I was just a young novice monk, sweeping leaves outside the vihara near Savatthi, when I first heard the story of the man who changed everything.
His name was Sona, and he was not a poor man. He was born in Rajagaha, a large city in ancient India, to a family known for its wealth and proud traditions. His robes were silk, his sandals finely made, and his words often carried the sharpness of pride. Though many great teachers came to Rajagaha—including the Blessed One, the Buddha—Sona would not listen.
Teachers from distant villages would bow to the Buddha’s wisdom. Even kings sent messengers to hear the Dharma. But Sona scoffed. “Why live under trees when you can sleep in mansions? Why give up fine food for scraps offered in a bowl?” he would say, shaking his head. Whenever someone tried to share the Four Noble Truths or speak of impermanence, Sona dismissed them with a wave of his hand. “Suffering?” he once laughed. “The only suffering is listening to foolish monks speak of it.”
Word of his attitude spread, but so did his stubbornness.
One day, a great cholera illness swept through Rajagaha. The rich and poor alike were afflicted. Many doctors refused entry to avoid infection. But Sona, for the first time in his life, witnessed suffering up close: a merchant crying as his child burned with fever, an old woman praying for her life, a beggar giving his last bowl of rice to a dying stranger—acts of kindness from people who had nothing.
Sona was confused. He had money, horses, servants—but none of them could ease the pain he saw. He began to wander outside the city, his fine robes ragged, his hands trembling. On the edge of the forest, he saw a gathering of monks sitting under a tree, quietly meditating.
The Buddha himself was among them.
Sona hesitated before approaching. He fell to his knees and asked, his head bowed low, “Why do they suffer like this? Why do I suffer, even with all my treasures?”
The Buddha, the Enlightened One who was once a prince himself, gently looked upon Sona and said, “What arises will pass. No one is free from old age, sickness, and death. But the path to liberation lies not in gold or comfort, but in understanding, compassion, and balance.”
Sona wept—not for what he had lost, but for what he had refused to learn for so long.
He asked to become a monk that very day.
Under the guidance of the Buddha and the sangha—the community of monks—Sona learned the Dharma. He practiced mindfulness, treated the sick, chanted with compassion, and observed the truth: all things are impermanent, but from that impermanence arises the chance for awakening.
Years later, when I was still sweeping leaves, Sona—now Mahathera Sona, a respected elder—visited our vihara. He smiled at me, a strange light in his eyes. I had heard his story, but seeing him, I believed it: people truly do change.
He once refused the teaching. But the day he opened his heart to the Dharma, he lit a lantern others could follow.
And that day, I vowed that I, too, would never turn away from the path.
I was just a young novice monk, sweeping leaves outside the vihara near Savatthi, when I first heard the story of the man who changed everything.
His name was Sona, and he was not a poor man. He was born in Rajagaha, a large city in ancient India, to a family known for its wealth and proud traditions. His robes were silk, his sandals finely made, and his words often carried the sharpness of pride. Though many great teachers came to Rajagaha—including the Blessed One, the Buddha—Sona would not listen.
Teachers from distant villages would bow to the Buddha’s wisdom. Even kings sent messengers to hear the Dharma. But Sona scoffed. “Why live under trees when you can sleep in mansions? Why give up fine food for scraps offered in a bowl?” he would say, shaking his head. Whenever someone tried to share the Four Noble Truths or speak of impermanence, Sona dismissed them with a wave of his hand. “Suffering?” he once laughed. “The only suffering is listening to foolish monks speak of it.”
Word of his attitude spread, but so did his stubbornness.
One day, a great cholera illness swept through Rajagaha. The rich and poor alike were afflicted. Many doctors refused entry to avoid infection. But Sona, for the first time in his life, witnessed suffering up close: a merchant crying as his child burned with fever, an old woman praying for her life, a beggar giving his last bowl of rice to a dying stranger—acts of kindness from people who had nothing.
Sona was confused. He had money, horses, servants—but none of them could ease the pain he saw. He began to wander outside the city, his fine robes ragged, his hands trembling. On the edge of the forest, he saw a gathering of monks sitting under a tree, quietly meditating.
The Buddha himself was among them.
Sona hesitated before approaching. He fell to his knees and asked, his head bowed low, “Why do they suffer like this? Why do I suffer, even with all my treasures?”
The Buddha, the Enlightened One who was once a prince himself, gently looked upon Sona and said, “What arises will pass. No one is free from old age, sickness, and death. But the path to liberation lies not in gold or comfort, but in understanding, compassion, and balance.”
Sona wept—not for what he had lost, but for what he had refused to learn for so long.
He asked to become a monk that very day.
Under the guidance of the Buddha and the sangha—the community of monks—Sona learned the Dharma. He practiced mindfulness, treated the sick, chanted with compassion, and observed the truth: all things are impermanent, but from that impermanence arises the chance for awakening.
Years later, when I was still sweeping leaves, Sona—now Mahathera Sona, a respected elder—visited our vihara. He smiled at me, a strange light in his eyes. I had heard his story, but seeing him, I believed it: people truly do change.
He once refused the teaching. But the day he opened his heart to the Dharma, he lit a lantern others could follow.
And that day, I vowed that I, too, would never turn away from the path.
