Buddha

by Deepak Chopra

  The soldiers led the way, and Siddhartha felt himself return to the world. Everything was back in focus. His father greeted him with open arms and not a word about whether he had fought with Devadatta. With the tension broken, the revels became twice as raucous, continuing long past midnight. Siddhartha was allowed to stay up. He spent a closely guarded hour watching the dancers and tumblers, then went to his room and threw himself into bed, exhausted but with a head full of images that kept him awake a long time.

  ERASING A MEMORY isn’t a simple process like erasing scribbles off a chalkboard. The eyes have the longest memory, followed by the nose. Who doesn’t remember the blinding white snows of yesterday, the swooning scent of a rose, the brilliance of an unfurled peacock’s tail? But try to imitate a robin’s song, something you’ve heard a thousand times. Few people can. Still less can we remember anything told us that was wise. Siddhartha swore to himself that he would never forget Asita’s words, but the years passed and the hermit’s message became more and more vague. Besides, what are a few profound sentences compared to the thousands of days that follow? In the prince’s case, each day was full to bursting, and by the time he was nearing adolescence, Siddhartha had forgotten that he had ever been under Asita’s protection or that it had ever been withdrawn.

  The king kept his word and allowed his son’s education to be completely ruled by the high Brahmin. Canki’s was the first face the prince saw when he stepped out of his room in the morning and the last when he returned at night. Naturally, this constant familiarity made him trust his teacher. The heavy hulk of a man treated him well and told him many useful things. It was rather like being followed around by a learned ox. But just as naturally, Siddhartha escaped his schooling whenever he got the chance. He had worn a path to the stables by the time he was six, and it deepened every year. There he could waste endless time with Channa, whether to lie in the straw and discuss the future, saddle a horse to ride (both boys together, one to hold the reins, the other to kick with his spurs), or groom a mount that was lathered up and quivering from a hard workout. Most of the time they practiced fighting, the one thing Channa never tired of.

  If Bikram happened to be watching over them, then the boys’ fighting followed strict rules. “We may have to kill, but we don’t butcher. We fight with style,” Bikram insisted. “Style is what makes the battling human.” He only half believed this motto, but it gave him a sense of dignity, and when he couldn’t help but see the carnage of battles long past in his mind’s eye, Bikram’s only refuge was his dignity—he had killed too many enemies the dirty way.

  Before being handed a sword, each boy had his chest wrapped in thick straw padding bound with burlap on the outside. Their blades, shorter and lighter than a warrior’s, were dulled along the edge and the points shielded with a lead ball. These measures ensured that neither would get seriously hurt. “Don’t dull ’em so much as they won’t feel it,” Bikram ordered the armorer. “Bruises but no blood.”

  As referee, he shouted, “Touch!” to make them part each time one sword made a hit. But there was only so much that could be done about Channa’s fierce temper. The boy would keep whaling away even after his foe was hit, and then Bikram would jerk him back with a scolding oath and a cuff on the ear. They both knew he was secretly proud.

  Often Siddhartha felt bad about besting his friend. But Channa had it coming. Each small victory he managed meant days of listening to him crow. Both of them bore colorful bruises from the blunted blades.

  One day, when the boys had just turned fourteen together, it began as a typical match. Channa tirelessly lunged and slashed, which was his favored style. Siddhartha would watch and sidestep when he could, playing the sinuous panther to Channa’s clumsy bull.

  “Hit!” Channa cried out, but he was premature. He had only landed a glancing blow to Siddhartha’s burlap tunic. The reckless thrust gave him too much momentum, and as he hurtled past, Siddhartha slapped him on the butt with the flat of his blade.

  “I called a hit, didn’t I?” Channa grumbled. Siddhartha just shrugged. Channa hated the grin on his friend’s face, and rather than argue he risked a second lunge, which also missed. Siddhartha fisted Channa’s shirt in his free hand, lifted his sword to his friend’s throat, and drove him back against the stable wall. Their breath hit each other’s faces as they glared at each other.

  Is this what my father takes such joy in? Siddhartha asked himself. He knew by the way he talked about war and being in battle how his father felt about the struggle to survive under bloody conditions.

