“You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there when the withered flower fell at the Buddha’s feet.”
I was a poor servant boy then, no older than ten, with dust-cracked feet and a belly that often grumbled louder than the temple gongs. Born in the village of Rajagaha, in the ancient kingdom of Magadha—what you would now call Northern India—I spent my days carrying water for travelers and sweeping the courtyards of monasteries. It was a simple life, but every now and then, someone would pass through who would turn the whole world quiet.
One of those people was Siddhartha Gautama, whom the world now calls the Buddha. He had been born a prince, the son of King Śuddhodana. But instead of ruling a kingdom, he walked away from his palace, leaving behind his wife, his child, and all his riches to search for the answer to one question: “Why do we suffer?”
When the story I’m about to tell happened, the Buddha was teaching near a grove outside the city. Many had gathered around him—merchants, housewives, farmers, even nobles. I stood at the edge of the crowd, clutching my water jar, curious and uncertain.
That’s when she came—an old woman, frail as the dry leaves that blew around her bare feet. Her name was Suchita. I had seen her before, wandering the streets alone, mumbling at the sky, her hands always shaking. In her gnarled fist she carried a single flower—no longer fresh, its petals curled and browned by the sun.
The crowd laughed softly as she stepped forward. “How can such a thing be offered to the Awakened One?” someone whispered.
But the Buddha didn’t laugh.
He watched her carefully, not with pride, not with judgment—only calm and attention. Suchita, wobbling and silent, stepped around the others and placed the withered flower at his feet. “It was all I had,” she said, her voice barely more than a breath.
The Buddha bent down, gently touching the dried blossom. He looked at the crowd and said, “A heart that offers truth is more fragrant than a thousand lotus blossoms.”
The grove went silent. No one dared speak. I felt my chest tighten, as though the world had pressed pause for a moment.
Then the Buddha said: “Everything that arises will fall away. Flowers, bodies, even pain. Understanding this is the beginning of freedom.”
Many bowed. Some cried. I didn’t fully understand his words at the time, but I understood their weight. That old woman had offered more than a flower—she had offered her suffering and her sincerity. And the Buddha had seen her.
Later that night, as I lay beneath the stars with my water jar beside me, I thought about what I had seen. In a world so full of sorrow, the Buddha did not demand riches or beauty—only truth and an open heart.
That day, I learned that the Dharma—the Buddha’s teaching—is not just for the wise or the wealthy. It is for anyone willing to listen.
Even a poor servant boy with cracked feet.
“You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there when the withered flower fell at the Buddha’s feet.”
I was a poor servant boy then, no older than ten, with dust-cracked feet and a belly that often grumbled louder than the temple gongs. Born in the village of Rajagaha, in the ancient kingdom of Magadha—what you would now call Northern India—I spent my days carrying water for travelers and sweeping the courtyards of monasteries. It was a simple life, but every now and then, someone would pass through who would turn the whole world quiet.
One of those people was Siddhartha Gautama, whom the world now calls the Buddha. He had been born a prince, the son of King Śuddhodana. But instead of ruling a kingdom, he walked away from his palace, leaving behind his wife, his child, and all his riches to search for the answer to one question: “Why do we suffer?”
When the story I’m about to tell happened, the Buddha was teaching near a grove outside the city. Many had gathered around him—merchants, housewives, farmers, even nobles. I stood at the edge of the crowd, clutching my water jar, curious and uncertain.
That’s when she came—an old woman, frail as the dry leaves that blew around her bare feet. Her name was Suchita. I had seen her before, wandering the streets alone, mumbling at the sky, her hands always shaking. In her gnarled fist she carried a single flower—no longer fresh, its petals curled and browned by the sun.
The crowd laughed softly as she stepped forward. “How can such a thing be offered to the Awakened One?” someone whispered.
But the Buddha didn’t laugh.
He watched her carefully, not with pride, not with judgment—only calm and attention. Suchita, wobbling and silent, stepped around the others and placed the withered flower at his feet. “It was all I had,” she said, her voice barely more than a breath.
The Buddha bent down, gently touching the dried blossom. He looked at the crowd and said, “A heart that offers truth is more fragrant than a thousand lotus blossoms.”
The grove went silent. No one dared speak. I felt my chest tighten, as though the world had pressed pause for a moment.
Then the Buddha said: “Everything that arises will fall away. Flowers, bodies, even pain. Understanding this is the beginning of freedom.”
Many bowed. Some cried. I didn’t fully understand his words at the time, but I understood their weight. That old woman had offered more than a flower—she had offered her suffering and her sincerity. And the Buddha had seen her.
Later that night, as I lay beneath the stars with my water jar beside me, I thought about what I had seen. In a world so full of sorrow, the Buddha did not demand riches or beauty—only truth and an open heart.
That day, I learned that the Dharma—the Buddha’s teaching—is not just for the wise or the wealthy. It is for anyone willing to listen.
Even a poor servant boy with cracked feet.
