‘The Wounded Swan’

Early the next morning, Svasti led his buffaloes to graze. By noon he had cut enough grass to fill two baskets. Svasti liked to let the buffaloes graze on the side of the river that bordered the forest. That way, when he finished gathering grass, he could stretch out in the cool breeze and not worry about the buffaloes wandering into someone’s rice fields. He carried only his sickle, the tool by which he earned his living. Svasti opened the small fistful of rice Bala had wrapped in a banana leaf for his lunch, but as he was about to eat, his thoughts turned to Siddhartha. 

“I could take this rice to the hermit, Siddhartha,” he thought. 

“Surely he won’t find my rice too humble.” Svasti wrapped the rice, and, leaving the buffaloes at the forest’s edge, followed the path to where he had met Siddhartha the day before. 

From a distance he saw his new friend sitting beneath the great pippala tree. But Siddhartha was not alone. Before him sat a girl just about Svasti’s age, dressed in a fine white sari. There was food already placed before him, and Svasti stopped abruptly. But Siddhartha looked up and called to him, “Svasti!” He motioned for the boy to join them. 

The girl in the white sari looked up, and Svasti recognized her as someone he had often passed on the village road. As Svasti approached, she moved to her left to make a place for him, and Siddhartha gestured him to sit down. In front of Siddhartha was a banana leaf, which held a fistful of rice and a small amount of sesame salt. Siddhartha divided the rice into two portions. 

“Have you eaten yet, child?” 

“No, Mister, I haven’t.” 

“Well then, let’s share this.” 

Siddhartha handed Svasti half the rice, and Svasti joined his palms together in thanks, but refused the rice. He took out his own humble rice and said, “I’ve also brought some.” 

He opened his banana leaf to reveal coarse grains of brown rice, unlike the soft white grains on Siddhartha’s leaf. He had no sesame salt. Siddhartha smiled at the two children and said, “Shall we put all our rice together and share it?” 

He took half the white rice, dipped it in sesame salt and handed it to Svasti. Then he broke off half of Svasti’s rice ball and began to eat it with obvious delight. Svasti felt awkward, but seeing Siddhartha’s naturalness, he began to eat as well. 

“Your rice is so fragrant, Mister.” 

“Sujata brought it,” answered Siddhartha. 

“So her name is Sujata,” thought Svasti. She looked a bit older than Svasti, perhaps a year or two. Her large black eyes twinkled. Svasti stopped eating and said, “I’ve seen you before on the village road, but I didn’t know your name was Sujata.” 

“Yes, I am the daughter of the village chief of Uruvela. Your name is Svasti, isn’t it? Teacher Siddhartha was just telling me about you,” she said, adding gently, “Svasti, it is more correct to call a monk, ‘Teacher,’ than ‘Mister.’” 

Svasti nodded. 

Siddhartha smiled. “Well then, I don’t need to introduce you two. Do you know, children, why I eat in silence? These grains of rice and sesame are so precious, I like to eat silently so that I can appreciate them fully. Sujata, have you ever had a chance to taste brown rice? Even if you’ve already eaten, please taste a bit of Svasti’s rice. It is quite delicious. Now then, we can eat together in silence, and when we’ve finished, I’ll tell you a story.” 

Siddhartha broke off a piece of brown rice and handed it to Sujata. She joined her palms like a lotus and respectfully accepted it. The three of them ate quietly in the deep calm of the forest. 

When the rice and sesame were gone, Sujata gathered the banana leaves. She took a jug of fresh water from her side and poured some into the only cup she had brought. She lifted the cup to offer water to Siddhartha. He took it in his two hands and offered it to Svasti. Flustered, Svasti blurted, “Please, Mister, I mean, Teacher, please, you take the first drink.” 

Siddhartha answered in a soft voice, “You drink first, child. I want you to have the first drink.” Again he lifted and offered the cup to Svasti. 

Svasti felt confused but didn’t know how to refuse such an unaccustomed honor. He joined his palms in thanks and took the cup. He drank all the water in one long gulp. He handed the cup back to Siddhartha. Siddhartha asked Sujata to pour a second cup. When it was full he raised it to his lips and sipped the water slowly, with reverence and deep enjoyment. Sujata’s eyes did not stray from Siddhartha and Svasti during this exchange. When Siddhartha finished drinking, he asked Sujata to pour a third cup. This one he offered to her. She put down the water jug, joined her palms, and accepted the cup of water. She lifted it to her lips and drank in slow, small sips, just as Siddhartha had done. She was aware that this was the first time she had ever drunk from the same cup as an untouchable. But Siddhartha was her Teacher, and if he had done so, why shouldn’t she? And she noticed that she had no feeling whatsoever of being polluted. Spontaneously, she reached out and touched the buffalo boy’s hair. It was such a surprise, Svasti didn’t have a moment to move out of the way. Then Sujata finished drinking her water. She placed the empty cup on the ground and smiled at her two companions. 

Siddhartha nodded. “You children have understood. People are not born with caste. Everyone’s tears are salty, and everyone’s blood is red. It is wrong to divide people into castes and create division and prejudice among them. This has become very clear to me during my meditation.” 

Sujata looked thoughtful and she spoke, “We are your disciples and we believe your teaching. But there does not seem to be anyone else like you in this world. Everyone else believes that the shudras and the untouchables came forth from the Creator’s feet. Even the scriptures say so. No one dares to think differently.” 

“Yes, I know. But the truth is the truth whether anyone believes it or not. Though a million people may believe a lie, it is still a lie. You must have great courage to live according to the truth. Let me tell you a story about when I was a boy. 

