I woke up early today, excited over all I get to do before the
clock strikes midnight.  I have responsibilities
to fulfill today.  I am important. My job is to choose what
kind of day I am going to have.

Today I can complain because the weather is rainy or ... I can
be thankful that the grass is getting watered for free.

Today I can feel sad that I don't have more money or ... I can
be glad that my finances encourage me to plan my purchases wisely and
guide me away from waste.

Today I can grumble about my health or… I can rejoice that I am alive. 

Today I can lament over all that my parents didn't give me when
I  was growing up or ...I can feel grateful that they allowed me to be born.

Today I can cry because roses have thorns or ... I can
celebrate that thorns have roses.

Today I can mourn my lack of friends or ... I can excitedly
embark upon a quest to discover new relationships.

Today I can whine because I have to go to work or ... I can
shout for joy because I have a job to do.

Today I can complain because I have to go to school or ...
Eagerly open my mind and fill it with rich new tidbits of knowledge.

Today I can murmur dejectedly because I have to do housework or
I can feel honored because the Lord has provided shelter for my mind, body
and soul.

Today stretches ahead of me, waiting to be shaped. And here I
am, the sculptor who gets to do the shaping.
What today will be like is up to me. I get to choose what kind
of day I will have!

Once long ago, there arose a quarrel between two kings.

One king was the great Brahmadatta. His kingdom was large and rich, and his troops were many. 
The other king was Dighiti. His kingdom was small and poor, and his troops were few.

Brahmadatta told his generals, "We will march against Dighiti and conquer his kingdom. He
will not be able to resist me."

When Dighiti heard of the army's advance, he told Deva, his queen, "Nothing we do can prevent Brahmadatta from seizing our country. For the sake of our people, it is best to avoid a battle. Let us flee from the kingdom tonight."
Deva asked, 
"Where can we go?"
"We will go to Brahmadatta's own capital city, Benares. It is large enough to hide in, and he
will never search for us there."

So they took their young son, Dighavu, and fled by night to Benares. There they lodged in a poor
quarter of the city. King Dighiti disguised himself as a wandering holy man and each day begged enough coins and food for them all.

Time passed and the prince grew toward manhood. Then King Dighiti told his wife, "Truly is it said, we may forgive those who hurt us, but we never forgive those we hurt. If Brahmadatta finds us here, he will surely kill us all. It is best to send our son from the city."

The queen said, "Let him go to my parents in the west. There he can learn the arts and sciences
proper to his estate." So they sent the prince away.

Now, it happened that the barber from the court of King Dighiti was at this time at work in the
court of Brahmadatta. One day, the barber caught sight of Dighiti in the marketplace, begging in the guise of a holy man. Hoping for reward, he secretly followed Dighiti to his home, then reported to Brahmadatta.

Brahmadatta sent his men to arrest the family. Dighiti and Deva were brought before him.

"Where is your son?" demanded Brahmadatta.

"Beyond your reach," replied Dighiti.

Brahmadatta turned to one of his generals. "Tie them up and cart them around the city for all to
see and scorn. Then take them out the south gate and execute them by the sword. Allow no one to
perform the funeral rites. Their bodies shall be prey to birds and beasts."

Now, on that very day, Prince Dighavu had come back to Benares to visit his parents. As he
passed through the marketplace, he saw soldiers on horse and on foot, and among them a cart,
and tied up in the cart, his mother and his father. And he was powerless to help them.

King Dighiti saw the prince as well. Wishing to advise his son, yet mindful not to give him
away, Dighiti called out as if to no one. And these were his words:

    Be not shortsighted.
    Be not longsighted.
    Not by violence is violence ended.
    Violence is ended by nonviolence.

As darkness fell, King Dighiti and Queen Deva were taken outside the city walls and executed
by the sword. Their bodies were left on the ground, with a dozen soldiers standing guard.

Within the city, Prince Dighavu told himself, "First I will perform the funeral rites for my
parents. Then I will find a way to avenge them."

He bought strong wine in the marketplace and brought it to the guards. They took it gladly, and
soon lay drunk and asleep.

