Buddha

by Deepak Chopra

  SUJATA STARED WITH LONGING out the high open window, placed close enough to the banquet tent that she could hear music rise and fall on the evening breeze. By the light of torches she saw Siddhartha approach in his resplendent outfit, and her fraught emotions made her believe that she saw him shudder as he entered. Catching sight of him made her shudder. She couldn’t completely understand what this meant. She was only fifteen, but that’s old enough to understand many things. For instance, she understood that she must never tell anyone her real story.

  Kumbira had gathered Sujata with the other unmarried young women to watch the spectacle from a distance. This would be their sole participation until the secret hour when the men would be allowed near them.

  “Here’s a cream to rub out dark spots and lime juice to tighten wrinkles,” Kumbira said, herding them around a table like an anxious madam whose girls must please if she wants to be paid. She had never seduced a man herself, but she was obsessed with the tricks of seduction. Buckets of snow bundled in straw had been fetched by runners from the mountains so the girls could dip their breasts in ice water to firm them up. “Those of you who are smart won’t eat tonight, but if you are starving, no onions and lots of sweet fennel seed.”

  Only Sujata had held back, bored and detached from the excited preparations. She even considered paying a lower servant to sneak radishes and onions into her room since she didn’t want to attract any men that night. Any but one. Their toilette complete, the other ladies-in-waiting sat on pillows near the balcony, dreamily feeding their fantasies. They wore gauzy sleeping gowns. Bowls of food covered the low settees in the center of the room. A few woman nibbled and gossiped lazily.

  Was I ever so young? Kumbira wondered. She eyed them with envy and dislike. Scraps of conversation floated past her like eiderdown. “Did you see what she was wearing? It might have looked good on her ten years ago.” “Do you suppose she knows?” “Knows? Her lover beats her and won’t give her money for a thing.” Kumbira couldn’t remember being like that, ever, but she must have been. And now she knew as much about the empire as the king himself, although it would be her head if she ever told anyone.

  Kumbira watched the young girl sitting apart from the others. She ate from a bowl of grapes, one at a time. Since she had arrived, brought to court at night in a ramshackle wagon with torches on either side, then rushed into the women’s quarters without a proper introduction to anyone, Sujata had kept her own counsel. Kumbira hoped that the girl, whoever she was, had a strong sense of self-preservation. She must realize the danger in luring the attentions of a prince like Siddhartha.

  The door curtains suddenly exploded in billows of velvet, and through them burst Devadatta. It was too early, and Kumbira saw immediately that he was in a state.

  “Hush!” she warned the girls, who had started squealing and drawing together like startled mice. Devadatta brought danger with him, not seduction. Kumbira strode forward, putting herself between the intruder and her charges. “You’re not allowed in here,” she snapped.

  Devadatta scowled insolently. “I didn’t come for you, hag. I want one of them. That one.” He pointed to Sujata.

  Kumbira’s first impulse was to let him take her. She couldn’t turn him away, not aroused and angry. If she summoned the guards, provided they weren’t too drunk to put up a fight, they couldn’t lay hands on someone protected by the king. Perhaps it would be better if Devadatta used her and Siddhartha found out about it. That course of action would nip the prince’s interest in the bud. The king wouldn’t appreciate complications.

  But Sujata drew back, eyes wide with fright and her hand to her mouth. Her pulse beat rapidly in the hollow of her throat. Kumbira’s eyes weren’t so old that she couldn’t see that. She felt herself moved to protect the girl. And perhaps the prince as well.

  Devadatta crossed the room. The other girls parted as if they were the wake left by his rage. He closed his fist on Sujata’s arm. Terrified, she tried to pull away. She dared not struggle because striking a member of the royal family would put her in peril. Her fear made Devadatta’s eyes glint. Even the small fight she put up brought a predator’s smile of anticipation to his lips.

  “Young prince,” Kumbira said in a level tone that she hoped wouldn’t provoke him. “I appreciate your lust. But not this one.”

  Devadatta glared at her. “Why not?”

  Leaning close, Kumbira whispered, “It’s her day of the month.”

