I was only a young novice monk in the monastery when the traveling teacher arrived, his robe dusty from his long journey across the kingdom of Kosala. His name was Vakkali. Though quiet, he carried with him a presence of great thoughtfulness, and when he taught, even the birds in the mango grove fell silent to listen.
That morning, our teacher, the Venerable Mahinda, invited us to gather near the Bodhi tree at dawn. It was a warm day, and the scent of jasmine hung in the air. “Today,” he announced, “Vakkali will share a tale told often by our Blessed Teacher, the Buddha himself.” I remember my heart fluttering with excitement; stories from the Buddha were like golden coins—rare, precious, and full of light.
Vakkali sat upon a smooth rock, legs folded easily. “You have heard of King Janaka of Savatthi?” he began. We all nodded. King Janaka was known across the land for his wisdom and his quest to understand deeper truths.
“One day,” Vakkali continued, “the king summoned six blind men from different parts of the kingdom. These men had never seen an elephant. And so, King Janaka had them brought to the royal courtyard where a great elephant stood, tall and still.”
Each man was led to touch a different part of the creature. One felt its tusk and said, ‘An elephant is like a spear.’ The second touched the leg and declared, ‘No, an elephant is like a pillar.’ Another, holding the tail, cried, ‘It is like a rope!’ The one at the trunk insisted it was like a snake; another felt the ear and called it a fan.
“The king asked them to describe the elephant, and each swore himself correct. They began to argue, shouting over one another, certain only they knew the truth.”
I remember raising my hand and asking, “But teacher, if no one was wrong, why did they fight?”
Vakkali smiled and closed his eyes. “That is the heart of the Buddha’s lesson. Each man touched only a part and mistook it for the whole. Their minds were clouded by attachment to their limited view. They lacked mindfulness and openness. Instead of listening with compassion, they clung to their belief and cast away the rest.”
He opened his eyes and looked at each of us. “We, too, touch only parts of the truth when we rely only on our senses, our thoughts, our desires. The Buddha taught us to look deeper, to practice mindful awareness. When we let go of attachment to being right, we create space for compassion and understanding.”
That night, I could not sleep. I thought of all the times I had argued with others, thinking only my way was true. But I had only touched a part of the elephant. I realized then that truth—the full truth—is vast, and we each have only a glimpse.
The next morning, I walked to the riverbank and sat in silence, watching the water flow gently over the stones. For the first time, I didn’t try to name it or capture it with thought. I just breathed and watched.
That day, I began to understand what true mindfulness meant. It wasn’t just sitting still or chanting the sutras. It was letting go of my need to be right, softening my heart to other perspectives, and remembering that every person holds a piece of the elephant. Compassion teaches us to listen. Detachment helps us see more clearly.
And in that simple story told beneath the Bodhi tree, I found the beginning of wisdom.
I was only a young novice monk in the monastery when the traveling teacher arrived, his robe dusty from his long journey across the kingdom of Kosala. His name was Vakkali. Though quiet, he carried with him a presence of great thoughtfulness, and when he taught, even the birds in the mango grove fell silent to listen.
That morning, our teacher, the Venerable Mahinda, invited us to gather near the Bodhi tree at dawn. It was a warm day, and the scent of jasmine hung in the air. “Today,” he announced, “Vakkali will share a tale told often by our Blessed Teacher, the Buddha himself.” I remember my heart fluttering with excitement; stories from the Buddha were like golden coins—rare, precious, and full of light.
Vakkali sat upon a smooth rock, legs folded easily. “You have heard of King Janaka of Savatthi?” he began. We all nodded. King Janaka was known across the land for his wisdom and his quest to understand deeper truths.
“One day,” Vakkali continued, “the king summoned six blind men from different parts of the kingdom. These men had never seen an elephant. And so, King Janaka had them brought to the royal courtyard where a great elephant stood, tall and still.”
Each man was led to touch a different part of the creature. One felt its tusk and said, ‘An elephant is like a spear.’ The second touched the leg and declared, ‘No, an elephant is like a pillar.’ Another, holding the tail, cried, ‘It is like a rope!’ The one at the trunk insisted it was like a snake; another felt the ear and called it a fan.
“The king asked them to describe the elephant, and each swore himself correct. They began to argue, shouting over one another, certain only they knew the truth.”
I remember raising my hand and asking, “But teacher, if no one was wrong, why did they fight?”
Vakkali smiled and closed his eyes. “That is the heart of the Buddha’s lesson. Each man touched only a part and mistook it for the whole. Their minds were clouded by attachment to their limited view. They lacked mindfulness and openness. Instead of listening with compassion, they clung to their belief and cast away the rest.”
He opened his eyes and looked at each of us. “We, too, touch only parts of the truth when we rely only on our senses, our thoughts, our desires. The Buddha taught us to look deeper, to practice mindful awareness. When we let go of attachment to being right, we create space for compassion and understanding.”
That night, I could not sleep. I thought of all the times I had argued with others, thinking only my way was true. But I had only touched a part of the elephant. I realized then that truth—the full truth—is vast, and we each have only a glimpse.
The next morning, I walked to the riverbank and sat in silence, watching the water flow gently over the stones. For the first time, I didn’t try to name it or capture it with thought. I just breathed and watched.
That day, I began to understand what true mindfulness meant. It wasn’t just sitting still or chanting the sutras. It was letting go of my need to be right, softening my heart to other perspectives, and remembering that every person holds a piece of the elephant. Compassion teaches us to listen. Detachment helps us see more clearly.
And in that simple story told beneath the Bodhi tree, I found the beginning of wisdom.
