I was no one of note—just a village woman named Sujata, born along the outskirts of Rajagaha, a city nestled between coarse hills and gentle rivers in ancient India. My days were filled with caring for my daughter and preparing alms for passing monks. Life was simple, and sorrow was something I had grown familiar with after losing my husband to a fever one rainy season. But nothing could have prepared me for the day I met the demon.
It was early morning. Mist clung to the rice paddies, and rooster calls echoed off the valley walls. I was walking toward the forest to leave food at the shrine, as was custom. Many of us believed spirits—good or ill—drifted near the shrines, and we offered rice and ghee to maintain balance.
That morning, I carried more than usual, for the monks had passed through the village just days before, reminding us that generosity calms the restless heart. As I stepped into the forest clearing, I spotted a figure crouched beside the shrine. It startled me—a creature with sunken eyes, gray skin stretched tight over its bones, and long, twisted fingers. Its form was not entirely human. Yet its eyes locked onto mine with something deeply human: hunger.
This was no thief or beast. It was a peta—a hungry spirit driven by past misdeeds, cursed to wander the earth, starving and unseen. The elders called them demons, but I saw suffering.
I froze, my heart racing, the basket trembling in my hands. The wise ones say that in another life, the peta could have been a man—or a mother. A person ruled by greed or hate, reborn into painful wandering. I remembered the teachings I had overheard time and again from monks traveling the roads and sitting beneath banyan trees—they spoke of rebirth, of how our deeds echo beyond one lifetime.
I stepped forward.
The creature hissed, back arched, as if expecting cruelty. Instead, I knelt and placed the food between us, lowering my eyes as I would before a monk. “May this offering bring you peace,” I whispered.
It reached forward, trembling. The moment its fingers brushed the food, it gasped—and the air shifted. A breeze lifted my hair, and I blinked. The creature was no longer before me. In its place stood a young woman, bright-eyed and dressed in white, her palms pressed together.
“In my past life, I was consumed by envy,” she said softly. “I harmed others and stole from the hungry. I became a demon, forgotten and lost. Your offering, made with compassion and no fear, freed me. I am reborn.”
And then—she faded like smoke on wind.
I returned home in silence. No one believed me, of course. But I kept cooking extra rice, kept placing bowls near shrines, knowing what people often ignore: that kindness feeds more than the hungry belly; it feeds lost souls.
That day didn’t change the world, but it changed me. I understood, for the first time, that suffering isn’t just something to fear—it’s something to respond to, with open hands and a steady heart. Compassion, born from wisdom, can mend even the ties of past lives.
And now, whenever I pass the shrine, I see a single white flower growing by the stones—where once a demon knelt, now peace blossoms.
I was no one of note—just a village woman named Sujata, born along the outskirts of Rajagaha, a city nestled between coarse hills and gentle rivers in ancient India. My days were filled with caring for my daughter and preparing alms for passing monks. Life was simple, and sorrow was something I had grown familiar with after losing my husband to a fever one rainy season. But nothing could have prepared me for the day I met the demon.
It was early morning. Mist clung to the rice paddies, and rooster calls echoed off the valley walls. I was walking toward the forest to leave food at the shrine, as was custom. Many of us believed spirits—good or ill—drifted near the shrines, and we offered rice and ghee to maintain balance.
That morning, I carried more than usual, for the monks had passed through the village just days before, reminding us that generosity calms the restless heart. As I stepped into the forest clearing, I spotted a figure crouched beside the shrine. It startled me—a creature with sunken eyes, gray skin stretched tight over its bones, and long, twisted fingers. Its form was not entirely human. Yet its eyes locked onto mine with something deeply human: hunger.
This was no thief or beast. It was a peta—a hungry spirit driven by past misdeeds, cursed to wander the earth, starving and unseen. The elders called them demons, but I saw suffering.
I froze, my heart racing, the basket trembling in my hands. The wise ones say that in another life, the peta could have been a man—or a mother. A person ruled by greed or hate, reborn into painful wandering. I remembered the teachings I had overheard time and again from monks traveling the roads and sitting beneath banyan trees—they spoke of rebirth, of how our deeds echo beyond one lifetime.
I stepped forward.
The creature hissed, back arched, as if expecting cruelty. Instead, I knelt and placed the food between us, lowering my eyes as I would before a monk. “May this offering bring you peace,” I whispered.
It reached forward, trembling. The moment its fingers brushed the food, it gasped—and the air shifted. A breeze lifted my hair, and I blinked. The creature was no longer before me. In its place stood a young woman, bright-eyed and dressed in white, her palms pressed together.
“In my past life, I was consumed by envy,” she said softly. “I harmed others and stole from the hungry. I became a demon, forgotten and lost. Your offering, made with compassion and no fear, freed me. I am reborn.”
And then—she faded like smoke on wind.
I returned home in silence. No one believed me, of course. But I kept cooking extra rice, kept placing bowls near shrines, knowing what people often ignore: that kindness feeds more than the hungry belly; it feeds lost souls.
That day didn’t change the world, but it changed me. I understood, for the first time, that suffering isn’t just something to fear—it’s something to respond to, with open hands and a steady heart. Compassion, born from wisdom, can mend even the ties of past lives.
And now, whenever I pass the shrine, I see a single white flower growing by the stones—where once a demon knelt, now peace blossoms.
