I was just a young boy, standing near the edge of the monastery grounds, my arms full of lotus flowers meant for our morning offerings. It was the season when the rivers ran clear, and the skies hung heavy with silence. My name is Jantu, and I was a novice monk in the great Jetavana Monastery, built in the kingdom of Kosala, where the Buddha had come to teach.
I remember that morning because of a man—tall, wrapped in a rich burgundy cloak, his eyes looking as if they'd seen many suns rise and fall. He was not like the others who came searching for answers, prayer beads clutched tightly in their hands or tears in their eyes. This man was angry—his shoulders stiff, his mouth thin and pressed together like a door nailed shut.
His name was Baradatta. He had once been a respected merchant, famous across Magadha for his wealth. But droughts had come, his ships had sunk, and the family name he’d cherished had fallen into ruin. He had lost everything—and he had come to ask the Buddha why.
He approached the Buddha in the meditation grove behind the temple. I followed quietly, hiding behind the bodhi tree, my offerings forgotten. The morning birds hushed. A few elder monks stirred, watching.
Baradatta knelt, fists clenched in the grass. "I have done good all my life," he said, his voice bitter. "Why have the gods punished me? Where was your Dharma when my children wept from hunger?"
The Buddha sat cross-legged, wrapped in his saffron robes, eyes half closed. He did not answer immediately. His face was calm, and then—he smiled.
A silent smile.
No grand speech. No sermon.
Just that smile.
Baradatta's face flushed red. “Do you mock me?” he barked. “I seek meaning, not silence!”
But the Buddha lifted his hand gently, and with that gesture, everyone fell silent.
“Baradatta,” he said, “do you see the leaf on your shoulder?”
The merchant blinked and looked down. A pale-yellow leaf had fallen onto him from the bodhi tree.
“That leaf,” the Buddha said, “once sang in the wind. Then it aged, turned gold, and now lies upon your shoulder. Do you grieve for the leaf?”
“No,” Baradatta said, confused. “That is its way.”
“And so, too, is loss the way of life,” the Buddha replied. “Wealth rises, then fades. Joy blooms, then withers. Nothing you love is yours to keep, only to honor in its time.”
“But… how do I let go?” the merchant whispered.
“Not by grasping harder, but by understanding,” the Buddha said. “Impermanence is not punishment. It is the nature of all things. Let go, and you free yourself from your suffering.”
Baradatta wept—not a loud cry, but the quiet kind only the deeply tired know. He bowed until his head touched the earth.
And Buddha simply smiled again—gentle, calm, and silent.
I never saw Baradatta again after that day. Word spread that he'd given up his merchant’s life and now wandered from village to village, offering grain to the poor and stories of a silent smile beneath a bodhi tree.
As I grew older, that moment stayed with me. I watched things come and go—friends departing, rains arriving, and joy appearing like wildflowers in spring. I learned not to cling.
That day, I realized the truth was not in the thousand words we speak, but in the compassion we live. The smile of the Buddha said what words could not: all things pass, but a heart that lets go can still hold love.
And now, as I sit beneath that same tree, older than I once was, I pass that truth to you. Let go—not with sorrow, but with understanding. And when you do, may you feel the quiet echo of that silent smile, too.
I was just a young boy, standing near the edge of the monastery grounds, my arms full of lotus flowers meant for our morning offerings. It was the season when the rivers ran clear, and the skies hung heavy with silence. My name is Jantu, and I was a novice monk in the great Jetavana Monastery, built in the kingdom of Kosala, where the Buddha had come to teach.
I remember that morning because of a man—tall, wrapped in a rich burgundy cloak, his eyes looking as if they'd seen many suns rise and fall. He was not like the others who came searching for answers, prayer beads clutched tightly in their hands or tears in their eyes. This man was angry—his shoulders stiff, his mouth thin and pressed together like a door nailed shut.
His name was Baradatta. He had once been a respected merchant, famous across Magadha for his wealth. But droughts had come, his ships had sunk, and the family name he’d cherished had fallen into ruin. He had lost everything—and he had come to ask the Buddha why.
He approached the Buddha in the meditation grove behind the temple. I followed quietly, hiding behind the bodhi tree, my offerings forgotten. The morning birds hushed. A few elder monks stirred, watching.
Baradatta knelt, fists clenched in the grass. "I have done good all my life," he said, his voice bitter. "Why have the gods punished me? Where was your Dharma when my children wept from hunger?"
The Buddha sat cross-legged, wrapped in his saffron robes, eyes half closed. He did not answer immediately. His face was calm, and then—he smiled.
A silent smile.
No grand speech. No sermon.
Just that smile.
Baradatta's face flushed red. “Do you mock me?” he barked. “I seek meaning, not silence!”
But the Buddha lifted his hand gently, and with that gesture, everyone fell silent.
“Baradatta,” he said, “do you see the leaf on your shoulder?”
The merchant blinked and looked down. A pale-yellow leaf had fallen onto him from the bodhi tree.
“That leaf,” the Buddha said, “once sang in the wind. Then it aged, turned gold, and now lies upon your shoulder. Do you grieve for the leaf?”
“No,” Baradatta said, confused. “That is its way.”
“And so, too, is loss the way of life,” the Buddha replied. “Wealth rises, then fades. Joy blooms, then withers. Nothing you love is yours to keep, only to honor in its time.”
“But… how do I let go?” the merchant whispered.
“Not by grasping harder, but by understanding,” the Buddha said. “Impermanence is not punishment. It is the nature of all things. Let go, and you free yourself from your suffering.”
Baradatta wept—not a loud cry, but the quiet kind only the deeply tired know. He bowed until his head touched the earth.
And Buddha simply smiled again—gentle, calm, and silent.
I never saw Baradatta again after that day. Word spread that he'd given up his merchant’s life and now wandered from village to village, offering grain to the poor and stories of a silent smile beneath a bodhi tree.
As I grew older, that moment stayed with me. I watched things come and go—friends departing, rains arriving, and joy appearing like wildflowers in spring. I learned not to cling.
That day, I realized the truth was not in the thousand words we speak, but in the compassion we live. The smile of the Buddha said what words could not: all things pass, but a heart that lets go can still hold love.
And now, as I sit beneath that same tree, older than I once was, I pass that truth to you. Let go—not with sorrow, but with understanding. And when you do, may you feel the quiet echo of that silent smile, too.
