I was just a young monk then, barely twelve rains into my training, living under the shade of the old forest monastery near Varanasi. My name isn’t carved into stone or woven into scrolls—but I remember the lesson that changed me forever. I remember that story. Not told by any man, but by silence, by a tree, and by a bird.
It happened during a season of drought. The land cracked like old clay pots, rivers thinned to threads, and clouds teased the thirsty sky without blessing it. Even we monks found ourselves walking farther and farther into the jungle just to find clean water and a scrap of shade.
One afternoon, as Master Ananda—our elder monk and former attendant to Lord Buddha himself—taught us under the Bodhi tree, he paused and pointed to the forest canopy.
“Look there,” he said softly. “There is a parrot who teaches with no voice.”
We followed his gaze. On the branch of a tall, withered mango tree sat a single green parrot. The tree was mostly dead now, its leaves fallen, its fruits dried into shriveled husks. But the parrot stayed, unmoving, watching the land below.
We were puzzled.
“Why does he remain?” asked Ravi, a friend of mine, always quick to speak. “There are better trees. Trees that offer shade… fruit… even other birds for company.”
Master Ananda closed his eyes. “That parrot has been here for many seasons,” he replied. “In the time of plenty, he drank the mango’s nectar, played in its shade, nested among its branches. He grew strong because of its gifts. Now that it weakens… he stays.”
The forest around us was silent, save for the dry rustle of dying grass. No one spoke for a long time.
The next week, something extraordinary happened.
The King, who had come hunting nearby, stopped at the monastery to rest. Word had spread to him of the strange parrot and the crumbling mango tree. Curious and wise, the King walked into the forest with his retinue. When he saw the parrot, quiet and unmoving on the near-dead tree, he asked Master Ananda to explain.
In return, our teacher simply bowed and told him what he told us: how the parrot stayed not for food or shade, but for gratitude. It had once received so much from this tree; now it gave back—not with sound, not with offerings, but by simply being present. Loyal. Mindful. Without asking for more, and without abandoning what had once given so freely.
The King stood still, saying nothing. Then he turned back to his men and ordered, “Bring water here. Dig a channel from the river. If a small creature can show such heart, surely a King can do no less.”
Weeks went by. The digging was slow, but the water came. First trickling, then flowing. The mango tree, once dry and brittle, began to sprout tiny green shoots once more. And the parrot? He remained—never claiming any reward, never needing to speak.
Years have passed since then, but I often walk to that spot. The mango tree now towers once again, green and full. Sometimes a child will ask me why that lone parrot statue sits carved into the roots, quiet and watchful.
I smile and tell them, “He reminds us what it means to be truly grateful—to stay, even when there’s nothing left to gain.”
That story changed me. Not through grand speeches or shouts of truth. But through one silent turning point… that asked nothing—and changed everything.
I was just a young monk then, barely twelve rains into my training, living under the shade of the old forest monastery near Varanasi. My name isn’t carved into stone or woven into scrolls—but I remember the lesson that changed me forever. I remember that story. Not told by any man, but by silence, by a tree, and by a bird.
It happened during a season of drought. The land cracked like old clay pots, rivers thinned to threads, and clouds teased the thirsty sky without blessing it. Even we monks found ourselves walking farther and farther into the jungle just to find clean water and a scrap of shade.
One afternoon, as Master Ananda—our elder monk and former attendant to Lord Buddha himself—taught us under the Bodhi tree, he paused and pointed to the forest canopy.
“Look there,” he said softly. “There is a parrot who teaches with no voice.”
We followed his gaze. On the branch of a tall, withered mango tree sat a single green parrot. The tree was mostly dead now, its leaves fallen, its fruits dried into shriveled husks. But the parrot stayed, unmoving, watching the land below.
We were puzzled.
“Why does he remain?” asked Ravi, a friend of mine, always quick to speak. “There are better trees. Trees that offer shade… fruit… even other birds for company.”
Master Ananda closed his eyes. “That parrot has been here for many seasons,” he replied. “In the time of plenty, he drank the mango’s nectar, played in its shade, nested among its branches. He grew strong because of its gifts. Now that it weakens… he stays.”
The forest around us was silent, save for the dry rustle of dying grass. No one spoke for a long time.
The next week, something extraordinary happened.
The King, who had come hunting nearby, stopped at the monastery to rest. Word had spread to him of the strange parrot and the crumbling mango tree. Curious and wise, the King walked into the forest with his retinue. When he saw the parrot, quiet and unmoving on the near-dead tree, he asked Master Ananda to explain.
In return, our teacher simply bowed and told him what he told us: how the parrot stayed not for food or shade, but for gratitude. It had once received so much from this tree; now it gave back—not with sound, not with offerings, but by simply being present. Loyal. Mindful. Without asking for more, and without abandoning what had once given so freely.
The King stood still, saying nothing. Then he turned back to his men and ordered, “Bring water here. Dig a channel from the river. If a small creature can show such heart, surely a King can do no less.”
Weeks went by. The digging was slow, but the water came. First trickling, then flowing. The mango tree, once dry and brittle, began to sprout tiny green shoots once more. And the parrot? He remained—never claiming any reward, never needing to speak.
Years have passed since then, but I often walk to that spot. The mango tree now towers once again, green and full. Sometimes a child will ask me why that lone parrot statue sits carved into the roots, quiet and watchful.
I smile and tell them, “He reminds us what it means to be truly grateful—to stay, even when there’s nothing left to gain.”
That story changed me. Not through grand speeches or shouts of truth. But through one silent turning point… that asked nothing—and changed everything.
