Kids · 4 minThe Priest’s Goat and the Three Rogues

Once upon a time, in a small village, there lived a kind and honest priest named Mitra Sharma. He had read a great many books, and he believed every word that anybody told him. One day, after a long ceremony in the next village, a farmer gave him a fat little white goat. "Her milk will be good for your children," said the farmer.

Mitra Sharma was very pleased. The road home was muddy, so he lifted the goat on to his shoulders, held her by the legs and set off, humming a prayer. "Meh," said the goat, who liked the view.

Under a banyan tree by the road sat three rogues, who had not done a day's work between them. "Look at that goat," said the first. "It would fetch a good price in the market," said the second. "He is a big man, and there are only three of us," said the third. Then they looked at the way the priest was smiling at the sky, and they had an idea. They ran ahead through the fields and waited at three places along the road.

Soon the priest came to the first rogue. "Oh, Panthulu garu!" cried the man, and he folded his hands. "Why is a holy man like you carrying a dog on his shoulders?" "A dog?" said Mitra Sharma. "This is a goat, you foolish fellow!" "As you say, as you say," said the man. "Forgive me." And he went off shaking his head.

A little farther on he met the second rogue, who stopped and put a hand to his cheek. "What a sad sight! Panthulu garu, why are you carrying a dead calf?" "Dead? Calf? Are you blind? It is a goat, and it is alive!" "Do not be angry, sir," said the man gently. "Everybody has his own customs."

Now the priest walked more slowly. He took the goat down and looked at her. "Meh," she said. She looked like a goat. But one man had called her a dog and another had called her a calf, and neither of them had any reason to lie. He put her back on his shoulders, and he did not hum any more.

At the turn of the road stood the third rogue, who burst out laughing as soon as he saw him. "Panthulu garu! Put that donkey down! The whole village will laugh at you!" Mitra Sharma stopped. His knees began to shake. Three men, one after the other, and each of them had seen something different. This was no goat. It had to be a spirit that changed its shape at every mile. He threw it down on the road and ran home without once looking back.

The three rogues came together, laughing so much that they had to hold each other up. They tied a rope around the goat's neck, led her to their hut and went to sleep, dreaming of the market. They forgot one thing about goats. A goat will chew anything. By midnight she had chewed through the rope, and by morning she had trotted all the way back to the farmer's door.

The farmer heard the whole story in the village, and he laughed for some time. Then he took the goat by the rope and walked her to the house of Mitra Sharma. "Take it away!" cried the priest from behind his door. "It is a dog and a calf and a donkey!" "Panthulu garu," said the farmer, "never mind what they said. Come out and look at her yourself. Put your hand on her."

The priest came out very slowly and put his hand on her back. She was warm and woolly, and she smelled like a goat. "Meh," she said, and she began to eat the end of his cloth. Mitra Sharma stood there for a while. Then he began to laugh too, and he laughed until his children came out to see what had happened.

As for the three rogues, the story reached the market before they did. For many years, whatever they tried to sell, the people there would ask them, "Is that a dog or a donkey?" And nobody ever bought anything from them again.

The goat lived a long life and gave very good milk. And whenever his children came home with some strange tale from the street, Mitra Sharma would tell them: "Many voices can make a goat into a dog. Before you believe what others say, go and look with your own eyes."