Sundari Nanda and Lord Buddha

 Nanda (sixth century b.c.e.) was born to King Suddhodana and his second wife, Queen Maha Prajapati Gautami, which made her the half-sister of the Buddha. She later went on to become one of the Buddha's most advanced woman disciples. Historical records state that she was a woman of unsurpassed beauty and grace, so much so that she was called Rupa-Nanda— "one of delightful form "—and Sundari-Nanda—-"beautiful Nanda."

LIKE WATER ON A LOTUS LEAF

Although Sundari Nanda was now a nun, she still clung to the sweet words her suitors had lavished on her when she was a princess:

"The gods surely robbed ninety-nine other women of their comeliness to make one like you." "Your grace rivals that of a swan." "Heavenly nymphs are jealous of your charms." Dwelling on these memories soothed her vanity, yet left her feeling guilty, for she knew that such thoughts were inappropriate for one who had renounced the world to fol­low the Buddha.

When Nanda had first petitioned to enter the order, the head sister had warned her that the only reason to become a nun was the desire for liberation. She nodded her head in a show of understanding, hoping to hide her real motives, which were to escape the loneliness of palace life and to be near her mother, friends, and attendants, who had all be­come renunciants.

In the quiet of the night after the other nuns had gone to sleep, Nanda now wept aloud. Though once again in the company of her loved ones, she pined for the days when she was the cynosure of the palace. She wished to exchange her nun's habit for her silks and go back to her old life, but her pride would not brook failure. Yet, Nanda knew she was un­prepared to meet the rigors of her vocation and could not re­main in the order. And so she was a prisoner of her own making, trapped in a grim little cell and sentenced to a life of fasts, penances, and silence.

With neither the joys of her old life nor the spiritual con­solations of her new one, Nanda lived in a netherworld, sus­tained by memories of flattering words. How she wished she had honestly answered the head nun before making such a weighty commitment!

One morning the head nun said, "The Buddha wishes to speak with each of the sisters privately about the Four Noble Truths." One by one, the nuns met with the Enlightened One. When they left, their eyes glimmered with serenity and the peace of understanding.

"I cannot face him," Nanda thought as she waited, anx­ious that the Buddha would know that she wore the outward garb of a renunciant while remaining inwardly enamored of her beauty. Fearful of being exposed as a hypocrite, she avoided the Buddha by busying herself with trifling chores, fervently praying that this would give the appearance that her duties prevented an interview. Just when she thought that her diversionary ruse had succeeded, a nun approached her.

"The Buddha has asked to see you."

Dreading a reprimand, Nanda sheepishly made her way to the Enlightened One.

"I am glad you have come," the Buddha said, smiling. "I have been thinking today of how generous and loving you are. You have earned much merit through your sacrifice of palace comforts." The Buddha knew that his sister cherished praise.

Nanda sighed, relieved that he had not found fault with her.

"I think, Sister, that you are still bound by a desire that keeps you from finding final freedom. May I help you over­come that which keeps you bound to suffering?"

Nanda tentatively nodded, reluctant to forsake her at­tachment to her beauty, afraid that the remedy might be painful. Then the Buddha leaned forward and tapped her on the forehead.

Suddenly Nanda beheld the most ravishing woman she had ever seen. So dazzling was the figure that Nanda felt plain in comparison. If this image of loveliness had been at the court, Nanda knew she would have gone unnoticed. She was instantly filled with jealousy at the sight of one who was more attractive than she.

In the vision, Nanda saw the decades pass in seconds, and the beautiful woman began to age. Her flesh lost its vitality and sagged, her lustrous hair became gray and unkempt, and her dewy skin turned dry and leathery. The millstone of time re­lentlessly ground on, and before Nanda's eyes, the statuesque creature wilted into a stooped crone, finally falling lifeless to the ground to become the food of maggots.

Nanda shook at the ghastly vision. "Not me! Please, not me!" she wailed.

"Since this is the fate of all living things, is it not madness to be attached to that which must inevitably decay and die?" the Buddha asked Nanda. "Everyone but the wise is similarly deluded, be it by flattering words, fame, money, or outward appearances. Do not judge yourself too harshly, for this fail­ing is common to all, but strive to remember that everything in this world is impermanent and that the only refuge lies within. Meditate on the truth of these words, and you will be free from all delusion."

Reeling from the experience, Nanda teetered back to the company of her sisters. And the next time she remembered the words of her suitors of years ago, they seemed no more appealing to her than the chattering of monkeys.