I was just a boy when I first met the beggar who changed my life. My name is Kavi, and I lived in the ancient city of Savatthi, one of the great cities in India where wise monks followed the path of the Buddha.
Every morning, the city buzzed with life—merchants selling their wares, children laughing in the alleyways, and monks walking silently to gather their morning alms. But one man stood out. He was old and thin, with nothing but a worn piece of cloth wrapped around him and a wooden bowl in his hand. His name was Jantu.
Jantu was a beggar, but not like the others. He never wailed or pleaded. He stood quietly, his eyes clear, his back straight like a monk. Many said he had once been a wealthy scribe in Rajagaha, far to the east, but had given everything up after hearing the teachings of the Buddha. Now, he lived with barely anything, and yet walked with a peacefulness even kings could envy.
What made him special, people whispered, was the truth he spoke.
One day, the king of Kosala, King Pasenadi, came to Savatthi. He had heard tales of a beggar who spoke words that made even laypeople sit still and listen. Curious, he summoned the beggar to his palace.
I followed—curious myself—and stood among the crowd as Jantu entered the palace court, his feet bare, his robe dusty.
“What truth do you carry, beggar?” The king asked, from behind his golden throne.
Jantu bowed low, then spoke in a calm voice. “Great King,” he said, “I own nothing, but I am content. I eat little, but I hunger for nothing. I sleep on stone, but my mind rests easy. I walk the earth in silence, but my thoughts are clear and full of joy.”
The king frowned. “And what makes you so content, with no gold, no titles, no power?”
Jantu looked up. “Mindfulness, my Lord. And right action. I speak only truth, I take not what is not given, and I seek no harm to others. In doing so, I sleep peacefully and rise with no regrets. This is the fruit of karma—of past actions done with awareness. I do not wait for happiness to be handed to me; I build it each day with thought, word, and deed.”
The hall was silent. Even the courtiers, so used to flattery and lies, paused to hear more. The king, moved by the beggar’s calm eyes and steady words, said, “You have less than all of us, and yet you are richer still.”
Jantu bowed. “Because I give more than I take. The truth itself is the greatest gift.”
From that day, the people of Savatthi looked at Jantu differently. He remained a beggar, but his bowl was never empty. Not because he asked, but because his truth filled others.
I remember him now, many years later, as I sit at the temple gates where I now sweep and serve. I have little, but I guard my mind and my speech, like Jantu taught me. I don’t need a throne or coins to be rich.
That day, I realized that mindfulness was not just for monks in robes but for all of us who listen deeply, speak gently, and live true. I may never wear a crown, but by following the middle path, I have found peace far greater than all the riches of kings.
I was just a boy when I first met the beggar who changed my life. My name is Kavi, and I lived in the ancient city of Savatthi, one of the great cities in India where wise monks followed the path of the Buddha.
Every morning, the city buzzed with life—merchants selling their wares, children laughing in the alleyways, and monks walking silently to gather their morning alms. But one man stood out. He was old and thin, with nothing but a worn piece of cloth wrapped around him and a wooden bowl in his hand. His name was Jantu.
Jantu was a beggar, but not like the others. He never wailed or pleaded. He stood quietly, his eyes clear, his back straight like a monk. Many said he had once been a wealthy scribe in Rajagaha, far to the east, but had given everything up after hearing the teachings of the Buddha. Now, he lived with barely anything, and yet walked with a peacefulness even kings could envy.
What made him special, people whispered, was the truth he spoke.
One day, the king of Kosala, King Pasenadi, came to Savatthi. He had heard tales of a beggar who spoke words that made even laypeople sit still and listen. Curious, he summoned the beggar to his palace.
I followed—curious myself—and stood among the crowd as Jantu entered the palace court, his feet bare, his robe dusty.
“What truth do you carry, beggar?” The king asked, from behind his golden throne.
Jantu bowed low, then spoke in a calm voice. “Great King,” he said, “I own nothing, but I am content. I eat little, but I hunger for nothing. I sleep on stone, but my mind rests easy. I walk the earth in silence, but my thoughts are clear and full of joy.”
The king frowned. “And what makes you so content, with no gold, no titles, no power?”
Jantu looked up. “Mindfulness, my Lord. And right action. I speak only truth, I take not what is not given, and I seek no harm to others. In doing so, I sleep peacefully and rise with no regrets. This is the fruit of karma—of past actions done with awareness. I do not wait for happiness to be handed to me; I build it each day with thought, word, and deed.”
The hall was silent. Even the courtiers, so used to flattery and lies, paused to hear more. The king, moved by the beggar’s calm eyes and steady words, said, “You have less than all of us, and yet you are richer still.”
Jantu bowed. “Because I give more than I take. The truth itself is the greatest gift.”
From that day, the people of Savatthi looked at Jantu differently. He remained a beggar, but his bowl was never empty. Not because he asked, but because his truth filled others.
I remember him now, many years later, as I sit at the temple gates where I now sweep and serve. I have little, but I guard my mind and my speech, like Jantu taught me. I don’t need a throne or coins to be rich.
That day, I realized that mindfulness was not just for monks in robes but for all of us who listen deeply, speak gently, and live true. I may never wear a crown, but by following the middle path, I have found peace far greater than all the riches of kings.
