The Hare in the Moon

Long ago in the forests below the Himalayas, there were four friends — a monkey, an otter, a jackal, and a small grey hare.

They lived together near a slow river. They were not the same in body, but they were the same in something else, and that something else was kindness.

The hare was the smallest. He was also, in a quiet way, the oldest in his thinking. The others looked to him when there was a hard question.

One evening, on the night of the full moon, the hare gathered the four friends under the great banyan and said —

"Tomorrow is a holy day. Tomorrow we should each give what we can to anyone who comes hungry to our forest."

"Yes," said the monkey.

"Yes," said the otter.

"Yes," said the jackal.

They went to bed thinking small, good thoughts.

In the morning, the monkey went up into the highest mango tree and brought down a great heap of ripe, sweet mangoes. He set them on a wide flat leaf at the edge of the path.

The otter slipped into the river and came out with seven silver fish, fresh and shining. He laid them on the bank.

The jackal — well, the jackal was a jackal. He found a forgotten pot of curd and a piece of dried meat near a hunter's camp. He brought them back, only a little proud of himself, and put them down with the rest.

The hare went into a field of soft green grass. He looked at the grass for a long time.

"This is what I have," he said to himself, "but no traveller eats grass. What good is my offering?"

He sat down between the grass blades and thought. The wind moved over him. The sun rose higher.

In the heavens, very far above the banyan tree, the king of the gods, Sakka, was watching. He had heard the friends' promise the night before. He decided to come down and see whether the small ones meant what they had said.

He took the shape of an old brahmin, tired, dust on his feet, a wooden bowl in his hand. He walked into the forest.

The monkey saw him first. "Father, eat," the monkey said, and offered the mangoes. The brahmin smiled and said, "Later, child."

The otter offered the fish. "Later, child," said the brahmin. The jackal offered his curd. "Later, child."

The brahmin walked on until he came to the hare in the field. He sat down on a stone. He sighed the way only a truly tired person sighs.

"Little one," he said, "I have not eaten in three days."

The hare looked at the brahmin. He looked at the grass at his feet. He looked at the small fire that the brahmin had built to warm himself.

He took one breath.

"Father," he said, "I have nothing in this forest that a man can eat. But there is one thing I can give you. Please, build up your fire a little higher. When it is ready, I will come."

The brahmin's eyes filled, but he did not stop him. Some gifts, when they are real, must not be refused at the door.

The hare shook his fur, gently, so that no insect hidden in it would be hurt. Then he walked toward the fire.

Before he could leap, a great soft hand caught him in the air. The brahmin was gone. In his place stood Sakka, king of the gods, with his many bracelets and his calm wide face.

"Little one," said Sakka, "the world will remember this. As long as there is a moon in the sky, the people of the earth will look up and see you there."

He took the small hare gently in his palm. He pressed the soft grey shape against the round white face of the moon. Where his hand had been, a shape remained — the long ears, the small body, the careful paws.

To this day, when the moon is full, you can see the hare. The Chinese see him. The Japanese see him. The old people of India see him. He sits up there, calm, looking down at us, reminding us of the night a small one with no mangoes and no fish gave what he had.

Little mother, you have been giving for a long time now. Some days you wonder if there is anything left in the basket. Some days you look at the grass at your feet and think, what good is this offering?

Look up tonight, if you can. If there is a moon, find the hare. Remember that the smallest givers are often the ones the sky learns to keep.

The small one inside you is being made from your offering — your blood, your warmth, your sleep, your time. None of it is grass. All of it is mangoes and fish and curd, only quieter. Place your hand on your belly and rest. The fire does not need to be built any higher tonight.