The Dhamma Man

by Vilas Sarang

  Sudatta knew why the king thought of him for the chore. When Asit was a priest in the palace, Sudatta used to encounter him frequently. The two of them got on very well and affection grew between them. Part of the reason for the unspoken bond may have been that Asit, whose name translates literally as ‘not white’, was presumably not of Aryan descent. His skin was conspicuously dark and his facial features seemed to stand out as not quite ‘regular’. Asit could be taken to be a descendant of the pre-Aryan denizens of India. That such a man should be appointed priest in the royal household, and treated with honour and attention, indicates a society where occupations and divisions had not become rigid and the divide between Aryan and non-Aryan was not entirely hostile. Sudatta himself had dark brown skin, and suggested a different look, close to the non-Aryan type.

  The choice of Sudatta for the errand was shrewd on the part of the king for another reason. Asit had now officially retired as royal priest and did not even live in the vicinity. In Asit’s place, Shuddodan had appointed some Brahmin priests, in tune with the times. These Brahmin priests learnt of the invitation to Asit and they resented it. But they couldn’t do much about it, except grumble among themselves.

  Sudatta had a canny eye for these developments, and he enjoyed the Brahmins’ reaction. He went to Asit’s hermitage in the forest and escorted him to the palace. Sudatta talked most of the way, and he skilfully wove in the story of the Brahmin priests’ discomfiture. Sudatta was proud of Asit’s position in the royal household and how he was still remembered after his retirement. Asit listened to all this silently, and a little absent-mindedly. He had little interest now in matters of social ranking and worldly prizes. As for Sudatta, a younger man, he was alert to and conscious of social changes. He could not afford to retire from the battlefield.

  Shuddodan welcomed Asit with due humility and respect. The astrological chart of the time of birth prepared by the Brahmin priests was produced for Asit’s inspection. With a cursory glance at the elaborate charts, Asit imperiously threw them away. ‘I don’t need these,’ he declared. The gathering was taken aback. The priests who had prepared the charts looked crestfallen.

  The king sat next to the venerable guest, overseeing the proceedings. Other men sat according to their station, or status, but everyone sat as close to the others as possible. Together, they achieved a delicate balance between the propriety of hierarchy and their eagerness to be close to the centre of attraction.

  The women of the house sat apart, near the women’s chamber. They too were eager to hear the aged seer’s revelations.

  Maya was alone inside the women’s chamber. From her bed, she could vaguely hear the sounds in the assembly hall; she strained her ears to listen to what was being said in the assembly.

  The gathering was awed and intrigued by Asit’s unexpected gesture and they waited expectantly for him to speak.

  Asit said, ‘Bring the child here.’

  There was a brief flurry and one of the maids emerged from the shadowy interior with the child in her arms. It was wrapped in thin linen. The maid delicately and reverently placed the baby on a cotton blanket in front of Asit. ‘Unswaddle him,’ Asit ordered the maid. She undid all the clothes until the tiny body of the child was exposed in all its nakedness to the entire gathering. The baby seemed to relish wearing no clothes and playfully waved his tiny hands in the air. He didn’t cry at all.

  Asit leaned forward and inspected the child’s body as if he was some strange being. Asit lifted up the child’s feet. He gazed upon them. Then he opened the fingers of the hand and gazed at them. After that, he lifted the child’s sexual organ and peered underneath. There was a murmur from the crowd. The examination completed, Asit remained silent. Then, to the consternation of the crowd, the white-haired, wrinkled seer began crying. Tears flowed freely down his face.

  There was a collective cry of surprise and horror. The gathering was perplexed, above all. What did it mean? Had the seer discerned a good omen, or a bad one? Shuddodan urged his venerable guest to enlighten the audience. Asit controlled his emotions and spoke: ‘O king, you are an extraordinarily fortunate father. The child that is born to you is one in a million. He will attain great glory.’

  ‘Do you mean, sir, that he will be a great king, or an emperor?’ Shuddodan queried.

