I was a servant boy—no one of importance. My name won’t echo in chants or be carved into stones. But I was there, brushing dust from the temple floors of Jetavana Monastery the day everything changed—for all of us.
It was one of the hottest days I could remember. The sun refused to show mercy as it blazed over the tiled roofs. The monks moved slowly, their bare feet scuffing against worn stone as they returned from alms rounds. I was in the great hall, polishing the floor when I saw him—Venerable Maha Kassapa, one of the Buddha’s chief disciples. His face, always calm like still water, looked troubled.
In his hands, he carried a delicate painted fan. I recognized it immediately. It belonged to Venerable Sāriputta, the gentle elder monk who had passed away only weeks ago. Everyone loved Sāriputta. He had been the Buddha’s right hand, wise and brave, always guiding others on the Noble Eightfold Path. The fan was simple—painted with scenes of mountains and deer—but it had stayed by his side through endless journeys, meditations, and teachings.
I watched as Maha Kassapa approached the Buddha, who was seated in quiet thought beneath the sala tree. I had scrubbed the roots of that very tree just that morning. The Buddha, known then simply as Siddhartha Gautama, was born a prince in a land called Kapilavastu, but he had left his wealth behind to search for truth. After years of fasting, wandering, and deep meditation, he found enlightenment under the Bodhi Tree and became the Enlightened One—Buddha.
Maha Kassapa bowed deeply and placed the fan before the Buddha.
“This fan,” he said gently, “was Sāriputta’s. He cherished it. He even mended it when the frame cracked in Kusinara... I thought you might want it now, as remembrance.”
The Buddha looked at the fan for a long time, his eyes unreadable. We all held our breath. Every monk in earshot fell silent. Even the birds seemed to listen.
Then the Buddha smiled—not sadly, not joyfully—just softly, like a breeze brushing through thick summer air.
“I have not lost Sāriputta,” he said. “And I need no fan to remember him. He lives through the Dhamma. Through each noble deed, each teaching shared. Objects are but shadows.”
He closed his eyes briefly, folding his hands in his lap.
“Letting go is not to forget,” he continued. “It is to understand there is nothing to hold on to.”
At that moment, something inside me shifted. I was just a boy, dust on my hands, sweat on my brow. But those words cut through me like cool water after a long drought. I looked at my own life—my fears, the things I clung to: a piece of fruit saved, a kind word remembered too long, anger that I let live more than it should.
The painted fan remained on the stone floor, untouched.
From that day on, I understood that the Middle Way—the path Buddha walked—wasn’t about having or not having. It was about staying in balance, gently letting go of what holds us back, and living with wisdom and kindness.
I never saw the fan again.
But I didn’t need to.
The Buddha’s words stayed with me far longer than cloth and paint ever could.
I was a servant boy—no one of importance. My name won’t echo in chants or be carved into stones. But I was there, brushing dust from the temple floors of Jetavana Monastery the day everything changed—for all of us.
It was one of the hottest days I could remember. The sun refused to show mercy as it blazed over the tiled roofs. The monks moved slowly, their bare feet scuffing against worn stone as they returned from alms rounds. I was in the great hall, polishing the floor when I saw him—Venerable Maha Kassapa, one of the Buddha’s chief disciples. His face, always calm like still water, looked troubled.
In his hands, he carried a delicate painted fan. I recognized it immediately. It belonged to Venerable Sāriputta, the gentle elder monk who had passed away only weeks ago. Everyone loved Sāriputta. He had been the Buddha’s right hand, wise and brave, always guiding others on the Noble Eightfold Path. The fan was simple—painted with scenes of mountains and deer—but it had stayed by his side through endless journeys, meditations, and teachings.
I watched as Maha Kassapa approached the Buddha, who was seated in quiet thought beneath the sala tree. I had scrubbed the roots of that very tree just that morning. The Buddha, known then simply as Siddhartha Gautama, was born a prince in a land called Kapilavastu, but he had left his wealth behind to search for truth. After years of fasting, wandering, and deep meditation, he found enlightenment under the Bodhi Tree and became the Enlightened One—Buddha.
Maha Kassapa bowed deeply and placed the fan before the Buddha.
“This fan,” he said gently, “was Sāriputta’s. He cherished it. He even mended it when the frame cracked in Kusinara... I thought you might want it now, as remembrance.”
The Buddha looked at the fan for a long time, his eyes unreadable. We all held our breath. Every monk in earshot fell silent. Even the birds seemed to listen.
Then the Buddha smiled—not sadly, not joyfully—just softly, like a breeze brushing through thick summer air.
“I have not lost Sāriputta,” he said. “And I need no fan to remember him. He lives through the Dhamma. Through each noble deed, each teaching shared. Objects are but shadows.”
He closed his eyes briefly, folding his hands in his lap.
“Letting go is not to forget,” he continued. “It is to understand there is nothing to hold on to.”
At that moment, something inside me shifted. I was just a boy, dust on my hands, sweat on my brow. But those words cut through me like cool water after a long drought. I looked at my own life—my fears, the things I clung to: a piece of fruit saved, a kind word remembered too long, anger that I let live more than it should.
The painted fan remained on the stone floor, untouched.
From that day on, I understood that the Middle Way—the path Buddha walked—wasn’t about having or not having. It was about staying in balance, gently letting go of what holds us back, and living with wisdom and kindness.
I never saw the fan again.
But I didn’t need to.
The Buddha’s words stayed with me far longer than cloth and paint ever could.
