I was just twelve summers old when I stood beside King Vessantara, clutching my worn satchel, heart pounding with a mixture of confusion and awe. My name is Asita, the son of one of the palace scribes in the kingdom of Sivi. I had always been told that our king was no ordinary ruler. He was kind, thoughtful, and above all, devoted to the teachings of the Dharma—the path of righteousness and inner peace. But nothing had prepared me for the gift he gave that day, a gift that would echo through history and stir the hearts of those seeking the truth.
Prince Vessantara, the son of King Sanjaya and Queen Phusati, had grown up in a place of comfort and luxury. Yet, even as a boy, he showed a great concern not for power or glory, but for peace, mindfulness, and compassion. When he grew older, Vessantara was known across our land as the most generous soul to ever live. Some even whispered he was a Bodhisattva—someone on the path to becoming a Buddha. At first, I didn't understand what that truly meant. But on that day, I would begin to learn.
It began when a neighboring kingdom suffered from a long drought. Without hesitation, King Vessantara offered them the kingdom’s most prized white elephant, which was believed to bring rain and blessings. His act shocked many, and some people became angry. "He’s giving away our good fortune!" they cried. The outcry grew so loud that his father had no choice but to send Vessantara into exile with his wife Maddi and their two young children, Jali and Kanhajina.
They traveled deep into the wild forest to live a life of simplicity. I, being the son of a scribe, was allowed to accompany the royal family to record their journey. Each day, I watched Vessantara quietly care for his family and offer kindness even to the smallest creatures of the forest. He built a simple hermitage and spent his days in meditation, learning to let go of desires and ego.
Then came a day I will never forget.
An old Brahmin named Jujaka stumbled into our forest home. He was poor, with ragged clothes and hollow cheeks, and came asking King Vessantara for a gift—his two children. Jujaka wanted the children to serve his young wife, who, he claimed, needed help. My heart broke—I couldn’t believe what I was hearing! The king knelt before his children lovingly, kissed their brows, and whispered something into their ears. Then he gave them willingly, with tears in his eyes but peace in his heart.
Maddi returned later from gathering roots and fruits. She fell to the ground in grief when she learned of what had happened. But King Vessantara knelt beside her and spoke gently, “My love, what truly belongs to us in this world? We are only passing through. Let us hold nothing so tightly that we cannot let it go in the name of compassion.”
That moment changed me.
I didn’t fully understand until I saw Jujaka later stumble into the capital with the children. The people were outraged and heartbroken, but when the truth of Vessantara’s action came to light, they wept with both sorrow and admiration. His exile was lifted. The royal family was reunited. King Vessantara returned to Sivi, not with riches, but with something far greater—purity of heart and the deep truths of the Dharma.
Watching him embrace even suffering with kindness taught me the meaning of detachment—not to be cold or careless, but to love without clinging, to give without expecting. For this life is like water: we cannot grip it tightly, but we can let it flow through us with grace.
That day, I realized the true courage lies in compassion, and the greatest power is in letting go.
I was just twelve summers old when I stood beside King Vessantara, clutching my worn satchel, heart pounding with a mixture of confusion and awe. My name is Asita, the son of one of the palace scribes in the kingdom of Sivi. I had always been told that our king was no ordinary ruler. He was kind, thoughtful, and above all, devoted to the teachings of the Dharma—the path of righteousness and inner peace. But nothing had prepared me for the gift he gave that day, a gift that would echo through history and stir the hearts of those seeking the truth.
Prince Vessantara, the son of King Sanjaya and Queen Phusati, had grown up in a place of comfort and luxury. Yet, even as a boy, he showed a great concern not for power or glory, but for peace, mindfulness, and compassion. When he grew older, Vessantara was known across our land as the most generous soul to ever live. Some even whispered he was a Bodhisattva—someone on the path to becoming a Buddha. At first, I didn't understand what that truly meant. But on that day, I would begin to learn.
It began when a neighboring kingdom suffered from a long drought. Without hesitation, King Vessantara offered them the kingdom’s most prized white elephant, which was believed to bring rain and blessings. His act shocked many, and some people became angry. "He’s giving away our good fortune!" they cried. The outcry grew so loud that his father had no choice but to send Vessantara into exile with his wife Maddi and their two young children, Jali and Kanhajina.
They traveled deep into the wild forest to live a life of simplicity. I, being the son of a scribe, was allowed to accompany the royal family to record their journey. Each day, I watched Vessantara quietly care for his family and offer kindness even to the smallest creatures of the forest. He built a simple hermitage and spent his days in meditation, learning to let go of desires and ego.
Then came a day I will never forget.
An old Brahmin named Jujaka stumbled into our forest home. He was poor, with ragged clothes and hollow cheeks, and came asking King Vessantara for a gift—his two children. Jujaka wanted the children to serve his young wife, who, he claimed, needed help. My heart broke—I couldn’t believe what I was hearing! The king knelt before his children lovingly, kissed their brows, and whispered something into their ears. Then he gave them willingly, with tears in his eyes but peace in his heart.
Maddi returned later from gathering roots and fruits. She fell to the ground in grief when she learned of what had happened. But King Vessantara knelt beside her and spoke gently, “My love, what truly belongs to us in this world? We are only passing through. Let us hold nothing so tightly that we cannot let it go in the name of compassion.”
That moment changed me.
I didn’t fully understand until I saw Jujaka later stumble into the capital with the children. The people were outraged and heartbroken, but when the truth of Vessantara’s action came to light, they wept with both sorrow and admiration. His exile was lifted. The royal family was reunited. King Vessantara returned to Sivi, not with riches, but with something far greater—purity of heart and the deep truths of the Dharma.
Watching him embrace even suffering with kindness taught me the meaning of detachment—not to be cold or careless, but to love without clinging, to give without expecting. For this life is like water: we cannot grip it tightly, but we can let it flow through us with grace.
That day, I realized the true courage lies in compassion, and the greatest power is in letting go.
