The Four Learned Fools

I. The Decision to Seek Wisdom in the World

In a prosperous town somewhere in the great subcontinent, four young Brahmins grew up together as the closest of friends. They were clever boys, devoted to study, and each felt in his heart that the life of a scholar was the highest life a man could live. Yet scholarship brought no income — their families were comfortable but not wealthy, and the four friends knew that sooner or later they would have to venture beyond their familiar lanes and earn their place in the world.

One evening they sat together beneath a pipal tree and reached a decision. They would travel to a distant centre of learning, place themselves under a renowned guru, and immerse themselves in the śāstras — the sacred treatises of grammar, logic, astronomy, law, medicine, and metaphysics that formed the backbone of classical Indian education. They would study until no text held a mystery for them. Then they would return, learned and wealthy.

Their guru’s hermitage was far away. The four friends walked through forest and plain, crossed rivers on rope-ferries, and arrived at last at the āśrama. The guru accepted them without hesitation: he could see they were earnest. For twelve unbroken years the four men studied. They memorised thousands of verses, debated commentaries deep into the night by the light of clay lamps, and mastered the subtle distinctions between one school of thought and another. When finally their guru pronounced them fit to go into the world, they were repositories of the entire classical tradition. Each carried his texts rolled into bundles on his shoulder. Their heads were full of quotations. Their hearts were full of pride.

What they had never been taught — because the hermitage had no way to teach it — was the art of reading the living world around them.

II. The Funeral Procession, the Donkey, and the Camel

The road home brought the four Brahmins to a crossroads. They stood debating which fork to take when a sound rose from one of the lanes: the slow beat of a drum, the trembling note of a conch, the low voices of men reciting funeral hymns. A great procession was advancing — the body of a merchant’s son, draped in white, borne on a bamboo bier, followed by the whole town in mourning.

One of the Brahmins immediately unrolled his bundle and consulted his texts. He found a verse: mahājano yena gataḥ sa panthāḥ — “The path great men travel is the correct path.” The funeral procession was clearly composed of great men: merchants, elders, priests. Logic was irrefutable. “We must follow them,” he announced. His three companions nodded. They fell in behind the cortège and walked to the cremation ground.

At the cremation ground they found themselves surrounded by ash-pits, broken clay pots, and the residue of old fires. The funeral rites concluded and the crowd dispersed. The four Brahmins were left alone — except for a thin donkey tethered to a post, waiting patiently for its washerman master to return.

Another Brahmin opened his texts and located a second verse: āpadi sthāyi bandhuḥ — “A true friend is one who stands by you in misfortune.” The donkey had stayed. It had not run. Clearly, the donkey was a true friend. With great solemnity the four scholars garlanded the animal, washed its hoofs, and pressed their foreheads to its flank in respectful greeting.

While they were occupied in this ceremony, they saw a camel cantering across the plain toward them. Its gait was swift and purposeful. A third Brahmin consulted his texts and produced a verse: dharmo vegena gacchati — “Righteousness moves quickly.” The fast-moving camel, therefore, must be Righteousness personified. A fourth verse confirmed the conclusion: a good man should always lead his friend toward Righteousness. Since the donkey was their friend and the camel was Righteousness, the duty was clear. They tied the donkey to the camel.

The camel, indifferent to all philosophy, continued at its usual trot. The donkey, straining against the rope, was dragged lurching across the cremation ground. At this precise moment the washerman arrived, saw his donkey being abused, and snatched up a stick. The four scholars, having consulted no text on the subject of angry washermen, did the only natural thing: they ran.

III. The River, the Sacred Leaf, and the Sword

The four Brahmins fled until they reached a wide river. They were breathing hard, their text-bundles clutched against their chests, when they noticed a single broad leaf drifting on the current — a leaf of the holy pīpal, the sacred fig, the tree under which the Buddha would one day find enlightenment.

One of the scholars recalled a verse: pāvanam tārayati — “The holy carries one across.” The pīpal leaf was incontestably holy. Therefore it would carry him across the river. Without testing the logic further, the Brahmin leaped onto the leaf. He sank instantly. He could not swim. The current caught him and began pulling him downstream.

His companion plunged in to save him, seizing his arm. But the river was in full spate and far stronger than the rescuer. He could not haul his drowning friend to shore. In his texts there was a verse for this situation too: āpadi ardham tyajet — “When total destruction threatens, a wise man sacrifices half to save the rest.” The meaning was clear. He drew his sword and cut his friend across the middle. He dragged what remained to the bank. His friend was dead.

Three Brahmins now stood dripping on the riverbank, one fewer than before. They mourned for a moment — the texts had something for grief, too — and then continued their journey, because the texts also said that the wise man does not delay unnecessarily.

IV. The Village of the Three Foods

The remaining three scholars reached a village at dusk. The villagers, knowing that Brahmin scholars were guests of honour, welcomed them with genuine warmth. Three different households volunteered to feed the three wanderers. Each scholar was shown to a separate courtyard and settled on a clean mat.

The first householder brought seviyan — sweet vermicelli noodles, long and delicate. The Brahmin unrolled his texts and found a verse: dīrghāyojananiti naśyati — “Long scheming leads inevitably to destruction.” Noodles were long. He refused to eat. He sat hungry all night.

The second householder brought a bowl of frothy sweet kheer, milk-rice pudding, its surface airy with foam. The Brahmin found his verse: phenilam sthira na bhavati — “Whatever is frothy and distended does not last.” Foam was a sign of impermanence. He refused to eat. He sat hungry all night.

The third householder brought puranpoli — a flat bread stuffed with sweetened lentil, with a depression pressed into its centre by the cook’s thumb. The Brahmin found his verse: chidram vinaśanam sūcayati — “A defect foretells approaching ruin.” There was a hole in the bread. He refused to eat. He sat hungry all night.

In the morning the three households compared notes. Within the hour the whole village was laughing. News of the learned men who had refused to eat because of the shapes of their food spread from house to house, each retelling adding a new detail. When the three Brahmins finally rose and set off, the villagers followed them to the edge of the fields, laughing all the way.