  ‘Do not think, O king, of such worldly achievements. This child will not wield the sceptre or the sword. He will be an extraordinarily original visionary and seek truth. Men like me, who have striven in vain all their life, are nothing before this child, whose future insights into mortal life will change the way we think.’

  ‘Oh, is that so?’ Shuddodan exclaimed. But he didn’t seem excited about the prediction. He looked at Asit thoughtfully.

  ‘Yes, your highness.’ Asit continued to be in raptures. ‘This child’s fame will spread all over this country. Even in distant lands, he will have countless disciples and followers.’

  ‘That’s a wonderful thing. But why did you cry, sir? I am puzzled.’

  ‘Oh,’ Asit said, wiping his tears afresh. ‘I was only weeping over my ill fortune. I have not long to live and I will not be around to behold your great son in his full glory. That is why I wept.’

  ‘I understand that, sir.’

  ‘But I urge those in this gathering who are young in years to become disciples of this great seer.’ Asit was still in an overwhelmed state of mind.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Shuddodan said. But there was no enthusiasm, no cheer in his voice. On the contrary, he seemed troubled and preoccupied.

  In the women’s chamber, Maya strove to keep awake and to keep her mind as alert as possible. She was aware that there was an important gathering in the hall, and things of profound interest were being said there, things directly of consequence to her own son’s future. But she could scarcely hear anything. The space between her chamber and the assembly hall seemed to her an enormous distance; a painful, aching void. She was alone in the chamber, except for a youthful maid stationed beside her bed. Even this maid had all her attention concentrated upon the goings-on in the hall. Everyone else had joined the crowd in the hall, and every member of that crowd, with their backs to the invalid woman in the chamber, was entirely oblivious of the sick woman’s existence. When this happens, the sick person must experience an unbearable sense of solitude, and an acute sense of abandonment.

  Floating between half-conscious thought and confused stupor, Maya was still aware that her younger sister, Pajapati, would come sooner or later to report to her the goings-on in the assembly. She knew that Pajapati was mindful of her; she just had to find time in the hustle-bustle of the crowded hall.

  Shuddodan asked: ‘Respected sir, I am very curious about one thing. Why did you examine the child’s body so attentively? How did this help you?’

  ‘That, dear king, is a special kind of knowledge. A knowledge that is more ancient than anyone can trace. Modern people, especially these uppity young priests, may dismiss it as some kind of magic. But it throws clear light on things, especially on the future.’

  ‘Really, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Now, if you look closely, you will find that the soles of your son are marked with wheels; that a circle of soft hair grows between his eyebrows. That his fingers and toes are joined and, most importantly, his testicles were withdrawn, scarcely visible.’

  ‘Now what does that mean?’ Shuddodan’s voice clearly showed alarm. ‘Isn’t this some kind of abnormality?’

  ‘Oh, no. It’s a sign of grace, and of extraordinary power. O king, you must have noticed that the testicles of an elephant are withdrawn; you can scarcely see them. A true sign of modesty, which, at the same time, hides tremendous power. That is why the elephant is the biggest, most powerful animal in the jungle. Even a tiger is wary of crossing paths with an elephant.’

  ‘I never thought of it in this way, O wise one!’

  ‘And compare the elephant with other animals. Consider the bull, for example. He walks about with his bloated testicles, as i
f they are about to fall off any moment like ripe mangoes. And one doesn’t even want to think of horses and asses whose genitals are displayed so vulgarly.’

  ‘The elephant, O king, is a royal animal. It is the symbol of decency, and of quiet, unassuming strength. That is why the elephant leads royal processions.’

  ‘That is extremely interesting,’ King Shuddodan said.

  The men in the assembly listened to Asit’s discourse in rapt attention and with increasing fascination. Several men instinctively reached between their legs but checked themselves when they realized that they were in company. But, sure enough, each man ascertained his condition as soon as he had some privacy. Most were disappointed. The youthful priests gathered in a secluded spot to examine the subject, and to compare notes. They were equally chagrined.

  ‘Oh, it’s all hocus-pocus cooked up by the wily Asit,’ said one of the priests.

  ‘Yeah,’ said another. ‘It’s all balls!’

