Many years ago before I was ordained as a monk, I believed that wisdom came from experience. So I left my home country of England for India, roaming around and gathering life experience in Europe and Asia. The more difficult it was, the more I liked it because I felt that difficulties helped me to know myself better, and that was beneficial to my life.

But the overland trip to India was a little disappointing. It was not as challenging as I expected, and so on the way back I resolved to travel from Pakistan to England without any money. I wondered if it would be possible to hitchhike all the way back, and I also wanted to know how it would feel to have nothing at all.

It was quite an adventure, several occasions I will never forget. I would like to tell you about one of them.

By the time I arrived in Tehran–the capital city of Iran–I was exhausted. I was as thin as a stick, my clothes were all dirty and crumpled, and I must have looked pretty awful. I was shocked when I saw myself in the mirror of a public restroom. As for my mind, it was more and more like that of a hungry ghost, constantly worrying about food: “Will I get anything to eat today or not?” Whether my stomach would be empty or full depended on the kindness of fellow human beings. I had to rely on my parami because there was nothing else to rely on.

And then I met an Iranian man who felt sorry for me and also saw a chance to practice his English. He treated me to a cup of tea and gave me a small amount of money. At night, I slept on the street, hidden in a small, quiet alley. I was afraid that policemen would beat me up if they found me. In the morning, I walked to a soup shop that I remembered served free bread.

While I was walking along the street, trying not to look at the tempting restaurants in the corner of my eyes and not to smell the aroma that lingered in the air, I noticed a woman walking toward me. She looked stunned when she saw me. She stopped in her tracks, stared for a moment, and then walked up to me with a scowl on her face. Using sign language, she told me to follow her, and being a seeker of experience I did. After walking for about ten minutes we reached a townhouse and rode an elevator to the fourth floor. I assumed we were going to her apartment, but she still had not said a single word. No friendly smile, just a fierce face.

Once the door was opened, I saw that it was indeed her apartment. She took me to the kitchen and pointed to a chair, signaling me to sit down. Then she brought me many kinds of food. I felt as if I was in heaven. It made me realize that the most delicious food in the world is the food you eat when you’re truly hungry and your stomach is growling. The woman called out to her son and said something to him which I couldn’t understand, but I noticed that he was around my age.

The son came back after a while, with a pair of pants and a shirt. When she saw that I’d finished eating, the woman pointed to the bathroom and signaled me to bathe and change into the new clothes. (I guessed she planned to burn my old ones.) She didn’t smile at all, said nothing, and made herself understood with sign-language.

While bathing I thought that maybe this lady saw in me her own son and was thinking: “What if my son traveled to a foreign country and had a hard time like this?” “What if he was in such a pitiful situation?” “What would that be like?” I thought that she must have helped me with a mother’s love. I decided to appoint her my ‘Honorary Persian Mother’ and smiled to myself alone in that bathroom.

When I was ready, the woman took me back to the spot where we met and left me there. She merged back into the stream of people who were walking to work. I stood there watching her disappear into the crowd and deep inside knew that I would never forget her in my entire life. I was very moved and my eyes were teary. She gave so much to me even though we didn’t know each other at all.

I was as skinny as a dried corpse, my clothes were dirty and smelly, and my hair was long and messy. But she didn’t mind that at all; she even took me into her house and took as good care of me as if I was her own son, without expectation of anything at all in return–not even a word of thanks. It has been over twenty years now, and I would like to publicly extol the virtue of this sulky faced bodhisattva so that everyone will know that even in a big city, there are still good people.

And there may be more good people than we think.

This reflection by Ajahn Jayasaro is from the book Daughters and Sons, (pdf) pp. 1-5, translated from the Thai original—Neesaksit (Sacred Debt)—by Hadaya.