The Dhamma Man

by Vilas Sarang

King Bimbisar approached Siddharth alone.

  ‘Pranam, reverend sir,’ Bimbisar said.

  Siddharth opened his eyes.

  ‘Pranam, O king, why did you take the trouble of walking to the hill? If you had sent a message, I would have visited the palace.’

  ‘It is better this way. I did not want to disturb your meditation, sraman. I am Bimbisar’

  Siddharth did not speak.

  ‘You are new to my kingdom, I believe? I have not seen you near Rajagriha before.’

  ‘Yes, O king. I arrived here a few days ago. I will not stay at this place for long.’

  ‘Where are you from, may I ask you?’

  ‘O king, I am from the kingdom of Kosal. I belong to the Sakya clan.’

  ‘From the kingdom of Kosal. And you belong to the Sakya clan? Oh, then you must be the prince of Kapilavastu. I have heard a lot about you—Siddharth, isn’t that your name?’

  ‘You read me correctly, O king. Only, I am not the prince any more.’

  ‘Not the prince, dear Siddharth? How do you mean?’

  ‘I have renounced my claim as prince. I am just a sraman.’

  ‘Renounced the title of prince? Just like that?’

  ‘I had been thinking about it for a long time. I decided the time was right and so I took this step.’

  ‘The step to renounce the kingdom. To renounce the world.’

  ‘I want, first of all, to conquer the self.’

  ‘O Siddharth, you have done—just like that—what I have been dreaming of doing for years.’

  ‘Yes, for people like us it is hard to take such a decision.’

  ‘How old are you, Siddharth?’

  ‘I am twenty-nine.’

  ‘And, I, Siddharth, am twenty-four. Five years younger to you.’

  ‘You are like my elder brother, O king.’

  ‘And I have already ruled for nine years.’

  ‘That must make it difficult for you to abandon your responsibilities.’

  ‘Yes, exactly. I cannot throw up everything and walk away.’

  King Bimbisar was silent for a while, looking far away at the heat haze.

  ‘You have heard the philosophy of the Upanishads, haven’t you?’

  ‘Whatever I could,’ Siddharth said.

  ‘Yes, it is hard to find an Upanishadic teacher who can talk authoritatively.’

  ‘Precisely, King Bimbisar. It is hard to find a reliable teacher. Besides, a lot of it doesn’t take you anywhere. You find yourself on false paths which lead you nowhere.’

  ‘That’s my experience too, Siddharth. But some of this stuff is really exciting. When I first heard about some of the stray thoughts, I was quite excited. I was barely twenty then, and the thoughts seemed to answer mine.’

  ‘Is it so, O king?’

  ‘Yes, I distinctly remember the line from the Upanishad they call the ‘Kena’:

  By whom impelled soars forth the mind projected?

  By whom enjoined goes forth the earliest breathing?

  By whom impelled this speech do people utter …

  ‘Ah, this question made my hair stand on end: “By whom enjoined goes forth the earliest breathing?”’

  ‘Yes, but what was the answer?’

  ‘You know, Siddharth, there was a lot of secrecy about the Upanishads in the beginning. Only a knowledgeable teacher could teach you the secret truths. So my teacher, the guru, asked me to memorize the question and repeat it a hundred times. He asked me to find the answer myself—to guess and to keep guessing.’

  ‘So, did you find the answer, O king?’

  ‘No, so finally I begged the answer.’

  ‘What was it, O king?’

  ‘Umm … let me see. I remember it ….’ King Bimbisar strained his memory. ‘Yes, it was like this: “It is conceived by him by whom it is not conceived of/He by whom it is conceived of, knows it not.”’

  ‘And were you satisfied by the answer, O king?’

  ‘Umm … not really. It seemed to go around in circles.’

  On Siddharth’s face, there was a faint smile.

  ‘They call this the paradox of inscrutability,’ Siddharth said.

  ‘Ah, yes … but still, it is like a little stone you throw in the water. The ripples expand, and then, in the end, there is nothing. There is just the still water.’

  ‘You described it well, O king. A lot of the philosophy of the Upanishads is like that. It seems to raise profound questions—which is admirable. I do not want to make fun of the philosophy. But most of the time, it is pure metaphysics.’

