The Dhamma Man

by Vilas Sarang

  VILAS SARANG

  The Dhamma Man

  Contents

  About the Author

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Copyright Page

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  THE DHAMMA MAN

  VILAS SARANG was born in Karwar and educated in Mumbai and at Indiana University. He has taught English literature in various countries and was head of the English department in Mumbai University for several years. His short stories have been collected in Women in Cages and his novel Tandoor Cinders was published in 2008. He has also published two collections of poetry: A Kind of Silence and Another Life.

  Preface

  Books about Buddha are plentiful. Most of them are scholarly to varying degrees: some indifferent, some excellent. Among the excellent ones, I would count Hans Wolfgang Schumann’s The Historical Buddha. Even with the excellent ones, I experience a vague dissatisfaction. Not that the books fall short in some way; the convention of the scholarly book reins in the author. At a moment of intensity or drama—especially of implicit drama—the scholarly writer is hemmed in by a sense of propriety. It is at such a moment that the sensitive reader wishes that the narrative had been handed over to a novelist. There are quite a few moments in the life story of Buddha where one strongly feels so. But among the books on Buddha, novels are few; you can count them on the fingers of one hand.

  I realized that writing a biographical novel is a delicate job. The objective and the subjective have to be blended with care and skill. For instance, I ventured into the first person as long as the protagonist was ‘Siddharth’; but, once he became the enlightened Buddha, it was obvious that it would be foolhardy to enter into the mind of a person which functions wholly on the supra-normal level.

  But the novel form has some elbow room. I have depicted Siddharth’s formative years as a type of Bildungsroman, which it is; but a strict historian would consider it none of his business.

  Also, particularly in the later part of the novel, I have liberally indulged in interpretation and at times criticism; the historian would confine himself to historical facts. This kind of expression—a legitimate task of the novelist—gives the story a well-rounded form.

  Needless to say, my attitude towards Buddha is that of deep affection, fascination, admiration and amazement; but, not being a Buddhist, I stop short of thoughtless devotion. I believe Buddha himself would have liked such a ‘thinking’ admirer.

  I have made some linguistic changes in a book of this kind, which I think were long overdue. Books in English have so far been written by Western scholars, and they have naturally tended to follow Western conventions, especially where spelling and pronunciation are concerned. A stellar example is the word ‘Buddha’, Western scholars always write it ‘the Buddha’ (as if he were a thing!). Initially I was loyal to this convention. But then my mind rebelled. Why should we write ‘the Buddha’ instead of simply ‘Buddha’? ‘Christ’ is almost always referred to without ‘the’.

  Look around. The definite article does not exist in Hindi, Gujarati, Marathi, Bengali and quite a few other languages. We are quite happy to point to just ‘Buddha’. We may do the same in Indian English.

  More amazing is the case of ‘Siddhartha’. Indian writers, even today, write of ‘Siddhartha’. The name is common in India even today. It is written as ‘Siddharth’. Why should we continue with the colonial practice?

  Numerous other names have been revised: ‘Shuddodana’ becomes ‘Shuddodan’, ‘Asita’ becomes ‘Asit’; ‘Bimbisara’ becomes ‘Bimbisar’; ‘Mara’ becomes ‘Maar’; ‘Kosala’ becomes ‘Kosal’, ‘Rahula’ becomes ‘Rahul’, I hope this practice will continue.

  1

  Many births ago, I was a household retainer in the palace of King Shuddodan Gautam. He was a diminutive, kindly man, this retainer, by the name of Sudatta. I focus my deep memory upon him, and I can see he is already old. I lived his whole life from birth to death. I could reel off his whole life story, like a film in fast forward. But I don’t want to dwell on Sudatta’s life history. I know better than to lose myself in that tricky labyrinth, among the countless spokes of the wheel that crushes the sugarcane for its juice. After all, a man, or a woman, is not an unbroken chain; he or she is only a desultory performer, flickering on and off. Sudatta’s transitory performance at a certain point in eternity, which was also one of my historical existences, is what the lens of the mind’s eye concentrates its vision on.

  On a bright, dry morning, Sudatta walks behind a decorated and canopied cart which is, very obviously, the centre of the little procession crawling over the plain. Sudatta is part of the migration, too close to the event, a bit too involved, one may say. At this distance in time, I can easily picture Sudatta and, with a little effort, at some distance in space too.

  I see the little procession making its way slowly over the plain. The slowness is accentuated by the distance. Even the elaborate canopy and the accoutrements are not very noticeable from so far away, and it just seems like an ordinary bullock-cart, going from nowhere to nowhere. It’s curious how Indian bullock-carts create this impression of movement that takes one nowhere. Perhaps it is the great distance that emphasizes this perception. It is an arresting tableau—a large cart on a wide, barren plain, a few men in the front and at the back, the whole affair moving at a speed which only just seems to save the whole affair from being called stationary. That is the beauty of India, of vanishing India, to be precise; one might say an India shifting to the present.

  The cart was not an ordinary one and the canopy and decorations proclaimed its extraordinariness, its royalty. The contingent of men in the front and the rear did so too.

