he gathered his ministers and spoke his final teaching to them: that whoever is born is certain to die, regardless of rank, wealth, or power, and that no crown can purchase exemption from that truth. Then the King of the World breathed his last and departed for his heavenly abode, having led a life remembered long after his passing.

Moral: A ruler who governs by uprooting ill will, protecting innocence, and practising patience and generosity earns a legacy that outlasts even his own life.

18. The Price of Sin

In one of his lives, the Bodhisattva was born a gifted archer, but in time he set aside the bow entirely and took up the life of an ascetic, becoming known throughout the region as Sarabhanga. Around him gathered a devoted circle of disciples, whom he sent out to towns and villages to preach the value of living a virtuous life – though such teaching was not always welcomed, and his followers often faced ridicule or hostility for their efforts.

Kisavaccha, the most senior and devoted of these disciples, journeyed once to the kingdom of Kumbhavati, where King Dandaki ruled. Rather than receiving him with the respect his piety deserved, the king had Kisavaccha abused and driven away in disgrace. Heartbroken by such treatment, the old ascetic made his way home to the banks of the River Godavari, where, weakened by grief as much as by the journey, he lay down and quietly passed away. So great was his piety that, as his funeral pyre was lit, the gods themselves are said to have showered flowers upon it in silent tribute.

Word of what had happened to the gentle old ascetic spread quickly, and it was not long before a terrible reckoning fell upon Kumbhavati – the kingdom, along with King Dandaki himself, was utterly destroyed, a fate widely understood as punishment for the cruelty shown to a holy man who had done nothing to deserve it.

News of Kumbhavati's downfall travelled swiftly to the courts of neighbouring kingdoms, and many rulers who heard it were shaken to their core. Fearful of meeting the same fate, several of them took the lesson to heart, turning away from old cruelties and beginning, from that day forward, to govern with far greater virtue and restraint.

Moral: Cruelty toward the virtuous does not go unanswered – and the fear such a lesson leaves behind can turn many toward a better path.

19. Life After Death

In one of his celestial lives, the Bodhisattva dwelled amid the comforts of heaven, yet remained deeply attentive to the suffering of those still living on earth below. Among them was Angadinna, king of Videha – a ruler who had once governed with genuine goodness, but who had gradually fallen under the influence of companions who filled his mind with a dangerous idea: that death was simply an end, with no consequence to follow, and no reckoning for one's actions in life.

Believing this, King Angadinna had begun abandoning the practices that once defined his rule. Charity dwindled. Religious observance was neglected. Fearing no judgment beyond the grave, he drifted further and further from the principles that had once made him a respected king, all because of the careless words of those he trusted.

Watching this decline from above, the Bodhisattva resolved that such a fundamentally decent man should not be allowed to lose himself entirely to a false belief. He descended from heaven in his full, radiant form and appeared before the king, delivering careful sermons and patient counsel on the true nature of life, death, and consequence.

King Angadinna, utterly astonished by the resplendent being who stood before him, listened with a mind finally open to correction. Where his companions' words had once persuaded him that nothing followed after death, the undeniable presence of the Bodhisattva now taught him the opposite truth – that a person's actions in life are indeed weighed afterward, and rewarded or punished accordingly. Humbled and shaken from his complacency, the king turned back toward the virtuous rule he had once practised.

Moral: A single false belief, encouraged by bad company, can lead even a fundamentally good person astray – and sometimes only direct, undeniable proof can set them right again.

20. The Story of Moggallana

There once lived a man named Moggallana, deeply devoted to his beautiful wife, whom he loved without reservation. But his wife possessed a cruel and demanding nature, and she directed much of that cruelty toward Moggallana's aging, blind parents, who lived under their roof and depended entirely on their son's care. Day after day, she pressed him relentlessly to abandon the old couple in the forest, unwilling to share her home with them any longer.

Unwilling to risk his wife's displeasure, Moggallana finally gave in. He led his frail, sightless parents deep into the forest under the pretext of a walk, and there he left them, turning to go before they could fully understand what was happening.

