This Too Shall Pass
The evening sun bled crimson over the village when the wandering monk first saw the mansion. Its marble pillars gleamed like ivory teeth against the twilight. At the wrought-iron gates stood Anand—a man whose very name meant “joy”—grinning like a child who’d stolen sweets.
“Maharaj!” Anand clasped the monk’s blistered feet. “Tonight, you’ll dine on silver plates!”
Inside, crystal chandeliers rained light upon feasting tables. Servants scurried with saffron rice and rosewater sherbet. The monk, accustomed to begging for stale rotis, felt his stomach clench at the excess.
As dawn gilded the mansion’s domes, the monk blessed his host: “May your wealth multiply like the stars.”
Anand threw back his head and laughed—a sound like temple bells in a storm. “O saint! Even this won’t last!”
The monk’s begging bowl slipped from his fingers.
Two Years Later
Monsoon rains lashed the ruins of the mansion as the monk returned. Weeds choked the fountain where peacocks once danced. A neighbor whispered: “Anand works as a farmhand now.”
In a mud hut reeking of damp hay, Anand knelt on a torn mat, offering blackened chapattis. “Forgive the meal, Maharaj.” His calloused hands trembled.
Tears burned the monk’s eyes. “God! Why punish such devotion?”
Anand’s laughter rang out again, clear as a mountain stream. “Why grieve? Saints say we must thank God for every season. And this—” he waved at the leaking roof, “—won’t last either.”
That night, as the monk meditated on Anand’s words, a scorpion stung his thigh. As pain licked his veins, he suddenly understood: The sting too shall pass.
Five Winters On
The monk barely recognized the man riding the palanquin. Gold thread shimmered on Anand’s turban as attendants fanned him with peacock feathers.
“That landowner adopted me,” Anand explained over sherbet. “He left me everything.”
The monk sighed in relief. “May this fortune endure!”
Anand’s laughter turned bitter this time. “Still deluded, holy one? Either this wealth will vanish—” he tapped his chest, “—or the ‘I’ claiming it will.”
A chill crawled down the monk’s spine.
The Final Visit
Pigeons nested in the cracked arches of Anand’s palace when the monk returned. The once-vibrant halls echoed with the whispers of ghosts. A widow in tattered silk pointed to a portrait in the prayer room.
There, beneath garlands of withered roses, Anand’s smiling face gazed eternally at words that made the monk collapse in enlightenment:
“This too shall not remain…
Keep smiling, dear ones—
Sometimes for yourself…
Sometimes for those you love…”
Outside, a storm tore petals from the roses. The monk finally laughed—the same wild, free laugh he’d first heard decades ago. He understood now:
Suffering comes from clinging to what cannot stay.
Joy flows from releasing all—even joy itself.
Moral:
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The Only Constant is Change – All circumstances, good or bad, are temporary visitors
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True Wealth is Detachment – Anand remained equally serene in palaces and huts
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Laugh at the Illusion – Those who understand impermanence hold life lightly
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Soul Alone is Real – Everything else is just weather passing through the sky of consciousness
As the monk walked away, a single rose petal stuck to his ragged robe. He watched it until the wind carried it beyond sight, whispering Anand’s eternal words: “This too shall pass.”