You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there—just a young stable boy sweeping leaves along the path that led through the bamboo trees near Jetavana Grove. It was in this peaceful garden that Gautama Buddha, the Enlightened One, often stayed to share his teachings. I didn’t understand much of the Dharma back then. I only knew that when the Blessed One spoke, even the birds seemed to grow quiet.
One morning, as the sun rose behind the temple spires, painting the sky gold, I saw something strange: a tiny bird, barely alive, lay trembling on the path. Its wing was bent at an awkward angle. A few feet away, a boy named Devadatta stood, a slingshot still in his hand. He was older than me, with sharp eyes and a proud smile. Everyone knew Devadatta—he was a cousin of the Buddha himself. Brilliant, strong, and ambitious. But even I could see there was a shadow in his heart, one that made him strike instead of help.
“Why did you do that?” I whispered, kneeling beside the quivering creature.
“It’s just a bird,” Devadatta scoffed, turning away.
My heart burned with a feeling I couldn’t name. The bird’s tiny eyes blinked slowly. I picked it up gently, cradling its fragile frame. I didn’t know what to do, only that I couldn’t leave it there.
That afternoon, as I swept outside the teaching hall, I saw the Buddha approach. The Blessed One’s robes barely rustled as he walked. His calm presence filled the space, and for a moment, I forgot to breathe. I stepped forward, the bird still wrapped in cloth in my arms.
“Blessed One,” I said, my voice shaking, “I found this bird on the path. Devadatta struck it with his slingshot. I want to help it, but I don’t know how.”
The Buddha kneeled beside me, his eyes full of kindness. He reached out and gently touched the bird’s head.
“All beings fear harm,” he said softly. “All beings love life. When compassion arises in your heart, little one, wisdom follows.”
He looked up, and it was as if his gaze reached inside my chest. “It is not power over others that brings peace,” he continued. “It is power over one’s own anger, over one’s own ego.”
I didn’t fully understand his words, but I felt their weight settle inside me, firm and warm like a seed in soil.
The bird passed before sunrise the next day, but it was no longer trembling. I had kept it close, whispered to it, shown it kindness. That morning, I buried it beneath the mango tree near the hill. As I pressed the earth down, tears slipped down my cheeks, not just for the bird, but for the boy I had been.
Years passed, and I grew into a monk, walking the path of the Dharma. I studied the Buddha’s teachings on mindfulness and the end of suffering. I learned that suffering was not just pain but the clinging, the craving, the pride inside us. That day with the bird became my first lesson.
It had shown me that true courage was not in striking, but in choosing compassion over pride. And that day, under the Buddha’s quiet gaze, my ego had begun to dissolve, and in its place, something purer had begun to grow—truth.
You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there—just a young stable boy sweeping leaves along the path that led through the bamboo trees near Jetavana Grove. It was in this peaceful garden that Gautama Buddha, the Enlightened One, often stayed to share his teachings. I didn’t understand much of the Dharma back then. I only knew that when the Blessed One spoke, even the birds seemed to grow quiet.
One morning, as the sun rose behind the temple spires, painting the sky gold, I saw something strange: a tiny bird, barely alive, lay trembling on the path. Its wing was bent at an awkward angle. A few feet away, a boy named Devadatta stood, a slingshot still in his hand. He was older than me, with sharp eyes and a proud smile. Everyone knew Devadatta—he was a cousin of the Buddha himself. Brilliant, strong, and ambitious. But even I could see there was a shadow in his heart, one that made him strike instead of help.
“Why did you do that?” I whispered, kneeling beside the quivering creature.
“It’s just a bird,” Devadatta scoffed, turning away.
My heart burned with a feeling I couldn’t name. The bird’s tiny eyes blinked slowly. I picked it up gently, cradling its fragile frame. I didn’t know what to do, only that I couldn’t leave it there.
That afternoon, as I swept outside the teaching hall, I saw the Buddha approach. The Blessed One’s robes barely rustled as he walked. His calm presence filled the space, and for a moment, I forgot to breathe. I stepped forward, the bird still wrapped in cloth in my arms.
“Blessed One,” I said, my voice shaking, “I found this bird on the path. Devadatta struck it with his slingshot. I want to help it, but I don’t know how.”
The Buddha kneeled beside me, his eyes full of kindness. He reached out and gently touched the bird’s head.
“All beings fear harm,” he said softly. “All beings love life. When compassion arises in your heart, little one, wisdom follows.”
He looked up, and it was as if his gaze reached inside my chest. “It is not power over others that brings peace,” he continued. “It is power over one’s own anger, over one’s own ego.”
I didn’t fully understand his words, but I felt their weight settle inside me, firm and warm like a seed in soil.
The bird passed before sunrise the next day, but it was no longer trembling. I had kept it close, whispered to it, shown it kindness. That morning, I buried it beneath the mango tree near the hill. As I pressed the earth down, tears slipped down my cheeks, not just for the bird, but for the boy I had been.
Years passed, and I grew into a monk, walking the path of the Dharma. I studied the Buddha’s teachings on mindfulness and the end of suffering. I learned that suffering was not just pain but the clinging, the craving, the pride inside us. That day with the bird became my first lesson.
It had shown me that true courage was not in striking, but in choosing compassion over pride. And that day, under the Buddha’s quiet gaze, my ego had begun to dissolve, and in its place, something purer had begun to grow—truth.
