The air was heavy with sorrow, but the grove was silent.
It was the final season of the Blessed One’s life. The Buddha—born Siddhartha Gautama, once a prince from Kapilavatthu who left behind wealth and power in search of truth—was nearing his end in the small town of Kusinara. Under twin sala trees, his body lay weakened, but his mind remained calm and sharp, like a lamp that flickers just before darkness—but glows until the very last breath.
The news of his impending passing had spread across the land. Devotees, monks, scholars, and rulers came from all regions to offer their final respects. Among them walked Queen Mallika of the Malla clan, the only daughter of a warrior king and a queen in her own right. Though born into privilege, Mallika had studied the Dharma since youth, her heart always seeking a deeper truth than royal rituals or gold-draped altars could provide.
Queen Mallika had met the Buddha once before during a time of great personal suffering. Her son had fallen ill, and though the best physicians were summoned, they could not cure his fever. In her grief, she had gone to the Buddha for counsel. “All who are born must die,” he had said gently, “but the wise mourn with understanding, not attachment.” His words did not erase her pain, but they planted a seed of peace inside her heart that had grown ever since.
Now, she returned to him as he prepared to leave this world. She stepped softly through the sala grove, where monks stood in quiet meditation. A hush fell as she approached the Buddha’s resting place. His skin was pale, his breaths slow. But when he opened his eyes and saw her, a faint smile curved his lips.
Seeing him lying there, so peaceful yet so close to death, tears welled in Queen Mallika’s eyes. “Blessed One,” she said softly, “is it not sorrowful that you must leave us? That we must go on without you?”
The Buddha looked toward the flowering trees, blossoms gently falling like snow.
“Mallika,” he said, his voice calm and steady, “truth is found not in clinging, but in letting go. My teachings are the path, not the person who speaks them. I am but a finger pointing to the moon—not the moon itself. Seek not to hold onto the finger, but to understand what it reveals.”
Queen Mallika knelt and lowered her gaze. She suddenly understood that his death was not an end, but a continuation—the teachings he left behind were the true gift. She saw that grasping to keep him alive would bring suffering, but embracing his path would bring peace.
Before she left, she removed a golden bangle from her wrist—a small token of her royal station—and placed it beside him. “Let the self fall like this ornament,” she whispered, “so the soul may rise.”
In the days after the Buddha passed into final Nirvana, Queen Mallika returned to her kingdom. She ruled not with pride, but with compassion, dedicating her life to building learning halls and refuges for those on the Dharma path. When others asked how she sustained her calm heart in a world full of loss, she simply said:
“I sat beneath the sala trees. I saw a man die without fear. And I learned that peace is not found by holding on—but by letting go.”
And so, her legacy was not her crown, nor her armies, but the quiet example of a queen who chose mindfulness over mourning, and detachment over despair.
In the shadow of the Buddha’s passing, she discovered the light of her own.
The air was heavy with sorrow, but the grove was silent.
It was the final season of the Blessed One’s life. The Buddha—born Siddhartha Gautama, once a prince from Kapilavatthu who left behind wealth and power in search of truth—was nearing his end in the small town of Kusinara. Under twin sala trees, his body lay weakened, but his mind remained calm and sharp, like a lamp that flickers just before darkness—but glows until the very last breath.
The news of his impending passing had spread across the land. Devotees, monks, scholars, and rulers came from all regions to offer their final respects. Among them walked Queen Mallika of the Malla clan, the only daughter of a warrior king and a queen in her own right. Though born into privilege, Mallika had studied the Dharma since youth, her heart always seeking a deeper truth than royal rituals or gold-draped altars could provide.
Queen Mallika had met the Buddha once before during a time of great personal suffering. Her son had fallen ill, and though the best physicians were summoned, they could not cure his fever. In her grief, she had gone to the Buddha for counsel. “All who are born must die,” he had said gently, “but the wise mourn with understanding, not attachment.” His words did not erase her pain, but they planted a seed of peace inside her heart that had grown ever since.
Now, she returned to him as he prepared to leave this world. She stepped softly through the sala grove, where monks stood in quiet meditation. A hush fell as she approached the Buddha’s resting place. His skin was pale, his breaths slow. But when he opened his eyes and saw her, a faint smile curved his lips.
Seeing him lying there, so peaceful yet so close to death, tears welled in Queen Mallika’s eyes. “Blessed One,” she said softly, “is it not sorrowful that you must leave us? That we must go on without you?”
The Buddha looked toward the flowering trees, blossoms gently falling like snow.
“Mallika,” he said, his voice calm and steady, “truth is found not in clinging, but in letting go. My teachings are the path, not the person who speaks them. I am but a finger pointing to the moon—not the moon itself. Seek not to hold onto the finger, but to understand what it reveals.”
Queen Mallika knelt and lowered her gaze. She suddenly understood that his death was not an end, but a continuation—the teachings he left behind were the true gift. She saw that grasping to keep him alive would bring suffering, but embracing his path would bring peace.
Before she left, she removed a golden bangle from her wrist—a small token of her royal station—and placed it beside him. “Let the self fall like this ornament,” she whispered, “so the soul may rise.”
In the days after the Buddha passed into final Nirvana, Queen Mallika returned to her kingdom. She ruled not with pride, but with compassion, dedicating her life to building learning halls and refuges for those on the Dharma path. When others asked how she sustained her calm heart in a world full of loss, she simply said:
“I sat beneath the sala trees. I saw a man die without fear. And I learned that peace is not found by holding on—but by letting go.”
And so, her legacy was not her crown, nor her armies, but the quiet example of a queen who chose mindfulness over mourning, and detachment over despair.
In the shadow of the Buddha’s passing, she discovered the light of her own.
