I was just a young boy sweeping the dusty steps of the monastery when I heard the tale that would shape my heart forever. My name is Pema, and I was an orphan raised by the kind monks at the Nalanda Monastery in ancient India, a place where scrolls whispered secrets of the Buddha and bells echoed through the mountains at dawn. I never knew my parents, but I knew the teachings of the Dharma like I knew the path to the morning well.
One morning, as orange light slid across the temple floor, old Monk Tenzin called all the novices together. He was a man whose back had curved with time, and whose eyes looked beyond what the rest of us could see.
“I will tell you the Parable of the Mirror,” he said, his voice calm as the lake after morning prayers.
We sat silent, cross-legged, as Tenzin began.
"Long ago, in a quiet village nestled beside a forest, lived a prince who had everything but peace. Prince Devajit was admired for his beauty and wealth, but every time he looked into a mirror, he frowned. His features were perfect, yet his eyes betrayed unease. He would whisper, 'This face is not enough. Why am I still not happy?'"
Tenzin stroked his long peppered beard and continued.
"One day, while wandering in the forest, Devajit came upon a poor man, sitting by a stream. The man had only a clay bowl and a simple robe, yet his face glowed with joy. Curious, the prince asked, ‘You have nothing, yet you smile. I have everything, yet I am restless. What is your secret?’
'Would you like to see?' said the poor man. He reached into his robe and pulled out a small mirror made of polished bronze.
The prince looked into it—but instead of seeing his face, he saw the faces of everyone he had walked past that day: a tired servant, a crying child, a hungry monk. The prince shivered. 'This isn’t a mirror. This is magic!'
'No,' replied the poor man. 'This is the Mirror of Mindfulness. It shows not your face, but how your presence shapes the world around you. Your suffering is not a flaw in your face, but a flaw in your gaze. You always look only at yourself.'"
Tenzin paused and looked around at us. “The prince wept that day—not in sorrow, but awakening. He stopped seeking beauty in reflections and found it in compassion. He gave his riches to the hungry, built shelter for the homeless, and lived simply, with others always in his thoughts. And do you know what happened?”
Tenzin smiled.
“He looked in the mirror once more, and for the first time, he saw peace.”
I sat for a long time after the story ended, the bristles of my broom still in my hand. That night, I walked quietly to the well, looked into the moonlit water, and watched not for my face—but for who I could be.
That day, I learned the mirror doesn’t ask anything. But it can change everything—when we learn to look with wisdom, not attachment. And from then on, I tried to live not with eyes full of self, but with a heart full of others.
I was just a young boy sweeping the dusty steps of the monastery when I heard the tale that would shape my heart forever. My name is Pema, and I was an orphan raised by the kind monks at the Nalanda Monastery in ancient India, a place where scrolls whispered secrets of the Buddha and bells echoed through the mountains at dawn. I never knew my parents, but I knew the teachings of the Dharma like I knew the path to the morning well.
One morning, as orange light slid across the temple floor, old Monk Tenzin called all the novices together. He was a man whose back had curved with time, and whose eyes looked beyond what the rest of us could see.
“I will tell you the Parable of the Mirror,” he said, his voice calm as the lake after morning prayers.
We sat silent, cross-legged, as Tenzin began.
"Long ago, in a quiet village nestled beside a forest, lived a prince who had everything but peace. Prince Devajit was admired for his beauty and wealth, but every time he looked into a mirror, he frowned. His features were perfect, yet his eyes betrayed unease. He would whisper, 'This face is not enough. Why am I still not happy?'"
Tenzin stroked his long peppered beard and continued.
"One day, while wandering in the forest, Devajit came upon a poor man, sitting by a stream. The man had only a clay bowl and a simple robe, yet his face glowed with joy. Curious, the prince asked, ‘You have nothing, yet you smile. I have everything, yet I am restless. What is your secret?’
'Would you like to see?' said the poor man. He reached into his robe and pulled out a small mirror made of polished bronze.
The prince looked into it—but instead of seeing his face, he saw the faces of everyone he had walked past that day: a tired servant, a crying child, a hungry monk. The prince shivered. 'This isn’t a mirror. This is magic!'
'No,' replied the poor man. 'This is the Mirror of Mindfulness. It shows not your face, but how your presence shapes the world around you. Your suffering is not a flaw in your face, but a flaw in your gaze. You always look only at yourself.'"
Tenzin paused and looked around at us. “The prince wept that day—not in sorrow, but awakening. He stopped seeking beauty in reflections and found it in compassion. He gave his riches to the hungry, built shelter for the homeless, and lived simply, with others always in his thoughts. And do you know what happened?”
Tenzin smiled.
“He looked in the mirror once more, and for the first time, he saw peace.”
I sat for a long time after the story ended, the bristles of my broom still in my hand. That night, I walked quietly to the well, looked into the moonlit water, and watched not for my face—but for who I could be.
That day, I learned the mirror doesn’t ask anything. But it can change everything—when we learn to look with wisdom, not attachment. And from then on, I tried to live not with eyes full of self, but with a heart full of others.
