The Dhamma Man

by Vilas Sarang

  And he had not even seen his son yet! What was his son? What was his face like? It was blank. It was a blank. A blankness. Blankness calling to blankness—void to void. What was the meaning of this calling? It was absurd. Yes. Absurd.

  Siddharth remembered the dreams of his childhood. Particularly one. The same dream. Again and again. He saw himself enmeshed in a huge spider’s web. Leastways, he imagined the spider to be huge. Actually, in his dream, he never saw the spider. This gigantic web, with filament upon filament in an endless design, had no maker, no spider.

  And little Siddharth, the prince, found himself in the gigantic web, trying desperately to free himself, but the filaments, though they seemed ever so frail and delicate, were in reality (in reality?) strong as twine, and the harder he tried the more entangled he became.

  No, Siddharth decided, he could not take leave of his family and relatives for the simple reason that they would not let him leave. They would make it difficult, difficult for him.

  The gigantic web.

  The crying, the imprecations, the begging. From his parents, from his wife, from his servants.

  No, he must leave quietly.

  He walked to the door then halted. He thought for a moment, then turned about. He walked to the back door.

  Bimba was sleeping soundly after hard labour. She had not slept so soundly in a long time, little suspecting that her nights of restless sleeplessness were to begin again.

  Siddharth walked into the room silently. He had no intention of waking his wife. All he wanted to do was to have a look at his son. The first look—and the last one.

  He stood by the bedside. A breeze was blowing from the window beside Bimba’s bed. Just at that moment, the oil lamp beside the bed was extinguished by a sudden gust. There was still light enough to have a dim look at things but Siddharth saw that Bimba had held her hand protectively over her child’s head, and it was impossible for Siddharth to see his son.

  It might take a long while before Bimba moved her hand. Siddharth could not wait that long.

  He turned back. Disappointed? Let down? No, no. More like a stone.

  The mother’s loving protectiveness. And the father’s heartlessness?

  No, no. It wasn’t that at all.

  Siddharth went outside the palace and into the horse stables. The groom, Channa, was sleeping in a corner. Sensing Siddharth’s arrival, he stood up with alacrity.

  ‘Master, do you want anything? Is anything wrong?’

  ‘Channa, get Kanthak ready and bring him here.’

  ‘Going for a ride, master? In the middle of the night?’

  ‘Get the horse ready.’

  ‘Yes, master! In a moment, master!’

  Siddharth climbed on to the horse’s back. He took Channa along with him. Channa’s heart was fluttering. He hesitated for a moment and then said, ‘Shall I inform the princess about our outing, master?’

  ‘There’s no need for that.’

  Master and groom rode away. Siddharth set out at a gallop immediately, as if he had not a moment to lose.

  ‘O master,’ Channa said with alarm. ‘The east gate of the city is closed. You have to slow down.’

  But Siddharth did not. He imperiously rode forth, and the moment he neared the gate, the gate opened magically and Siddharth rode out at full speed.

  This is another of those epiphanic moments in the story. Imagine the imperious prince recklessly pushing forward, and the gate submissively opening up, as if by invisible hands. The modern reader must momentarily suspend his disbelief, so irresistibly spellbinding is the event. And who can say that the power of the prince’s will was not so astonishingly strong that the prince forced the gate to open by the sheer force of it? Even in contemporary times, we hear of objects bending to the will. And here we are talking about the awesome will power of a young man whom future generations would revere. At any rate, such an event lifts the story to quite another level, the level at which this story should be read.

  Beyond the gate, Siddharth and Channa encountered sparse forest. There was a hermitage. Riding a little further, Siddharth stopped the horse and climbed down.

  ‘Channa, cut off all my hair. Beard too,’ commanded Siddharth.

  Channa was dumbstruck. Then he said, ‘Master, you mean … you mean …’

  ‘I meant just what I said. Cut off all my hair and beard.’

  Channa by this time was on the point of tears. He mumbled. ‘Master, please forgive me for my impertinence, but … but … may I ask what the purpose behind your command is?’

  ‘You will know in a moment.’

