I was just a young acolyte at the Jetavana Monastery, a sacred place in the city of Sāvatthi, in ancient India. My name is Anula, and I spent my days sweeping the courtyards and listening closely as the Buddha taught the Dharma—his path to ending suffering. I was drawn to his voice, so calm and filled with understanding, and even though I was small, I could feel the peace around him like a breeze on a hot day.
One morning, as the sun rose over the monastery walls, a strange tension filled the air. Gossip buzzed among the villagers and devotees. A man named Devadatta, who was once a disciple of the Buddha but had grown jealous and power-hungry, had come up with a terrible plan. He wanted to harm the Buddha. To do this, Devadatta sent a huge elephant named Nāḷāgiri charging through the streets—drunk and mad with rage.
Nāḷāgiri was no ordinary elephant. He had served in the royal stables and was known for both his strength and his fierce temper. Devadatta gave him strong liquor to drink until his eyes turned red and foam gathered at his mouth. Then, he ordered the elephant to be released on the path where Buddha was known to walk every morning.
I rushed to the gates with the others. The whole city seemed to hold its breath. Shopkeepers shut their stalls, parents pulled their children close, and some even hid behind the temple walls. Down the road, we could see the beast tearing through market carts and scattering fruit and pottery. His roar was so deep it made the ground tremble.
And yet, the Buddha did not turn away.
I watched from behind a pillar, my heart clenching in fear. He stood there—tall and calm in his saffron robes—with no weapon, no fear, and no anger. Surrounding him were just a few disciples, begging him to turn back. But he simply raised his hand gently and said, “Let him come.”
The elephant charged. I remember the sound of his feet, like thunder. But when he reached the Buddha, something miraculous happened.
The moment Nāḷāgiri looked into the Buddha’s eyes, his pace slowed. His trumpeting turned into soft snorts, and the wildness in his eyes began to melt. The Buddha stood quietly, his mind still like a pool untouched by wind. He had no anger, no resistance—only deep compassion.
The elephant stopped.
He lowered his head, breathing heavily, and slowly kneeled before the Buddha, as if bowing. The city was silent. Some people wept. I could hardly believe what I had just seen.
Later that day, the Buddha explained to us why the elephant had calmed. “Hatred does not end with hatred,” he said, “but with love. This is the eternal law.” He spoke of mindfulness—remaining aware of each thought and action. He spoke of compassion—treating every being, even an angry elephant, with kindness. And most importantly, he reminded us that detachment from anger and fear brings peace more powerful than any sword or army.
That day, I realized something important: True strength doesn’t come from force. It comes from understanding. From patience. And from the steady courage to face even the most furious creature with a calm and open heart.
I never forgot what I witnessed. The Buddha didn’t just tame an elephant—he showed us how to tame the wildness inside ourselves.
I was just a young acolyte at the Jetavana Monastery, a sacred place in the city of Sāvatthi, in ancient India. My name is Anula, and I spent my days sweeping the courtyards and listening closely as the Buddha taught the Dharma—his path to ending suffering. I was drawn to his voice, so calm and filled with understanding, and even though I was small, I could feel the peace around him like a breeze on a hot day.
One morning, as the sun rose over the monastery walls, a strange tension filled the air. Gossip buzzed among the villagers and devotees. A man named Devadatta, who was once a disciple of the Buddha but had grown jealous and power-hungry, had come up with a terrible plan. He wanted to harm the Buddha. To do this, Devadatta sent a huge elephant named Nāḷāgiri charging through the streets—drunk and mad with rage.
Nāḷāgiri was no ordinary elephant. He had served in the royal stables and was known for both his strength and his fierce temper. Devadatta gave him strong liquor to drink until his eyes turned red and foam gathered at his mouth. Then, he ordered the elephant to be released on the path where Buddha was known to walk every morning.
I rushed to the gates with the others. The whole city seemed to hold its breath. Shopkeepers shut their stalls, parents pulled their children close, and some even hid behind the temple walls. Down the road, we could see the beast tearing through market carts and scattering fruit and pottery. His roar was so deep it made the ground tremble.
And yet, the Buddha did not turn away.
I watched from behind a pillar, my heart clenching in fear. He stood there—tall and calm in his saffron robes—with no weapon, no fear, and no anger. Surrounding him were just a few disciples, begging him to turn back. But he simply raised his hand gently and said, “Let him come.”
The elephant charged. I remember the sound of his feet, like thunder. But when he reached the Buddha, something miraculous happened.
The moment Nāḷāgiri looked into the Buddha’s eyes, his pace slowed. His trumpeting turned into soft snorts, and the wildness in his eyes began to melt. The Buddha stood quietly, his mind still like a pool untouched by wind. He had no anger, no resistance—only deep compassion.
The elephant stopped.
He lowered his head, breathing heavily, and slowly kneeled before the Buddha, as if bowing. The city was silent. Some people wept. I could hardly believe what I had just seen.
Later that day, the Buddha explained to us why the elephant had calmed. “Hatred does not end with hatred,” he said, “but with love. This is the eternal law.” He spoke of mindfulness—remaining aware of each thought and action. He spoke of compassion—treating every being, even an angry elephant, with kindness. And most importantly, he reminded us that detachment from anger and fear brings peace more powerful than any sword or army.
That day, I realized something important: True strength doesn’t come from force. It comes from understanding. From patience. And from the steady courage to face even the most furious creature with a calm and open heart.
I never forgot what I witnessed. The Buddha didn’t just tame an elephant—he showed us how to tame the wildness inside ourselves.