Dighavu piled up wood, placed his parents' bodies on top, then lit the funeral pyre. He pressed his palms together and walked three times around the flames.

At that moment, at the royal palace, Brahmadatta was strolling upon his roof terrace, puzzling over the words of King Dighiti that had been reported to him. Gazing far south, over the city wall, he spied the fire and the figure circling it.

"It must be Prince Dighavu," he told himself. And a cold fear gripped his heart.

The prince, his duty complete, slipped quickly into the forest. For days he stayed there, hiding
from Brahmadatta's men while grieving for his parents.

At last, the danger and the tears had passed, and Dighavu entered the city once more. At the
royal elephant stables, he took work as an apprentice.

And so it was one morning that Dighavu rose early, sat before the stables, and sang to greet the dawn. His voice drifted to the palace and to the balcony of King Brahmadatta, who had also
risen early, wakened by a fearful dream.

"How lovely," said the king. "I have need of such music to ease my mind."

He sent for the singer, and Dighavu was brought before him.

"Sing for me," said Brahmadatta, not knowing who the young man was.

Dighavu sang, and the king's heart was gladdened. Then Brahmadatta told him, 
"Stay with me."

And Dighavu answered, 
"As you wish, my lord."

So Dighavu became the king's attendant. And since the young man's conduct was agreeable and his words pleasing, the king grew ever more fond of him, bestowing on him more and more responsibility and trust.

Then came a day when Brahmadatta desired to go hunting. And he told Dighavu, "Today you
will drive my chariot."

And Dighavu replied, "It is an honor, my lord."

So Dighavu that day drove the chariot of the king. But as the hunters pursued their quarry,
Dighavu cleverly took a path that led away. He brought the king far from the sight and hearing of the others.

At last Brahmadatta said, 
"I wish to stop and rest."

Dighavu dismounted and sat cross-legged on the ground. And he told the king, 
"Come rest yourself, my lord."

So the king laid his head in the cradle of Dighavu's legs, and slept.

Dighavu gripped his sword and drew it slowly from its sheath. He pointed the blade at the throat of Brahmadatta. And then there came to him the words of his father.

    Be not shortsighted.
    Be not longsighted.
    Not by violence is violence ended.
    Violence is ended by nonviolence.

The sword of Dighavu trembled. He drew it slowly away and replaced it in its sheath.

Brahmadatta breathed heavily and opened wide his eyes and sat up in alarm.

"What is wrong, my lord?" asked Dighavu.

"It is a dream that often plagues me," 
said the king. 
"I see Dighavu, the son of my enemies,
coming at me with his sword to avenge his parents."

Then Dighavu clutched the king's hair, dragged his head back down, and drew his sword. 
"I am Dighavu, son of your enemies, and here am I to avenge my parents!"

"Have mercy, dear Dighavu! Grant me my life!"

"How can I grant your life?" replied Dighavu. "Truly is it said, we may forgive those who hurt
us, but we never forgive those we hurt. You have killed my mother and my father, and would
surely kill me too. So the life to be granted is mine!"

"Then grant me my life," said Brahmadatta, "and I will grant you yours!"

So Dighavu released the king and put away his sword. And the two rose and clasped their hands and swore never again to seek the other's harm.

Then Brahmadatta said, "I have often pondered your father's final words. Tell me, Dighavu,
what did he mean when he told you, 'Be not shortsighted'?"

"My father meant, 'Do not be quick to spurn a gift of friendship.'"

"And what did he mean when he told you, 'Be not longsighted'?"

"My father meant, 'Do not allow your hate to last too long.'"

"And what did he mean when he told you, 'Not by violence is violence ended. Violence is ended by nonviolence'?"

"My father meant this: You, my lord, have killed my parents and stolen their kingdom. If I were to kill you in revenge, your allies would kill me, and then my allies would kill them, and so on, with no end to violence. But now instead, you have granted my life and I have granted yours. So violence is at an end."

Then the king marveled at the wisdom of Dighavu, who understood in full what his father said in brief.

