I was just a young boy, sitting on the warm clay step outside our family home, when I first heard the story of the two brothers and the fig tree. My grandfather, Master Dipa, was a retired monk who had once traveled with great teachers through forests, mountains, and kings' courts. That afternoon, he sat with us under the shade of our own fig tree, his voice calm like the wind that carried the smell of tea from the kitchen.
“Many, many years ago,” Grandfather began, “there lived two brothers in a small village nestled between river and forest. Their names were Sona and Tissa. They lived together in their father’s home and inherited his orchard of fruit trees, which included a sacred fig tree—tall, wise, and fruitful.”
Sona, the elder brother, was proud and disciplined. He kept to rituals, rules, and strict traditions. Every morning, he would bow three times before the fig tree, sprinkle water at its roots, and chant holy verses. "This tree blesses us because I honor it," he would say.
Tissa, the younger brother, was quieter, more observant. He did not follow rituals like Sona, nor did he recite verses. Instead, he sat under the tree in silence for long hours, listening to birds, feeling the wind through its branches, and watching the ants that crawled along its roots.
Now, people in the village began to talk. “Why does the tree blossom more on Tissa’s side?” they wondered. “He does nothing—not even water it! But the fruit is sweeter, and the leaves are greener!”
Curious and a bit jealous, Sona asked his brother, “You don’t honor the fig tree as I do. You don’t follow the sacred ways. Still, your side grows better fruit! Why?”
Tissa looked up from the ground. “Brother,” he said gently, “every morning you serve the tree, but you do so with pride and the hope of reward. I do not ask anything from the tree. I simply sit with it. I watch it live and change. I feel grateful that it grows at all.”
Sona grew angry at first. “So, you say my offering is empty?”
“No,” Tissa replied. “But love without grasping, seeing without judging—that is also an offering.”
Grandfather looked out into the distance as his voice softened. “Sona finally saw his error. He realized that devotion was not in empty rituals or proud gestures, but in quiet understanding—in mindfulness. From that day, he sat beside Tissa under the fig tree, not to impress the heavens, but to understand them.”
I stared up at our fig tree. Its leaves whispered with the evening wind, and I realized I had never really looked at it before, not the way Tissa had.
That night, I didn’t ask for anything when I sat under that tree. I just watched the stars blink above its branches and listened to the wind blow through its leaves. Peace settled inside me, gentle and wordless.
That was the first day I truly understood what Grandfather meant when he said, “Compassion begins when we stop needing and start seeing.”
And I’ve never looked at a fig tree the same way again.
I was just a young boy, sitting on the warm clay step outside our family home, when I first heard the story of the two brothers and the fig tree. My grandfather, Master Dipa, was a retired monk who had once traveled with great teachers through forests, mountains, and kings' courts. That afternoon, he sat with us under the shade of our own fig tree, his voice calm like the wind that carried the smell of tea from the kitchen.
“Many, many years ago,” Grandfather began, “there lived two brothers in a small village nestled between river and forest. Their names were Sona and Tissa. They lived together in their father’s home and inherited his orchard of fruit trees, which included a sacred fig tree—tall, wise, and fruitful.”
Sona, the elder brother, was proud and disciplined. He kept to rituals, rules, and strict traditions. Every morning, he would bow three times before the fig tree, sprinkle water at its roots, and chant holy verses. "This tree blesses us because I honor it," he would say.
Tissa, the younger brother, was quieter, more observant. He did not follow rituals like Sona, nor did he recite verses. Instead, he sat under the tree in silence for long hours, listening to birds, feeling the wind through its branches, and watching the ants that crawled along its roots.
Now, people in the village began to talk. “Why does the tree blossom more on Tissa’s side?” they wondered. “He does nothing—not even water it! But the fruit is sweeter, and the leaves are greener!”
Curious and a bit jealous, Sona asked his brother, “You don’t honor the fig tree as I do. You don’t follow the sacred ways. Still, your side grows better fruit! Why?”
Tissa looked up from the ground. “Brother,” he said gently, “every morning you serve the tree, but you do so with pride and the hope of reward. I do not ask anything from the tree. I simply sit with it. I watch it live and change. I feel grateful that it grows at all.”
Sona grew angry at first. “So, you say my offering is empty?”
“No,” Tissa replied. “But love without grasping, seeing without judging—that is also an offering.”
Grandfather looked out into the distance as his voice softened. “Sona finally saw his error. He realized that devotion was not in empty rituals or proud gestures, but in quiet understanding—in mindfulness. From that day, he sat beside Tissa under the fig tree, not to impress the heavens, but to understand them.”
I stared up at our fig tree. Its leaves whispered with the evening wind, and I realized I had never really looked at it before, not the way Tissa had.
That night, I didn’t ask for anything when I sat under that tree. I just watched the stars blink above its branches and listened to the wind blow through its leaves. Peace settled inside me, gentle and wordless.
That was the first day I truly understood what Grandfather meant when he said, “Compassion begins when we stop needing and start seeing.”
And I’ve never looked at a fig tree the same way again.
