Why a beggar can become your teacher

I have now been in Bodhgaya together with my partner for a little over a week. For those who are not familiar with Buddhism: this is a very special place, as it is believed that the Buddha attained enlightenment here under the famous Bodhi Tree. For this reason, pilgrims from countless Buddhist traditions all over the world travel here. There are innumerable temples, many of which remind me of my time in Thailand or South Korea. I also spotted a large Tibetan temple.

Truthfully, I arrived here with an uneasy feeling—especially knowing that we would be spending a significant amount of time in this place. My partner’s retreat was scheduled to last over a week, and I had already heard from a Buddhist nun that Bodhgaya was not exactly known as a pleasant area. When we finally arrived by night bus, my apprehensions were more than confirmed.

A thick fog lay over the entire town. It was bitterly cold (ironically, I had donated my warm coat in Chennai shortly before), and everything was covered in a fine layer of brown dust. The roads were barely paved, and as we rode to our guesthouse in a tuk-tuk, the dust was stirred up so intensely that I could feel sand and grit between my teeth.

The guesthouse we had booked had good reviews on Booking. At first glance, it actually looked quite nice. At least something, I thought. But upon closer inspection, we discovered a hole in the wall—apparently necessary because in summer temperatures here can reach up to 50 degrees Celsius, and otherwise the air conditioning would not work properly. Under the blankets it was somewhat cozy and warm, but outside the room it was simply cold. After the pleasant temperatures of Kolkata and Pondicherry, it was time—once again—to adapt.

The guesthouse owner appeared very friendly at first. He gave us the room already at seven in the morning and reassured us by explaining that the hot water would only work when the sun was shining. When I cautiously pulled back the curtain, however, all I could see was fog—and it would not lift in the days to come.

Not being particularly tech-savvy, I initially didn’t grasp the full implications of this. The owner tried to joke and mentioned an immersion heater that could heat water in no time.(For context: many people in India mix hot and cold water in a bucket, sit on a small stool, and pour water over themselves using a small mug. I had done this countless times—almost exclusively—in Dharamsala. But after a while of European comforts, one forgets this way of bathing and has to readjust.)

I already knew from Dharamsala that frequent power cuts could mean no hot showers. But here, the shower relied entirely on solar energy. So what do you do when there is no sun—and when even the electricity grid collapses the moment you try to use the so-called miracle heater? Well. When we plugged it in, there was a short circuit, and suddenly nothing worked anymore. My partner and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. Fine then—quick wash, breakfast, let’s go. Showers are overrated anyway.

Wrapped in every warm layer I owned, we headed out. Through dust, past ruins of houses. Men sat around makeshift fires, discussing loudly; street vendors pushed their carts through the sand. On our way toward what could be called the town center of Bodhgaya, we encountered the first beggars.

Children with runny noses, barefoot in temperatures around eight degrees Celsius, stretched out their dirt-covered hands, signaling that they wanted money for food. Disheveled hair, eyes both sad and hungry, hardly any clothing on their bodies. They wandered the streets collecting money for their families or organized groups. Nearby, very young women with babies at their breasts, one hand open, silently asking. People with Down syndrome, people with one leg or none, people without teeth, with missing limbs—people who seemed to have resigned themselves to living on the street and begging.

Although this is such a spiritually significant place, the magic one usually feels in sacred locations was nowhere to be found. Tin roofs, half-finished houses, sometimes nothing more than a fragment of a wall in the middle of a sea of plastic. Children played between dirt and road dust; men urinated openly between piles of garbage.

When we reached the main road, we encountered countless tourists—hectic, focused, determined to reach the Mahabodhi Temple, the site of the Buddha’s enlightenment. Around them, endless street vendors. Golden Buddhas, mala beads, prayer flags at every corner. Small shops selling fruit or street food. In between, a circus family and a small girl balancing on a rope two meters above the ground. And again, armless or legless people moving through the crowd on wooden boards. Suffering everywhere you looked.

This impression continued in the afternoon when we visited the Mahabodhi Temple. Electronic devices were prohibited, yet somehow some people managed to take photos despite two or three security checks. Before descending the steps, everyone had to remove their shoes and line them up among countless others. Having had bad experiences with this before, I quickly packed ours into my tote bag.