Indeed, so great was Brahmadatta's admiration and his gratitude, he soon restored to Dighavu
the kingdom of his father. And as long as both kings lived, all quarrels between them were
resolved in friendship and good will.

Sushil was a miser. Though his treasure house was full, he was too stingy to give away even the smallest coin. And since food cost money, he ate almost nothing, and starved his family and servants besides.

One morning, as Sushil took his daily walk through town, he saw a young boy eating a sweet rice dumpling. Sushil's mouth watered as he made his way home.

"If only I could ask my wife to make me a sweet dumpling," 
he said to himself. 
"But if I wanted one, so would my wife. And if my wife wanted one, so would the children. And if the children
wanted one, so would the servants. So I had better just keep quiet."

When Sushil arrived home, he said nothing about a dumpling. But he wanted one so badly, he
felt weak. His legs shook, and he had to go to bed.

His wife, Nirmala, came to him. She asked, 
"What is wrong, my husband?"

Sushil lay groaning and clenched his teeth.

"Is there something you want?" said Nirmala.

Sushil's face grew red, then purple. At last he squeaked, 
"I would like a sweet rice dumpling."

"That is no problem," 
said Nirmala. 
"We are wealthy enough. Why, I will make sweet
dumplings for the whole town!"

Sushil gasped in horror. 
"You will make a pauper of me!"

"Well then," 
said Nirmala, 
"I will make dumplings for our family and servants."

"Why would the servants need any?" said Sushil.

"Then I will make them for us and the children."

"I am sure the children can do without."

"Then I will make one for you and one for me."

"Why would you want one?" said Sushil.

Nirmala sighed and went out, and returned after a while with a single sweet dumpling. Then she
looked on as Sushil, moaning with delight, devoured every crumb.

Now, it happened that all this was seen by Sakka, 
the King of Heaven, who was sitting on his
marble throne in his thousand-mile-high palace. 
"Not in seventy-seven millenia," he declared,
"have I ever seen such a miser. I will teach this fellow not to be so stingy."

So the God waited till the next day, when Sushil left on his morning walk. Then he made himself
look just like Sushil and came down to earth.

Sakka walked into Sushil's house as if he were Sushil himself. In Sushil's own voice he told a servant, 
"Run through the town and invite everyone you see. Today Sushil will share his wealth!"

When Nirmala heard these words, she cried, 
"Husband, can this be true? Heaven be praised for
your change of heart!" 
Then she helped him open the treasure house.

Soon the people of the town arrived. "Take what you will!" said the pretend Sushil. "And if
anyone who looks like me tries to stop you, drive away the scoundrel!"

"Thanks to Lord Sushil!" 
cried the townspeople. 
"The most generous man alive!" 
They rushed into the treasure house and loaded themselves with gold, silver, diamonds, and pearls.

Just then, the real Sushil came home. When he saw his treasure being carried out the gate, he
screamed, 
"Robbers! Thieves! Put that back! How dare you!"

But the townspeople said, 
"This must be the one that Lord Sushil warned us about." And they chased Sushil halfway across town.

Sushil rushed on to the Rajah's court. 
"Your Majesty," he declared, 
"the people of the town are taking all I own!"

"But your own servant invited them!" 
said the Rajah. 
"I heard him myself. Did you not give the order?"

"Never!" said Sushil. 
"If the order was given, I beg you to bring the one who gave it!"

So the Rajah sent a messenger. Soon came Sakka, still pretending to be Sushil, along with
Nirmala and the children. The children stared wide-eyed at the two Sushils, and Nirmala nearly fainted.

"Impostor!" screamed Sushil.

"Deceiver!" screamed Sakka.

"I cannot tell the difference between you," said the bewildered Rajah. He turned to Nirmala.
"Can you say which is the true Sushil?"

Nirmala looked at both men. "Your Majesty," she said, "may I ask them a question?"

"Certainly," said the Rajah.

Nirmala turned to Sakka. 
"Is it better to be generous to yourself, to your family, to your servants, or to your neighbors?"