  There was no referee this day because Bikram had been called to the smithy to help hold an unruly warhorse that was being shod. The boys took advantage by fighting harder to test each other’s limits.

  Setting himself, feet apart and weight balanced as he’d been instructed, Siddhartha attacked with his blade. He had already learned that he had reach and height as his advantage. He’d grown to be the leaner and taller of the two. He struck quickly, getting as much brawn behind the blow as he could. Channa lifted his sword and blocked, steel ringing against steel. The harsh noise always made a few of the horses snort and stamp nervously in their stalls.

  “Just say when you want me to stop playing around,” Siddhartha taunted. They were both sweating heavily after an hour’s practice. The swelling of muscles in their limbs was suggesting the contours of men, not boys.

  “Playing around?” Channa said. “I’m getting sore from holding back so you can stay in the match.”

  Although his strength was flagging and air burned his lungs as he breathed, Siddhartha pursued Channa, driving his foe before him.

  “Hit!”

  This time it was Channa calling out that he had been struck with the point of Siddhartha’s sword in the chest. The prince smiled grimly, shaking his head. Let’s have this one out, the smile said. Seeing Channa stumble off balance, Siddhartha tossed his sword with a quick twist of the wrist and caught the hilt overhand, using it like a dagger to plunge into Channa’s heart. He felt the fierce exultancy of his dominance, and in an instant he was kneeling over Channa’s body, the edge of his blade tight against his friend’s throat.

  He let Channa up, not looking into his eyes. If their gazes met, he knew Channa wouldn’t be able to disguise a flicker of hatred, the despising look of the defeated. There was something else too. He thought he heard someone approaching all but silently. But before he could find out, Siddhartha felt his legs go out from under him. As he had turned away, Channa had stuck his boot out and tripped him. Siddhartha fell facedown on the stable floor, spitting out dung dust. The next thing he knew Channa had rolled him over and was shoving the point of his sword into Siddhartha’s throat. Even shielded with lead, the tip dug painfully into his flesh.

  “You forgot to finish me off,” Channa said. He wore his usual gloating grin, the one reserved for when he recovered from the threat of defeat. But his eyes were dark with a feeling that left a cold spot in Siddhartha’s heart

  “See?” Channa said, leaning over him so their faces were only inches apart. “That’s the difference between you and me, Siddharth’.” He smiled confidently. “I’m not even thinking about not killing you.”

  “Did one of you girls talk about killing?” The two boys were startled. Without a sound Devadatta had appeared. “You’ll never see the day, I promise.” He drew closer, bestowing a pitying smile on them.

  “Care to give it a try?” Channa blurted out impetuously. He raised his sword under Devadatta’s chin.

  Siddhartha stiffened. The three of them were constantly in each other’s company. “Throw the three of them together,” Canki had advised Suddhodana. “If we isolate the prince, he will sense that we have designs on him.” It was another of the small irritants in their relationship that the Brahmin couldn’t stop talking like a conspirator. “Why teach him to hate Sakya’s enemies when we only have to put him in the same room with an enemy of his own?” The jealousy that Devadatta harbored toward his younger cousin was no
secret.

  “I don’t mind the boy and his cousin. They’re both royal,” Suddhodana conceded. “But why Channa?”

  “We will give the prince someone he can trust and confide in. The day will come when you won’t be able to read his mind, and he will stop telling you what he really thinks. Then we can turn to Channa and find out everything.”

  Secretly the king had doubts about this plan, but he had his own reasons for agreeing to the Brahmin’s suggestions. Devadatta would be able to report on the priest’s lessons in case they went too far in extolling the Brahmins at the expense of warriors. And Channa might serve as an informer in Siddhartha’s private life—Canki was right about that.

  This arrangement at school sorely rankled Devadatta from the first. He, a Kshatriya, had never physically touched or shared food with anyone like Channa, a despised half-caste. This was the term for someone of unknown parentage, and it was true that Channa had never known his mother. Her name was never mentioned, nor did his father say why she had abandoned them. Bikram himself had been born in the stables he now managed. When Canki gathered his three pupils for lessons, Devadatta turned his back on Channa; there was never an occasion when he addressed him directly. For Channa to dare to pick a fight with him now was an outrage.

