“You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there the day the Blessed One sat beneath the neem tree—a dusty village road behind him, and a humble gift before him.”
My name is Punna. I was the carpenter’s daughter, born in a small village outside of Savatthi, a city in ancient India where many came to hear wise teachings. My father built plows and chariots, and I helped sweep the floors of our workshop. We had little, just enough wood and rice to get by. Every day at dawn, I carried water from the well and swept leaves from the path. My father always said, “Keep your hands busy, but your heart light.”
The day the Buddha arrived, our quiet village stirred with whispers. “The Awakened One,” they said. “The teacher who left his palace to end suffering.” I had heard stories of this man. Siddhartha Gautama—once a prince, now called Buddha—had given up riches and gone to seek truth. He studied with great teachers, lived with nothing, and sat in silence until he understood the path to peace. His teaching, they said, was a Middle Way—not too hard, not too easy.
Curious, I slipped away from our workshop and followed the trail leading to the neem tree. There was no golden robe or glowing light around him, just a calm presence, like a still pond. People sat in silence, listening. He spoke gently about suffering and how wanting too much—or too little—could hurt the heart.
My stomach growled. We hadn’t eaten since morning. I ran home and asked, “May I take some grain, Father?”
He looked surprised. “For whom?”
“For the teacher. He’s outside the village.”
My father hesitated, then nodded. “Take what little we have, and be grateful.”
With trembling hands, I cooked a small meal: rice and simple curried lentils. I placed it in a wooden bowl and carried it barefoot to where the Buddha sat. Everyone watched as I stepped forward—just a poor carpenter’s daughter.
I held out the bowl. “Please, sir,” I said, “Take this—though it is small.”
The Buddha bowed slightly and accepted it with both hands. “The gift offered with sincerity is the purest,” he said.
Then I did something bold. I sat beside him.
He didn’t send me away. He simply asked, “Why did you come?”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “There’s always something missing. I thought maybe… you knew what it was.”
He smiled kindly. “Emptiness is not always something to be filled. Sometimes, it is space for peace to enter.”
I didn’t understand it then—not fully—but I felt lighter. As if I didn’t need to run after more things to fill the quiet inside me. That moment—without gold, without goals—was a beginning.
Years passed. I never left the village. I kept sweeping the paths and boiling rice. But I watched each moment. I walked slowly. I gave freely. I followed the Middle Way, just like the Buddha taught that day.
Now, as an old woman, I look back on that bowl of rice and remember what changed—not the world around me, but the yearning within me. That day, I learned that wisdom doesn’t always thunder—it sometimes arrives in silence, when we are ready to receive it.
“You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there the day the Blessed One sat beneath the neem tree—a dusty village road behind him, and a humble gift before him.”
My name is Punna. I was the carpenter’s daughter, born in a small village outside of Savatthi, a city in ancient India where many came to hear wise teachings. My father built plows and chariots, and I helped sweep the floors of our workshop. We had little, just enough wood and rice to get by. Every day at dawn, I carried water from the well and swept leaves from the path. My father always said, “Keep your hands busy, but your heart light.”
The day the Buddha arrived, our quiet village stirred with whispers. “The Awakened One,” they said. “The teacher who left his palace to end suffering.” I had heard stories of this man. Siddhartha Gautama—once a prince, now called Buddha—had given up riches and gone to seek truth. He studied with great teachers, lived with nothing, and sat in silence until he understood the path to peace. His teaching, they said, was a Middle Way—not too hard, not too easy.
Curious, I slipped away from our workshop and followed the trail leading to the neem tree. There was no golden robe or glowing light around him, just a calm presence, like a still pond. People sat in silence, listening. He spoke gently about suffering and how wanting too much—or too little—could hurt the heart.
My stomach growled. We hadn’t eaten since morning. I ran home and asked, “May I take some grain, Father?”
He looked surprised. “For whom?”
“For the teacher. He’s outside the village.”
My father hesitated, then nodded. “Take what little we have, and be grateful.”
With trembling hands, I cooked a small meal: rice and simple curried lentils. I placed it in a wooden bowl and carried it barefoot to where the Buddha sat. Everyone watched as I stepped forward—just a poor carpenter’s daughter.
I held out the bowl. “Please, sir,” I said, “Take this—though it is small.”
The Buddha bowed slightly and accepted it with both hands. “The gift offered with sincerity is the purest,” he said.
Then I did something bold. I sat beside him.
He didn’t send me away. He simply asked, “Why did you come?”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “There’s always something missing. I thought maybe… you knew what it was.”
He smiled kindly. “Emptiness is not always something to be filled. Sometimes, it is space for peace to enter.”
I didn’t understand it then—not fully—but I felt lighter. As if I didn’t need to run after more things to fill the quiet inside me. That moment—without gold, without goals—was a beginning.
Years passed. I never left the village. I kept sweeping the paths and boiling rice. But I watched each moment. I walked slowly. I gave freely. I followed the Middle Way, just like the Buddha taught that day.
Now, as an old woman, I look back on that bowl of rice and remember what changed—not the world around me, but the yearning within me. That day, I learned that wisdom doesn’t always thunder—it sometimes arrives in silence, when we are ready to receive it.
