You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there in the small city of Savatthi, long ago, when a woman named Kisa Gotami changed the way people understood suffering, compassion, and letting go.
I was just a servant boy then, sweeping the steps outside the house of a rich merchant. The heat was strong that day, and the dust stuck to everything. That’s when she came rushing by—clothes torn, hair loose, eyes wide like someone who had just seen the end of the world. In her arms, she carried a child. A small boy… still and lifeless.
Her name was Kisa Gotami. Before that day, she had been a quiet woman from a humble family. She had married into wealth, and for a short time, her life had been full of joy, especially when her son was born. For years, the house echoed with his laughter. But illness took him quickly, and grief like fire took her.
That day, she was not looking for comfort or weeping. She was searching—for a cure. Not for herself, but to bring her son back. “Is there anyone,” she cried, “who knows how to bring back the dead?”
The townspeople turned away, sorrowful and ashamed. They could not give her what she wanted. I watched as she wandered from house to house, her face growing more hollow, her voice sharper.
Then someone—an old monk, I think—whispered, “Go to the Buddha. He lives in Jetavana Garden, not far from here. If anyone can help you, it is him.”
The Buddha, Siddhartha Gautama, had once been a prince but gave up his riches to seek the truth about life and suffering. He had taught many about how to find peace, even in the hardest moments. People called him the ‘Enlightened One.’
I followed her to Jetavana, staying far back. I could not look away. She kneeled before the Buddha under the wide shade of a Bodhi tree. “Please,” she begged, “bring my son back to life.”
The Buddha looked at her gently. His voice was calm, like the sky before dawn. He said, “Bring me a handful of mustard seeds, but only from a house where no one has ever lost a loved one.”
Kisa Gotami stood, hope rising in her again. She rushed to the city, knocking on every door. But every family she spoke to—rich or poor—had known loss. A sister, a father, a friend. No house was untouched by death.
As the sun set, she returned to Jetavana. She no longer held her son. Her eyes were quiet, not wild. She sat at the Buddha’s feet and whispered, “I understand now.”
The Buddha nodded. “Loss is a part of life, like the setting sun and the falling rain. If we cling too tightly, we suffer. But if we understand, we can begin to heal.”
That day, Kisa Gotami asked to join the Buddhist order. She became a nun and spent her life helping others understand what she had learned—that mindfulness helps us see clearly, compassion helps us connect, and detachment helps us let go.
I never spoke to her. But I remember her face. Not the face of a grieving mother, but the one she wore later. Calm. Soft. Still like the surface of a quiet pond.
And I, just a servant boy sweeping steps, understood something for the first time that day: wisdom doesn’t always come with shouting or thunder. Sometimes, it comes quietly, like a turning point only the heart can hear.
You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there in the small city of Savatthi, long ago, when a woman named Kisa Gotami changed the way people understood suffering, compassion, and letting go.
I was just a servant boy then, sweeping the steps outside the house of a rich merchant. The heat was strong that day, and the dust stuck to everything. That’s when she came rushing by—clothes torn, hair loose, eyes wide like someone who had just seen the end of the world. In her arms, she carried a child. A small boy… still and lifeless.
Her name was Kisa Gotami. Before that day, she had been a quiet woman from a humble family. She had married into wealth, and for a short time, her life had been full of joy, especially when her son was born. For years, the house echoed with his laughter. But illness took him quickly, and grief like fire took her.
That day, she was not looking for comfort or weeping. She was searching—for a cure. Not for herself, but to bring her son back. “Is there anyone,” she cried, “who knows how to bring back the dead?”
The townspeople turned away, sorrowful and ashamed. They could not give her what she wanted. I watched as she wandered from house to house, her face growing more hollow, her voice sharper.
Then someone—an old monk, I think—whispered, “Go to the Buddha. He lives in Jetavana Garden, not far from here. If anyone can help you, it is him.”
The Buddha, Siddhartha Gautama, had once been a prince but gave up his riches to seek the truth about life and suffering. He had taught many about how to find peace, even in the hardest moments. People called him the ‘Enlightened One.’
I followed her to Jetavana, staying far back. I could not look away. She kneeled before the Buddha under the wide shade of a Bodhi tree. “Please,” she begged, “bring my son back to life.”
The Buddha looked at her gently. His voice was calm, like the sky before dawn. He said, “Bring me a handful of mustard seeds, but only from a house where no one has ever lost a loved one.”
Kisa Gotami stood, hope rising in her again. She rushed to the city, knocking on every door. But every family she spoke to—rich or poor—had known loss. A sister, a father, a friend. No house was untouched by death.
As the sun set, she returned to Jetavana. She no longer held her son. Her eyes were quiet, not wild. She sat at the Buddha’s feet and whispered, “I understand now.”
The Buddha nodded. “Loss is a part of life, like the setting sun and the falling rain. If we cling too tightly, we suffer. But if we understand, we can begin to heal.”
That day, Kisa Gotami asked to join the Buddhist order. She became a nun and spent her life helping others understand what she had learned—that mindfulness helps us see clearly, compassion helps us connect, and detachment helps us let go.
I never spoke to her. But I remember her face. Not the face of a grieving mother, but the one she wore later. Calm. Soft. Still like the surface of a quiet pond.
And I, just a servant boy sweeping steps, understood something for the first time that day: wisdom doesn’t always come with shouting or thunder. Sometimes, it comes quietly, like a turning point only the heart can hear.
