I was just a young boy, maybe twelve winters behind me, sitting on the worn ledge of my father’s hut when the news came that a holy man, the Buddha himself, was setting camp just outside our village near Jetavana Park.
Siddhartha Gautama—the Buddha—was once a prince who gave up his palace, wealth, and title in search of the truth about suffering. Having found it under the Bodhi tree some years back, he traveled across the lands teaching wisdom, peace, and a path to awakening. Even as a child, I knew his name carried the weight of mountains and the softness of a spring wind.
That day, a blind man named Padma came hobbling into town. He was old, wrapped in a tattered brown cloth, and tapped the ground cautiously with a crooked wooden stick. Most strangers passed through unnoticed, but something about him made the villagers whisper. I later learned Padma had traveled more than thirty miles on bare feet, guided only by the sounds of the birds and gracious strangers, hoping for a miracle—not of sight, but of understanding.
Padma had been born blind. Though he could not see the world, he said he could feel when a storm was coming, or when a smile broke through a stranger’s voice. He had heard of many spiritual teachers, but only the Buddha stirred his soul deeply enough for him to leave his home and follow the whispers of Dharma.
I begged my father to take me to listen. At the grove, a circle of men, women, and monks sat quietly under a massive banyan tree, its roots like long fingers twisting into the earth. The Buddha, a calm and luminous man, was seated at the center, his eyes half-lidded in gentle meditation. There were no loud scriptures or grand ceremonies, only peace.
When Padma arrived among the people seated, he bowed low and spoke with surprising strength: “Blessed One, all my life I’ve had to listen instead of see. I do not ask for sight, but for truth. Teach me the way, if I have the heart to follow it.”
The grove fell still.
The Buddha opened his eyes and smiled, not with pity but with quiet understanding. “Blindness of the eyes is not the greatest darkness,” he said. “Blindness of the heart, caused by pride and delusion, is what keeps the world in suffering.”
He guided Padma with words that day—not with dramatic miracles but with simple truth. He explained that real seeing means recognizing things as they truly are: temporary, ever-changing, and not ours to possess. Padma sat silently, his head bowed. Many around him waited for a story that would dazzle or surprise. But Padma simply nodded once and whispered, “I see.”
That was it. No thunder cracked the sky. No divine light burst forth. But something in the air shifted—like when the wind changes right before autumn.
Later that night, I found Padma sitting by the outer grove, smiling into the starless sky. “Did you learn what you came for?” I asked.
He turned his face toward me. “I thought I needed to find truth. But I only needed to stop thinking I already had it.”
I never forgot those words.
Years later, I came to understand that Padma had taught me something that day just as the Buddha had taught him: spiritual clarity doesn’t always come with thunder. Sometimes, it comes with silence, with humility, and with the courage to admit how little we know.
And from that moment on, I listened more carefully—not with my ears alone, but with the eyes of my heart.
I was just a young boy, maybe twelve winters behind me, sitting on the worn ledge of my father’s hut when the news came that a holy man, the Buddha himself, was setting camp just outside our village near Jetavana Park.
Siddhartha Gautama—the Buddha—was once a prince who gave up his palace, wealth, and title in search of the truth about suffering. Having found it under the Bodhi tree some years back, he traveled across the lands teaching wisdom, peace, and a path to awakening. Even as a child, I knew his name carried the weight of mountains and the softness of a spring wind.
That day, a blind man named Padma came hobbling into town. He was old, wrapped in a tattered brown cloth, and tapped the ground cautiously with a crooked wooden stick. Most strangers passed through unnoticed, but something about him made the villagers whisper. I later learned Padma had traveled more than thirty miles on bare feet, guided only by the sounds of the birds and gracious strangers, hoping for a miracle—not of sight, but of understanding.
Padma had been born blind. Though he could not see the world, he said he could feel when a storm was coming, or when a smile broke through a stranger’s voice. He had heard of many spiritual teachers, but only the Buddha stirred his soul deeply enough for him to leave his home and follow the whispers of Dharma.
I begged my father to take me to listen. At the grove, a circle of men, women, and monks sat quietly under a massive banyan tree, its roots like long fingers twisting into the earth. The Buddha, a calm and luminous man, was seated at the center, his eyes half-lidded in gentle meditation. There were no loud scriptures or grand ceremonies, only peace.
When Padma arrived among the people seated, he bowed low and spoke with surprising strength: “Blessed One, all my life I’ve had to listen instead of see. I do not ask for sight, but for truth. Teach me the way, if I have the heart to follow it.”
The grove fell still.
The Buddha opened his eyes and smiled, not with pity but with quiet understanding. “Blindness of the eyes is not the greatest darkness,” he said. “Blindness of the heart, caused by pride and delusion, is what keeps the world in suffering.”
He guided Padma with words that day—not with dramatic miracles but with simple truth. He explained that real seeing means recognizing things as they truly are: temporary, ever-changing, and not ours to possess. Padma sat silently, his head bowed. Many around him waited for a story that would dazzle or surprise. But Padma simply nodded once and whispered, “I see.”
That was it. No thunder cracked the sky. No divine light burst forth. But something in the air shifted—like when the wind changes right before autumn.
Later that night, I found Padma sitting by the outer grove, smiling into the starless sky. “Did you learn what you came for?” I asked.
He turned his face toward me. “I thought I needed to find truth. But I only needed to stop thinking I already had it.”
I never forgot those words.
Years later, I came to understand that Padma had taught me something that day just as the Buddha had taught him: spiritual clarity doesn’t always come with thunder. Sometimes, it comes with silence, with humility, and with the courage to admit how little we know.
And from that moment on, I listened more carefully—not with my ears alone, but with the eyes of my heart.
