The sun was just beginning to rise over the plains of Sunaparanta, painting the sky with soft splashes of orange and gold. I was still young then, no more than seventeen, helping my father in the market stalls where we sold rice and spices. Life in our village was not easy—raiders came from the hills often, and the fields were hard and dry. Fear was as common as dust.
It was on one of those quiet sunrise mornings that I first saw him—Punna, a wandering monk in simple robes, his feet bare, his bowl empty. He was not from Sunaparanta; he had traveled far from central India, all the way to Savatthi to learn under the Buddha himself. Now, word had spread that he was returning home.
Many of us were curious. Why would anyone come back here, where life was dangerous and unpredictable? Some thought he had come to teach. Others thought he had come to die. But no one expected what we would learn from him.
One evening, the village gathered under the Bodhi tree near the well. Punna sat quietly, his eyes closed, his breath calm. A few boys laughed, thinking him strange. But we watched him, because there was something in his stillness that made even the wind hold its breath.
After a long pause, he began to speak.
“I asked the Blessed One,” he said, referring to the Buddha, “if I could return here, knowing the dangers. He asked me, ‘What if they insult you?’ I said, ‘Then I will think they are only using harsh words.’ He said, ‘What if they beat you?’ I said, ‘Then I will think I must endure.’”
His voice was steady, like the flow of a river.
He continued, “He kept asking—‘What if they kill you?’ And I answered, ‘Then they end only my body, not my peace.’”
The crowd fell completely silent. Even the youngest children stopped fidgeting. I stared at this man—brown-skinned and dusty-footed like the rest of us—but with a mind clearly shaped by something far greater.
“Fear,” Punna said, “comes from clinging to what we cannot keep. Even our breath someday leaves us. But if we meet the world with mindfulness, compassion, and detachment, then even danger becomes a teacher.”
After that night, Punna would walk the fields with us, but he never truly seemed to be burdened by anything. I once saw an angry farmer shout at him, blaming him for turning young men’s hearts away from hard work. Punna only bowed gently and said, “May you be well.” The farmer’s anger melted like morning mist.
Punna did not stay forever. One day, as suddenly as he had come, he moved on. Some said he traveled further west to teach others. Others said he entered the forest and never returned. But the wisdom he left behind stayed with us, like a deep pool that reflects the truth clearly when the mind is still.
Years later, when raiders did come again, I remembered Punna’s words. I helped gather the children and led them to safety. I did not act out of panic, but mindfulness. I remembered that seeing clearly was not about having perfect safety—it was about having perfect understanding.
That day, I learned that clarity comes not when danger ends, but when we see it for what it truly is: another wave that rises and falls, teaching us to let go.
And that was how the story of Punna revealed the heart of the Dharma.
The sun was just beginning to rise over the plains of Sunaparanta, painting the sky with soft splashes of orange and gold. I was still young then, no more than seventeen, helping my father in the market stalls where we sold rice and spices. Life in our village was not easy—raiders came from the hills often, and the fields were hard and dry. Fear was as common as dust.
It was on one of those quiet sunrise mornings that I first saw him—Punna, a wandering monk in simple robes, his feet bare, his bowl empty. He was not from Sunaparanta; he had traveled far from central India, all the way to Savatthi to learn under the Buddha himself. Now, word had spread that he was returning home.
Many of us were curious. Why would anyone come back here, where life was dangerous and unpredictable? Some thought he had come to teach. Others thought he had come to die. But no one expected what we would learn from him.
One evening, the village gathered under the Bodhi tree near the well. Punna sat quietly, his eyes closed, his breath calm. A few boys laughed, thinking him strange. But we watched him, because there was something in his stillness that made even the wind hold its breath.
After a long pause, he began to speak.
“I asked the Blessed One,” he said, referring to the Buddha, “if I could return here, knowing the dangers. He asked me, ‘What if they insult you?’ I said, ‘Then I will think they are only using harsh words.’ He said, ‘What if they beat you?’ I said, ‘Then I will think I must endure.’”
His voice was steady, like the flow of a river.
He continued, “He kept asking—‘What if they kill you?’ And I answered, ‘Then they end only my body, not my peace.’”
The crowd fell completely silent. Even the youngest children stopped fidgeting. I stared at this man—brown-skinned and dusty-footed like the rest of us—but with a mind clearly shaped by something far greater.
“Fear,” Punna said, “comes from clinging to what we cannot keep. Even our breath someday leaves us. But if we meet the world with mindfulness, compassion, and detachment, then even danger becomes a teacher.”
After that night, Punna would walk the fields with us, but he never truly seemed to be burdened by anything. I once saw an angry farmer shout at him, blaming him for turning young men’s hearts away from hard work. Punna only bowed gently and said, “May you be well.” The farmer’s anger melted like morning mist.
Punna did not stay forever. One day, as suddenly as he had come, he moved on. Some said he traveled further west to teach others. Others said he entered the forest and never returned. But the wisdom he left behind stayed with us, like a deep pool that reflects the truth clearly when the mind is still.
Years later, when raiders did come again, I remembered Punna’s words. I helped gather the children and led them to safety. I did not act out of panic, but mindfulness. I remembered that seeing clearly was not about having perfect safety—it was about having perfect understanding.
That day, I learned that clarity comes not when danger ends, but when we see it for what it truly is: another wave that rises and falls, teaching us to let go.
And that was how the story of Punna revealed the heart of the Dharma.
