You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there, just a servant girl in the house of Visākha—the wealthy woman who supported the Buddha and his monks. I was barely thirteen when I first stood behind the curtain, watching with wide eyes as great teachers came and went. But no one left an impression upon me like the Buddha himself—calm as a still pond, eyes gentler than the morning sun.
One humid day in the city of Sāvatthī, clouds hung low and heavy over the roofs of brick houses. That morning, talk had spread through the city about a strange sight: the Buddha had gone to the home of Suppiyā, an old woman who had fallen sick. Not unusual by itself—but this sick woman was poor and childless. She had no family to care for her and no great deeds that earned her fame. Why, then, would the Buddha—Siddhartha Gautama, the Enlightened One—go to her?
As Visākha’s servant, I was sent with a basket of medicine and clean cloths. “Hurry,” she said, “but be silent. Don’t speak unless asked.” My feet raced across the pebbled streets, the thought of being near the Buddha making my heart beat faster.
Suppiyā’s house was no more than a cracked hut beside the river. When I entered, I found him already there.
The Buddha sat cross-legged near the woman’s bed. He wasn’t speaking. He wasn’t chanting. He was simply watching her—his hands resting lightly on his lap, his breath slow and deep. No fear. No disgust. Only presence.
Suppiyā moaned softly in her sleep, her face pale with fever. I stood frozen, not expecting silence or stillness. I thought holy men always preached or recited teachings. But the Buddha... he whispered not a single word.
Finally, I dared to ask, “Why… why do you sit here, master, in silence?”
He looked at me then, his eyes kind but clear. “Because mindfulness does not need words. Compassion begins with presence. Even illness can be met with stillness.”
I didn’t understand all the words, but something stirred in me. He hadn’t come to heal her body, but to offer something deeper. She, a forgotten widow, was seen, was honored—not as a burden—but as part of the same life he, and all beings, shared.
Later, the monks said that Suppiyā passed peacefully that evening. Some claimed she smiled before the last breath left her. Others believed that just being in the presence of the Buddha had brought her heart enough calm to let go.
I returned to the house with my basket empty, but my thoughts full. From that day on, I no longer believed that compassion had to be loud, or that wisdom required many words. Sometimes the deepest truths are found in silence, in being still.
I stayed a servant, yes—but I began my mornings with breath and silence, as he had taught. And though no one saw, each gesture I made—folding linens, giving water, speaking softly—I offered with mindfulness. Because now, I understood: Enlightenment isn’t thunder. Sometimes, it’s just being lovingly present in another’s pain.
And that is why the still ones inspire, even centuries later.
You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there, just a servant girl in the house of Visākha—the wealthy woman who supported the Buddha and his monks. I was barely thirteen when I first stood behind the curtain, watching with wide eyes as great teachers came and went. But no one left an impression upon me like the Buddha himself—calm as a still pond, eyes gentler than the morning sun.
One humid day in the city of Sāvatthī, clouds hung low and heavy over the roofs of brick houses. That morning, talk had spread through the city about a strange sight: the Buddha had gone to the home of Suppiyā, an old woman who had fallen sick. Not unusual by itself—but this sick woman was poor and childless. She had no family to care for her and no great deeds that earned her fame. Why, then, would the Buddha—Siddhartha Gautama, the Enlightened One—go to her?
As Visākha’s servant, I was sent with a basket of medicine and clean cloths. “Hurry,” she said, “but be silent. Don’t speak unless asked.” My feet raced across the pebbled streets, the thought of being near the Buddha making my heart beat faster.
Suppiyā’s house was no more than a cracked hut beside the river. When I entered, I found him already there.
The Buddha sat cross-legged near the woman’s bed. He wasn’t speaking. He wasn’t chanting. He was simply watching her—his hands resting lightly on his lap, his breath slow and deep. No fear. No disgust. Only presence.
Suppiyā moaned softly in her sleep, her face pale with fever. I stood frozen, not expecting silence or stillness. I thought holy men always preached or recited teachings. But the Buddha... he whispered not a single word.
Finally, I dared to ask, “Why… why do you sit here, master, in silence?”
He looked at me then, his eyes kind but clear. “Because mindfulness does not need words. Compassion begins with presence. Even illness can be met with stillness.”
I didn’t understand all the words, but something stirred in me. He hadn’t come to heal her body, but to offer something deeper. She, a forgotten widow, was seen, was honored—not as a burden—but as part of the same life he, and all beings, shared.
Later, the monks said that Suppiyā passed peacefully that evening. Some claimed she smiled before the last breath left her. Others believed that just being in the presence of the Buddha had brought her heart enough calm to let go.
I returned to the house with my basket empty, but my thoughts full. From that day on, I no longer believed that compassion had to be loud, or that wisdom required many words. Sometimes the deepest truths are found in silence, in being still.
I stayed a servant, yes—but I began my mornings with breath and silence, as he had taught. And though no one saw, each gesture I made—folding linens, giving water, speaking softly—I offered with mindfulness. Because now, I understood: Enlightenment isn’t thunder. Sometimes, it’s just being lovingly present in another’s pain.
And that is why the still ones inspire, even centuries later.