  Devadatta considered what to do. The two obvious possibilities were to dismiss the taunt with cold silence or attack without warning. Inflicting a swiping cut with his dagger would do. But Devadatta was eighteen now, already a man. Men don’t respond to boys’ threats. The nicety of the question teased him, and he decided the one thing he couldn’t do was let the insult pass.

  “What sort of test did you have in mind?” he asked. He spoke slowly, and as he did, he lifted up the point of Channa’s sword and unscrewed the lead ball. “We’ve had enough of pretending.”

  Channa was brave, but he was also fourteen. He stared nervously at the naked point of his sword as Devadatta pulled his own weapon from its scabbard.

  “Up to you, boy,” Devadatta said. He watched Channa’s Adam’s apple tremble. They both knew that Devadatta could run him clean through without fear of reprisal.

  But there was something else that no one but Devadatta knew. The fear he inspired did not come from his own menace. Siddhartha may have forgotten Asita, but his cousin had not forgotten Mara. He wasn’t allowed to. The demon fanned every ember of resentment in him until it glowed red hot. There was no mistaking the demonic element in Devadatta’s character. When he picked a fight, he could intuitively read his opponent’s weakness, and he gave no quarter once the clash began. Mara had also made him an extraordinary seducer. Devadatta moved in with unswerving confidence, capable of using honeyed flattery or the grossest suggestion, and he didn’t give up until the prize was won. His passions had drawn him into the lowest places—alleys and taverns where the pretensions of caste were thrown aside. However, it was not this that made him extraordinary in matters of lust. It was his complete ferocity toward any rival, even a husband, who stood in his way. Devadatta didn’t mind using a blade to persuade another man that his woman was free for the taking. There were rumors of clandestine murders that had resulted when the man put up too much resistance. Whether the rumors were true or not, more than a few villagers walked around with livid scars on their faces or across their chests.

  “I don’t want to fight you. We were just practicing,” Channa mumbled.

  “Not good enough. You challenged me. Now you have a choice. Apologize on your knees, or get ready to wake up dead tomorrow.” Devadatta smiled, but he wasn’t pressing the issue for his own amusement. He had a point to make about crossing lines that shouldn’t be crossed. If Channa had been able to see beyond Devadatta’s threats, he would have realized that his enemy wasn’t secure enough at court to actually kill Siddhartha’s best friend.

  “Stop it!” Siddhartha stepped in between the two. He had hesitated for a moment, knowing that if he intervened, the fight would be deflected toward him. Channa would hotly deny that he was about to back down; Devadatta would curse Siddhartha for snatching away his prey. But that didn’t happen. Instead, both opponents shoved him aside with looks of hot rage.

  “No, this has gone far enough.” Siddhartha stepped in again, and this time Devadatta screamed at him with pure malevolence, “Get out of the way!” But the hand that knocked him back with a stiff, clipped punch was Channa’s. The look in his friend’s eyes said, Don’t you dare save me from this! I will never forgive you.

  Siddhartha was stunned. He couldn’t actually see Mara working inside his cousin, but he saw that Devadatta was not an arrogant aristocrat at all. He was a slave to his violent passions. And Channa was too. At that moment there was no difference between them.

  They’re not even people. What’s happened to them?

  Siddhartha asked this question, and his vision seemed to pierce the two. Their bodies became transparent, like the filmy membrane of a fish’s tail, but instead of seeing blood coursing through the membrane, Siddhartha saw lives. Each person was a package containing many lives, all crammed into the tiny space of a body. A wave of hostility surged from the darkest past of both fighters. Devadatta was only the carrier of this wave, its instrument, as infected people carry typhoid. But Channa? How could he be a carrier too?

  Siddhartha did not reason any of this out. He felt it. Neither Devadatta nor Channa had looked his way. He drew his sword and leveled it between them. “Go ahead and fight,” he said, staring them both down. “But you will have to fight with my sword between you, and if you touch it, you have challenged me, and that’s the same as challenging the throne. Is that what you want?”

