Buddha

by Deepak Chopra

  “You are forbidden to kill him,” he said with command. “Devadatta is still a prince.”

  Channa let go of Devadatta’s head and pulled his blade away. He gave a curt bow of obedience. This was the moment his enemy had waited for. Devadatta raised his sword and stabbed Channa in the back. The blade pierced Channa’s aorta, and he crumpled to the ground. Devadatta got to his feet, panting and dripping with sweat. Within seconds, Suddhodana’s men had captured him and hauled him away. The enemy ranks stirred with confusion, then the trumpets sounded and they beat a retreat. Suddhodana gave orders to let them go; without Devadatta to lead them, Bimbisara’s men would sneak back home, and the rebels from Suddhodana’s army had no choice but to follow them into banishment.

  The only ones who remained on the field were Buddha and the five monks, who were in shock. “Wasn’t that your friend?” asked Kondana. “You caused him to be killed.”

  Buddha replied, “Every single life is woven into the web of karma, which has no beginning or end. Until you accept that every life is woven into every other, you will never know who you really are.”

  “So Channa must surrender to death today?” asked Kondana.

  “Death is not the point,” said Buddha. “As long as you are caught in karma’s web, death comes with birth. The two are inseparable. Find the part of you that is unborn; then you will be free of birth and death together.”

  As he taught them, Buddha was heading back to the royal tent. Devadatta was tied to a stake, and a hooded man began to whip him. By his side was a broad scimitar lying on the ground. Buddha looked away and walked into the tent. Suddhodana stood over the cot where Channa lay, barely breathing.

  “I sent orders for a physician,” Suddhodana said mournfully. “But it should have been for a priest.”

  Buddha knelt beside the cot. “What can I do for you, dear Channa?”

  His words seemed to make the dying man revive. He opened his eyes slightly, the lids fluttering. Instead of looking at Buddha, Channa pinned Suddhodana with a bitter glance. “Your pride has killed me,” he muttered. His words were clotted, and a trickle of blood appeared on his lips.

  “Look at me, not at him,” said Buddha gently.

  “I can’t. I’ve sinned against you.”

  “Why do you talk of sin? Do you think you’re going to die?” asked Buddha. His voice was so calm and tender that Channa stared at him. “I’ve come to show you the one who was never born and therefore cannot die.”

  Buddha closed Channa’s eyes. No one in the tent ever found out what he made Channa see, but the vision created a smile of deep bliss on Channa’s face. He gave a muffled, ecstatic cry, then his head fell back on the pillow. His stillness would have been mistaken for death except for the slight rise and fall of his chest.

  “How can he survive such a wound?” asked Assaji.

  “That’s the one advantage of dreaming,” said Buddha. “You can’t be killed unless you want to be. Let him decide. It’s no one’s dream but Channa’s. He will do what he will do.”

  Buddha gathered Suddhodana, who was so overwhelmed by the day’s events that he was on the verge of collapse, and the others and led them all outside. The old man allowed himself to be half carried on Buddha’s shoulder, but he stiffened with rage when he beheld Devadatta, who had been whipped so severely that he was unconscious. The king was about to order that the traitor be revived so that he could witness his own execution. Then he noticed something. Everyone present was bowing on one knee to Buddha or prostrating themselves on the ground.

  “Why is this?” Suddhodana asked.

  “Let me show you,” said Buddha. “In your heart you want to kill Devadatta, even after he is helpless and defeated.” The old king hung his head slightly but didn’t deny it. Buddha said, “One who kills a killer takes on his karma, and so the wheel of suffering never stops. Let it stop here, today, for you.” His father trembled, nodding almost imperceptibly. “I will show you how to make this a kingdom of peace,” said Buddha.

  No one saw him do anything unusual, but it was as if the clouds passed away from the face of the sun. The mood of war lifted; the atmosphere became calm and pure.

  As they looked around, the Sakyan soldiers seemed not to recognize where they were. Many stared at their weapons as if they had never seen these strange implements.

  Buddha leaned closer to Assaji. “I begin this new age so that you can continue it forever. Remember that.”

