You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there the day the child sat by the river and changed everything.
It was early morning in the forest near Varanasi, long before the world became noisy with carts and footsteps. The mist lingered over the water like a whispered prayer. I was an old monk then, living in a simple hut not far from a community of truth-seekers—men and women who followed the teachings of the Buddha, the Enlightened One who had walked the earth over a hundred years before. Many who came here were monks in training, others confused travelers. But the one who taught me the most that year was not a monk... he was a child.
His name was Jaya. He was ten years old. His head had not yet been shaved, for he was visiting his uncle, Venerable Dassana, the most disciplined and quiet monk in our order. Jaya’s parents had sent him to the monastery for the summer, perhaps hoping he’d come back more obedient.
But children are not easily made silent. Jaya chattered constantly—about birds, about rice, about wanting to go home. His voice echoed off the forest trees and through the stone corridors, like a bell someone forgot to silence.
One afternoon, tired from chasing butterflies, Jaya wandered to the riverbank. I saw him from a distance, sitting cross-legged with his arms wrapped around his knees. His usual talk was gone. He was watching the water drift by. I approached slowly and sat beside him without speaking.
After a few minutes, he pointed. "Do you see that leaf, Bhante?" (He had taken to calling even me, an elder, by this respectful monk's title whenever he was serious.)
I looked. A small brown leaf was floating, spinning gently, its stem bobbing up and down as it rode the ripples.
"It's just there," he said. "It doesn't grab the water or swim. It doesn’t try to go back to the tree. It just floats."
I nodded slowly, beginning to understand the rare silence that had settled around him.
"It lets go,” he whispered, staring at the leaf. “And the river takes it.”
I wanted to speak—perhaps mention the Buddha's teachings on detachment or the freedom found in letting go. But I didn’t. I let the silence speak. It was enough.
That evening, Jaya ate quietly. His uncle raised an eyebrow at me, and I smiled but said nothing. Over the remaining weeks, Jaya continued to play and laugh—but also to seek quiet moments, often by the river.
Years later, long after I had taken to walking with a cane and watching more than moving, I met a young monk teaching in Magadha. His robes were simple, and his voice calm. It was Jaya. Now serene, his eyes clearer than ever.
“That leaf,” he said, when I greeted him. “It taught me what neither fear nor elders could—that freedom comes not from holding on, but from letting go.”
I left him there, surrounded by young students, each listening as if hearing wind for the first time. I smiled, knowing that sometimes, even the quietest moments ripple through lifetimes.
And so it was that a single leaf, floating down a forgotten river, carried a child—perhaps a world—closer to true liberation.
You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there the day the child sat by the river and changed everything.
It was early morning in the forest near Varanasi, long before the world became noisy with carts and footsteps. The mist lingered over the water like a whispered prayer. I was an old monk then, living in a simple hut not far from a community of truth-seekers—men and women who followed the teachings of the Buddha, the Enlightened One who had walked the earth over a hundred years before. Many who came here were monks in training, others confused travelers. But the one who taught me the most that year was not a monk... he was a child.
His name was Jaya. He was ten years old. His head had not yet been shaved, for he was visiting his uncle, Venerable Dassana, the most disciplined and quiet monk in our order. Jaya’s parents had sent him to the monastery for the summer, perhaps hoping he’d come back more obedient.
But children are not easily made silent. Jaya chattered constantly—about birds, about rice, about wanting to go home. His voice echoed off the forest trees and through the stone corridors, like a bell someone forgot to silence.
One afternoon, tired from chasing butterflies, Jaya wandered to the riverbank. I saw him from a distance, sitting cross-legged with his arms wrapped around his knees. His usual talk was gone. He was watching the water drift by. I approached slowly and sat beside him without speaking.
After a few minutes, he pointed. "Do you see that leaf, Bhante?" (He had taken to calling even me, an elder, by this respectful monk's title whenever he was serious.)
I looked. A small brown leaf was floating, spinning gently, its stem bobbing up and down as it rode the ripples.
"It's just there," he said. "It doesn't grab the water or swim. It doesn’t try to go back to the tree. It just floats."
I nodded slowly, beginning to understand the rare silence that had settled around him.
"It lets go,” he whispered, staring at the leaf. “And the river takes it.”
I wanted to speak—perhaps mention the Buddha's teachings on detachment or the freedom found in letting go. But I didn’t. I let the silence speak. It was enough.
That evening, Jaya ate quietly. His uncle raised an eyebrow at me, and I smiled but said nothing. Over the remaining weeks, Jaya continued to play and laugh—but also to seek quiet moments, often by the river.
Years later, long after I had taken to walking with a cane and watching more than moving, I met a young monk teaching in Magadha. His robes were simple, and his voice calm. It was Jaya. Now serene, his eyes clearer than ever.
“That leaf,” he said, when I greeted him. “It taught me what neither fear nor elders could—that freedom comes not from holding on, but from letting go.”
I left him there, surrounded by young students, each listening as if hearing wind for the first time. I smiled, knowing that sometimes, even the quietest moments ripple through lifetimes.
And so it was that a single leaf, floating down a forgotten river, carried a child—perhaps a world—closer to true liberation.
