I was just a boy when I first heard the story of Prince Mahābodhi, told by our village monk under the banyan tree. The sun was warm, the air thick with the scent of summer blossoms, and we children sat in silent awe, waiting. His voice was soft but certain, carrying a story older than any of us, a tale of a prince who gave up everything—on purpose.
Prince Mahābodhi was not like other princes. He lived in the kingdom of Videha, a bustling land with tall gates, golden palaces, and markets full of spices, cloth, and laughter. His father, King Brahmadatta, ruled with power, and from birth, Mahābodhi was expected to become a great king. He had fine robes, delicious food, music and books from across the realm. But something troubled his heart.
Even as a child, Mahābodhi noticed things others did not. He saw the tired hands of servants as they scrubbed the palace floors. He saw the lonely faces of farmers as the king’s messengers took grain for taxes. And worst of all, he saw how people always wanted more—more gold, more food, more of everything—but were never truly happy.
When Mahābodhi was old enough, the priest came to teach him royal duties. “You will rule with strength,” said the priest. “You will protect your throne with warriors and allies.” But Mahābodhi only asked, “How do I protect people from suffering?”
One evening, Prince Mahābodhi walked the palace gardens with his father. They passed a pond lit by moonlight.
“Father,” he said, “what is the point of ruling if we cause suffering to others just to keep our comforts?”
The king smiled but shook his head. “This is how the world is, my son. A king must lead, even if others must serve.”
But Mahābodhi didn’t believe that.
Late one night, while everyone slept, Prince Mahābodhi gave his golden jewelry to a servant, his fine robes to a guard, and slipped out through the palace gates wearing simple cloth. He walked into the forest alone, leaving everything behind.
Many thought he had gone mad. But Mahābodhi didn’t seek riches or war—he sought understanding. In the forest, he lived on fruits and drank from streams. He helped old villagers carry water. He sat for hours beneath trees, quietly watching how birds, trees, and animals lived in balance. Without wealth or power, Mahābodhi felt something he had never felt in the palace: peace.
Years passed. Word of the kind forest hermit spread across the land. Even those who scorned him came to listen. He never argued, never shouted; he only lived gently, speaking with actions rather than words. And soon, many understood: to let go is not to be poor—it is to be free.
That day, under the banyan tree, our monk finished the story and looked at us. “The prince gave up gold, not because he hated it, but because he saw something more valuable: wisdom. He followed the Middle Way—not too rich, not too poor—and in doing so, found the path to peace.”
As the sun faded and the stars peeked out, I walked home slowly, thinking of the prince who chose poverty. Not because he wanted less—but because he wanted more of what truly mattered.
And ever since that day, I’ve looked at life a little differently.
I was just a boy when I first heard the story of Prince Mahābodhi, told by our village monk under the banyan tree. The sun was warm, the air thick with the scent of summer blossoms, and we children sat in silent awe, waiting. His voice was soft but certain, carrying a story older than any of us, a tale of a prince who gave up everything—on purpose.
Prince Mahābodhi was not like other princes. He lived in the kingdom of Videha, a bustling land with tall gates, golden palaces, and markets full of spices, cloth, and laughter. His father, King Brahmadatta, ruled with power, and from birth, Mahābodhi was expected to become a great king. He had fine robes, delicious food, music and books from across the realm. But something troubled his heart.
Even as a child, Mahābodhi noticed things others did not. He saw the tired hands of servants as they scrubbed the palace floors. He saw the lonely faces of farmers as the king’s messengers took grain for taxes. And worst of all, he saw how people always wanted more—more gold, more food, more of everything—but were never truly happy.
When Mahābodhi was old enough, the priest came to teach him royal duties. “You will rule with strength,” said the priest. “You will protect your throne with warriors and allies.” But Mahābodhi only asked, “How do I protect people from suffering?”
One evening, Prince Mahābodhi walked the palace gardens with his father. They passed a pond lit by moonlight.
“Father,” he said, “what is the point of ruling if we cause suffering to others just to keep our comforts?”
The king smiled but shook his head. “This is how the world is, my son. A king must lead, even if others must serve.”
But Mahābodhi didn’t believe that.
Late one night, while everyone slept, Prince Mahābodhi gave his golden jewelry to a servant, his fine robes to a guard, and slipped out through the palace gates wearing simple cloth. He walked into the forest alone, leaving everything behind.
Many thought he had gone mad. But Mahābodhi didn’t seek riches or war—he sought understanding. In the forest, he lived on fruits and drank from streams. He helped old villagers carry water. He sat for hours beneath trees, quietly watching how birds, trees, and animals lived in balance. Without wealth or power, Mahābodhi felt something he had never felt in the palace: peace.
Years passed. Word of the kind forest hermit spread across the land. Even those who scorned him came to listen. He never argued, never shouted; he only lived gently, speaking with actions rather than words. And soon, many understood: to let go is not to be poor—it is to be free.
That day, under the banyan tree, our monk finished the story and looked at us. “The prince gave up gold, not because he hated it, but because he saw something more valuable: wisdom. He followed the Middle Way—not too rich, not too poor—and in doing so, found the path to peace.”
As the sun faded and the stars peeked out, I walked home slowly, thinking of the prince who chose poverty. Not because he wanted less—but because he wanted more of what truly mattered.
And ever since that day, I’ve looked at life a little differently.
