“Do you always goad people like this?” Gautama asked, resolving not to make himself the butt of this irksome cynic.
“Is there any other way to learn?” Ganaka replied. “If you don’t want the world to have more shame, helplessness, and slavery, stop doing what you did today. All you did was increase it.” He got to his feet, as indifferent as if they’d been talking about the possibility of rain, and looked around for the shortest way back to the main road.
“Thank you for the bread, and the company,” Gautama said, forcing the words out.
Ganaka shrugged. “I may not be enlightened enough to suit you, my idealistic lad. But I’m far from being a fool. Don’t pretend you’re a saint. Experience tells me that they might not even exist.”
THE OLD KING mourned the day he saw his son ride out the gates of Kapilavastu, but he didn’t send guards to break into the Shiva temple and arrest the high Brahmin. The writing had been on the wall a long time before their plan finally failed. Canki realized that fate had turned against him, and he decided to appear in the king’s chambers one morning unannounced. He bowed without prostrating himself on the floor.
“I hope you don’t have the gall to try to console me,” Suddhodana grumbled. He had taken to sleeping late, and more often than not there was a young courtesan on the pillow by his side, the only consolation Suddhodana wanted these days.
“I’m only a priest, bringing the king’s wishes before the gods,” Canki said.
“I had only one wish, and you failed to make it come true. Your presence is distasteful to us. You should stay home.”
They had hatched their conspiracy almost thirty years earlier, and Suddhodana wasn’t one to look backward. He placed little faith in the promise that Siddhartha would return. “Return as what?” he said. “He’ll never come back a king.” The last part he didn’t voice aloud to anyone, just as he didn’t voice a secret intention he had, to name Devadatta as his successor. The notion had come to him in a dream. He often revisited old battles in his dreams, but not as he had fought them. Instead he was a wanderer among the dead.
Night after night Suddhodana saw himself asleep in his tent, still dressed in armor. He would wake up feeling stifled, suffocating for air. He would throw aside the tent flap, and scattered around him in the moonlight would be bodies, thick on the ground in poses of agony. He didn’t weep over them; he hated them for troubling his peace.
However, this dream was different. He wandered the dusty field listlessly, head bowed. He came across a shallow grave. A body lay faceup, arms crossed over its chest. A cloud passed away from the moon, and he recoiled to see Siddhartha’s corpse. A cry erupted from his chest, and Suddhodana leaped into the grave. He embraced the corpse, which was horribly cold. Suddhodana was wracked with sobs, so strongly that he was sure it would wake him up. Instead, the corpse moved. Suddhodana clutched it tighter, praying that his own life could seep into his son and revive him.
The corpse’s head was beside his ear, and a voice said, “The prince is not the king.” These were Siddhartha’s words, and the moment they were spoken Suddhodana woke up in a cold sweat, but not before he got an instant’s glimpse of the face again, which melted into dust.
He turned now to Canki. “You’ve been released. That’s why I’m not going to kill you,” he said.
“Released?”
“From our plot. I’m not heartless. I know what I’ve done, to my son and to all those people who suffered.”
Canki had never heard the king talk this way; remorse wasn’t in his nature. In fact, the high Brahmin had intruded in the royal chambers to remind Suddhodana that his son still had a great destiny ahead of him.
“You must have another plan. I will aid you however I can. I sense that you’ve found a ray of hope. True?”
Suddhodana gave a derisive snort. “So, you’re not in your dotage after all. I thought priests softened when they saw heaven coming closer.” He didn’t wait for a reply. “What if Devadatta is king? Do we trust him?”
“Is that really necessary?” Canki said coolly. After Sujata’s disappearance Devadatta had fallen under a cloud, yet he might be a necessary tool, and for that reason the king hadn’t banished him.
“Explain yourself,” Suddhodana demanded.
“The boy came here as a prisoner. He turned into a schemer. You have no idea if he really loves you or simply fears you. For myself, I don’t think anyone could find out the truth. But it doesn’t matter. What matters is ambition. If you promise Devadatta the throne, two purposes will be served. You will put out the fire of his hatred. And you will give your kingdom to someone as vicious as you are.”
