His Old, Time-Worn Monastic Robe

Ven. Hue Son

In the summer month of April, the climate in the sacred land grew severe, the sunlight scorching every blade of grass and leaf. The paths were deserted, disturbed only by the occasional jackal or a thin herd of deer wandering across the sunburnt fields. Amidst this desolate landscape, the ancient monastery emerged behind clusters of bamboo—solemn, tranquil, and timeworn. Birds from distant forests sought refuge beneath its shade, hiding from the increasingly harsh heat of each passing day.

Here, in this secluded sanctuary, only two people lived—Master and his young novice, Tue Vien—leaning on each other as their sole companions. Every day, they ventured to the forest’s edge to observe a pair of flamingos nesting in the wild fields. The novice treasured the little telescope his Master had given him, treating it as a sacred keepsake. Through it, he quietly watched over the flamingos, caring for them as if they were dear friends.

Although the monastery stood 5 to 6 kilometers from the nearest village and life was extremely austere, Tue Vien felt completely at peace. The faded robe he had worn since the day he ordained remained his most cherished belonging. Only around fifteen or sixteen years old, gentle and bright, he had left his impoverished coastal home at the age of ten to follow his Master in the spiritual life. His departure filled the family with sorrow, yet his parents held back their tears to support his noble path. Over time, the memory of home softened, replaced by the disciplined and serene rhythm of monastic life.

Each morning, the Master guided him up the hill to watch the sunrise over the snow-covered Himalayas, where golden light glimmered against the icy peaks. He taught that to truly behold nature, one must look with pure eyes and a heart filled with compassion; only then could one perceive the world’s untouched beauty. The young novice carried these lessons deeply within him.

Since the monastery had only the two of them, Tue Vien took responsibility for the incense offerings, tending the gardens, and managing all tasks when the Master was away. The Master, elderly and frail, owned only one robe—worn for thirty years until it had faded to near white. Seeing this strengthened the novice’s reverence for everything that belonged to the monastery.

Each day he returned to the open fields to watch the flamingos care for their eggs, rejoicing at the safety of their fragile home. The Master had once explained: flamingos, loyal to their mates, lay only two eggs. The father takes turns incubating them while the mother searches for food; when the water rises, the pair builds up the nest with straw. If one dies, the other often grieves to death in sorrow. The story deepened the novice’s affection and respect for all living beings.

One day, the Master had to travel for fifty days on temple duties. Before leaving, he instructed the boy to watch over the flamingos and protect the monastery with utmost care. Remembering these words, the novice rushed to the fields every morning, sometimes forgetting his own breakfast, hoping only that the birds remained safe.

Near the monastery lived a family believed to be among the last descendants of the Shakya clan. Their son, Govinda, was the same age as Tue Vien and his closest friend. One afternoon, Govinda came looking for him and found the novice quietly observing the flamingos. The two boys watched peacefully until suddenly a sharp cry pierced the air. They ran forward and were horrified to see a large snake poised to strike the nest. The parent birds struggled desperately—torn between fleeing and defending their young—moving the boys deeply with their instinctual devotion.

Govinda quickly grabbed a stone to kill the snake, but Tue Vien stopped him, fearing the act of taking life. He remembered the Master’s teaching: when encountering a snake, remain calm, join your palms, and recite the Buddha’s name; with a mind of compassion, the creature will leave on its own. The two boys stood together, hands joined in prayer. Moments later, the rustling ceased—the snake had vanished, and the flamingos were safe. Awestruck, Tựệ Viễn felt his faith in the Master deepen profoundly.

On their walk home, Govinda asked how the Master possessed such insight. The novice recalled the time he had been lost in wandering thoughts during meditation, and the Master immediately sensed it. Though Tue Vien denied it, the Master reminded him gently that one who chooses the monastic path must cut through delusion, remain mindful, avoid worldly desires, and cultivate patience above all else. The teaching, like a cleansing stream, stayed with him ever since.

By the time the story ended, evening had fallen. Govinda panicked upon remembering his herd of buffalo left unattended. The boys ran off to gather them. Govinda’s mother scolded him, but when Tue Vien stepped forward and took the blame, her anger softened and she forgave the boy.

Returning to the monastery, exhausted yet mindful of the Master’s instructions, the novice walked three rounds around the temple to observe the quiet night. The chorus of cicadas, the trickle of distant water, and the far-off cries of wild dogs blended into a serene and mystical soundscape. Only after completing his duties did he finally retire, silently wishing for the Master’s swift return, so the teachings could continue guiding his earnest young heart.