Hey there, friend. I’m glad you’re here with me tonight. Let’s sit for a while, just you and me, and I’ll share a story that’s been on my mind—a story from long ago, from the time of the Buddha, in the ancient city of Rajagriha. It’s a story about beauty, desire, and the kind of truth that can shake you awake, even when you’re not ready for it. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately, and I want to walk through it with you, step by step, as if we’re there together.
Picture this: Rajagriha, the capital of the Magadha kingdom, a bustling place full of life, markets, and whispers of power. In the heart of it lived a woman named Srimati. Now, Srimati wasn’t just anyone—she was the city’s most celebrated courtesan, known for her breathtaking beauty and wealth. People spoke of her like she was a living dream, someone who could turn heads without even trying. But something shifted in her. After meeting the Buddha and taking his teachings to heart, she left that life behind. She became an upasika, a lay follower, dedicating herself to the Buddhist sangha, the community of monks and nuns. She poured her time into caring for them, serving them, supporting their path.
Every day, Srimati had a ritual. She’d invite eight monks to her home for a meal. She kept eight invitation tokens, and after the meal, the monks would return them to the sangha so new monks could come the next day. She served the food herself, with her own hands, always with respect, always with care. And the food? Oh, it was plentiful, delicious, the kind of meal that lingers in your memory. I can almost imagine the warmth of her home, the smell of freshly cooked rice and spices, the quiet gratitude in the air.
But one day, something happened. One of the monks who dined at her house came back to the ashram… different. He was restless, distracted, like something was buzzing under his skin. The other monks noticed and asked him, “Hey, what was it like at Srimati’s? How was the meal?” And he couldn’t hold it in. “The food,” he said, “it was beyond anything I’ve ever tasted. Enough for everyone, and so good you’d dream about it. But… that wasn’t even the most unforgettable thing.” He paused, his voice dropping. “It was her. Srimati. Her beauty… I’ve never seen anything like it. She’s… indescribable.”
Word spread, as it always does. Another young monk, who hadn’t yet met her, overheard this and felt something stir in him—a pull, a longing. He had to see her for himself. He couldn’t wait, couldn’t think of anything else. After some effort, he managed to get an invitation token for the very next day. That night, he barely slept. His mind was full of her, this woman he’d never even seen, building her up into something almost unreal.
But life, as it often does, had other plans. That same day, Srimati fell terribly ill. She took off all her fine clothes, her jewelry, and lay down, burning with fever. When the young monk arrived at her home, full of anticipation, he was greeted by her servants instead. They served him the meal, as always, but she wasn’t there. He felt a surge of anger, disappointment gnawing at him. Where was she? Why couldn’t he see her? He sat there, barely touching the food, lost in his frustration.
Then, slowly, she appeared. Srimati, drenched in sweat, trembling with fever, her body weak. She dragged herself into the room, folded her hands, and sat before the monks on her knees, honoring them despite her pain. And this young monk… even in that moment, he couldn’t help himself. In his mind, he thought, “Even now, sick as she is, she’s beautiful. So striking. Imagine how she’d look if she weren’t ill, if she were dressed in all her finery.” His thoughts spiraled, caught in desire, in this image of her he couldn’t shake.
After the meal, he took his alms bowl and left, swaying as he walked back to the ashram, her face burned into his mind. He didn’t even open his bowl to eat later—he just set it aside in a corner and lay down, lost in thoughts of her. Every time he pictured her, she seemed more beautiful, more untouchable. His friends tried to talk to him, to get him to eat, but he wouldn’t. He was consumed.
That night, tragedy struck. Srimati’s illness worsened, and she passed away. The news reached King Bimbisara, the ruler of Magadha, and he sent word to the Buddha. “Venerable sir, Srimati, the sister of Jivaka, is no longer with us.” The Buddha responded with something unexpected. He asked that her body not be cremated right away. Instead, he wanted it placed in a public field, guarded from animals, and he gave an order through the king: every young man in Rajagriha must come to see her body the next morning. Anyone who didn’t show up would face a heavy fine.
Meanwhile, that young monk hadn’t eaten in days. His alms bowl sat untouched, the food inside rotting, crawling with insects. A friend came to him and said, “Brother, the Buddha is going to see Srimati. Come with us to the field.” At the mention of her name, a spark of energy returned to him. He got up, weak as he was, and joined the others heading to the royal field.
When they arrived, a huge crowd was already there. Young men from the city, monks, nuns, the king with his ministers and soldiers, and behind them, the people of Rajagriha who followed the Buddha’s teachings. The field was heavy with silence, a somber weight over everyone. Srimati’s body lay there, exposed to all. Then the Buddha spoke, breaking the stillness. “King Bimbisara, who is this woman lying before us?”
The king replied, “She is Srimati, sister of Jivaka.” The Buddha raised his voice slightly, addressing the crowd. “Whoever offers a thousand gold coins can spend a night with Srimati. Will anyone step forward?” Silence. “Five hundred coins, then?” Still nothing. “Just one coin?” Not a single hand went up. This woman, who once was the desire of every man in the city, who men would’ve paid fortunes for, fought over, now lay there, and no one would claim her.
I can imagine that young monk in the crowd, hearing these words, feeling them cut deep. He must’ve looked at her body, so different from the image in his mind, and thought of his alms bowl back at the ashram—how the food he once craved had spoiled, turned to decay. Wasn’t her body the same? Once so beautiful, so desired, now just… impermanent, like everything else. I think in that moment, something broke open in him. He saw it—the truth of it all. How foolish it was to cling to fleeting things, to let desire blind him to reality.
You know, I’ve had moments like that too, haven’t you? Where you’re so caught up in wanting something, building it up in your head, and then life shows you it’s not what you thought. Maybe it’s not a person, but a job, a dream, something you chased. And when it falls apart, you’re left with this raw, quiet understanding. It hurts, but it also frees you.
That young monk, standing there in the field, let go. He saw the nature of things as they are—temporary, always changing. And in seeing that, he found a kind of peace, a clarity. They say he became an arahant, someone who’d touched the truth of existence, who’d found liberation.
I don’t know about you, but I sit with this story and feel both heavy and light. It’s a reminder to look at what I’m holding onto, what I’m chasing, and ask myself… is it real? Or is it just a dream I’ve spun in my mind? Let’s sit with that for a bit, friend. No rush. Just you and me, here, wondering together.