  Devadatta was cut loose and his unconscious body carried away. He woke up that night in his bed at the palace. His room was sealed and guarded for three days while he contemplated what had happened to him. At first he simply felt hollow and numb. Being dedicated to evil had supplied him with a ferocious energy that he couldn’t summon back. On the night of the third day, he tried the handle and found the door to his room open. Cautiously, Devadatta looked up and down the corridor, which was empty. Noises came from the great hall, and after considering whether to run, he felt an impulse to go toward the sound. His whipping at the stake had been so severe that it befuddled his memory, and Devadatta wasn’t even sure how the battle had ended or who was king.

  No one saw him lingering at the entrance of the hall. There was a great celebration under way. The entire court sat at table while servants rushed back and forth with platters of meat and saffron rice, ripe mangoes and honeyed berries. Suddhodana presided at the head. To one side at a lower table the five monks were eating rice and lentils with Buddha. The room was filled with a quiet joy that the palace had not seen in years.

  Devadatta paused, examining the festivities, then turned and left.

  “Did you see that?” asked Assaji, who was on Buddha’s right hand.

  “Yes.”

  “He was your sworn enemy, and now you’re letting him leave?”

  “Devadatta is the one person in the world who could never leave me,” said Buddha. “That’s his blessing, but he saw it as a curse. He’s tied to me by a rope he can never let go of.”

  “Then he’ll be back?” asked Assaji, not relishing the thought.

  “What choice does he have?” said Buddha. “When you’re obsessed with hatred for someone, it’s inevitable that you will return one day as his disciple.”

  “Master, I just hope he’s better when he comes back,” Assaji said doubtfully.

  “He will still be arrogant and proud,” said Buddha. “But it won’t matter. The fire of passion burns out eventually. Then you dig through the ashes and discover a gem. You pick it up; you look at it with disbelief. The gem was inside you all the time. It is yours to keep forever. It is buddha.”

  Epilogue

  For a storyteller, it would be ideal if Buddha’s life came to a spectacular end. We’re holding our breath for it. First came the fairy-tale beginning as a handsome prince, then a second act with a wandering monk who goes through all manner of trials and suffering, reaching a brilliant climax when enlightenment is achieved in a single night under the bodhi tree. Where did this stunning life finally wind up?

  Squarely back on earth, as it turns out. Buddha lived quietly for another forty-five years, traveling throughout northern India as a renowned teacher before dying at the ripe old age of eighty. The cause of death was eating a bad piece of pork, an embarrassingly humble and mundane way to depart.

  To satisfy our dramatic longings, we have to turn to the incidental characters in the tale. The ones who were intimates of Siddhartha enjoyed a warm reunion with him. His wife, Yashodhara, and son, Rahula, became devotees of Buddha, which seems fitting enough. They were revered to the end of their days. Other characters had a more curious fate. The ever-widening circle of monks around Buddha, known as the Sangha, came to include two misfits, his archenemy, Devadatta, and the rough-hewn warrior Channa. According to tradition, Devadatta remained proud and resentful; even as a disciple he caused trouble. In one famous episode Devadatta tries to kill Buddha by starting a rockslide; in another he gets an elephant drunk on liquor and sends it on a rampage again
st the Compassionate One. (Buddha deflects the danger in both cases.) As often happens, the villain of the piece is too much fun to let go, so there are other stories of political intrigue with a neighboring prince named Ajatashatru and more mundane tales of Devadatta objecting to the rules Buddha laid down for his monks. A storyteller has a hard time making much drama out of ashram politics.

  Following the rules didn’t sit well with Channa, either. Having given up his role as brave charioteer, Channa chafed at being reduced to the status of a holy monk. His chief sin was pride. He never let anyone forget that he had been Siddhartha’s best friend. He treated Buddha with too much familiarity, causing distress among the other devotees. At a certain point Channa’s misbehavior became too much for even Buddha’s tolerance. The head disciple, Ananda, who historically was Buddha’s cousin, was sent to reprimand him, and from there the road divides. In one version Channa sullenly takes his scolding and reforms. In the other, he sinks into despair and commits suicide.

