Discover my personal journey with Buddha, from childhood to daily practice, the history of Buddha in Bengal, and how his teachings transformed my life.

Buddha: My Quiet Place in a Restless World

Some people discover Buddha through philosophy. Others meet him during grief, illness, or loss. I honestly cannot remember how he entered my life because, as far back as my memory reaches, he has always been there. Every home I have lived in has had a Buddha figure somewhere nearby, quietly watching over my days without asking for anything in return.

As a child I never thought deeply about why I was drawn to him. I simply knew that his face made me feel peaceful. While others decorated their homes with objects they found beautiful, I found myself collecting images of Buddha almost instinctively. Looking back now, I think my heart recognised something long before my mind could explain it.

For many people, a Buddha statue is merely a decorative object. For me, it has never been about the sculpture. It has always symbolised a possibility that a human being can become so deeply awake that compassion becomes their natural state and wisdom their way of seeing the world.

“A Buddha statue is not the destination of my faith; it is a reminder of the person I hope to become.”

That is perhaps what moves me most about Buddha. He never asked people to surrender their reason or blindly accept his words. Instead, he invited them to observe, to question, to experience, and to understand. His teachings feel less like commandments and more like an invitation to become deeply honest with oneself.

Living in Bangladesh makes this relationship feel even more meaningful. The story of Buddha is also woven into the history of Bengal. Ancient monasteries, centres of learning, and magnificent institutions such as Somapura Mahavihara remind us that Buddhist philosophy once flourished across this land, attracting scholars from many parts of Asia. Knowing this makes me feel connected not only spiritually but historically, as though I am rediscovering something that has always belonged to this region.

The influence of Buddha did not stop with monks and monasteries. It transformed kings as well. Emperor Ashoka’s journey from the brutality of the Kalinga War to a life guided by compassion remains one of history’s most remarkable transformations. Instead of expanding his empire through fear, he chose to expand kindness, justice, hospitals, roads, rest houses, and learning—proving that power reaches its highest form when it chooses mercy.

“Compassion is not softness. It is courage that no longer needs to prove itself.”

For many years my admiration for Buddha remained exactly that—admiration. I loved his image, read small pieces about him, and enjoyed the calm his presence brought into my home. But admiration alone does not change a life. Practice does.

My connection with Bangladesh’s Buddhist heritage became deeply personal after the tragic attacks on the Buddhist viharas in Ramu, Cox’s Bazar, in 2012. Ancient temples were vandalized, priceless Buddha statues were destroyed, and libraries containing centuries of learning were reduced to ashes by an angry mob driven by misinformation. Watching those images left me with an ache I still struggle to describe. It felt as though a part of our shared history had been wounded, not only for Buddhists but for every Bangladeshi who believes that our diversity is one of our greatest inheritances.

In the years that followed, life unexpectedly brought me closer to the Buddhist community. Through my professional work and personal relationships, I had the privilege of working alongside Ramu Buddhist leaders, visiting the vihara, and spending time in spaces where the Dharma is quietly lived every day. Those experiences changed my understanding of a vihara. I had once thought of it simply as a place of worship, but I came to see it as something much richer a home of learning, reflection, community service, and compassion. Every visit left me feeling calmer than when I had arrived, and every conversation deepened my respect for a tradition that has always answered hatred with dignity rather than revenge.

“A library can be burned, a statue can be broken, but wisdom survives wherever a compassionate heart continues to carry it.”

And then everything changed during a visit to Bhutan in 2017. Bhutan itself felt like a pilgrimage, but what transformed me most was monestaries in every region we went, seeing the monks reciting the chants in hundreds, dressed in their burnt sienna robes. Then there was a tiny bookshop tucked away on a quiet street in Thimpu which was loaded with books on the Blessed One. Those little independent bookstores have always felt magical to me, places where books somehow choose their readers instead of the other way around.

It was there that I found Everyday Dharma: Seven Weeks to Finding the Buddha in You by Lama Willa Miller. Looking back, I realise that this book became the bridge between inspiration and action. Until then I had admired Buddhist philosophy from afar, but this book gently answered the question I had quietly carried for years: “How do I actually begin?”

From there my reading became more intentional. I immersed myself in In the Buddha’s Words: An Anthology of Discourses from the Pali Canon, allowing the earliest teachings to speak for themselves. Later I read What the Buddha Taught by Walpola Rahula, whose remarkable clarity made many difficult ideas surprisingly simple. Since then, reading the life and teachings of Buddha has become part of my everyday rhythm.

