You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there the day the Princess left her palace with an empty bowl in her hands and tears streaking her painted cheeks. I was her handmaid—just one among many who had served her since she was a child. Her name was Sumitra, daughter of the King of Kosala, one of the grandest kingdoms in the land. She lived in satin halls with columns carved from white marble, always surrounded by laughter, music, and perfumed air. But no one knew the sorrow that hid behind her jewels.
Despite having all that anyone could dream of—beauty, wealth, and royal power—Sumitra often stared quietly into the gardens for hours, untouched food beside her. “Why do people suffer?” she would whisper, almost to herself. “Why do the rich feast while the poor starve?” Her questions sat heavily in the air, ones I could never answer.
One day, a wandering nun entered the city. She was old, her robe threadbare, her feet bare and cracked. Still, there was a calm around her like a still lake. The king allowed her into the courtyard, curious about her quiet strength. That was when Sumitra saw her for the first time.
“Who is she?” the Princess asked, her voice soft and trembling. “Why does someone with nothing look fuller than I feel?”
The nun was named Bhadda Kundalakesa. Once the daughter of a wealthy man, she had given up everything after hardship taught her that the pleasures of life could not cure the pain of the heart. Now, she was part of the early Buddhist followers who lived by begging, simplicity, and meditation. She had been a student of the Blessed One, Siddhartha Gautama—the Buddha. She spoke of the Buddha's teachings: that life is suffering, but through wisdom and compassion, one can free the mind and find peace.
Sumitra listened to her stories for nights. The other attendants giggled behind fans, calling it a phase. But I saw her eyes change. They were no longer hungry for attention or gold—they were searching, seeing the world as it truly was.
The next morning, she stood before her father with a plain robe and an empty alms bowl. “I wish to leave the palace and follow the path of the Dhamma,” she said, using the ancient word for the teachings of the Buddha. The hall fell silent. The King, shocked and sorrowful, tried to forbid it. But Sumitra bowed to him, and then walked out the gates in silence.
I followed her to the edge of the city and begged her to tell me why. She looked at me, eyes clearer than I had ever seen, and held up the bowl.
“This is what I carried my whole life—emptiness. I filled it with jewels, pleasures, and praise. But none of it stayed. The nun taught me that the bowl is not meant to be full of things—it is meant to be empty, so it may receive true wisdom.”
I watched her disappear down the dusty road, her bowl light in her hands, yet full of purpose.
That day, I understood what it meant to see clearly—not with the eyes, but with the heart.
You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there the day the Princess left her palace with an empty bowl in her hands and tears streaking her painted cheeks. I was her handmaid—just one among many who had served her since she was a child. Her name was Sumitra, daughter of the King of Kosala, one of the grandest kingdoms in the land. She lived in satin halls with columns carved from white marble, always surrounded by laughter, music, and perfumed air. But no one knew the sorrow that hid behind her jewels.
Despite having all that anyone could dream of—beauty, wealth, and royal power—Sumitra often stared quietly into the gardens for hours, untouched food beside her. “Why do people suffer?” she would whisper, almost to herself. “Why do the rich feast while the poor starve?” Her questions sat heavily in the air, ones I could never answer.
One day, a wandering nun entered the city. She was old, her robe threadbare, her feet bare and cracked. Still, there was a calm around her like a still lake. The king allowed her into the courtyard, curious about her quiet strength. That was when Sumitra saw her for the first time.
“Who is she?” the Princess asked, her voice soft and trembling. “Why does someone with nothing look fuller than I feel?”
The nun was named Bhadda Kundalakesa. Once the daughter of a wealthy man, she had given up everything after hardship taught her that the pleasures of life could not cure the pain of the heart. Now, she was part of the early Buddhist followers who lived by begging, simplicity, and meditation. She had been a student of the Blessed One, Siddhartha Gautama—the Buddha. She spoke of the Buddha's teachings: that life is suffering, but through wisdom and compassion, one can free the mind and find peace.
Sumitra listened to her stories for nights. The other attendants giggled behind fans, calling it a phase. But I saw her eyes change. They were no longer hungry for attention or gold—they were searching, seeing the world as it truly was.
The next morning, she stood before her father with a plain robe and an empty alms bowl. “I wish to leave the palace and follow the path of the Dhamma,” she said, using the ancient word for the teachings of the Buddha. The hall fell silent. The King, shocked and sorrowful, tried to forbid it. But Sumitra bowed to him, and then walked out the gates in silence.
I followed her to the edge of the city and begged her to tell me why. She looked at me, eyes clearer than I had ever seen, and held up the bowl.
“This is what I carried my whole life—emptiness. I filled it with jewels, pleasures, and praise. But none of it stayed. The nun taught me that the bowl is not meant to be full of things—it is meant to be empty, so it may receive true wisdom.”
I watched her disappear down the dusty road, her bowl light in her hands, yet full of purpose.
That day, I understood what it meant to see clearly—not with the eyes, but with the heart.
