I was just a twelve-year-old boy from the village of Nadika when I first heard the Buddha speak. My name is Sura. My father was a potter, my mother sold fish by the riverbank, and I—well, I imagined that one day I’d travel far beyond our little house of clay and bamboo. But everything changed the day the Buddha visited our nearby forest grove.
Everyone called him the Enlightened One—Siddhartha Gautama—born a prince, but who gave up his luxury to find the path to end suffering. My uncle didn’t believe in him. “No man simply sits under a tree, becomes wise, and commands peace,” he said. But I was curious. So I snuck off that morning, barefoot through the jungle paths, to see him with my own eyes.
The crowd was quiet as he took his seat upon a mat of grass. Birds sang, but the people did not. That fascinated me more than anything. No one dared speak out of turn.
Then he told a story. It was simple, yet I still think about it today.
“There was once a man,” the Buddha began, his voice calm and even, “who walked through a thick forest in search of freedom. A teacher had told him, ‘To reach liberation, you must grasp the Dharma like you would a snake by the head—firmly and wisely.’ But the man misunderstood. He grabbed the snake’s tail instead... and was swiftly bitten.”
The people around me shifted, whispering softly. Buddha raised his hand, and silence returned.
He continued, “Just as one must understand how to grasp a snake safely, one must understand the teachings of the Dharma correctly. If misunderstood, they can cause harm rather than healing. Even compassion, when forced or mistaken, can become something else.”
A woman from the crowd asked, “Master, what of the man who was bitten? Did he find enlightenment?”
Buddha only smiled. “With pain came understanding, if he used it well.”
I didn’t understand then. Not really. But the story stayed with me.
That night, while returning home, I saw a commotion near our home. A young cobra had wandered into the village. My neighbors shouted for sticks, for sacks, anything to trap or kill it. But one monk stepped forward—he was an older man from the Buddha’s followers, known for walking silently from village to village, collecting alms and offering wisdom. He didn’t speak. He simply laid his alms bowl gently beside the snake.
And the strangest thing happened—the cobra paused, flicked its tongue, and slowly slithered into the cool, dark bowl. The monk lifted it, carried it out to the forest, and released it without a word.
Later, when I asked him why he took such a risk, he smiled, “Fear bites harder than fangs ever will. If we react with panic instead of compassion, we only repeat the cycle of suffering.”
That moment taught me more than all the stories combined.
Years have passed. I’m now older than that monk was. And every morning, when I teach the younger ones under the shade of our village Bodhi tree, I tell them:
“Grasp your learning firmly. But more than that—grasp it with understanding. For even the Dharma, misunderstood, can sting like the tail of a snake.”
And when they ask about that monk, and that cobra, I tell them—sometimes silence teaches louder than words, and compassion doesn’t always roar.
That day in the forest, I walked home with more than a story—I carried understanding. Not complete, not perfect. But enough to take the first step toward wisdom.
I was just a twelve-year-old boy from the village of Nadika when I first heard the Buddha speak. My name is Sura. My father was a potter, my mother sold fish by the riverbank, and I—well, I imagined that one day I’d travel far beyond our little house of clay and bamboo. But everything changed the day the Buddha visited our nearby forest grove.
Everyone called him the Enlightened One—Siddhartha Gautama—born a prince, but who gave up his luxury to find the path to end suffering. My uncle didn’t believe in him. “No man simply sits under a tree, becomes wise, and commands peace,” he said. But I was curious. So I snuck off that morning, barefoot through the jungle paths, to see him with my own eyes.
The crowd was quiet as he took his seat upon a mat of grass. Birds sang, but the people did not. That fascinated me more than anything. No one dared speak out of turn.
Then he told a story. It was simple, yet I still think about it today.
“There was once a man,” the Buddha began, his voice calm and even, “who walked through a thick forest in search of freedom. A teacher had told him, ‘To reach liberation, you must grasp the Dharma like you would a snake by the head—firmly and wisely.’ But the man misunderstood. He grabbed the snake’s tail instead... and was swiftly bitten.”
The people around me shifted, whispering softly. Buddha raised his hand, and silence returned.
He continued, “Just as one must understand how to grasp a snake safely, one must understand the teachings of the Dharma correctly. If misunderstood, they can cause harm rather than healing. Even compassion, when forced or mistaken, can become something else.”
A woman from the crowd asked, “Master, what of the man who was bitten? Did he find enlightenment?”
Buddha only smiled. “With pain came understanding, if he used it well.”
I didn’t understand then. Not really. But the story stayed with me.
That night, while returning home, I saw a commotion near our home. A young cobra had wandered into the village. My neighbors shouted for sticks, for sacks, anything to trap or kill it. But one monk stepped forward—he was an older man from the Buddha’s followers, known for walking silently from village to village, collecting alms and offering wisdom. He didn’t speak. He simply laid his alms bowl gently beside the snake.
And the strangest thing happened—the cobra paused, flicked its tongue, and slowly slithered into the cool, dark bowl. The monk lifted it, carried it out to the forest, and released it without a word.
Later, when I asked him why he took such a risk, he smiled, “Fear bites harder than fangs ever will. If we react with panic instead of compassion, we only repeat the cycle of suffering.”
That moment taught me more than all the stories combined.
Years have passed. I’m now older than that monk was. And every morning, when I teach the younger ones under the shade of our village Bodhi tree, I tell them:
“Grasp your learning firmly. But more than that—grasp it with understanding. For even the Dharma, misunderstood, can sting like the tail of a snake.”
And when they ask about that monk, and that cobra, I tell them—sometimes silence teaches louder than words, and compassion doesn’t always roar.
That day in the forest, I walked home with more than a story—I carried understanding. Not complete, not perfect. But enough to take the first step toward wisdom.
