Lola Jātaka

The Blessed One recounted this solemn tale while residing at Jetavana monastery regarding a monk enslaved by covetousness of rich tastes (Rasatanha). In the ancient city of Varanasi, when Brahmadatta was king, the Bodhisatta was reborn as a noble and temperate wild pigeon. At that time, a wealthy merchant, desiring to acquire spiritual merit, hung a comfortable woven basket lined with dry straw beneath the eaves of his royal cookhouse. Living peacefully in this sanctuary, the pigeon flew each dawn into the wilderness to peck wild grass seeds and returned at dusk to roost in serene contentment.

One bright morning, a ravenous, gluttonous crow flew over the courtyard and caught the rich, savoury steam of meat and fish being prepared by the royal chef for the master's banquet. Possessed by uncontrollable hunger and greed, the crow resolved that he must feast upon these sumptuous delicacies. Observing the gentle pigeon returning undisturbed to his basket, the crow thought: 'If I form a warm friendship with this ascetic bird, I may share his dwelling and enjoy easy access to this overflowing palace kitchen.' Flying up, the crow flattered the Bodhisatta with excessive praise, calling him a paragon of patience and begging permission to accompany him during daily foraging.

The Bodhisatta, possessing sharp discernment, saw through the flatterer's motives and offered a gentle admonition: 'Friend, our natures and diets are utterly dissimilar. You are a rapacious predator sustained by corpses, offal, and stolen scraps, whereas I nourish myself purely upon seeds and grains in secluded groves. Friendship between the greedy and the contented cannot endure, nor can you withstand the hazards that attend human settlements.' Despite this warning, the crow insisted, imitating the pigeon's gentle flights and roosting beside him inside the basket.

The following day, the palace kitchen bustled with preparations for an extraordinary feast. Slices of tender fish and succulent game simmered in giant copper pots, wafting fragrance across the rafters. The crow feigned sudden illness, groaning in his straw: 'Brother pigeon, severe colic and wind afflict my belly! I am too weak to fly across the fields today. Fly forth alone; I shall rest and recover in our quiet abode.' The pigeon saw clearly that greed held his companion captive: 'Friend, beware! Birds of our kind have perished through desire of cooked food. Human beings protect their kitchens jealously; do not attempt to touch what does not belong to you.'

No sooner had the pigeon vanished beyond the forest canopy than the crow peered down into the kitchen. Spotting a moment when the head chef stepped outside to wipe sweat from his brow, the crow swooped down silently onto the rim of a cooling vessel and seized a large chunk of roasted meat. In his haste, his claws clattered loudly against the bronze basin. The alert chef spun around, barred the kitchen shutters, and seized the thieving intruder in his iron grip.

Enraged by the repeated nuisance of carrion birds, the cook resolved to make an unforgettable example. He systematically plucked out every single feather, down, and quill from the crow's shivering body until not a speck of plumage remained. He then took pungent wild ginger, fiery peppers, and coarse sea salt, ground them into a burning paste with sour vinegar, and rubbed it deeply into the crow's bleeding skin. Cast unceremoniously back into the wicker basket, the wretched crow writhed in unbearable agony, blistered by the alkaline paste and shivering in naked horror.

When the Bodhisatta returned at dusk, he beheld the grotesque, weeping form of his companion and uttered verses on the ruinous fate of those who cannot master sensual indulgence: 'The fool who despises the counsel of friends and surrenders his heart to fleeting taste reaps agony, desolation, and utter ruin.' The crow perished in excruciating misery that very night, and the Buddha identified the greedy crow as the intemperate monk, while He Himself was the wise, disciplined pigeon.

This episode is preserved in the Pali Canon's Tikanipāta, within the Udapanavagga, as Jātaka No. 274. The very next entry, Jātaka No. 275, the Rucira Jātaka, retells this same deception in the royal kitchen under a fresh set of canonical verses, framing the crow's vanity over his own feathers rather than his hunger alone. Readers seeking that companion telling, with its distinct gāthās (verses), may turn to the Rucira Jātaka as a shorter, cross-referenced sequel to this fuller account.