  But we would be wrong to be disappointed in our hero. Enlightenment was just the beginning of Buddha’s spiritual ascent, which was spectacular by any measure. Buddhism caused an earthquake in the spiritual life of India, crushing the privileges of the Brahmin caste and raising even the despised untouchables to spiritual dignity.

  Buddha blew through the temples like a strong wind and with the simplicity of genius reduced the human predicament to one key issue: suffering. If suffering is a constant in every life, he said, then until there’s an end to suffering, enlightenment is pointless. Equally pointless is talk of God or the gods, heaven and hell, sin, redemption, the soul, and all the rest. This was reform of the severest kind, and a lot didn’t stick. People wanted God. Buddha refused to speak on the subject of whether God even existed. He adamantly denied that he himself was divine. People wanted the comfort of rituals and ceremonies. Buddha shunned ceremony. He wanted each individual to look inside and find liberation through a personal journey that began in the physical world and ended in Nirvana, a state of pure, eternal consciousness. Nirvana is present in everyone, he taught, but Nirvana is like pure water lying deep beneath the earth. Reaching it requires concentration, devotion, and diligent work.

  It’s no wonder that Buddha’s call to awakening proved so enticing and so difficult. The Middle Way, which gained its name because it was neither too harsh nor too easy, proved very appealing, but the journey to Nirvana is solitary and contains little in the way of entertaining scenery. Yet there was no arguing against the teaching. Everything Buddha preached grows logically from the First Noble Truth, which also happens to be the first thing Buddha said to the five monks after he became enlightened: life contains suffering. The next three teachings sound more like modern psychotherapy than conventional religion:

  FIRST NOBLE TRUTH: Life contains suffering.

  SECOND NOBLE TRUTH: Suffering has a cause, and the cause can be known.

  THIRD NOBLE TRUTH: Suffering can be brought to an end.

  FOURTH NOBLE TRUTH: The path to end suffering has eight parts.

  Now we’ve gone beyond the role of the storyteller, since these four simple statements created an explosion of theology that spread throughout Asia and the rest of the world. Thanks to Buddha’s decades of teaching, a cadre of disciples totally committed to the Buddhist path crossed the Himalayas and journeyed everywhere it was possible for sandals to tread. The list of cultures that these ascetic wanderers revolutionized is staggering: Tibet, Nepal, China, Japan, Korea, Sri Lanka, Thailand, Cambodia, Burma, Vietnam, and far into Malaysia and Indonesia. In many cases a handful of Buddhist missionaries actually created a new culture. Any outside observer can only stand back in awe.

  Why did people accept this new teaching so readily? Because the First Noble Truth was undeniable. People knew that they were suffering, and instead of showing a way out, their old religions gave them surrogates, in the form of dogma, prayers, rituals, and the like. At its simplest, Buddhism walked into the village square and said, “Here are eight things that will open the way to peace instead of pain.” The Eightfold Path asks for each person to change how the mind works, plucking out what is wrong, inefficient, and superstitious, then exchanging those outworn habits for increasing clarity. In other words, the waking-up process, which Buddha experienced in one night, is laid out as a lifelong program:

  Right view or perspective

  Right intention

  Right speech

  Right action

  Right livelihood

  Right effort

  Right mindfulness

  Right concentration

  Some of these steps sound natural. We all want to believe that our actions and words are virtuous. We don’t want to go wrong in our effort and intentions. Other parts of the path need special guidance. What is right mindfulness? Right concentration? These aspects have their roots in the meditation practices of Yoga, which Buddha also reformed and brought within reach of ordinary people.

  As a storyteller, I didn’t feel it was my place to spread Buddhism. That’s best left to the modern equivalents of the wandering missionaries who first preached Buddhism. It would be unseemly for me to step on their toes. But I’d like to speak to you, the reader, who might be coming to Buddha from the cold. I came to Buddha that way, and I asked the obvious question: What can this teaching do for me? Is there something that will open my eyes and make me more awake, right this minute?