  ‘So far, we were preoccupied with mine-is-bigger-than-yours. Now we have something else to worry about,’ said a third.

  The eldest of the group declared dismissively: ‘Look, guys, if you were as big as an elephant, you too would not be hard put to find your organ in the voluminous folds of your body. Enough of this frivolous tittle-tattle.’

  Asit, having completed his explanations, saluted the child and held his tiny feet in his frail hands. Eyes closed, he stood still, with only his lips moving inaudibly. Then he got up slowly, still wiping his tears. He then walked out of the hall without speaking to anyone. Shuddodan indicated to Sudatta that he should accompany Asit on his way back.

  In the assembly hall, now that the revered sage had departed, the infant Siddharth was the object of much adoration and general excitement. The women were chattering animatedly, vying with each other to hold the wonder baby for a few precious moments.

  Pajapati watched this with some apprehension. She did not like the helpless child to be tossed about as if it were a plaything. Then she remembered Maya, who had been alone in the chamber all this while.

  Pajapati got up and took hold of the child, then went straight to Maya. She could see that Maya was restless.

  Pajapati sat on Maya’s bed, holding the child in her arms.

  Maya wanted to say something. Speech was difficult, but the sick woman managed to convey her message. ‘What did the seer say?’

  Pajapati, who was already leaning over the bed to catch Maya’s words, said: ‘Sister, your child will be a great seer. His fame will spread far and wide.’

  A faint smile appeared on Maya’s face. ‘Really? Sage Asit said so?’

  ‘Yes. Asit was himself overcome with the miracle.’

  A rare expression of peace and fulfilment appeared on Maya’s face. She closed her eyes contentedly. Then she opened her eyes and whispered: ‘What about the child’s naming ceremony?’

  ‘Oh, it’s going to be the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘I hope to be alive till then.’

  ‘Oh, elder sister, don’t say such things. You’re going to be all right.’ But neither woman had conviction in her words.

  Two days later, eight Brahmins performed the newborn child’s naming ceremony. The Brahmins were happy to be in charge. When Asit commanded everyone’s respect and attention, the priests were jealous but couldn’t say anything. When Asit examined and talked about the significance of the child’s bodily features, the priests inwardly sneered. They thought of Asit’s divination as gobbledegook, as some kind of black art that this man of aboriginal descent practised. There was something mysterious about Asit’s background. His knowledge did not seem to be entirely derived from the conventional sources of learning.

  The Brahmin priests especially felt this when Asit talked about the child’s sexual organ. Not only was it embarrassing, it seemed like some dark, exotic knowledge that the old man had imbibed from his hoary, aboriginal ancestry. The Brahmin priests looked upon it sceptically, while at the same time, they succumbed to the awe and fear of this man, this rank outsider.

  Unlike Asit’s primitive ways of prediction, the priests adopted a more ‘civilized’ approach. They took out their mathematical and astrological charts and made a show of deducing their reading scientifically.

  Shuddodan asked them the main thing that was on his mind. ‘Is he going to be a seer, a religious man, or could he become a great king, a warrior and conqueror?’

  The priests looked at each other. Then the eldest of them spoke: ‘O king, the child could be a great seer, or he could be a mighty king. Both possibilities are there.’

  Shuddodan immediately saw through the words of the priest. The priest had shrewdly guessed that the king was not pleased with the prospect of his son becoming a holy man. As a Kshatriya, the king would rather see his son become a warrior-king. Divining this, the priest had diplomatically modulated Asit’s prediction to please his king. Shuddodan, who was a seasoned man of the world, responded to the priest with a wry smile.

  As ever, Maya was a mute, stationary witness—an indirect, distant witness—to the naming ceremony. Again, she strained her ears, her whole being, to comprehend what was going on in the hall. Most of all, she wanted to know what name was given to her son. Nobody had told her. In the royal household, a wife and mother was merely a cog in the wheel. Maya waited for her sister. When Pajapati finally came to Maya’s bed, Maya, by the look in her eyes and the expression on her face, mutely asked what name was given to her son.

  ‘Siddharth,’ Pajapati said, smiling, her hand on her distended belly.

