Buddha

by Deepak Chopra

  “Are we going down there?” Kondana asked nervously. “What place is it for monks?”

  “We have no other choice,” said Buddha. “War is no different from what happens every day. It’s another way that men have found to suffer.”

  “But life isn’t always a war,” Kondana pointed out.

  “Not openly,” said Buddha. “But if men weren’t so afraid of dying, they would fight every day, and in their hearts their dearest wish would be to see every enemy destroyed.” By now the light had faded, ending the skirmishes on the field. The last thing one could see were the scavengers who crept onto the scene to loot dead bodies. The wind carried sweet birdcalls up the hill, mixed with moans of wounded soldiers.

  “Master, what you’re saying is very dark. It makes the situation hopeless,” said Kondana.

  “Hope never ended a war.”

  That was Buddha’s last word for the night. He folded his robes around him and lay on the ground. The five monks had learned that he had no concern for where he slept or who was nearby. But they had gotten into the habit of seeing after his comforts to the small extent he would allow. They fetched a gourd of water to place by his side and some food brought from the capital. They built a fire and together lay down apart from him out of respect.

  Buddha usually urged them to sleep nearby, but they might have been worried to see that he needed no sleep anymore. He rested his body, but his mind remained awake all the time. Now he sent a blessing to Yashodhara and visited his six-year-old son, Rahula, who could hardly stay in bed with the excitement of once more having a father. The boy had been raised to believe secretly that Siddhartha was still alive, so he wasn’t as wonder-struck as the courtiers who set eyes on Buddha. Buddha repeatedly told them that he hadn’t come home to assume the throne, but many kept hoping he would do so.

  When the sun rose and all the monks were awake, Buddha pointed to the scene down below, where clusters of soldiers stirred around their campfires. Some ate hurriedly, but most were tending to their horses, sharpening their swords, and repairing ripped leather armor.

  “How many will die?” asked Assaji soberly.

  “All of them, if not today then one day,” said Buddha curtly. The monks had never heard a heartless remark from their master, and this astonished them. His voice softened. “I told you that the first fact of the world is suffering. We can end suffering, but not by speaking of God.” Buddha’s arm swept across the entire battlefield. “Which of these fighters doesn’t believe that God is on his side?”

  “But God relieves suffering too,” said Assaji.

  “Never promise such a thing,” said Buddha, shaking his head. “All this religious talk has nothing to do with us. I will tell you how to consider any person you meet. Look on them as being like a man whose house has caught on fire. Would such a man cry, ‘I’m not leaving until someone tells me why God made this happen’? No. He runs out of a burning house as fast as he can. The same is true of suffering. We must show people how to run away from it as fast as they can. It’s no use spending years discussing whether someone is cursed or loved by the gods.”

  The closest fighting was no more than a quarter mile away, and they reached it in a few minutes. One horseman had chased another away from the center of battle. He had gotten close enough to thrust a spear into his enemy’s mount, which had stumbled and thrown its rider. Now both soldiers were on their feet fighting hand-to-hand; they both were experienced enough to use a dagger in one hand and a sword in the other.

  As they walked closer, the monks attracted no attention—the two soldiers were blind to everything but their struggle. Even so, the five monks were shaken at the sight of violence. Buddha stopped for a moment to let them regain their nerve.

  “When I was a warrior,” he said, “I learned that victory could never be achieved without weapons. We have no weapons, but we will prevail anyway.”

  Without a word he walked directly up to the two fighters and without hesitation strode into the space between them.

  “Get away, stranger,” one soldier shouted. “If you don’t move, you’ll be hurt.”

  “Is that possible?” said Buddha. “Try.”

  The two enemies stared at him in disbelief. “You must be insane,” said one. “Run away, monk. If I have to, I’ll slice you through with my blade.”

  “That would be interesting to see,” Buddha said. His calmness was so unnerving that the two soldiers lowered their weapons, losing the edge of their fighting rage. From the sidelines Assaji shouted, “If you touch him, you are hurting a holy man. That’s a sin.”

