You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there—barefoot and young, sitting at the edge of the grove where the monks gathered beneath the shade of the sala trees. I was the son of a potter, born in the village of Kajaṅgala, near the eastern border of ancient India, where the land baked hot and dry by midday but was cooled by the teachings of the Buddha, who walked those very paths.
It was on a late afternoon when I heard the venerable monk Mahānāma speak. He was once a noble from the Śākya clan, like the Buddha himself, now turned renunciant. Everyone from the village had gathered. Mahānāma’s face was calm, eyes like still water, and his voice flowed soft but clear. That day, he told us a teaching I would never forget—the Parable of the Dusty Mirror.
He said, “Imagine a mirror covered in dust and grime. If someone holds it up before you and asks, ‘Can you see your face clearly?’ you would say no. But if the mirror is cleaned, what was hidden shines forth. This, children, is the same with the mind darkened by craving.”
The children around me giggled at the thought of a talking mirror, but I stared at the ground, feeling something stir inside me.
My older brother, Sāma, had left home that very month to become a merchant, chasing jewels and silk down the trade roads to Varanasi. Father warned him that grasping at gold would leave his heart empty. “You'll find stones,” he had said, “and lose the stillness within you.”
I remembered that night when Sāma left. He tossed a copper coin in my hand and said, “This is just the beginning. One day I’ll have a chest full for us.” I didn’t understand then—but now, watching the monk speak of craving as dust that hides what is true, I began to.
I raised my hand and asked, “Venerable sir, how do we clean the mirror of the mind?”
Mahānāma smiled. “By practicing silence. Not just silence of the tongue, but of hungers and thoughts. Sit quietly. Observe. Let the cravings fall away. Then you will see—not your face—but your nature, and the truth that ‘self’ is like the wind: nothing to hold.”
That evening, I sat by the riverbank, letting the sunset fade. I didn’t chase thoughts. I just listened—to birds, to water, even to my breath. I imagined the dust from my mirror falling, one speck at a time. No more dreaming of gold. No more worrying over Sāma’s path. Just this moment.
Years have passed since then. I became a monk. I never saw my brother again, but I think of him often when I sit quietly, turning the mirror of my mind to the light of Dharma.
That day, I realized the truth: craving clouds what we truly are. And once we see through the dust, even just for a moment, we find something more vast than desire—something bright and free.
The mirror still waits for many—and when they are ready, they will see.
You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there—barefoot and young, sitting at the edge of the grove where the monks gathered beneath the shade of the sala trees. I was the son of a potter, born in the village of Kajaṅgala, near the eastern border of ancient India, where the land baked hot and dry by midday but was cooled by the teachings of the Buddha, who walked those very paths.
It was on a late afternoon when I heard the venerable monk Mahānāma speak. He was once a noble from the Śākya clan, like the Buddha himself, now turned renunciant. Everyone from the village had gathered. Mahānāma’s face was calm, eyes like still water, and his voice flowed soft but clear. That day, he told us a teaching I would never forget—the Parable of the Dusty Mirror.
He said, “Imagine a mirror covered in dust and grime. If someone holds it up before you and asks, ‘Can you see your face clearly?’ you would say no. But if the mirror is cleaned, what was hidden shines forth. This, children, is the same with the mind darkened by craving.”
The children around me giggled at the thought of a talking mirror, but I stared at the ground, feeling something stir inside me.
My older brother, Sāma, had left home that very month to become a merchant, chasing jewels and silk down the trade roads to Varanasi. Father warned him that grasping at gold would leave his heart empty. “You'll find stones,” he had said, “and lose the stillness within you.”
I remembered that night when Sāma left. He tossed a copper coin in my hand and said, “This is just the beginning. One day I’ll have a chest full for us.” I didn’t understand then—but now, watching the monk speak of craving as dust that hides what is true, I began to.
I raised my hand and asked, “Venerable sir, how do we clean the mirror of the mind?”
Mahānāma smiled. “By practicing silence. Not just silence of the tongue, but of hungers and thoughts. Sit quietly. Observe. Let the cravings fall away. Then you will see—not your face—but your nature, and the truth that ‘self’ is like the wind: nothing to hold.”
That evening, I sat by the riverbank, letting the sunset fade. I didn’t chase thoughts. I just listened—to birds, to water, even to my breath. I imagined the dust from my mirror falling, one speck at a time. No more dreaming of gold. No more worrying over Sāma’s path. Just this moment.
Years have passed since then. I became a monk. I never saw my brother again, but I think of him often when I sit quietly, turning the mirror of my mind to the light of Dharma.
That day, I realized the truth: craving clouds what we truly are. And once we see through the dust, even just for a moment, we find something more vast than desire—something bright and free.
The mirror still waits for many—and when they are ready, they will see.
