You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there the day two brothers quarreled beside a flowering Bodhi tree—and learned a truth that shaped not only their lives, but mine as well.
My name is Kema. I was a lay follower at the edge of Rajagaha, a bustling city where the hill craftspeople and traders gathered under the watchful gaze of the Vulture Peak, home to the great teacher, the Buddha. I was not a monk, nor wise in the ways of deep meditation. I was just a gardener, tending the monastery’s small herb patch, content with leaves, soil, and silence.
One morning, twin brothers named Sumedha and Nanda arrived at the monastery. They were known in our city for their generosity. They had both grown wealthy by trading silk along the River Ganges and regularly sent alms to local monasteries. But as they entered that day, it was clear something was wrong.
Nanda, the younger, held a basket of warm rice wrapped in banana leaves, and his brows were furrowed. “He only wishes to give what’s easy,” he muttered.
Sumedha, older and always calm, carried a bundle of handwoven blankets. “And Nanda offers only what pleases others, never what is truly beneficial.”
Their voices grew louder until it disturbed the midday meditation bell. That’s when Venerable Ananda, one of the Buddha's devoted disciples, came forward. He was kind, with eyes that saw far beyond appearances. He gestured for the brothers to sit beneath the Bodhi tree near the edge of the garden.
“You both wish to give,” Venerable Ananda began gently. “This is noble. But have you learned of the three kinds of gifts, as the Blessed One taught in the Anguttara Nikaya?”
The brothers shook their heads. Even I leaned in from behind the herb garden—these teachings were seldom spoken outside the Dhamma halls.
“The first gift,” he said, “is given in fear. A man donates out of worry that if he doesn’t, misfortune will befall him. The second is given in exchange—the giver hopes for praise or reward, maybe a better rebirth. But the third,” Ananda paused, “the third gift is given with a heart of compassion, expecting nothing in return. It flows like sweet rain, feeding the field without asking which plant is more deserving.”
I watched the brothers grow quiet. I saw them look at each other—not with anger now, but with softened faces, as if Ananda’s words had peeled away their pride.
Later that evening, as the sun dipped low and the temple drums slowed to stillness, both brothers returned—not with goods, but with their hands respectfully clasped. “Let us offer what is truly needed,” Sumedha said, “and ask the sangha what will nourish the monks through the rainy season.”
They no longer argued. They gave together—Nanda brought medicines, Sumedha brought rice, and over the months their offerings continued, simple and humble.
That night, I walked back to my hut with a curious warmth in my chest. I looked at the leaf I’d plucked that day—not for food, not for show, just because the plant needed trimming—and I understood, in my small way, the deepest kind of giving.
I learned that compassion is not measured by gold or grain, but by the freedom in the gift and the peace in the giver. The Buddha’s teachings, even whispered beneath a tree, could still change the world—one quiet heart at a time.
You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there the day two brothers quarreled beside a flowering Bodhi tree—and learned a truth that shaped not only their lives, but mine as well.
My name is Kema. I was a lay follower at the edge of Rajagaha, a bustling city where the hill craftspeople and traders gathered under the watchful gaze of the Vulture Peak, home to the great teacher, the Buddha. I was not a monk, nor wise in the ways of deep meditation. I was just a gardener, tending the monastery’s small herb patch, content with leaves, soil, and silence.
One morning, twin brothers named Sumedha and Nanda arrived at the monastery. They were known in our city for their generosity. They had both grown wealthy by trading silk along the River Ganges and regularly sent alms to local monasteries. But as they entered that day, it was clear something was wrong.
Nanda, the younger, held a basket of warm rice wrapped in banana leaves, and his brows were furrowed. “He only wishes to give what’s easy,” he muttered.
Sumedha, older and always calm, carried a bundle of handwoven blankets. “And Nanda offers only what pleases others, never what is truly beneficial.”
Their voices grew louder until it disturbed the midday meditation bell. That’s when Venerable Ananda, one of the Buddha's devoted disciples, came forward. He was kind, with eyes that saw far beyond appearances. He gestured for the brothers to sit beneath the Bodhi tree near the edge of the garden.
“You both wish to give,” Venerable Ananda began gently. “This is noble. But have you learned of the three kinds of gifts, as the Blessed One taught in the Anguttara Nikaya?”
The brothers shook their heads. Even I leaned in from behind the herb garden—these teachings were seldom spoken outside the Dhamma halls.
“The first gift,” he said, “is given in fear. A man donates out of worry that if he doesn’t, misfortune will befall him. The second is given in exchange—the giver hopes for praise or reward, maybe a better rebirth. But the third,” Ananda paused, “the third gift is given with a heart of compassion, expecting nothing in return. It flows like sweet rain, feeding the field without asking which plant is more deserving.”
I watched the brothers grow quiet. I saw them look at each other—not with anger now, but with softened faces, as if Ananda’s words had peeled away their pride.
Later that evening, as the sun dipped low and the temple drums slowed to stillness, both brothers returned—not with goods, but with their hands respectfully clasped. “Let us offer what is truly needed,” Sumedha said, “and ask the sangha what will nourish the monks through the rainy season.”
They no longer argued. They gave together—Nanda brought medicines, Sumedha brought rice, and over the months their offerings continued, simple and humble.
That night, I walked back to my hut with a curious warmth in my chest. I looked at the leaf I’d plucked that day—not for food, not for show, just because the plant needed trimming—and I understood, in my small way, the deepest kind of giving.
I learned that compassion is not measured by gold or grain, but by the freedom in the gift and the peace in the giver. The Buddha’s teachings, even whispered beneath a tree, could still change the world—one quiet heart at a time.