  Buddha turned and gave him a sharp look. “None of that,” he rebuked. He shifted his attention back to the two soldiers. “You both do your duty to the gods, but that hasn’t saved you from a lifetime of killing and fear. Why stop now? If you are so reckless with fate that you risk meeting your dead enemies in hell, I won’t stop you. I invite you to run me through with your blade. I will even forgive you in advance.”

  By the time he spoke the last word, the two fighters were hanging their heads. Buddha reached out and lightly touched the daggers and swords, which dropped to the ground. “Shame has made you lose your taste for killing,” he said. “Go home and find a better way to live.”

  “I can’t,” said one fighter. “If I run away from battle, the king will take away my house; there will be no food for my family.”

  “I promise you that won’t happen,” said Buddha. “Your king is going to disband his whole army today.”

  The two soldiers were amazed and wanted to ask more questions, but Buddha signaled to the five monks and walked on. When they looked over their shoulders, the fighters were gone.

  “I’ve shown you the first way peace can prevail,” said Buddha. “Some people can be reached by speaking to their conscience. Those are the ones who already know that they want to find an end to suffering. Through conscience, guilt, and shame, they will recognize their wrong when it is told to them.”

  “How many people are like that?” asked Assaji.

  “Not enough.”

  Next Buddha led them to where the fighting was more concentrated: clusters of soldiers clashed in a whirling chaos of steel, horses, and shouts. For a moment Buddha stood apart. “What do you see?” he asked.

  “Bloodshed and carnage. Something I wouldn’t look upon willingly,” said Assaji.

  “Look a little deeper,” said Buddha. “These are people who cannot listen to conscience, not because they are bad but because they are too caught up in action. You cannot preach to someone who is fighting for life and breath, not just in war but in the ordinary struggle of existence.”

  Buddha approached the fray, and a wildly flailing sword missed his head by inches. The monks cried out, but Buddha reached out and caught the blade in midair. He seized it from the swordsman, who turned his head with eyes that began to bulge out. Buddha was holding the sharp edges of the blade tight in his fist. The opposing swordsman saw his chance and lunged at his enemy. Buddha reached out and grabbed the second sword by the blade, wrenching it from the soldier’s hand.

  The soldiers were stunned with disbelief. “Who are you?” one cried as they fell to their knees.

  “I am what you need at this moment,” said Buddha.

  He dropped the weapons and walked deeper into the combat. As he got nearer, the fighting calmed. Fighters held their weapons frozen in midair like statues. Buddha seemed to cut an open swath in the battlefield as he passed. The five monks rushed after him in his wake.

  “What’s happening?” asked Assaji breathlessly.

  “What do you suppose?” said Buddha. “This is a miracle.”

  Buddha proceeded through the entire army. “I am showing you another way to prevail,” he said. “Sometimes you must show yourself as you really are. People who are lost in the struggle of existence have become prisoners of illusion. Just remember one thing: you are made of light, and when it is fitting, you may have to prove it.”

  Assaji remained baff
led by the awe that Buddha was creating among the soldiers, some of whom actually held their hands over their eyes to shield them. To Assaji, however, Buddha looked completely normal. “Why don’t I see the miracle?” he asked.

  “Because you are even more distracted than these soldiers,” said Buddha with a smile. “You keep thinking I’m here to get you killed.”

  At that, Assaji suddenly found himself relaxing; he had been as tense as a tightened wire. He exhaled deeply, and then he saw that Buddha was surrounded by an aura of brilliant white light. The army beheld a being of light moving through their midst, and the sight brought them to their knees.

  “Master, forgive me. I see now that you can save multitudes,” said Assaji in awe.

  “This isn’t salvation,” said Buddha. “Just a glimpse of reality. Everyone is deeply asleep. It will take more than one glimpse to wake them up.”

  Vappa, who had been listening close by, said, “No one will ever see me this way.”

  “Why not?” said Buddha. “I do already.”

