It is told that the village of Vashua, lay in a valley below hills packed with trees so high you could not see the tops, and bushes so thick you could not walk through them. The village stood at the edge of a grassy plain that flourished below those hills. It was only a few small huts that stood around a clear dusty space, a common space where the inhabitants met. They called themselves the People.

A road ran through Vashua. Travelers from the east rose and walked through the town on their way to the Bay of Bengal. The People welcomed them and gave them a shady resting place. Sometimes, when the visitors told stories of a cunning lion who had tasted human flesh and become the fiercest creature in India, the villagers became afraid.

At night, the People ate food made from vegetables they had planted, and grains they had harvested. They drank the milk their holy herd provided. When the sun disappeared, a boy built a fire in the common space. The villagers gathered by the flames for warmth and friendship and told ancient stories so that their children would learn the lessons of this world—what it was and what it had become. They treasured their young, their land, and their cattle. To them, Vashua was heaven.

One night, after the People grew tired and moved inside to sleep, a lioness crept into the fields and killed a small cow. They could hear the roar and the whine—the snarl and the helpless cry. Then silence. They stayed inside and prayed until it grew quiet. They did not look out.

In the morning, they found the dead cow, barely eaten by the intruder.

With heavy hearts, they sighed, and prayed, and did not touch their precious creature.

That night, the People sat around the fire to talk about the cow, and the lioness, and the man-eater who roamed the hills east of the village. They considered the problem. If they moved the cow, the lioness might return and get angry. She might be hungry and run amongst the herd to find another victim. She might attack a man or a woman—or even a child. Once she had tasted human blood, she might join that dreaded lion and the two could become a fearsome man-eating pair. Perhaps they should leave the cow.

The men thought it best to form a small cadre armed with scythes and machetes. Arda, the father of six sons, had a rifle given to him by a hunter who was grateful to Arda for helping him when he fell sick walking through the village.

Arda was a peaceful man. He did not want a gun. Still, he was proud of the gift. He showed it to his wife during their nights together. Each time she saw the rifle, she loved Arda more and remembered when they were young. Then she felt once
again, their early innocent love. It was a wonder they had only six children.

The women argued against the men’s plans. No one knew what the lioness might do. Or where she was. Or if she had found another hungry lion and the two could easily overwhelm a few men carrying farming tools and one lone rifle.
Perhaps, the women suggested, they should wait to see what happened during the night. Perhaps the lioness would not be angry if her meal was left untouched.

Perhaps, if she could have her supper, she would leave them alone.

They argued until the afternoon sun was high and it was too hot to even sit in the shade. And so, the women prevailed.
That night, the villagers did not build a fire. They stood at their doors and peered out into the dark, looked up at the hills, and waited. The lioness returned.

She sat down, listened to the village, smelled the earth and the cattle, sensed the People’s fear. She sat for a long time. Then she lay down by the cow and ate her meal. When she was full, she yawned and licked her paws. She bowed her head
towards the villagers and then she disappeared into the woods.

The following night, the lioness returned. The villagers came out by the road to watch her eat. She was contented to let them stay. She ate her fill and with a soft gentle sound, she rose, raised her head in salute, and disappeared.
There was still much meat left. The People understood the cow belonged to her.

By the fourth night, there was almost nothing left of the luckless cow. The villagers waited for their lioness to return. The children played. The women gossiped. The men told tales of deeds they had never done.

And then they heard the noise. A clear strong call. Something was heading through the field and as that something came near, a path opened before it and closed behind. This could not be a single animal. Perhaps the lioness had met her mate.

Arda took his rifle and inched forward. The two armed men followed. That creature reached the end of the field. The grass parted. The lioness stood regal.

Her tail switched from side to side. Three cubs bounced about between her legs.

The lioness watched while her cubs played and then, with a final salute to Arda, she pushed them gently forward. She led her brood out to the road that ran from east to west where the remains of the cow still lay. The cubs ate the meat that a mother always saves for her young. It is well-known that the sweetest meat is close to the bone.

From time to time, the lioness came back to the village to choose another meal. The villagers would welcome her. In time, there was a peacefulness in Vashua that travelers passing by would never understand.