The Dhamma Man

by Vilas Sarang

  ‘Divide it.’

  ‘It is divided, sir.’

  ‘What do you see?’

  ‘These rather fine seeds, sir.’

  ‘Of these, please divide one.’

  ‘It is divided, sir.’

  ‘What do you see?’

  ‘Nothing at all, sir.’

  Siddharth had heard these lines from the Chandogya Upanishad. Since the Upanishads were new and revolutionary, Siddharth inferred that Uddak taught Upanishadic ideas. These ideas, from Siddharth’s point of view, were not ultimately useful but they were serviceable. One should know them, if only to react to them.

  Siddharth learnt all that Uddak was capable of teaching. And then, so to speak, history repeated itself. Uddak Ramaputta offered Siddharth, not partnership, but the sole leadership of his school.

  ‘I am seventy-five years old. I need someone to take on the responsibility of the school, Siddharth, and I cannot find anyone better than you. There were several shishyas enthusiastic about taking on the job but none of them is suitable. Siddharth, take on this job. If you say yes, I can die happily, knowing that my school will survive many more years.’

  Siddharth decided to be ruthless. ‘Reverend sir, I am grateful for all that you have taught me. But my personal goal is very different. Being the organizer of a school of philosophy does not fit into my plans for life. So, reverend sir, I must say goodbye to you. But I shall always remember you.’

  8

  I tried two different gurus and it all came to nothing, or very little. I realized that it would be no better, however many gurus I went to. They would be impressed with my religious fervour and the knowledge that I had accumulated. Not to speak of my being a raja’s son and the opportunities such a connection afforded. But the main problem was that what I wanted and what they were offering diverged so fundamentally. They would give me techniques of meditation to achieve the stillness of mind which helps in everyday life. I wanted to grapple with a still more fundamental problem: suffering. And, after so much study and meditation, I did not know how to go about it. A shame? Perhaps. But I didn’t care. All I cared for was the problem. The Vedas, the Upanishads, they spoke little or nothing about suffering. Perhaps they took it for granted. Whereas the first and last problem in life is suffering. If I could find a way to deal with suffering, I was sure I could find an answer to one of life’s most vexing problems.

  As always, I thought of the next step.

  Asceticism: that was one thing I had not tried.

  Would I try it? The truth was that I was filled with distaste. I never liked the idea of inflicting pain on the body so that some kind of enlightenment might be reached: I clearly saw the contradiction inherent in the enterprise. What was my root problem: dukkha, suffering. And the solution? Suffering. It seemed like a hopeless idea to begin with.

  But at moments (very few) I was so desperate, so very disheartened—I am not ashamed to admit that I decided I would go down this path so that nobody could say that I missed out something. No, I did not want that to be said. I decided to practise asceticism, but I was firm about one thing: I was not going to do anything absurd or bizarre, like hanging upside down from trees etcetera.

  Leaving behind Uddak Ramaputta’s monastery, I journeyed south-westward till I came within a stone’s throw of Uruwela. Uruwela was a garrison city for the troops of the king of Magadh. There I found a charming plot of land, a lovely wood and a clear-flowing river which was good for bathing and quite delightful, with villages all about for alms. At this spot on the bank of the Neranjara, which combines with the Mohana to form the Phalgu, I settled down to practise asceticism.

  I heard the familiar laugh at my back. Maar came around and stood before me, a leer on his puffed-up face. ‘O would-be, I must congratulate you.’

  ‘What for, Maar?’

  ‘For choosing such a beautiful spot.’

  I remained silent.

  ‘And for what purpose, O would-be: to, of all things, practise asceticism.’

  Maar laughed louder.

  ‘If, would-be, you want to practise asceticism, why do you need such a lovely, scenic spot?’

  Maar paused, challenging me to answer.

  ‘Do you see the contradiction, would-be?’

  Silence.

  ‘Why can’t you admit that you are a phony—like the hundreds of your ilk wandering about all over the country?’

  Silence.

  ‘The quest! The quest! There is nothing at the end of your quest, godman.’

  Silence.

  ‘Why don’t you speak? Are you tongue-tied, would-be?’