Heaven had to be close indeed for anyone, let alone a Brahmin, to risk those last words. Suddhodana looked at Canki, who had lost much of his imposing bulk. His haughtiness seemed to have shrunk with his body.
“You call it vicious, I call it being strong,” Suddhodana said.
Canki and the king bent their heads together, rethinking every aspect of the new plan, mulling over every possible point where it might go wrong. Conspiracy was their only bond, and now that new blood flowed into it, the king felt alive as he hadn’t for a long time.
SUDDHODANA WOULD NEVER KNOW if a demon or a god had sent him his prophetic dream. But a demon wanted Devadatta to be king. Of that there was no doubt. For almost ten years Mara had been bored by mortal affairs. He had watched Devadatta and Siddhartha like twin horses trying to break the yoke that bound them. He hated the way humans clung to indecision.
Devadatta had grown more violent over the years. His night excursions into the poor parts of the city ended as often in murder now as in rape. Since he was protected by caste, no one dared assassinate him for fear that they would be damned in the afterlife. So the common people set up watch, and when Devadatta’s horse was spied, or if he showed his face in a tavern, word spread quickly and doors were locked. He found himself lurking deserted streets, and in time his great problem wasn’t his obsessive urge to hurt—it was loneliness.
His only escape these days was to go out riding, either to hunt deer or race his mount mile after mile until both rider and horse were totally spent. This reckless sport injured and crippled several fine horses, but it was the only way Devadatta had found to forget himself. One day soon after Siddhartha left to become a sannyasi—a decision Devadatta considered criminal for a prince of the blood but one that he rejoiced in as well, for now he had an opening, an opportunity to seize control of the kingdom—Devadatta had left the main road in order to force his horse to gallop where the trees were thick, adding to the thrill of his excursion.
Suddenly he smelled smoke in the air. He stopped and rose in the stirrups, casting his eyes over the trees until he saw the thin wisp of a campfire. Normally he wouldn’t have cared. Fires were set by woodcutters and other workers, never women. But Devadatta heard a faint whisper in his ear, and on impulse he rode toward the fire.
Sitting by the fire with his back turned to him was Siddhartha, and he hadn’t become a monk at all. He was still wearing his princely robe and embroidered skirt. His cousin had simply run off for some secret reason. In the next instant, however, Devadatta’s horse stepped on a twig with a loud crack. The man by the fire turned his head, and Devadatta saw that he was mistaken. The man smiled nervously, and his cracked teeth and stubbled beard betrayed that he was a beggar. Devadatta could see that he was roasting a dead parrot he must have scavenged on the forest floor.
“Friend, can I help you?” The man stood up, smiling anxiously.
“Don’t call me friend,” said Devadatta coldly. “Where did you steal those clothes? Did you kill someone for them, or are you with the dacoits?”
“Kill?” The man looked alarmed now as Devadatta slowly rode toward him. “I couldn’t be no killer, or no dacoit, sir. As Your Worship can see, I’m all alone.”
It was true that forest thieves always traveled in packs. “What if I believe you? You still have on royal clothes, anyone can see, filthy as they�
�ve gotten,” said Devadatta, making his voice as menacing as he could.
The man started to strip Siddhartha’s robes off. “You can have ’em, sir. I never been to court. I knew they was fine clothes, but I never suspected them of being royal. Not for a minute, I swear.”
The poor man was too frightened to run and had no chance of escape if he did. Devadatta had already seen what must have happened in his mind’s eye. A wretched beggar lying in a ditch. His fool of a cousin taking pity—hadn’t he already wasted years ministering to the poor? No doubt he lifted the beggar up and gave him the clothes off his back. Devadatta shook his head.
“Stop trembling,” he said. “And put your clothes back on. You think I’d touch them?”
“Thank you, sir.” The beggar mumbled his gratitude and with one eye glanced over at the fire, where he had dropped the parrot. His meal had roasted to a crisp, and he looked pained.
