The Great Monkey King

A scroll painting hangs on the wall of an old pagoda. It shows a large monkey with its arms flung wide, its body stretched across a river. A small boy has come with his grandmother to pray, and he stands in front of the painting for a long time. Then he tugs at her hand and asks her softly why there is a monkey in the pagoda.

His grandmother smiles and leads him to sit on the step. That monkey is no ordinary monkey, she tells him. It is the Monkey King. In the Buddhist scriptures, this story is called the Jataka of the Monkey King. The Jataka tales are Buddhist stories about the earlier lives of the Buddha. Let me tell it to you, she says.

Once upon a time, beside a great river, there was a lush green forest. In the middle of the forest grew a gigantic mango tree, its branches and leaves spreading wide, reaching right out over the water. Its mangoes were wonderfully fragrant and sweet, and as big as jars. Beneath that canopy lived a whole troop of monkeys, as many as 80,000.

At the head of the troop was a big monkey, strong and gentle. He was the Monkey King. The scriptures say that long, long ago, in a former life, the Buddha himself was that very Monkey King.

The Monkey King loved his troop dearly. He told them one thing again and again. The mangoes on the branches that hung over the river must all be picked, and not a single one could fall into the water. If even one drifted downstream, people would follow it and find their way to this forest.

But one day, a ripe mango was hidden behind an ants' nest, and no one saw it. It dropped, slipped quietly into the river, and floated away.

That mango drifted far downstream, right to the spot where the king of Benares was bathing by the river. The king fished it out and tasted it. It was sweeter and more fragrant than anything he had ever eaten. At once he asked where the fruit had come from. Then he set off upstream with his soldiers to find its source.

They walked and walked, and at last the king found the gigantic mango tree in the middle of the forest. He also saw the whole troop of monkeys swinging through the branches, picking mangoes that he believed were his. The king grew angry. That very night, he sent soldiers with torches and drawn bows to surround the foot of the tree. In the morning, he meant to capture every monkey.

The monkeys woke to find themselves surrounded. Torchlight blazed red on every side. At the top of the tree, 80,000 monkeys huddled together, trembling, with no way left to run. They looked toward the Monkey King and waited.

The Monkey King looked all around. On the far side of the river, he saw another tree, its branches reaching close. The gap was wide, and below it ran the water. He thought very fast. Then he leapt across to the far bank. He tied one end of a jungle vine to the tree there and the other end to himself, and he leapt back. He stretched and strained his whole body to its full length, until he became a living bridge across the river.

When it was done, the Monkey King called to his troop. Step on my back and run across, he said. Do not be afraid.

One by one, the 80,000 monkeys stepped onto the Monkey King's back and ran safely to the other side. Each one bowed its head to him as it passed. The vine cut into his skin. His shoulders shook. But he did not let go. The Monkey King clenched his teeth and held fast, his body stretched above the water, so that his whole troop could live.

The last monkey stepped onto his back. That monkey had long been jealous of the Monkey King. Instead of crossing gently, it jumped down hard on his back on purpose. A stab of pain went through the Monkey King, and his back was badly hurt. Still he held the bridge until that monkey reached the far bank.

The king of Benares had watched it all from beginning to end, stunned. He had meant to capture the monkeys. Yet before his eyes, one monkey had made his own body into a bridge and borne the pain to save the whole troop. The king was filled with regret. He had his men lift the Monkey King down gently. They laid him on a soft cloth and brought him water, and they cared for him with all their hearts.

The king bent down beside the Monkey King. He asked who he was, that he would suffer so much for those monkeys.

The Monkey King opened his eyes and answered softly. I am their king. I was born to protect them. For one who is truly a king, the happiness and peace of his people are what matter most. With that, he looked at the king one last time, and gently closed his eyes.

The king of Benares stood silent for a long time. He held a solemn farewell ceremony for the Monkey King. And from then on, whenever he sat on his throne, the king remembered the Monkey King's words, and he loved his people and looked after them better than before.

The grandmother stops there and looks at the boy. The Monkey King was never just a monkey, she says. He was someone who dared to make himself a bridge for others to cross.

The boy looks up at the scroll painting once more. The monkey in the picture still has its arms flung wide, its body stretched across the river. And now, every time he goes to a pagoda and sees the shape of a monkey, he will remember the king who became a bridge.