I was just a boy plucking rice grains in the paddies of Shravasti when I first heard the parable. My name is Kiran, the son of a humble farmer who toiled from dawn to dusk under the relentless sun. I knew nothing of great teachings or wise sages until the day I followed a crowd into Jetavana Monastery, a place where the Buddha—a man they said had awakened to the truth—was giving a sermon.
The monastery garden bloomed with quiet, the hush only broken by birds and the soft breath of wind in temple bells. I snuck in and knelt among finely dressed merchants and wandering monks, grateful they didn’t chase off a farmer’s child. That’s when the Buddha spoke of the seed.
“The seed,” he said, “must fall upon good ground. A seed that falls on rocky soil cannot grow deep roots. A seed that falls among thorns is strangled. But a seed that finds fertile ground will grow, blossom, and bear fruit.”
At first, I didn’t understand. I thought about the real seeds I helped plant—how some were eaten by birds or washed away by rain. But the longer I listened, the more I realized he wasn’t talking about farming. He was talking about the heart.
After the sermon, I lingered while the others offered flowers or knelt in prayer. One monk noticed me. He was older, bald, and had kind eyes. His name was Vappa. A disciple of the Buddha, Vappa had once been a prince’s tutor but gave up luxury to walk the path of the Dharma—the truth.
“What did you learn today?” he asked gently.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Something about seeds and minds?”
He laughed softly. “You’re wiser than you think. The seed is the teaching. The soil is your heart. If your heart is distracted, greedy, or angry—the seed cannot grow.”
I considered this. “So I have to become… better dirt?”
He smiled. “You have to become still. Mindful. Let go of craving and fear. Let compassion and insight be your water and sunlight.”
I still didn’t fully understand, but his words stayed with me. I returned week after week. I began to help sweep the temple grounds, carry water for the monks, and even chant gently with the others. Slowly, something changed. When planting rice, I felt grateful for the rain, pleased even when the crop was small. I began leaving some rice behind for the birds. I stopped arguing with my brother. I started listening more, rushing less.
Seasons passed.
Then one day, a traveler brought news: the Buddha had passed into Parinirvana—the final release from suffering. There was silence in the town that day. Even the animals seemed to hush. I remember staring out across the fields, the same ones I used to weed and grumble about, and feeling the strangest peace.
I finally understood the seed.
The Buddha’s teachings were not meant to be stored on scrolls or locked in temples. They were meant to be planted in us, nurtured by simple lives lived with kindness, detachment, and mindfulness.
I am older now, and though I do not wear the saffron robe, I carry the Dharma in every step, every breath, and every smile I give.
And so, the seed was planted in a muddy-hearted farm boy—and it bloomed.
I was just a boy plucking rice grains in the paddies of Shravasti when I first heard the parable. My name is Kiran, the son of a humble farmer who toiled from dawn to dusk under the relentless sun. I knew nothing of great teachings or wise sages until the day I followed a crowd into Jetavana Monastery, a place where the Buddha—a man they said had awakened to the truth—was giving a sermon.
The monastery garden bloomed with quiet, the hush only broken by birds and the soft breath of wind in temple bells. I snuck in and knelt among finely dressed merchants and wandering monks, grateful they didn’t chase off a farmer’s child. That’s when the Buddha spoke of the seed.
“The seed,” he said, “must fall upon good ground. A seed that falls on rocky soil cannot grow deep roots. A seed that falls among thorns is strangled. But a seed that finds fertile ground will grow, blossom, and bear fruit.”
At first, I didn’t understand. I thought about the real seeds I helped plant—how some were eaten by birds or washed away by rain. But the longer I listened, the more I realized he wasn’t talking about farming. He was talking about the heart.
After the sermon, I lingered while the others offered flowers or knelt in prayer. One monk noticed me. He was older, bald, and had kind eyes. His name was Vappa. A disciple of the Buddha, Vappa had once been a prince’s tutor but gave up luxury to walk the path of the Dharma—the truth.
“What did you learn today?” he asked gently.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Something about seeds and minds?”
He laughed softly. “You’re wiser than you think. The seed is the teaching. The soil is your heart. If your heart is distracted, greedy, or angry—the seed cannot grow.”
I considered this. “So I have to become… better dirt?”
He smiled. “You have to become still. Mindful. Let go of craving and fear. Let compassion and insight be your water and sunlight.”
I still didn’t fully understand, but his words stayed with me. I returned week after week. I began to help sweep the temple grounds, carry water for the monks, and even chant gently with the others. Slowly, something changed. When planting rice, I felt grateful for the rain, pleased even when the crop was small. I began leaving some rice behind for the birds. I stopped arguing with my brother. I started listening more, rushing less.
Seasons passed.
Then one day, a traveler brought news: the Buddha had passed into Parinirvana—the final release from suffering. There was silence in the town that day. Even the animals seemed to hush. I remember staring out across the fields, the same ones I used to weed and grumble about, and feeling the strangest peace.
I finally understood the seed.
The Buddha’s teachings were not meant to be stored on scrolls or locked in temples. They were meant to be planted in us, nurtured by simple lives lived with kindness, detachment, and mindfulness.
I am older now, and though I do not wear the saffron robe, I carry the Dharma in every step, every breath, and every smile I give.
And so, the seed was planted in a muddy-hearted farm boy—and it bloomed.