“It’s ruined,” said Devadatta, nodding toward the fire. “Forget it. I’ll make sure you don’t need to beg anymore.”
The beggar’s smile would have turned to a look of puzzlement, but he had no time for that. It took a matter of seconds for Devadatta to draw his sword and even less, given his years of practice with the weapon, to chop off the beggar’s head with one swipe.
That evening Suddhodana heard women wailing outside his rooms. Something in their cries was heartrending. This wasn’t another funeral formality for an aged courtier. He opened the door to see every lady at court kneeling along the entire length of the main corridor.
“Out of my way!”
He strode through the mass of female bodies, bent as low as hummocks in a meadow, with little care that he was stepping on them. In the main courtyard of the palace the court men formed a dense crowd, some murmuring in low, grim tones, others shouting oaths and imprecations. The crowd was a thick, angry mass like a single creature. By now Suddhodana’s blood was cold. It could only be one thing. The crowd parted when he was spotted, and all but the most senior advisers and generals prostrated themselves on the cobblestones, which were still hot as cooking stones so soon after sunset.
“Where is he? Where is my son?”
Suddhodana followed the eyes of the men around him. Their gaze formed a path, and at the end stood Devadatta. He had dismounted. Over his tall horse, whose sides were panting from a hard ride, a body was draped. It took a second before the king recognized his son’s clothes hanging off the corpse. The head had been cut off, leaving a grisly stem.
Suddhodana recoiled in revulsion. He had no desire to come closer or to take a second look. He turned and put one foot ahead of the other until he had reached the security of his darkened rooms. The heat of the cobblestones seeped through his sandals. The old king felt it, and somehow his hot shoes stuck in his mind, the way trivial things often do, as the first thing he remembered on the long road of suffering that stretched ahead forever.
13
The moment Gautama stepped into the small clearing, he knew that he’d found what he was looking for. A crude thatched lean-to faced him from under the shade of an old tree. The shadows were deep, but he could see a hermit sitting in lotus position. There was no trail of footprints or telltale smoke in the air to lead Gautama to this place. He had been away from home for three months now, and he was an adept forest dweller himself. No longer did he wake up with a start in the middle of the night fearing danger from the snap of a twig. He could let his footsteps wander where they wanted to, and now here he was.
He crossed the small clearing and stood over the hermit, who could have been Asita—slender, wiry build, nut brown skin, thinning hair with a long beard. Gautama moved as silently as he could, and he didn’t speak in greeting to the old ascetic, who made no motion, not even the flutter of an eyelid, to acknowledge his visitor. Finding the shade of a nearby tree, Gautama sat under it and folded his legs. For ten years now he had been meditating, and just as Asita promised, it had become his refuge from the outside world.
At first he had found it hard to settle down completely. As the scriptures say, the mind is like a runaway coach, and the driver never stops whipping the horses. But from inside the coach a voice whispers, “Please stop.” At first the team and driver ignore the voice. It is very soft; it never insists. Over time, however, the voice wins obedience, and the driver and horses stop wildly galloping. Bit by bit they slow down until the mind is at rest. Thus Siddhartha learned a basic lesson: whatever can run can also stand still.
Gradually the tree shade moved away, and he began to sweat. He could see an orange glow in his eyelids and knew, if it was this near sunset, that hours must have passed. Gautama took a peek, but the hermit was still motionless under his lean-to. There was no guarantee that he possessed any wisdom or could be a useful teacher. But Gautama had promised himself that he would seek out someone like Asita. How can freedom be taught except by someone who is free?
Darkness descended, and still there was no sign of activity. Gautama got to his feet and headed toward a stream he’d crossed near the clearing. Stooping to drink, he realized that waiting could take longer than he’d thought. He collected some fruit from the trees and headed back to the clearing. He fashioned a bed of boughs and went to sleep. The hermit became a black outline against the nearly black night sky.