  “You’re lying.” Devadatta studied Kumbira’s face suspiciously. It wasn’t in his nature to be blocked; there would be an outlet tonight, everything else be damned. “If she is untouchable, why is she here with clean women?”

  But Kumbira had learned two generations ago to lie. She did it with a flat voice and no trace of defensiveness, maintaining eye contact. “She should be isolated, yes. But I’m old and softhearted, and this being a royal feast day—”

  Devadatta cut her off. “Softhearted as a cobra, you old whore.”

  Kumbira held his gaze, not giving him any indication that she disapproved of the way he treated her. She knew how to follow up a lie. Devadatta turned away and grabbed another girl. This one went willingly, even though he almost yanked her off her feet.

  Sujata turned to Kumbira like someone in shock. Without warning, she fell against Kumbira’s breast, gripping her tight enough to hurt. “Thank you,” she whispered urgently. “Thank you a thousand times.”

  The nakedness of the girl’s feelings moved Kumbira. In her long life of tough resilience and calculation, only Siddhartha had ever had such an effect on her. She almost wrapped the girl, who had broken down in tears, in her embrace.

  Then she caught herself and realized what she was about to do—with all the others watching, girls who had no pity for Sujata and would be deriding her the moment they were alone. Grabbing Sujata by the shoulders, Kumbira pushed her away. “You think I did this for you?”

  A confused look filled Sujata’s face. She wiped away her tears with the backs of her hands.

  “What kind of ninnies are they sending to court?” Kumbira demanded. She reached into her sari and took out the gold coin Siddhartha had given her. “You’re paid for,” Kumbira said brutally. “By the prince.”

  “Oh.” Sujata’s voice was flat and weak.

  “He’d never forgive me if I broke our bargain,” Kumbira added. “Not without consulting him first.”

  The room was silent. The others knew they were witnessing a choice humiliation, fodder for backdoor gossips. Imperceptibly gaining control, Sujata drew herself up. “In two seconds you’ve been kind and cruel to me. What am I supposed to think?”

  “Think yourself lucky,” Kumbira snapped. “Try that.” She turned her attention back to the others. “Now go back to your dinner, all of you. And don’t stink up your breath,” she warned.

  Sujata remained standing there, her gaze locked on Kumbira.

  Impudent girl, Kumbira thought. Still, she had some backbone, and the old woman wouldn’t want that to be totally crushed. “You’ve got breasts like a suckled sow. Go to your room and take some ice water to firm them up with. It’s going to be a long night.”

  There was general tittering, and Sujata gasped in embarrassed hurt. She turned and fled the room. Kumbira didn’t watch her go. She had done Sujata a secret kindness by driving her away, and none of the others suspected it. Kumbira’s role wasn’t to bring Siddhartha and the girl together, but at least she could keep the greedy hands of other men off her.

  Kumbira walked toward the window and wished she were watching Siddhartha in his glory. Cheers and applause rang once more from below. It must be past midnight. She smiled and thought of how proud the old king must be. And how drunk.

  THE GREAT FEAST had wound down. The bulk of the guests had already retired or collapsed in a stupor. It was only a few hours before dawn. Siddhartha stepped over them and left the tent without his father noticing. The king sat in a heavy drowse, his head lolling on his chest. Siddhartha had made a sh
ow of drinking to every raucous toast but had actually sipped very little. He needed a clear head to make good his escape.

  Tonight, after all the years of being kept like a nightingale in a gilded cage, he would be free. Excitement coursed through Siddhartha. He hurried back to his apartments and didn’t bother lighting a candle. He’d lived all of his life inside these rooms and could make his way around them in the dark. Moving quickly, he packed a traveling sack, rolling a few clothes inside. He didn’t know what to take or how much. He didn’t want to be recognized as the king’s son, so he packed rough breeches and shirts that he wore in the stables.