  Personally, I found three things. They are known as the three Dharma seals, or to put it in plain English, three basic facts about Being. They spoke to me far more than the Middle Way because of their universality, which extends far beyond the boundaries of religion.

  1. Dukkha

  Life is unsatisfactory. Pleasure in the physical world is transient. Pain inevitably follows. Therefore, nothing we experience can be deeply satisfying. There is no resting place in change.

  2. Anicca

  Nothing is permanent. All experience is swept away in flux. Cause and effect is endless and confusing. Therefore one can never find clarity or permanence.

  3. Anatta

  The separate self is unreliable and ultimately unreal. We apply words like soul and personality to something that is fleeting and ghostly. Our attempts to make the self real never end but also never succeed. Therefore, we cling for reassurance to an illusion.

  READING THIS, CAN anyone escape being shaken to the core? Buddha wasn’t just a kindly teacher who wanted people to find peace. He was a radical surgeon who examined them and said, “No wonder you feel sick. All this unreal stuff has filled you up, and now we have to get rid of it.” Naturally, a lot of listeners ran back to conventional religion, and just as many ran back into materialism, which promises that body, mind, and the physical world are absolutely real.

  Why should we accept Buddha’s word that they aren’t? That, I think, is the crucial question. There’s not much challenge in accepting that one’s life contains suffering, and only a small challenge in accepting that flux and change create dissatisfaction. Both facts seem psychologically self-evident. But to accept that the entire world, and everyone in it, is an illusion? That’s an enormous challenge, and it requires a complete shift in consciousness to meet it.

  The word illusion has a host of meanings, and some are very enticing. The illusion, for example, that when you fall in love it will last forever. The illusion that you will never die. The illusion that ignorance is bliss. Buddha saw the danger hidden in these enticements. He rarely spoke harshly, but I can imagine him bursting all these bubbles: love ends, everyone dies, ignorance is folly. But if he had stopped there, Buddha would have wound up a tiresome moralist.

  His definition of illusion was so absolute it almost freezes the blood. Whatever can be seen, heard, or touched is unreal. Whatever you cling to as permanent is unreal. Whatever the mind can think of is unreal. Does that leave anything free from the withering grip of illusion?

  No.

  Yet once we get over our shock, Buddha declares that with a shift
in consciousness, reality reveals itself. Not as a thing. Not as a sensation. Not even as a wisp of thought. Reality is purely itself. It is the ground of existence, the source from which everything else is projected. In the most basic terms, Buddhism exchanges a world of infinite projections for the single state of Being. A freedom so complete it doesn’t have to think of freedom or say its name.

  Which brings me to the subversive reason I decided to write a novel on the life of Buddha. By telling his story from the inside (early on I intended to call the book I, Buddha), I could trace every step that led Siddhartha to stop believing in the world. His tale isn’t really that of a romantic prince, suffering monk, or triumphant saint. It’s a universal soul journey that begins asleep and ends awake. Siddhartha woke up to the truth, which sounds inspiring, but in this case the truth demolished his entire self. It overturned every belief, purified every sense, and brought total clarity to the mind’s confusion. In sum, this book has been a kind of seduction, coaxing the reader step by step toward a vision that none of us was brought up to see. Through the eyes of Buddha, the root of suffering is illusion, and the only way out of illusion is to stop believing in the separate self and the world that supports the separate self. No spiritual message has ever been so radical. None remains so terribly urgent.

  The Art of Non-Doing

  A Practical Guide to Buddhism

  After being inspired by Buddha’s life, the most important thing is not to let him slip through your fingers. This can easily happen. First of all, because he didn’t want anyone to hold on to him. Buddha was like a supernova exploding in the sky, spreading light in all directions. Before the explosion you could locate him in time and space. He was a person like any other, however brilliant and charismatic. But after the explosion known as enlightenment, he turned into something else, something very impersonal. Call it pure spirit, essence, or transcendent wisdom. By any name, he was no longer a person, which makes for special difficulties. How do you follow a teacher who is everywhere at once?