You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there—sweeping the floor of the eastern hall when the old master told the story that would shift something deep within me. My name is Jinu, son of a cloth merchant from Rajagriha. I was brought to the monastery not by choice, but because my father could no longer feed six mouths at home. I arrived bitter, homesick, and filled with complaint. I expected nothing—and truly understood even less.
The monastery was nestled in the hills near Vulture Peak, where monks from across the land came to hear the Buddha teach. But that morning, it was not Gautama Buddha who spoke, but our abbot, an elderly man named Master Vaasu. His voice, quiet yet steady, filled the hall as the other novices and I leaned on low cushions and tried not to fidget.
“Many of you,” Master Vaasu began, “believe that the Dharma must be found outside of yourselves, in scriptures, lectures, or long pilgrimages. But let me tell you a story once shared by the Buddha himself—a story for those with eyes to see.”
He closed his eyes for a moment before continuing.
“There was once a poor man,” he said, “who had a wealthy friend. The poor man often visited the rich man’s home, but one day, after becoming very drunk at a festival, he fell asleep. While the poor man was still unconscious, the rich friend, knowing how difficult his life was, sewed a priceless jewel into the lining of his robe without telling him.
The poor man awoke and traveled far over many years, living hand to mouth, suffering and believing himself alone and without help. Only many years later, a companion noticed the worn robe—and the glint of something hidden in the seam. They cut it open and, there, found the jewel that had been with him all along.”
Master Vaasu slowly opened his eyes and scanned the hall. “Like that man, many of us struggle, forgetting that inside each of us is a great treasure—the capacity for awakening, for compassion, for clarity. Sometimes, we seek outside help, but the Dharma has already been sewn into the fabric of our lives.”
Something shifted in me that day.
I remember walking back to the storeroom, a broom still clutched in my hand, but something in my steps had changed. I saw how the dust caught the morning light and how the teak floors warmed beneath my soles. Nothing had changed around me—but something had awoken within me. I began to sweep with purpose, not as a chore, but as mindfulness.
It would take me years to understand the fullness of that story. I, too, had lived thinking I must search and hope and earn something far away or far above me.
But in that silent turning point, sitting cross-legged in a hall of novice monks, I realized I had always carried a jewel within.
I just needed stillness—and a story—to remember it was there.
And that day, though the Buddha himself had not spoken, I heard the Dharma clearly for the first time.
You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there—sweeping the floor of the eastern hall when the old master told the story that would shift something deep within me. My name is Jinu, son of a cloth merchant from Rajagriha. I was brought to the monastery not by choice, but because my father could no longer feed six mouths at home. I arrived bitter, homesick, and filled with complaint. I expected nothing—and truly understood even less.
The monastery was nestled in the hills near Vulture Peak, where monks from across the land came to hear the Buddha teach. But that morning, it was not Gautama Buddha who spoke, but our abbot, an elderly man named Master Vaasu. His voice, quiet yet steady, filled the hall as the other novices and I leaned on low cushions and tried not to fidget.
“Many of you,” Master Vaasu began, “believe that the Dharma must be found outside of yourselves, in scriptures, lectures, or long pilgrimages. But let me tell you a story once shared by the Buddha himself—a story for those with eyes to see.”
He closed his eyes for a moment before continuing.
“There was once a poor man,” he said, “who had a wealthy friend. The poor man often visited the rich man’s home, but one day, after becoming very drunk at a festival, he fell asleep. While the poor man was still unconscious, the rich friend, knowing how difficult his life was, sewed a priceless jewel into the lining of his robe without telling him.
The poor man awoke and traveled far over many years, living hand to mouth, suffering and believing himself alone and without help. Only many years later, a companion noticed the worn robe—and the glint of something hidden in the seam. They cut it open and, there, found the jewel that had been with him all along.”
Master Vaasu slowly opened his eyes and scanned the hall. “Like that man, many of us struggle, forgetting that inside each of us is a great treasure—the capacity for awakening, for compassion, for clarity. Sometimes, we seek outside help, but the Dharma has already been sewn into the fabric of our lives.”
Something shifted in me that day.
I remember walking back to the storeroom, a broom still clutched in my hand, but something in my steps had changed. I saw how the dust caught the morning light and how the teak floors warmed beneath my soles. Nothing had changed around me—but something had awoken within me. I began to sweep with purpose, not as a chore, but as mindfulness.
It would take me years to understand the fullness of that story. I, too, had lived thinking I must search and hope and earn something far away or far above me.
But in that silent turning point, sitting cross-legged in a hall of novice monks, I realized I had always carried a jewel within.
I just needed stillness—and a story—to remember it was there.
And that day, though the Buddha himself had not spoken, I heard the Dharma clearly for the first time.
