The Lion and the Donkey

In the heart of the golden savannah, where the winds carried tales from tree to tree and the rivers whispered secrets to the stones, there lived a lion named Azar. He was the king of the land—wise, powerful, and feared by all who knew his name.

Not far from Azar’s territory lived a donkey named Kavi. Kavi was loud, curious, and convinced that he was the cleverest animal in the entire kingdom. While most animals tiptoed through the forest with caution, Kavi marched with clumsy confidence, braying songs and opinions whether or not anyone cared to listen.

One scorching afternoon, under the shade of the Great Baobab Tree, Azar lay resting with his eyes half-closed. The jungle was quiet, save for the rustling of dry leaves and the gentle hum of insects. That is, until Kavi trotted up the path, head high and voice louder than ever.

“There you are!” Kavi exclaimed, as if he’d been invited. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you, Lion. There’s a lot of talk about you being wise and strong, but I have thoughts of my own.”

Azar opened one eye and sighed. “Do you now?”

“Yes,” Kavi said, puffing up. “You rule with strength and silence, but I think that’s overrated. Words have power. My voice can be heard across valleys. You just sit there and growl once in a while. Where’s the wisdom in that?”

Azar did not respond. Instead, he blinked slowly and returned his gaze to the horizon.

Kavi, interpreting the silence as agreement, continued. “You see, I believe I could lead this jungle better than you. I’d host daily meetings, discuss everyone’s feelings, and make announcements so no one is confused. What do you think about that?”

Azar yawned. “I think you're making a lot of noise.”

Kavi scowled. “Is that all you have to say? You’re just brushing me off because I’m a donkey, aren't you?”

“No,” Azar said calmly. “I’m brushing you off because you speak without listening.”

Offended, Kavi stamped a hoof. “You’re just afraid of debate! Afraid I’ll outsmart you.”

Azar sat up slowly. “Very well,” he said. “If you want a debate, let’s have one.”

Word spread fast. The lion and the donkey were going to argue! Animals from every corner of the jungle gathered around the Baobab Tree. Monkeys dangled from branches, parrots perched in rows, and meerkats peeked out from behind rocks.

Kavi took the stage first, braying with pride. “My friends! You’ve lived under the rule of a silent king. But silence does not feed the hungry or shelter the weak. I propose a jungle where every voice is heard—even if it’s not as deep or fearsome as a roar!”

A few creatures clapped their paws and hooves together.

Then came Azar. He stepped forward slowly, his mane catching the light. He didn’t speak right away. He simply looked around at the animals—his eyes meeting theirs not with threat, but with understanding.

When he did speak, his voice was low and calm. “Leadership is not about being heard the most. It’s about knowing when to speak—and when to listen. I do not roar unless it’s needed. I do not chase noise, for it distracts from truth.”

The crowd went quiet. Even the parrots, notorious for repeating nonsense, tilted their heads in thought.

Kavi, undeterred, interrupted. “You call that leadership? All this calm and stillness? You hide behind your silence like a turtle in its shell!”

Azar turned to him. “And you charge with your words like a river with no banks—loud, but with no direction.”

The donkey brayed louder, trying to rally the crowd again, but something had changed. The animals weren’t laughing or cheering anymore. They were reflecting.

A small squirrel stepped forward. “Kavi, you speak loudly, but Azar has always listened when we needed him. He may not make speeches, but he acts.”

“Exactly,” added a mother elephant. “When my calf was stuck in the ravine last year, Azar didn’t call a meeting. He climbed down and pulled her out.”

Even the monkeys, who loved chaos, shrugged. “He doesn’t swing from trees like we do, but we know he’s watching.”

Kavi’s ears drooped slightly. “So… you prefer a silent king?”

“No,” Azar replied. “They prefer a king who listens more than he speaks. That’s the difference.”

Humbled, Kavi lowered his head. “Perhaps… I still have much to learn.”

Azar nodded. “We all do.”

From that day on, Kavi still spoke—but he began listening too. He learned that while his voice was loud, it wasn’t always right. And though Azar remained mostly quiet, his presence spoke volumes.

Moral of the Story:

Wisdom is not in the volume of your voice, but in the depth of your understanding.