You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there—just a boy with quiet feet and listening ears, sweeping the temple floors of Jetavana, where monks gathered to hear the Blessed One, the Buddha. I had no great role, only a broom in my hands. But that year, I saw something that changed how I understood suffering, silence, and the meaning of letting go.
His name was Revata, a monk from the plains of Magadha. He was different. While most monks walked slowly, eyes downcast and robes folded with perfect precision, Revata danced.
Yes—danced.
In the early dawn, when the forest birds began their songs and the others chanted sutras, he would step barefoot across the temple grounds, his movements flowing like the river. His arms swayed gently like the branches of the sal trees, and when he twirled in silence, it looked as though even the wind had stopped to watch.
At first, the elder monks whispered. “This is no way for a bhikkhu (monk) to behave.” I overheard them while bringing water.
They said Revata came from a royal family. A warrior-turned-artist. Before taking the robes, he performed in royal courts, danced through grand palaces, and knew the applause of thousands. But even after all that praise, his heart remained restless. He came to the Buddha, asking for release from the cycle of rebirth—samsara.
The Buddha, always patient, saw the suffering behind his joy.
But as weeks passed, many monks grew uneasy. Dancing was not found in the Vinaya Pitaka—the sacred rules of conduct. The Vinaya, which guided us like a lamp in darkness, taught that restraint and stillness were the path to wisdom. Monks were taught to sit, to be quiet, to walk slowly and mindfully, not... dance.
And yet, Revata danced each morning—without a word, without drawing attention, without pride. His eyes were closed, his face glassy with peace, and when he finished, he bowed so low his forehead pressed the earth. Then he would sit—longer than any other monk—in stillness that stretched across the entire day.
One afternoon, I brought water to the hall where the Buddha gave teachings. The topic was suffering—dukkha. A young monk asked, “Is joy not the same as desire? Should we fear all movement of the body?”
The Buddha, seated with his serene gaze, smiled gently and said, “There are those who forget the world by standing still. And there are those who forget it by moving through it. What matters is not the body’s action, but the heart’s intention.”
Many believe he spoke those words for Revata.
The very next day, I watched the dancing monk again. Children from the nearby village had gathered, giggling and quieting one another with wide eyes as he spun, barefoot in the dust.
But that was the last day he danced.
The next morning, he sat like stone, as still as the Buddha statue carved into the temple wall. Days passed. No movement. No words. Only the sound of the wind through leaves.
On the tenth day, he entered final silence—parinirvana.
Some say he reached enlightenment through movement, that his final dance burned away the last threads of craving. Others say he danced not for joy, but to surrender it.
I was there the morning they lit the pyre. The forest was quiet. Even the birds did not sing.
And I understood then: letting go is not always about giving up something you're attached to—it is about giving up the need for it. Revata had danced until even the joy of dancing had no hold left on him.
Since that day, I have walked slowly, with quiet feet. But sometimes, in the stillest part of morning, when no one is watching, I let my broom slide across the floor in a rhythm that only I hear.
And I remember a monk who taught us how to be silent—by dancing.
You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there—just a boy with quiet feet and listening ears, sweeping the temple floors of Jetavana, where monks gathered to hear the Blessed One, the Buddha. I had no great role, only a broom in my hands. But that year, I saw something that changed how I understood suffering, silence, and the meaning of letting go.
His name was Revata, a monk from the plains of Magadha. He was different. While most monks walked slowly, eyes downcast and robes folded with perfect precision, Revata danced.
Yes—danced.
In the early dawn, when the forest birds began their songs and the others chanted sutras, he would step barefoot across the temple grounds, his movements flowing like the river. His arms swayed gently like the branches of the sal trees, and when he twirled in silence, it looked as though even the wind had stopped to watch.
At first, the elder monks whispered. “This is no way for a bhikkhu (monk) to behave.” I overheard them while bringing water.
They said Revata came from a royal family. A warrior-turned-artist. Before taking the robes, he performed in royal courts, danced through grand palaces, and knew the applause of thousands. But even after all that praise, his heart remained restless. He came to the Buddha, asking for release from the cycle of rebirth—samsara.
The Buddha, always patient, saw the suffering behind his joy.
But as weeks passed, many monks grew uneasy. Dancing was not found in the Vinaya Pitaka—the sacred rules of conduct. The Vinaya, which guided us like a lamp in darkness, taught that restraint and stillness were the path to wisdom. Monks were taught to sit, to be quiet, to walk slowly and mindfully, not... dance.
And yet, Revata danced each morning—without a word, without drawing attention, without pride. His eyes were closed, his face glassy with peace, and when he finished, he bowed so low his forehead pressed the earth. Then he would sit—longer than any other monk—in stillness that stretched across the entire day.
One afternoon, I brought water to the hall where the Buddha gave teachings. The topic was suffering—dukkha. A young monk asked, “Is joy not the same as desire? Should we fear all movement of the body?”
The Buddha, seated with his serene gaze, smiled gently and said, “There are those who forget the world by standing still. And there are those who forget it by moving through it. What matters is not the body’s action, but the heart’s intention.”
Many believe he spoke those words for Revata.
The very next day, I watched the dancing monk again. Children from the nearby village had gathered, giggling and quieting one another with wide eyes as he spun, barefoot in the dust.
But that was the last day he danced.
The next morning, he sat like stone, as still as the Buddha statue carved into the temple wall. Days passed. No movement. No words. Only the sound of the wind through leaves.
On the tenth day, he entered final silence—parinirvana.
Some say he reached enlightenment through movement, that his final dance burned away the last threads of craving. Others say he danced not for joy, but to surrender it.
I was there the morning they lit the pyre. The forest was quiet. Even the birds did not sing.
And I understood then: letting go is not always about giving up something you're attached to—it is about giving up the need for it. Revata had danced until even the joy of dancing had no hold left on him.
Since that day, I have walked slowly, with quiet feet. But sometimes, in the stillest part of morning, when no one is watching, I let my broom slide across the floor in a rhythm that only I hear.
And I remember a monk who taught us how to be silent—by dancing.
