The Lion's Share

At a Glance

• Central figures: The Bodhisatta, born as a golden lion; a tiger, a jackal, and a wolf who hunted alongside him.
• Setting: A forest near Benares, in one of the Bodhisatta’s animal births; from the Pali Jataka collection.
• The turn: After the four animals killed a buffalo, a deer, a hare, and a partridge, the lion asked the jackal to divide the meat - and the jackal divided it into four equal shares.
• The outcome: The lion struck the jackal dead with a single blow, then asked the wolf to divide the meat. The wolf, having watched the jackal die, gave nearly everything to the lion and kept almost nothing for himself and the others.
• The legacy: The phrase “the lion’s share” passed into common use - meaning the largest portion, taken by the strongest, with no appeal.

Four animals hunted together in those days: a lion, a tiger, a jackal, and a wolf. The lion was the Bodhisatta. He was golden-furred, heavy across the shoulders, and he had proposed the arrangement himself. Alone, each of them could eat. Together, they could eat well. The terms were simple. They would hunt as a company and divide whatever they killed.

They hunted, and on a single day they brought down four animals - a buffalo, a deer, a hare, and a partridge. The kills lay in a row on the forest floor, flies already circling, and the lion sat back on his haunches.

The Jackal’s Division

The lion looked at the jackal. The jackal was the quickest of the four, the one who could talk his way past a closed gate, the one the others watched when they were unsure what to do.

Divide the meat, the lion said.

The jackal walked along the row of carcasses. He was pleased. He was always pleased when asked to do something that made him look important. He studied the four kills - the great bulk of the buffalo, the lean deer, the small hare, the tiny partridge - and he divided them into four shares, one animal to each hunter.

The buffalo for you, Lion, he said. The deer for the tiger. The hare for the wolf. And the partridge for me.

He looked up. He was smiling. It was a fair division. Each animal received one kill. The jackal thought himself clever and generous in roughly equal measure.

The lion did not move for a moment. Then he lifted his right paw and struck the jackal across the skull. The jackal dropped where he stood. He did not get up.

The three remaining animals looked at the dead jackal and at the four carcasses. Nobody spoke. The flies kept circling.

The Wolf’s Division

The lion turned to the wolf.

Divide the meat, he said. His voice had not changed.

The wolf had watched the jackal die. He was not a slow animal. He walked to the row of carcasses and stood over them. He thought very carefully.

The buffalo is your morning meal, Lord, he said. The deer is your midday meal. The hare is your evening meal.

He paused. The partridge was small enough to fit in one paw.

And the partridge is a snack between meals, if you are still hungry.

The lion looked at the wolf. The wolf’s head was low, his ears flat, his tail still.

Who taught you to divide so well? the lion asked.

The wolf glanced once at the body of the jackal, then looked away.

That teacher there, he said.

What the Tiger Did

The tiger said nothing through any of this. He had helped bring down the buffalo. His claws had opened the deer’s throat. He was not weaker than the wolf or the jackal - he was, in fact, stronger than both of them combined - and yet he stood aside while the lion took everything.

This is worth noticing. The tiger could have fought. He could have disputed the division, challenged the lion, insisted on the jackal’s original arrangement. He did not. He watched the jackal die and he understood something about the terms of the arrangement that the jackal had not understood: the terms had never been equal. The lion had proposed the partnership, and a partnership proposed by the strongest is not a partnership. It is a concession that can be revoked.

The tiger walked away into the trees. He went hungry that night. He did not hunt with the lion again.

The Dead Teacher

The Bodhisatta, in later years, told this story to a group of bhikkhus who had been quarreling over the distribution of robes and alms-bowls. Two of the younger monks had divided a gift of cloth equally among the community, and the senior monk - a large man, well-fed, who had been ordained longest - had struck one of them and taken the cloth for himself.

The bhikkhus wanted the Buddha to judge. The Buddha sat under a sala tree and told them the story of the four hunters.

He did not tell them what it meant. He told them who he had been.

I was the lion, he said.

The bhikkhus were quiet. Some of them had expected him to say he was the jackal - the one who tried to be fair and was killed for it. Some had expected him to say he was the tiger - the one who walked away. But he said he was the lion. He had been the one who struck, the one who took, the one who asked a question he already knew the answer to.

In that life he had not yet understood metta. He had not yet understood that strength is not authority, that hunger does not justify taking, that the loudest voice in a clearing full of meat is not always the voice that should be heard. He had been powerful, golden-furred, and wrong.

The senior monk who had taken the cloth sat in the back of the group. He did not return the cloth that day. But he returned it the next morning, folded, and left it at the door of the young monk’s cell without a word.

The Partridge

The bhikkhus dispersed. One of them - the youngest, a boy from the eastern villages who had been ordained only a season - lingered near the Buddha afterward.

Lord, what happened to the partridge?

The Buddha looked at him.

The lion ate it, he said. It was a partridge. What did you think happened to it?

The boy considered this. He bowed and walked back toward the vihara. The sun was going down over Benares. The sala tree threw a long shadow across the ground, and somewhere in the forest a bird called once and then was silent.