A lion named Kharanakhara had hunted all day through the forest without catching so much as a mouse. His stomach was hollow, his pride was hurt, and evening was falling fast. As he slunk along the hillside, he came upon a snug cave in the rocks. “Some animal surely lives here,” he thought, brightening. “It has gone out for the day, but at nightfall it must come home. I shall hide inside, and my dinner will walk right into my mouth.” And the lion crept into the deepest shadow of the cave and lay still.
The cave belonged to a jackal named Dadhipuchchha, who came trotting home at dusk. But Dadhipuchchha had lived long in a dangerous forest precisely because he never took a single step carelessly. At the mouth of the cave he stopped short: there in the dust lay huge paw-prints — a lion's prints — leading into the cave, and none leading out. His fur stood on end. Yet how could he be certain the lion was still within?
Then the jackal thought of a trick. Standing well back, he called out in a friendly voice, “Ho there, cave! O my good cave, greetings!” Silence. He called again, louder: “O cave! Have you forgotten our agreement? Every evening when I return, you call out to welcome me, and only then do I enter. Why are you silent today? If you will not speak, I must go to that other cave that always greets me.”
Inside, the hungry lion pricked up his ears. “Aha,” he thought, “no doubt the cave stays quiet because I am here — it must be afraid of me. If it does not answer, my dinner will run off. I shall answer for it.” And gathering his great voice, the lion roared out, “Welcome home, friend jackal!” The roar thundered from the cave mouth and echoed round the hills, and every creature nearby fled in terror. Dadhipuchchha laughed as he raced to safety. “Whoever heard of a talking cave?” he called back. “Only a fool announces himself to the one he means to trap!” And the famished lion was left with nothing but his own echo for supper.