“We cannot even care for ourselves out here,” his mother pleaded desperately, reaching toward the sound of his retreating footsteps. “Please, do not leave us alone in this wilderness!”

But Moggallana, hardened by his wife's constant pressure, paid no heed to his mother's cries and walked away, leaving his parents to fend for themselves among the trees. He had not gone far, however, before misfortune found him – his foot caught the edge of a hidden pit, and he plunged in, breaking both his legs on the fall.

Trapped and in agony, unable to move, Moggallana lay helpless at the bottom of the pit until, by chance, the Bodhisattva happened to pass that very way. Seeing the injured man's distress, he climbed down and pulled Moggallana free – but the damage to his legs was permanent, and he remained crippled for the rest of his life.

In his pain and his newfound helplessness, Moggallana finally understood, with painful clarity, that every misdeed eventually returns to its doer. Filled with remorse for what he had done to the parents who had once cared for him just as helplessly, he sought them out and begged their forgiveness.

Moral: Neglecting those who once cared for you, even to please someone you love, invites a heavy price – and misdeeds against one's own parents are rarely left unanswered.

21. The Missing Necklace

One warm afternoon, the chief queen of King Brahmadatta decided to bathe in the royal garden's lake, and before wading into the cool water, she handed her jewellery – including a magnificent pearl necklace – to her waiting servant girls for safekeeping. Unbeknownst to anyone below, the garden's tall trees were home to a troop of monkeys, and one curious she-monkey, perched on a branch overhead, watched the whole scene unfold with growing fascination.

“So this is why the queen always looks so radiant,” the she-monkey thought to herself, eyeing the gleaming pearls. “If I wore that necklace, surely I would be just as beautiful.” She waited patiently, watching for her chance, until at last the drowsy servant girl guarding the jewellery nodded off in the afternoon heat. In a flash, the monkey swung down, snatched the necklace, and vanished back up into the thick canopy of leaves before anyone noticed a thing.

When the theft was discovered, the king flew into a rage and ordered his guards to search every corner of the kingdom for the culprit. As chance would have it, a poor man happened to be walking near the garden just as the commotion erupted, and, startled by the shouting and the sudden flurry of activity, he turned and ran – which was exactly the wrong thing to do. The guards, seeing a man flee, gave chase and dragged him before the king as their prime suspect.

Terrified and desperate to save himself from punishment, the poor man blurted out a confession, claiming he had stolen the necklace on the instructions of the kingdom's chief financial advisor. When the advisor was hauled before the king and questioned in turn, he panicked and passed the blame to the royal priest, who, just as frightened, pointed the finger at the chief court musician, who then dragged in the chief court dancer for good measure. But when the dancer was finally summoned, she flatly denied any involvement at all, and by the end of that long and confused day, the exasperated king simply had all of them thrown into custody together.

The Bodhisattva, who served the king as a minister, found the entire chain of confessions deeply suspicious. The theft, after all, had occurred inside a heavily guarded royal garden – hardly a place any of these frightened officials could have slipped into unnoticed. “I believe every one of them is lying purely out of fear,” he reasoned aloud. “The poor man likely named the advisor simply to escape blame himself; the advisor, in turn, named someone more powerful than himself, hoping it would somehow ease his own punishment; and so the accusation passed from person to person, each one merely trying to survive the moment.” Certain that the true culprit lay elsewhere entirely, the Bodhisattva suspected the work of a monkey.

He ordered every female monkey in the royal grounds to be gently captured and fitted with imitation jewellery, then released again under close watch. Sure enough, the actual thief, who had hidden the real necklace in a hollow tree trunk, could not bear to watch her companions flaunt their new baubles without showing off something finer. Unable to resist, she retrieved the true necklace from its hiding place and proudly draped it around her own neck – and the watching guards spotted the genuine pearls at once. Startled into dropping it, the guilty monkey gave up the necklace, the queen had her jewellery returned, and every wrongly accused prisoner – the poor man, the advisor, the priest, the musician, and the dancer – was released without further blame.

Moral: Fear can make the innocent confess to crimes they never committed, passing blame from one frightened person to the next – true wisdom looks past panic to find where the fault actually lies.