I was just a young novice monk, barely twelve summers old, when I first saw the wicked monk. My name is Tissa, and I lived at the Jetavana Monastery, where the great teacher, the Buddha, taught seekers from all walks of life. Life in the monastery was simple but full of peace—sweeping the grounds, meditating under the trees, and listening to the Buddha’s gentle voice as he taught the Dharma, which means the truth of how to end suffering.
That year, a new monk arrived. His name was Devadatta. Unlike the others, Devadatta was tall, strong, and sharp with words. He carried himself not with the humility of a monk, but with the pride of a king. Even before he dipped his feet in the courtyard fountain, everyone knew he was no ordinary seeker. He was, in fact, the cousin of the Buddha himself—born a prince just like Siddhartha, before he became the Buddha. But while the Buddha had given up his palace to find enlightenment, Devadatta still burned with a different fire: the desire for power.
At first, Devadatta pretended to follow the path faithfully. He prayed loudly, meditated in public, and gave long speeches to the younger monks, including me. I used to admire him. He spoke with confidence—like he knew everything—and he made us feel that if we followed him, we would be great too.
But the Buddha taught something very different. He always said, "Let go of your ego, like one drops a burning coal that brings pain. Walk with mindfulness, and compassion will be your companion."
After a while, Devadatta began to criticize the Buddha openly, saying, “The path is too soft. We need stricter rules! No food after noon! No meat! No soft beds!” He wanted control over the Sangha, our community of monks, and he thought harshness meant strength.
He even went as far as trying to harm the Buddha. One day, he rolled a heavy stone from a cliff aimed at where the Buddha often walked. It missed—only breaking the Buddha’s toenail. Not long after, he sent a wild elephant racing toward our master. But again, the Buddha stood calmly, his loving-kindness so powerful that the elephant dropped to its knees before him.
I remember standing behind a tree that day, too scared to breathe. But I never forgot what I witnessed. The Buddha did not scold or curse Devadatta. In fact, he pitied him. “He is like a man lost in a storm, searching for himself in the thunder,” the Buddha whispered to me later.
Eventually, Devadatta's own actions brought his downfall. His heart, heavy with pride and anger, could not carry him far. He tried to create his own group but failed. Seeking forgiveness at last, he walked toward Buddha once more—but according to the old stories, the earth itself opened before he arrived, and he fell into suffering caused by his own actions.
That day, I learned something I never forgot. Devadatta had certainty, but Buddha had humility. One sought power over others; the other, peace within.
Now, years later, I light lamps for evening meditation and guide young novices like I once was. Sometimes they ask me, “Master Tissa, why do we always bow before our teacher’s statue?”
And I always smile and say, “Because we remember the difference between loudness and truth, between pride and peace. The heart of the Dharma is not found in shouting or fear—but in humility, in compassion, and in letting go.”
That is how the wicked monk helped reveal the true path—not by walking it, but by showing what happens if you don’t.
And for that, I am still grateful.
I was just a young novice monk, barely twelve summers old, when I first saw the wicked monk. My name is Tissa, and I lived at the Jetavana Monastery, where the great teacher, the Buddha, taught seekers from all walks of life. Life in the monastery was simple but full of peace—sweeping the grounds, meditating under the trees, and listening to the Buddha’s gentle voice as he taught the Dharma, which means the truth of how to end suffering.
That year, a new monk arrived. His name was Devadatta. Unlike the others, Devadatta was tall, strong, and sharp with words. He carried himself not with the humility of a monk, but with the pride of a king. Even before he dipped his feet in the courtyard fountain, everyone knew he was no ordinary seeker. He was, in fact, the cousin of the Buddha himself—born a prince just like Siddhartha, before he became the Buddha. But while the Buddha had given up his palace to find enlightenment, Devadatta still burned with a different fire: the desire for power.
At first, Devadatta pretended to follow the path faithfully. He prayed loudly, meditated in public, and gave long speeches to the younger monks, including me. I used to admire him. He spoke with confidence—like he knew everything—and he made us feel that if we followed him, we would be great too.
But the Buddha taught something very different. He always said, "Let go of your ego, like one drops a burning coal that brings pain. Walk with mindfulness, and compassion will be your companion."
After a while, Devadatta began to criticize the Buddha openly, saying, “The path is too soft. We need stricter rules! No food after noon! No meat! No soft beds!” He wanted control over the Sangha, our community of monks, and he thought harshness meant strength.
He even went as far as trying to harm the Buddha. One day, he rolled a heavy stone from a cliff aimed at where the Buddha often walked. It missed—only breaking the Buddha’s toenail. Not long after, he sent a wild elephant racing toward our master. But again, the Buddha stood calmly, his loving-kindness so powerful that the elephant dropped to its knees before him.
I remember standing behind a tree that day, too scared to breathe. But I never forgot what I witnessed. The Buddha did not scold or curse Devadatta. In fact, he pitied him. “He is like a man lost in a storm, searching for himself in the thunder,” the Buddha whispered to me later.
Eventually, Devadatta's own actions brought his downfall. His heart, heavy with pride and anger, could not carry him far. He tried to create his own group but failed. Seeking forgiveness at last, he walked toward Buddha once more—but according to the old stories, the earth itself opened before he arrived, and he fell into suffering caused by his own actions.
That day, I learned something I never forgot. Devadatta had certainty, but Buddha had humility. One sought power over others; the other, peace within.
Now, years later, I light lamps for evening meditation and guide young novices like I once was. Sometimes they ask me, “Master Tissa, why do we always bow before our teacher’s statue?”
And I always smile and say, “Because we remember the difference between loudness and truth, between pride and peace. The heart of the Dharma is not found in shouting or fear—but in humility, in compassion, and in letting go.”
That is how the wicked monk helped reveal the true path—not by walking it, but by showing what happens if you don’t.
And for that, I am still grateful.
