A parable about two mythical kingdoms offers lessons in how to create a cycle of non-violence

To many of us, today’s world must seem one in which violence is the first resort used to register a protest, settle disputes or particularly, to wage a war of dissent.

We know it doesn’t have to be that way, yet every day we learn of more acts of indiscriminate violence, and we also hear those monotonous speeches by political leaders — platitudes and repeated pledges to commit to peace by those who would pursue peace by going to war. Here's is a tale for our time.

Once long ago, a quarrel arose between two kings. One of the quarreling kings was the great and powerful Brahmadatta. His kingdom was large and prosperous, his armies mighty and well equipped. His opponent, King Dighiti was the ruler of a much smaller and far less powerful kingdom.

They conducted their quarrel through their emissaries. At first the language was suitably diplomatic, polite even. Then, as is the way with quarrels, things began to get out of hand. King Brahmadatta was used to getting his way. He was after all, the most powerful king around and he wasn’t about to make any kind of concession to the leader of a small and largely in consequential country that his armies could swallow up at any time.

He was also duplicitous, and telling King Dighiti he would consider his point of view in the hope of catching him off guard, he secretly ordered his armies to prepare to march against Dighiti and conquer his kingdom.

King Dighiti’s intelligence however was good and he quickly heard of the army’s advance.

He told Deva, his queen, “There’s nothing we can do to prevent Brahmadatta from seizing our country. For the sake of our people, it is best to avoid a battle. Let us leave tonight under the cover of darkness.” “Where can we go?” “We will go to Brahmadatta’s own capital city, Benares. It is large enough to hide in, and that is surely the very last place he would look for us.”

So they took their young son, Dighavu, and fled by night to Benares. There they lodged in a poor quarter of the city. King Dighiti disguised himself as a wandering holy man and each day begged enough coins and food for them all.

Time passed and the prince grew toward manhood. King Dighiti told his wife, “If Brahmadatta finds us here, he will surely kill us all. It is best to send our son from the city.”

“Let him go to my parents in the west. There he can learn the arts and sciences he will need for his future.” So they sent the prince to live secretly with the Queen’s parents.

It happened that one of the personal servants from the court of King Dighiti found employment in the palace of King Brahmadatta. One day, he caught sight of Dighiti begging in the guise of a holy man. Hoping for a reward, he secretly followed Dighiti to his home, then reported its location of King Brahmadatta’s officials.

Brahmadatta immediately sent his men to arrest the family. Dighiti and Deva were brought before him. “Where is your son?” demanded Brahmadatta. “Beyond your reach,” replied Dighiti. Brahmadatta turned to one of his generals. “Tie them up and cart them around the city for all to see and scorn. Then take them out the south gate and put them to death by the sword.”

One the very day that King Dighiti and his wife had been betrayed, their son Prince Dighavu had come back to Benares to visit his parents. As he passed through the marketplace, he came across his mother and his father, bound in a horse drawn cart being paraded on their way to meet their fate. He was powerless to help them.

From the cramped cart King Dighita also saw his son. He desperately wanted to call advice to him, but could not give him away so he shouted out these words as if to the world at large.

As darkness fell, King Dighiti and Queen Deva were taken outside the city walls and executed by the sword. Their bodies were left on the ground, with a dozen soldiers standing guard.

At the royal palace, Brahmadatta was puzzling over the last words of King Dighita that had been reported to him. He knew somehow they were meant for him but what was their message?

Months later after he had overcome his grief, Dighavu entered the city once more. He was able to find work as an apprentice at the royal elephant stables.

On morning Dighavu rose early, sat before the stables, and sang to greet the dawn. His voice drifted to the palace and to the balcony of King Brahmadatta, who had also risen early, wakened by a fearful dream.

“How lovely,” said the King. “I have need of such music to ease my mind.”

He sent for the singer, and Dighavu was brought before him “Sing for me,” said Brahmadatta, not knowing who the young man was. Dighavu sang, and the King’s heart was gladdened. In fact, the clear and musical voice of the singer had such an effect on the King that he asked Dighavu to be part of his royal entourage.

Eventually Dighavu became the King’s favourite attendant and trusted companion. The day came for Brahmadatta to go hunting. And he told Dighavu, “Today you will drive my chariot.” “It will be an honour my lord.”

So Dighavu drove the chariot but as the hunters pursued their quarry, the young prince cleverly took a path that led them away. The King seemed not to mind however and finally indicated he wished to rest. Dighavu dismounted and sat cross-legged on the ground. And told the King, “Come rest yourself, my lord.”

The King made himself comfortable on the robes spread by Dighavu and soon fell asleep. Carefully and silently, Dighavu gripped his sword and drew it slowly from its scabbard. He pointed the blade at the throat of Brahmadatta. And then he recalled the words of his father.

Quickly he replaced his sword and just then Brahmadatta breathed heavily and opened wide his eyes and set up in alarm. “What is wrong, my lord?” asked Dighavu. “I had a dream that often plagues me,” said the King. “I see Dighavu, the son of my enemies, coming at me with his sword to avenge his parents.”

Then Dighavu clutched the King’s hair, dragged his head back down, and drew his sword. “I am Dighavu, son of your enemies, and here am I to avenge my parents!” “Have mercy, dear Dighavu! Grant me my life!” “How can I grant your life?” replied Dighavu. “Truly it is said, we may forgive those who hurt us, but we never forgive those we hurt, you have killed my mother and my father, and would surely have killed me too. So the life to be granted is mine!” “Grant me my life,” said Brahmadatta, “and I will grant you yours!”

So Dighavu released the King and put away his sword. And the two rose and clasped their hands and swore never again to seek the other’s harm. Then Brahmadatta said, “I have often pondered your father’s final words. What did he mean when he told you, ‘Be not shortsighted’?” “My father meant, ‘Do not be quick to spurn a gift of friendship.’” “And ‘Be not longsighted’?” “‘Do not allow your hate to last too long.’”

“And what did he mean when he told you, ‘Not by violence is violence ended. Violence is ended by nonviolence.’?” “My father meant this: You, my lord, have killed my parents and stolen their kingdom. If I were to kill you in revenge, your allies would kill me, and then my allies would kill them, and so on, with no end to violence. But now instead, you have granted my life and I have granted yours. So violence is at an end.”

A tale for our times indeed