Commander Selvam Siddhar
Anastasius was abbot of a
monastery in Egypt.
The monastery had a large collection of books, one among them being a rare
volume, worth a fortune.
One day a visiting monk chanced upon the book and succumbing to temptation
walked away with it. The theft was discovered the same day and it was not hard
to guess who the culprit was but Anastasius refused to send anyone after the
monk for fear that he might say he had not taken it and add the sin of perjury
to that of theft.
The monk meanwhile was trying to sell the book and eventually found a buyer, a
rich man who asked him to leave the book with him for a day so that he could
get it evaluated.
When the monk had gone, the man hastened to the monastery and showed the book
to Anastasius. The abbot recognized it instantly but did not say anything.
“A monk wants to sell it to me,” said his visitor. “He’s asking for a gold
sovereign. You are knowledgeable about books. Is this book worth that much?”
“It’s worth much much more than a sovereign,” said the abbot. “It’s a valuable
book.”
The man thanked the abbot and left. The next day when the monk came, he
informed him that he would like to buy the book and was prepared to pay the
price he had mentioned. The monk was overjoyed.
“Whom did you show it to?” he asked.
“Anastasius, the abbot.”
His visitor turned pale. “A-And what did he say?”
“He said the book was worth a sovereign.”
“And what else?”
“Nothing.”
The monk was both amazed and touched. He realized that the abbot had refused to
reclaim his lost treasure so that he, the thief would not get into trouble.
Nobody had ever shown him such love; nobody had ever behaved so nobly towards
him.
“I’ve changed my mind, I don’t want to sell it,” he said and took the book from
the man.
“I’ll give you two sovereigns,” said the customer.
The monk walked away without answering. He went directly to the monastery and
handed the book to the abbot, tears brimming in his eyes.
“Keep it,” said Anastasius. “When I learnt you had borrowed it I decided to
give it to you.”
“Please take it back,” pleaded the monk, “but let me stay here and learn wisdom
from you.”
His wish was granted. He spent the rest of his years in the monastery modelling
his life after that of the saintly Anastasius.
Once upon a time there lived a Bharunda, a bird with two
heads. One day it found a strange fruit on the seashore. It picked it up and
started eating it. The head that was feeding, exclaimed, "Many a sweet
fruit tossed by the sea have I eaten, but this beats them all! Is it the fruit
of a sandalwood tree or that of the divine parijata?"
Hearing this, the other head asked to taste the fruit, but the first head
refused, saying, "We have a common stomach, so there's no need for you to
eat it too. I'll give it to our sweetheart, the Bharundi," and with that,
it tossed the half-eaten fruit to the female.
From that day on, the second head carried a grudge against the first and waited
for an opportunity to take revenge. One day it found a poison fruit. Picking up
the fruit, it said to the first head, "You selfish wretch! See, here's a
poison fruit and I'm going to eat it!"
"Don't do that, you fool!" shrieked the first head, "you'll kill
us both!"
But the second head would not listen. It consumed the poison and soon the
two-headed bird was dead.
There was a young student-archer
who reached such proficiency in his art that he could shoot an arrow into a
tree and then cleave that arrow into two with the next shot. He began to boast
that he was a greater archer than his guru.
One day his guru, a venerable old man in his 70's, asked the youth to accompany
him on a trip across the hills. The journey was uneventful until they came to a
deep chasm.
A single log spanned the chasm. The guru walked down to the centre of the log,
unshouldered his bow and taking an arrow shot it into a tree on the other side.
His next shot cleaved the first arrow into two.
"Now it's your turn," he said, walking back to where his student was
standing.
The youth stepped gingerly on the log and very slowly and carefully made his
way to the middle. But his heart was in his mouth. He knew that if he lost his
footing, he would plunge to his death. His hands trembled as he strung an arrow
into his bow. Preoccupied with the danger he was in, he found it hard to focus
on the target. Consequently when he let go of the arrow, it missed the tree
altogether. Whimpering, he turned around.
"Help me!" he shouted to his guru. "I'll fall!"
The old man walked up to him, took his hand and stepping backwards led him to
safety. Neither of them said a word on the return journey but the boy had much
to think about. He had realized that to be a master of his art it was not
enough to know how to control the bow, he had to learn how to control his mind
too.
The residents of the Jewish town of Chelm, one day, decided
that there was no point in all of them worrying about their various
problems.
“ Let us appoint a Worry Man, somebody who will worry for all of us,” said the
mayor.
Everybody hailed it as a great idea and when one of the elders suggested that
Yossel, the cobbler, who seemed to have a lot of time on his hands, should be
given the job, the man was at once sent for.
“How much will I be paid,” asked Yossel, suspiciously, after the nature of the
job was explained to him.
“Er… one kopek a week,” said the mayor.
"It won’t work."
“Why not?”
“Because if you give me one kopek a week,” explained the cobbler, “I’ll have
nothing to worry about.”
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