  Maar then tried a different tack.

  ‘And you have cleverly chosen this spot near Uruwela. A garrison town with soldiers moving about all the time.’

  Silence.

  ‘You must feel at home so near the army. After all, you were a prince. Besides, you must feel secure, with all those soldiers moving about, eh?’

  Silence.

  ‘Phony. Phony. When will you admit it, would-be?’

  Maar spat contemptuously and turned his back. Then, he was gone, like a phantom. Always, like a phantom.

  Just after Maar left, I had visitors: a bunch of ascetics who were on the same path as I. They, too, were searching for the incomparable, matchless path to peace. One of them was Kondanna, who, thirty years ago, had performed my naming ceremony. He had attended the momentous divination that Asit was said to have made when I was born. He was old. I greeted him affectionately.

  ‘You haven’t found the way all these years, sir?’

  Kondanna smiled. ‘Master Siddharth, we have been waiting for you to find the way. Only you can accomplish the task.’

  The other four nodded in approval. All five, after my example, had decided to take to the homeless life. They had an agreement: each would chart his own course. And the one who first discovered the way would tell the others. But all five were equally convinced that if anyone could find the way, it was Siddharth.

  Siddharth told them: ‘Look, my friends, I am now going to practise extreme asceticism. Will I find what we are all searching for? I don’t know. As a rule, I disapprove of extremes. My inner voice tells me that the middle way is the best. But since we have all been fumbling, and do not know what is to be done, I have to travel this thorny path. Wish me luck, but don’t expect too much.’

  It was a good place I had chosen. Or so I thought. Summer was coming and the green of the forest was soon gone. It was fast becoming dry everywhere. The sal trees were now bare. But I liked them. Some of them were tremendously tall. During the day, I mostly watched the two rivers mingling with each other. The waters of the rivers were ever flowing and yet, in that constant flow, there was a strange stillness. And when I looked up from the horizontal plane of the flowing river, the tall sal trees rising up on the vertical plane made for a different sort of stillness. I could watch that bewitching sight for hours together. Only the groups of monkeys heedlessly scratched the stillness. Sometimes I watched the monkeys flitting about from tree to tree. (The monkeys paid no attention to me, since I was absolutely still.) I distinguished the red-brown monkeys and the ones with a black face.

  But most of all, I enjoyed the sight of the deer. They were a small kind of deer. I did not know what kind. They were delicate creatures, with their dainty little feet. So alert, yet so silent. Not at all raucous like the monkeys. They were almost ethereal with their large eyes. They brought me a sense of peace. I did not know the names of the different kinds of animals, the monkeys or the deer. How could a man who had been brought up as a prince know these things? The forest was itself a new experience for me. The loneliness of the forest is hard to bear; it is a loneliness I cannot describe.

  The first day’s experience was relatively enjoyable. But soon, night fell. The night creeps in so slowly, so silently. The tall sal trees imperceptibly merged into the darkness and soon, it was difficult to realize that they were there. When an animal passed by, or a peacock broke a twig, or the
wind rustled in the leaves, I was filled with terror and panic. It took me days to overcome my fear of the dark.

  I was a novice at this game of self-tort … asceticism. The first day I tried an experiment with stopping thought. Teeth clenched, my tongue pressed against the palate, my mind subdued, I tried to restrain and suppress my thought. All that happened was that sweat poured from my armpits. But what happened to the mind? I understood that, yes, the mind can be disciplined, but no precious insight can be achieved this way.

  All morning and afternoon I persisted. Then I lay down, exhausted. I swooned, I don’t know for how long.

  I awoke with the sound of someone calling, ‘Baba, O Baba.’

  It was a small boy.

  ‘Baba, I thought you were dead. But thank god, you are alive.’

  The boy, about eleven or twelve, was probably the child of a poor farmer from nearby.

  ‘What’s your name, child?’

  ‘Walya.’

  Siddharth remained silent.

  Walya, who was intently looking at Siddharth, and trying to figure out what this stranger was doing, then finally asked, ‘Baba, what were you trying to do just now?’