  He slid his sword through his sash and secured it at his hip. All the travelers he’d talked to had agreed that the roads were dangerous. He’d share the common risk of being robbed, but if his identity were ever discovered, there would be the added one of kidnapping for ransom. He added some bread, dried fruit, and what few coins he possessed. Inside the palace walls he had never needed money; outside them he was genuinely poor. The coins came from Channa and various young nobles in games of chance or when he sold them trinkets he knew his father wouldn’t miss.

  Just as he was finishing, the ponderous closing of the main gates reverberated inside Siddhartha’s room. He ran to the window and peered out. Moonlight burned cool against his bare skin. Below in the central courtyard the guards staggered to their posts, proving that the liquor had made its way to the barracks. The new arrivals shot the bolts on the gates; the noise was as loud as an ax splitting wood. Those portals had stood against armies who had fought against his father, as witnessed by the hacked scars that decorated their exterior.

  Siddhartha heaved the laden sack over his shoulder and fled, going quietly down the stairs. A throbbing drummed in his ears. Only a short distance on, he paused and heard muffled voices through the walls. It sounded like men arguing. Siddhartha shifted the sack’s weight and pressed on. He kept his hand on his sword hilt so it wouldn’t strike anything. Dark shadows filled the hallway; the torches in their sconces had long guttered out.

  Then a sudden movement in the shadows sent him into hiding against the wall. Siddhartha went flat and stopped breathing. The cold stone wall leached the warmth from his body. He watched intently for a while before relaxing enough to start breathing again. But as he started forward, the shifting shape returned like a shadow puppet against a dark screen. This time he saw that it was a woman. She was slim hipped and moved quickly on light feet. Her face and glowing eyes were visible for a fleeting second in a bar of moonlight.

  Sujata?

  She paused as if she could hear him thinking her name. What was she doing here? Siddhartha started to softly call out, but before he could, she turned and ran down the hallway as if in a panic. Siddhartha’s escape plan vanished from his thoughts. He let his sack slide from his shoulder to the floor and ran after her.

  As he rounded the next corner he saw the figure—he was certain now it must be Sujata—disappear through a doorway. He followed her into the royal gardens, not daring to call out, knowing that amours were taking place in hidden nooks among the camellias and roses. The gardens had been designed by his mother. Maya had intended them to be a place of eternal fascination, and the centerpiece was an intricate knot, a maze crafted with topiary dragons and elephants, along with fabulous sea monsters like the magan and the mythical karaweik bird of hypnotic song. The sweet smell of night blossoms thickened the air. Sujata paused at the entrance to the maze and looked back over her shoulder. Her expression was inscrutable.

  “Wait!” Siddhartha raised his voice, more intent on the fleeing girl than on preserving his anonymity. He tried to use the tone of command that his father had mastered. Instead, Sujata vanished into the maze.

  Siddhartha was helplessly drawn; he ran toward the entrance and ducked inside. The tall walls of the maze closed in around him, and the darkness became more complete. He ran, listening for her footsteps, shifting through twists and turns to follow the sounds she made. Then they stopped. If she had been as close as he thought, Siddhartha would have tripped over her by now. Footsteps sounded to his left, on the other side of the hedge wall. He tried to slip through the tangled growth, but the greenery was packed too tight.

  “It’s me, Sujata. Stay where you are. You’re safe.”

  Siddhartha put his hand on the left wall of the maze. It guided him back to the last turn, and this time he took the route he’d passed up before. At that moment the moon disappeared behind a cloud, and in the darkness he ran into somebody blocking the way.

  “Sujata?” he whispered.

  Her voice came back, and it was very close. “How fitting. You’re lost in the maze of your mind, and now you’re lost in this maze.”

  Siddhartha was startled by Sujata’s arrogant tone, but it was definitely her voice. “I saw you running away. Are you in trouble?”

  “I’m never in trouble. I make trouble.”

  Sujata’s voice had deepened, and despite his attraction to her, Siddhartha instinctively took a step backward. His eyes had adjusted to the dark, and he perceived that the figure before him was not the curved, slim-hipped girl.

  “Who are you?” Siddhartha’s hand went to the hilt of his sword, though he wondered how much use a weapon would be against a magician, if that was what he was confronting. Canki had told him that such beings existed and must be countered through ritual observances that made a person immune to spells and malevolent magic.

