Once upon a time, in a dry and dusty land there lived a traveller, who had a donkey. Now the traveller went here and there, from town to village, village to town, buying and selling things. Wood, pots and pans, books, papers: all went on the donkey’s back and off they would go together, the traveller talking to the donkey as they went, although the donkey never said a word back.
Often, they would meet a sage on the journey, who walked in the same way from village to town, town to village. In place of the burden of goods the donkey bore, the sage held the burden of words and of knowledge, and he would talk to the people in the towns and villages, most of whom, like the donkey, said not a word back.
Meeting each other often in this way, the sage and the traveller spent a lot of time together, the sage talking about the way things were, and why they were like it, while the traveller spoke about the economics of being a trader, the price of things, and the inns and taverns along the route.
All the time the donkey plodded behind them, laden down with chattels and packages, and with pots, pans and cutlery tied to his saddle and clanking about his legs as he walked.
Now there came a time when the sage became famous, and was wanted in bigger towns and villages, and no longer had the time or visited the same places as the traveller, who lost touch with him. He kept up his business however, and went back to talking to the donkey instead, still with no reply, although he knew well enough the donkey could talk, for this was a time when animals could speak to men, and men could understand the speech of animals.
Many years passed until one day, in a tavern along the route, the traveller chanced to meet the sage again. The sage by now had been famous, but found that fame was not what he wanted, or what it seemed to be. Now he was usurped by younger sages, all with the same wisdom to impart, but in a younger way, and so he was back to travelling the old routes.
‘Well met,’ he said at first to the traveller, ‘I look forward to walking the old roads again, you, me, and the donkey, just like the days before I became famous and learnt, sometimes bitterly, how transient fame really is.’
‘I too look forward to having you as a companion again, Sage,’ the traveller replied, ‘although the world I inhabit has changed since you and I last walked together. Times are alternately hard and easy, as they were before. Prices go up, as before, but few people get more money to compensate. Yet all continue in their own way, although the bargaining gets harder, and my legs get wearier, and it seems harder every day to make an honest living. But mostly,’ and here, as he turned to the sage, the latter could see a tear in his eye, ‘it can never be the same as before, because my faithful old donkey has died.’
The sage looked at him. ‘Your donkey, dead? Why I would never have believed it. Dead you say, how did it happen, and when?’
‘Recently,’ replied the traveller, ‘but not as the result of any accident. It seems the donkey was old and tired, although he never said a word to me about it, and just expired along the road one day. Of course, I was upset, and the load he was carrying I was forced to sell cheaply to local people, before they stole it all anyway. As he lay there dead on the floor, they were rooting around the bundles and wrappers, and I was unable to carry any of it away. Instead, I bought a cart with all the money I’d made and transported the body of the donkey back home. I pulled the cart all the way myself, many miles, for we were only halfway round my usual circuit. At times on that journey, I thought to myself how the donkey must have felt, laden with weighty goods, walking long miles down dusty roads, day after day, for it was a weary long day then. When I got back, I dug a hole in my garden and buried him.’
‘And what do you do now?’ asked the sage, also thinking of the donkey, and his lot in life, and how he was probably better off dead than carrying this traveller’s baggage around.
‘Alas, I have tried other donkeys, but all of them moan about the weight I put on their backs, and the length of the days, and the burden of endless travelling. So, I find I cannot continue my work as before, but instead sit in taverns like this, or at home, and try to make a living in the nearest towns and villages, just walking myself, with the same cart I used to bring the donkey home in. But it is hard, and tiring, and I cannot make the living I could before.’
The sage put a hand on the traveller’s shoulder, but said nothing, and they sat in silence for a while, both thinking thoughts about the donkey. Then the daylight dropped from the sky, and the landlord of the tavern lit his lamps and asked, were they were drinking any more, and if not would they be good enough to leave and let his regular customers sit down and not stand like dogs about the place?
They left the tavern and stepped into the warm evening, and began to walk the dry and dusty road back to their hometown.
‘Tell me,’ asked the sage as they walked along, ‘why do you think the donkey never spoke of his hard life, of the weight of goods on his back, and the length of his working day?’
‘I don’t know,’ the traveller replied, scratching his head, ‘I assumed he was dumb, or deaf. Or…’ and here he grew animated, ‘that he was happy working under those conditions, which is why he never moaned about it. And you know, looking back I’m grateful he never said a word, and I never learned if he was happy or not, because I would feel worse than I do now. It’s bad enough I treated the donkey unkindly and never tried to make his life easier, or noticed that he was tired and getting old, until he died. And now it’s too late, and I will go to my grave carrying that burden, just as the donkey went to his carrying my goods and chattels, before I could say sorry to him, even if he was stone dumb and deaf.’
The traveller wept, and they stood in the dusk together, the sage with his hand on the other’s arm while he shed tears of regret and sorrow.
After a while, when the tears were spent, the sage spoke.
‘Do you know what I think?’
‘No,’ sniffed the traveller, ‘but if you could give me comfort with your words, I would be grateful. Otherwise, I don’t want to hear them, as it would make me sad again, and I am sad enough as it is.’
‘I think the donkey was happy enough, and not deaf or dumb as you believe. That’s why he was silent all the time you were together. For what would he say? If he was happy and he said so, you would have heaped more goods on his back, reasoning that, if he was pleased with the burden he already carried, a little more would only lower him to a level of contentment. And that is as good a state as most men reside in, and certainly well enough (you would reason) for a donkey.’
‘Then again, if he were sad and told you, what would you have done? At the very least, being a compassionate man, you would have lightened the burden on his back and perhaps walked fewer miles each day. This in turn would have affected your livelihood and made you sad. The donkey’s life might be made easier, but how could he have anticipated that? Man looks ahead in life, constantly mulling over opportunities, thinking on events and possibilities. He weighs decisions, applauding them one minute, regretting them the next. With animals it is different; they live in the moment, not able to discern what is ahead, and only dwelling a little on what is left behind.’
‘So, who can we say is happier, the man or the donkey, when death inevitably comes? The donkey has never thought of it, cannot conceive it, and has no regrets or plans for a past or a future. Death is just another moment for the donkey. But for the man it comes at a time when all regrets for the past are still plain in the mind.’
‘What are you saying then, Sage? Was my donkey happy or not?’
‘Happy, yes,’ said the sage, ‘because he didn’t desire change. Unhappy in that he was old and tired. But content because he was living the everyday, the split second when past and future converge.’
The sage stood at the side of the road and crossed his arms. He was satisfied he had explained the situation well, including a few thoughts that had only come to him during his speech, that he was confident he could use in future lessons and ruminations.
The traveller stood too, but most of the words of the sage, like the evening breeze, had passed him by. He only thought now of his loss, mixed with the possibility of what to do next. Then the thought came to him that another donkey might be happier pulling the cart he had acquired, which he could heap up with more goods but would be less of a burden to the donkey’s back. He could then sell more goods on each journey, while making fewer of them, which would again please the donkey, and his trade could continue as before, but be a good deal more profitable into the bargain.
After a while the sage spoke again. ‘By the way, for my own sake, I should like to see the burial spot of our old friend the donkey and pay my respects.’
The traveller nodded, and they resumed the journey back to their hometown.