  Neither knew if this was a ridiculous ploy or brilliant diplomacy. The two foes backed away, continuing their combat through hating looks. Devadatta sheathed his weapon, gave an arrogant bow, and left without a word. Channa ran away with a look of barely concealed contempt. The wind blew through the stable windows; gradually the air cleared. It was left to Siddhartha to wonder if his gift had visited him again. If it had, why should he take on the pain that others denied they even had?

  I’m the one they’re going to blame. I kept them from killing each other.

  The deepest cut, the one that would not heal for years, was the contempt he’d seen in Channa’s eyes. If he as much as Devadatta was a carrier of hatred, then there was no difference between them, and the distinction between friend and enemy was meaningless. Something between Siddhartha and Channa, the unspoken vow two boys take that nothing will ever step between them, at that moment started to die. There was no escaping it. Yet if Siddhartha could have found a way to erase just one memory, this would have been the one.

  7

  You just might do. In a pinch.”

  “Just? Thank you very much.” The youth in the mirror smiled at being teased. At least Kumbira still thought of him as a child, if no one else did.

  “From me, that’s saying a lot,” she replied.

  Kumbira regarded Siddhartha with an appraising eye. His ceremonial dress fit perfectly. He stood in front of his reflection with a flutter of young ladies-in-waiting around him. On this day, when he turned eighteen, he would be acknowledged as the heir to old Suddhodana. He had begun the robing ritual bare-chested and bare-legged before all the layers of cloth, oils, and perfumes were piled on. Each of the women, Kumbira imagined, would have looked upon him with lust-filled eyes if they dared.

  And why not? she asked herself. There must be taller and richer princes in the world, but not in their world. Still, she could see the boy in him. Much of Siddhartha’s innocence was yet his. Kumbira cherished that about him without being able to point it out to anyone. What his father wanted to instill was the opposite of innocence.

  “Let me ask you something, Kumbira. How happy should I be right now? If anyone knows, it must be you.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense!” Kumbira’s eyes narrowed, and she sniffed at him. “What am I smelling? He doesn’t smell right. More sandalwood!” Immediately one of the young att
endants raced away to the royal store of unguents and spices.

  “It doesn’t matter how I smell, Kumbira. I’m not dessert.”

  “Don’t be so sure.”

  The girls tittered, and she saw his brief smile fade as he regarded himself in the glass. The approaching day had seemed to dim any joy Siddhartha once found in it. Kumbira had caught him off guard at moments when sadness darkened his eyes and held his mouth tight and narrow. It nearly broke her heart to see him so withdrawn.

  She approached from behind and laid a rich silk sash across his chest. “What’s the matter? Whisper in Kumbira’s ear. I’ll send your troubles to the gods, and they’ll never dare return.” Siddhartha shook his head. Kumbira sighed. “Are you determined to spoil everything? The rest of the palace and the people have been looking forward to this for a long time.” He didn’t answer.

  “Young men, that’s what it is!” Kumbira snapped her fingers at the girl sitting at the toiletry table, her momentum stopped by the prince’s mood. “Rose water to sweeten the temper.” The girl grabbed the proper vial and hurried over to anoint Siddhartha’s flowing black hair, which curled at his neck. Kumbira tucked in a stray lock. Every detail had to be managed precisely. The king was introducing his heir to the world. As much as Kumbira feared royal wrath, she wanted this day for the prince as fervently as she would have wanted it for her own son.

  Siddhartha pulled on the jewel-encrusted coat held out for him. He groaned and shifted under its weight. “Somebody must have made a mistake. This is meant for one of the elephants.”

  A girl giggled, and Kumbira shot her a look. Even though he had been surrounded by women for two hours, something made Siddhartha’s head turn. He saw one of the youngest attendants try to cover her amusement by coughing and waving a hand in front of her face as if she were choking. Kumbira was poised to drive the girl from the room when she noticed something more unsettling than a breach of decorum: Siddhartha had evidently chosen that moment to discover how beautiful the young girl was. His eyes widened, and he unconsciously assumed a bolder stance, like a peacock preening before a hen.