After my profound encounter with Laozi in ancient China, my curiosity about Eastern wisdom traditions only deepened. The timeless teachings of Taoism had shown me how following the natural flow of existence could bring harmony to our chaotic modern world. Yet something called me further east—to ancient India, where another revolutionary philosophy was taking root around the 5th century BCE.

My time machine’s coordinates were set for Jetavana monastery in Shravasti, where I hoped to meet Ānanda, Buddha’s closest disciple and the guardian of his teachings. As the quantum engines stabilized and the temporal field dispersed, I found myself standing amidst a serene grove of trees, the air fragrant with incense and blossoming flowers.

Meeting the Keeper of Dhamma

The monastery was simpler than I had imagined—modest wooden structures surrounded by gardens meticulously tended by monks in saffron robes. Among them walked a man whose presence carried a special quality—not the commanding aura of a leader, but the receptive openness of one who had learned to truly listen.

I approached him with a respectful bow. “You must be Ānanda,” I said. “I’ve traveled very far to learn from you.”

He looked at me with gentle curiosity, taking in my strange appearance and manner without judgment. “You have indeed come from someplace distant,” he observed. “Not just in space, but in time as well. I sense this clearly.”

His perceptiveness startled me, but I shouldn’t have been surprised. Those who practice deep mindfulness often develop remarkable insights.

I explained to him who I was and why I had come—that in my timeline, humanity was struggling with suffering on an unprecedented scale despite material abundance. I told him that while Laozi had taught me about flowing with nature, I sensed that Buddha’s teachings contained complementary wisdom about the nature of mind itself.

Ānanda nodded thoughtfully. “The Blessed One’s teachings are precisely for this purpose—to understand suffering and find liberation from it. Come, let us walk and talk. The path of understanding is itself a journey.”

India Before Buddha: A Society Seeking Answers

As we strolled through the monastery grounds, I asked Ānanda about the world before Buddha’s enlightenment. What conditions had made his teachings so necessary?

“Before Siddhartha Gautama became the Buddha, our society was trapped between extremes,” Ānanda explained. “The dominant Brahmanical tradition had created rigid hierarchies through the caste system. Spiritual knowledge was hoarded by priests who claimed exclusive rights to interpret the Vedas. Common people were told their suffering was predetermined by karma from past lives.”

I was struck by how familiar this sounded—gatekeepers of knowledge creating systems that maintained their power.

“At the same time,” he continued, “there were ascetics who went to the opposite extreme—believing that self-torture and extreme deprivation were the paths to spiritual insight. The Buddha himself followed this path for six years until he realized it, too, led nowhere.”

“So society was divided between rigid materialism and extreme asceticism?” I asked.

“Precisely. And between these poles, most people lived lives of quiet desperation, believing they had no agency to change their spiritual destiny. They performed rituals they didn’t understand, hoping to please gods they feared. Or they resigned themselves to their lot, seeing no path to genuine happiness.”

I thought about how in our modern world, similar patterns persist—consumerism pushing people toward sensory indulgence while various wellness trends sometimes glorify deprivation. Meanwhile, many people follow religious practices by rote or surrender to nihilism, feeling they have no control over their inner lives.

The Four Noble Truths: Understanding Suffering

We sat beneath a bodhi tree, its heart-shaped leaves dancing in the breeze. Ānanda closed his eyes briefly, as if accessing a memory with perfect clarity.

“The Buddha’s insight began with a simple recognition of suffering—dukkha,” he said. “This is the First Noble Truth. Suffering exists in obvious forms like pain, illness, and loss. But it also exists in subtle forms—the persistent dissatisfaction we feel even when conditions seem favorable.”

I asked him how this applies to modern people who appear to have everything.

“Having more possessions often means more worry, more fear of loss,” he replied. “And beneath this lies an even deeper suffering—the constant sense that something is missing, that we are incomplete. People chase sensory pleasures, achievements, or status, believing these will finally make them whole.”

The Second Noble Truth, he explained, reveals that suffering has a cause—craving and attachment. We suffer because we cling to things that are inherently impermanent.

“Consider how people in your time might crave constant digital connectivity,” he suggested. “They become attached to validation through social platforms, to constantly updated information, to being perpetually entertained. When these are interrupted, suffering occurs. Yet even when fulfilled, these cravings bring only temporary satisfaction before arising again.”

I nodded, thinking about the endless scroll of information that characterizes modern life—always promising fulfillment just one more update away.

“The Third Noble Truth is that suffering can cease,” Ānanda continued. “This is Nirvana—not a heavenly realm, but the extinguishing of craving itself. When we no longer grasp at impermanent things as if they were permanent, when we no longer seek completion in what cannot complete us, suffering naturally subsides.”

“And the Fourth Truth?” I asked.

“The path to this cessation—the Noble Eightfold Path. Eight interconnected practices that cultivate wisdom, ethical conduct, and mental discipline.”

The Eightfold Path: Practical Steps to Liberation

Ānanda invited me to walk a circular meditation path as he explained the Buddha’s prescription for ending suffering.

“The path begins with Right Understanding and Right Intention,” he said. “These constitute wisdom. Right Understanding means comprehending the Four Noble Truths deeply—not just intellectually, but experientially. Right Intention means cultivating thoughts of renunciation, loving-kindness, and compassion—turning away from harmful desires.”

As we walked, monks passed us with mindful steps, their eyes soft yet alert. Ānanda continued.

“The next three elements constitute ethical conduct: Right Speech, Right Action, and Right Livelihood. These create harmony in community life. Right Speech means speaking truthfully, kindly, and purposefully. Right Action means acting with compassion and restraint. Right Livelihood means earning one’s way without harming others.”

