You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there—just a servant in the royal garden of King Brahmadatta of Benares, in the north of what is today India. Long before I swept the temple steps or tended lotus ponds, I served in the lush gardens of the palace, where the king ordered us to grow the finest flowers from across the kingdom. That year, he made a peculiar request.
“I want a contest,” he declared, seated beneath his golden canopy. “Send seeds to all the princes of the land. Whomever returns in one year with the most beautiful bloom will become my heir.”
Although I was no prince, I was the one who packed the seeds, gave them to each young nobleman with bowed head, and watched them leave with pride sparkling in their eyes. There was one among them I remember clearly—Prince Mallika, a quiet boy with a gentle smile and fewer servants than the rest. He bowed not only to the king, but to us lowly workers too.
The palace buzzed over the months. Stories floated in—Prince Devadatta from the southern plains had a stalk as tall as a man. Prince Surya from the east boasted petals brighter than the rising sun. But Prince Mallika? A year passed, yet he walked back into the court with… a pot of bare soil.
Whispers rustled like wind in the leaves. “He couldn’t even grow a weed!” some nobles sneered. I stood at the back of the great hall, broom in hand, as King Brahmadatta stepped down from his throne and walked toward each pot. He eyed full blooms with interest, nodding politely. Then he stopped before Prince Mallika. Silence fell.
“My son,” the king said softly. “Why have you brought me an empty pot?”
Prince Mallika bowed low. His voice was honest, steady. “Your Majesty, I tended this seed with all care and patience. I watered it daily, shielded it from the storm, gave it sunlight—but it did not grow. I do not know what I did wrong. I only know I stayed true to the task.”
The king smiled—not with anger or disappointment, but something kinder. Then he turned to the court.
“One year ago,” he announced, “I had every seed boiled before they were sent. None could grow—none were meant to. This contest was never about the flower. It was about the heart.”
Gasps erupted. Royal faces turned pale. Every prince with a blooming flower now looked down in shame.
“In life,” the king continued, “people chase beauty and success. But those things can deceive. The Dharma—the truth of the Buddha’s teachings—comes from integrity, humility, and mindfulness.”
That day, Prince Mallika was named the heir. I saw not triumph in his eyes, but a humble bow to the ground. He did not boast. He showed no anger to those who had mocked him.
Outside, in the royal gardens, flowers wilted and bloomed the same. Seasons change, and beauty passes. But the honesty in that empty pot still lives in my memory—as fresh as the day it was offered, full of truth though it never bloomed.
Perhaps it taught me something more lasting than any flower ever could: that sometimes, the seed of enlightenment is the one that never sprouts.
You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there—just a servant in the royal garden of King Brahmadatta of Benares, in the north of what is today India. Long before I swept the temple steps or tended lotus ponds, I served in the lush gardens of the palace, where the king ordered us to grow the finest flowers from across the kingdom. That year, he made a peculiar request.
“I want a contest,” he declared, seated beneath his golden canopy. “Send seeds to all the princes of the land. Whomever returns in one year with the most beautiful bloom will become my heir.”
Although I was no prince, I was the one who packed the seeds, gave them to each young nobleman with bowed head, and watched them leave with pride sparkling in their eyes. There was one among them I remember clearly—Prince Mallika, a quiet boy with a gentle smile and fewer servants than the rest. He bowed not only to the king, but to us lowly workers too.
The palace buzzed over the months. Stories floated in—Prince Devadatta from the southern plains had a stalk as tall as a man. Prince Surya from the east boasted petals brighter than the rising sun. But Prince Mallika? A year passed, yet he walked back into the court with… a pot of bare soil.
Whispers rustled like wind in the leaves. “He couldn’t even grow a weed!” some nobles sneered. I stood at the back of the great hall, broom in hand, as King Brahmadatta stepped down from his throne and walked toward each pot. He eyed full blooms with interest, nodding politely. Then he stopped before Prince Mallika. Silence fell.
“My son,” the king said softly. “Why have you brought me an empty pot?”
Prince Mallika bowed low. His voice was honest, steady. “Your Majesty, I tended this seed with all care and patience. I watered it daily, shielded it from the storm, gave it sunlight—but it did not grow. I do not know what I did wrong. I only know I stayed true to the task.”
The king smiled—not with anger or disappointment, but something kinder. Then he turned to the court.
“One year ago,” he announced, “I had every seed boiled before they were sent. None could grow—none were meant to. This contest was never about the flower. It was about the heart.”
Gasps erupted. Royal faces turned pale. Every prince with a blooming flower now looked down in shame.
“In life,” the king continued, “people chase beauty and success. But those things can deceive. The Dharma—the truth of the Buddha’s teachings—comes from integrity, humility, and mindfulness.”
That day, Prince Mallika was named the heir. I saw not triumph in his eyes, but a humble bow to the ground. He did not boast. He showed no anger to those who had mocked him.
Outside, in the royal gardens, flowers wilted and bloomed the same. Seasons change, and beauty passes. But the honesty in that empty pot still lives in my memory—as fresh as the day it was offered, full of truth though it never bloomed.
Perhaps it taught me something more lasting than any flower ever could: that sometimes, the seed of enlightenment is the one that never sprouts.
