I was just a young boy, crouched beside the firewood stack outside the vihara—the monastery in Savatthi—listening to the monks chant in the dimming light. My name is Kosi, and no, you won’t find my name in any sacred scrolls or dusty palm-leaf texts. I wasn’t anyone important. Just the son of a candle-seller from the market street. But everything changed for me the day the Parable of the Lamp lit up more than just the dusk.
It was late afternoon, and the walls of Jetavana Monastery glowed orange from the setting sun. The Buddha himself, Siddhartha Gautama, who had once been a prince, was sitting before a group of monks, novices, and a few curious villagers like me. I had snuck in after delivering candles for the shrine hall. My father didn't know—I wasn’t supposed to sit among the monks—but I had always been drawn to those quiet, peaceful faces and the stories whispered like wind through the bamboo.
The Buddha spoke gently, like a river flowing over smooth stones.
“There is a lamp,” he began, “burning brightly inside a house. If one does not uncover it or carry it into the open, will others see the light?”
“No, Blessed One,” a voice among the monks answered.
“In the same way,” the Buddha said, “if a person has wisdom or insight but does not share it—does not live by it—of what benefit is it to others?”
My breath caught. I remembered how my father always said candles were useless without a match. That even the best wax and wick did nothing in darkness unless kindled.
Then the Buddha continued, “The wise do not hoard their light. They walk mindfully, speak kindly, and live from compassion. In this way, their light helps others to see.”
I had never heard anything so clear—and yet it felt like it scratched at something deep inside me. I had always assumed wisdom belonged to the monks in saffron robes, behind their walls. But what if I could be a lamp too? Even being a candle-seller’s son?
After the teaching, I waited by the Bodhi tree as the monks filed past. A younger one, maybe only a few years older than me, noticed me watching the lamp he carried. It was small—clay, with just a flickering flame inside. He smiled.
“You like lamps?” he asked.
“I want to be one,” I replied shakily.
He didn’t laugh. Instead, he dipped the clay lamp slightly forward, as if offering its flame to me. “Then walk with care, see with compassion, and let others grow in your light.”
That night, walking home through the winding village path, I looked at the tiny lamp my father had given me that morning for the journey. Every time it flickered, I saw faces—my mother’s hands when she soothed my fevers, the old beggar’s crooked smile when we shared our dinner, that monk’s kind eyes.
I wasn’t smart like the monks. But I understood this much: kind actions are like lamps. Small, yes. But in deep darkness, even the faintest light matters.
Years later, even after I had gray in my beard and sold lamps of my own in the city square, I never forgot that lesson. I tried to be that light for others—by listening when no one else had time, sharing food I barely had, and bowing in gratitude for the morning air.
That day in the monastery, I had lit more than a lamp. I had lit my path.
And I have carried it ever since.
I was just a young boy, crouched beside the firewood stack outside the vihara—the monastery in Savatthi—listening to the monks chant in the dimming light. My name is Kosi, and no, you won’t find my name in any sacred scrolls or dusty palm-leaf texts. I wasn’t anyone important. Just the son of a candle-seller from the market street. But everything changed for me the day the Parable of the Lamp lit up more than just the dusk.
It was late afternoon, and the walls of Jetavana Monastery glowed orange from the setting sun. The Buddha himself, Siddhartha Gautama, who had once been a prince, was sitting before a group of monks, novices, and a few curious villagers like me. I had snuck in after delivering candles for the shrine hall. My father didn't know—I wasn’t supposed to sit among the monks—but I had always been drawn to those quiet, peaceful faces and the stories whispered like wind through the bamboo.
The Buddha spoke gently, like a river flowing over smooth stones.
“There is a lamp,” he began, “burning brightly inside a house. If one does not uncover it or carry it into the open, will others see the light?”
“No, Blessed One,” a voice among the monks answered.
“In the same way,” the Buddha said, “if a person has wisdom or insight but does not share it—does not live by it—of what benefit is it to others?”
My breath caught. I remembered how my father always said candles were useless without a match. That even the best wax and wick did nothing in darkness unless kindled.
Then the Buddha continued, “The wise do not hoard their light. They walk mindfully, speak kindly, and live from compassion. In this way, their light helps others to see.”
I had never heard anything so clear—and yet it felt like it scratched at something deep inside me. I had always assumed wisdom belonged to the monks in saffron robes, behind their walls. But what if I could be a lamp too? Even being a candle-seller’s son?
After the teaching, I waited by the Bodhi tree as the monks filed past. A younger one, maybe only a few years older than me, noticed me watching the lamp he carried. It was small—clay, with just a flickering flame inside. He smiled.
“You like lamps?” he asked.
“I want to be one,” I replied shakily.
He didn’t laugh. Instead, he dipped the clay lamp slightly forward, as if offering its flame to me. “Then walk with care, see with compassion, and let others grow in your light.”
That night, walking home through the winding village path, I looked at the tiny lamp my father had given me that morning for the journey. Every time it flickered, I saw faces—my mother’s hands when she soothed my fevers, the old beggar’s crooked smile when we shared our dinner, that monk’s kind eyes.
I wasn’t smart like the monks. But I understood this much: kind actions are like lamps. Small, yes. But in deep darkness, even the faintest light matters.
Years later, even after I had gray in my beard and sold lamps of my own in the city square, I never forgot that lesson. I tried to be that light for others—by listening when no one else had time, sharing food I barely had, and bowing in gratitude for the morning air.
That day in the monastery, I had lit more than a lamp. I had lit my path.
And I have carried it ever since.