In this way three days passed. The hermit’s ability to remain as still as one of the Shiva statues outside Canki’s temple impressed Gautama deeply. His own body ached from the hours he had put in sitting and waiting for something to happen. He fidgeted, obeyed the call of nature, ate and drank when he had to. Like a force of nature, the wiry old man remained immobile. Once or twice Gautama gave a soft cough to make his presence known. On the second day he ventured to say “Namaste” in a quiet voice. On the evening of the third day, he walked over to the ascetic, squatted on his heels beside him, and said, “Sir?”
The hermit opened his eyes. “You talk too much,” he said. His voice was clear and alert; the trance he was waking up from was no ordinary kind.
“Can you teach me?” Gautama asked, wanting to seize the moment before the hermit retreated back into his deep samadhi once more. But he was too late. The hermit closed his eyes, and soon the sun set. Gautama stretched out on the ground for the night, having no idea if he’d made any progress. Apparently he had. When he woke up the next morning the hermit was standing over him.
“Maybe,” the hermit said.
Gautama sprang to his feet. “What shall I do first?”
“Be quiet.”
The hermit went back to his place under the lean-to and resumed his meditation. Gautama suspected that he wouldn’t open his eyes for another three days. It took four. In the meantime, however, the new disciple wasn’t bored. Gradually he began to be filled with his teacher’s presence. It happened invisibly. Gautama was obliged to meditate along with his master. Imitating the guru was the main path for a disciple: you ate when the guru ate, slept when the guru slept, listened when the guru spoke. Yet the greatest teachers, so Siddhartha had been told when he interrogated visitors to court, taught in complete silence.
Apparently Gautama had run into one of those, for whenever he closed his eyes, something new would happen. He found stillness, as before, but now it was vibrant and alive, as if a shower of sparkling white light were falling inside him. Its effervescence caused his body to tingle gently, a delicious sensation that made it effortless to sit in meditation for hours at a time. In between, when Gautama found that his limbs were too stiff and his body too restless to sit any longer, he puttered around the clearing, sweeping away debris, placing a gourd of water beside his master, gathering fruit and firewood for the night. He was eager to ask the hermit how he managed to enter a disciple and fill him with his presence. Then he remembered his master’s rebuke about talking too much. On the evening of the fourth day the hermit surfaced from his samadhi.
His first word was, “Well?”
Gautama prostrated himself at the hermit’s feet. He could have said, “I a
m satisfied,” but his gesture of obeisance was enough. His teacher had given him a taste of all that was to come, and when he said, “Well?” he meant, “Do you accept me?” The bond between a guru and a chela, or disciple, exists deep in the heart. Gautama had become so sensitized that this one word, “Well?” said everything. It said, This is how things will be. If you want praise and smiles, go to someone else. I’m not here to flatter you.
The routine at camp was soon established. The disciple performed the small duties that kept the necessities of life going. Most of the time the two of them simply sat, facing each other across the clearing like two life-size icons abandoned by a sculptor in the forest. Then the face of Yashodhara began to appear in Gautama’s mind. She was smiling, and he couldn’t help looking at her smile. The scriptures give permission to meditate upon various divine images, so why not his wife? If love is divine, can’t a woman also be? Yet the moment Gautama fixed his mind’s eye on Yashodhara’s face, her body appeared, and it was not clothed. The young monk squirmed, praying that his master didn’t see the physical reaction this caused, which wasn’t his fault.
He fought his reaction. Meditating on arousal wasn’t in the scriptures. Yashodhara’s face changed; it began to mock him. Her hands moved down her body. He fought harder. Perhaps if he focused on the purity of his love for her. Gautama thought about the day he chose her to be his wife. She was sixteen, he was nineteen. He had given up on finding Sujata but was far from losing her memory. When it was announced that he was to be betrothed, eager fathers drove a long distance to present their daughters in faraway Kapilavastu. Nobles, princes, and kings of neighboring domains crossed the border with elaborate entourages of slaves and horses. Siddhartha sat on the ramparts looking down at the scene with Channa.
“If the interviews are too much for you, I can always take a few off your hands,” Channa said. Some of the younger girls were barely twelve; it wasn’t expected that he would live with them immediately—arrangements would be made. But delay was only temporary. Suddhodana couldn’t be put off.
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