शुनः न्यायः, ब्राह्मणस्य कौलपत्यम्

At Rāma's word the wise Lakṣmaṇa, who had understood the dog's humility and sense of propriety, quickly called the dog in and presented him to Rāghava. Seeing the dog before him, Rāma said, "Tell me what you wish to say, dog. You have nothing to fear." An animal in a royal court would naturally be afraid, so Rāma first gave him assurance of safety, the first step of justice, and so bore out the dog's earlier praise of him as the one who gives safety in times of danger. The dog's head was split open, and that wound was itself the evidence of his complaint; Rāma saw it with his own eyes. The dog looked at Rāma seated there, and seeing the king he began to speak. A dog entering a royal court was something unheard of, but Rāma did not treat it as strange: a petitioner is a petitioner.

"The king alone is the maker of beings," the dog said, "and the king is their leader. The king stays awake while they sleep; the king protects the people. Guarding them by well-applied policy, the king protects dharma, and when the king does not protect, the people quickly perish. The king is maker, guardian and father of the whole world; the king is time and the age; the king is all this world. They call it dharma because it upholds, and by dharma the people are upheld, for it upholds all three worlds, moving and unmoving. And because the king restrains enemies and delights the people through dharma, this upholding is what dharma is; of that there is no doubt. This, King Rāghava, is the highest dharma, bearing fruit after death; nothing, I believe, is beyond reach through dharma. Giving, compassion, honour to the good and honesty in dealings, this, Rāma, is the highest dharma, and through protecting it bears fruit here and hereafter. You, Rāghava of good vows, are the measure of all measures; the dharma practised by the good is known to you. You are the highest home of dharma, an ocean of virtues. And in my ignorance I have been lecturing you, best of kings. I bow my head to beg your pardon; do not be angry." Hearing him, Rāghava said, "What shall I do for you today? Speak without fear, and do not delay." And the dog said, "By dharma a king should win his realm, and by dharma alone protect it; through dharma a king becomes a refuge who drives away every fear." In brief the dog set out the teaching on a king's duty, a sign of the learning he had in his former life, which will soon be revealed. The word dharma comes from the root meaning "to uphold": dharma is what holds the world together, and the king upholds it by restraining the wicked and delighting the people. "The king is time" is a famous saying: it is the king's conduct that sets the character of the age. His three points, that a king should win, protect and give refuge by dharma, are exactly what Rāma's own conduct showed, so the praise was true and not flattery, and the four virtues he named, giving, compassion, honour to the good and honesty, are the core of the dharma common to all. His apology at the end shows his humility, for he knew that teaching a king was beyond his place; and there is a sad irony in his bowing to beg pardon with that broken head.

"Knowing this," the dog went on, "do what must be done, Rāghava, and hear me. There is a mendicant named Sarvārthasiddha who lives in the brahmins' lodging-house. He struck me for no reason, though I had done no wrong." Hearing this, Rāma sent the doorkeeper at once, and he brought in the learned brahmin. That splendid brahmin, seeing Rāma there, said, "What do you want of me, sinless Rāma? Tell me." Rāma answered, "You struck this dog, brahmin. What harm had he done you, that you beat him with a stick?" The procedure of justice is clear: the complaint, the summoning of the accused, the questioning. Rāma questioned the brahmin too, to hear the accused's side, for no judgement is given on one side alone. The heart of the complaint was that an innocent creature had been hurt. The mendicant's name, "he who has achieved every aim", is ironic: though a renunciant, he had not conquered his anger. His question, what did the king want of him, shows that he had no idea why he was there; he addressed the king as an equal, calling him sinless, with no sense yet of his own guilt. Rāma asked him what harm the dog had done because a blow with a reason might be pardoned, but one without cause must be punished. Evidence, questioning, and then judgement: that was Rāma's method, in keeping with the śāstras.

Then Rāma spoke of anger. "Anger is an enemy that takes life; anger is a foe with a friend's face; anger is a sword of terrible sharpness; anger drags everything down. Whatever a man gains by austerity, by sacrifice or by giving, anger carries it all away; so one should cast anger off. The senses bolt like wild horses; one should be their charioteer, holding them firmly and drawing them back from their objects. With mind, deed, speech and eye one should do good to the world; one who lives so hates no one, and no sin clings to him. A sharp sword, a snake trodden underfoot, an enemy always in a rage, none of these can do the harm that one's own ill-governed self can do. Even in one who has been trained in discipline, nature does not change; however a man hides his nature, his conduct will surely show it." This teaching agrees with the Gītā, and the image of the senses as horses and the mind as charioteer comes from the Kaṭha Upaniṣad. Anger wears a friend's face, seeming to serve us before it destroys us, and an uncontrolled mind does more harm than any outward enemy. Anger is pictured here in many forms, an enemy, a foe, a sword, a thief of merit, a runaway horse, a snake, to show how terrible it is. The last verse points at the brahmin himself: for all his learning he had not conquered his nature, and his deed had exposed it. That prepares for the dog's teaching to come. Rāma gave counsel before punishment, as a king's duty requires, beginning with reproof in words; and since for a brahmin reproof is usually thought the fitting punishment, Rāma's counsel was itself a kind of penalty.

