You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there—just a young novice monk named Jantu, barely thirteen summers old—when the Great Teacher, the Buddha himself, gave his final teaching before leaving this world. I hadn’t been a monk for long, and I was still learning to fold my robe without fumbling and to sit quietly without falling asleep. But that day, I witnessed something that would change me forever.
We had walked for days, following the Blessed One on his final journey. His body was old and frail, yet his presence was calm and strong, like a flame that didn’t flicker in the wind. The elder monks—Ananda, his loyal attendant and cousin, and Sariputta, the wise and fearless disciple—walked close to him, watching over him like loving sons. We made our way to a small grove in a place called Kusinara, where tall sala trees lined the path.
When we arrived, the Buddha lay down between two trees, resting on his side, his head to the north. Flowers bloomed out of season, and a strange silence filled the forest. Even the birds seemed to know that something sacred was about to happen.
I had seen the Buddha smile at beggars and kings alike. I had heard his voice teach farmers and warriors that all life is precious and that clinging to things—wealth, power, even our own bodies—only brought suffering. But in those final moments, it became clear to me in a way no talk or teaching ever had.
Ananda was weeping. Though he had served the Buddha faithfully for 25 years, he was not yet free of sorrow.
“Do not grieve, Ananda,” the Buddha said gently. “Everything that arises must also pass away. That is the nature of all things.”
Then he turned to all of us who had gathered—hundreds of monks young and old, and even laypeople who had traveled far to see him one last time. He looked at each of us, not with sadness, but with deep compassion.
His final words were simple, but they held the weight of a lifetime of wisdom.
“Behold, O monks,” he said, “all conditioned things are subject to decay. Strive diligently with awareness.”
At first, I didn’t understand. What did it mean to “strive diligently with awareness”? Wasn’t just being kind enough? Wasn’t sitting in meditation enough?
But after the Buddha passed into Parinirvana—a state beyond suffering, beyond birth and death—I sat under the sala trees and thought about his words. I realized he was telling us not to waste time. Life was always changing. The body would weaken, loved ones would come and go, the seasons would pass. Nothing stayed the same—and that was okay.
The peace I saw in the Buddha's face as he passed—that came from truly understanding this. From letting go of the craving that keeps us chained to suffering. From showing deep compassion, even in his last breath.
Many years have passed since then. I am no longer the wide-eyed novice I once was. But I still remember his voice, his gaze, and that final teaching.
And each morning, as I wake and breathe in the new day, I whisper his words to myself:
“All things decay. Be mindful. Work toward awakening.”
That day under the sala trees, I began that path—and I have walked it ever since.
You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there—just a young novice monk named Jantu, barely thirteen summers old—when the Great Teacher, the Buddha himself, gave his final teaching before leaving this world. I hadn’t been a monk for long, and I was still learning to fold my robe without fumbling and to sit quietly without falling asleep. But that day, I witnessed something that would change me forever.
We had walked for days, following the Blessed One on his final journey. His body was old and frail, yet his presence was calm and strong, like a flame that didn’t flicker in the wind. The elder monks—Ananda, his loyal attendant and cousin, and Sariputta, the wise and fearless disciple—walked close to him, watching over him like loving sons. We made our way to a small grove in a place called Kusinara, where tall sala trees lined the path.
When we arrived, the Buddha lay down between two trees, resting on his side, his head to the north. Flowers bloomed out of season, and a strange silence filled the forest. Even the birds seemed to know that something sacred was about to happen.
I had seen the Buddha smile at beggars and kings alike. I had heard his voice teach farmers and warriors that all life is precious and that clinging to things—wealth, power, even our own bodies—only brought suffering. But in those final moments, it became clear to me in a way no talk or teaching ever had.
Ananda was weeping. Though he had served the Buddha faithfully for 25 years, he was not yet free of sorrow.
“Do not grieve, Ananda,” the Buddha said gently. “Everything that arises must also pass away. That is the nature of all things.”
Then he turned to all of us who had gathered—hundreds of monks young and old, and even laypeople who had traveled far to see him one last time. He looked at each of us, not with sadness, but with deep compassion.
His final words were simple, but they held the weight of a lifetime of wisdom.
“Behold, O monks,” he said, “all conditioned things are subject to decay. Strive diligently with awareness.”
At first, I didn’t understand. What did it mean to “strive diligently with awareness”? Wasn’t just being kind enough? Wasn’t sitting in meditation enough?
But after the Buddha passed into Parinirvana—a state beyond suffering, beyond birth and death—I sat under the sala trees and thought about his words. I realized he was telling us not to waste time. Life was always changing. The body would weaken, loved ones would come and go, the seasons would pass. Nothing stayed the same—and that was okay.
The peace I saw in the Buddha's face as he passed—that came from truly understanding this. From letting go of the craving that keeps us chained to suffering. From showing deep compassion, even in his last breath.
Many years have passed since then. I am no longer the wide-eyed novice I once was. But I still remember his voice, his gaze, and that final teaching.
And each morning, as I wake and breathe in the new day, I whisper his words to myself:
“All things decay. Be mindful. Work toward awakening.”
That day under the sala trees, I began that path—and I have walked it ever since.
