The morning mist still hung low over the river when I took my small fishing boat out, oars slicing quietly through the water. My name is Suda. I was once a hot-headed young boatman from a village on the banks of the Ganges, not far from where the Buddha himself once walked. Back then, I believed strength and quick words were all I needed to get by. But one quiet morning changed everything for me.
I had just cast my net and was sipping my tea when something thumped hard against the side of my boat. The jolt made me spill the hot liquid across my lap. I leapt to my feet, shouting, “Who dares crash into me like that?” My voice echoed over the still water.
I looked over the edge, expecting to see a careless boy or a disrespectful trader in a canoe. Instead, I saw an empty boat—no oars, no owner. Just some old rope and a jug rolling in the bottom.
Anger rose in me anyway. I yelled at the boat as though it could hear me, cursing the unseen fool who had left it adrift. But then, silence followed—and something odd happened. I laughed. I laughed at myself, alone and furious with something that had no intention.
That afternoon, when I returned to the village, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Why had I become so angry over a boat? It wasn’t even trying to annoy me. It was empty. Just drifting, like leaves on a stream.
I remembered the old stories my grandmother used to tell me when I was a child sitting by the fire. She once told me a tale from the Jataka—ancient stories of the Buddha’s past lives. In that tale, a wise man is meditating on a boat when another boat bumps into his. At first, he is angry—his peace disturbed. But then he sees it’s an empty boat. No one to blame. And just like that, his anger disappears.
The story stuck in my mind. What if I treated every insult, every harsh word, like that empty boat? Perhaps the insult wasn’t truly aimed at me. Perhaps it came from someone’s own pain, drifting into my space. Maybe the only power I had was how I responded.
From that day on, I tried to carry myself differently. When someone at the market pushed past me, I let it go. When a rude trader shouted unfair prices at me, I smiled and walked away. Slowly, I found peace—not just in the river, but within myself.
I began to understand the teachings of the Buddha—not as a set of rules, but as a way of seeing. Mindfulness helped me pause, compassion let me forgive, and detachment gave me freedom from my ego. It wasn’t weakness to stay calm. It was wisdom.
Years later, I became a teacher for young boys who came to the riverside to learn. I showed them how to fish, but I also taught them the lesson of the empty boat.
“This,” I would say, pointing to the wide, quiet river, “is where your anger floats. Let it drift. Not every collision means war. Sometimes, there’s no one in the boat at all.”
And so, I walked the path—not as a perfect man, but as one who had learned that humility mattered more than certainty.
That morning on the river didn’t make me rich. But it made me wise.
The morning mist still hung low over the river when I took my small fishing boat out, oars slicing quietly through the water. My name is Suda. I was once a hot-headed young boatman from a village on the banks of the Ganges, not far from where the Buddha himself once walked. Back then, I believed strength and quick words were all I needed to get by. But one quiet morning changed everything for me.
I had just cast my net and was sipping my tea when something thumped hard against the side of my boat. The jolt made me spill the hot liquid across my lap. I leapt to my feet, shouting, “Who dares crash into me like that?” My voice echoed over the still water.
I looked over the edge, expecting to see a careless boy or a disrespectful trader in a canoe. Instead, I saw an empty boat—no oars, no owner. Just some old rope and a jug rolling in the bottom.
Anger rose in me anyway. I yelled at the boat as though it could hear me, cursing the unseen fool who had left it adrift. But then, silence followed—and something odd happened. I laughed. I laughed at myself, alone and furious with something that had no intention.
That afternoon, when I returned to the village, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Why had I become so angry over a boat? It wasn’t even trying to annoy me. It was empty. Just drifting, like leaves on a stream.
I remembered the old stories my grandmother used to tell me when I was a child sitting by the fire. She once told me a tale from the Jataka—ancient stories of the Buddha’s past lives. In that tale, a wise man is meditating on a boat when another boat bumps into his. At first, he is angry—his peace disturbed. But then he sees it’s an empty boat. No one to blame. And just like that, his anger disappears.
The story stuck in my mind. What if I treated every insult, every harsh word, like that empty boat? Perhaps the insult wasn’t truly aimed at me. Perhaps it came from someone’s own pain, drifting into my space. Maybe the only power I had was how I responded.
From that day on, I tried to carry myself differently. When someone at the market pushed past me, I let it go. When a rude trader shouted unfair prices at me, I smiled and walked away. Slowly, I found peace—not just in the river, but within myself.
I began to understand the teachings of the Buddha—not as a set of rules, but as a way of seeing. Mindfulness helped me pause, compassion let me forgive, and detachment gave me freedom from my ego. It wasn’t weakness to stay calm. It was wisdom.
Years later, I became a teacher for young boys who came to the riverside to learn. I showed them how to fish, but I also taught them the lesson of the empty boat.
“This,” I would say, pointing to the wide, quiet river, “is where your anger floats. Let it drift. Not every collision means war. Sometimes, there’s no one in the boat at all.”
And so, I walked the path—not as a perfect man, but as one who had learned that humility mattered more than certainty.
That morning on the river didn’t make me rich. But it made me wise.