  Maya listened to the name and faintly spoke and savoured the sound: ‘Sidd-har-th’. With that utterance, a tiny part of an enormous thirst in her being was quenched.

  The child had got a name. Many years later, Siddharth himself formulated the stages of the existence of human beings. And according to the stages, shortly after his nativity, the child had attained namarupa, name and form.

  Name and form is, according to the formulation, the fourth ‘condition’ of a chain of the conditional nexus of existence. The first three are ignorance, intentions and consciousness. Siddharth, at this point in his earthly existence, was thus very much at the beginning of this chain of conditionality, a chain that, according to the canon, has twelve stages, ending in death. Consciousness and ‘name and form’ are elementary steps on this chain of conditions. One of the central objectives of Siddharth’s life in the future would be to overcome the remaining conditions of this chain, particularly feelings, craving and grasping, and, of course, the ultimate pinnacle of conquest, the conquest of jara-maran, decay and death. But all that was in the future. The man was yet to take his first few baby steps.

  Maya had obtained two precious pieces of knowledge: that her son would grow up to be an illustrious man, eternally famous, and that his name was Siddharth. Maya’s earthly existence was nearing its end, but this meagre bit of knowledge was insufficient for her. For centuries human beings have lived on the driving force of thirst; all kinds of thirst. Craving, desire, is the end of life. And while there are all kinds of craving, some even unreasonable and diabolical, Maya’s wish was modest. She was satisfied with the few crumbs that life on earth still spared for her. People have to be grateful for whatever desires are fulfilled; that is the ancient way of the world. Before her son completed his manifest existence, he would put forth an entirely new and startling view of life and its parameters would change the thinking of millions of men and women on how to cope with the pain of existence. Maya would not be around to see her son reshape the minds of countless people. The day of the naming ceremony was the fifth day of the child’s life. On the seventh day, Maya died. She died quietly, and one presumes, contentedly, having fulfilled her mission in the world.

  Maya may still be around in the never-ending cycles of birth and rebirth, unless she too has attained nirvana. If she is still in the world under some different name and form, it is not unlikely that an inquisitive reporter might pick up the scent of her life and set h
er up for a sensational interview. His first question: ‘What is it like being the mother of the greatest Indian of all time?’ And perhaps Maya might hardly hear the question. She is already wandering the labyrinths of her dreamworld, seeing visions of the great elephant Airavat. She then comes upon a young girl, resplendent in all the glory of her newfound youth. And even as the life ebbs out of her, she wonders who the girl is.

  3

  I lived a spoilt, a very spoilt life as a child. After the prophecy of the venerable Asit, my father was bent upon proving the words of the old man wrong. My father was, after all, king. He had every means at his command to make things happen the way he wanted them.

  Shuddodan built a separate house for the boy and only select individuals were admitted to this house within a house. Only people above the age of twenty were to be seen in the prince’s vicinity. A number of princely children were always with the boy. And a number of young beautiful maids helped the prince fulfil his every wish and kept him entertained.

  To tell you the truth, these childish games always left me with an increasing sense of unreality. I longed to get away from them, to have time to think. Yes, even a child of four or five can think. He can think of many things, if only he were given a chance. But I found that the world around me was built to give me no room. Gradually, I began to see this world as hostile to me; even though it was built so meticulously and, I have to admit, lovingly. But an increasing sense of nausea built up within me.

  What was this house constructed for? To keep the outside world away from me. I was born in this world, like every child, every human being, like every animal, and they wanted to shut this world out of my ken, obliterate it from my knowledge. For how long? It was absurd. They should have known it. Maybe some of them were aware of it. But a king’s wish is a king’s wish.

  The height of absurdity was such that my father himself abstained from visiting my palace. He was afraid that his appearance might set off a chain of undesirable thoughts in my mind. My father was getting on in years, and King Shuddodan wished to avoid at all costs the possibility that the signs of old age visible on his face and body might conjure up in my mind a picture of life. He was my father, the king. I would be king after him. I would be like him at the end of years. I would be old. That kind of thinking he feared. Years! He waited to wipe the notion of years from my mind.