  The royal cart carried Maya, the senior queen of Shuddodan, the king of the Sakyas, whose capital was Kapilavastu. Maya was being taken back to her parents’ house in Devadaha. The reason: Maya was pregnant, the date of delivery was upon them and the daughter was making the traditional journey to her parents’ house for her confinement.

  Sudatta, an elder retainer with experience of royal service, and some education, was put in charge of the queen’s trip. The journey began in a bit of a hurry. The vaidya of the royal household had calculated the probable date of delivery—the date was still a few days away. But that night, Maya complained of pain. The vaidya was hastily called. After a brief examination, he pronounced that the mother-to-be was likely to deliver within a day or two.

  Hurried consultations were held, and it was decided that Maya should, without losing time, be transported to her parents’ home. Yashodhara, Maya’s mother, had insisted that her daughter be brought to Devadaha. Differing opinions were voiced. Some in the assembly said that the parents’ wishes should be followed. But most of the women present were from the Gautam family. They were reluctant to let the daughter-in-law go, and wanted to assert their power as husband’s relations. Then, an elderly relation asked for Maya’s opinion. Maya, who by then could hardly talk, barely managed to say, ‘Take me to Mother! Hurry, please!’ That shut everyone up.

  A royal cart was summoned. Men were assembled. Things were got together: water, fruit, travellers’ snacks. Sudatta supervised the little expedition. Essentials were loaded on to the cart. Maya’s bed was made as comfortable as possible in the circumstances. An elderly woman attendant was to accompany her. All this was accomplished overnight. The retinue was to leave at dawn.

  It
was still dark when attendants helped Maya into the cart. The curtains of the canopy were drawn and Sudatta gave the signal to start. The cart-driver prodded the bullock and made the peculiar noises that are used to get oxen moving—noises which, over the centuries, must have changed very little. Though dawn was about to break, the men and the animals were shrouded in darkness, shadowy presences lighted occasionally by the flickering torches.

  From the well of my deep memory, I summon the start of that not-too-momentous journey in a town in the northernmost part of India. At the time, when it actually happened, this little episode seemed hardly of much consequence; it was just a small group of people beginning a brief journey. Morning is almost always the time to start journeys, and also the right time for their end—people often die during the early hours of the day.

  Sudatta, in that particular birth, was of a contemplative, thoughtful nature, and thoughts such as these frequently entered his mind. But now he stopped any thought from entering his mind; there there were things to be done. As supervisor, he had to see that everything proceeded smoothly and each person attended to his job diligently. A man is only as good as his function.

  Four guards walked alongside the bullock-cart with spears in their hands, a routine precaution on journeys outside the town. Dacoits were an ever-present threat; so were forest animals straying on to the path. Sudatta himself brought up the rear; not only for protection, but also to keep an eye on things and men.

  It was the month of May and the sun rose all too soon. The early dawn had been reasonably cool and refreshing and even after the sun came up, for a brief while the air remained cool. The tender light had a freshness, a comforting assurance of the diurnal renewal of the wheel of time. The very leaves of the trees seemed to welcome the change from carbon to oxygen. It was not just the chemistry, but the entire ambience of sunrise that deeply affected one who witnessed these things. Sunrise in the Indian countryside, even within villages and small towns, has an indefinably pleasant feel. Perhaps it has something to do with the air in the early morning; the gentle quietness and the cool comforting dust which hangs like a blanket but creates, at the same time, a sense of relaxed peace, limned with a soft sadness. In my stints as a conscious being over the centuries, I have become all too familiar with the composite emanations of the morning.

  And, oh, how can one neglect to mention the equally enchanting spell of the evening? If anything, evenings evoke, in a far more potent and inscrutable measure, mixed feelings and sensations. The evenings are very often many coloured, but, above all, they have an irrevocable sense of end, though temporary. It’s interesting that both the mornings and evenings create a subtle sense of detachment, of renunciation almost, and I wonder if the Indian mind has been unknowingly affected by the desire for desirelessness. Perhaps that is the reason behind these crowds of renunciants, wandering around, subsisting on nothing.

  But I digress. And my only excuse for it is that I do not quite know how to approach—and deal with—the momentous events of the day of which I have described the beginning.

  As happens in many parts of India, after sunrise, the heat climbed rapidly. Sudatta began to feel it on his face and started perspiring. But he was more anxious about Maya. Thankfully, the cart was covered, which prevented the sun from beating down directly on her. Maya’s makeshift bed was made as comfortable as possible but the way was rough and bumpy and the queen must have suffered continually.

  Sudatta noticed that sounds of discomfort, which had not been audible at the beginning of the journey, could now be heard from the covered cart. After a while, the frequency and urgency of the muffled cries grew. Sudatta became worried.

  It was no use telling the cart-driver to drive faster, for that would only increase the discomfort. All that Sudatta could do was to continue the journey patiently, and hope. Once or twice he walked alongside the cart and asked the woman attendant accompanying Maya if the mistress was being given water and some of the fruit. The woman informed him that she was feeding as much water as the mistress was willing to take, but that she had not touched the fruit, or any of the eatables that were with them.

