I was just a boy when I heard the story that would change how I saw suffering. My name is Tatha, son of a potter in the town of Rajagaha, an ancient city in India surrounded by hills and hot winds. My father made cooking pots and water jars, and I helped him carry them to the market every day. I had never met the Buddha personally, but his name was spoken with great respect in our home.
One day, after an argument with another boy that left me burning with anger and shame, I ran to the monastery on the hill. I often went there to listen to the monks chant or talk about the Buddha’s teachings. That day, an elder monk named Venerable Ananda saw me sitting under the sala tree, arms crossed and eyes still hot with tears. Venerable Ananda was one of the Buddha’s closest followers, known for his gentle voice and deep memory of teachings.
He sat beside me and said, “Tatha, do you want to hear what the Blessed One once said about pain?”
I nodded, sniffling.
He smiled kindly. “The Buddha taught about the two arrows. Imagine you are struck by an arrow—that is the first pain. It hurts, yes, and no person could avoid feeling it. But if you then take another arrow and stab yourself again in the same spot, is that not a second pain?”
I blinked, confused. “Why would anyone do that?”
“They wouldn’t on purpose," he said, "but we all do it with our minds. When something painful happens—the first arrow—we feel it. That is natural. But then we think about it over and over. ‘Why me? I shouldn’t have said that. They are so unfair.’ These thoughts are the second arrow, Tatha. They turn a single pain into suffering.”
I looked at the stone path in front of us. I had been stabbed by the first arrow when the boy teased me in front of the others. But the second arrow—I had thrown that one myself again and again all the way up the hill.
“How do I stop the second arrow?” I whispered.
“Mindfulness,” Venerable Ananda said. “When you become aware of the first arrow, breathe. Know the pain is there, but do not feed it with anger, regret, or blame. Let it be. Feel it, name it, and let it move on.”
I breathed deeply, watching a leaf twirl to the ground beside me.
“Even the Blessed One felt pain,” the monk continued, placing his weathered hand on mine. “But he did not cling to it. That is the difference between suffering and peace.”
That day, the sun began setting softly over the red hills, and I stayed there, listening to the wind in the trees, my anger slowly drifting away.
Now, many years later, I am a monk myself. And whenever a young novice comes to me with tears in his eyes and fire in his heart, I tell them about the Two Arrows. Not because pain will never strike us, but because we do not need to strike ourselves again in return.
In that, I learned the Buddha’s compassion—that true wisdom lies not in escaping pain, but in not adding to it. And that is a lesson that, like clay on a potter’s wheel, shaped who I became.
I was just a boy when I heard the story that would change how I saw suffering. My name is Tatha, son of a potter in the town of Rajagaha, an ancient city in India surrounded by hills and hot winds. My father made cooking pots and water jars, and I helped him carry them to the market every day. I had never met the Buddha personally, but his name was spoken with great respect in our home.
One day, after an argument with another boy that left me burning with anger and shame, I ran to the monastery on the hill. I often went there to listen to the monks chant or talk about the Buddha’s teachings. That day, an elder monk named Venerable Ananda saw me sitting under the sala tree, arms crossed and eyes still hot with tears. Venerable Ananda was one of the Buddha’s closest followers, known for his gentle voice and deep memory of teachings.
He sat beside me and said, “Tatha, do you want to hear what the Blessed One once said about pain?”
I nodded, sniffling.
He smiled kindly. “The Buddha taught about the two arrows. Imagine you are struck by an arrow—that is the first pain. It hurts, yes, and no person could avoid feeling it. But if you then take another arrow and stab yourself again in the same spot, is that not a second pain?”
I blinked, confused. “Why would anyone do that?”
“They wouldn’t on purpose," he said, "but we all do it with our minds. When something painful happens—the first arrow—we feel it. That is natural. But then we think about it over and over. ‘Why me? I shouldn’t have said that. They are so unfair.’ These thoughts are the second arrow, Tatha. They turn a single pain into suffering.”
I looked at the stone path in front of us. I had been stabbed by the first arrow when the boy teased me in front of the others. But the second arrow—I had thrown that one myself again and again all the way up the hill.
“How do I stop the second arrow?” I whispered.
“Mindfulness,” Venerable Ananda said. “When you become aware of the first arrow, breathe. Know the pain is there, but do not feed it with anger, regret, or blame. Let it be. Feel it, name it, and let it move on.”
I breathed deeply, watching a leaf twirl to the ground beside me.
“Even the Blessed One felt pain,” the monk continued, placing his weathered hand on mine. “But he did not cling to it. That is the difference between suffering and peace.”
That day, the sun began setting softly over the red hills, and I stayed there, listening to the wind in the trees, my anger slowly drifting away.
Now, many years later, I am a monk myself. And whenever a young novice comes to me with tears in his eyes and fire in his heart, I tell them about the Two Arrows. Not because pain will never strike us, but because we do not need to strike ourselves again in return.
In that, I learned the Buddha’s compassion—that true wisdom lies not in escaping pain, but in not adding to it. And that is a lesson that, like clay on a potter’s wheel, shaped who I became.
