My hair was as black as bees, graced with curly tips; now old, it has become like hemp bark—
the word of the truthful one is confirmed.
Crowned with flowers, my head was as fragrant as a perfume box; now old, it smells like dog fur—
the word of the truthful one is confirmed.
My hair was as thick as a well-planted forest, it shone, parted with brush and pins; now old, it’s patchy and sparse—
the word of the truthful one is confirmed.
With plaits of black and ribbons of gold, it was so pretty, adorned with braids; now old, my head’s gone bald—
the word of the truthful one is confirmed.
My eyebrows used to look so nice, like crescents painted by an artist; now old, they droop with wrinkles—
the word of the truthful one is confirmed.
My eyes shone brilliant as gems, wide and indigo; ruined by age, they shine no more—
the word of the truthful one is confirmed.
My nose was like a perfect peak, lovely in my bloom of youth; now old, it’s shriveled like a pepper;
the word of the truthful one is confirmed.
My ear-lobes were so pretty, like lovingly crafted bracelets; now old, they droop with wrinkles—
the word of the truthful one is confirmed.
My teeth used to be so pretty, bright as a jasmine flower; now old, they’re broken and yellow—
the word of the truthful one is confirmed.
My singing was sweet as a cuckoo wandering in the forest groves; now old, it’s patchy and croaking—
the word of the truthful one is confirmed.
My neck used to be so pretty, like a polished shell of conch; now old, it’s bowed and bent—
the word of the truthful one is confirmed.
My arms used to be so pretty, like rounded cross-bars; with age, they wrinkle and sag as a patala tree
the word of the truthful one is confirmed.
My hands used to be so pretty, adorned with lovely golden rings; now old, they’re like red radishes—
the word of the truthful one is confirmed.
My breasts were both once so pretty,
swelling, round, close-set, and perky; now they droop like water bags— the word of the truthful one is confirmed.
My body used to be so pretty, like a polished slab of lustrous gold; now it’s covered with delicate wrinkles—
the word of the truthful one is confirmed.
Both my thighs used to be so pretty, like an elephant’s trunk; now old, they’re like bamboo—
the word of the truthful one is confirmed.
My calves used to be so pretty, adorned with cute golden anklets; now old, they’re like sesame sticks—
the word of the truthful one is confirmed.
Both my feet used to be so pretty, plump as if with cotton-wool; now old, they’re cracked and wrinkly—
the word of the truthful one is confirmed.
This bag of bones once was such, but now it’s withered, home to so much pain; like a house in decay with plaster crumbling—the word of the truthful one is confirmed.
Ambapālī’s Song of Aging Is Not a Lament—It Is a Song of Freedom
When reading Ambapālī’s verses in the Therīgāthā, many people first notice the sadness. Line after line describes a body that has aged—black hair turning white, smooth skin becoming wrinkled, graceful limbs losing their strength.
It sounds almost like a lament. This is because we feel sad about aging.
Yet that is not what the poem is. It is a song of enlightenment.
A Woman Who Once Treasured Her Beauty
The verses allow us to glimpse Ambapālī’s former life. Before meeting the Buddha, her extraordinary beauty was the source of her fame, influence and immense wealth. She was admired throughout northern India. Kings, nobles and wealthy merchants desired her company. Her physical appearance was, in many ways, her identity and her fortune.
Her beauty was not merely a pleasant feature—it was her social status, her livelihood and her reputation.
Then time did what it has always done.
Hair greyed. Skin loosened. Teeth fell. Strength faded.
Everything she had once admired gradually disappeared.
Most people experience this as tragedy, but Ambapālī experienced it as awakening. A realisation that the body is not me.
The Body Was Never “Me”
One of the deepest attachments we carry is identification with the body.
“My face.”
“My youth.”
“My health.”
“My strength.”
“My body.”
From this simple assumption comes countless forms of anxiety.
We worry about wrinkles, fear illness, dread old age, and mourn the loss of beauty.
We become distressed because something we call “me” is changing beyond our wishes.
The Buddha invites us to examine this assumption more carefully.
Does the body truly belong to us?
Even now, while reading these words, your heart is beating without your permission.
Your lungs breathe automatically.
Your liver works silently, and the immune system fights unseen battles.
Millions of cells are born and die every minute without consulting you.
If an allergy appears, your body reacts automatically. Can you simply command it to stop?
If a fever comes, can you order your body not to have one?
The body functions according to biological causes and conditions, not personal ownership.
It is an astonishing process—but not one under our control.
Aging Begins the Moment We Are Born
Impermanence is not something that begins at old age.
It begins at birth. Children lose their milk teeth. Teenagers watch their bodies transform during puberty. Adults notice their first grey hairs.
Eventually everyone witnesses decline.
Every stage of life quietly teaches the same lesson: This body is constantly changing.
A Body That Is Shared
The Buddhist texts even tell of a woman who realised enlightenment while heavily pregnant.
One can only imagine the extraordinary experience of carrying another life inside one’s own body.
An entirely new being develops according to natural causes and conditions.
Its heartbeat begins. Its organs form. Its movements arise.
The mother’s conscious mind is not directing these processes.
For that enlightened woman, this became a profound insight into anattā.
The body was never truly “mine.” Nor is the body, “me”
Life unfolds according to causes and conditions.
There is no permanent owner behind the process.
Caring Without Clinging
Understanding non-self does not mean neglecting the body.
The Buddha never taught carelessness.
Rather, we care for the body precisely because we understand its fragility.
A medical check-up becomes an act of responsibility. Exercise becomes an act of gratitude.
Nutritious food becomes wise stewardship.
The body is like a temporal factor that help us experience life as it is now.
Because it is precious, we maintain it well.
But because it is not us, we do not mistakenly believe that we are in control.
This perspective also removes many excuses.
“It won’t matter if I ignore my health today.”
“Just one more bag of chips.”
“Another bottle of wine won’t hurt.”
Such thoughts assume we possess complete control over the body.
In reality, we never did.
The body follows its own biological laws.
Our responsibility is simply to provide the best conditions for its well-being while recognising that its lifespan and changes ultimately remain beyond our command.
Reading Ambapālī’s Poem as Meditation
Seen through this lens, Ambapālī’s verses become a powerful meditation.
As we contemplate each part of the body, we quietly acknowledge:
This, too, is aging. This, too, is changing. This, too, cannot be held. It is not me. It is not mine.
Hair will grey. Skin will wrinkle. Eyes will dim. Strength will fade.
Not because something has gone wrong.
But because this is the nature of conditioned existence.
Instead of resisting these truths, Ambapālī celebrates them.
Each wrinkle became evidence that the Buddha’s teaching was true.
Each sign of aging dissolved another layer of attachment.
Her poem is therefore not a song of despair.
It is a song of liberation.
The body continues to age exactly as before.
But the mind is no longer trapped by it.
It rests in wisdom.
And that freedom is more beautiful than youth ever was.
May all be well and happy
Categories: Articles
I am just an ordinary guy in Singapore with a passion for Buddhism and I hope to share this passion with the community out there, across the world.
