I was just a cart driver’s apprentice, barely thirteen and full of questions, when I learned the lesson of the broken wheel.
My master, Mahinda, was a seasoned merchant from the city of Varanasi. Every month, he journeyed from our riverside city through the forests and villages of northern India, transporting goods to distant towns. Mahinda wasn’t just my teacher in trade—he taught me how to read the stars, measure time by shadows, and listen to the road.
One morning, under the dry sun of the harvest season, we set out on our usual trade route, our oxen dragging a cart full of grain and spices. The dust kicked up in clouds behind us as we rolled along a rough path near the edge of the Vindhya hills. As we reached a bend near an ancient shrine, one of the wheels cracked with a deafening snap.
We stopped. The wheel was ruined, the spokes shattered, and the rim bent horribly.
“We could patch it,” I said, trying to sound confident.
Mahinda shook his head with a calm smile. “We have nothing to patch with. This journey must pause.”
I couldn’t believe it. Sitting in midday heat, losing precious time, while others would reach the market before us. I kicked a pebble in frustration.
“Do you know the story of the Bodhisattva and the broken wheel?” Mahinda asked.
I shook my head.
With the oxen resting and the cart leaning to one side, Mahinda told the tale. He spoke of a Bodhisattva—a being who was destined to become Buddha—once born as a king’s charioteer. One day, while riding with pride and reckless ambition, the wheel of his chariot shattered. He blamed the craftsmen, the road, even the gods. But as he sat by the broken wheel, alone and fuming, something shifted.
“He saw that it wasn’t the wheel that was broken,” Mahinda said softly. “It was his own pride.”
The Bodhisattva reflected on how his arrogance had clouded his judgment. He realized that even the finest wheels break if pulled too hard or driven with force. Only when he let go of ego and resentment did insight arise. He walked back to the city instead of waiting for help, bowing in humility to those he once thought beneath him.
I stared at our wheel.
“So… we wait?” I asked.
Mahinda laughed. “We grow. Then, we walk.”
And so we did. We gave away some of our grain to villagers who helped guide us. Along our journey, I noticed things I never had from the cart—the songs of birds, the kindness of strangers, the peace of silence.
Days later, when we reached our destination, we had less to sell but more to offer. Mahinda shared our story, and the local monks welcomed us with respect, not for our goods, but for our patience and mindfulness.
That journey taught me more than all the roads I’d ever traveled.
The broken wheel didn’t delay our progress—it refined it. In letting go of my urgency and my pride, I saw the road as it truly was: not just a path to a place, but a path inward.
From that day on, I followed not just Mahinda’s cart, but the teachings of Dharma. The wheel had broken, yes—but something in me was repaired.
I was just a cart driver’s apprentice, barely thirteen and full of questions, when I learned the lesson of the broken wheel.
My master, Mahinda, was a seasoned merchant from the city of Varanasi. Every month, he journeyed from our riverside city through the forests and villages of northern India, transporting goods to distant towns. Mahinda wasn’t just my teacher in trade—he taught me how to read the stars, measure time by shadows, and listen to the road.
One morning, under the dry sun of the harvest season, we set out on our usual trade route, our oxen dragging a cart full of grain and spices. The dust kicked up in clouds behind us as we rolled along a rough path near the edge of the Vindhya hills. As we reached a bend near an ancient shrine, one of the wheels cracked with a deafening snap.
We stopped. The wheel was ruined, the spokes shattered, and the rim bent horribly.
“We could patch it,” I said, trying to sound confident.
Mahinda shook his head with a calm smile. “We have nothing to patch with. This journey must pause.”
I couldn’t believe it. Sitting in midday heat, losing precious time, while others would reach the market before us. I kicked a pebble in frustration.
“Do you know the story of the Bodhisattva and the broken wheel?” Mahinda asked.
I shook my head.
With the oxen resting and the cart leaning to one side, Mahinda told the tale. He spoke of a Bodhisattva—a being who was destined to become Buddha—once born as a king’s charioteer. One day, while riding with pride and reckless ambition, the wheel of his chariot shattered. He blamed the craftsmen, the road, even the gods. But as he sat by the broken wheel, alone and fuming, something shifted.
“He saw that it wasn’t the wheel that was broken,” Mahinda said softly. “It was his own pride.”
The Bodhisattva reflected on how his arrogance had clouded his judgment. He realized that even the finest wheels break if pulled too hard or driven with force. Only when he let go of ego and resentment did insight arise. He walked back to the city instead of waiting for help, bowing in humility to those he once thought beneath him.
I stared at our wheel.
“So… we wait?” I asked.
Mahinda laughed. “We grow. Then, we walk.”
And so we did. We gave away some of our grain to villagers who helped guide us. Along our journey, I noticed things I never had from the cart—the songs of birds, the kindness of strangers, the peace of silence.
Days later, when we reached our destination, we had less to sell but more to offer. Mahinda shared our story, and the local monks welcomed us with respect, not for our goods, but for our patience and mindfulness.
That journey taught me more than all the roads I’d ever traveled.
The broken wheel didn’t delay our progress—it refined it. In letting go of my urgency and my pride, I saw the road as it truly was: not just a path to a place, but a path inward.
From that day on, I followed not just Mahinda’s cart, but the teachings of Dharma. The wheel had broken, yes—but something in me was repaired.
