I was only ten years old when I first heard Kisa Gotami’s story. I was sitting in the monastery courtyard at dusk, legs crossed beneath me, spinning the heavy prayer beads my grandfather gave me the day I decided to live as a novice monk. That evening, the elder Bhante Anuruddha sat before us, his hands folded gently in his lap, his voice like a breeze through leaves.
“You may not know her name,” he began, “but long before any of you walked this Earth, there lived a woman who faced the most painful suffering a person can endure.”
Her name was Kisa Gotami, and she lived during the time of the Buddha. She was born into a poor family in India—so small and thin that villagers called her “Kisa,” which means slender. Though poor, she was kind and gentle, and this led to a well-respected wealthy merchant marrying her. Her life seemed full—until tragedy hit.
When her baby boy was born, he brought more light into her days than the sun ever could. But when he got sick and died unexpectedly, Kisa’s world crumbled. Her love turned to grief so heavy it made her wander barefoot through the streets, clutching the tiny body, begging anyone, “Please! Can you make him better? Is there a medicine strong enough to bring him back?”
Most people turned away. Some pitied her. Others whispered that she had gone mad. But one kind man told her, “Go to the Buddha. He has helped those who suffer.”
At once, Kisa Gotami made the long journey to find Gautama Buddha, the spiritual leader who had once been a prince named Siddhartha but left everything to find an end to suffering.
When she arrived, weeping and trembling, she placed her child at the Buddha’s feet and pleaded, “Please, Blessed One, bring him back to life.”
The Buddha looked at her not with surprise or sorrow, but with deep compassion. He said, “Yes, Kisa Gotami. I can help you. But first, I need a small thing. Find me a single mustard seed from a household where no one has ever died.”
Kisa’s eyes lit with hope. A mustard seed! That was easy. She rushed from house to house, repeating the Buddha’s request. But at each door, she was told someone had died—a grandparent, a mother, a child, a husband. Over and over again, the answer was the same.
Hours passed. Then days. And slowly the truth rippled through her heart: Death had touched every family, just as it had touched hers.
She returned to the Buddha with empty hands but a clear gaze. “I understand now,” she said quietly. “Life is full of loss. No one escapes it. I asked for something no one could ever give.”
And in that moment, she placed her child’s body down—not in desperation, but in peace. She asked to join the community of the Buddha's followers, becoming a bhikkhuni (a Buddhist nun), devoting her life to understanding suffering and freeing herself from it.
Kisa Gotami went on to reach enlightenment, becoming one of the arahants, those who have broken free from the cycle of rebirth and suffering.
As I sat in awe that night, Elder Anuruddha looked straight at me and said, “Let go, young one. Even love, if clung to, becomes a weight. But when we meet sorrow with mindfulness, with compassion, and with understanding, the pain can transform into peace.”
I have never forgotten her story. And when grief comes to me now, I do not run from it. I sit with it. I listen. And slowly, it softens.
That is what Kisa Gotami taught me: suffering is part of life. But with awareness and surrender, even the deepest sorrow can lead us to freedom.
I was only ten years old when I first heard Kisa Gotami’s story. I was sitting in the monastery courtyard at dusk, legs crossed beneath me, spinning the heavy prayer beads my grandfather gave me the day I decided to live as a novice monk. That evening, the elder Bhante Anuruddha sat before us, his hands folded gently in his lap, his voice like a breeze through leaves.
“You may not know her name,” he began, “but long before any of you walked this Earth, there lived a woman who faced the most painful suffering a person can endure.”
Her name was Kisa Gotami, and she lived during the time of the Buddha. She was born into a poor family in India—so small and thin that villagers called her “Kisa,” which means slender. Though poor, she was kind and gentle, and this led to a well-respected wealthy merchant marrying her. Her life seemed full—until tragedy hit.
When her baby boy was born, he brought more light into her days than the sun ever could. But when he got sick and died unexpectedly, Kisa’s world crumbled. Her love turned to grief so heavy it made her wander barefoot through the streets, clutching the tiny body, begging anyone, “Please! Can you make him better? Is there a medicine strong enough to bring him back?”
Most people turned away. Some pitied her. Others whispered that she had gone mad. But one kind man told her, “Go to the Buddha. He has helped those who suffer.”
At once, Kisa Gotami made the long journey to find Gautama Buddha, the spiritual leader who had once been a prince named Siddhartha but left everything to find an end to suffering.
When she arrived, weeping and trembling, she placed her child at the Buddha’s feet and pleaded, “Please, Blessed One, bring him back to life.”
The Buddha looked at her not with surprise or sorrow, but with deep compassion. He said, “Yes, Kisa Gotami. I can help you. But first, I need a small thing. Find me a single mustard seed from a household where no one has ever died.”
Kisa’s eyes lit with hope. A mustard seed! That was easy. She rushed from house to house, repeating the Buddha’s request. But at each door, she was told someone had died—a grandparent, a mother, a child, a husband. Over and over again, the answer was the same.
Hours passed. Then days. And slowly the truth rippled through her heart: Death had touched every family, just as it had touched hers.
She returned to the Buddha with empty hands but a clear gaze. “I understand now,” she said quietly. “Life is full of loss. No one escapes it. I asked for something no one could ever give.”
And in that moment, she placed her child’s body down—not in desperation, but in peace. She asked to join the community of the Buddha's followers, becoming a bhikkhuni (a Buddhist nun), devoting her life to understanding suffering and freeing herself from it.
Kisa Gotami went on to reach enlightenment, becoming one of the arahants, those who have broken free from the cycle of rebirth and suffering.
As I sat in awe that night, Elder Anuruddha looked straight at me and said, “Let go, young one. Even love, if clung to, becomes a weight. But when we meet sorrow with mindfulness, with compassion, and with understanding, the pain can transform into peace.”
I have never forgotten her story. And when grief comes to me now, I do not run from it. I sit with it. I listen. And slowly, it softens.
That is what Kisa Gotami taught me: suffering is part of life. But with awareness and surrender, even the deepest sorrow can lead us to freedom.