On the way down, we were approached by many so-called monks asking for money. The way they watched me already suggested that these were not genuine monks, but people using the appearance to beg. Later, while sitting on a bench near the famous Bodhi Tree (which is not the original tree, as the temple was bombed years ago), child monks approached us, swinging a pot of hot incense dangerously close to our faces and demanding donations. Calmly but firmly, I told them that we did not want to give money and asked them to be careful.

Still, I could not feel any special energy—nothing like what I often sense in churches, monasteries, or sacred places. Quite the opposite. Everything felt broken, wrong, depleted rather than powerful or blessed. I looked at my partner questioningly. He felt the same. Honestly, I was shocked. I had not expected this.

The air quality was terrible. With every breath, it felt as if I were inhaling nothing but dirt. A few days later, my body protested against the drastic change and gifted me a severe cold—on Christmas, of all days. Hardly ideal conditions to recover in an uninsulated room without heating.

To make matters worse, after we later moved to the center where my partner's retreat happened, there was a generator right next to our room. Every time the power grid failed, it kicked in—once even at six in the morning. The suffocating smell of petroleum and the deafening noise woke us up, making it impossible to sleep in the smoke-filled room.

Wow—what a place. I could hardly believe it. Everything felt like the aftermath of a terrible war. Run-down. Chaotic. Sinking into dirt and decay. As if the apocalypse had just passed through.

Honestly, I felt shocked and deeply sad about how neglected this sacred place had become. My immediate impulse was to leave—to go somewhere else, somewhere more comfortable. Especially since I myself had not booked a retreat here. And yet, a thought kept returning: often we are called to exactly those places where we are meant to learn something—or to give something.

Bodhgaya is undoubtedly a challenge, far outside my comfort zone. So the question arose: Am I willing to accept this challenge?

After several days of congestion, constant fatigue, endless sniffles, discussions with my partner (because living in what feels like hell is not exactly easy), and after even the Geshe La said: “The beggars here are our teachers, our gurus. This is where we practice love and compassion”—my perspective slowly began to shift.

It is easy to be inspired, generous, and loving when everything is comfortable. It is far more difficult to embrace life through the lens of compassion and love when nothing is easy and you are, quite literally, living in dirt.

Of course, we could leave at any moment. And perhaps that is precisely the lesson the universe is offering us—our homework for this year. Even if I had imagined Christmas and New Year’s in a far more pleasant place than a very basic, slightly dirty room with mosquitoes on constant attack.

And yet, as I look around, I become aware of how privileged I am. I have a healthy body, money in my bank account to book the next flight whenever I choose, and people around me who give me a sense of home. There are three meals a day. And in the midst of all this chaos, we actually found a quiet, peaceful café with large windows, unbelievably good coffee, and delicious food—for very little money. Sitting among a few lonely plants, it offers a brief escape from the madness. If you apply this place to life itself, even the darkest environments contain small moments of light.

My absolute low point was the moment tears streamed uncontrollably down my face. On a busy main road, we passed an open slaughterhouse. Goats, still alive, chained, bleating, watching others being led to their death. Every time you passed by, the stench of old meat hung in the air, accompanied by the sound of sharp knives hitting the chopping board. In the past, I had eaten meat occasionally. This experience ended that completely. It was simply too much.

Right now, I am sitting here reflecting on my time. Earlier, someone from the institute sat down with me and shared her story. She had gone through similar experiences and said it was part of a bodily cleansing. First a week of illness, then a week of vomiting and diarrhea. I laughed. But she said that afterward, her body felt purified and she had made peace with this place. As I look out the window at the chaos passing by—momentarily softened by a delicious cappuccino—I think: maybe this is exactly the right place.

We never arrive somewhere by accident. There is always something to learn.

I could run away right now. Or I can stay and accept the challenge, knowing that we will leave once the course ends. Perhaps this is where we learn to sit with discomfort. To accept it. Maybe even to appreciate the body’s call for rest when it becomes ill.

Perhaps in a more beautiful environment, my shadow sides would not have surfaced so clearly—not with this intensity, not even in my relationship. Maybe the soul chooses such places deliberately, to test whether we can truly live what we understand in theory.

Inner peace and happiness arise from within—and they remain possible even in the most difficult circumstances. Maybe this is also about cultivating gratitude for what I often take for granted: health, loving people, inspiring conversations, good sleep, a hot shower—or any shower at all.

