by Ulf Wolf
Give me a week, said his father, though not in so many words. What he said was, “Uposatha,” meaning the next full moon, a week away.
And this was a busy week for his father who ordered a massive all-hands on deck to clear large parts of the city—those along Siddhattha’s path—of any sign of misery, that’s to say, any trace of age, sickness, or suffering; sights unsuitable for the prince and king-to-be.
In fact, considering the time constraint, they did a remarkable job, for riding down the prescribed route (which Suddhodana insisted Siddhattha take—that and none other) all the prince saw was young, healthy, smiling faces, greeting their prince.
“You are right, this is a beautiful city,” said Siddhattha to Ananda who came along for this ride. “It’s all like the palace, though larger.”
Ananda, biting his tongue, agreed.
At the end of the prescribed route, however—where they were meant to turn around—Siddhattha spotted a multi-colored fountain through the foliage to his right and asked his charioteer Channa to go there.
When Channa did not answer, or show any indication of carrying out the prince’s wishes, Siddhattha asked again. “Channa, take us to that fountain.” Now pointing to it.
Again Channa remained ear-less, and instead focused all his attention on some problem with the reins, or was it his hands?
“Channa,” said Siddhattha. “Why do you ignore my request?”
Channa, being almost as much a father to Siddhattha as Suddhodana, finally answered. “By the King’s wish.”
“What is the King’s wish?”
“That we travel to this place, then turn and travel back.”
“This is well and good, Channa,” said Siddhattha. “But my wish is to take a closer at that fountain.” And with that Siddhattha stepped off the chariot and said, “Ananda. Follow me.”
Thus it came to be that Siddhattha, at age twenty-nine, for the first time in his life encountered old age, for resting by the beautiful fountain, wrapped in a much-washed light-blue sari, was an eighty-eight-year-old woman, as bent and wrinkly and toothless a thing as you’d ever see, smiling up at the prince: all tongue, thin lips and gum.
Siddhattha, at first repulsed, but soon more curious than repelled, looked more closely at the woman and said to her, “Why have you no teeth?”
“I have not had teeth for one hundred and twenty moons,” answered the old woman.
“Why is that?” asked Siddhattha.
“Why?” The woman did not seem to understand the question.
“Yes.”
The woman looked long at the prince—as if to determine whether or not he was dream—before her gaze slipped past him to Channa, now approaching with horses and chariot. Ananda and Siddhattha both turned at the sound of hoofs and wheel.
“My prince,” said Channa. “We need to return.”
“Not until she answers my question,” said Siddhattha.
“What question is that?” wondered Channa.
“The Prince wants to know why an old woman has no teeth,” said the old woman, as if the question was too foolish even to acknowledge. As if the prince had asked her why clay pots fall to the ground when dropped.
Channa said something to his horses, who came to rest, and then, snorting importantly—one white and one black, beautiful steeds both—appeared to scrutinize the old woman as well.
“And what do you answer,” said the Prince.
“An old woman answers that the Prince is mocking her,” she said.
“The Prince,” said the Prince, who felt impatience rise, but reined it in, “is not mocking an old woman. The Prince does not know the answer and seeks it. Or he would not waste air to ask.”
Again, the old woman looked at the prince for a long, silent spell filled with soft splashing of water from the fountain and impatient scraping of hoofs from the horses. Then she looked at Ananda, Channa, and the two horses in turn, as if they might help explain to her this strange, royal question.
Finally, she said, realizing that Siddhattha in fact did not know, “Leaves turn golden and red in the autumn, leave their branches and fall to the ground. Teeth are no different.”
“But you are not a tree,” said the Prince.
“No,” said the old woman. “But I have my seasons.”
“But it is spring,” said Siddhattha.
“Not for me,” she answered. “My spring was many, many moons ago. I have lived a long life, and my autumn even is soon past, for winter knocks on my door.”
Then she added, as if instructing a child, “I am an old woman. This is what happens to old women. To all women, to all men, to all girls, to all boys. Time shows no mercy.”
“Ananda,” said the prince, still looking at the woman for a breath or two, time, then turning to his friend. “Is this true?”
Ananda did not answer, but Channa said, “It is true, my prince.”
Once they returned to the palace, Siddhattha asked that Ananda stay with him, which he gladly did. Naturally, Ananda had expected many questions from his friend, but this was not the reason the prince wanted his company, for he asked no questions, and said little else. He simply wanted his friend nearby.
And wanted him by his side the next morning, when the prince stirred Ananda from sleep even before the sun bruised the sky.
“Ananda, wake.” A strong hand on his shoulder, a gentle shake.
“What is it?” A tired Ananda getting his bearings.
“Take me back to the fountain.”
Ananda came all awake. “Shall I tell Channa?”
“No, we walk.”
“But the King,” began Ananda.
“We walk,” said Siddhattha, in so princely a way that it brooked no argument.
And so they walked. They stole out of the palace, and they walked.
Perhaps Siddhattha had more questions for the old woman, and perhaps he had expected to find her there, but she was gone. In her stead sat an old man, leprous arms twisted into a permanent plea, and fingerless hands forming a mockery of a bowl. “Please, Sir,” said the old man, revealing two dark teeth.
