I was just a servant boy, quiet as the wind that slipped through the palace corridors. My name was Khema, and I served in the royal gardens of Kapilavastu, the once-great capital city where a prince named Siddhartha Gautama was born. He was the son of King Śuddhodana, heir to the Shakya throne, and we whispered about him in hushed tones—the prince who chose to walk away from gold and silk in search of truth.
But the story I want to tell happened many years later, long after Siddhartha had become the Buddha—the Enlightened One. That day, he had returned to his homeland after years of wandering, meditating, and teaching. The city buzzed with news of his arrival, and people from all castes gathered to see him—not as a prince, but as a teacher.
I had been assigned to clear the lotus pond outside the palace grounds. The pond was old and neglected, much like the forgotten edges of our hearts. Debris had collected over the years—fallen leaves, broken branches, and thick algae that choked the pink and white flower buds.
As the sun reached its peak, casting shimmers across the stagnant water, I saw him at a distance.
The Buddha.
He was seated under the banyan tree, his legs tucked under him and hands resting gently in his lap. Everyone else stayed back, too reverent or too afraid to disturb him. But I—sweaty, barefoot, and holding a bamboo rake—had no choice. My job was to clear the water nearby, and I dared not leave it undone.
I edged closer, each step feeling heavier under his calm gaze. But he wasn’t looking at me. He was watching the lotus flowers—those few blossoms that had managed to rise through the grime to open beneath the sun.
He finally spoke, voice gentle like wind in temple chimes, “Tell me, boy, what do you see in the water?”
I blinked, unsure if I should speak. “Only filth and weeds, sir. I've tried to clean it, but it never stays clear.”
He nodded slowly. “And yet, even in murky water, the lotus blooms. Do you know why?”
I shook my head.
“The lotus cannot hate the mud. It rises because it does not cling.”
His words lingered in the air. I looked to the flowers—how they did not resist the water, nor beg the sun. They rose, because it was in their nature to reach the light.
“I once clung,” he continued, “to titles, fears, names, and longings. But freedom came only when I let go.”
I dropped my rake.
My arms ached not from work, but from years of carrying my shame—being born low, being unnoticed, being angry at fate. I’d blamed my karma, cursed the mud of life. But I had not tried to rise.
That day, I did not become a monk. I was only a servant boy who cleared ponds. But I understood something new. Karma was not punishment—it was the soil of action. And like the lotus, I could use it to rise.
I walked away from the lotus pond, not with a rake, but with a changed heart. I began to clean not just water, but the dust from my own thoughts.
Because sometimes, transformation doesn’t come in grand temples or loud miracles.
Sometimes, it happens on the edge of a pond—with muddy hands and an open mind.
I was just a servant boy, quiet as the wind that slipped through the palace corridors. My name was Khema, and I served in the royal gardens of Kapilavastu, the once-great capital city where a prince named Siddhartha Gautama was born. He was the son of King Śuddhodana, heir to the Shakya throne, and we whispered about him in hushed tones—the prince who chose to walk away from gold and silk in search of truth.
But the story I want to tell happened many years later, long after Siddhartha had become the Buddha—the Enlightened One. That day, he had returned to his homeland after years of wandering, meditating, and teaching. The city buzzed with news of his arrival, and people from all castes gathered to see him—not as a prince, but as a teacher.
I had been assigned to clear the lotus pond outside the palace grounds. The pond was old and neglected, much like the forgotten edges of our hearts. Debris had collected over the years—fallen leaves, broken branches, and thick algae that choked the pink and white flower buds.
As the sun reached its peak, casting shimmers across the stagnant water, I saw him at a distance.
The Buddha.
He was seated under the banyan tree, his legs tucked under him and hands resting gently in his lap. Everyone else stayed back, too reverent or too afraid to disturb him. But I—sweaty, barefoot, and holding a bamboo rake—had no choice. My job was to clear the water nearby, and I dared not leave it undone.
I edged closer, each step feeling heavier under his calm gaze. But he wasn’t looking at me. He was watching the lotus flowers—those few blossoms that had managed to rise through the grime to open beneath the sun.
He finally spoke, voice gentle like wind in temple chimes, “Tell me, boy, what do you see in the water?”
I blinked, unsure if I should speak. “Only filth and weeds, sir. I've tried to clean it, but it never stays clear.”
He nodded slowly. “And yet, even in murky water, the lotus blooms. Do you know why?”
I shook my head.
“The lotus cannot hate the mud. It rises because it does not cling.”
His words lingered in the air. I looked to the flowers—how they did not resist the water, nor beg the sun. They rose, because it was in their nature to reach the light.
“I once clung,” he continued, “to titles, fears, names, and longings. But freedom came only when I let go.”
I dropped my rake.
My arms ached not from work, but from years of carrying my shame—being born low, being unnoticed, being angry at fate. I’d blamed my karma, cursed the mud of life. But I had not tried to rise.
That day, I did not become a monk. I was only a servant boy who cleared ponds. But I understood something new. Karma was not punishment—it was the soil of action. And like the lotus, I could use it to rise.
I walked away from the lotus pond, not with a rake, but with a changed heart. I began to clean not just water, but the dust from my own thoughts.
Because sometimes, transformation doesn’t come in grand temples or loud miracles.
Sometimes, it happens on the edge of a pond—with muddy hands and an open mind.
