In one monastery there lived a monk who was very fond of betel. Every day he sent a novice to find out if anyone had died in the village, because he hoped to eat betel at the funeral.
One day, a peasant accidentally overheard a conversation between a monk and a novice and decided to teach the gourmand a lesson. Returning home, he gathered his relatives and said:
“The monk can’t wait until someone dies in the village so he can chew betel nut at the funeral.” He values betel nut more than human life! Let's punish him. I will pretend to be dead, and you prepare everything for the burial and cry as loudly as possible. The monk will come running immediately!
As soon as the loud cries reached the monk's ears, he was very happy and hurried to the village. And the relatives of the “dead” told him:
“We must quickly bury our deceased brother.” Evening is coming, and we may not have time to prepare a treat.
Everyone hurried to the funeral pyre. When they approached the pedestal on which the “dead” lay, the relatives gave the edge of the blanket in which he was wrapped into the monk’s hands.
“While you ask for a blessing for our dear brother, we will bring firewood to the funeral pyre,” said the peasants and left the monk alone with the “dead.”
And they themselves scattered thorns and rosehip branches all over the paths and paths and hid.
It got dark. The monk began to read prayers quickly and loudly. Suddenly the sly man, who had pretended to be dead, began to stir and groan. The monk screamed in fright:
- Lie still, I pray for a blessing for you! Your job is to lie still.
But the man rose from the funeral pyre and groaned even louder. Then the monk became so frightened that he ran to the monastery. He runs, seeing nothing, straight along the rosehip branches and sharp thorns, hurting all his legs. The monk barely reached the monastery, choking with fatigue and howling in pain. The novice bandaged his wounds, and the monk asked if they had brought betel.
“No, they didn’t bring it,” answered the novice. “You yourself need to go to the house of the deceased and take betel.”
“No, no,” the monk said hastily, “now I will never go to this village, even if ten people die there.” As soon as I remember what happened to me, I begin to tremble with fear! No, I will never go there again!
Translated from Russian · original on wisdomlib.ru