I was just a young boy sweeping the dust outside the monastery when I first saw them—two men walking up the stone path. One, peaceful and unhurried, wore a robe like the sun had painted it with saffron. That was the Buddha, once a prince named Siddhartha Gautama, who had given up everything—his rich life, his palace, even his family—to seek the end of suffering. Beside him walked a man draped in fine blue-gray robes, lips tight with doubt. That man, I would learn later, was Sanjaya. He was a famed philosopher from Rajagaha, known across the land for his clever mind and endless questions—especially the ones no one could answer.
I dropped my broom and slipped behind a fig tree, trying my best to listen, heart racing with curiosity.
"Tell me, Gotama," Sanjaya said, using the Buddha’s family name, "what exactly do you claim to know? Everyone says you are awakened—but what does that even mean?"
The Buddha didn’t speak right away. He paused by the edge of the lotus pond, his eyes watching a petal fall from a flower and land gently on the water.
"Do you see that lotus?" the Buddha asked him.
"Yes," Sanjaya scoffed. "A flower in a pond. So what?"
"It grows from mud," the Buddha said calmly, "but rises above the water unsullied. Just like the mind can rise above craving and fear."
I leaned in closer. Sanjaya laughed.
"A metaphor? That’s your answer?" he said. "Come on, Gotama. Answer plainly. Does the soul exist? Is the universe eternal? What happens after death?"
The Buddha remained still. That silence stretched between them like a woven rope.
"No answer?" Sanjaya asked, his voice rising with frustration. "Why won't you say?"
Still no reply. Not anger, not defense—just silence.
"You claim to teach the end of suffering!" Sanjaya snapped. "But you ignore the big questions. How can anyone trust what you teach?"
And then the Buddha finally spoke. “Imagine a man was shot by an arrow, but before letting the healer remove it, the man said, ‘Wait! I want to know who shot it, what tribe he came from, what wood the arrow is made of. I’ll not have it removed until I know.’ That man would die from his wound.”
Sanjaya blinked, silent at last.
“The Dharma,” the Buddha said gently, “shows how to remove the arrow—how to end suffering. The rest... may not matter.”
There was a long silence then, but this time it came from Sanjaya. And though he said no words, something in his expression shifted. He had come to trap the Buddha in logic, but left caught in something deeper—stillness.
I never forgot that moment. Not because of an answer, but because the Buddha showed that not every question leads to peace. Some only dig the arrow in deeper. And true wisdom sometimes speaks loudest in silence.
That day by the lotus pond, I understood something for the first time: Detachment isn’t about ignoring the world, but about not clinging to it. And liberation doesn't always come through answers—but through the courage to let go.
I was just a young boy sweeping the dust outside the monastery when I first saw them—two men walking up the stone path. One, peaceful and unhurried, wore a robe like the sun had painted it with saffron. That was the Buddha, once a prince named Siddhartha Gautama, who had given up everything—his rich life, his palace, even his family—to seek the end of suffering. Beside him walked a man draped in fine blue-gray robes, lips tight with doubt. That man, I would learn later, was Sanjaya. He was a famed philosopher from Rajagaha, known across the land for his clever mind and endless questions—especially the ones no one could answer.
I dropped my broom and slipped behind a fig tree, trying my best to listen, heart racing with curiosity.
"Tell me, Gotama," Sanjaya said, using the Buddha’s family name, "what exactly do you claim to know? Everyone says you are awakened—but what does that even mean?"
The Buddha didn’t speak right away. He paused by the edge of the lotus pond, his eyes watching a petal fall from a flower and land gently on the water.
"Do you see that lotus?" the Buddha asked him.
"Yes," Sanjaya scoffed. "A flower in a pond. So what?"
"It grows from mud," the Buddha said calmly, "but rises above the water unsullied. Just like the mind can rise above craving and fear."
I leaned in closer. Sanjaya laughed.
"A metaphor? That’s your answer?" he said. "Come on, Gotama. Answer plainly. Does the soul exist? Is the universe eternal? What happens after death?"
The Buddha remained still. That silence stretched between them like a woven rope.
"No answer?" Sanjaya asked, his voice rising with frustration. "Why won't you say?"
Still no reply. Not anger, not defense—just silence.
"You claim to teach the end of suffering!" Sanjaya snapped. "But you ignore the big questions. How can anyone trust what you teach?"
And then the Buddha finally spoke. “Imagine a man was shot by an arrow, but before letting the healer remove it, the man said, ‘Wait! I want to know who shot it, what tribe he came from, what wood the arrow is made of. I’ll not have it removed until I know.’ That man would die from his wound.”
Sanjaya blinked, silent at last.
“The Dharma,” the Buddha said gently, “shows how to remove the arrow—how to end suffering. The rest... may not matter.”
There was a long silence then, but this time it came from Sanjaya. And though he said no words, something in his expression shifted. He had come to trap the Buddha in logic, but left caught in something deeper—stillness.
I never forgot that moment. Not because of an answer, but because the Buddha showed that not every question leads to peace. Some only dig the arrow in deeper. And true wisdom sometimes speaks loudest in silence.
That day by the lotus pond, I understood something for the first time: Detachment isn’t about ignoring the world, but about not clinging to it. And liberation doesn't always come through answers—but through the courage to let go.