  The king continued: ‘They speak of Brahman—and atman,’ ‘Yes, I remember the famous dictum my guru taught me: “Tat twam asi”, that thou art. Do you believe in that?’

  ‘Truth to tell, King Bimbisar, I do not know.’

  ‘But tell me, Siddharth, do you believe in the ultimate reality, the Brahman?’

  ‘I have to confess, King Bimbisar, I do not know if I believe or if I do not believe.’

  ‘That leads me to believe that Upanishadic thought disappoints you, Siddharth.’

  ‘You are not wide off the mark, O king. When I first heard about the Upanishads, I was very excited, like every other young man. I thought it was the great hope of our time.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then I slowly realized that the Upanishads did not provide me solutions to the questions I was concerned with.’

  ‘You intrigue me, Siddharth. What were these questions you were preoccupied with?’

  ‘Simple matters of life. Of everyday, concrete life.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Look, the Upanishads are concerned with the highest, most rarefied truths. It is a heroic attempt, I bow before it.’

  ‘But that is not enough for you, Siddharth?’

  ‘No. For instance, I am concerned with dukkha: pain, suffering. Where do the Upanishads help me to understand dukkha, to cope with it?’

  King Bimbisar was silent for some time, and kept looking at Siddharth gravely.

  ‘Yes, Siddharth, I didn’t think of it—dukkha.’

  ‘Dukkha—it is so close to our life,’ Siddharth said.

  The two had been talking for so long, the shadows had lengthened. A westerly breeze was blowing.

  ‘Siddharth, I must go now. But we must meet again.’

  ‘Yes, king, but not on this visit. Tomorrow, I leave this place.’

  ‘Where to, Siddharth?’

  ‘Oh, I will be just wandering.’

  ‘But I wanted to know about your thoughts. Can’t you stay three or four days more, Siddharth?’

  ‘O king, you misunderstand me. I am not a savant, a know-all. In fact, I know nothing. Just some scraps and bits. I am still groping, groping.’

  ‘Okay, Siddharth. Then we will meet at some future time, when you will be a true savant.’

  ‘If I am lucky, O king.’

  ‘Surely you will be. Something tells me that day is not far, Siddharth.’

  ‘I thank you for your good wishes, O king.’

  By the time King Bimbisar got up and hailed his men, poor Amarsen was dozing off. The other man woke him up. With alacrity, Amarsen stood up. The two men joined their king. On the way back, King Bimbisar was deep in thought. On reaching the palace, he sprawled on the bed and closed his eyes but he could not sleep.

  Early next morning, Siddharth climbed down the Pandav hills. He took the road opposite Rajagriha. The morning light was fresh and he walked briskly. A thought took root in his mind: sooner rather than later, he must find a guru. Without a guru, he would be fumbling about; without a guru, he was like a rudderless boat. Which guru? He knew none.

  For three days, Siddharth walked. The more he thought, the more his hankering for a guru became overpowering. Each evening, he stopped where other sramanas rested. He talked to them. From them, he heard the name of Alara Kalama. Alara Kalama was worthy of being a teacher. He will guide you properly, they said, and his monastery was not far.

  Off th
e main road, Siddharth found out the way to Alara Kalama’s monastery. One had to walk a little along a bypath. One cannot find the truth on the main road, one has to take bypaths, he thought. There were a lot of trees; it was cool and shady, and in the middle of it there was a spacious brick structure. It was the first time that Siddharth was seeing a monastery, and he liked it. There were some parrots near the monastery, and they kept up a lively chatter. Once in a while, one of the parrots said: ‘Alara Kalama! Alara Kalama!’

  A boyish retainer sat at the door of the monastery. When he saw Siddharth approaching, he stood up.

  ‘Hail, friend!’ the boy said. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I want to see Alara Kalama.’

  ‘O, the chief himself. May I know your name?’

  ‘Siddharth. I am a sraman.’

  But the enquirer was not satisfied with that.

  ‘Where are you from, sir?’

  ‘I am from the kingdom of Kosal.’

  ‘What family are you from, sir?’

  ‘I am from the Sakya clan.’