"It is best to be generous to all!" answered Sakka. 
"When you are generous, others also grow
generous, and everyone is wealthier."

Then Nirmala turned to Sushil. 
"Is it better to be generous to yourself, to your family, to your servants, or to your neighbors?"

"To none!" shrieked Sushil. 
"It is a waste of wealth that can never be regained!"

Nirmala took a deep breath, gathered the children, then drew close to Sakka. She said, 
"This is the true Sushil, Your Majesty."

"But, Nirmala!" cried Sushil. "My wife! My children!"

At that, the god stepped forward, and with a blinding flash of light changed back to his own
shape. "Your Majesty, I am not Sushil but Sakka. I came down from Heaven to teach this man a lesson."

He turned to the trembling and downcast Sushil. 
"Do you see? You are so stingy, even your wife
and children deny you."

Sushil moaned.

"There is but one hope for you," said Sakka. "Will you stop being such a miser?"

"Well," said Sushil, "maybe I could be a little more generous."

"A little more?" demanded Sakka.

"Well, maybe a little more than a little more," said Sushil.

"You had better be a lot more generous," said Sakka. "Or I'll be back!"

And with another flash of light, he vanished.

"Well!" said the Rajah to Sushil. "It seems you indeed have been taught a good lesson!"

"I suppose so, Your Majesty," said Sushil. He turned shyly to Nirmala. "Wife?" he said, holding
out his hand.

"Husband!" she said, taking it. "Oh, husband, let us celebrate! I have an idea. Let us make sweet
rice dumplings for the entire town!"

Sushil gasped in horror. His legs shook. He groaned and clenched his teeth. His face grew red,
then purple. Then he squeaked --

"All right!"

Once in India there were two generous kings. But one was more generous than the other.

The first king was named Karna. 
Every morning, he gave to the poor a hundred pounds of gold.
In fact, he had vowed not to eat on any day before doing this. But where he got so much gold
was a great mystery.

The second king was named Vikram. 
So big-hearted was Vikram, he would give anybody anything they asked for -- a jewel, a horse, even a palace. His time and help too were free for the asking. Vikram's fame spread far and wide, and even the animals asked him favors.

One day, while Vikram was strolling through his palace garden, two snow-white geese landed
at his feet.

"Good King Vikram, we are starving!" cried the gander. "We beg you to feed us!"

"Certainly," said Vikram. "I will send for seed at once."

"We cannot eat seed," said the female. "We come from a sacred lake, high in the mountains of the north. There, we eat only fresh pearls."

"Then pearls it shall be," said Vikram. He sent for a basket of his finest pearls and fed the geese
from his hand.

Each morning, Vikram fed the geese. But one morning, the gander noticed that one of the pearls
was pierced.

"Look!" he cried to his mate. "These pearls are not fresh!"

"Not even King Vikram can feed us forever," she said. "Let us fly elsewhere."

Before Vikram could protest, the geese rose into the air. But as they soared, they cried, "Thanks,
thanks to Vikram, the most generous king of all!"

The geese flew on, singing Vikram's praises. On their way, they passed over the palace of King
Karna.

When the king heard their song, he said, "Why is Vikram praised even by the birds? Surely he's
no more generous than I!" And he sent his royal hunter to trap the geese where they landed.

The geese were brought in a cage before King Karna. He asked them, "Why do you call Vikram
the most generous king of all?"

"He fed us pearls from his hand," said the gander.

"But I give away a hundred pounds of gold each day!" said the king. "Am I not as generous as
Vikram?"

The female said, "King Vikram would never imprison the innocent."

King Karna took a handful of pearls and opened the cage door to reach in. But the female pushed
past and flew out the window.

Swiftly the goose flew back to Vikram and landed breathless at his feet. "Good King Vikram," she said, "you must help us! My husband is a prisoner!"

Vikram listened to her story. "Rest easy, dear friend," he said. "I will rescue your mate."

Disguised in ragged clothes, Vikram made his way to the court of King Karna.

"Your Majesty," said Vikram, "allow me to be your servant. I hear you are the most generous
king of all."