Again, Siddhattha was first repulsed by this sight, but curiosity soon rose the larger. “What happened to you?” he asked.
“Please, Sir,” repeated the leper, motioning his make-believe hand-bowl toward the Prince.
Siddhattha had brought nothing to give, but Ananda had, and dropped a small piece of silver into the permanently cupped palms.
“Thank you, Sir,” said the leper.
“What happened to you?” asked Siddhattha again.
“What do you mean, Sir?”
“What happened to your arms, and your legs, and your hands?”
The leper did not understand. He looked down at his hands to see if some strange change had beset and perhaps healed them, but he found them as damaged as always. He then looked at Ananda, perhaps he could explain such a strange question.
For the third time, Siddhattha asked, “What happened to you?”
“You mock me,” said the leper.
Siddhattha turned to Ananda, and Ananda knew what question was coming. “No,” he said. “As the old woman was not, nor is this leper mocking you.”
“Leper?” said Siddhattha.
“Yes.”
“Have you never seen such as one as me?” said the leper.
“No,” said Siddhattha, “I have not.”
“You must have lived a very sheltered life,” said the leper, “for we are no strangers to the world.”
Siddhattha looked at Ananda again, then back to the leper. “Yes,” said Siddhattha, “I believe I have.”
Siddhattha insisted they take a different way back to the palace, and Ananda—who expected Channa and horses at any time—could but agree. The winding street led to the river where a small gathering of solemn people were placing a corpse upon a pyre. Ananda saw this first, and tried to steer his friend away from the banks, but then Siddhattha saw the funeral rite, too, and would not be led aside. Inste
ad, he wanted a closer look. What could Ananda do? Princely wishes reign supreme.
Arrived at the pyre, Siddhattha looked down at the very still man, dressed in fresh linen, decorated with newly cut, still fragrant yellow and white flowers.
Two women sang a soft hymn, while the men prepared the fire, and soon the base of the pyre was speaking its own language of snaps and sparks. Smoke rose, and the edge of new linen that had unfolded caught fire with a hiss.
Siddhattha, stunned by the sight, could not take his eyes of the face that did not react at all to so much warm strangeness.
“What is wrong with him?” asked the Prince.
The little congregation—having recognized the Prince—did not know whom he was addressing, perhaps the Prince did not either. None answered.
Until Ananda did. “He is dead, Siddhattha.”
“Dead?”
“Yes, Siddhattha. The body ages, then it sickens, then dies. It is what time does to life.”
The prince did not answer. Instead he looked from Ananda back to the corpse, now beginning to smolder under the onslaught of flame, befouling the smoke with strange odors speaking of what once was but no longer.
They made their way back toward the palace in silence, Siddhattha, now dark of eye and of mind, much consumed by what he had seen.
Within sight of the palace the two friends were approached by a thin, smiling man, dressed in a clean but much worn robe, alms-bowl in hand.
Noticing Siddhattha, the man said, “You seem troubled, friend.”
Siddhattha looked down into the most tranquil face he had ever seen.
“I am,” answered the Prince.
“Tell me,” said the ascetic.
“Yesterday,” said Siddhattha, “I saw an old woman. This morning I saw a leper. And just now I saw a corpse.”
“Yes,” said the smiling man, and nodded. “Yes.” Then said no more.
When Siddhattha, too, would not find words, the smiling man briefly touched the Prince’s shoulder, then walked away, still as tranquil a presence as Siddhattha had ever seen.
The two men watched the ascetic—who never once looked back—walk away. Finally, Siddhattha asked, “Who was that?”
“He is a holy man, an ascetic,” said Ananda.
“He seems not concerned about anything.”
When Ananda said nothing, Siddhattha added, “And untroubled.”
“That is their way.”
“That is my way,” said the Prince after a brief silence.
:
Thus it came to pass that at the age of twenty-nine Siddhattha Gotama, the once-to-be heir of a small, but prosperous kingdom, took a long and meaningful look at the palace, at his wife, at his son, at his father the King, at the beauty of the gardens, at the abundance that did its very best—but failed—to cover up the underlying and much larger truth: things are born, they grow, they decline, and pass away. And he saw that there is no hiding this truth under any manner of ease. He saw that there is no hiding from it, no escaping it.
And at seeing this, the palace life struck him as confining, as one large lie, which he could no longer abide. That day he told Suddhodana that he was leaving. He would pursue the life of an ascetic, to seek a permanent truth.
No manner of pleading, promises, nor even threats would change his mind.
He asked Ananda if he would join him, but Ananda declined. Although he was sympathetic to Siddhattha’s decision, there was much he had yet to do and accomplish that he could not abandon.
“As you will,” said Siddhattha. “Perhaps we’ll meet again.”
And so, early one morning Siddhattha slowly opened the door to his wife’s chamber, where his child slept as well, and from the doorway took one long last glimpse at them, knowing full well that if he woke them to say goodbye, he would likely not be able to leave, he loved them too much. Instead he blew two kisses in their direction, one for his wife, and one for his son, then turned away and left he palace.
The sun had yet to rise.