  He remained silent as they made their way through the heart of battle. On the fringes one could still hear the clash of war, but as far as the eye could see, every soldier had laid down his weapons. It took half an hour to cross the entire field. The tents of the generals came into view. Buddha pointed to the highest tent pole, which flew a brilliant red and yellow ensign. “My father.” The older generals shivered when they saw the return of the prince from the dead; all the officers bowed low, then they followed in Buddha’s wake as he approached the royal tent.

  Buddha parted the tent flap and went inside. In the dim, hot interior, the old king lay on a cot. He had fallen asleep while putting on his armor. He was groaning and turning over restlessly, his arms thrashing. Buddha made a gesture, and Assaji came inside.

  “I want you to see everything,” Buddha said. “But keep in a corner for now. We don’t want to overwhelm him.”

  Assaji backed away into the shadows. Then Buddha approached the cot and touched his father on the shoulder. Suddhodana didn’t start but woke up slowly, rubbing his eyes. It took a moment for his mind to grasp what he was seeing, and three words escaped his mouth separated by long pauses. “Who? No. You!” The old king began to weep.

  “Don’t be afraid, father.” Buddha embraced the old man, and they stood together like that, while to Assaji’s surprise Buddha himself was silently weeping. Suddhodana recovered his speech in broken expressions. Where did Siddhartha come from? Who had been beheaded? But more frequently he recriminated himself for being such a fool.

  A surge of anger hardened the old king and brought a sudden burst of energy. “Devadatta will pay for this.” he said crisply. “I have to fight. This is no place for you. Have some men escort you back to the palace.” Suddhodana reached for the chest plate and helmet he was putting on before he fell asleep. He averted his eyes from his son. “I know you are a monk now, Siddhartha, but unless we win this battle, your father will be a beggar.” Suddhodana had never reconciled himself to his son’s choice, and now his only thought was that the kingdom needed a defender. Instead of stopping him, Buddha stood aside and let the old king armor himself, pick up his sword, and rush from the tent.

  “You’re going to let him fight?” asked Assaji, disbelieving.

  “He’s a warrior; his nature is conflict,” said Buddha.

  “But two seconds ago he was weeping over you. And you were weeping too,” said Assaji awkwardly.

  “That was love,” said Buddha. “Love sometimes weeps; don’t be ashamed of it. With some people, an appeal to love prevails.”

  “Love didn’t stop him from running back to fight,” said Assaji.

  Buddha opened the tent flap. They saw the generals trailing after Suddhodana, who was shouting exhortations the way he used to when he was young. Some of his staff tried to calm him down, but he ferociously threw them off. After a moment the officers mounted their horses or jumped into chariots. Buddha watched them rush off toward the left flank, where some fighting was still raging.

  “What if he’s killed?” asked Assaji anxiously. “Aren’t you here to save your father?”

  “This is the moment of faith, when nothing seems to work,” said Buddha, beginning to walk after the departing fighters. “Don’t preach faith the way it’s usually preached, to keep people quiet and forbid them to think on their own. That kind of faith is blind, and being blind, it is useless. Call on faith only when the mind has given up.”

  “But sometimes it’s right to give up,” Assaji protested.

  “No, dear friend, that’s not true. Never forget that all this is a dream.” Buddha passed his gaze over the dead bodies fallen on either side, the carrion birds picking at their remains, the fleeing horses without a rider. “Winning and losing are the same thing. Both are nothing.”

  Buddha quickened his pace. Assaji summoned the other monks to catch up. He said, “This is a profound day for us, master. We will never forget it.”

  “Every day is like this,” Buddha replied. “You’ll see.”

  Now they arrived at the thick of the fray where Suddhodana, against the earnest entreaties of his officers, was standing in his stirrups and screaming. “Come face me, coward! I am one old man, but you won’t walk away alive.”

  From the opposing ranks came a stir, then a single horseman rode out into the space between the two armies. It was Devadatta, fully armored with upraised sword. “I would gladly kill you, old fool,” he shouted. “But half your army follows me already. Surrender or watch your men be killed before sunset.”

  “Who is he?” asked Assaji.

