You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there, just a humble monk, head shaved, robes worn thin with time. I had followed the teachings of the Blessed One, the Buddha, for many years. I had seen kings bow before him and thieves turn from their ways. But what happened with the Silent Monk changed everything—even for me.
The Buddha, whose full name was Siddhartha Gautama, had once been a prince. He left behind his palace life in search of truth and found enlightenment under the Bodhi tree. He spent the rest of his life traveling across India, teaching the Dharma—the pathway to end suffering and reach Nirvana.
One morning, we were staying near a village known for its loud debates and boastful teachers. Local monks would argue for hours about whose teachings were best, often in front of crowds eager for entertainment. But among them was one monk who said nothing.
His name was Tissa. He came from a respected family in Savatthi, a busy city filled with merchants and scholars. But when Tissa took the vows of monkhood, he became deeply serious. Perhaps too serious. He never spoke—not even to greet other monks. Some said he thought he was too holy. Others believed he simply preferred silence.
One day, a group of monks complained to the Buddha. “Tissa refuses to speak with anyone,” they said. “He rejects our fellowship. He breaks the harmony of the Sangha.” The Sangha was our community of monks and nuns, and unity was important.
So the Buddha, calm as the Ganges River at dawn, came to speak with Tissa. We were all there, gathered in a circle under a banyan tree.
“Tissa,” said the Buddha gently, “why do you not speak to your fellow monks?”
And for the first time in months, Tissa opened his mouth. “Blessed One,” he said with a bow, “I am afraid. When I speak, I feel anger arise, or pride when others agree with me. I feel sadness when others do not understand. So, I have chosen to be silent—to protect my mind and my practice.”
There was silence.
Then the Buddha nodded. “It is true that careless words can harm the mind. But spoken words, when mindful and gentle, can also be a gift. Silence can be golden—but only when it comes from wisdom, not from fear or pride.”
Tissa looked down. “Then what is the right way, Blessed One?”
The Buddha smiled, the kind of smile that made you feel like a lotus blooming in the sun. “Speak only when your words are more beautiful than silence. Be silent only when your silence is rooted in compassion. Let your actions flow from mindfulness—not fear.”
From that day on, Tissa began to change. He still spoke rarely, but when he did, his words were calm and kind. He helped resolve disputes between monks, comforted the sick in silence, and taught through his example.
And something shifted in the Sangha. The other monks stopped speaking just to win arguments. They learned to listen more, and the village itself became quieter, more peaceful, day by day.
The ripple effect of that one mindful act—Tissa’s bravery to speak, and the Buddha’s wisdom—taught us all that silence and speech are both tools. What matters is the heart behind them.
I walked away from that banyan tree feeling lighter. At last, I understood that compassion does not always need words, and detachment is not about neglect—it is about knowing when to hold on, and when to let go. And that, to me, was the sound of true wisdom.
You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there, just a humble monk, head shaved, robes worn thin with time. I had followed the teachings of the Blessed One, the Buddha, for many years. I had seen kings bow before him and thieves turn from their ways. But what happened with the Silent Monk changed everything—even for me.
The Buddha, whose full name was Siddhartha Gautama, had once been a prince. He left behind his palace life in search of truth and found enlightenment under the Bodhi tree. He spent the rest of his life traveling across India, teaching the Dharma—the pathway to end suffering and reach Nirvana.
One morning, we were staying near a village known for its loud debates and boastful teachers. Local monks would argue for hours about whose teachings were best, often in front of crowds eager for entertainment. But among them was one monk who said nothing.
His name was Tissa. He came from a respected family in Savatthi, a busy city filled with merchants and scholars. But when Tissa took the vows of monkhood, he became deeply serious. Perhaps too serious. He never spoke—not even to greet other monks. Some said he thought he was too holy. Others believed he simply preferred silence.
One day, a group of monks complained to the Buddha. “Tissa refuses to speak with anyone,” they said. “He rejects our fellowship. He breaks the harmony of the Sangha.” The Sangha was our community of monks and nuns, and unity was important.
So the Buddha, calm as the Ganges River at dawn, came to speak with Tissa. We were all there, gathered in a circle under a banyan tree.
“Tissa,” said the Buddha gently, “why do you not speak to your fellow monks?”
And for the first time in months, Tissa opened his mouth. “Blessed One,” he said with a bow, “I am afraid. When I speak, I feel anger arise, or pride when others agree with me. I feel sadness when others do not understand. So, I have chosen to be silent—to protect my mind and my practice.”
There was silence.
Then the Buddha nodded. “It is true that careless words can harm the mind. But spoken words, when mindful and gentle, can also be a gift. Silence can be golden—but only when it comes from wisdom, not from fear or pride.”
Tissa looked down. “Then what is the right way, Blessed One?”
The Buddha smiled, the kind of smile that made you feel like a lotus blooming in the sun. “Speak only when your words are more beautiful than silence. Be silent only when your silence is rooted in compassion. Let your actions flow from mindfulness—not fear.”
From that day on, Tissa began to change. He still spoke rarely, but when he did, his words were calm and kind. He helped resolve disputes between monks, comforted the sick in silence, and taught through his example.
And something shifted in the Sangha. The other monks stopped speaking just to win arguments. They learned to listen more, and the village itself became quieter, more peaceful, day by day.
The ripple effect of that one mindful act—Tissa’s bravery to speak, and the Buddha’s wisdom—taught us all that silence and speech are both tools. What matters is the heart behind them.
I walked away from that banyan tree feeling lighter. At last, I understood that compassion does not always need words, and detachment is not about neglect—it is about knowing when to hold on, and when to let go. And that, to me, was the sound of true wisdom.
