I was ten when I first heard the story of the Buddha and the lost sheep. My name is Aruni, and I was the youngest helper at Venuvana, the Bamboo Grove Monastery outside Rajagaha, in what is now northeastern India. The monastery had been gifted to the Buddha, also called Siddhartha Gautama, by King Bimbisara. I swept floors, carried wood, fetched water—but mostly, I listened.
It was during the rains retreat, when the monsoon drenched the earth and the monks stayed in one place to study and reflect. One evening, a shepherd burst into the bamboo grove, soaked and panting. His name was Danta, and he was known in the village as a quiet man who cared deeply for his animals.
“I’ve lost one of my sheep!” he cried, kneeling before the Buddha, who sat beneath a large banyan tree. The other monks looked up, surprised; a missing sheep didn’t seem like such an urgent matter.
The Buddha looked at Danta with calm eyes, his hands resting on his lap. “You say... one sheep?” he asked gently.
“Yes,” Danta panted. “Only one. I have forty-nine others, but this one... she’s young, born in the spring. I’ve searched the hills and the riverside, but I’ve found nothing.”
“I see,” said the Buddha, nodding slowly. “You love her.”
Danta lowered his head. “She is alone and afraid,” he said. “And it is my duty to find her.”
“Tell me,” the Buddha said to his disciples, looking around the circle of saffron robes, “if a man has fifty sheep and one goes missing, what should he do?”
Most fell quiet. A few looked to one another, confused. Then Ananda, one of the Buddha’s closest followers—always gentle, always thoughtful—spoke. “He should stay with the forty-nine,” Ananda said, “so that they are not lost, too.”
The Buddha smiled. “A shepherd who watches his flock from fear of loss may keep his numbers. But a man who leaves the safe ones to find the one who’s lost—out of compassion—shows the way of the Dharma.”
I didn’t understand it then. Why risk losing more over one?
But a few days later, Danta returned—with his little sheep in his arms, weak but safe. The Buddha stood to greet him, which was rare, and said to the gathered monks, “Attachment is not the same as compassion. One binds the heart with rope, the other opens it like a flower.”
Even now, I remember the silence that followed. The lesson wasn’t just about sheep.
In later years, as I became a monk myself, I often recalled that night. I learned to sit still in meditation, let go of craving, and watch thoughts drift like clouds. But I also remembered Danta—mud-covered, breathless, searching not because he desired possession, but because he refused to abandon one who had strayed.
Compassion without attachment—that’s what the Buddha taught through a shepherd and his sheep. And even now, as I teach little ones under the same banyan tree, I begin with that story.
Because in silence, where no debate is needed, sometimes the smallest acts show the greatest wisdom.
I was ten when I first heard the story of the Buddha and the lost sheep. My name is Aruni, and I was the youngest helper at Venuvana, the Bamboo Grove Monastery outside Rajagaha, in what is now northeastern India. The monastery had been gifted to the Buddha, also called Siddhartha Gautama, by King Bimbisara. I swept floors, carried wood, fetched water—but mostly, I listened.
It was during the rains retreat, when the monsoon drenched the earth and the monks stayed in one place to study and reflect. One evening, a shepherd burst into the bamboo grove, soaked and panting. His name was Danta, and he was known in the village as a quiet man who cared deeply for his animals.
“I’ve lost one of my sheep!” he cried, kneeling before the Buddha, who sat beneath a large banyan tree. The other monks looked up, surprised; a missing sheep didn’t seem like such an urgent matter.
The Buddha looked at Danta with calm eyes, his hands resting on his lap. “You say... one sheep?” he asked gently.
“Yes,” Danta panted. “Only one. I have forty-nine others, but this one... she’s young, born in the spring. I’ve searched the hills and the riverside, but I’ve found nothing.”
“I see,” said the Buddha, nodding slowly. “You love her.”
Danta lowered his head. “She is alone and afraid,” he said. “And it is my duty to find her.”
“Tell me,” the Buddha said to his disciples, looking around the circle of saffron robes, “if a man has fifty sheep and one goes missing, what should he do?”
Most fell quiet. A few looked to one another, confused. Then Ananda, one of the Buddha’s closest followers—always gentle, always thoughtful—spoke. “He should stay with the forty-nine,” Ananda said, “so that they are not lost, too.”
The Buddha smiled. “A shepherd who watches his flock from fear of loss may keep his numbers. But a man who leaves the safe ones to find the one who’s lost—out of compassion—shows the way of the Dharma.”
I didn’t understand it then. Why risk losing more over one?
But a few days later, Danta returned—with his little sheep in his arms, weak but safe. The Buddha stood to greet him, which was rare, and said to the gathered monks, “Attachment is not the same as compassion. One binds the heart with rope, the other opens it like a flower.”
Even now, I remember the silence that followed. The lesson wasn’t just about sheep.
In later years, as I became a monk myself, I often recalled that night. I learned to sit still in meditation, let go of craving, and watch thoughts drift like clouds. But I also remembered Danta—mud-covered, breathless, searching not because he desired possession, but because he refused to abandon one who had strayed.
Compassion without attachment—that’s what the Buddha taught through a shepherd and his sheep. And even now, as I teach little ones under the same banyan tree, I begin with that story.
Because in silence, where no debate is needed, sometimes the smallest acts show the greatest wisdom.
