I was just a novice monk when I first heard the tale of the Silent River. My name is Punya, and I had come from a small village along the northern border of the Magadha kingdom. I sought out the monastic life after watching my father wither under the weight of greed and my mother drown in sorrow after his passing. I needed answers, and I hoped the Dharma could help me find them.
Master Jivaka, our elder monk, told the story during the Rain Retreat, a three-month period when we monks stayed in one place to study the teachings of the Buddha. The hall was quiet, the heavy monsoon clouds pressing low around the stone temple walls. We huddled together, soaked in silence, as Master Jivaka began.
“Long ago,” he said, “before the Buddha had formed the Sangha, before he had even spoken his first sermon, there was a river. It was not known for its size or length, but for its silence. Even when it flowed strongest, rushing from the mountains after heavy rainfall, it made no sound."
Some of the younger monks exchanged puzzled glances. How could a river run in silence?
“This river ran behind a village where a woman named Sita lived,” he continued. “She was known for her anger. Every morning, she wandered the village shouting at her neighbors. Every night, she wept by the river, filled with regret but never releasing her pain. No one could console her—not the elders, not the children, not even the wild birds that circled her home.”
I leaned forward, drawn into the mystery.
“One day, a wandering monk passed through her village. His name was Ananda—he had studied the early teachings of Siddhartha, who had not yet gained fame. Seeing Sita crying by the river, Ananda sat beside her in silence. For hours, he spoke no words. Sita, confused and annoyed, tried to shout at him. But he only smiled gently and listened.”
Master Jivaka paused and looked around the room. “What do you think happened next?”
We stayed silent.
"Finally,” he said, “Sita asked, ‘Why don’t you say anything?’ And Ananda replied, ‘The river teaches in silence.’”
We were stunned. I held my breath, the rain echoing lightly in the background, mingling with the hundreds of lessons blooming in our hearts.
“Ananda explained that clinging to anger was like trying to hold the river in one’s arms—it slips away, yet we are soaked in its weight. The river flowed on, no matter her screaming or tears. It did not fight, it did not cling. It simply moved.”
Sita stayed by the river after Ananda left. She stopped shouting in the mornings. She began to fetch water for her neighbors. Though she still wept some nights, the villagers said her weeping became softer, echoes of a deeper kind of release. Her transformation reminded them—and now us—of the power found not in sometimes speaking, but in letting go through quiet understanding.
That day, I realized compassion didn’t always have to roar. Sometimes, it could be like the river—silent, steady, and stronger for its gentleness.
I left the temple hall not just carrying a story, but a lesson. In moments of great anger or pain, I remembered the Silent River and asked myself: could I also flow in peace?
I was just a novice monk when I first heard the tale of the Silent River. My name is Punya, and I had come from a small village along the northern border of the Magadha kingdom. I sought out the monastic life after watching my father wither under the weight of greed and my mother drown in sorrow after his passing. I needed answers, and I hoped the Dharma could help me find them.
Master Jivaka, our elder monk, told the story during the Rain Retreat, a three-month period when we monks stayed in one place to study the teachings of the Buddha. The hall was quiet, the heavy monsoon clouds pressing low around the stone temple walls. We huddled together, soaked in silence, as Master Jivaka began.
“Long ago,” he said, “before the Buddha had formed the Sangha, before he had even spoken his first sermon, there was a river. It was not known for its size or length, but for its silence. Even when it flowed strongest, rushing from the mountains after heavy rainfall, it made no sound."
Some of the younger monks exchanged puzzled glances. How could a river run in silence?
“This river ran behind a village where a woman named Sita lived,” he continued. “She was known for her anger. Every morning, she wandered the village shouting at her neighbors. Every night, she wept by the river, filled with regret but never releasing her pain. No one could console her—not the elders, not the children, not even the wild birds that circled her home.”
I leaned forward, drawn into the mystery.
“One day, a wandering monk passed through her village. His name was Ananda—he had studied the early teachings of Siddhartha, who had not yet gained fame. Seeing Sita crying by the river, Ananda sat beside her in silence. For hours, he spoke no words. Sita, confused and annoyed, tried to shout at him. But he only smiled gently and listened.”
Master Jivaka paused and looked around the room. “What do you think happened next?”
We stayed silent.
"Finally,” he said, “Sita asked, ‘Why don’t you say anything?’ And Ananda replied, ‘The river teaches in silence.’”
We were stunned. I held my breath, the rain echoing lightly in the background, mingling with the hundreds of lessons blooming in our hearts.
“Ananda explained that clinging to anger was like trying to hold the river in one’s arms—it slips away, yet we are soaked in its weight. The river flowed on, no matter her screaming or tears. It did not fight, it did not cling. It simply moved.”
Sita stayed by the river after Ananda left. She stopped shouting in the mornings. She began to fetch water for her neighbors. Though she still wept some nights, the villagers said her weeping became softer, echoes of a deeper kind of release. Her transformation reminded them—and now us—of the power found not in sometimes speaking, but in letting go through quiet understanding.
That day, I realized compassion didn’t always have to roar. Sometimes, it could be like the river—silent, steady, and stronger for its gentleness.
I left the temple hall not just carrying a story, but a lesson. In moments of great anger or pain, I remembered the Silent River and asked myself: could I also flow in peace?