  “I can be her if that makes you more comfortable. I can be whoever you imagine.” The shadowy figure stepped closer, and there was no doubt that its voice was now a man’s.

  “Have you hurt her? Where is she?”

  The stranger drew himself up; he smoothed his long-nailed fingers against the sides of his robe. “How do you know I’m not her? How do we know who anyone really is?”

  “I’m going back.” Siddhartha made a move to leave, but the stranger’s voice spoke again with a peculiar allure.

  “You think that if I take her shape she must be in danger? You could be right. The greatest danger she faces right now, however, is from you.”

  Siddhartha’s temper flared. “Deceiver! Whoever you are, either fight me or leave me in peace.”

  The stranger’s voice took on an aggrieved tone. “You mistake me, young sir. I’ve come to bring you peace, only peace. How can I convince you?”

  The moon had come out again, and Siddhartha saw that he was confronting a tall young man, somewhat older than himself, who could have been his cousin, Devadatta. For a moment he almost called out Devadatta’s name, but he realized that this encounter couldn’t be anything but supernatural.

  “Don’t you recognize me?” the tall young man said. “I’m the son your father always wanted, the one you could become.”

  Darkness couldn’t conceal the truth of what the stranger said. Siddhartha was looking at himself a few years older. “What is your purpose here? I am already the son my father wants.” Despite his attempt to sound confident, the stranger laughed at him.

  “Your father wants a son who steals away in the night without a word? I’m surprised. He has worked so hard to keep you here. But I understand. Fathers don’t know everything. It’s right that they shouldn’t.” The stranger’s voice had a sinuous ability to shift between arrogance, familiarity, and cajolery. It stung and soothed at the same time. Siddhartha was feeling uncertain, and although the stranger made no threatening gestures, the mere sight of him drained Siddhartha’s body; he felt slack and weak.

  “You won’t succeed, you know,” the stranger said. “At escaping, I mean. This is your rightful place. We just have to decide how you are to occupy it.”

  The stranger was taunting him and making no effort to disguise it. “Tell me your name,” Siddhartha demanded.

  “Siddhartha.”

  “Then you are only a mocking demon, and I mistook you for someone of power.”

  The stranger’s fingers curled like a cat deciding whether to use its claws or keep them
retracted. “Don’t be rash. I’m here because I know you. Don’t act surprised, either. It’s time to be frank, isn’t it? A prince who is running away from a throne must be very confused, don’t you agree?”

  Mara watched Siddhartha hesitate in his reply. His bantering with the youth had not been for his own amusement. It went deeper than that. The shapes he took, the words he spoke were all part of a test. He wanted to find the best way to penetrate Siddhartha’s mind, and so he circled it like a surgeon finding the exact place for the first cut.

  “I didn’t tell you my name because I was a little offended,” said Mara. “You know me very well, and yet you offered no greeting. Is that any way to behave?”

  Siddhartha shuddered slightly. He had never seen this shape before, but the voice in the darkness raised faint, troubled memories of a voice he had once heard in his head. Visions of his mother’s lifeless body shrieked through his mind.

  “See,” Mara hissed. “He’s starting to be convinced.”

  Then the demon’s body jerked fitfully, twisting and bending in places where there were no joints. The tall young man became a floppy doll, which collapsed to the ground. Now its limbs folded into one another, turning into a crouched dwarf. Siddhartha froze in place, and the hummock became a formless mass that palpitated, waiting to take on whatever form his terror dictated. Whether from horror or a reserve of strength that he didn’t know he possessed, Siddhartha’s mind became silent, without thought.

  “Nothing to say to me? Really?” Mara taunted. “After all we’ve been through.” Now Siddhartha saw a funeral pyre, a skull crumbling to ashes. His nostrils were filled with the stench of death.

  Mara was confident that these reminders would create a crack, that riding the crest of terror, he could penetrate Siddhartha’s mind. It was important to Mara that he do this, because to bring down the prince by his own fear was far better than using a tool, even one as talented as Devadatta.