:
Eight years later, his commitments now fulfilled, Ananda—along with his half-brother Anuruddha, as well as Devadatta and several other Sakyan nobles—set out to join Siddhattha. They caught up with him at Savatthi.
The now enlightened one could not have been more pleased. Seeing his old friend approach from a distance, he halted his discourse, rose, and strode to greet him.
“And so we meet again,” said the Buddha after asking Ananda to rise, and embracing him.
Eighteen years later, when they were both fifty-five years old, the Buddha called a meeting of the monks and declared: “In my twenty years as leader of the Sangha, I have had many different attendants, but none of them has really filled the post perfectly; again and again some willfulness has become apparent. Now I am fifty-five years old and it is necessary for me to have a trustworthy and reliable attendant.”
Several of the noble disciples offered their services, but the Buddha, while thanking them all, declined their offers. Then he looked to Ananda, who had held back modestly, and asked him to volunteer.
This—being the Buddha’s wish—Ananda then did, and would for the rest of Gotama Buddha’s life remain his constant companion, attendant, and helper.
The two friends were truly together again.
:
Not long after Ananda had accepted and assumed the role of the Buddha’s attendant, they arrived—along with three hundred some monks—at Kusinara, in the Mallas’s Sal-grove. After taking evening tea and briefly discussing one or two issues concerning the Sangha, the Buddha told Ananda he wanted to retire for the day.
When Ananda did not answer right away, Siddhattha took a closer look at his friend, and in his face recognized a budding question, held in check by consideration for the Buddha’s wish to retire.
“What is it, Ananda?”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course, Ananda. What is it?”
Ananda hesitated a while longer, as if weighing whether to burden the Enlightened One with his concern.
“Ask me,” said Siddhattha.
Ananda drew breath, and then said, “Venerable Sir. For over eighteen years I have faithfully practiced the Dhamma. Under your tutelage I have practiced higher training. For over eighteen years no sensual perception has arisen in me, no desire, no perception of hate has arisen in me. Yet, I have not reached arahanthood.
“If I, your faithful servant, your vessel and Guardian of the Dhamma, have yet to land on the arahant shore, have yet to see Nibbana after these eighteen years, how long is not the road for the ignorant farmer, the jealous mistress, the greedy merchant?
“And with so many beings in the world, with so much suffering, is our task truly possible?”
Siddhattha Gotama did not answer right away. Perhaps because Ananda’s doubt—if doubt it was—resonated dimly within himself, or perhaps because he was not sure how to frame the answer. Then he spoke:
“Friend. This is a universe of plenty. Still, given time, you can empty the ocean with a spoon. It is only a matter of quantity.”
“It is a large ocean.”
“Yes, Ananda. It is vast. Yet this ocean can only be emptied drop by drop.”
“It is possible then?”
“Yes. Drop by drop.”
:: 10 :: (Still River)
In the quiet morning Ananda hears the far-away wondering of Gotama Buddha, soon to be Ruth Marten. Soon to set forth again from Tusita Heaven.
“Ananda, where are you?”
And in the same stillness, he answers him: “I am here, Gotama. In this cabin. At this keyboard. Dreaming your new arrival into being.”
Gotama Buddha asks: “Where is here, Ananda?”
“Here is a small town by a river.”
“What is it called, this small town?”
“It is called Still River. It is a clearing in the large forests of the north-western United States, in the state of Idaho. Not far from Canada.”
“What are
you doing there?”
“I listen, I understand, and I take good notes. And what are you doing, Gotama?”
“I am preparing to return.”
“I gathered as much. When are you coming?”
“I will be born on the fourth of January next year.”
“This is certain?”
“Yes, Ananda, this is certain.”
“Where are you now?”
“I am in the Tusita heaven.”
Ananda leaned back, and read the laptop display of what he had just written. Then he saved the document, arose, and went into his small kitchen: it was time for his morning apple.
Chewing each bite well to make the small, sweet meal last, and looking out the window, out at the trees and the still river below though seeing none of this, Ananda recalled, again, Gotama Buddha’s passing and the terrible darkness that had all but drowned him with its grief despite his clear vision that this was precisely what the grief meant to do. And knowing this, he managed one more breath of air. And another.
And then, instead of drowning, Ananda gathered himself and rose. Now that his friend had gone, only one mission remained: to preserve the Dhamma.
That, and to see to his own liberation.
Once the funeral ceremonies were over, Ananda went to his friend Kassapa—an arahant these many year—and asked him for advice.
“We must gather soon to recite the Dhamma,” Kassapa said. “But before then, you must attain arahanthood. Go to the Kosala forest, live, dwell, and meditate in solitude there. Find me once you’ve found liberation.
Ananda did as Kassapa suggested, but word soon spread that the Buddha’s attendant was living nearby, and before long Ananda was inundated with visitors.
Day and night Ananda would console lay disciples about the Buddha’s passing, and he rarely, if ever, had a moment to himself.
As legend has it, a forest deity, concerned about Ananda’s spiritual progress and seeing how he could never attend to himself, advised him to take himself deeper into the forest, beyond reach of the many, and focus entirely upon his own enlightenment.
