I stood beneath a silk-draped pillar in the grand palace of Kapilavastu, the city of golden domes and marble lotus ponds, my broom resting lightly in my hand. I was no one important—just a servant, a sweeper of halls. But that day, I witnessed something no royal scribe would ever forget. That was the day Prince Siddhartha—the beloved son of King Śuddhodana, the one people whispered might one day lead armies or rule an empire—left it all behind.
Most in the palace thought Prince Siddhartha had everything. He had splendid garments woven from Benares silk, dancers who moved like swans, gardens full of mangoes in bloom, and the love of Yashodhara, his gentle wife. Yet there were rumors, quiet and uneasy, that the prince didn’t smile like he once had. That despite all the music, he listened too much to silence.
I began seeing him wander alone at night, sitting under the Ashoka trees, lost in thought. No guards followed. No trumpets sounded. He simply sat and watched the stars.
One morning, cold and misty, I was cleaning near the northern gate when I saw Prince Siddhartha walking out with his charioteer, Chandaka. No fine robes today—just simple clothing that clung to his frame. Riding his favorite horse, Kanthaka, Siddhartha left the palace without a word to his father, to his wife, or even to his newborn son, Rahula. He didn’t take gold. He didn’t take servants. Just a look on his face that even now, I can only describe as peaceful…and determined.
What I didn’t know then—but learned later—was that Siddhartha had seen four things that changed him forever: a sick man, an old man, a dead body, and a monk. These sights cracked open his world. He realized that no matter how many palaces he lived in, he couldn’t escape the pain of life: sickness, aging, and death. He wanted to understand why we suffer, and most of all—how we stop suffering.
So that morning, under the shadows of the ancient trees outside Kapilavastu, Siddhartha made his “Great Renunciation”—giving up his future throne, his family, and all riches—to find true peace, not just for himself, but for all beings.
Seven days later, word spread that Prince Siddhartha had cut off his hair with a sword beside the river Anoma, handing his fine clothes to a hunter and walking into the forest as a wandering ascetic. People wept. Some whispered he had gone mad. But others, like me, felt something deeper. That wisdom was beginning to rise like the dawn.
Years passed, and the prince became the Buddha, the “Awakened One.” People far beyond our kingdom followed his teachings of mindfulness, compassion, and detachment. He taught us that it's not by holding more, but by letting go, that we find peace.
And I—born just a servant—became a follower of his path.
That day outside the city gates changed everything. Siddhartha had redefined what it meant to live, to walk a path not paved with silk or gold—but with awareness, kindness, and freedom. He left to seek enlightenment, yes, but in doing so, he lit a lamp that still shines across centuries.
And though my name will never be recorded in the scrolls, I saw the moment when a prince became a pilgrim, and the world shifted quietly toward truth.
I stood beneath a silk-draped pillar in the grand palace of Kapilavastu, the city of golden domes and marble lotus ponds, my broom resting lightly in my hand. I was no one important—just a servant, a sweeper of halls. But that day, I witnessed something no royal scribe would ever forget. That was the day Prince Siddhartha—the beloved son of King Śuddhodana, the one people whispered might one day lead armies or rule an empire—left it all behind.
Most in the palace thought Prince Siddhartha had everything. He had splendid garments woven from Benares silk, dancers who moved like swans, gardens full of mangoes in bloom, and the love of Yashodhara, his gentle wife. Yet there were rumors, quiet and uneasy, that the prince didn’t smile like he once had. That despite all the music, he listened too much to silence.
I began seeing him wander alone at night, sitting under the Ashoka trees, lost in thought. No guards followed. No trumpets sounded. He simply sat and watched the stars.
One morning, cold and misty, I was cleaning near the northern gate when I saw Prince Siddhartha walking out with his charioteer, Chandaka. No fine robes today—just simple clothing that clung to his frame. Riding his favorite horse, Kanthaka, Siddhartha left the palace without a word to his father, to his wife, or even to his newborn son, Rahula. He didn’t take gold. He didn’t take servants. Just a look on his face that even now, I can only describe as peaceful…and determined.
What I didn’t know then—but learned later—was that Siddhartha had seen four things that changed him forever: a sick man, an old man, a dead body, and a monk. These sights cracked open his world. He realized that no matter how many palaces he lived in, he couldn’t escape the pain of life: sickness, aging, and death. He wanted to understand why we suffer, and most of all—how we stop suffering.
So that morning, under the shadows of the ancient trees outside Kapilavastu, Siddhartha made his “Great Renunciation”—giving up his future throne, his family, and all riches—to find true peace, not just for himself, but for all beings.
Seven days later, word spread that Prince Siddhartha had cut off his hair with a sword beside the river Anoma, handing his fine clothes to a hunter and walking into the forest as a wandering ascetic. People wept. Some whispered he had gone mad. But others, like me, felt something deeper. That wisdom was beginning to rise like the dawn.
Years passed, and the prince became the Buddha, the “Awakened One.” People far beyond our kingdom followed his teachings of mindfulness, compassion, and detachment. He taught us that it's not by holding more, but by letting go, that we find peace.
And I—born just a servant—became a follower of his path.
That day outside the city gates changed everything. Siddhartha had redefined what it meant to live, to walk a path not paved with silk or gold—but with awareness, kindness, and freedom. He left to seek enlightenment, yes, but in doing so, he lit a lamp that still shines across centuries.
And though my name will never be recorded in the scrolls, I saw the moment when a prince became a pilgrim, and the world shifted quietly toward truth.
