You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there the day the turtle tried to fly.
I was just a young monk, new to the monastery nestled on the quiet banks of the Yamuna River. Our lives were peaceful, wrapped in morning chants, lessons from our teacher, and the rustling of Bodhi leaves in the midday breeze. But one particular story from my master stayed with me more than any other. It wasn’t about kings or battles or the birth of the Buddha. It was about a turtle.
Yes, a turtle—and two geese.
Long ago, there lived a talkative turtle named Kambu. He lived by a small, drying pond on the edge of a quiet forest. The rains had not come in many seasons, and the once-deep pool had become a muddy puddle. Kambu, wise but often too eager to speak, worried for his life.
Two visiting geese, majestic and white as clouds, heard Kambu sigh as they landed near the muddy water. Their names were Mahila and Sanchira, and they had flown in from the Himalayan lakes far to the north. Moved by Kambu’s plight, the geese listened patiently to his worries.
“I must leave here,” Kambu said. “But how? I cannot fly."
Mahila, the older of the two geese, tilted her head thoughtfully. “We can carry you with us,” she said. “You will hold a stick with your teeth while we carry the ends with our beaks.”
“But you must promise,” Sanchira warned, “no matter what happens, do not open your mouth—not even a single word. If you do, you will fall.”
Kambu agreed.
The next morning, villagers gathered outside their homes, jaws dropping in awe as they saw the strange trio soaring through the sky—a turtle clutched firmly to a stick, flying high with two geese. Kambu felt proud. But pride is a heavy thing. And heavier still is the urge to reply when people speak of you.
“Look! A flying turtle!” someone shouted from below.
“How clever the geese must be to carry him!”
Not a word about Kambu’s brilliance or his idea to fly. Kambu’s jaw tightened. His heart burned. Before he could stop himself, he shouted, “It was MY idea!”
And with that, he tumbled through the air and crashed to the ground.
Our teacher looked at us young monks then, and we stared, wide-eyed, waiting for the rest of the tale. But that was it. That was the end.
“What do you think happened to the turtle?” he asked.
“He died,” someone whispered.
“No,” our teacher said gently. “He learned.”
He paused, then added, “Kambu’s fall was not just from the sky—but from mindfulness. He let his own pride and impatience lead him away from wisdom. Had he been silent, had he let go of needing to be acknowledged, he would have seen the mountain lakes and clear skies. But his words, spoken without awareness, chained him to suffering.”
That day, I learned that true mindfulness is not just silence, but the wisdom to know when to speak—and when to simply let go.
I walked back to my cell thinking deeply—not only about the turtle, but about all the moments I had spoken out of pride, anger, or impatience. The birds had offered him freedom, but only detachment could have made it last.
Since that teaching, I have held to one truth: freedom is not found through escape, but through release.
And sometimes, the strongest wisdom is found… in simply keeping our mouths closed.
You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there the day the turtle tried to fly.
I was just a young monk, new to the monastery nestled on the quiet banks of the Yamuna River. Our lives were peaceful, wrapped in morning chants, lessons from our teacher, and the rustling of Bodhi leaves in the midday breeze. But one particular story from my master stayed with me more than any other. It wasn’t about kings or battles or the birth of the Buddha. It was about a turtle.
Yes, a turtle—and two geese.
Long ago, there lived a talkative turtle named Kambu. He lived by a small, drying pond on the edge of a quiet forest. The rains had not come in many seasons, and the once-deep pool had become a muddy puddle. Kambu, wise but often too eager to speak, worried for his life.
Two visiting geese, majestic and white as clouds, heard Kambu sigh as they landed near the muddy water. Their names were Mahila and Sanchira, and they had flown in from the Himalayan lakes far to the north. Moved by Kambu’s plight, the geese listened patiently to his worries.
“I must leave here,” Kambu said. “But how? I cannot fly."
Mahila, the older of the two geese, tilted her head thoughtfully. “We can carry you with us,” she said. “You will hold a stick with your teeth while we carry the ends with our beaks.”
“But you must promise,” Sanchira warned, “no matter what happens, do not open your mouth—not even a single word. If you do, you will fall.”
Kambu agreed.
The next morning, villagers gathered outside their homes, jaws dropping in awe as they saw the strange trio soaring through the sky—a turtle clutched firmly to a stick, flying high with two geese. Kambu felt proud. But pride is a heavy thing. And heavier still is the urge to reply when people speak of you.
“Look! A flying turtle!” someone shouted from below.
“How clever the geese must be to carry him!”
Not a word about Kambu’s brilliance or his idea to fly. Kambu’s jaw tightened. His heart burned. Before he could stop himself, he shouted, “It was MY idea!”
And with that, he tumbled through the air and crashed to the ground.
Our teacher looked at us young monks then, and we stared, wide-eyed, waiting for the rest of the tale. But that was it. That was the end.
“What do you think happened to the turtle?” he asked.
“He died,” someone whispered.
“No,” our teacher said gently. “He learned.”
He paused, then added, “Kambu’s fall was not just from the sky—but from mindfulness. He let his own pride and impatience lead him away from wisdom. Had he been silent, had he let go of needing to be acknowledged, he would have seen the mountain lakes and clear skies. But his words, spoken without awareness, chained him to suffering.”
That day, I learned that true mindfulness is not just silence, but the wisdom to know when to speak—and when to simply let go.
I walked back to my cell thinking deeply—not only about the turtle, but about all the moments I had spoken out of pride, anger, or impatience. The birds had offered him freedom, but only detachment could have made it last.
Since that teaching, I have held to one truth: freedom is not found through escape, but through release.
And sometimes, the strongest wisdom is found… in simply keeping our mouths closed.
