I was just thirteen when I first heard the story of the poisoned fan. My name is Kavi, the son of a merchant in the great city of Sāvatthī, where traders came from distant lands and the streets buzzed with strange languages. But it was not spices or silk that changed my life—it was an old monk’s tale, told beneath the Bodhi tree at Jetavana Monastery.
The monk’s name was Anuruddha, one of the beloved disciples of the Buddha, known for having the divine eye—the ability to see truths beyond the ordinary. He had returned from his journey to spend the rainy season teaching young learners like me. That afternoon, he sat cross-legged in the shade as the wind stirred the leaves around him.
He began, “There once was a prince who wished to harm the Blessed One, the Buddha. The prince believed that if the Buddha disappeared, the people would stop following his teachings, which the prince thought were dangerous because they spoke of letting go—letting go of greed, of power, of desire. The prince, blinded by craving for control, ordered his servants to prepare a fan laced with poison. It was a gift, wrapped in silk, meant to kill with one gentle breeze. He sent it with a servant who bowed low and offered it to the Enlightened One.”
I leaned forward. Everyone knew the Buddha was no ordinary teacher. Born Prince Siddhartha Gautama, he had given up his palace life after seeing suffering in the world—old age, sickness, and death. He had gone into the forest, meditated under a Bodhi tree, and become awakened, the Buddha—one who had seen the truth of all things.
“What did the Buddha do?” I asked.
Anuruddha smiled gently. “The Buddha accepted the fan. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t speak ill of the prince. He simply held it and looked at it in silence. His mindfulness was so deep that he saw the danger without fear. And then, he placed the fan aside and said, ‘Just as a fire consumes what is thrown into it, so too does wisdom consume the poison of ignorance.’”
The silence after those words rang louder than a bell. Even the birds had stilled.
Anuruddha continued, “The prince waited, wondering when the news of the Buddha’s death would reach him. But days passed, then weeks. The Buddha continued to teach. Eventually, the prince could bear it no longer. He came to the monastery himself and saw the Buddha, alive and calm as always.”
I remember asking, “Did the prince get punished?”
“No,” Anuruddha said. “But something far more powerful happened. The prince broke down, tears covering his face. ‘Why didn’t you expose me?’ he cried. The Buddha answered, ‘Because anger only breeds more anger. But silence… silence reveals the truth of a person’s heart.’ And at that moment, the prince was freed—not from punishment, but from the craving that ruled his soul.”
Anuruddha looked at us each in turn. “This is the nature of mindfulness. True power lies not in destroying enemies, but in freeing the mind from hatred.”
That day, something shifted inside me. I had always wanted to be a powerful man like my father. But I realized I didn’t want power over others. I wanted freedom from the traps of craving. I wanted peace.
So, I began to practice sitting silently each morning, watching my breath, feeling the wind move through the trees. Not much changed at first. But slowly, I began to understand what the Buddha had seen. Craving is like poison, subtle and silent. And only through awareness—like the Buddha’s calm gaze upon the deadly fan—can we be truly free.
I walked away from that lesson no longer dreaming of gold or glory. I wanted only to see clearly, like the Buddha—able to turn poison into peace with nothing more than silence.
I was just thirteen when I first heard the story of the poisoned fan. My name is Kavi, the son of a merchant in the great city of Sāvatthī, where traders came from distant lands and the streets buzzed with strange languages. But it was not spices or silk that changed my life—it was an old monk’s tale, told beneath the Bodhi tree at Jetavana Monastery.
The monk’s name was Anuruddha, one of the beloved disciples of the Buddha, known for having the divine eye—the ability to see truths beyond the ordinary. He had returned from his journey to spend the rainy season teaching young learners like me. That afternoon, he sat cross-legged in the shade as the wind stirred the leaves around him.
He began, “There once was a prince who wished to harm the Blessed One, the Buddha. The prince believed that if the Buddha disappeared, the people would stop following his teachings, which the prince thought were dangerous because they spoke of letting go—letting go of greed, of power, of desire. The prince, blinded by craving for control, ordered his servants to prepare a fan laced with poison. It was a gift, wrapped in silk, meant to kill with one gentle breeze. He sent it with a servant who bowed low and offered it to the Enlightened One.”
I leaned forward. Everyone knew the Buddha was no ordinary teacher. Born Prince Siddhartha Gautama, he had given up his palace life after seeing suffering in the world—old age, sickness, and death. He had gone into the forest, meditated under a Bodhi tree, and become awakened, the Buddha—one who had seen the truth of all things.
“What did the Buddha do?” I asked.
Anuruddha smiled gently. “The Buddha accepted the fan. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t speak ill of the prince. He simply held it and looked at it in silence. His mindfulness was so deep that he saw the danger without fear. And then, he placed the fan aside and said, ‘Just as a fire consumes what is thrown into it, so too does wisdom consume the poison of ignorance.’”
The silence after those words rang louder than a bell. Even the birds had stilled.
Anuruddha continued, “The prince waited, wondering when the news of the Buddha’s death would reach him. But days passed, then weeks. The Buddha continued to teach. Eventually, the prince could bear it no longer. He came to the monastery himself and saw the Buddha, alive and calm as always.”
I remember asking, “Did the prince get punished?”
“No,” Anuruddha said. “But something far more powerful happened. The prince broke down, tears covering his face. ‘Why didn’t you expose me?’ he cried. The Buddha answered, ‘Because anger only breeds more anger. But silence… silence reveals the truth of a person’s heart.’ And at that moment, the prince was freed—not from punishment, but from the craving that ruled his soul.”
Anuruddha looked at us each in turn. “This is the nature of mindfulness. True power lies not in destroying enemies, but in freeing the mind from hatred.”
That day, something shifted inside me. I had always wanted to be a powerful man like my father. But I realized I didn’t want power over others. I wanted freedom from the traps of craving. I wanted peace.
So, I began to practice sitting silently each morning, watching my breath, feeling the wind move through the trees. Not much changed at first. But slowly, I began to understand what the Buddha had seen. Craving is like poison, subtle and silent. And only through awareness—like the Buddha’s calm gaze upon the deadly fan—can we be truly free.
I walked away from that lesson no longer dreaming of gold or glory. I wanted only to see clearly, like the Buddha—able to turn poison into peace with nothing more than silence.
