I had knelt beneath the tamarind tree for four hours, watching the great teacher’s footprints in the dust. My name is Ananda. I was the Buddha’s cousin and his devoted attendant for many years. On this day, I was puzzled. Troubled, even. A woman stood outside the monastery gate, her robes clean, her head shaved, her eyes still like a quiet lake. Her name was Mahapajapati Gotami, and she was not just anyone.
She was the Buddha’s stepmother—the woman who raised him after his birth mother passed away. She had walked all the way from Kapilavatthu, the capital of the Shakya clan, barefoot, with hundreds of women behind her. Each of them had left behind families, titles, and comforts to follow the path of Dharma, the Buddha’s teachings.
But there was a problem. Never before had women been allowed to join the monastic Sangha—the community of monks and followers who had devoted their lives to the practice of mindfulness, compassion, and detachment from worldly desires.
I saw the quiet pain in Mahapajapati’s eyes. She had asked the Buddha before and been turned away. Once. Twice. Still she had come.
“Why is he hesitating, Ananda?” she asked me gently that afternoon. “Does he believe a woman’s heart loves less? That we cannot be mindful? That compassion is not found in a mother’s spirit?”
I didn’t know what to say. The truth was, the Buddha wasn’t against women seeking Enlightenment. But the Sangha was young. Traditions were delicate. To allow change too quickly could lead to confusion among followers. The world outside was not yet ready.
Still, I went to the Blessed One. I bowed deeply. “Lord,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “Is it not true that women are capable of letting go of craving just as men are? That they, too, may walk the Noble Eightfold Path—with right speech, right action, and right concentration?”
He looked at me. Not with rejection. Not with approval. Just silence, like a full moon resting quietly over the sea.
Then he said, “If Mahapajapati is willing to abide by the rules of the community, and if she truly seeks liberation, then yes, let her and the other women enter the Sangha.”
My heart lit with joy. I went running, dust flying beneath my feet, to tell Mahapajapati. She listened, her eyes closed, tears leaving soft trails down both cheeks. Then she bowed. Not in joy alone, but in reverence.
She would become the first Bhikkhuni—a fully ordained Buddhist nun in history.
The monastery gates opened wider than ever before that day. Not in brick or wood but in spirit. The Sangha welcomed sisters, mothers, and daughters into its heart, changing not just tradition, but history.
Years later, I would remember her calm, her patience, her stillness. While many celebrated loudly, she remained centered, breath steady.
That day, I witnessed not only the beginning of the Bhikkhuni Sangha, but the strength of compassion and mindfulness in action.
The world had whispered, “Not yet.” But compassion said, “Now.”
And because of her devotion, countless others would follow the path, seeking not power or recognition—but freedom, from suffering and from the grasping that binds the soul.
That day, everything changed.
I had knelt beneath the tamarind tree for four hours, watching the great teacher’s footprints in the dust. My name is Ananda. I was the Buddha’s cousin and his devoted attendant for many years. On this day, I was puzzled. Troubled, even. A woman stood outside the monastery gate, her robes clean, her head shaved, her eyes still like a quiet lake. Her name was Mahapajapati Gotami, and she was not just anyone.
She was the Buddha’s stepmother—the woman who raised him after his birth mother passed away. She had walked all the way from Kapilavatthu, the capital of the Shakya clan, barefoot, with hundreds of women behind her. Each of them had left behind families, titles, and comforts to follow the path of Dharma, the Buddha’s teachings.
But there was a problem. Never before had women been allowed to join the monastic Sangha—the community of monks and followers who had devoted their lives to the practice of mindfulness, compassion, and detachment from worldly desires.
I saw the quiet pain in Mahapajapati’s eyes. She had asked the Buddha before and been turned away. Once. Twice. Still she had come.
“Why is he hesitating, Ananda?” she asked me gently that afternoon. “Does he believe a woman’s heart loves less? That we cannot be mindful? That compassion is not found in a mother’s spirit?”
I didn’t know what to say. The truth was, the Buddha wasn’t against women seeking Enlightenment. But the Sangha was young. Traditions were delicate. To allow change too quickly could lead to confusion among followers. The world outside was not yet ready.
Still, I went to the Blessed One. I bowed deeply. “Lord,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “Is it not true that women are capable of letting go of craving just as men are? That they, too, may walk the Noble Eightfold Path—with right speech, right action, and right concentration?”
He looked at me. Not with rejection. Not with approval. Just silence, like a full moon resting quietly over the sea.
Then he said, “If Mahapajapati is willing to abide by the rules of the community, and if she truly seeks liberation, then yes, let her and the other women enter the Sangha.”
My heart lit with joy. I went running, dust flying beneath my feet, to tell Mahapajapati. She listened, her eyes closed, tears leaving soft trails down both cheeks. Then she bowed. Not in joy alone, but in reverence.
She would become the first Bhikkhuni—a fully ordained Buddhist nun in history.
The monastery gates opened wider than ever before that day. Not in brick or wood but in spirit. The Sangha welcomed sisters, mothers, and daughters into its heart, changing not just tradition, but history.
Years later, I would remember her calm, her patience, her stillness. While many celebrated loudly, she remained centered, breath steady.
That day, I witnessed not only the beginning of the Bhikkhuni Sangha, but the strength of compassion and mindfulness in action.
The world had whispered, “Not yet.” But compassion said, “Now.”
And because of her devotion, countless others would follow the path, seeking not power or recognition—but freedom, from suffering and from the grasping that binds the soul.
That day, everything changed.