  “I could give you many answers. My cousin. A lost soul. A man trapped in a nightmare,” said Buddha. “But the truth is that he is an aspect of me.”

  Raising his voice, Buddha called, “Devadatta!”

  His cousin looked his way, but instead of registering surprise he laughed harshly. “Come to see your last hope die?” he cried. “Tell your father to lay down his arms or I’ll take the throne by force.”

  Since convincing Suddhodana that his son was dead, Devadatta had spent his time well. He raised dissent among some garrisons of the king’s army, offering them more fighting and gold once Suddhodana was deposed. He plotted with a neighboring king, Bimbisara, to invade the country so that Devadatta would have overwhelming numbers on his side.

  “Stop, cousin, for your own sake,” Buddha said, coming nearer. “This is a mistake.”

  “Only for your family,” said Devadatta bitterly. “You’ve held me like a prisoner all my life.”

  “Revenge isn’t yours,” said Buddha. “Surrender, and I promise you freedom from your pain.”

  Devadatta became enraged. “Surrender to you?” he screamed. “You weak, pious fraud!” He swung his sword in a circle overhead and kicked his horse with his spurs to make it charge. On the other side Suddhodana had lost the will to fight. Without warning, he felt his body drained of energy, and he slumped in the saddle like the old man he was.

  Prepared to die, Suddhodana closed his eyes and prayed. He had done that only in the Shiva temple before a battle. But he worried about his soul, so he asked Maya to forgive him for letting her die. He thanked the gods for allowing him to live long enough to see his lost son once again. And finally, since he was what he was, the king prayed fervently that Devadatta would die by violence and go directly to hell. When he opened his eyes again, Suddhodana thought that his last prayer had come true because Devadatta was not hard upon him with his sword. Instead, the traitor was rolling in the dust, and his mount had bolted. Confusion broke out in the ranks.

  The next instant made matters clear. A lone soldier had run up at the last moment and cut the cinch to Devadatta’s saddle, unhorsing him. That soldier was standing over him now, ripping off his helmet. It was Channa, who shouted at Suddhodana, “Get out of here! I can’t kill a whole army for one old fool.”

  Suddhodana backed up until he was safe among the ranks of his men. He watched as Devadatta leape
d to his feet. The two fighters circled each other, swords held forward.

  “So you still pick fights you can’t lose,” Channa snarled. “Not today. Today, nobody becomes king without going through me.”

  Devadatta lunged with his weapon, hoping for a clean kill with his first strike. Channa stepped aside quickly, and his enemy rushed by, almost losing his balance. With an arrogant smile, Channa waved for Devadatta to come at him again.

  “Why waste time?” he taunted. “This low-caste scum was always the one who would kill you. I’ll rub a little of my blood in your wounds to make sure you get to hell.”

  Devadatta had gained some control over his rage and backed off warily. All this time the five monks stared at Buddha, waiting for him to intervene. “Master, all day you’ve shown us the things we can do,” whispered Assaji. “Why do you stand back now?”

  “It only seems that I’m standing back.”

  The authority in Buddha’s voice silenced Assaji. Devadatta and Channa continued circling each other, making tentative jabs to see if they could catch the other off guard.

  “Their whole lives have come to this moment,” said Buddha. “Yet in an instant a life can be thrown away. Watch how easy it is.” He bent over and picked up a round pebble. With a deft toss he threw it, and the pebble landed behind Devadatta’s right heel. He took his next step backward and slipped on it, stumbling to one knee. Channa’s eyes flashed toward the spectators. He had been so intent on attacking Devadatta that he hadn’t even noticed Buddha among the crowd. His face flushed deep red, but in the same instant he couldn’t stop himself from leaping on his enemy and pressing his sword to Devadatta’s throat. No one would ever know if he intended to give Devadatta a moment’s final mercy because Suddhodana’s voice filled the air. “No! Hold your hand.”

  Channa hesitated; he knew if he disobeyed that he would be executed. His mind was confused, having to absorb the fact of Siddhartha’s return at the very moment that he was revenging Siddhartha’s death. Suddhodana came forward.