“I had not realized how accustomed Uttara is to your obedience,” Dhara said. By his look, she knew she had struck home. “You’d best go.”
“I am a weak man, Princess. But I admire strength like yours.” He smiled faintly at her. In another instant, he was gone, too.
Dhara crumpled to the ground as her fragile composure dissolved. Wind soughed through the branches, chilling her. Her mind seethed with wild thoughts. She should flee the kingdom immediately, take a staff and a begging bowl, and find her way through the wild palace park to the road that led north, back to Dhavalagiri. The court would be glad to see her go. But she couldn’t leave Siddhartha. He would come with her. He had been so restless of late, frustrated with palace intrigues. She would send word to him at the grove.
That was mad. Unthinkable rudeness to leave before Bhadda spoke. If she didn’t arrive there soon, the queen would start muttering and send pages to search for her. Best to retire to her chambers, prepare herself for Siddhartha’s hurt, for the king’s leer, for the vicious slander Uttara’s tale would generate. She would send a message that she was indisposed.
Chandaka. Her husband’s best friend. Siddhartha knew she had been true. Until today. How could she tell him that Chandaka’s kiss thrilled her?
No course of action seemed the right one. There was only one thing she could do.
She wept. She wept long and hard, until she was empty of tears. She wiped her eyes with a loose end of her antariya. The breeze had stopped. Everything was quiet at the shrine. Her heart squeezed painfully in her chest as Dhara knelt in stillness. Her whirling thoughts settled.
She wanted to leave this place. She wanted to start over again. She saw back to the beginning, when as a girl she wanted to ride to battle, to wield earthly power, to be an empress. It had gotten all mixed up with yoga’s path to wisdom. She had not given her heart wholly to one way or the other. That’s what she needed to do, or she would end up like Angulimala, something full of evil power.
The path to atman was like the razor’s edge, the sages said, easy to fall off. Whether it was Chandaka, the admiration of the court, dreams of the cedar-scented air of her mountain childhood, there was always a distraction that made her slip.
She needed another life, one where there would be no more pursuit of what others wanted for the chief’s daughter Dhara or Princess Dhara or Yasodhara or whatever mask she put on. She yearned to know what it was she truly wanted.
The thing to do was leave. They would go together, Siddhartha and she. Find a cave, a grove, an island, live disguised as simple hermits.
The vise around her heart tightened. Would he want that? Sometimes he was so elusive. Sometimes she doubted his love, and now she had given him reason to doubt hers.
Better to leave alone. No one would miss her. Not even Sakhi. Tears of self-pity sprang to her eyes as childhood memories swam before her. Sakhi handing her imaginary weapons as they played Durga, stealing the boys’ clothes at the waterfall, her father’s hand steadying her arm as she pulled back a bow. The happiness she had known then was gone forever.
A new happiness was possible. She would seek the answers to the questions that troubled Siddhartha. She would find them, bring them back to him, make him love her again.
She sat back on her heels and raised her face to Mohini. With a little gasp she jumped to her feet.
The nymph was smiling. There was no doubt. A glow that suffused the carved wood and warmed Dhara’s face like the sun’s rays. Mohini seemed to wink at her. Dhara shut her eyes and looked again. The cracked wooden figure had returned to a lifeless state.
The breeze rose again, sweeping away Dhara’s dark thoughts. She let out a pained laugh.
I love you, Siddhartha. She yearned toward him.
I love you, Siddhartha responded. He had seen everything, knew everything. His love enveloped her. What madness. She would never leave him. He wanted her. Their hearts were one. Stay with me.
“Beloved, I’m coming,” she whispered.
By the angle of the sun, a half hour or more had passed. Uttara and Udayin would have already spread the poison. Everyone would be waiting, watching for her. There would be no arriving unnoticed.
So be it. Dhara adjusted her antariya, tossing the long end over her shoulder like a true celibate, and strode from the shrine. The broad path to the grove was empty. She marched along, nerves thrumming yet buoyed by the fresh spring air, inhaling deep breaths to calm herself.
