The Cure

The king was a merry monarch. For certainly, life was good. The treasury was overflowing with wealth; the ministers were wise and capable, and there was no squabbling with neighboring kingdoms. So the king enjoyed all the good things of life, and virtually every night there were lavish banquets, when the tables groaned with the weight of all the marvelous things to eat.

But alas! too much rich food, and the king started putting on weight, then more weight and more weight, until he was so fat he could hardly walk, and a special trolley had to be built to carry the portly monarch.

The king fretted and fumed that he, of all people, should be so fat. Physicians came from all parts of the kingdom to treat his august majesty. But no matter what they tried, the king remained as fat as ever. In the end, the king announced he would give half his kingdom to the person who could bring his weight back to normal.

The shrewd ministers, realizing that such an announcement would bring a horde of unscrupulous adventurers, wisely added that whoever tried to reduce the king’s weight and failed would lose their heads. Naturally, as no one was interested in the chance of being beheaded, months went by without a solitary person coming forward to try and win the reward. Then when the king was giving up all hope, a sadhu came to the court and proclaimed he could cure the king.

The ministers eyed the sadhu with suspicion and stoutly maintained that any medicine the sadhu compounded would have to be thoroughly tested, for fear he might want to poison the king.

The old sadhu just chortled, “I am not producing any medicine,” he said. “First, I must study the king’s horoscope.”

There seemed to be no harm in this, and the sadhu sat and asked the king a lot of questions. Then, for a time, he sat in silent meditation. Later the sadhu turned to the king and in a sorrowful voice announced, “I am sorry, but I am afraid you have only thirty more days to live.”

Everyone was aghast at this. “Nonsense, the king was born under a lucky horoscope,” the ministers shouted in unison.

The sadhu threw up his hands to stop the shouting. “What I have said is true,” he intoned. “If you do not believe, then imprison me for thirty days, then the truth will be known.”

And so the sadhu was imprisoned. At first, the king laughed at the sadhu’s prediction, then he began to have doubts, for surely the sadhu would not willingly risk his head if it was untrue.

From that day, the king lost his appetite and paced endless hours up and down his chamber, wondering whether he would soon die. As the days went by, the king became more and more worried. He couldn’t even bear the sight of food, and he got thinner and thinner.

At last, the thirty days came to an end, and the king was still alive! The sadhu was taken before the king, who eyed him with growing rage.

“You have made me suffer for thirty days,” the King roared. “I am still alive, you rogue. Now you have only one hour to live.”

The sadhu didn’t seem at all perturbed. “Your Majesty, I should be rewarded and not executed,” he said calmly. “Look in a mirror, and you will see that I have cured you of your obesity. You are now the same girth as a normal man.”

Slowly it dawned on the king that in the past thirty days, through lack of food, he had lost all his excess fat. “Well, it was certainly a tough cure,” the king admitted, then with a smile added, “Nevertheless, you deserve to be well rewarded.”

“No, your Majesty,” the sadhu replied. “I ask for no reward. Rule your kingdom wisely and justly,” then laughingly he added, “Remember in the future, you should eat to live, not live to eat.”