  ‘I see,’ the boy said. He took a good look at Siddharth’s face and physique.

  ‘Please be seated, friend. I shall inform the reverend about your coming.’

  Siddharth had answered the questions patiently but he was a little resentful. This is like meeting a king or a high government official, he said to himself.

  The boy came back again.

  ‘The reverend teacher will see you now, sir,’ he said.

  The boy escorted Siddharth to the seat of the reverend Kalama.

  ‘Welcome, sir,’ Kalama said with a broad smile. ‘Welcome!’

  He motioned Siddharth to a seat.

  ‘As a matter of fact I was busy teaching a batch of young students. When I knew you were here, I dismissed them so as to receive you, Siddharth.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, reverend sir.’

  One question that bothered Siddharth was how much of what Kalama taught was mere faith, and how much of it direct knowledge. He put this question to Kalama bluntly.

  Kalama’s reply seemed to satisfy Siddharth. Then Kalama asked: ‘As the boy told me, you have come here from the far country of Kosal, and that you are from the distinguished clan of the Sakyas.’

  ‘That’s right, reverend sir.’

  ‘Could it be, Master Siddharth, that you are from the royal clan of Kosal?’

  ‘Indeed I am, sir. I was the prince of Kapilavastu. Now I have renounced my royal position.’

  ‘The prince of Kapilavastu! Indeed, sir, you are of a high lineage, and I shall be proud to receive you as a pupil, reverend sir.’

  ‘I thought all pupils were of the same standing.’

  ‘Indeed, sir. What you say is perfectly true. But some pupils are of a special standing.’ Kalama smiled broadly so that his beard almost touched his throat.

  Siddharth understood why there was a boy at the gate, and why the boy questioned everybody so closely. And now Kalama had the vital information: his new pupil was the prince of Kapilavastu. Siddharth was a prize catch and he did not like it one bit.

  Siddharth joined the monastery and the daily grind began. There were some eighty students under Kalama’s tutelage and he ran the place efficiently. Kalama, whatever else he may be, was a good manager of young people.

  Very soon, Siddharth learnt that there was a subtle hierarchy in the monastery. It was a hierarchy based on family background. Outwardly, all pupils wore the same cloth, did the same assigned duties. But still, Siddharth ranked quite high in the hierarchy.

  In the course of time, news got about that Siddharth had recently had a conversation with King Bimbisar. Siddharth suspected one or two select pupils acted as spies for Kalama. Outwardly innocent, they extracted information not only from Siddharth, but from the rest of the pupils as well. When Kalama found out about Siddharth’s talk with King Bimbisar, his stock reached sky high.

  Kalama taught his pupils absolute, trance-like meditation. One of his pupils, Pukkusa—probably one of the informers—told Siddharth how this teacher once sat, fully conscious, under a tree without noticing five hundred carts passing close beside him.

  ‘So great was Reverend Kalama’s concentration.’ Pukkusa looked up at Siddharth—who was much taller than him—admiringly.

  Siddharth listened with his usual equanimity. Then he said, ‘Hard to imagine that all put together, there are five hundred carts in this region.’

  Pukkusa did not know what to say.

  Siddharth spoke again: ‘Five hundred carts passing close by him, you say, Pukkusa?’

  ‘Yes, yes, and the reverend teacher was absolutely oblivious of it.’

  ‘Well, Pukkusa, the reverend teacher’s robe must have been full of dust.’

  Pukkusa took some time to absorb what was said. Then he said with barely controlled rage, ‘You don’t believe me, Master Siddharth?’

  ‘Oh, I fully believe what you said, Master Pukkusa.’ Siddharth added: ‘A student of meditation must always control his emotions.’

  What Reverend Kalama taught might be described, in modern terminology, as transcendental meditation. And just as students of transcendental meditation flock together today, so did they flock together under Reverend Kalama’s roof.

  Indeed, what Kalama and other teachers like Uddak later were teaching was a mixture of Upanishadic theory and what later became yoga. Thus, Siddharth was getting the best and the latest of Indian developing thought. Yoga is attributed to Patanjali who is dated several centuries later but, as has been pointed out, Patanjali’s system is unthinkable without Buddhist monastic formulations. (For instance, Ashtanga Yoga is a reflection of Buddha’s eightfold path.)

