I was just a young boy, barely old enough to tie my robe without help, when I began to walk in the footsteps of the Awakened One. My name is Rahula, and I am the son of Siddhartha Gautama—the man the world now reveres as the Buddha.
Before I became a monk, I was like any ordinary child, full of questions, mischief, and a natural hunger for attention. Even though my father had given up life as a prince to seek enlightenment, I still yearned to make him proud. So when I was allowed to enter the Sangha—the community of monks—I thought I had finally proven myself. But as I would soon learn, becoming a monk was not just about wearing a robe or reciting chants. It was about truth. And my greatest lesson would come from one moment I would never forget.
It happened one quiet morning near the Jetavana Monastery, where my father had been staying. I had been assigned a small task—to sweep the courtyard—and I grew bored quickly. When an elder monk playfully asked if I had completed all my duties, I answered with a confident, "Yes!" even though I hadn’t.
I didn't think it mattered. It was just a little dust. Besides, I wanted the elder monk to think well of me.
Later that day, the Buddha called me to sit by his side under the great banyan tree. With his calm eyes gazing into mine, he picked up a small water pot beside him and poured out its contents onto the ground, letting the last few drops fall slowly.
"Rahula," he said gently, "just as this pot is now empty, so too is someone who lies—empty of the qualities that make a true monk."
I lowered my eyes, ashamed. I felt the weight of each drop as if it were falling on my own heart.
He wasn’t angry. He didn’t scold me. Instead, he spoke softly but firmly: “If anyone tells a deliberate lie, even in jest, there is no evil they cannot do.”
I remember those words like the sound of a temple bell echoing through the early mist. They weren’t just words—they were a mirror. In that moment, I saw myself clearly: my craving to be liked, my fear of being thought lazy, my foolish pride. And I understood that truth was not something you protected when it was convenient—it was something you lived.
From then on, I watched my thoughts like a tiger watches the jungle floor, careful not to let even one dishonest intention escape unnoticed. I learned to stop hiding my mistakes, to speak with care, and—most of all—to be honest with myself.
That day, I felt something change deep inside me. It was as if the light of my father’s teaching had turned inward, burning away the shadows of my heart.
I walked away from the monastery courtyard not just as Rahula the student, but as Rahula the truth-seeker.
And ever since then, I have remembered my father’s lesson—not just to speak the truth, but to live it with mindfulness, compassion, and the courage to let go of my pride.
That was the moment I truly began to walk the path.
I was just a young boy, barely old enough to tie my robe without help, when I began to walk in the footsteps of the Awakened One. My name is Rahula, and I am the son of Siddhartha Gautama—the man the world now reveres as the Buddha.
Before I became a monk, I was like any ordinary child, full of questions, mischief, and a natural hunger for attention. Even though my father had given up life as a prince to seek enlightenment, I still yearned to make him proud. So when I was allowed to enter the Sangha—the community of monks—I thought I had finally proven myself. But as I would soon learn, becoming a monk was not just about wearing a robe or reciting chants. It was about truth. And my greatest lesson would come from one moment I would never forget.
It happened one quiet morning near the Jetavana Monastery, where my father had been staying. I had been assigned a small task—to sweep the courtyard—and I grew bored quickly. When an elder monk playfully asked if I had completed all my duties, I answered with a confident, "Yes!" even though I hadn’t.
I didn't think it mattered. It was just a little dust. Besides, I wanted the elder monk to think well of me.
Later that day, the Buddha called me to sit by his side under the great banyan tree. With his calm eyes gazing into mine, he picked up a small water pot beside him and poured out its contents onto the ground, letting the last few drops fall slowly.
"Rahula," he said gently, "just as this pot is now empty, so too is someone who lies—empty of the qualities that make a true monk."
I lowered my eyes, ashamed. I felt the weight of each drop as if it were falling on my own heart.
He wasn’t angry. He didn’t scold me. Instead, he spoke softly but firmly: “If anyone tells a deliberate lie, even in jest, there is no evil they cannot do.”
I remember those words like the sound of a temple bell echoing through the early mist. They weren’t just words—they were a mirror. In that moment, I saw myself clearly: my craving to be liked, my fear of being thought lazy, my foolish pride. And I understood that truth was not something you protected when it was convenient—it was something you lived.
From then on, I watched my thoughts like a tiger watches the jungle floor, careful not to let even one dishonest intention escape unnoticed. I learned to stop hiding my mistakes, to speak with care, and—most of all—to be honest with myself.
That day, I felt something change deep inside me. It was as if the light of my father’s teaching had turned inward, burning away the shadows of my heart.
I walked away from the monastery courtyard not just as Rahula the student, but as Rahula the truth-seeker.
And ever since then, I have remembered my father’s lesson—not just to speak the truth, but to live it with mindfulness, compassion, and the courage to let go of my pride.
That was the moment I truly began to walk the path.