She was glad Chandaka had fled, yes, glad. If he had stayed, she might not have been able to stop thinking of the way his touch made her heart beat, while it was Siddhartha she really loved, and who loved her.
Siddhartha knew her better than anyone. He knew she was his faithful wife.
A traitor and a coward
Chandaka strode around the lotus pond toward the back entrance to the palace. He would go through the kitchens to his chambers, pick up the few things he needed, then flee, flee this place. I tried to seduce my best friend’s wife.
No, he didn’t need anything from his room. He would avoid it. His sash was filled with gold. He stopped in his tracks and emitted a bitter little laugh. He hadn’t paid Ratna. Odd that she hadn’t given him that look as they left her room, the one that said, “Haven’t you forgotten something?” Gods, that wasn’t even two hours ago. If only he’d gone to the grove with her.
I tried to seduce Siddhartha’s wife. He couldn’t help himself. How could that be? With his women, he was in control; he chose the course of action. Always. Except with Kirsa.
Dhara was lovely, though, so lovely.
I tried to seduce the princess. He imagined Kirsa’s disappointed look, shaking her head sorrowfully, her unspoken question: How could you?
Because Siddhartha had grown so distant. When he’d first returned to Kapilavastu, they were constant companions. Now he couldn’t remember the last time the two of them had just taken an afternoon ride together through the park or gone on foot to the old tree house with a sack of food and a jug of rice wine and spent the night.
He resumed his long-legged stride toward the kitchens. If Punna was there, she would pack some food for him. Maybe they would have time for a quick tryst. No, that was callow, disgusting. He didn’t know if he had changed into this disgusting person or if he’d always been this way.
He would head directly for the stables, get his horse, flee the kingdom. But maybe there was no reason to flee. He paused again, turned the incident over in his mind. They hadn’t finished what they started. The slight ache in his groin was proof of that. No. He should stay, face Siddhartha, tell him the truth. Nothing happened, old friend. A friendly kiss, that’s all.
Nothing had happened. He walked faster and faster, head bent, frowning down at the path. He had really wanted her. She had wanted him, too, and he would have had her, if Uttara hadn’t shown up. How had that conniving bitch known they would be there? Maybe Dhara herself had arranged it, to get rid of Chandaka. She’d always been jealous of the friendship between him and the prince. She had set things up so she could say Chandaka attacked her, and Siddhartha would send him away.
Ridiculous. He had surprised her at her practice. He had taken advantage of that. I’m the kind of man who would seduce his best friend’s wife. He clenched his jaw. Disgusting. Callow. A traitor and a coward.
The stable boy would ask where he was going. He had to tell the lad something. He could say, he could say—
Crack. He ran dead into someone rushing just as fast in the other direction. Stopped cold in mid stride, he lost his balance and went sprawling. “Ow!”
“Chandaka, for the love of the gods, are there demons chasing you?” Dhaumya stood above him, rubbing his head. Dhaumya, his old drinking and gambling companion. It took a minute to absorb this. Chandaka hadn’t seen him in months, then here he was, in a plain robe like some sage in the grove, his warrior braid replaced by a sh
aven head and student’s topknot, and his face, once broad and fleshy, almost gaunt.
“By Yama’s seven hells, you old drunk, why don’t you look where you’re going?”
“So sorry, my friend.” Dhaumya reached a sinewy arm down and grasped Chandaka’s hand to help him up. “My fault, I’m sure. I was hurrying to the grove, trying to catch up with Nalaka.” He gave a little smile and an apologetic shrug. “He’s my guru now, you know.”
“Nalaka is your guru?” That explained much. The once powerful warrior Dhaumya was now a skeletal ascetic. Unlikely, but there it was. Chandaka swayed, still dazed. Dhaumya’s strong grip was steadying.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Dhaumya said. “I needed to change. One too many times I woke up in the morning without the faintest idea of what I’d done the night before. You helped me out of many a drunken scrape. I owe you a lot.”
Chandaka rubbed his head. Yes. Dhaumya owed him. Maybe they were meant to collide. “Listen. I need help.”
