You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there, hiding behind my father’s workbench, the scent of sawdust thick in the air, when the Buddha himself came to visit our home.
My father, Sona, was a skilled carpenter from Rajagaha, a city in ancient India known for its hills and sacred groves. He was a serious man, proud of his craft, and proud of nothing more than his calloused hands and the fine woodworks he made with them. He didn’t speak often, and when he did, it was usually to scold or to instruct… never to question. Certainly not the Dharma. Certainly not the Buddha.
That all changed the morning the Blessed One came.
Siddhartha Gautama—known across the land and even whispered about by the schoolboys in the street—was more than a man to us. Some said he was awakened. Others said he was a teacher who had left royal life to wander, learn, and help others reach something called Nirvana—the end of all suffering.
My father didn’t believe in such things.
“You can’t fix sorrow by sitting cross-legged,” he’d say. “You fix it with your hands, by building, by doing something real.”
But that morning, the Buddha walked into our yard with a calmness I had never seen. Monks followed behind him with bowls in hand for alms, but the Buddha walked alone, his feet bare, his gaze soft, and his posture straight like a bamboo reed. He smiled kindly—never smug, never proud—and asked my father for his company.
To my surprise, Father agreed.
They sat beneath the tamarind tree, just a few steps from where I crouched hidden. The tools of the workshop lay still, untouched for the first time in years.
"I work all day and still my heart is tired," my father said. "No matter how perfect my carvings, grief and anger come back again. Tell me, teacher… am I doing something wrong?"
The Buddha replied, gently, “Sona, just as a carpenter tunes the string of a lute—neither too tight nor too loose—so must a person tune their mind. If it is too harsh, it breaks. If it is too lax, it makes no music. Balance leads to peace.”
I snuck closer, peeking through the slats of the cart. My father’s eyes had changed. He looked like someone who had finally understood something he’d been fighting his whole life.
“But how do I stop from clinging to life’s sorrows and joys?” Father asked, his voice quieter now.
The Buddha placed his hand over his heart. “Suffering comes when we grasp too tightly at what cannot last. Like wood that rots over time, all things change. Mindfulness lets us see this truth clearly. Compassion lets us accept it. Detachment lets us release it.”
They sat in silence for a moment more. Then, as the morning sun spilled over the fields, the Buddha rose and bowed. My father did the same, without hesitation.
From that day on, my father’s carving changed. He still built carts, doors, and furniture, but now, he also made small statues of the Buddha. Each one had a tiny smile, just like the one he had seen that morning. And when people asked why, he would simply say, “Because surrender is not weakness. It’s how we learn to stop holding pain too tightly.”
That day, I learned that true strength wasn’t in what my father could build—but in what he learned to let go of.
You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there, hiding behind my father’s workbench, the scent of sawdust thick in the air, when the Buddha himself came to visit our home.
My father, Sona, was a skilled carpenter from Rajagaha, a city in ancient India known for its hills and sacred groves. He was a serious man, proud of his craft, and proud of nothing more than his calloused hands and the fine woodworks he made with them. He didn’t speak often, and when he did, it was usually to scold or to instruct… never to question. Certainly not the Dharma. Certainly not the Buddha.
That all changed the morning the Blessed One came.
Siddhartha Gautama—known across the land and even whispered about by the schoolboys in the street—was more than a man to us. Some said he was awakened. Others said he was a teacher who had left royal life to wander, learn, and help others reach something called Nirvana—the end of all suffering.
My father didn’t believe in such things.
“You can’t fix sorrow by sitting cross-legged,” he’d say. “You fix it with your hands, by building, by doing something real.”
But that morning, the Buddha walked into our yard with a calmness I had never seen. Monks followed behind him with bowls in hand for alms, but the Buddha walked alone, his feet bare, his gaze soft, and his posture straight like a bamboo reed. He smiled kindly—never smug, never proud—and asked my father for his company.
To my surprise, Father agreed.
They sat beneath the tamarind tree, just a few steps from where I crouched hidden. The tools of the workshop lay still, untouched for the first time in years.
"I work all day and still my heart is tired," my father said. "No matter how perfect my carvings, grief and anger come back again. Tell me, teacher… am I doing something wrong?"
The Buddha replied, gently, “Sona, just as a carpenter tunes the string of a lute—neither too tight nor too loose—so must a person tune their mind. If it is too harsh, it breaks. If it is too lax, it makes no music. Balance leads to peace.”
I snuck closer, peeking through the slats of the cart. My father’s eyes had changed. He looked like someone who had finally understood something he’d been fighting his whole life.
“But how do I stop from clinging to life’s sorrows and joys?” Father asked, his voice quieter now.
The Buddha placed his hand over his heart. “Suffering comes when we grasp too tightly at what cannot last. Like wood that rots over time, all things change. Mindfulness lets us see this truth clearly. Compassion lets us accept it. Detachment lets us release it.”
They sat in silence for a moment more. Then, as the morning sun spilled over the fields, the Buddha rose and bowed. My father did the same, without hesitation.
From that day on, my father’s carving changed. He still built carts, doors, and furniture, but now, he also made small statues of the Buddha. Each one had a tiny smile, just like the one he had seen that morning. And when people asked why, he would simply say, “Because surrender is not weakness. It’s how we learn to stop holding pain too tightly.”
That day, I learned that true strength wasn’t in what my father could build—but in what he learned to let go of.