"It's true!" chortled the king. "Tomorrow you can help carry the gold."

The next day, Vikram helped carry the baskets of gold coins to the palace steps. He watched as
the king handed out all the gold before going in to his huge breakfast.

Vikram said to himself,
"Truly, Karna is a generous king. But how does he have so much gold?"
He decided to keep a careful eye on the king.

So it was, the next morning before dawn, Vikram spied the king sneaking from the palace. He
followed secretly as Karna hurried up a mountain path and came to a lonely hut.

Vikram watched through an open window as King Karna was greeted by a scrawny,
squinty-eyed hermit. A huge pan hung over a crackling fire.

All at once, Karna undressed and climbed in the pan! He sizzled and frizzled and fried to a
crispy golden brown. Then the hermit, moaning and groaning with delight, munched and
crunched and gobbled him down.

When the hermit was done, he set the bones on the floor, waved his arms over them, and
chanted,

    "Bones are good, but flesh is best.
    Give him life, while I digest!"

And there was King Karna, as good as ever!

"Thank you so much," said the hermit. "As usual, you were a very tasty meal. And now I will
keep my part of the bargain."

The hermit pulled a tattered coat from a peg and shook out the pockets. A hundred pounds of
gold coins tumbled onto the floor from the magic coat.

"Thank you!" said King Karna. "Now I must give away this gold so I can have my breakfast!" He
gathered up the gold and started down the mountain.

"Now I see!" muttered Vikram. "And now I know how to rescue the goose!"

Next morning, Vikram got up even earlier than King Karna and went to the palace kitchen. He
made a paste of curry spices and rubbed it all over himself. Then he hurried to the hermit's hut.

The hermit was so near-sighted and so hungry, he didn't even see it wasn't King Karna. "Why,
King, you're early today!" he said, as he welcomed Vikram in.

Vikram undressed and climbed in the pan. He sizzled and frizzled and fried to a crispy golden
brown.

When the hermit caught a whiff of the curry spices, he said, "What is that marvelous aroma? The King has never smelled better!"

Moaning and groaning with greater delight than ever, he munched and crunched and gobbled
Vikram down. Then he set the bones on the floor, waved his arms over them, and chanted the
magic words.

    "Bones are good, but flesh is best.
    Give him life, while I digest!"

Vikram opened his eyes and heaved a sigh of relief.

"My, my, King," said the hermit, who still thought Vikram was King Karna, "you must tell me how you tasted so delicious this morning!"

Vikram told the hermit about the curry spices. Then he said, "I will curry myself every morning, if you do me a favor."

"Anything, anything!" said the hermit.

"I am tired of carrying a hundred pounds of gold down the mountain each day," said Vikram.
"Give me the magic coat, so I can keep it at the palace and shake it out down there."

"Agreed!" said the hermit, and he handed over the coat.

Vikram took his leave, but hid outside the window. Before long, King Karna arrived. When the king found out what had happened, he screamed at the hermit.

"How could you give him the coat?"

The hermit yelled back, "I thought he was you!"

"You should have known better!" 
roared the king.

"You're right!" howled the hermit. "You could never taste so good, you old goat!"

King Karna stormed down the mountain.

Later that morning, there was no hundred pounds of gold to carry to the palace steps. Just as he
had vowed, King Karna ate not a thing. He went to bed and stayed there all day, growing
hungrier and hungrier.

Finally, Vikram came to the king's bedside. "Friend," he said, 
"you need not starve any longer."

He shook out the hermit's coat. King Karna cried out for joy as the gold coins tumbled to the
floor.

Then Vikram told the king his story. "And if you free the goose," he said, "and promise to curry
yourself for the hermit, I will gladly give you the coat."

The king hung his head. "The geese were right," he said. 
"I am generous to be nibbled for the
needy. But more generous are you to be gobbled for a gander!"

Together they went to the goose's cage, and King Karna opened the door.

Out flew the goose, through the window and over the palace, joining its mate in the air. And as the two turned homeward, they cried, "Thanks, thanks to Vikram, the most generous king of all!"