I was a traveling monk in my middle years, long past youth but not yet leaning on a staff. My name is Kavi, born in a small village that clung like moss to the outer edges of the great Magadhan Empire, which now blooms with the teachings of Lord Buddha. I had once been a merchant of fine silks, chasing wealth along the dusty roads of Bharatavarsha—what we now call India. But it was craving that drove my camel's hooves until, exhausted and disillusioned, I chose the path of the Dharma.
It was during a solitary journey through the rugged hills near Rajagaha, an ancient city known for its royal gardens and yellow-robed monks, that I stumbled upon the cave. A yawning dark mouth carved into the rock, half hidden by thick vines, it seemed ordinary—until I heard the voice.
“Leave me be…”
The voice echoed, not once, but again and again. Hollow and haunting.
I stepped closer. “Who’s there?” I called into the shadowed silence. My voice bounced back toward me. “Who’s there?”
No answer came, only my echo and the whispering wind through stone.
Curiosity, that ancient ache of the spirit, took hold of me. I entered. The light from my small oil lamp flickered on damp walls and half-worn Buddhist carvings—lotus petals, deer, a still figure beneath the Bodhi tree.
At the heart of the cave was a figure hunched in the corner, skin drawn tight over bones, eyes wide with suspicion. His name, as he later told me, was Samita. He had once been a respected sculptor from Sravasti, a city far to the north. He had built temples, adorned Buddha-statues with gold leaf—but he had lost everything to craving. A prince had once convinced him to create a massive golden image of the Buddha’s birth. When it was completed, the prince refused to pay him. Samita took the image and ran. Bandits stole it. He fled into these mountains, convinced suffering would end if he avoided people, avoided craving, avoided karma.
“They always come,” he whispered in fear. “They want to take what’s left of me… my peace… my soul.”
Samita thought the world wanted things from him. But the desire to protect what little he had became another form of craving.
I stayed with him for seven days. We shared boiled roots and water from a slow trickle near the cave mouth. I spoke of the Sutta Nipata, of Lord Buddha’s words: “Craving brings grief, craving brings fear, for one who is free of craving, there is no grief—so how can there be fear?”
Samita listened. And he began to weep—not loud sobs, but quiet tears, as if something in him was finally releasing.
“I thought I escaped karma by hiding,” he said. “But the cave only echoed my suffering.”
On the eighth morning, he walked out beside me. He had nothing but the tattered cloth around him, and still, he smiled.
“Perhaps I must be reborn,” he said, “not as another life, but as a better man.”
That day, I saw his rebirth. Not from the womb, but from understanding. He joined me in Rajagaha, sweeping temple steps and offering rice to monks, one grain at a time. He served without asking, gave without fear.
And I, too, learned.
The cave had not trapped him. Craving had. And once let go, the cave echoed differently—no longer fear, but freedom.
Samita was no longer hiding from the world. He was walking through it, eyes open, heart quiet.
And from that cave of echoes, I learned compassion—the kind that does not rescue, but walks beside.
I was a traveling monk in my middle years, long past youth but not yet leaning on a staff. My name is Kavi, born in a small village that clung like moss to the outer edges of the great Magadhan Empire, which now blooms with the teachings of Lord Buddha. I had once been a merchant of fine silks, chasing wealth along the dusty roads of Bharatavarsha—what we now call India. But it was craving that drove my camel's hooves until, exhausted and disillusioned, I chose the path of the Dharma.
It was during a solitary journey through the rugged hills near Rajagaha, an ancient city known for its royal gardens and yellow-robed monks, that I stumbled upon the cave. A yawning dark mouth carved into the rock, half hidden by thick vines, it seemed ordinary—until I heard the voice.
“Leave me be…”
The voice echoed, not once, but again and again. Hollow and haunting.
I stepped closer. “Who’s there?” I called into the shadowed silence. My voice bounced back toward me. “Who’s there?”
No answer came, only my echo and the whispering wind through stone.
Curiosity, that ancient ache of the spirit, took hold of me. I entered. The light from my small oil lamp flickered on damp walls and half-worn Buddhist carvings—lotus petals, deer, a still figure beneath the Bodhi tree.
At the heart of the cave was a figure hunched in the corner, skin drawn tight over bones, eyes wide with suspicion. His name, as he later told me, was Samita. He had once been a respected sculptor from Sravasti, a city far to the north. He had built temples, adorned Buddha-statues with gold leaf—but he had lost everything to craving. A prince had once convinced him to create a massive golden image of the Buddha’s birth. When it was completed, the prince refused to pay him. Samita took the image and ran. Bandits stole it. He fled into these mountains, convinced suffering would end if he avoided people, avoided craving, avoided karma.
“They always come,” he whispered in fear. “They want to take what’s left of me… my peace… my soul.”
Samita thought the world wanted things from him. But the desire to protect what little he had became another form of craving.
I stayed with him for seven days. We shared boiled roots and water from a slow trickle near the cave mouth. I spoke of the Sutta Nipata, of Lord Buddha’s words: “Craving brings grief, craving brings fear, for one who is free of craving, there is no grief—so how can there be fear?”
Samita listened. And he began to weep—not loud sobs, but quiet tears, as if something in him was finally releasing.
“I thought I escaped karma by hiding,” he said. “But the cave only echoed my suffering.”
On the eighth morning, he walked out beside me. He had nothing but the tattered cloth around him, and still, he smiled.
“Perhaps I must be reborn,” he said, “not as another life, but as a better man.”
That day, I saw his rebirth. Not from the womb, but from understanding. He joined me in Rajagaha, sweeping temple steps and offering rice to monks, one grain at a time. He served without asking, gave without fear.
And I, too, learned.
The cave had not trapped him. Craving had. And once let go, the cave echoed differently—no longer fear, but freedom.
Samita was no longer hiding from the world. He was walking through it, eyes open, heart quiet.
And from that cave of echoes, I learned compassion—the kind that does not rescue, but walks beside.
