I was just a young boy, maybe ten or eleven summers old, when I followed my uncle to the edge of the mango grove where the Blessed One, the Buddha, was teaching. My uncle was a potter, and I was merely his helper, but that morning he told me, “Today, boy, you will hear more truth than all the pottery we make in a year.” I didn’t understand what he meant. But I followed, carrying his clay bowls, and found myself at the feet of Siddhartha Gautama—the Buddha.
Siddhartha Gautama was once a prince of the Shakya clan, born in the city of Kapilavastu. But he gave up his purple robes, his palace, and his royal life in search of a greater truth. After years of wandering, meditation, and deep thought, he became “the awakened one”—the Buddha. People traveled from across villages just to hear his words.
That day, a warrior stepped forward from the crowd. He wore a thick leather belt and had a sword at his side, the kind I’d only seen on temple statues. He looked troubled. My uncle whispered, “That is Asoka, a nobleman known for his fierce pride.” Asoka bowed deeply and asked the Buddha, “Master, I have questions about the soul, about rebirth, about the cosmos. Where does the soul go after death? Does it live on or vanish? Does the world have an end?”
I leaned forward eagerly, expecting the Buddha to answer right away, as he often did with riddles or stories. But instead, the Buddha gazed at him calmly and said nothing for a long moment. Then he spoke.
“Asoka,” he said gently, “imagine a man struck by a poisoned arrow. Before allowing the surgeon to remove it, he demands to know who shot it, what kind of bow was used, whether the feathers on the arrow were of hawk or heron, and what the wood was carved from. By the time he finds his answers, the poison would have spread too deeply. He would die.”
The warrior blinked, as did many in the crowd. Even I didn’t fully understand at first.
The Buddha continued, “Spending this life chasing answers about unknowable things is like that man. Right now, your arrow—your suffering—is what needs removing. We must understand suffering, its cause, and how to end it. That is what I teach, for that is what leads to peace.”
There was silence. Even the wind seemed to pause.
Asoka bowed again, but this time with more humility. He said nothing, but I saw a tear in his eye. Perhaps all his life, his sword had been his answer. And now he heard more wisdom in a simple story than in a hundred battles.
I never forgot that day. I realized that sometimes, the greatest wisdom wasn’t about getting more answers—but letting go of the questions that don’t heal the heart.
I carried that truth with me even as I grew older—not just in the clay of my pots, but in every choice I made.
That day, the Buddha didn’t explain the universe.
He simply healed it—one poisoned arrow at a time.
I was just a young boy, maybe ten or eleven summers old, when I followed my uncle to the edge of the mango grove where the Blessed One, the Buddha, was teaching. My uncle was a potter, and I was merely his helper, but that morning he told me, “Today, boy, you will hear more truth than all the pottery we make in a year.” I didn’t understand what he meant. But I followed, carrying his clay bowls, and found myself at the feet of Siddhartha Gautama—the Buddha.
Siddhartha Gautama was once a prince of the Shakya clan, born in the city of Kapilavastu. But he gave up his purple robes, his palace, and his royal life in search of a greater truth. After years of wandering, meditation, and deep thought, he became “the awakened one”—the Buddha. People traveled from across villages just to hear his words.
That day, a warrior stepped forward from the crowd. He wore a thick leather belt and had a sword at his side, the kind I’d only seen on temple statues. He looked troubled. My uncle whispered, “That is Asoka, a nobleman known for his fierce pride.” Asoka bowed deeply and asked the Buddha, “Master, I have questions about the soul, about rebirth, about the cosmos. Where does the soul go after death? Does it live on or vanish? Does the world have an end?”
I leaned forward eagerly, expecting the Buddha to answer right away, as he often did with riddles or stories. But instead, the Buddha gazed at him calmly and said nothing for a long moment. Then he spoke.
“Asoka,” he said gently, “imagine a man struck by a poisoned arrow. Before allowing the surgeon to remove it, he demands to know who shot it, what kind of bow was used, whether the feathers on the arrow were of hawk or heron, and what the wood was carved from. By the time he finds his answers, the poison would have spread too deeply. He would die.”
The warrior blinked, as did many in the crowd. Even I didn’t fully understand at first.
The Buddha continued, “Spending this life chasing answers about unknowable things is like that man. Right now, your arrow—your suffering—is what needs removing. We must understand suffering, its cause, and how to end it. That is what I teach, for that is what leads to peace.”
There was silence. Even the wind seemed to pause.
Asoka bowed again, but this time with more humility. He said nothing, but I saw a tear in his eye. Perhaps all his life, his sword had been his answer. And now he heard more wisdom in a simple story than in a hundred battles.
I never forgot that day. I realized that sometimes, the greatest wisdom wasn’t about getting more answers—but letting go of the questions that don’t heal the heart.
I carried that truth with me even as I grew older—not just in the clay of my pots, but in every choice I made.
That day, the Buddha didn’t explain the universe.
He simply healed it—one poisoned arrow at a time.
