I was just a young page, barely taller than a bow’s reach, when I first served Prince Siddhartha of the Shakya Kingdom. My family had lived for generations under the rule of King Suddhodana, Siddhartha’s father, in the city of Kapilavastu. The prince, quiet and curious, was unlike the other noble boys. Where others played war and mocked the weak, Siddhartha gently tended to animals and asked questions about suffering, peace, and the stars far beyond our grasp.
One morning, golden light spilled over the gardens behind the palace, where Prince Siddhartha and his cousin Devadatta were practicing with their bows. I stood nearby, fidgeting with nervous hands, holding a quiver in case they needed more arrows. The air was quiet, until a sharp whistle broke it—a bird’s cry.
A white swan came tumbling down from the sky, its wing torn by an arrow. Devadatta shouted in triumph. He was well-known for being proud and strong, and often tried to outshine Siddhartha whenever he could. “Did you see that shot?” Devadatta exclaimed. “Straight through the wing!”
But Siddhartha rushed forward, scooping the trembling swan into his arms. He took off his robe and wrapped the creature gently, whispering soft words of comfort. I had never seen anyone do that before. Most boys our age would have cheered the shot, admired the feathers. But not him.
“This swan is alive. It wants to live,” Siddhartha said softly. “I will care for it.”
Devadatta protested. “But I shot it—it’s mine by right!”
Siddhartha looked at him, not with anger, but with calm truth. “If it were dead, you might claim it. But it lives. And who better owns a living being—the one who tries to kill it, or the one who wishes to help it live?”
Servants and nobles were soon gathering, whispering and watching. It was decided the matter would go to the king. King Suddhodana, known for his wisdom, listened carefully as both boys pleaded their case. He looked long at Siddhartha, whose eyes sparkled with compassion not just for the swan, but even for Devadatta.
Finally, the king declared, “Life belongs to the one who shows mercy. Siddhartha shall care for the swan, for he values life, while Devadatta sought dominion over death.”
Later that night, after the swan’s wing had been bandaged and it rested calmly in a basket of hay, I knelt beside the prince.
“You could have claimed nothing, and no one would have fought you,” I said.
He shook his head gently. “All things wish to live. The way of peace is not to conquer but to understand. This swan’s pain shows me this truth. One day, I will understand more.”
Years later, I would hear that Prince Siddhartha left the palace, gave up his wealth, and became the Buddha—the Enlightened One. He taught others about compassion, the Middle Way, and how to free ourselves from the pain of endless rebirth. But for me, everything started with a wounded bird and a boy who chose peace over pride.
That day in the garden, I saw the true power not in arrows or kingship, but in kindness. And I never forgot the swan, or the boy who let wisdom fly.
I was just a young page, barely taller than a bow’s reach, when I first served Prince Siddhartha of the Shakya Kingdom. My family had lived for generations under the rule of King Suddhodana, Siddhartha’s father, in the city of Kapilavastu. The prince, quiet and curious, was unlike the other noble boys. Where others played war and mocked the weak, Siddhartha gently tended to animals and asked questions about suffering, peace, and the stars far beyond our grasp.
One morning, golden light spilled over the gardens behind the palace, where Prince Siddhartha and his cousin Devadatta were practicing with their bows. I stood nearby, fidgeting with nervous hands, holding a quiver in case they needed more arrows. The air was quiet, until a sharp whistle broke it—a bird’s cry.
A white swan came tumbling down from the sky, its wing torn by an arrow. Devadatta shouted in triumph. He was well-known for being proud and strong, and often tried to outshine Siddhartha whenever he could. “Did you see that shot?” Devadatta exclaimed. “Straight through the wing!”
But Siddhartha rushed forward, scooping the trembling swan into his arms. He took off his robe and wrapped the creature gently, whispering soft words of comfort. I had never seen anyone do that before. Most boys our age would have cheered the shot, admired the feathers. But not him.
“This swan is alive. It wants to live,” Siddhartha said softly. “I will care for it.”
Devadatta protested. “But I shot it—it’s mine by right!”
Siddhartha looked at him, not with anger, but with calm truth. “If it were dead, you might claim it. But it lives. And who better owns a living being—the one who tries to kill it, or the one who wishes to help it live?”
Servants and nobles were soon gathering, whispering and watching. It was decided the matter would go to the king. King Suddhodana, known for his wisdom, listened carefully as both boys pleaded their case. He looked long at Siddhartha, whose eyes sparkled with compassion not just for the swan, but even for Devadatta.
Finally, the king declared, “Life belongs to the one who shows mercy. Siddhartha shall care for the swan, for he values life, while Devadatta sought dominion over death.”
Later that night, after the swan’s wing had been bandaged and it rested calmly in a basket of hay, I knelt beside the prince.
“You could have claimed nothing, and no one would have fought you,” I said.
He shook his head gently. “All things wish to live. The way of peace is not to conquer but to understand. This swan’s pain shows me this truth. One day, I will understand more.”
Years later, I would hear that Prince Siddhartha left the palace, gave up his wealth, and became the Buddha—the Enlightened One. He taught others about compassion, the Middle Way, and how to free ourselves from the pain of endless rebirth. But for me, everything started with a wounded bird and a boy who chose peace over pride.
That day in the garden, I saw the true power not in arrows or kingship, but in kindness. And I never forgot the swan, or the boy who let wisdom fly.