  ‘Oh, sort of experimenting. I mean, I wanted to see what would happen.’

  ‘And did it happen, Baba?’

  ‘Not that I can see.’

  ‘What will you do now?’

  ‘Now I am too tired. I have experimented enough for the day.’

  Walya was talkative, as most children of his age are. Without prodding from the older man, he told about his family—there were only his parents, tilling a small field—and how he used to tend to the family cow.

  ‘What happened to the cow, Walya?’

  ‘One day she wandered far, lost her way; at night, a tiger killed her.’

  ‘A tiger killed her? Are there tigers here?’

  ‘Of course.’ Walya paused and added, ‘Are you going to sleep here at night?’

  ‘Yes, Walya.’

  ‘Don’t you worry. Tigers do not harm human beings.’

  ‘How do you know that, Walya?’

  ‘Savlya said. Savlya said: “If you remain quiet, nothing in the jungle will hurt you.”’

  ‘And who is Savlya?’

  ‘Savlya is a hunter. He kills small animals or birds for food. He knows a lot about the jungle.’

  Siddharth lay supine for a while. Then he got up and said to Walya, ‘Walya, it’s getting to be evening. You better go home.’

  ‘Yes, master.’ He paused and asked, ‘Master, you will be here tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, I guess so.’

  The next morning, Siddharth went to a village for his alms round.

  Then he sat down for his attempt at asceticism. This time, he attempted what is called non-breathing meditation: in this one holds one’s breath for as long as possible. Siddharth, as usual, used all his might. He thought he would experience an ecstatic state, or, with luck, a sublime insight.

  When I stopped breathing from the mouth and through the nose and through the ears, I had very bad headaches. As a strong man might clamp on my head a tight leather strap, even so when I stopped breathing, I had such mortal headaches. I was harassed in my striving by that pain. That painful feeling, arising in me, persisted without impinging on my mind.

  I still continued non-breathing meditation. Soon, very strong winds cut through my stomach. A skilled butcher or his apprentice might cut through my stomach with a sharp knife, even so did very strong winds cut through my stomach. As before, I was harassed in striving against that very pain. But the pain persisted without impinging on my mind.

  In addition to this, devatas, deities, having seen me, spoke thus: ‘The recluse Gautam has passed away.’ Other devatas spoke thus: ‘The recluse Gautam has not passed away, but he is passing away.’

  Then I regained consciousness. I opened my eyes and I saw Walya standing above me, staring. He cried, ‘Master, master, are you all right? I thought you were dead.’

  I wanted to speak to the boy but I was too exhausted. Walya understood this and kept quiet. He brought some water from my earthen pot and gave me some. I drank it greedily; that made me feel better.

  For some hours I lay on the ground. Slowly, I regained my ability to think. Clearly, the two ‘internal’ techniques I had followed had failed. I must think of the next step. But before that I must regain my strength and my composure.

  Walya judged that I was feeling better and to cheer me up, he began to talk.

  ‘Yesterday evening Savlya came to our house. I was excited. Savlya always has spellbinding stories from his hunting experiences. This time he had an amazing story to tell.’

  Walya could see that I was interested.

  ‘Savlya told me about a lioness near a human settlement. A calf from the cattle herd strayed near the lioness. Savlya thought that she would kill the calf and eat it. But he was shocked. The carnivore lion did not kill the calf, she merely gave it company. The calf—I think it had lost its mother—left with the lioness. They became friends in a kind of way. It was very strange—the friendship between the lioness and the calf.’

  Siddharth was listening intently. He spontaneously got up and asked Walya. ‘Is this story true, Walya? Savlya said it is true?’

  ‘Savlya never tells lies.’

  Siddharth thought for a moment and said, ‘Walya, I would like to meet this Savlya. Could you bring him here tomorrow?’

  ‘Certainly, master. Savlya would be proud to meet a master such as you.’

  The next morning, Walya came early. With him was a rugged, muscular man. The huge man touched Siddharth’s feet and said, ‘Maharaj, I am Savlya the hunter. It is a privilege to meet you, maharaj.’

  Siddharth quickly got down to the subject.

