I was just a young boy, sitting beside my grandfather near the river’s edge when he first told me the story of the Foolish Tortoise. His voice was slow and gentle, worn smooth like the prayer beads he carried everywhere. “This tale,” he said, “was once spoken by the Buddha himself, long before you and I walked this earth.” I remember leaning in, eyes wide, not wanting to miss a single word.
Long ago, in a quiet forest nestled between two great rivers, lived a tortoise named Chullaka. He was clever, or so he thought. Chullaka had grown bored of the slow, muddy life of pond living. He envied the birds who flew above the fields, gliding toward distant lands. “Why should I sit here, always moving so slowly?” he grumbled to himself one day. “Surely, if I traveled far and fast, I’d be respected, admired—maybe even feared.”
One dry season, when the rivers were shrinking and the leaves turned brittle, Chullaka befriended two wild geese resting by the pond. They were travelers from the Himalayas, heading home before the hottest days returned. Chullaka begged them, “Take me with you! I wish to see the mountains, to escape this slow life.”
The geese hesitated. “If you cannot fly, how will we carry you?”
“I have a clever plan,” said Chullaka proudly. “You hold a strong stick in your beaks. I will bite the middle and hang on tightly. We’ll fly together!”
The geese agreed, but only after giving a clear warning: “You must not speak—not even a single word. If you open your mouth, you will fall.”
Chullaka nodded, gripping the stick tightly. With great effort, the birds lifted off, rising higher and higher until the forest turned to green specks far below. Chullaka’s shell glittered in the morning sun as he swung between the geese, pride swelling in his chest.
But as they passed above a village, the people below stopped to stare. “Look! A flying tortoise!” they laughed. “How ridiculous!”
Chullaka heard their laughter. His pride trembled. “I must tell them how clever I am!” he thought. And without warning, he opened his mouth to speak.
Down he fell. Faster than rain in a monsoon, his shell cracked against the rocks below.
My grandfather paused, letting the silence rest between us longer than usual. I blinked, unsure if the story had ended.
“He died?” I asked softly.
“He did,” Grandfather answered, his eyes never leaving the stream. “That tortoise, Chullaka, was once born again as a wiser being after many lives. But in that life, his pride cost him dearly.”
I frowned, puzzled. “But why tell this story?”
“Because,” Grandfather said, “life isn’t just about rushing forward or being praised. Chullaka forgot the Middle Way—the path of balance taught by the Buddha. Desire pulled him away from the present, and karma, the result of his actions, brought him back down. The silence he refused—that moment when he could have listened instead of speaking—was the turning point.”
That day, I didn’t fully understand. But many seasons later, when I too was tempted by pride—to speak when I should stay silent—I remembered the tortoise.
And I chose silence.
That was the day my heart began to open, not from clever thinking, but from the wisdom of letting go.
I was just a young boy, sitting beside my grandfather near the river’s edge when he first told me the story of the Foolish Tortoise. His voice was slow and gentle, worn smooth like the prayer beads he carried everywhere. “This tale,” he said, “was once spoken by the Buddha himself, long before you and I walked this earth.” I remember leaning in, eyes wide, not wanting to miss a single word.
Long ago, in a quiet forest nestled between two great rivers, lived a tortoise named Chullaka. He was clever, or so he thought. Chullaka had grown bored of the slow, muddy life of pond living. He envied the birds who flew above the fields, gliding toward distant lands. “Why should I sit here, always moving so slowly?” he grumbled to himself one day. “Surely, if I traveled far and fast, I’d be respected, admired—maybe even feared.”
One dry season, when the rivers were shrinking and the leaves turned brittle, Chullaka befriended two wild geese resting by the pond. They were travelers from the Himalayas, heading home before the hottest days returned. Chullaka begged them, “Take me with you! I wish to see the mountains, to escape this slow life.”
The geese hesitated. “If you cannot fly, how will we carry you?”
“I have a clever plan,” said Chullaka proudly. “You hold a strong stick in your beaks. I will bite the middle and hang on tightly. We’ll fly together!”
The geese agreed, but only after giving a clear warning: “You must not speak—not even a single word. If you open your mouth, you will fall.”
Chullaka nodded, gripping the stick tightly. With great effort, the birds lifted off, rising higher and higher until the forest turned to green specks far below. Chullaka’s shell glittered in the morning sun as he swung between the geese, pride swelling in his chest.
But as they passed above a village, the people below stopped to stare. “Look! A flying tortoise!” they laughed. “How ridiculous!”
Chullaka heard their laughter. His pride trembled. “I must tell them how clever I am!” he thought. And without warning, he opened his mouth to speak.
Down he fell. Faster than rain in a monsoon, his shell cracked against the rocks below.
My grandfather paused, letting the silence rest between us longer than usual. I blinked, unsure if the story had ended.
“He died?” I asked softly.
“He did,” Grandfather answered, his eyes never leaving the stream. “That tortoise, Chullaka, was once born again as a wiser being after many lives. But in that life, his pride cost him dearly.”
I frowned, puzzled. “But why tell this story?”
“Because,” Grandfather said, “life isn’t just about rushing forward or being praised. Chullaka forgot the Middle Way—the path of balance taught by the Buddha. Desire pulled him away from the present, and karma, the result of his actions, brought him back down. The silence he refused—that moment when he could have listened instead of speaking—was the turning point.”
That day, I didn’t fully understand. But many seasons later, when I too was tempted by pride—to speak when I should stay silent—I remembered the tortoise.
And I chose silence.
That was the day my heart began to open, not from clever thinking, but from the wisdom of letting go.