  Channa already had an inkling, but he could not get over his disbelief.

  Siddharth sat down cross-legged, as in front of a barber.

  The prince, thoughtfully, had brought a suitable blade; he proffered it to Channa. Channa took it gingerly in both hands. He took his position to do the deed. Channa looked closely at the head he was to shave.

  Thick, shining hair.

  Channa looked at it for a time and then he broke into tears. He cried freely.

  ‘Master! I have served you faithfully for years but I cannot do this deed you want me to do.’

  ‘Channa,’ Siddharth said patiently. ‘Just think I am your son who needs a haircut.’

  Finally, having hardened his heart, Channa sat down to his job and completed it. A small heap of hair collected before him.

  ‘Gather the hair and throw it into that stream, Channa.’

  Channa did as he was told. Making sure that his master was not looking, he hid a few locks in the folds of his clothes.

  By the time Channa returned from the stream, Siddharth had taken out a yellow robe from a bag hanging from the saddle.

  He put on the robe. Channa observed the whole dramatic transformation in his master’s person and he stopped in his tracks to take it in with a mixture of amazement and horror.

  ‘Oh god! Master! You have become … you have become a—’

  ‘Yes, Channa, I have become a sraman.’

  Channa covered his face with his hands. When he removed them, his cheeks were moist. ‘O master!’ was all he could say.

  A hermit in a nearby hermitage was watching the goings-on. Now he came out.

  ‘Hail to the prince—and the future king!’ the hermit said.

  Siddharth looked at him and said, ‘I am not the future king.’

  The hermit had deliberately used the words ‘future king’.

  ‘How come, O prince?’ he now asked, with feigned surprise.

  ‘I am renouncing the kingship, I am renouncing the world.’

  ‘Why so?’ the hermit asked. ‘O prince, you are a Kshatriya. It is a Kshatriya’s duty to fight, and be a king if it is written in his fate.’

  ‘A man is not bound by his caste.’

  ‘This is something new that I am hearing. It is contrary to the scriptures.’

  Siddharth remained silent.

  ‘Think, O prince! The present king has great hopes from you. He will grieve inconsolably.’

  ‘Listen carefully, monk, and relate my words to the king. Tell him that I have renounced the world to seek answers to questions which have been on my mind forever. I am not going away in a huff, or because I have no affection for him, or from moody resentment. Since I have left for the homeless life with this end in view, there is no reason why he should grieve for me. Some day, in any case, all unions must come to an end, however long they may have lasted. It is just because we must reckon with perpetual separation that I am determined to win salvation.’

  ‘Yes, prince, I can understand your desire for salvation. But isn’t it too early for you to take such a step?’

  ‘There is no such thing as a wrong season for dharma.’

  ‘I can see that you are eager to find what wise men have spent years on.’

  ‘How, monk, can I think about anything else?’ Siddharth said. There was a slight agitation in his voice. Siddharth himself noted it, and was annoyed with himself. He hadn�
��t yet conquered his self. Giving himself a moment to regain composure, he continued, ‘Death confronts me all the time—how do I know how much of life is still at my disposal?’

  The hermit could see that he was talking to a man with an iron will. ‘Go your way, young man,’ he said. ‘You have my blessings.’

  ‘Speak to the king, O monk, tell him I said, “My sudden departure may have jolted you. But it was necessary. Do not grieve.” Then call on my wife and convey to her my personal message: “You have a son to care for.” Now, old man, go back to Kapilavastu with Channa here and repeat my words before my father in the palace.’

  Siddharth entrusted his horse to Channa. He also took off all his ornaments—quite a handful. Siddharth looked at them once, as though a great burden had been taken off his chest, and handed them to Channa. Channa had been gloomy all this while, an expression of utter helplessness upon his face. He stretched out his hand and received the small heap of gold and pearls as if they were mere nothings.

  ‘Farewell, my friends, go back to the world you know, and I will proceed to the world that I must discover.’

  ‘Farewell, O prince, may you find what you have set out to find.’ Only the hermit spoke. Channa was silent.

