The Room Ablaze with Light and the Resentful Mother

The dim glow of an oil lamp filled the old wooden room, its light mingling with the faint scent of incense and the aroma of medicinal herbs simmering on the stove. The mother of Venerable Sariputta sat by the bed, her complex gaze fixed upon her eldest son, newly returned from his long journey. He was the child she had both loved and resented throughout her entire life.

She was a profoundly learned and exceptionally intelligent woman of the Brahmin caste. In the past, when Sariputta and his close friend Moggallana had left home to become monks, her sorrow was deep. But before she could recover, one by one, her remaining children followed their elder brother, each stepping through the gates of the Dharma.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven children—all renounced the world, and all attained the state of Arahant. With each child who left, another layer of bitterness settled into her heart. She saw other families gathering joyfully, while her own home grew emptier and emptier. "Because of the Buddha, I have lost all my children," she told herself, allowing resentment to seep into every fiber of her being.

Desperate, she bore one last child—Revata, the youngest son. As soon as he reached the age of ten, she hurriedly arranged a marriage for him, determined this time to keep at least one child at home, even if it meant forcing the boy into an early union.

On the wedding day, the bride arrived, and Revata stood beside her, his eyes bewildered by the unfolding events of life. Guests filled the house to capacity. Among them was an elderly great-grandmother, eighty years old, her back bent like a bow, her skin wrinkled like dried bark, her eyes rheumy, and her mouth showing only a few scattered teeth.

A relative stood to offer a blessing: "Today you have married a beautiful wife. I wish for you—may the second half of your life also be lived to the age of this great-grandmother!"

Revata turned to look. The old woman sat there, smiling a smile that held nothing left—not life, not beauty, only a withered frame. His heart seemed to stop. He thought, "Will my wife also become like this in the second half of her life?"

That night, while the others were still absorbed in the wedding festivities, Revata quietly slipped out the back door. The boy ran away, running on and on, never looking back. By evening, he had found a Sangha and ordained as a novice monk.

Venerable Sariputta's mother now lost all eight children at once. The home felt shattered, and her heart overflowed with resentment. Yet, strangely, she did not fall into a hellish existence. The Buddha explained this: because she had witnessed seven or eight of her children attain Arahantship, the merit from that protected her from hellish karma. But her resentment remained, a persistent ache within her.

When Venerable Sariputta knew he was about to enter final nirvana, he decided to return to his mother one last time.

He came home. His elderly mother saw him, her eyes glistening with tears—so much love, so much hatred, the two emotions tearing at each other. She cared for him, brewing medicines, cooking porridge, yet her every word was sweet laced with bitterness. He knew she was extremely sharp, extremely intelligent; if he said one thing, she would argue two, if he said two, she would argue four. No one could win a debate with her. So he offered no arguments, no rebuttals. He simply remained silent.

On the final night before his passing, Venerable Sariputta sat in meditation within his room.

His mother was in the kitchen when she suddenly witnessed something extraordinary. The entire room began to glow brilliantly. Streams of radiant light descended from the high heavens, flowing into her son's room, swirling around him, and then flying back out. Another stream of light would descend, enter, circle, and depart. And so it continued, from twilight until nearly dawn, the light never ceasing.

She stood there, staring unblinkingly. The luminous glows were like nothing she had ever seen—mysterious, majestic, and sacred.

As dawn approached, the final rays of light ascended into the sky and vanished into the silence. She rushed into the room, her voice trembling as she asked, "All night, I saw radiant lights from above constantly flying into our house and surrounding you. What is the meaning of this?"

Venerable Sariputta opened his eyes and smiled serenely, "Those were the noble ones from the Brahma realms who came down to learn with me."

She was stunned. The Brahma beings—the highest celestial beings she had long worshipped, the ones her Brahmin faith revered most. They themselves had come down... to learn from her son?

The lights she had seen with her own eyes—she could not deny them. The sacred spectacle, an experience utterly beyond her ordinary life, was etched deeply into her mind.

She knelt. The years of resentment dissolved in an instant, making way for a profound reverence she had never before felt.

Afterward, Venerable Sariputta taught his mother the Dharma. For the first time, she did not argue back. For the first time, she offered no resistance. She gradually took refuge in the Three Jewels, officially stepping onto the path of the Buddha's teachings.

That night, Venerable Sariputta passed away at his mother's home, in perfect peace.

The meaning of this story: No matter how great our resentment, it can be transformed by the light of wisdom and the power of merit. Venerable Sariputta did not use logical arguments to persuade his mother, nor did he debate. Instead, he used a transcendent phenomenon—the light from the heavenly realms—to help her recognize the true value of the path of cultivation. The lesson for us is this: sometimes, transforming another's heart does not require words, but an experience powerful enough to shatter all prejudices. And most importantly: family conflicts and personal resentments can all be resolved when one opens their heart to receive the light of truth.

Compiled from a Dharma talk by Venerable Thích Chân Quang