And perhaps it is about not falling into pity, but developing genuine compassion for all sentient beings. For those who live their everyday lives here. For those who do not work in warm offices, but slaughter goats every day (In Buddhism for example, killing—whether animals, others, or oneself—is considered negative karma.)

Compassion for children sent to the streets instead of school. For people who cannot simply book a flight to escape “hell.” Pity separates us. Compassion connects us. But true compassion, arising from the deepest place within, requires practice. It requires inner work.

As our lama said yesterday: It always comes down to intention. And sometimes, fake it until you make it.

If, like me, you believe in past lives and in the soul’s desire to experience as much as possible in order to grow, then we have likely lived all these roles already: executioner, beggar, construction worker in flip-flops, spiritual impostor.

This does not justify anything. And yet—when viewed through the eyes of love—we are all one. Connected to nature, to animals, but above all, to one another.

When I was nine years old, my religion teacher once told a story: a group of people was told that Jesus was among them. Afraid of mistreating him, they began treating each other with love and respect. In Buddhism, it is said that every human carries the potential to become a Buddha. And I firmly believe that the divine lives within each of us.

How would we treat one another if we truly believed that?

Perhaps those who trigger us, hurt us, or repel us are precisely our teachers—our gurus. That is exactly what the Geshe La said: the ones we avoid, fear, or feel disgust toward are often our greatest teachers.

This does not mean being naïve or accepting everything. It means letting go of our fear of true connection and moving into appreciation—for ourselves and for others. Despite everything, seeing the light in the other.

Because when people harm others, they are usually deeply wounded themselves. They live in scarcity, not abundance. In suffering, not joy. And how can we change society if we respond only with fear, rejection, and judgment?

Perhaps what we consider “right” is often just conditioning. Our lens. What if we tried to see the world through different eyes—through the eyes of people from other cultures, social classes, or lived realities?

That is what I love most about traveling: continuously questioning my own perspective. And maybe we can even approach all of this with a bit of humor—when entering the gompa and being greeted by a cloud of eucalyptus, accompanied by the constant sound of sniffles and coughs.

Perhaps this is an invitation to slow down, to recognize the small miracles and quiet beauty of life, and to approach moments of discomfort with curiosity—especially when life unfolds in ways far removed from our expectations. Life at the institute mirrors this. It is different. There is no strict silence as other retreats. Phones are allowed. Couples can share rooms. The precepts still apply, but there is much freedom and little structure. At first, this irritated me. Now, less so. It is also an experiment.

So this invites me to reflect on rules in general—something I sometimes struggle with as a freedom-seeking person. And yet, I see how rules are necessary to allow something to function without relying solely on each individual’s sense of self-responsibility. The freedom remains: we can choose whether we accept these rules. Otherwise, we are free to leave—or to stay and find our peace with them.

I realize that a clear framework gives me a sense of safety—and that meaningful rules create space for reflection. That is why I value the Buddhist basic vows: not killing, not stealing, no sexual misconduct (including cheating), not lying, and no intoxicating substances. Above all stands Ahimsa—non-violence in body, speech, and mind. A central ethical principle in Hinduism, Buddhism, and Jainism. Literally, it means “not harming.”

What does Ahimsa exactly means:

• causing no harm to any living being—through actions, words, or thoughts

• respect for all life

• compassion, mindfulness, and self-restraint in one’s conduct

After a few days of being sick—still sick—and living with cold rooms and a chaotic environment both inside and out, I find myself happy again. Truly happy. Because I am beginning to appreciate the little things once more. The small miracles: the quiet connection I feel with the goats, a gentle conversation over breakfast, the first sip of chai in the morning after yet another restless night. And yes, being surrounded by kind people and doing what I love—learning new things, meeting inspiring souls, writing, and sharing this journey with someone I deeply love. That is enough. Even when circumstances are not exactly as I wish them to be, I can be happy. Or at least, I can try.

Perhaps this is what I had to learn here. Right now. Right here.

• How do you respond to situations that lie outside your comfort zone—do you tend to stay, or do you leave?

• Which “small miracles” do you perhaps overlook too often in your everyday life?

• What are you grateful for right now, even when it feels uncomfortable?

• Where do you live what you have already understood on an inner level—and where do you not?

• Which shadow aspects of yourself tend to surface most clearly in challenging situations?