I was just a young servant girl in the palace of King Śuddhodana, ruler of the Shakya clan. We lived in the grand city of Kapilavastu, in what is now southern Nepal. I was born into a simple life, meant to serve in silence, but fate placed me near one of history’s most sacred moments.
The queen, Māyā, was not only beautiful but also wise and gentle. She had longed for a child, and after many prayers, her dream came true. One night, she had a strange dream. She told us it was of a radiant white elephant with six tusks entering her side. The Brahmins—the priests and wisemen—said this dream was a sign. “A great being is coming,” they whispered. “The child will become either a great king or a great teacher of the world.”
In those days, such dreams were not taken lightly. Everyone in the palace prepared for the arrival of this special child. The air buzzed with gentle excitement. I helped prepare sweet oils and gather lotus flowers for the queen. I remember the feel of the petals—silky and pure—as if they could sense something extraordinary was about to happen.
Then, according to our tradition, Queen Māyā traveled to her parents’ home for the birth. Along the way, she stopped in the Lumbini Garden to rest. The garden was filled with blooming ashoka trees, their branches rich with red blossoms. I was not there myself, but the nursemaids who went with her spoke in hushed tones after their return.
They said that as the queen stood beneath an ashoka tree, reaching up to a branch, the baby was born without pain. The child—Siddhartha Gautama—took seven steps immediately after birth. With each footstep, a lotus flower bloomed beneath him. Then, they claimed, he pointed to the sky and then to the earth and declared, “In this world, I am chief. This is my last birth.”
That story stayed with me.
Many years later, I would sit near the quiet courtyards of the palace, remembering the queen—who sadly died just seven days after giving birth—and the child who would someday leave everything behind to seek truth. He had everything a prince could ever want: silk clothes, rich meals, music, gardens, and a luxurious life. Yet, the older he grew, the more thoughtful he became. “What lies beyond this palace?” he asked his attendants.
It was then I realized I, too, had been asking questions in silence. Why did we suffer? Why did joy fade so quickly? Why did even the good die? These were the same questions the prince would eventually dedicate his life to answering.
Many years later, they called him the Buddha—the Enlightened One. He would teach about mindfulness, showing us how to be present in each moment. He would speak gently of compassion, urging us to love all beings as if they were our own family. And he would show us the power of detachment, offering freedom from the endless desire that causes our suffering.
But for me, the lesson began long before he sat under the Bodhi tree. It began with a single question—spoken not with words, but with footsteps on lotus flowers.
And from that day forward, I listened differently. For I knew that even a newborn child, when born in wisdom, could carry the silence of truth in his very breath.
I was just a young servant girl in the palace of King Śuddhodana, ruler of the Shakya clan. We lived in the grand city of Kapilavastu, in what is now southern Nepal. I was born into a simple life, meant to serve in silence, but fate placed me near one of history’s most sacred moments.
The queen, Māyā, was not only beautiful but also wise and gentle. She had longed for a child, and after many prayers, her dream came true. One night, she had a strange dream. She told us it was of a radiant white elephant with six tusks entering her side. The Brahmins—the priests and wisemen—said this dream was a sign. “A great being is coming,” they whispered. “The child will become either a great king or a great teacher of the world.”
In those days, such dreams were not taken lightly. Everyone in the palace prepared for the arrival of this special child. The air buzzed with gentle excitement. I helped prepare sweet oils and gather lotus flowers for the queen. I remember the feel of the petals—silky and pure—as if they could sense something extraordinary was about to happen.
Then, according to our tradition, Queen Māyā traveled to her parents’ home for the birth. Along the way, she stopped in the Lumbini Garden to rest. The garden was filled with blooming ashoka trees, their branches rich with red blossoms. I was not there myself, but the nursemaids who went with her spoke in hushed tones after their return.
They said that as the queen stood beneath an ashoka tree, reaching up to a branch, the baby was born without pain. The child—Siddhartha Gautama—took seven steps immediately after birth. With each footstep, a lotus flower bloomed beneath him. Then, they claimed, he pointed to the sky and then to the earth and declared, “In this world, I am chief. This is my last birth.”
That story stayed with me.
Many years later, I would sit near the quiet courtyards of the palace, remembering the queen—who sadly died just seven days after giving birth—and the child who would someday leave everything behind to seek truth. He had everything a prince could ever want: silk clothes, rich meals, music, gardens, and a luxurious life. Yet, the older he grew, the more thoughtful he became. “What lies beyond this palace?” he asked his attendants.
It was then I realized I, too, had been asking questions in silence. Why did we suffer? Why did joy fade so quickly? Why did even the good die? These were the same questions the prince would eventually dedicate his life to answering.
Many years later, they called him the Buddha—the Enlightened One. He would teach about mindfulness, showing us how to be present in each moment. He would speak gently of compassion, urging us to love all beings as if they were our own family. And he would show us the power of detachment, offering freedom from the endless desire that causes our suffering.
But for me, the lesson began long before he sat under the Bodhi tree. It began with a single question—spoken not with words, but with footsteps on lotus flowers.
And from that day forward, I listened differently. For I knew that even a newborn child, when born in wisdom, could carry the silence of truth in his very breath.
