The sun was beginning to rise above the mango trees when I first heard the whispers—quiet at first, like wind stirring through leaves, then louder, like distant thunder. My name is Samita, a young disciple at the monastery of Rajagaha, one of many who had come to study under the Great Teacher—the one we all called the Buddha. I was just twelve then, charged with sweeping the temple steps and setting out bowls for the morning alms. But that day would bring a lesson no broom or bowl could teach me.
Ashoka was a respected senior monk, tall and gray, with a deep voice that used to calm the younger novices like cool rain. But over time, something in him changed. It started when Revata, a humble and quiet monk from the northern hills, arrived. Revata sought no recognition. He ate little, spoke gently, and spent hours deep in meditation beneath the Bodhi trees. Soon, the others noticed his discipline. They gathered around Revata, asking for teachings and sitting at his feet in the evenings.
Ashoka watched all of this in silence.
One morning, as we were preparing our robes, Ashoka approached me. “Have you seen how Revata breaks the Rule of Silence after dusk?” he asked, squinting at the horizon. I shook my head. I had not seen anything of the sort. “He corrupts the Way,” he added, and turned away.
Rumors began to spread, seeded by Ashoka’s quiet words. Revata refused to respond. He only bowed deeply whenever questioned, his eyes serene. The Buddha, our teacher, noticing the unrest that had begun to stir in our peaceful home, gathered us beneath the Sala trees.
“Bring Ashoka and Revata before me,” he said.
The elder monks helped them to sit, side by side, as the monks gathered in a wide circle around them. Birds chirped in the silence as all waited for the Buddha to speak.
With a calm voice, the Buddha spoke, “Jealousy arises not from the actions of others but from the heat of our own minds.”
He then turned to Ashoka with gentle eyes. “You, Ashoka, have lived many lives in discipline, yet this one attachment—your longing to be honored above others—clings to you like a shadow. It is not Revata who has disturbed the Way, but your desire.”
Ashoka lowered his head, shoulders trembling as he pressed his palms together.
“Those who follow the Middle Way,” the Buddha continued, “must see that praise and blame are like drifting clouds—they pass, and there is no need to grab them. Karma ripens in its time, but only insight liberates.”
Revata bowed, humbling himself further, and Ashoka, tears streaking his cheeks, turned to him and said, “Forgive this foolish heart.”
Later that evening, while sweeping the temple floor, I watched the two monks walk side by side beneath the lanterns. In that moment, I realized something important—that even the wise can fall, and even the fallen can rise again.
That day taught me that compassion, not control, was the heart of awakening. It was not enough to follow rules strictly like Ashoka, nor to be praised like Revata. True peace came from letting go—of doubt, of pride, of the need to be seen.
And ever since then, whenever I hear unkind words or see envy in a glance, I remember the Buddha’s words: “Only insight liberates.”
The sun was beginning to rise above the mango trees when I first heard the whispers—quiet at first, like wind stirring through leaves, then louder, like distant thunder. My name is Samita, a young disciple at the monastery of Rajagaha, one of many who had come to study under the Great Teacher—the one we all called the Buddha. I was just twelve then, charged with sweeping the temple steps and setting out bowls for the morning alms. But that day would bring a lesson no broom or bowl could teach me.
Ashoka was a respected senior monk, tall and gray, with a deep voice that used to calm the younger novices like cool rain. But over time, something in him changed. It started when Revata, a humble and quiet monk from the northern hills, arrived. Revata sought no recognition. He ate little, spoke gently, and spent hours deep in meditation beneath the Bodhi trees. Soon, the others noticed his discipline. They gathered around Revata, asking for teachings and sitting at his feet in the evenings.
Ashoka watched all of this in silence.
One morning, as we were preparing our robes, Ashoka approached me. “Have you seen how Revata breaks the Rule of Silence after dusk?” he asked, squinting at the horizon. I shook my head. I had not seen anything of the sort. “He corrupts the Way,” he added, and turned away.
Rumors began to spread, seeded by Ashoka’s quiet words. Revata refused to respond. He only bowed deeply whenever questioned, his eyes serene. The Buddha, our teacher, noticing the unrest that had begun to stir in our peaceful home, gathered us beneath the Sala trees.
“Bring Ashoka and Revata before me,” he said.
The elder monks helped them to sit, side by side, as the monks gathered in a wide circle around them. Birds chirped in the silence as all waited for the Buddha to speak.
With a calm voice, the Buddha spoke, “Jealousy arises not from the actions of others but from the heat of our own minds.”
He then turned to Ashoka with gentle eyes. “You, Ashoka, have lived many lives in discipline, yet this one attachment—your longing to be honored above others—clings to you like a shadow. It is not Revata who has disturbed the Way, but your desire.”
Ashoka lowered his head, shoulders trembling as he pressed his palms together.
“Those who follow the Middle Way,” the Buddha continued, “must see that praise and blame are like drifting clouds—they pass, and there is no need to grab them. Karma ripens in its time, but only insight liberates.”
Revata bowed, humbling himself further, and Ashoka, tears streaking his cheeks, turned to him and said, “Forgive this foolish heart.”
Later that evening, while sweeping the temple floor, I watched the two monks walk side by side beneath the lanterns. In that moment, I realized something important—that even the wise can fall, and even the fallen can rise again.
That day taught me that compassion, not control, was the heart of awakening. It was not enough to follow rules strictly like Ashoka, nor to be praised like Revata. True peace came from letting go—of doubt, of pride, of the need to be seen.
And ever since then, whenever I hear unkind words or see envy in a glance, I remember the Buddha’s words: “Only insight liberates.”