  Siddharth, before coming to Alara Kalama, had already learned some techniques of meditation. With the guru, he learnt a little more. But that’s about it.

  Kalama was exultant about Siddharth’s progress. One day he said to his disciple: ‘You are the best disciple I have ever had. The doctrine that I have realized, you have realized. As I am, so you are; as you are, so I am. Come, your reverence, we will lead this company of pupils together. We will make this monastery the best place to learn from in this whole region, Reverend Siddharth!’

  What Kalama was doing was that he was offering Siddharth a half share in his organization.

  Siddharth said he would think about it, and then speak his mind.

  That night, Siddharth thought about Kalama’s offer. What did he, Siddharth, want to achieve in life? Above all, he wanted to transform his attitude to life on earth, lock, stock and barrel. He wanted an enveloping attitude that was, above all, based on detachment leading to a cessation, to calm, to enlightenment. Did he progress towards any of these goals? No. Towards morning, Siddharth saw a mental picture. Five hundred bullock-carts were passing beneath the tree where he sat, slowly, monotonously, as if they would take an eternity. At last the procession ended, the last bullock-cart creaked past, and all that was left was dust.

  It was morning and Siddharth had made up his mind. Siddharth understood that even if he had been dull, Kalama would have praised him, and offered him half a share in the monastery. After all, one doesn’t get a prince for a disciple every day, or one who knows King Bimbisar and with whom one can develop connections with the Magadhan court.

  The next day, Siddharth approached Alara Kalama and said to him: ‘Reverend sir, it is very kind of you to make me such a generous offer. But my goals are different and they will not be fulfilled here. I cannot accept what you give me. I must leave your monastery today.’

  Alara Kalama’s face fell. Siddharth gathered his things and left.

  At the gate, the master’s favourite parrot cried: ‘Alara Kalama! Alara Kalama!’ It was a nice way of advertising the place, in the days when hoardings were useless because so few people could read.

  Was Siddharth dejected, depressed, after the experience with Alara Kalama? He had yearned for a guru—the ideal guru—to solve his problems, to set him on the path t
o enlightenment. As a novice judge and administrator of the state in Kapilavastu, he had seen so much of human behaviour, the crassness, the graspingness of the human animal, that more of the same was nothing new to Siddharth. But to encounter this in the religious sphere, to encounter it with holy men, must have been unsettling.

  But Siddharth was not a man for dejection. He seldom, if ever, let dejection touch him. If such a situation arose, the first thing he thought of was the next step. He realized that what had happened was not so unexpected. He was a distinguished man, a former prince, he had had some religious training, and he was young. What could Alara Kalama do except offer him the highest position? That Siddharth did not want it, because his personal goals were different, was another matter altogether.

  Siddharth knew that whichever guru he went to, the same thing was likely to happen. This was a very difficult situation.

  Still, he had tested just one guru; there was no harm in trying another.

  Siddharth crossed the river Ganga into Magadh in search of another guru. The long journey by boat across the sprawling river was unexpectedly exhilarating. The boatman sang a song Siddharth did not understand. And, although as a rule Siddharth frowned upon song and dance, he pardoned himself for relishing that song; for what else could one do on the boat except sit still?

  The boat reached the shore. Siddharth carefully got off and touched the soil, which was a little wet, and cool. These simple actions brought on a measure of cheerfulness.

  Siddharth continued his wandering. By and by, he heard about a guru called Uddak Ramaputta who, at seventy-five, was much older than Alara Kalama. All those he talked to spoke of him as a wise old man, a living god. Siddharth went to meet him. After his experience with Kalama, Siddharth was wary of revealing everything about himself. The guru and prospective disciple met. The metaphysical problems that Siddharth mentioned concerned perception and non-perception.

  ‘O monk,’ Uddak said. ‘Ordinary people see and do not see. Imagine a well-sharpened razor: can you see its edge?’

  ‘No, reverend sir.’

  ‘You must make your mind like the razor blade,’ Uddak said.

  In a flash, Siddharth remembered the dialogue:

  ‘Fetch that fig.’

  ‘Here it is, sir.’