“Anything, old friend. About time I repaid those old debts.” Dhaumya’s expression was as earnest as a young acolyte’s.
Chandaka had to smile. “I need to leave Kapilavastu. As soon as I can.” He couldn’t think of how to tell the rest. He put a hand to his aching brow. A bump was growing.
“That’s easy enough. Do you want me to go to the stables while you pack, tell them to saddle your horse?” Dhaumya’s head was cocked to the side, his tanned brow wrinkled. “But you’ll want to say goodbye to Prince Siddhartha.”
“Yes. No.” There was no way to get around this. “I need to get away. Fast. I can’t say goodbye to the prince because—because—Dhaumya, do you trust me?”
“Of course.”
“Can I trust you with a message for the prince?”
“Of course.”
As Dhaumya waited, Chandaka searched his heart. She was beautiful, she was gifted, there had been an underlying attraction, but in truth, alluring as she was, he was not half in love with her. It was lust, pure and simple. That made it worse in a way.
His shoulders slumped. No time to say farewell to the one woman he did love and their son. In a way, there was a shameful sort of relief in that. He didn’t know if he could face Nachiketa’s hurt brown eyes and Kirsa’s disapproving golden ones. He had disappointed them so much already. His gut writhed.
He was no good to anyone here.
Ratna was right. “You could go back to your father’s court,” she’d said. “You’re wasting time here.” She said she would be there for him, just as she was here. Oh, wise Ratna. It wasn’t either Kirsa or Dhara he loved, it was his dusky goddess.
Chandaka took a deep breath. “Tell him this is what happened between me and the princess,” he began. As Dhaumya’s eyes widened, he plunged on with his story.
Bhadda’s tale
The impatient crowd was audible long before Dhara reached the grove. They all hated her. She paused to collect herself.
She would show Uttara, Udayin, all of them. She would look only at Siddhartha, open her mind to him, let him see everything that had happened, ask his forgiveness. He was the only one she really loved. And he loved her.
Dhara straightened her shoulders and strode into the sunny glade. The natural amphitheater was filled with seated Sakyas of every caste and age. There was the great tree with its tangled branches and aerial roots, and on the raised platform at its base acolytes had arranged kusha grass, and sitting on the grass was Bhadda, staring right at her.
Dhara quailed. She had kept an honored guest waiting.
The massed listeners quieted. Hundreds of heads turned and hundreds of eyes fixed on Dhara. From the leers, the faces twisted with vicious smiles, the wide eyes and shocked expressions, Dhara knew the rumors had already spread.
To the right of the platform was the royal dais, slightly lower than the sage’s seat in keeping with the Sakyan tradition of giving wisdom more respect than power, or at least pretending to do so.
Find Siddhartha. That was the thing. Ignore them all. Just find him.
It was he who found her, gazing at her from under the bouquet of white parasols that shaded the royal family. The king and queen were enthroned on low carved chairs covered with gem-colored cushions. On a woven bamboo mat to the king’s right, Siddhartha sat with his legs crossed and his hands resting on his thighs in a cotton antariya that matched Dhara’s, a simple gold circlet around his forehead. Their eyes met.
Those seated around him—Suddhodana and Prajapati, Prince Nanda, Princess Sundari, Bhela and his horrible offspring—blurred together. Only Siddhartha was sharp and clear, altogether present. Now she understood. For so long, he had seemed elusive, but he was fully present. It was her own heart and mind that were not.
Look at the whore; there’s the adulteress; her husband’s friend, imagine; no surprise, she’s nothing but a slut; the silent crowd’s thoughts rose like a noxious fog. They disappeared like mist under the sun as she thought of how she loved her prince. As she moved forward, people drew away, opening a narrow path. Some muttered behind their hands, some stared with frank curiosity, others looked bored, but there were no friendly faces. Except his.
She knelt at Bhadda’s feet and touched her forehead to them. “Bhadda-ji, your presence honors the Nigrodha Grove and the Sakyan clan.” She hardly spoke above a whisper, yet her trembling voice carried in the silence. They, like she, waited for the rishiki’s wrath at her unforgivable tardiness. Dhara licked her lips, preparing an abject apology.
