I was just a servant then—barely old enough to carry a water jug without stumbling. You won’t find my name in the old scrolls, but I was there, in the palace of Kapilavastu, where Prince Siddhartha lived. He was the son of King Śuddhodana, a great ruler who did everything he could to protect his only child from seeing the pain of the outside world. The king believed that if Siddhartha only knew pleasure and peace, he would never choose the path of a holy man. But no walls are high enough to hide truth forever.
One quiet morning, everything began to change.
Siddhartha, now a young man, asked to leave the palace grounds. He had grown up surrounded by beauty—lush gardens, soft music, rich meals. He had never seen a sick person, a funeral, or even an old man. The King ordered the streets cleared, fearing what the prince might see. But the real world finds its way, even through gilded gates.
I remember the first sight clearly. The prince rode in his chariot, and I followed close behind. An old man leaned on a walking stick, his back bent, his hair white as clouds. Prince Siddhartha’s brow furrowed.
“Channa,” he asked his driver, “what is wrong with that man?”
“He is simply old, my prince,” Channa said gently. “All men grow like that in time.”
Siddhartha was silent for the rest of the ride.
The next day brought the second sight—a man covered in sores, too weak to stand. The prince stepped down from the chariot and knelt beside him. His face was filled with confusion and sadness.
“Is this fate for all?” he asked.
“Yes, my prince,” Channa replied. “Sickness comes to all living beings.”
That night, the prince said little, but I saw him gazing at the moon, deep in thought.
On the third day, we saw a group of people dressed in white, carrying a bundled body on a wooden stretcher. Siddhartha stopped the chariot.
“Is he asleep?” he asked.
Channa hesitated, “No, my prince. He has died. Death awaits all things born.”
Siddhartha looked down. “So even the happiest life ends in this?”
His shoulders fell, and he returned to the palace not with fear, but something else—quiet wonder. Like someone who had glimpsed something far greater than himself.
The final sight came the next day—a wandering monk in simple robes, walking barefoot with calm eyes and a silent smile. The prince watched him pass and asked, “Who is he, who walks without fear or sorrow?”
“He has left behind home, wealth, and desires, my prince,” answered Channa. “He seeks freedom from suffering.”
For the first time, Siddhartha did not return sad, but still—like a pond when wind stops stirring the water.
That night, I heard the prince whisper to himself, “There is more to see. Not outside, but within.”
By morning, he was gone. He had left the palace, riding away not as a prince, but as a seeker.
Years later, I would hear tales of the Buddha—the Enlightened One who taught of peace, mindfulness, and compassion for all beings. And I would remember those four days, when a prince first opened his eyes—not just to the world, but to suffering, to truth, and to the great path beyond.
Those Four Sights weren’t just things he saw—they were the start of the path toward seeing clearly.
I was just a servant then—barely old enough to carry a water jug without stumbling. You won’t find my name in the old scrolls, but I was there, in the palace of Kapilavastu, where Prince Siddhartha lived. He was the son of King Śuddhodana, a great ruler who did everything he could to protect his only child from seeing the pain of the outside world. The king believed that if Siddhartha only knew pleasure and peace, he would never choose the path of a holy man. But no walls are high enough to hide truth forever.
One quiet morning, everything began to change.
Siddhartha, now a young man, asked to leave the palace grounds. He had grown up surrounded by beauty—lush gardens, soft music, rich meals. He had never seen a sick person, a funeral, or even an old man. The King ordered the streets cleared, fearing what the prince might see. But the real world finds its way, even through gilded gates.
I remember the first sight clearly. The prince rode in his chariot, and I followed close behind. An old man leaned on a walking stick, his back bent, his hair white as clouds. Prince Siddhartha’s brow furrowed.
“Channa,” he asked his driver, “what is wrong with that man?”
“He is simply old, my prince,” Channa said gently. “All men grow like that in time.”
Siddhartha was silent for the rest of the ride.
The next day brought the second sight—a man covered in sores, too weak to stand. The prince stepped down from the chariot and knelt beside him. His face was filled with confusion and sadness.
“Is this fate for all?” he asked.
“Yes, my prince,” Channa replied. “Sickness comes to all living beings.”
That night, the prince said little, but I saw him gazing at the moon, deep in thought.
On the third day, we saw a group of people dressed in white, carrying a bundled body on a wooden stretcher. Siddhartha stopped the chariot.
“Is he asleep?” he asked.
Channa hesitated, “No, my prince. He has died. Death awaits all things born.”
Siddhartha looked down. “So even the happiest life ends in this?”
His shoulders fell, and he returned to the palace not with fear, but something else—quiet wonder. Like someone who had glimpsed something far greater than himself.
The final sight came the next day—a wandering monk in simple robes, walking barefoot with calm eyes and a silent smile. The prince watched him pass and asked, “Who is he, who walks without fear or sorrow?”
“He has left behind home, wealth, and desires, my prince,” answered Channa. “He seeks freedom from suffering.”
For the first time, Siddhartha did not return sad, but still—like a pond when wind stops stirring the water.
That night, I heard the prince whisper to himself, “There is more to see. Not outside, but within.”
By morning, he was gone. He had left the palace, riding away not as a prince, but as a seeker.
Years later, I would hear tales of the Buddha—the Enlightened One who taught of peace, mindfulness, and compassion for all beings. And I would remember those four days, when a prince first opened his eyes—not just to the world, but to suffering, to truth, and to the great path beyond.
Those Four Sights weren’t just things he saw—they were the start of the path toward seeing clearly.
