You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there—high in the jungle trees of Varanasi, long before the temples stood or the people called upon the Buddha’s name. I was one of the restless ones—a monkey who could never sit still, whose heart leaped as quickly as his body from branch to branch.
We lived near a quiet river, hidden far from human eyes. Our leader, the Bodhisattva monkey—a wise and calm elder—looked over us not with power, but compassion. He was different from us. While we chased fruit and swung without thought, he meditated by the oldest tree with eyes half closed, as if listening to something greater than the jungle’s song.
He had been born many seasons before me. His fur was streaked with silver, and his silence was deep, like the river when it flowed gently. Sometimes, we younger ones would mock his stillness. "He does nothing!" we would laugh. "Where is the fun in just…sitting?"
But we didn’t know then that his silence came from wisdom. The silence of knowing that nothing lasts. That even the tastiest fruit withers. That even swinging trees fall. And that we, too, would someday leave this jungle behind.
That day came sooner than any of us expected.
One morning, loud noises echoed through the trees. Men from the city had come—hunters with spears and nets. I had never seen humans so close. Their faces were hard like mountain rock. They spread through the woods, chasing after anything that moved.
Panic tore through our tribe. We scattered. I leapt from branch to branch, screaming warnings. But the Bodhisattva? He did not run.
He sat.
Right there on the oldest tree, breathing slowly.
One of the hunters spotted him. “There! That one’s bigger—he’ll fetch more!”
I watched, frozen in a high branch, as the hunter raised his spear. I wanted to scream—to run down and help—but my body refused. Fear had chained my limbs.
But just before the spear flew, the hunter lowered it.
“He’s not running,” he whispered to the others. “Maybe… he’s sacred. We shouldn’t harm him.”
And like that, they left. Gone. The forest slowly filled again with sound—birdsong, wind, our gasping breaths.
When it was safe, I approached the ancient monkey. I asked, “Why didn’t you run?”
He opened his eyes calmly. “Because there’s nothing to run from, child. Danger is real, but fear is a choice. If this body ends, it ends. I cling to nothing, and so, I am free.”
I didn’t understand fully, not then. But something shifted in me. That day, I stopped leaping without thinking. I stopped shouting and chasing. I began to sit beside him—quietly, each morning—learning the silence.
Seasons passed. Leaves fell. Friends grew old and vanished like mist.
But with each day, I felt less chained to the need for more—more fruit, more laughs, more trees. And in their place, I found peace.
Now, I am old, with silver in my fur. I sit at the same tree and teach the new restless ones who come. Some listen. Some still chase shadows through the jungle.
But I wait patiently.
Because it took me a brush with death to learn the truth: Nothing stays. Nothing is truly ours. In letting go of everything—we gain freedom.
And in silence, we hear the heart of the world.
You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there—high in the jungle trees of Varanasi, long before the temples stood or the people called upon the Buddha’s name. I was one of the restless ones—a monkey who could never sit still, whose heart leaped as quickly as his body from branch to branch.
We lived near a quiet river, hidden far from human eyes. Our leader, the Bodhisattva monkey—a wise and calm elder—looked over us not with power, but compassion. He was different from us. While we chased fruit and swung without thought, he meditated by the oldest tree with eyes half closed, as if listening to something greater than the jungle’s song.
He had been born many seasons before me. His fur was streaked with silver, and his silence was deep, like the river when it flowed gently. Sometimes, we younger ones would mock his stillness. "He does nothing!" we would laugh. "Where is the fun in just…sitting?"
But we didn’t know then that his silence came from wisdom. The silence of knowing that nothing lasts. That even the tastiest fruit withers. That even swinging trees fall. And that we, too, would someday leave this jungle behind.
That day came sooner than any of us expected.
One morning, loud noises echoed through the trees. Men from the city had come—hunters with spears and nets. I had never seen humans so close. Their faces were hard like mountain rock. They spread through the woods, chasing after anything that moved.
Panic tore through our tribe. We scattered. I leapt from branch to branch, screaming warnings. But the Bodhisattva? He did not run.
He sat.
Right there on the oldest tree, breathing slowly.
One of the hunters spotted him. “There! That one’s bigger—he’ll fetch more!”
I watched, frozen in a high branch, as the hunter raised his spear. I wanted to scream—to run down and help—but my body refused. Fear had chained my limbs.
But just before the spear flew, the hunter lowered it.
“He’s not running,” he whispered to the others. “Maybe… he’s sacred. We shouldn’t harm him.”
And like that, they left. Gone. The forest slowly filled again with sound—birdsong, wind, our gasping breaths.
When it was safe, I approached the ancient monkey. I asked, “Why didn’t you run?”
He opened his eyes calmly. “Because there’s nothing to run from, child. Danger is real, but fear is a choice. If this body ends, it ends. I cling to nothing, and so, I am free.”
I didn’t understand fully, not then. But something shifted in me. That day, I stopped leaping without thinking. I stopped shouting and chasing. I began to sit beside him—quietly, each morning—learning the silence.
Seasons passed. Leaves fell. Friends grew old and vanished like mist.
But with each day, I felt less chained to the need for more—more fruit, more laughs, more trees. And in their place, I found peace.
Now, I am old, with silver in my fur. I sit at the same tree and teach the new restless ones who come. Some listen. Some still chase shadows through the jungle.
But I wait patiently.
Because it took me a brush with death to learn the truth: Nothing stays. Nothing is truly ours. In letting go of everything—we gain freedom.
And in silence, we hear the heart of the world.