  From their shadows, Sudatta estimated that it was getting close to noon. From the signs along the path he could see that they were about halfway through, but it would be still quite some time before they arrived in Devadaha.

  The May sun was now merciless and even sweat seemed to evaporate. The soles of Sudatta’s feet felt like they were burning up.

  Sudatta knew that this was probably the worst time of the year to let a pregnant woman, who was soon to deliver, travel in an ox-cart in the middle of the day. The fierce heat would not spare the woman’s body or the foetus inside her. He shuddered to think of the possible consequences. And if Sudatta had had his say, he would have strongly advised against the journey. But the pregnant woman only thought of reaching her maternal home, her ‘true’ home, to be in the care of her own mother. For that, she was willing to risk anything. And Sudatta’s job, after all, was only to carry out the wishes of the royals. It was not for him to question their decisions.

  Queen Maya screamed in agony from inside the cart. The agonized cry continued, gaining in pitch and volume, dropped down to a sobbing whimper and became shrill again. Sudatta did not know what to do.

  The woman attendant accompanying Maya parted the curtain and called out: ‘Sir, the mistress cannot bear the pain any more. She wants to get out for some fresh air. Stop the cart.’

  Sudatta gave the command. The cart stopped. The jingling of the bells around the bullocks’ necks ceased.

  Sudatta stood behind the cart while the attendant held the curtain open.

  ‘How is the lady’s condition? Can’t we go on?’ Sudatta asked.

  ‘I doubt it,’ the attendant said. ‘The lady says she wants to get down.’

  ‘That will create greater strain. She should stay in the cart. We will rest for a few moments.’

  The attendant spoke to Maya inside the canopy. ‘She says she wants to get down.’

  ‘All right,’ Sudatta agreed reluctantly.

  Maya was helped down from the cart by Sudatta and the attendant. She blinked in the bright sunlight and tried to straighten her body. She could hardly stand upright.

  With difficulty, the royal lady slowly took a few steps supported by the two helpers. ‘Where are we?’ Maya asked, falteringly.

  ‘Near the village of Lumbini,’ Sudatta replied. ‘We have just about four kos (about nine miles by today’s reckoning) to travel further.’

  Beside the cart track, the land was empty, apart from stray bushes and dry grass. There was only one large tree in the immediate vicinity—a sal. Maya walked towards the tree, each step an agony. In spite of the short distance, the exercise made her dizzier than she already was and it was a relief to enter the sanctuary of the cool shade of the tree. The sal tree is extremely tall so although it does not have much foliage, the branches, collectively, give enough shade. Reaching the bole of the tree, Maya lay down—slumped, rather—on the slopes of the roots of the tree. She feebly whispered for water. The maid diligently provided it and strove to make things restful for her mistress. Supine, Maya faced what seemed to be the unending length of the tree, as it aspired to touch the heavens. The lower branches lightly waved in the breeze. Maya briefly experienced a sense of calm and peace. She gently closed her eyes, as if she didn’t want to lose or mar the unexpected vision. She became drowsy and was overcome by sleep.

  There was nothing much that Sudatta could do, except in little ways. When the mistress and the maid had settled under the sal tree, he ordered the cart, along with the men, to park a little distance away from the spot. The oxen were to be rested and watered. He himself stood unobtrusively on the side of the cart, casting furtive glances at the ladies, keeping a watch over the situation.

  Having served Princess Maya for a few years, Sudatta had come to know her pretty well. Royal women didn’t get much time with their husbands and their emotional bonds were, at be
st, desultory. With such women, the female confidantes developed more attachment, and occasionally a male retainer. Seeing that Sudatta was gentle, sincere, and never tattled about the confidences he received, Maya had high regard for him. He, too, had developed a protective attitude towards Princess Maya.

  Sudatta was more distressed at Maya’s situation than anyone else in the company on the road to Devadaha. The others, instinctively, or perhaps by genetic conditioning, regarded their work as their dharma, their function in the scheme of things.

  With Sudatta, work had begun as dharma and had slowly transgressed into personal emotion. Always a dangerous situation, but Sudatta had no great personal involvement in the matter; he maintained his distance, aware always of his station and function. He simply felt a measure of affection and sympathy for the princess. Perhaps his feelings could best be described as karuna, empathy or compassion, a word which had not taken on the deeper meaning before the birth that I, as Sudatta, was going to have the rare fortune of being a witness to.

  Maya’s life as a princess was happy, as far as the lives of royal women go. She had to be content with whatever time her husband found for her. The one great heartache of Maya’s life was that her marriage, until recently, had been childless. This especially rankled because Maya was now forty years old. At a time when women bore children at the age of fifteen or sixteen, this state of affairs was nothing less than shocking. Forty was the age at which people, men and women, were considered old. Maya had almost given up hope and was often disconsolate. And then, when she found out that she was pregnant, the news electrified her. All at once, the world became a cheery, rose-coloured place. Sudatta was happy for her. He felt almost paternal towards the unborn child.

  Now, the present situation had put all in abeyance. Everything hung in the balance and all you could do was to wait for the outcome with fitful breath. Sudatta restlessly fidgeted about, like an expectant father.