You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there—just a temple cleaner from Kapilavastu who kept his ears open and heart soft. I was young then, sweeping the floors near the gates when the Buddha came to teach. I did not know that afternoon would become a story passed from monk to monk for centuries—the day the Buddha crossed paths with a proud man named Suppabuddha.
A long time ago, during the Buddha’s teaching journeys, he returned briefly to his homeland. Many people from all walks of life gathered to hear his words—farmers, princes, servants like me—and even those who carried anger in their hearts. Suppabuddha was one such man.
He was the father-in-law of Devadatta, a cousin of the Buddha and his jealous rival. Devadatta had tried many times to hurt the Buddha, but always failed. Suppabuddha, hearing the teachings of Dharma and humility proclaimed by Siddhartha—the once-prince who had abandoned his kingdom to find freedom from suffering—felt his pride burn like fire. He did not see the Buddha as a wise teacher, only as someone who had disgraced his family’s name.
One morning, word spread across town: the Buddha would give a discourse near the Jetavana grove. I hurried to the site, holding my broom as if it were a ticket of entry. Merchants laid cloths on the ground, monks gathered in golden robes, and townsfolk whispered excitedly. But from the corner of my eye, I saw Suppabuddha plant himself firmly at the base of a narrow alley that led to the preaching grounds. He sat cross-legged, arms folded, a scowl carved deep on his face.
When the Buddha approached this path, his attendants asked him to walk another way, but the Buddha calmly said, “No. He must first move.”
I was puzzled. Couldn’t the Buddha, who had faced fierce kings and wild beasts, simply ask him to leave? But he just stood quietly, his eyes full of peace.
Moments passed.
Then, slowly, Suppabuddha stood. Not a word spoken. He turned and walked away.
Later, the other monks spoke in hushed voices. The Buddha had seen into Suppabuddha’s heart. Full of pride and delusion, Suppabuddha could not truly hear the Dharma—even if it were sung by angels. In his next life, as the Buddha quietly revealed, Suppabuddha would be born among the deaf, and only after many lives would his mind soften enough to understand the truth.
As I swept the path later, I pondered this. The Buddha had no need to scold or push his way forward. He could wait—because in the eyes of the Enlightened One, time was no obstacle to compassion. Suppabuddha had missed this life’s lesson—but not forever. That too was part of Dharma.
Years passed, and I became a monk myself, carrying the memory of that moment in my robes. From that day on, I understood that no one can force wisdom into another’s heart. The lotus blooms not by tugging at its petals, but by sunlight and time.
That day, I realized the true meaning of detachment—not in turning away from others, but in letting go of the need to control their journey. The Buddha had shown me that lesson not through words, but by simply standing still.
And I have never forgotten.
You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there—just a temple cleaner from Kapilavastu who kept his ears open and heart soft. I was young then, sweeping the floors near the gates when the Buddha came to teach. I did not know that afternoon would become a story passed from monk to monk for centuries—the day the Buddha crossed paths with a proud man named Suppabuddha.
A long time ago, during the Buddha’s teaching journeys, he returned briefly to his homeland. Many people from all walks of life gathered to hear his words—farmers, princes, servants like me—and even those who carried anger in their hearts. Suppabuddha was one such man.
He was the father-in-law of Devadatta, a cousin of the Buddha and his jealous rival. Devadatta had tried many times to hurt the Buddha, but always failed. Suppabuddha, hearing the teachings of Dharma and humility proclaimed by Siddhartha—the once-prince who had abandoned his kingdom to find freedom from suffering—felt his pride burn like fire. He did not see the Buddha as a wise teacher, only as someone who had disgraced his family’s name.
One morning, word spread across town: the Buddha would give a discourse near the Jetavana grove. I hurried to the site, holding my broom as if it were a ticket of entry. Merchants laid cloths on the ground, monks gathered in golden robes, and townsfolk whispered excitedly. But from the corner of my eye, I saw Suppabuddha plant himself firmly at the base of a narrow alley that led to the preaching grounds. He sat cross-legged, arms folded, a scowl carved deep on his face.
When the Buddha approached this path, his attendants asked him to walk another way, but the Buddha calmly said, “No. He must first move.”
I was puzzled. Couldn’t the Buddha, who had faced fierce kings and wild beasts, simply ask him to leave? But he just stood quietly, his eyes full of peace.
Moments passed.
Then, slowly, Suppabuddha stood. Not a word spoken. He turned and walked away.
Later, the other monks spoke in hushed voices. The Buddha had seen into Suppabuddha’s heart. Full of pride and delusion, Suppabuddha could not truly hear the Dharma—even if it were sung by angels. In his next life, as the Buddha quietly revealed, Suppabuddha would be born among the deaf, and only after many lives would his mind soften enough to understand the truth.
As I swept the path later, I pondered this. The Buddha had no need to scold or push his way forward. He could wait—because in the eyes of the Enlightened One, time was no obstacle to compassion. Suppabuddha had missed this life’s lesson—but not forever. That too was part of Dharma.
Years passed, and I became a monk myself, carrying the memory of that moment in my robes. From that day on, I understood that no one can force wisdom into another’s heart. The lotus blooms not by tugging at its petals, but by sunlight and time.
That day, I realized the true meaning of detachment—not in turning away from others, but in letting go of the need to control their journey. The Buddha had shown me that lesson not through words, but by simply standing still.
And I have never forgotten.
