I am a weaver’s son, born in the small village of Setavya, beyond the Ganges where the trees grow in tight clusters and their leaves whisper even when there is no wind. My name is Jotika. You won’t find my name in any holy book, no scroll bears it—but I was there when my father’s loom became more than a tool. It became the altar of his awakening.
My father, Sumedha, was known far and wide as a master weaver. Even the merchants from the King’s court traveled to our village to request cloth woven by his hands. Yet despite his skill, my father was never joyful. He frowned as he worked, sighed in sleep, and spoke very little. He feared death—so much that he often mumbled to himself: “What is the worth of fine silk when each thread leads closer to the grave?”
I was just a boy when the turning came. The seasons had shifted, and the sky had been pale for many weeks. One morning, a monk arrived in Setavya. Unlike the holy men who sometimes came begging for rice or reciting stories, this monk sat beneath the neem tree in silence. His name was Bhanu. Nobody knew where he had come from, but everyone noticed his calm—like a pond untouched by wind.
My father was drawn to him as bees to the lotus. Each evening, after work, he would sit before Bhanu. For days, they did not speak. Then, one evening, I followed my father and sat beside him under the neem tree. That was when Bhanu finally spoke.
“Sumedha, why do you treat your work as a chain?”
My father frowned, confused. “Because it leads nowhere. I weave and weave. The thread ends. So too will my life.”
The monk smiled gently. “But what is the thread made of, Sumedha?”
“Cotton,” he replied without thinking.
“No,” Bhanu said, “it is made of your mind. Each thought, each fear, each desire is a fiber. You trace it with your hands but don’t see that your spirit coils tighter with every pass. That is the suffering you feel—not the work, but the craving you tie to it.”
My father stared at the monk. Something shifted in his eyes—like storm clouds parting just slightly. That night, I saw him weaving differently. His hands moved not with hurry, but peace. And for the first time, he smiled.
The days passed, and the village watched in awe. My father no longer sought praise nor feared death. He wove in silence, his eyes clear. He taught me that each thread was not trapped by time, but existed only in the present. “Equanimity,” he explained, “is like a balanced shuttle. Without it, our cloth is crooked.”
When Bhanu left, he did not say goodbye. He simply disappeared one dawn. But he had changed not only my father—but me as well. I now understood that liberation is not an escape from life, but presence within it.
Years later, after my father passed—seated peacefully at his loom—I took up weaving. Not merely as a trade, but as a practice.
That day I watched my father smile for the first time, I realized: the moment we release our grip on control, we begin to untangle the thread of suffering. And in that stillness, freedom is found—not far away, but within the loom of our own mind.
I am a weaver’s son, born in the small village of Setavya, beyond the Ganges where the trees grow in tight clusters and their leaves whisper even when there is no wind. My name is Jotika. You won’t find my name in any holy book, no scroll bears it—but I was there when my father’s loom became more than a tool. It became the altar of his awakening.
My father, Sumedha, was known far and wide as a master weaver. Even the merchants from the King’s court traveled to our village to request cloth woven by his hands. Yet despite his skill, my father was never joyful. He frowned as he worked, sighed in sleep, and spoke very little. He feared death—so much that he often mumbled to himself: “What is the worth of fine silk when each thread leads closer to the grave?”
I was just a boy when the turning came. The seasons had shifted, and the sky had been pale for many weeks. One morning, a monk arrived in Setavya. Unlike the holy men who sometimes came begging for rice or reciting stories, this monk sat beneath the neem tree in silence. His name was Bhanu. Nobody knew where he had come from, but everyone noticed his calm—like a pond untouched by wind.
My father was drawn to him as bees to the lotus. Each evening, after work, he would sit before Bhanu. For days, they did not speak. Then, one evening, I followed my father and sat beside him under the neem tree. That was when Bhanu finally spoke.
“Sumedha, why do you treat your work as a chain?”
My father frowned, confused. “Because it leads nowhere. I weave and weave. The thread ends. So too will my life.”
The monk smiled gently. “But what is the thread made of, Sumedha?”
“Cotton,” he replied without thinking.
“No,” Bhanu said, “it is made of your mind. Each thought, each fear, each desire is a fiber. You trace it with your hands but don’t see that your spirit coils tighter with every pass. That is the suffering you feel—not the work, but the craving you tie to it.”
My father stared at the monk. Something shifted in his eyes—like storm clouds parting just slightly. That night, I saw him weaving differently. His hands moved not with hurry, but peace. And for the first time, he smiled.
The days passed, and the village watched in awe. My father no longer sought praise nor feared death. He wove in silence, his eyes clear. He taught me that each thread was not trapped by time, but existed only in the present. “Equanimity,” he explained, “is like a balanced shuttle. Without it, our cloth is crooked.”
When Bhanu left, he did not say goodbye. He simply disappeared one dawn. But he had changed not only my father—but me as well. I now understood that liberation is not an escape from life, but presence within it.
Years later, after my father passed—seated peacefully at his loom—I took up weaving. Not merely as a trade, but as a practice.
That day I watched my father smile for the first time, I realized: the moment we release our grip on control, we begin to untangle the thread of suffering. And in that stillness, freedom is found—not far away, but within the loom of our own mind.