  ‘Maharaj, the calf was without a mother. As for the lioness, she too seemed to be alone. The pride had driven her out.’

  ‘Whatever it is, they have made friends?’

  ‘Yes, maharaj.’

  ‘Savlya, can I see these animals once?’

  ‘That is risky, maharaj. But if you insist we can take a chance.’

  ‘Let’s take a chance, Savlya.’

  ‘Afternoon is the best time. Can you walk to the place, maharaj?’

  ‘I can walk any distance.’

  In the afternoon, Walya took Siddharth to the appointed place.

  ‘Can you climb that tree, maharaj?’

  ‘I can try.’

  The three of them climbed sufficiently high. They camouflaged themselves in the foliage.

  ‘Now, be still maharaj.’

  After much time, the calf walked into view. Behind it the lioness was guarding her ward.

  Siddharth watched the wondrous spectacle with his own eyes.

  ‘The two animals are going to the lake to drink,’ Savlya whispered.

  Again, a wait. Again the lioness and the calf went back to their resting place.

  ‘It is safe to climb down now, maharaj.’

  That night, Siddharth slept in Walya’s house. Early next morning, he trekked back to his forest home.

  Siddharth derived a strange satisfaction from the adventure. ‘If these so-called cruel animals can be moved by compassion, why can’t men?’ he ruminated. Compassion is, after all, an ancient instinct, one that has developed over millions of years, helped all living beings.

  Then how is there so much cruelty and selfishness in the world? Well, Maar was partly right. There certainly is violence innate in man, what the modern scientist might call the ‘reptile complex’. But equally, there is the opposite propensity for empathy and selflessness. Perhaps man is this conflict between the reptilian and the mammalian parts of his brain.

  The excursion with Walya and Savlya had refreshed Siddharth. He assailed the ascetic path again. Non-breathing he had tried; now he applied himself to his external body. He had been wearing a loincloth which he threw away. Now he was stark naked. As usual Siddharth went out with his begging bowl. ‘But no kind of meat, pl
ease,’ he warned the householder. ‘No, not so much rice,’ he said. He stretched his hollow hand and specified. ‘Only this much,’ he said. ‘Only this much!’ The householder said, ‘Young man, you will starve yourself.’ The householder did not know that Siddharth intended to make that handful of rice last for several days.

  Walya was watching this mutely. Finally, he could not control himself. ‘Master, why do you starve yourself? Why do you suffer?’ But he knew that his master would not answer him.

  As he had done with breath, Siddharth was now doing with his body. He was interested in finding out if he could get anywhere by starving his body. He continued this regimen for days on end. Walya lost patience and visited only every five or six days—and just to make sure the master was alive.

  The weather changed and soon the nights grew cold. Siddharth began visiting a nearby crematorium. If a corpse was burning, he stood near it. Usually, the relatives of the dead stood around the pyre. Occasionally people would shoo the naked ascetic off but most times no one said anything. Some even offered the clothes that the dead would no longer need. These Siddharth politely but firmly refused. Compassion is a living force, Siddharth concluded. On days when no pyres burnt, Siddharth would scour the grounds for clothes which were half burnt. But they were enough to give Siddharth minimal warmth.

  In warm weather, too, Siddharth preferred to spend his time in the crematorium—it was usually empty. He was so emaciated that he often just lay on the ground. Anybody might have mistaken him for a delinquent corpse. Cowherds’ children were a particular nuisance. They had nothing better to do, and they found this emaciated, half-dead man an object of fun. As they played and shouted at each other, they spat at him; someone urinated on him or tickled his ear with a blade of grass to see if he was alive. Sometimes Siddharth’s self-starvation went to the extreme. Finding cow dung to be the nearest thing, Siddharth ate it—after all, there is some nutrition to be had from dung. Siddharth would see that his own excrement was not properly digested, since he was so emaciated, and would eat it, as the nearest thing to be eaten.

  One might find these practices revolting and nauseating, but I did not look at the matter in this way at all. I myself would have been surprised if someone told me that these practices were revolting and nauseating. My mind was focused on one thing and one thing only: would extreme asceticism bless me with some insight or intuition?