The Elephant Who Perished Because a Jackal Understood the Vanity of Kings

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A Fable from the Hitopadeśa

Once upon a time in India, there was an elephant who had grown so large that the forest seemed to have been built around him as an afterthought.

He was a magnificent elephant, with enormous tusks and a personality that would have been unbearable in anything smaller.

He believed he was a king.

Nobody had actually elected him, but this was a common problem with kings.

One afternoon, a jackal discovered the elephant standing beneath a banyan tree, contemplating his reflection in a puddle.

The jackal was a small, orange creature with the kind of intelligence that usually gets somebody else into trouble.

He had been hungry for three days.

Then he saw the elephant.

It was like discovering a mountain made entirely of groceries.

“Your Majesty!” cried the jackal.

The elephant turned.

Nobody had ever called him Majesty before, although he had been expecting it for years.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I bring extraordinary news. The animals of the forest have assembled and unanimously elected you their king.”

The elephant felt something wonderful happening inside his enormous head.

It was vanity unfolding like a pink umbrella.

“Is that so?”

“Indeed. Your wisdom, strength, and magnificent appearance have convinced everyone that you alone are qualified to rule.”

The elephant considered this.

He had never been particularly wise, but he had always suspected that wisdom was something other animals ought to recognize in him.

“Where are my subjects?”

“They await you at the coronation grounds. Follow me.”

And so the jackal led the elephant through the forest.

They passed monkeys who threw figs at each other, parrots arguing about the weather, and a tortoise who had been traveling to a wedding for seventeen years.

At last they reached a great marsh.

Beyond it stood a beautiful grove of flowering trees.

“There,” said the jackal. “Your kingdom awaits.”

The elephant stepped forward.

His first foot sank.

Then his second.

Within moments, the great animal was trapped in the mud.

“Help me!” he cried.

The jackal sat down on a dry rock.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “I am afraid this is a constitutional difficulty.”

“Pull me out!”

“I would gladly do so, but I am very small, and you are very much an elephant.”

The elephant struggled until the mud swallowed him.

The jackal watched with the patience of a philosopher waiting for dinner.

By evening, the forest was quiet.

The jackal returned several days later, when nature had completed the unpleasant arrangements necessary for his feast.

He ate beneath the stars.

Somewhere in the distance, the tortoise was still going to the wedding.

And the forest, which had never needed a king, continued being a forest.

Thus the sages teach: Flattery is a peculiar kind of rope. It does not bind the body but persuades the victim to walk willingly into the trap.

And there is something terribly sad about an elephant who could have lived a hundred years but died because somebody called him Your Majesty.