The jungle was filled with the laughter of the animals jeering at the crocodile, but the monkey remained silent in the tree. He and the crocodile could never be friends again.

So the king brought Vishnu Sharma before him and said, “If you can teach these idiots what they need to know to be kings, I will give you five hundred villages and whatever else you may wish. This is a difficult task I am placing in your hands, and you will be richly rewarded if you succeed.” Vishnu Sharma paused and merely replied quietly, “Your highness, I am grateful but wish you to know that I am not ambitious in the way you describe. At this age I have no use for land or riches. I ask only that you judge my work honestly. Mark down the date six months from this conversation. If by then I have not taught your three sons all they need to know for administering the state, then I ask to be hanged. If I am not able to impart my knowledge, then my life is not worth living.” And so Vishnu Sharma took the best stories he knew from his life and wrote the Panchatantra. From reading it, the princes learned all they needed to know about the world. And it was so enjoyable, so concise, that the princes completed their education long before the six months were up. And still Vishnu Sharma’s stories continue to teach.

The printed page cannot be seen as evidence of the Panchatantra’s eternality. Rather, these stories continue to teach because people continue to create a place for them in their language and imagination. They contain the same knowledge that any story that persists does. A story written is simply another story told; any storyteller may take up the seed and create more stories from it. It is still part of the dynamic culture, a regenerating body of knowledge. If the story is written well, the images will be powerful enough to be worth remembering.

Imagine a cold winter night in a Rajasthani village. Men sitting around a fire draw handwoven wool shawls tight around their faces and stare into the flames. They nod slightly as they think. “He has deceived us,” someone says. “We, his closest friends. But it is evident that the woman is really at fault. Just like the crocodile who was ready to rip out the heart of his most loyal friend, the monkey, simply because his wife had prodded so. But that monkey saved himself with a piece of quick thinking. Then, forever after, they were deprived of those delicious fruits as well. This is right. Discontent should befall those who betray their friends’ trust.”