“One day, when I was nine years old and strolling alone in the garden, a swan suddenly dropped from the sky and writhed on the ground in front of me in great pain. I ran to pick it up, and I discovered that an arrow had deeply penetrated one of its wings. I clasped my hand firmly around the arrow’s shaft and yanked it out, and the bird cried as blood oozed from its wound. I applied pressure to the wound with my finger to stop the bleeding, and took the bird inside the palace to find princess Sundari, the lady in waiting. She agreed to pick a handful of medicinal leaves and make a poultice for the bird’s wound. The swan shivered, so I took off my jacket and wrapped it around her. Then I placed her close to the royal fireplace.” 

Siddhartha paused for a moment to look at Svasti. “Svasti, I did not tell you yet, but when I was young I was a prince, the son of King Suddhodana in the city of Kapilavatthu. Sujata knows this already. I was about to go find some rice for the swan when my eight-year-old cousin, Devadatta, burst into the room. He was clutching his bow and arrows, and he asked excitedly, ‘Siddhartha, did you see a white swan fall down near here?’ 

“Before I could answer, Devadatta saw the swan resting by the fireplace. He ran toward it, but I stopped him. 

‘“You may not take the bird.’ 

“My cousin protested, ‘That bird is mine. I shot it myself.’ 

“I stood between Devadatta and the swan, determined not to let him have it. I told him, ‘This bird is wounded. I’m protecting it. It needs to stay here.’ 

“Devadatta was quite stubborn and not about to give in. He argued, ‘Now listen, cousin, when this bird was flying in the sky, it didn’t belong to anyone. As I’m the one who shot it out of the sky, it rightfully belongs to me.’ 

“His argument sounded logical, but his words made me angry. I knew there was something wrong with his reasoning, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. So I just stood there, speechless, becoming more upset. I felt like punching him. Why I didn’t, I don’t know. Then, I saw a way to answer him. 

“‘Listen, cousin,’ I told him, ‘Those who love each other live together, and those who are enemies live apart. You tried to kill the swan, so you and she are enemies. The bird cannot live with you. I saved her, bandaged her wound, warmed her, and was on my way to find food for her when you arrived. The bird and I love each other, and we can live together. The bird needs me, not you.’” 

“Love and understanding can ease the suffering of all beings. The truth is the truth, whether or not it is accepted by the majority. Therefore, I tell you children, it takes great courage to stand up for and protect what is right.”

Sujata clapped her hands together, “That’s right! You were right!” 

Siddhartha looked at Svasti. “And what do you think, child, of my statement?” Svasti thought for a moment and then answered slowly, “I think you were right. But not many people would agree. Most people would side with Devadatta.” 

Siddhartha nodded. “You are right. Most people do follow Devadatta’s view. 

“Let me tell you what happened next. As we couldn’t agree on our own, we decided to take our concern to the adults. That day there was a meeting of the government in the palace, so we scurried to the hall of justice, where they were meeting. I held the swan and Devadatta clasped his bow and arrows. We presented our problem to the ministers and asked them to render judgment. The affairs of state came to a halt as the men listened, first to Devadatta and then to me. They discussed the matter at length, but they also were unable to agree. The majority seemed to be leaning toward Devadatta, when my father, the king, suddenly cleared his throat and coughed a few times. All the ministers suddenly stopped speaking, and—tell me if you don’t think this is odd—with total accord, they agreed that my argument was correct and that the bird should be given to me. Devadatta was beside himself with anger, but of course, there was nothing he could do. 

“I had the bird, but I wasn’t really happy. Even though I was still young, I knew that my victory had been less than honorable. I was given the bird because the ministers wanted to please my father, not because they saw the truth of what I said.” 

“That’s sad,” Sujata said and frowned. 

“Yes, it was. But turning my thoughts to the bird, I took comfort in the fact that she was safe. Otherwise she surely would have ended up in a cooking pot. 

“In this world, few people look with the eyes of compassion, and so we are cruel and merciless toward each other. The weak are always oppressed by the strong. I still see that my reasoning that day was correct, for it arose from love and understanding. Love and understanding can ease the suffering of all beings. The truth is the truth, whether or not it is accepted by the majority. Therefore, I tell you children, it takes great courage to stand up for and protect what is right.” 

“What happened to the swan, Teacher?” asked Sujata. 

“For four days, I cared for her. When I saw that her wound had healed, I released her, after warning her to fly far away lest she be shot again.” 

Siddhartha looked at the two children, their faces quiet and serious. “Sujata, you must return home before your mother begins to worry. Svasti, isn’t it time for you to return to your buffaloes and cut more grass? The armful of kusa grass you gave me yesterday made a perfect cushion for meditation. Last night and this morning, I sat upon it and my meditation was very peaceful. I saw many things clearly. You have been a great help, Svasti. As my understanding deepens, I shall share the fruit of my meditation with both you children. Now I will continue sitting.” 

Svasti looked down at the grass, which Siddhartha had shaped into a cushion. Though the grasses were packed firm, Svasti knew they were still fragrant and soft. He would bring his teacher a fresh armful of grass every three days to make a new cushion. Svasti stood up and, with Sujata, joined his palms and bowed to Siddhartha. Sujata set out for home and Svasti led his buffaloes to graze further along the riverbank.

♦

This article, “The Wounded Swan,” was excerpted from Thich Nhat Hanh’s Old Path White Clouds: Walking in the Footsteps of the Buddha. Copyright © 1999 by Unified Buddhist Church. Reprinted with the permission of Parallax Press, Berkeley, California, www.parallax.org.