With that, the ferryman waded deeper into the river and vanished beneath the dark water — leaving no ripple, no trace.
Just then, an old ferryman approached, his face weathered but eyes sparkling like a child’s. He carried no scriptures, no malas. He simply smiled.
And in that emptiness, for the first time, he understood:
Raghava sat alone on the bank. For the first time, he did not chant. He simply breathed. The river flowed. The moon rose. And somewhere inside him, a boat that had been full of noise and ambition and fear — suddenly became empty.
“So… what should I do?” he whispered.
“Next time you chant Buddham Saranam Gacchami , do not send your words outward. Let them fall inward — like a pebble into still water. Let the sound dissolve the chanter. Let ‘Raghava’ disappear. Then you will see: there is no one going anywhere. There is only Buddham — the awakened quality — already here, already home. That is the refuge. Not a shelter from suffering, but the realization that the sufferer never existed.”
“Look at that boat,” the ferryman said. “Once, a Zen master was crossing a lake in an empty boat. Another boat came crashing into him. The master was furious — he shouted, he cursed. But when he looked closer, he saw the boat was empty. His anger vanished instantly. Who was there to be angry at?”
The ferryman stepped into the river. The water touched his ankles, then his knees. He turned and said:
He pointed to an old wooden boat tied to the shore. It was empty, rocking gently with the waves.
Raghava frowned. “I, the seeker, go to the Buddha, the awakened one.”