I was no scholar, no monk, not even one who understood much of the Dharma. I was a ferryman’s son—Thanu, from a small village near the Ganges River. My father taught me how to guide a boat with steady hands and a clear heart. “The river," he would say, “teaches more than a thousand words.” I did not understand what he meant—not then.
One morning, as the mist still hovered low on the water, a group of monks appeared at the riverbank. Their robes were the color of rusted earth, their eyes calm like deep wells. At their head walked an older monk, gentle and quiet. He was not tall or commanding, yet the way others fell silent near him made me wonder who he was.
My father greeted them with respect, and the quiet one bowed slightly. “We wish to cross,” the monk said. “We seek a place to meditate away from the city noise.”
As we loaded the boat, I heard the others whisper his name—Gautama. Siddhartha Gautama. The one people called the Buddha.
The journey across was long, a full hour of rowing against the sluggish current. I was only twelve and eager to impress, so I listened closely when the Buddha spoke to his disciples.
He said, “Just as one uses a boat to cross the flood, so too does one use the Dharma.” One of the monks asked, “Venerable sir, what is the flood you speak of?”
“The flood of craving,” the Buddha said, his voice soft but rich, “and the flood of ignorance. We cross it with wisdom… but we must also let go.”
Let go of what? I wondered. Surely not the boat. If we let it go in the middle of the river, we would drown.
After we reached the far bank, the monks disembarked. I watched as they quietly crossed onto land, disappearing into the trees.
Later that evening, I asked my father, “Why did the Buddha say to let go of the boat?”
He looked at me, wiping his hands with a cloth. “If you cling to the boat after crossing,” he said, “you can't move forward. You can’t carry the boat across dry land, can you?”
“But the boat helped us!”
“Yes,” my father smiled. “And that’s its purpose. Just like teachings, just like kind actions. They help you reach the other side. But once you’re there, you must keep walking.”
That night I couldn’t sleep. I thought of all the things I was holding onto—my pride in rowing, my fear of being small and unimportant, my anger when my brothers ignored me. They were my boats, weren’t they?
The next day, I went to the river alone. I didn’t bring the boat. I just sat on the bank and watched the water flow.
For the first time, I understood. The teachings were not meant to be clung to like treasures, but used like stepping stones. And after helping us, they gently remind us to keep going on our own.
I was still Thanu, a ferryman’s son. But in that moment, I had begun to see. I'd taken one small step off the boat—and onto the shore.
And that was the first time I truly understood the heart of the Dharma.
I was no scholar, no monk, not even one who understood much of the Dharma. I was a ferryman’s son—Thanu, from a small village near the Ganges River. My father taught me how to guide a boat with steady hands and a clear heart. “The river," he would say, “teaches more than a thousand words.” I did not understand what he meant—not then.
One morning, as the mist still hovered low on the water, a group of monks appeared at the riverbank. Their robes were the color of rusted earth, their eyes calm like deep wells. At their head walked an older monk, gentle and quiet. He was not tall or commanding, yet the way others fell silent near him made me wonder who he was.
My father greeted them with respect, and the quiet one bowed slightly. “We wish to cross,” the monk said. “We seek a place to meditate away from the city noise.”
As we loaded the boat, I heard the others whisper his name—Gautama. Siddhartha Gautama. The one people called the Buddha.
The journey across was long, a full hour of rowing against the sluggish current. I was only twelve and eager to impress, so I listened closely when the Buddha spoke to his disciples.
He said, “Just as one uses a boat to cross the flood, so too does one use the Dharma.” One of the monks asked, “Venerable sir, what is the flood you speak of?”
“The flood of craving,” the Buddha said, his voice soft but rich, “and the flood of ignorance. We cross it with wisdom… but we must also let go.”
Let go of what? I wondered. Surely not the boat. If we let it go in the middle of the river, we would drown.
After we reached the far bank, the monks disembarked. I watched as they quietly crossed onto land, disappearing into the trees.
Later that evening, I asked my father, “Why did the Buddha say to let go of the boat?”
He looked at me, wiping his hands with a cloth. “If you cling to the boat after crossing,” he said, “you can't move forward. You can’t carry the boat across dry land, can you?”
“But the boat helped us!”
“Yes,” my father smiled. “And that’s its purpose. Just like teachings, just like kind actions. They help you reach the other side. But once you’re there, you must keep walking.”
That night I couldn’t sleep. I thought of all the things I was holding onto—my pride in rowing, my fear of being small and unimportant, my anger when my brothers ignored me. They were my boats, weren’t they?
The next day, I went to the river alone. I didn’t bring the boat. I just sat on the bank and watched the water flow.
For the first time, I understood. The teachings were not meant to be clung to like treasures, but used like stepping stones. And after helping us, they gently remind us to keep going on our own.
I was still Thanu, a ferryman’s son. But in that moment, I had begun to see. I'd taken one small step off the boat—and onto the shore.
And that was the first time I truly understood the heart of the Dharma.
