The Greedy Crow

At a Glance

• Central figures: The Bodhisatta, reborn as a pigeon living in a kitchen rafter, and a greedy crow who schemes his way into the same kitchen.
• Setting: The household kitchen of a wealthy merchant in Benares, in the Jataka tradition of the Pali canon.
• The turn: The crow, having talked his way into the kitchen through flattery of the pigeon, smells fish being prepared for the merchant’s table and cannot restrain himself from diving at it.
• The outcome: The cook catches the crow, plucks him bare, rubs him with ginger and salt, and tosses him out. The crow lies in the gutter, featherless and burning.
• The legacy: The Bodhisatta’s observation that greed undoes even the cleverest guest remained as a teaching the Buddha later drew on, identifying himself as the pigeon and the greedy monk Devadatta as the crow.

The kitchen belonged to a rich merchant in Benares, and it was a good kitchen - well stocked, well ordered, warm in the cold months. Fish came in fresh from the river. Rice was stored in clay pots taller than a child. The cook was a large man with quick hands, and he did not tolerate animals near his work.

One animal he tolerated. A pigeon had nested in the rafters above the hearting beam, and the cook had let it stay because the pigeon was quiet and clean and never touched the food. The pigeon came and went through a gap in the thatch. It ate grain outside. It bothered no one. This pigeon was the Bodhisatta.

The Crow at the Threshold

A crow had been watching the kitchen from the wall of the merchant’s compound. He watched the cook carry in river fish still silver and wet. He watched the spice jars come down from the shelf. He watched the steam rise through the thatch gap, and his throat worked.

He could not get in. The cook threw stones at crows. Every crow in Benares knew the cook’s arm, and they kept to the outer wall.

But the crow noticed the pigeon. The pigeon flew in and out freely. The pigeon perched on the rafter and the cook did not even look up.

So the crow landed beside the pigeon on the compound wall one morning and spoke to him.

Friend, you look well. The kitchen suits you.

The pigeon regarded the crow. He said nothing.

I have been thinking, the crow said, that I have no real friends in this city. The other crows are coarse. They fight over garbage. But you - you are a bird of refinement. I admire you. I would like to be your companion.

The pigeon knew crows. He said, You want the kitchen.

I want your friendship, the crow said. If the kitchen is where you live, then naturally I would visit you there. As a friend. Nothing more.

The pigeon was not deceived, but he was gentle by nature. He said, You may come. But you must not touch the food. The cook is not a patient man.

I would never, the crow said.

Inside the Rafters

The crow followed the pigeon through the gap in the thatch and settled on the rafter. He sat very still. The cook glanced up once, saw two shapes in the shadows, and went back to his work.

For the first day the crow behaved. He sat on the beam and watched. The cook sliced gourds. He boiled rice. The crow’s eyes followed every movement, but he did not stir.

The second day the cook brought in a basket of fresh fish - fat river fish, the kind the merchant liked best, seasoned with turmeric and mustard seed and laid out on a broad leaf for frying. The oil went into the pan. The smell rose through the kitchen like something alive.

The crow’s whole body tightened. His claws gripped the rafter. His beak opened and closed.

The pigeon, watching from the far end of the beam, said quietly, Do not.

The crow said nothing. His eyes were fixed on the fish.

The cook turned away to reach for salt. His back was to the pan for three seconds, maybe four.

The crow dropped from the rafter.

The Cook’s Hands

He did not even reach the fish. The cook heard the wingbeat, spun, and caught the crow by the neck in one motion - the quick hands that the pigeon had always respected. The crow squawked and thrashed. A wing struck the edge of the pan and sent oil spattering across the hearthstones.

The cook was not a patient man. He held the crow at arm’s length, looked at it the way a man looks at something he has been expecting, and went to work.

He plucked the crow. Not hastily - thoroughly. He pulled the black feathers out in handfuls until the crow was pink and bare and shaking. Then he took a fistful of ground ginger from the jar, mixed it with rock salt and a little buttermilk, and rubbed the paste into the crow’s raw skin.

The crow screamed. The sound was not like a bird’s sound.

The cook carried the crow to the back door and threw him into the gutter that ran along the alley behind the merchant’s house. The crow landed in the damp filth and lay there, too burned and too bare to move.

The Gutter

The pigeon flew down from the rafter and perched on the edge of the gutter. The crow lay on his side. His skin was bright red where the ginger had worked into it. He had no feathers to speak of. Flies were already finding him.

The pigeon looked at the crow for a long time.

I told you not to, the pigeon said.

The crow could not answer. His beak opened and closed but nothing came out. The salt was still working. His eyes were wild with it.

The pigeon said, You could have sat on the rafter and been warm and dry for the rest of the cold season. No one asked you to take the fish. The cook would have grown used to you in time. But you could not wait, and you could not stop yourself, and now you are here.

The crow lay in the gutter. The other crows of Benares gathered on the compound wall and looked down at him, and not one of them came to help. A crow with no feathers was not a crow. He was a thing.

The pigeon flew back to the kitchen. The cook had cleaned the spilled oil and was frying the fish again. The kitchen smelled of mustard seed and turmeric. The pigeon settled on his rafter and tucked his head beneath his wing.

The Buddha’s Word

At Jetavana, years beyond counting later, the Buddha told this story to a gathering of bhikkhus. A certain monk had been caught stealing food from the monastery stores - not because he was hungry, but because he could not bear to see good food and not take it. The other monks had brought him before the Buddha.

The Buddha looked at the monk and said, This is not the first time.

He told the story of the crow and the pigeon and the cook’s quick hands. When he finished, he said: The greedy monk was the crow then, and he is the crow now. I was the pigeon.

The monk sat with his head bowed. The Buddha said nothing more. The story was enough.