The sun baked the dusty ground, and my bones seemed to rattle with every step I took. At the time, I was only a humble shepherd’s son, no one special. My father tended goats on the edge of the Kingdom of Magadha, far from the noise of kings or warriors. But that day, on a path near the forest of Uruvela, I saw something that would stay with me forever.
A man sat beneath a tree, his body so thin you could see every bone. His eyes were closed, and his face held a stillness I had never seen before. He looked like he had swallowed the silence of the forest itself. Beside him, the roots wrapped around his legs like vines. People whispered that he was Siddhartha Gautama, once a prince of Kapilavastu, a city far north from ours. They said he’d given up his palace, wealth, and family to find the truth about life and suffering.
I had heard of such men—wanderers and sages—but I had never seen one this determined. For six long years, Siddhartha barely ate a grain of rice. He fasted, meditated, and brought his body to the very edge of death, believing that intense suffering might lead him to enlightenment. His skin clung to his bones like wet cloth, and yet people came from far-off villages just to glance at him.
But when I stood there that day, clutching a small jar of warm goat’s milk for my mother, I saw something different. His eyes opened, slowly. They were not full of hunger, or anger, or even pain. They held something clearer—like still water that shows everything.
Nearby, a girl named Sujata approached. She was from a small village nearby, and her family believed in making offerings to forest spirits. Her hands trembled as she set down a bowl of rice milk near the man. “Please,” she said softly. “Eat. You won’t find truth if your body dies.” Then she stepped back.
At first, Siddhartha said nothing. Then, with great care, he lifted the bowl. The crowd gasped. Was he giving up? Ending his path?
But his voice, though weak, was calm. “To give up everything is not wisdom. To hold to nothing—that is the path. Neither too soft nor too hard.”
That day, Siddhartha accepted the rice milk. He broke his fast—something no one expected. Slowly, strength returned to his body. After that, he walked toward a tree by the river called Bodhi. There he would meditate once more, not in suffering, but in balance. And under that tree, days later, he would find enlightenment and become the Buddha—the Awakened One.
I never forgot what I saw that day. Not the rice milk. Not the prince-turned-monk. And not the moment he chose the Middle Way—between too much and too little.
Years later, when my own heart was clouded with anger or confusion, I remembered his words—the path is not in clinging, nor in rejecting, but in letting go. That day, I saw what true freedom looks like.
And I have lived ever since trying to walk that same way.
The sun baked the dusty ground, and my bones seemed to rattle with every step I took. At the time, I was only a humble shepherd’s son, no one special. My father tended goats on the edge of the Kingdom of Magadha, far from the noise of kings or warriors. But that day, on a path near the forest of Uruvela, I saw something that would stay with me forever.
A man sat beneath a tree, his body so thin you could see every bone. His eyes were closed, and his face held a stillness I had never seen before. He looked like he had swallowed the silence of the forest itself. Beside him, the roots wrapped around his legs like vines. People whispered that he was Siddhartha Gautama, once a prince of Kapilavastu, a city far north from ours. They said he’d given up his palace, wealth, and family to find the truth about life and suffering.
I had heard of such men—wanderers and sages—but I had never seen one this determined. For six long years, Siddhartha barely ate a grain of rice. He fasted, meditated, and brought his body to the very edge of death, believing that intense suffering might lead him to enlightenment. His skin clung to his bones like wet cloth, and yet people came from far-off villages just to glance at him.
But when I stood there that day, clutching a small jar of warm goat’s milk for my mother, I saw something different. His eyes opened, slowly. They were not full of hunger, or anger, or even pain. They held something clearer—like still water that shows everything.
Nearby, a girl named Sujata approached. She was from a small village nearby, and her family believed in making offerings to forest spirits. Her hands trembled as she set down a bowl of rice milk near the man. “Please,” she said softly. “Eat. You won’t find truth if your body dies.” Then she stepped back.
At first, Siddhartha said nothing. Then, with great care, he lifted the bowl. The crowd gasped. Was he giving up? Ending his path?
But his voice, though weak, was calm. “To give up everything is not wisdom. To hold to nothing—that is the path. Neither too soft nor too hard.”
That day, Siddhartha accepted the rice milk. He broke his fast—something no one expected. Slowly, strength returned to his body. After that, he walked toward a tree by the river called Bodhi. There he would meditate once more, not in suffering, but in balance. And under that tree, days later, he would find enlightenment and become the Buddha—the Awakened One.
I never forgot what I saw that day. Not the rice milk. Not the prince-turned-monk. And not the moment he chose the Middle Way—between too much and too little.
Years later, when my own heart was clouded with anger or confusion, I remembered his words—the path is not in clinging, nor in rejecting, but in letting go. That day, I saw what true freedom looks like.
And I have lived ever since trying to walk that same way.
