Unexpected Lessons from the Sages

I decided to start a thread with short stories about sages and spiritual teachers. I’m especially drawn to moments when an ordinary action or a few words make you see something familiar differently. I’ll gradually collect such stories here. If anyone has favorites, please share them too.

I’ll begin with Ramana Maharshi and mango trees. This episode was published in the ashram journal "The Mountain Path," in an article titled "Sri Ramana’s Universal Love." I’ll retell it in my own words.

One day, the ashram kitchen needed several unripe mangoes. The workers took long poles and began striking the branches to knock down the fruit. Leaves fell along with the mangoes, and branches were broken.

Ramana heard the blows from the hall and sent word through an attendant that they should not do this. Later, he went out for his usual walk. Torn leaves and branches lay beneath the trees, while the harvesting was still under way.

He then abruptly stopped the workers. The gist of his words was this: the trees give us fruit, and in return we beat them with sticks. He even bitterly suggested that they might as well cut through the roots and do away with the trees altogether. It was a reproach for their cruelty—for they could have carefully picked as many fruits as were needed.

What struck me was precisely this everyday detail: the mangoes were being collected for the ashram kitchen. It all seemed to be for a good cause—people had to be fed. In such a situation, it is easy to look only at how much has already been collected and dismiss the broken branches as insignificant. Ramana noticed what gets overlooked in the rushwent unnoticed.

After this story, you want to treat a little more gently the things that serve us every day: the tree, our belongings, and other people’s work. Sometimes it’s enough to do the same thing, just without the unnecessary harshness.

The Master Who Failed to Notice the King

In the "Srimad-Bhagavatam," there is a short episode about an arrow maker. He became so absorbed in his work that he failed to notice the king passing right nearby.

Imagine the scene: the man is straightening an arrow, his entire attention occupied by his work. Meanwhile, a royal procession is moving past. The commentary on this verse mentions drums, music, warriors, and the retinue. An event that people would normally rush to see passed by the workshop, and the craftsman did not notice it at all.

And this is the kind of person a wandering sage names among his teachers. In a conversation with King Yadu, he lists twenty-four gurus from whom he learned by observing them. Among them are the earth, the sea, a child, and this arrow maker. In the craftsman, he saw an example of concentration that he used when explaining the mind's absorption in the Supreme.

What I like here is that the sage himself remains a student. You can walk past a workshop and see only a person at work. Or you can notice in his work something you still have to learn. For such a lesson, the master did not even have to look up from the arrow or say a word of instruction.

I would not conclude from this story that one should always stop noticing one's surroundings. But the ability to give one's full attention to a single task is very relatable. Even a conversation with another person changes when you do not prepare your response while they are still speaking and do not get distracted by your phone. It seems that in such simple thingsThere is already something to work on.

"Shrimad Bhagavatam," 11.7.33–35 and 11.9.13.

Why the Yogi Ran After the Thief

A thief broke into an ashram. He bundled up some belongings, but suddenly saw the owner, became frightened, and ran away, leaving the loot behind. Pavhari Baba picked up the bundle and ran after him.

When he finally caught up with the fugitive, he placed the belongings at his feet. He folded his hands and tearfully began to apologize for getting in his way. Then he started urging him to accept the bundle: the things, he said, belonged to the person who had come for them.

This is where the familiar course of the story completely breaks down. The owner caught up with the thief to give him what he had failed to steal. And he himself asked for forgiveness.

Swami Sivananda continues this story. He writes that this treatment shook the thief: he became Pavhari Baba’s disciple and later became a saint himself.

It is difficult for me to imagine myself in his place. But it is easy to understand why such an act could be remembered for a lifetime. Perhaps nothing changes us more powerfully than meeting someone who sees more in us than our most shameful deed.