“Forgive me, honored one,” she began.
“Dhara, my dear. Let me see you.” Dhara lifted her head. The old woman gave her a mischievous smile. “Has it been ten years since Varanasi? You’ve grown so lovely.”
Dhara was struck dumb. This was not what she had expected at all.
“Back then, you wanted to know my story. As I recall, karma sent us our different ways. Do you remember?”
“Of course, B-Bhadda-ji,” Dhara stuttered. “You went to Maghada with—with—” She stumbled over Chandaka’s name.
“Yes. I returned for a time to the land of my birth. But I haven’t forgotten that you asked how I chose my path. I’m glad I’ve come and can tell it to you today.”
“I will listen with all my being,” Dhara said, mystified and relieved by Bhadda’s kindness. No show of a sage’s temper, no flash of burning tapas to singe her. “All know you have gathered much wisdom on your journey.”
Bhadda let out a ringing laugh. “As time goes on, I grow less certain of what wisdom I really do possess. But perhaps you will find my tale instructive.”
Dhara bowed again. The crowd’s silence threatened to suffocate her. Her mind began to churn again. As she approached the royal dais, she nearly stumbled, but Siddhartha’s steadying gaze held her upright. Back straight, heart fluttering, she took a few steps, knelt, and bowed before the king and queen with joined palms.
“Namaste, your majesties,” Dhara said. She paused, gathering her courage. Best to get the worst over first. It wasn’t the king that frightened her. She didn’t know if the queen would look at her as a friend or as an enemy. She took a deep breath, raised her head.
Another shock. Prajapati didn’t look angry. There might even be respect in her eyes, if Dhara could trust her senses. Even slight warmth, an even rarer thing. Dhara began to wonder if she was dreaming.
She turned to Suddhodana, prepared to meet the lecherous appraisal that nowadays he seemed to give every woman except his wife, regardless of her rank or age. Again, she was surprised. He was glancing from the queen to Siddhartha and back again, as if trying to discern how he should react. “Well, sit, sit.” The king waved her toward Siddhartha.
Siddhartha extended his hand and Dhara took it. As she mounted the dais and settled next to him, she could feel the royal party and entire crowd watching. He took her palm, raised it to his lips, kissed it. Just l
oud enough for those seated near the dais to hear, he said, “You look lovely. Who wouldn’t try to make love to you, finding you alone?”
Dhara fixed her eyes on the palm he’d just kissed, not trusting herself to look anywhere else. Had she heard him right?
A whisper ran through the crowd, spreading his words. Siddhartha lowered her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. Not since she had gone to Angulimala’s camp and the foundation of her own mind had shifted underneath her had such a strong feeling of unreality taken hold of her. This time, though, there wasn’t the uneasy, helpless feeling that her senses were not under her own control. This time, things were not as she expected, but this strange new world was exhilarating.
“Ahem.” Suddhodana cleared his throat. “So, honored Bhadda, please grace us with your tale.”
The assembled Sakyas murmured and shifted. When all was quiet, Bhadda began.
“I am the daughter of a wealthy Maghadan merchant.” Her melodious voice cast a spell. Dhara and Siddhartha disentangled their fingers and placed their hands on their thighs, palms up, to receive the rishiki’s words through their whole being. Dhara’s mind stilled at last.
“In our capital Rajagriha,” the rishiki continued, “where trade routes converge from all directions, you may see dark-skinned men from the southern lands, yellow races that live beyond the Brahmaputra River, exotic beauties from the islands in the Eastern Sea. We Maghadans are accustomed to mores and manners of many cultures, and like you Sakyans, are known for our tolerance and liberality. Just as they do here in Kapilavastu, in Rajagriha the castes mingle more readily than elsewhere among the Sixteen Clans. Women enjoy freedoms unknown in many other kingdoms and are famous for independence of mind and spirit.
“My mother died when I was young,” Bhadda said. “My father, a pious man, sent me to the same ashram where my brothers were learning the Vedas.
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