So addressed by Rāma of effortless deeds, the brahmin Sarvārthasiddha said in his presence, "I struck that blow when my mind was possessed by anger. I was wandering for alms, and the time for alms had passed. This dog was standing in the street, and I told him, 'Go, go.' He went off slowly at his own pace and stood awkwardly at the end of the street. Possessed by anger and hunger, Rāghava, I struck him. Punish me, king of kings, for I am the offender. Once I am punished by you, lord of kings, I need have no fear of hell." His confession was honest: he did not hide his fault but asked for punishment, knowing that one punished by the king is freed from the sin. The offence was slight, the dog standing in the way and the man hungry and angry, but hurting an innocent creature is a wrong all the same. Then Rāma asked all the members of the assembly, "Tell me what should be done with him, what punishment should be laid on him. When punishment is rightly applied, the people are protected." He did not impose his own view but sought the assembly's counsel. Bhṛgu, Āṅgirasa, Kutsa and the others, Vasiṣṭha with Kaśyapa, the chief expounders of the law, the ministers, the townsmen and many other learned men were gathered there, and all of them, grounded in the king's dharma, told Rāghava that those who know the śāstras hold a brahmin exempt from corporal punishment. Then all the sages said to Rāma himself, "The king is the ruler of all, and you above all, Rāghava; you are the ruler of the three worlds, the eternal god Viṣṇu." So the assembly spoke two ways: by the śāstras a brahmin could not be punished in body, but Rāma was Viṣṇu himself and the decision was his; the dilemma was left to his discernment, and his judgement, it is suggested, stood even above the rules.

When they had all spoken, the dog said, "If you are pleased with me, Rāma, if I am to be given a boon, hero, for you promised before everyone, 'What shall I do for you?', then, lord of men, give this brahmin the headship of a monastery. Let him be made head of the monastery at Kālañjara, great king." Hearing this, Rāma had him consecrated to the headship, and the brahmin, honoured, went off delighted on the back of an elephant. Rāma's ministers smiled and said, "This is a reward you have given him, splendid lord, not a punishment." Rāma answered, "You do not understand how deeds work themselves out. The dog knows the reason." And when Rāma asked him, the dog explained. The story takes a startling turn: the offender received not a penalty but a high office, and it was the dog who asked for it. Rāma had given his word, "What shall I do for you?", and so he was bound to grant it; Rāma's faithfulness to his promises is famous throughout the Rāmāyaṇa, and here too he kept his word, strange as the request was. The ministers' amusement was natural, for on the face of it this was a reward. Rāma understood the hidden meaning, yet he had the dog speak, since the dog was the witness who knew it from experience. The head of a monastery controls the property of the gods and the feeding of brahmins; the honour of riding an elephant hid a fall to come.

"Rāghava," said the dog, "in my former birth I was head of that same monastery at Kālañjara. I ate only what was left from the offerings; I shared fairly in the worship of gods and brahmins and with the maids and menservants; I delighted in what was good, guarded the property of the gods, and was disciplined, of good conduct and devoted to the welfare of all creatures. Yet I have come to this dreadful state, the lowest of all. This brahmin, then, full of anger, who has abandoned dharma and delights in harm, angry, cruel, harsh, ignorant and unrighteous, will surely drag down seven generations before him and seven after, Rāghava. So under no circumstances should one take the headship of a monastery. If you wish to send a man to hell with his sons, his cattle and his kin, put him in charge of gods, cows and brahmins. Whoever takes back the property of brahmins, the goods of the gods, the wealth of women or children, or anything once given, perishes with all he holds dear. Whoever seizes the goods of brahmins and of the gods, Rāghava, falls at once into the dreadful hell called Avīci; and whoever steals the property of gods or brahmins even in thought, that lowest of men falls from hell to hell." Hearing this, Rāma's eyes opened wide in wonder; the secret was new even to him, for the ways of karma are deep. And the dog of great splendour went back the way he had come, asking nothing more once he had justice. High-minded from his former birth and debased only by the birth he now had, that noble creature sat down to fast unto death at Vārāṇasī. Here the story's secret is revealed: even a righteous abbot had been born as a dog, because some slight fault in handling the gods' property is unavoidable in such an office, so for an angry and unrighteous man the headship would be the harshest punishment of all. The dog's request looks like revenge, but it was in truth a penalty in keeping with the śāstras: the brahmin could not be punished in body, so he was punished through his own deeds. The virtues the dog claimed for himself, discipline, good conduct and care for all creatures, were those he had praised in Rāma, for he knew both a king's duty and an abbot's. His fast at Vārāṇasī, where death is held to bring liberation, shows that even one born a dog could reach release there, for the impressions of his former life were good. The tale is a stern lesson for renunciants and heads of monasteries: charge of sacred property is a grave responsibility, not a privilege. So this story brings out the subtlety of Rāma's justice, and in the sixtieth sarga the main narrative resumes, when the seers who live on the bank of the Yamunā come to Rāma for protection.