I was just a young boy, no more than ten summers old, standing at the edge of the crowd in the great city of Rajagaha. My father was a brickmaker, and he had warned me not to follow the crowds that morning. “Stay away from the streets,” he said, “They’re releasing Nalagiri, the wild elephant. It’s too dangerous.” But curiosity, that fiery kind, burned in my chest. Everyone in the city was talking about it, about how one man—the Buddha—was walking straight toward madness.
Now, for those who do not know, let me explain. The Buddha, also known as Siddhartha Gautama, was no ordinary man. He was a teacher, a prince who had left all his riches behind to discover the path out of suffering. Many followed him, drawn by his gentle words and peaceful way of life. But not all loved him. Devadatta, the Buddha’s own cousin, had grown jealous and angry. While the Buddha gained followers, Devadatta’s pride swelled like a balloon ready to burst. So he made a wicked plan: he would set the fiercest elephant in the king’s stables loose while the Buddha walked the streets.
Nalagiri, the elephant, was huge—his tusks curved like swords and his eyes burned red with rage. They had starved him for days and fed him wine to stir his fury. When the gates opened, the ground shook under his feet. People screamed and scattered like birds, climbing rooftops, hiding behind market stalls. I clutched a bundle of bricks and crouched behind a dry fruit cart, wide-eyed and trembling.
Far down the road walked the Buddha. He wore simple robes, his hands folded calmly, his feet bare. He did not run. He did not shout. He did not hide. My heart hammered in my chest. Was he mad?
The elephant charged. Dust exploded under his feet as he thundered forward. I heard the screams of women and the gasps of men—but the Buddha, he simply stood still.
And then, something extraordinary happened.
The Buddha raised a hand and looked at the elephant—not with fear, not with anger, but with compassion. His gaze was steady, full of warmth and understanding, like a parent comforting a frightened child. In that moment, Nalagiri slowed. He snorted and stomped the earth, confused. And then… he stopped. The roaring beast lowered his enormous head. The great tusks that had torn trees like twigs now touched the ground at the Buddha’s feet.
Silence fell across the street. I felt my own fear melt away, replaced by a strange, peaceful lightness. The Buddha gently patted Nalagiri’s head, and the elephant, once mad with rage, wept silent tears.
That day, I watched something I didn’t understand at the time. I saw that calm could tame chaos. I saw that fear doesn’t have to rule—and I saw the strength in compassion. Later, as I grew and joined the monks, I learned that the Buddha did not conquer the elephant with power, but with mindfulness, compassion, and detachment. He saw Nalagiri not as a monster, but as a being in pain.
And that has stayed with me all my life.
Even days of fear can become moments of peace—when wisdom is greater than anger, and love is stronger than fear.
I was just a young boy, no more than ten summers old, standing at the edge of the crowd in the great city of Rajagaha. My father was a brickmaker, and he had warned me not to follow the crowds that morning. “Stay away from the streets,” he said, “They’re releasing Nalagiri, the wild elephant. It’s too dangerous.” But curiosity, that fiery kind, burned in my chest. Everyone in the city was talking about it, about how one man—the Buddha—was walking straight toward madness.
Now, for those who do not know, let me explain. The Buddha, also known as Siddhartha Gautama, was no ordinary man. He was a teacher, a prince who had left all his riches behind to discover the path out of suffering. Many followed him, drawn by his gentle words and peaceful way of life. But not all loved him. Devadatta, the Buddha’s own cousin, had grown jealous and angry. While the Buddha gained followers, Devadatta’s pride swelled like a balloon ready to burst. So he made a wicked plan: he would set the fiercest elephant in the king’s stables loose while the Buddha walked the streets.
Nalagiri, the elephant, was huge—his tusks curved like swords and his eyes burned red with rage. They had starved him for days and fed him wine to stir his fury. When the gates opened, the ground shook under his feet. People screamed and scattered like birds, climbing rooftops, hiding behind market stalls. I clutched a bundle of bricks and crouched behind a dry fruit cart, wide-eyed and trembling.
Far down the road walked the Buddha. He wore simple robes, his hands folded calmly, his feet bare. He did not run. He did not shout. He did not hide. My heart hammered in my chest. Was he mad?
The elephant charged. Dust exploded under his feet as he thundered forward. I heard the screams of women and the gasps of men—but the Buddha, he simply stood still.
And then, something extraordinary happened.
The Buddha raised a hand and looked at the elephant—not with fear, not with anger, but with compassion. His gaze was steady, full of warmth and understanding, like a parent comforting a frightened child. In that moment, Nalagiri slowed. He snorted and stomped the earth, confused. And then… he stopped. The roaring beast lowered his enormous head. The great tusks that had torn trees like twigs now touched the ground at the Buddha’s feet.
Silence fell across the street. I felt my own fear melt away, replaced by a strange, peaceful lightness. The Buddha gently patted Nalagiri’s head, and the elephant, once mad with rage, wept silent tears.
That day, I watched something I didn’t understand at the time. I saw that calm could tame chaos. I saw that fear doesn’t have to rule—and I saw the strength in compassion. Later, as I grew and joined the monks, I learned that the Buddha did not conquer the elephant with power, but with mindfulness, compassion, and detachment. He saw Nalagiri not as a monster, but as a being in pain.
And that has stayed with me all my life.
Even days of fear can become moments of peace—when wisdom is greater than anger, and love is stronger than fear.
