There was once a jackal who fell into a vat of blue dye.
It happened at a washerman's yard on the edge of the forest. He had been running from a pack of dogs, took a wrong turn in the dark, and fell in headfirst. By the time he climbed out the dogs were gone and he was completely, thoroughly, unmistakably blue.
He stood at the edge of the river looking at his reflection for a long time.
Then he walked back into the forest.
The animals had never seen anything like him. Not blue like a shadow or blue like the sky - solid, vivid, undeniable blue. They scattered. Even the lions kept their distance.
The jackal understood immediately what he had.
He called the animals together and stood on a rock so everyone could see him clearly.
"I have been sent by the gods," he said. "I am Kakudruma - the appointed ruler of this forest. You will all serve under me."
The animals believed him. There was no reason not to. Nothing in the forest was that colour. He must be something.
He assigned roles. The lion became his bodyguard. The tiger his minister. The elephant cleared his path. Even the other jackals, who might have recognised him, were sent away to live at the edges of the forest.
For weeks this continued.
Then one night a distant pack of jackals began their evening calls - that particular sound jackals make at dusk, rising and falling, carrying across the forest.
Kakudruma heard it and, without thinking, opened his mouth and called back.
The sound that came out was unmistakably a jackal's.
The lion heard it. The tiger heard it. Every animal in the forest heard it.
They looked at the blue creature on his rock and then at each other.
The jackal ran. He was fast but not as fast as a lion, and the forest was dark, and he had sent away the only animals who might have helped him out of embarrassment.
The thing about pretending to be something you are not is that it requires constant attention. It is exhausting work. And it only takes one unguarded moment.