  Siddharth started walking the other way. He was now alone and he walked in a purposeful fashion, though he had nowhere in particular to go. His head felt light, with the burden of hair no longer on his head. His body, particularly his neck, felt bare and light, with the ornaments gone. Everything was as he had wanted. He wasn’t thinking much about anything in particular; but it seemed to him that in his newly attained freedom, strange, unfelt thoughts might alight upon his head like migrating birds.

  By that evening, Siddharth had touched upon many kingdoms, including the Malla republic.

  Roseapple tree, roseapple tree,

  I have left you far behind;

  I have crossed three kings’ land,

  How many lands have I still to cross?

  Wherever I may be that is my home,

  The root of a tree, a hill or a desert place.

  Men live with dust in their eyes.

  I dream of a life that is pure and dustless.

  I was so absorbed in my thoughts that I scarcely noticed when evening overtook me. When it was dark enough, and difficult to walk, I lay down at the root of a large tree. I thought vaguely that it was at the root of such a tree that my mother had given birth to me. Somehow, that thought comforted me.

  I had selected a tree with a wide expanse of foliage; I noticed it only when I lay down beneath it.

  All these thoughts were not those of a seeker of truth. I was still enmeshed in the spider filaments of samsara.

  Between the states of wakefulness and sleep, the figure of my newlyborn son appeared before my eyes. The figure, but not the face. At the moment, I had not seriously thought about it, but now, lying in the darkness under that tree, I thought of that scene. It pained me immeasurably that I had not seen the face of my son. If only I had waited for a while, Bimba in her sleep might have lowered her hand. If only—it was a searing moment. A son without a face. In my foolishness, I thought that a brief glimpse of that face would be worth a hundred days of penance and meditation. Foolish, foolish.

  That unseen face haunted me all night. With the first glow of the sun, I got up and started walking. A vigorous walk soon changed my state of mind (which is why I have walked all my life). I was ever more determined to free myself of all cobwebs of samsara. If I had had a son, it was the same thing as not having one. If I did not see his face, it was the same thing as having seen it.

  As I walked briskly, I felt I was on the right path.

  7

  As Siddharth rounded a corner, he came to the river Anoma. The path he was walking on was on high ground, and he had a good view of the water. Siddharth climbed down to the riverbank and walked along it. At a little distance from the bank, Siddharth saw a crowd of men that had gathered. As Siddharth approached he saw that the centre of the crowd was what was obviously a holy man: with a long beard, seated in the lotus position, his eyes closed; apparently in great concentration.

  Siddharth enquired about the holy man, and why he had collected such a crowd.

  ‘Don’t you know?’ the man replied in reverence, and with pity at the stranger’s ignorance. ‘Brahmadev Baba is famous for walking on water. Today he is going to give a demonstration of his miraculous power.’

  Siddharth, who was mostly impassive, smiled faintly and waited for Brahmadev Baba to break his lotus position. Baba sat still, with his eyes closed, but he seemed to be keeping a stealthy eye on the strength of the crowd. When he judged that it was sufficiently large, Baba rose from the ground. A sussurating sound rose from the crowd’s collective mouth and grew louder. Instinctively, the crowd parted and made way for Baba. Baba, with slow, majestic steps, walked down to the water. At the edge of the water, Brahmadev Baba paused, folded his hands, and closed his eyes again. He closed them for a long time, and with great concentration, whispering a mantra all the while.

  At last, Brahmadev Baba opened his eyes but continued chanting the mantra. And then, Baba stepped out.

  And lo and behold! Brahmadev Baba walked on the water! He did not walk the whole way to the other shore, just a few steps and then turned back. He reached land and folded his hands again.

  There was great excitement in the crowd and eager whispering. When Baba touched land again, everyone clapped, as if he’d just come back from the moon. Men rushed to touch his feet.

  In this hullabaloo, Siddharth remained calm; he neither clapped nor did he make a move to meet Baba. Baba noticed this, and the fact that the young man looked impressively religious.

  Baba himself approached Siddharth.

  ‘Hail, sraman!’ Baba greeted the young man.

