You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there the day the two acrobats taught us all what true balance really means.
I was eleven years old, the son of a spice merchant in Pataliputra, one of the grandest cities in ancient India. That morning, the market buzzed with color and music as merchants shouted prices and wheels of oxcarts clattered on dusty roads. Among the crowds were two street performers—Uttiya, the master acrobat, and his young apprentice, Balaka. They were known throughout the city for their daring tricks—balancing on bamboo poles, twirling in midair, and standing still as statues while atop one another’s shoulders.
That day, they performed in the central square, right near the temple where many followers of the Buddha gathered. I stood among dozens of villagers, eyes wide with awe as Uttiya placed a tall bamboo pole upright in the dirt. With practiced ease, Balaka climbed onto his master's back, then up the pole, until he stood tall, arms outstretched to the sky. The crowd gasped. A drumbeat echoed in the distance.
Before starting the trick, Uttiya said something I didn’t understand at first. He turned his head slightly and called up, “Balaka, focus on me and I will take care of you. That way, we will both be safe.”
But Balaka replied, “Master, wouldn’t it be better if each of us focused on ourselves? If I pay attention to my balance, and you to yours, then neither of us will fall.”
Uttiya paused. The crowd, still and silent, waited to see what would happen. Then slowly, Uttiya stepped back from the pole. “You are right, Balaka.”
Later that day, I told the story to a monk at the Dharma hall—Venerable Ananda, a disciple of the Buddha, who often came to speak at the temple. He gently placed his hand on my shoulder and told me the story of how even the Buddha used that tale to teach about mindfulness and compassion.
“You see,” he said, his eyes warm and filled with clarity, “Balaka understood something very wise. Each person must look after their own mind with awareness. Only by being mindful of our own actions and thoughts can we be truly present for others. If Uttiya lost his balance by worrying too much about Balaka, both might fall. But if each cared for their own steadiness, both could stand tall.”
I nodded, trying to understand the deeper meaning. “So... it’s not selfish to focus on yourself first?”
“No,” he smiled. “It is wise. When we practice mindfulness and take care of our own thoughts and hearts, we become steadier. Then, we can truly help those around us—not out of fear, but out of compassion.”
That night, I sat under the Bodhi tree near the temple, the wind rustling the leaves above me. I thought of Uttiya and Balaka, standing on top of the world with nothing below but trust and stillness. I realized that balance wasn’t just for acrobats—it was for everyone.
From that day on, I practiced watching my breath, noticing my thoughts, and speaking only when needed. At first, it was hard. But slowly, I began to feel the quiet inside me grow stronger, like the bamboo pole rooted deep in the earth.
That moment wasn’t flashy or loud. But it changed everything. It opened my heart not through logic or ritual, but through a truth so human and tender: take care of yourself with mindfulness, and you will be steady enough to care for the whole world.
You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there the day the two acrobats taught us all what true balance really means.
I was eleven years old, the son of a spice merchant in Pataliputra, one of the grandest cities in ancient India. That morning, the market buzzed with color and music as merchants shouted prices and wheels of oxcarts clattered on dusty roads. Among the crowds were two street performers—Uttiya, the master acrobat, and his young apprentice, Balaka. They were known throughout the city for their daring tricks—balancing on bamboo poles, twirling in midair, and standing still as statues while atop one another’s shoulders.
That day, they performed in the central square, right near the temple where many followers of the Buddha gathered. I stood among dozens of villagers, eyes wide with awe as Uttiya placed a tall bamboo pole upright in the dirt. With practiced ease, Balaka climbed onto his master's back, then up the pole, until he stood tall, arms outstretched to the sky. The crowd gasped. A drumbeat echoed in the distance.
Before starting the trick, Uttiya said something I didn’t understand at first. He turned his head slightly and called up, “Balaka, focus on me and I will take care of you. That way, we will both be safe.”
But Balaka replied, “Master, wouldn’t it be better if each of us focused on ourselves? If I pay attention to my balance, and you to yours, then neither of us will fall.”
Uttiya paused. The crowd, still and silent, waited to see what would happen. Then slowly, Uttiya stepped back from the pole. “You are right, Balaka.”
Later that day, I told the story to a monk at the Dharma hall—Venerable Ananda, a disciple of the Buddha, who often came to speak at the temple. He gently placed his hand on my shoulder and told me the story of how even the Buddha used that tale to teach about mindfulness and compassion.
“You see,” he said, his eyes warm and filled with clarity, “Balaka understood something very wise. Each person must look after their own mind with awareness. Only by being mindful of our own actions and thoughts can we be truly present for others. If Uttiya lost his balance by worrying too much about Balaka, both might fall. But if each cared for their own steadiness, both could stand tall.”
I nodded, trying to understand the deeper meaning. “So... it’s not selfish to focus on yourself first?”
“No,” he smiled. “It is wise. When we practice mindfulness and take care of our own thoughts and hearts, we become steadier. Then, we can truly help those around us—not out of fear, but out of compassion.”
That night, I sat under the Bodhi tree near the temple, the wind rustling the leaves above me. I thought of Uttiya and Balaka, standing on top of the world with nothing below but trust and stillness. I realized that balance wasn’t just for acrobats—it was for everyone.
From that day on, I practiced watching my breath, noticing my thoughts, and speaking only when needed. At first, it was hard. But slowly, I began to feel the quiet inside me grow stronger, like the bamboo pole rooted deep in the earth.
That moment wasn’t flashy or loud. But it changed everything. It opened my heart not through logic or ritual, but through a truth so human and tender: take care of yourself with mindfulness, and you will be steady enough to care for the whole world.