One personal preference has remained constant throughout this journey. While I deeply appreciate the thoughtful work of teachers across the world who have introduced Buddhist philosophy to new audiences, I often find myself returning to monks and scholars from the Indian subcontinent. Their language, cultural references, and lived traditions resonate more naturally with me, perhaps because they arise from the same cultural landscape in which the Buddha himself lived and taught. It is simply where my own heart hears the teachings most clearly.

Without planning it, my life slowly began to change. My home became quieter. My routines became slower and more intentional. I found myself choosing simplicity over excess, reflection over reaction, and eventually, vegetarianism over habit. None of these changes came from obligation; they emerged naturally, one gentle step at a time.

“I did not choose Buddha overnight; I simply kept finding my way back to him.”

There is one small story that I continue to treasure because it reminds me that life sometimes has a mysterious sense of timing. A dear friend once gave me a beautiful little swing made of wood and metal. She smiled and said it would be perfect for a reclining Buddha in my home. I laughed and replied that I did not own one yet, but perhaps one day I would.

The following morning I walked into my drawing room and stopped in my tracks. Resting gently on that tiny swing was a reclining Buddha statue. My heart genuinely skipped a beat. Later I learned that after I had gone to bed the previous night, a friend of my husband had visited our home carrying this statue as a gift from Bangkok the same night, and someone had thoughtfully placed it on the swing, without knowing the original intention.

There is, of course, a perfectly reasonable explanation for what happened. Yet somewhere inside me I still like to believe that certain prayers have their own mysterious routes. Not because miracles suspend the laws of nature, but because life occasionally arranges itself with an obscurity that reason alone cannot fully explain.

“Some prayers arrive as answers. Others arrive as a quiet certainty that you were never walking alone.”

People sometimes ask what Buddha means to me today. My answer has become very simple. He is not merely a historical figure, nor only a religious teacher. He is my grounding spirit, the force that gently reminds me to return to kindness whenever I lose my way, to silence whenever my thoughts become noisy, and to compassion whenever fear begins to speak louder than wisdom.

You Cannot Brand the Buddha

It is often said today that Buddhism has been rebranded by the modern West. Mindfulness has become a corporate tool for improving productivity. Meditation is marketed by the billion-dollar wellness industry as a remedy for stress, anxiety, and burnout. Since the nineteenth century, colonial scholarship, modern reform movements, and later consumer culture have all interpreted the Buddha through their own intellectual and commercial lenses. In many spaces, Buddhism is no longer presented as a path to liberation, but as a lifestyle for personal well-being.

There is truth in this criticism. But it is only part of the story.

The Buddha cannot ultimately be branded because he never asked anyone to believe in him. He asked people to see for themselves. His teaching is not built upon authority, identity, or unquestioning faith. It is a path of direct experience. The Dharma belongs to no institution, no nation, no corporation, and no culture that claims ownership over it.

This is why one of the most profound sayings in Zen Buddhism remains so relevant: “If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him.” The statement is deliberately paradoxical. It does not reject the Buddha; it rejects attachment—even attachment to the Buddha himself. The moment we turn him into an untouchable icon, a brand, or a fixed identity, we have misunderstood the very freedom he taught.

For that reason, I welcome every sincere effort to introduce people to the Buddha and his ideas—through books, films, conversations, or even meditation classes. If the wellness movement leads someone to take the first step, that is no small thing. But the journey should not end there. The Buddha was never selling calm, success, or self-optimization. He was pointing beyond all of them. His concern was liberation from suffering, not the commercialization of serenity.

Perhaps that is why the Buddha has survived every age. Empires have interpreted him, institutions have organized him, and markets have packaged him. Yet the Dharma remains fundamentally unowned. It always invites us to let go—even of the image we have made of the Buddha himself.

I cannot say that I have understood Buddhism. I doubt I ever will completely. But every morning I read a little, reflect a little, and try to live a little more gently than I did yesterday. That feels enough for now.

“Every day I read about Buddha. Every day I discover a little less about him and a little more about myself.”

If this journey has taught me anything, it is that awakening rarely arrives like lightning. More often it comes quietly, through books picked up by chance, conversations remembered years later, silent mornings, and the slow reshaping of a life. Somewhere along that gentle path, without even noticing when it happened, I stopped searching for Buddha outside myself and began finding traces of his teachings within.