  ‘Hail, holy man!’ Siddharth returned the greeting.

  ‘Can you do this, sraman, walk on water?’

  ‘No, I am afraid I cannot.’

  ‘Well, I can teach you.’

  ‘Thanks, but I am not interested. I can take a boat to the other shore. And, in fact, that’s what I am going to do now.’ Saying this, Siddharth walked in the direction of the boatman.

  Brahmadev Baba’s face fell. Nobody had ever talked to him in this fashion.

  Siddharth crossed the river Anoma and wandered into Rajagriha, the capital of the kingdom of Magadh. The village on the riverbank was well spaced out and it was a pleasure to walk among the houses. He disliked villages cramped together; as if they were built on the foundation of a fear of the unknown.

  Siddharth spent five or six days in Rajagriha. He meditated for much of the day and in the evening he went on long walks along the river. At noon, he went to the village to collect his alms, his bhiksha, a bowl of rice and perhaps a little curd.

  The villagers soon came to know him. Know him only by sight; no one dared to talk to him. Not that he looked forbidding, but there was such a demeanour about him that trivial talk seemed out of the question.

  The Pandav hill near the village became Siddharth’s transitory house. (There is a Pandav hill near every village or cave in India, though the Pandavs could not possibly have visited so many hills and caves.) At noon, Siddharth descended the hill for his daily bhiksha round. On such an occasion, King Bimbisar saw him from the terrace of his palace. The king’s curiosity was roused.

  ‘Amarsen,’ he called his attendant.

  ‘Yes, maharaj.’

  ‘Do you see that young sraman over there?’

  ‘Yes, maharaj, I have been seeing him around for the last few days.’

  ‘Handsome, isn’t he?’

  ‘Very much, sir. Very handsome, and noble in appearance. I have a feeling he is from a royal family.’

  ‘And he has renounced his royal heritage, and taken to a religious life?’

  ‘It seems so, maharaj.’

  ‘I would like to meet this young sraman.’

  ‘Certainly, maharaj. Shall I go and call hi
m to the palace?’

  ‘Oh, you fool,’ the king said. ‘You have to go see such a man. You can’t call him to see you.’

  ‘Very right, maharaj. We shall go and see him in the morning.’

  ‘Where does he stay, Amarsen?’

  ‘He lives in the Pandav hills. He visits the village for alms at about this time. Give him some time to have his food. An hour and a half after that will be a good time to visit him.’

  ‘All right, Amarsen. Tomorrow morning then.’

  ‘Very good, sir. Shall I arrange for a horse-cart then?’

  ‘No, we will walk.’

  ‘Walk? But it is a bit far, sir.’

  ‘If he can walk that distance, so can I.’

  ‘As you wish, maharaj.’

  Next morning, Amarsen got busy with the preparations for the expedition to the Pandav hills. Since the king did not want a horse-cart he ordered four or five men with a large chhatra, an umbrella, of course with a royal touch, a thick red cloth with decorations, also cool water and some fruit.

  When the king saw the paraphernalia, he said, ‘Amarsen, I don’t need all this. I shall go alone, with only you for company.’

  Amarsen was aghast. ‘But, maharaj … maharaj, we will need an umbrella … and cool water and …’

  ‘Amarsen, I said I will go alone, with you as company.’

  ‘In that case, maharaj, I myself will have to carry the chhatra.’

  ‘You will carry the chhatra—all the way?’

  ‘Yes, maharaj, there is no alternative.’

  ‘In that case, Amarsen, we will take along a man to carry the umbrella. And you, of course. But no one else.’

  It was almost noon by the time King Bimbisar left. It was hot and the king walked briskly. To keep up with him Amarsen had to make an effort and was soon perspiring profusely. No wonder, for King Bimbisar was only twenty-four years of age whereas Amarsen was past forty.

  The threesome reached the Pandav hill. They had to negotiate a small climb. At the top, there was something like a cave where Siddharth sat. Siddharth sat in the lotus position. Seeing him from a distance, Bimbisar ordered his companions to halt and sit under a nearby tree.