I thought about the complexity of work in the modern economy—how many people feel trapped in occupations that may cause indirect harm to others or the environment.

“The final three elements develop mental discipline: Right Effort, Right Mindfulness, and Right Concentration,” Ānanda explained. “Right Effort means cultivating positive mental states while abandoning negative ones. Right Mindfulness means maintaining awareness of our experiences without becoming attached to them. Right Concentration means developing the ability to focus the mind steadily.”

“These seem like lifelong practices,” I observed.

“They are,” he smiled. “The path is both the means and the end. As you walk it, suffering diminishes naturally, not through force but through understanding.”

The Middle Way: Beyond Extremes

We returned to the monastery’s main hall, where evening preparations were underway. Monks moved about their duties with quiet efficiency—cleaning, preparing simple meals, tending to visitors.

“After his enlightenment, the Buddha taught what he called the Middle Way,” Ānanda said. “Neither the extreme of self-indulgence nor self-mortification, but a balanced path of moderation.”

I explained that in my conversations with Laozi, I had learned about finding balance between opposites.

“There are similarities,” Ānanda nodded. “But where the Tao emphasizes flowing with natural forces, the Buddha’s teaching emphasizes clear seeing. Through mindfulness and wisdom, we recognize that all phenomena are impermanent, unsatisfactory, and without inherent self. This recognition naturally leads to non-attachment.”

“How did Buddha’s teachings change society in his time?” I asked.

“Profoundly,” Ānanda replied. “The Buddha rejected the caste system, saying one becomes noble by actions, not birth. He welcomed women as disciples when this was revolutionary. He emphasized direct experience over blind faith in scriptures. He taught that every person has the capacity for awakening, regardless of background.”

“These social dimensions seem as important as the personal practices,” I observed.

“They are inseparable,” Ānanda said. “True awakening naturally expresses itself as compassion for all beings. The Buddha established the Sangha—this community of practitioners—as a model for how people could live together with mindfulness, ethics, and mutual care.”

Applying Buddhist Wisdom in Modern Life

As evening approached, Ānanda and I sat watching the sunset paint the sky in vivid oranges and pinks. I asked him how Buddha’s teachings might specifically help people in my time.

“Your era suffers from a particular form of dukkha—the illness of speed and distraction,” he said. “Minds constantly pulled in many directions, never fully present. The practice of mindfulness would be especially valuable—learning to fully inhabit each moment without dividing attention.”

I thought about how rare sustained attention has become, how many people constantly switch between tasks and screens.

“Another suffering in your time comes from isolation,” he continued. “Despite connecting devices, many feel profoundly alone. The Buddha’s teachings on loving-kindness meditation could help—systematically developing genuine care for oneself and others, creating true connection.”

He also spoke about the modern obsession with identity and self-image.

“The Buddha taught anatta—non-self. Not that you don’t exist, but that the ‘self’ is not a fixed entity but a process, constantly changing, shaped by conditions. Understanding this brings tremendous freedom from the prison of rigid self-concepts and the exhausting work of maintaining a particular image.”

I asked about applying Buddhist ethics in complex modern systems where our actions have consequences far beyond what we can see.

“The principle remains the same—minimize harm and maximize compassion,” Ānanda said. “This requires greater mindfulness about systems, not just personal actions. Ask: Where does this food come from? Who made these clothes? How does my work affect others? The Buddha encouraged questioning everything, including authority—especially those who claim exclusive access to truth.”

Integration and Insight: Taoism and Buddhism Together

As stars appeared above us, I shared with Ānanda my insights from meeting Laozi, finding connections between the two wisdom traditions.

“Where Taoism taught me about aligning with the natural flow, Buddhism seems to offer tools for understanding how the mind creates unnecessary suffering by resisting this flow,” I suggested.

Ānanda nodded approvingly. “The Tao might be compared to the river, while the Buddha’s teachings help us see how we keep trying to swim upstream, exhausting ourselves. When we clearly see this pattern, we naturally stop struggling against the current.”

“And both traditions emphasize direct experience over dogma,” I added.

“Yes. The Buddha said: ‘Do not believe anything simply because you have heard it. Do not believe merely because it has been handed down for many generations. Do not believe merely because it is spoken and rumored by many. Do not believe merely because it is written in religious books. Do not believe merely because it is said to be the authority of ancient sages. Believe when it agrees with your own reason and experience, and when it is conducive to the good and benefit of all.'”

A Lasting Impression

Before departing, I asked Ānanda what single practice he would recommend for someone beginning this path.

“Start with five minutes daily of simple breath awareness,” he said. “Notice the sensation of breathing without trying to control it. When the mind wanders—as it will—gently bring attention back to the breath. This simple practice contains all the Buddha’s wisdom in seed form.”

As we said goodbye, Ānanda offered me a small carved wooden Buddha. “Remember, the pointing finger is not the moon. All teachings, including those I’ve shared today, are merely signposts. The real journey happens in your own direct experience.”

I thanked him and turned toward my time machine, his parting words still resonating: “May all beings be happy. May all beings be free from suffering. May all beings discover their inherent completeness.”

Returning now to the present day, I offer these ancient lessons with a modern purpose. In a world increasingly divided, distracted, and driven by acquisition, both Taoism and Buddhism offer complementary wisdom that might help us find our way back to balance, clarity, and genuine connection.

The suffering that Buddha diagnosed is perhaps more prevalent than ever—but so too is our capacity to awaken from it, individually and collectively. Perhaps in the marriage of these ancient Eastern traditions—one teaching us to flow with life’s current, the other to clearly see the nature of our own minds—we might find the wisdom to navigate our complex modern challenges with greater ease and compassion.