I was a thief once.
Not the kind that stole bread out of hunger. I was clever, fast—so good that entire villages would whisper tales of "The Shadow on the Road." That was me. My real name? Sona. My father was a potter. My mother died when I was young, and before I was old enough to spin clay with my hands, the streets had claimed me.
Back then, my heart had no room for peace. I lived by the knife, trusted no one, and believed that happiness came from getting more—more coins, more food, more control. Suffering, I once thought, came to the weak. I would not suffer.
That belief changed the day I met the monk.
He wasn’t special-looking. Bald head. Simple robes. Dust-covered feet from walking the long road in the midday sun. I thought he was easy prey—just another wandering ascetic, probably full of good intentions but not much else. I sprang from the shadows with my dagger raised.
“Hand it over,” I barked.
He looked at me. Just looked. No fear. His eyes were calm. Still like a pond in early morning.
I pressed the blade against his throat. “I said—”
“You are more than this, friend,” he said gently. “You are not your rage, not your suffering.”
That startled me. I had heard cries, pleas, and even curses. But never compassion.
“What do you know of me?” I sneered.
“I know suffering when I see it,” the monk replied. “And I see its weight on your back.”
He introduced himself as Venerable Sariputta, a disciple of the Blessed One—Gautama Buddha, a prince who had given up everything to understand the truth behind suffering and the way out of it. Sariputta spoke of the Middle Way—not drowning in pleasure, nor crushing oneself in pain. It was a path of balance, wisdom, and kindness.
I followed him. I don’t know why. Maybe it was the weariness in my bones or the hunger in my heart for something I couldn't name. He brought me to a monastery, a place unlike any I had known. No one judged me for the dirt on my skin or the sins I carried. They asked nothing. Only offered food, water, and silence.
For days, I sat under the Bodhi tree, trying to understand the teachings. My hands, steadied once for theft, now trembled in the stillness of meditation. My thoughts flailed. I remembered the faces of people I’d wronged, the weight of my past flooding me.
But no one rushed me. I was taught the Four Noble Truths: that suffering exists, that it has a cause, that it can end, and that there is a path to its end.
I thought of all I had taken in my lifetime—and what I had never received: peace. Slowly, my restlessness gave way to stillness. Not joy. Not sorrow. Just equanimity. And in that silence, I began to let go.
I took the vows and became a monk, robes draped over shoulders that once hid a dagger.
People often ask, “What changed you?”
It wasn’t an argument or fear. It was a moment—a silent turning, held in the gaze of a man who saw not a thief, but a falling leaf caught in the wind, ready to land.
And now, my path isn’t in shadows, but in light.
This was the Middle Way. Not escape. Not punishment. Just presence and freedom.
And in that, I found myself.
I was a thief once.
Not the kind that stole bread out of hunger. I was clever, fast—so good that entire villages would whisper tales of "The Shadow on the Road." That was me. My real name? Sona. My father was a potter. My mother died when I was young, and before I was old enough to spin clay with my hands, the streets had claimed me.
Back then, my heart had no room for peace. I lived by the knife, trusted no one, and believed that happiness came from getting more—more coins, more food, more control. Suffering, I once thought, came to the weak. I would not suffer.
That belief changed the day I met the monk.
He wasn’t special-looking. Bald head. Simple robes. Dust-covered feet from walking the long road in the midday sun. I thought he was easy prey—just another wandering ascetic, probably full of good intentions but not much else. I sprang from the shadows with my dagger raised.
“Hand it over,” I barked.
He looked at me. Just looked. No fear. His eyes were calm. Still like a pond in early morning.
I pressed the blade against his throat. “I said—”
“You are more than this, friend,” he said gently. “You are not your rage, not your suffering.”
That startled me. I had heard cries, pleas, and even curses. But never compassion.
“What do you know of me?” I sneered.
“I know suffering when I see it,” the monk replied. “And I see its weight on your back.”
He introduced himself as Venerable Sariputta, a disciple of the Blessed One—Gautama Buddha, a prince who had given up everything to understand the truth behind suffering and the way out of it. Sariputta spoke of the Middle Way—not drowning in pleasure, nor crushing oneself in pain. It was a path of balance, wisdom, and kindness.
I followed him. I don’t know why. Maybe it was the weariness in my bones or the hunger in my heart for something I couldn't name. He brought me to a monastery, a place unlike any I had known. No one judged me for the dirt on my skin or the sins I carried. They asked nothing. Only offered food, water, and silence.
For days, I sat under the Bodhi tree, trying to understand the teachings. My hands, steadied once for theft, now trembled in the stillness of meditation. My thoughts flailed. I remembered the faces of people I’d wronged, the weight of my past flooding me.
But no one rushed me. I was taught the Four Noble Truths: that suffering exists, that it has a cause, that it can end, and that there is a path to its end.
I thought of all I had taken in my lifetime—and what I had never received: peace. Slowly, my restlessness gave way to stillness. Not joy. Not sorrow. Just equanimity. And in that silence, I began to let go.
I took the vows and became a monk, robes draped over shoulders that once hid a dagger.
People often ask, “What changed you?”
It wasn’t an argument or fear. It was a moment—a silent turning, held in the gaze of a man who saw not a thief, but a falling leaf caught in the wind, ready to land.
And now, my path isn’t in shadows, but in light.
This was the Middle Way. Not escape. Not punishment. Just presence and freedom.
And in that, I found myself.
