Buddha

  That night of departure Channa drove a chariot to protect Siddhartha, but instead of standing behind him the way he would in battle, the prince rode Kanthaka, who was old but still strong.

  When the gates of Kapilavastu closed behind them and they hit the main dirt road, Kanthaka’s hoofbeats became a dull thud, like muffled drums at a funeral. They moved slowly toward the river. Channa’s back was rigid with anger; he refused to break his sullen silence. By sunrise the prince was bathing in the green, slow-flowing river. He stepped out and wrapped a saffron skirt around his waist.

  “What do I do with those?” asked Channa. He pointed at the embroidered robe and silk shirt hanging from a tree limb. There was no need to give him instructions—royal finery was burned after it was discarded. Channa just wanted an excuse to pick a quarrel.

  “It’s a waste to burn them if you’re really coming back,” he said. “Or did you just tell her that?”

  Siddhartha ignored the jibe. “Do what you want. They belong to someone who isn’t me anymore.” He took out a short-bladed razor and began to cut his long hair as close to the scalp as he could.

  “Isn’t you anymore?” Channa shook his head with disbelief. He had no idea why Siddhartha had gone crazy, only that he had.

  Siddhartha continued quietly cutting his hair. He hadn’t reckoned on how much sorrow he would create around him by deciding to leave. His father fumed and screamed at the servants. Channa whipped the chariot horses too hard. Smiling court ladies acted vaguely as if they’d been jilted. What they really felt, deep inside, was that he had died.

  Siddhartha held out the razor to him. “Do you mind?” he said. Channa looked startled. “You’ve done so much for me, friend. This is the last thing I’ll ask.” Siddhartha pointed at the back of his head, where he had made a mess of cutting his hair. Channa reluctantly took the blade. He squatted beside Siddhartha on his heels and began to cut. He was expert at it. This was something that women didn’t do. Barbering was left to men, and on the battlefield soldiers would trim off hair that was too long to fit under a helmet.

  At first he was rough, and Siddhartha, saying nothing, gave him a questioning look. “Sorry,” Channa mumbled. After a moment he began to settle down. The intimate act distracted him from his grief. Channa knew, as everyone at court did, that only he was allowed to touch the prince—tapping his shoulder to make a point in argument, brushing dirt off his hunting jacket, embracing him when Siddhartha rode off to the villages—but no one openly spoke about this breach of caste rules.

  “That’s enough.” Siddhartha took the razor from Channa’s hands. “I don’t want anyone to think I have an expert barber.”

  “No, you’re just another monk with hardly a stitch to wear,” Channa said.

  They parted there by the river as the sun came over the treetops. Channa refused to say farewell; he kept his arms tightly pinned by his side to deflect Siddhartha’s attempt to embrace him. As Siddhartha walked away, he trained his eyes straight ahead for the first hour. The jungle canopy was fairly dense, even though trees had been cut down to make the road. For a while he hardly knew how he felt, except in the most basic physical ways. His body felt lighter; the slightest breeze ruffled his thin silk shawl and passed coolly over his skin. Being without long hair and heavy robes was exhilarating and unnerving.

  Having been a hunter, he knew how to forage for fruit and wild greens; in the past few years he’d spent days on long treks without provisions. But it wasn’t the physical necessities that worried him. To really be Gautama, he would need to find a teacher. There were forest hermitages scattered over the countryside, most of them near big villages and towns. Saffron-robed beggars had become a common sight on the wide streets of cities beyond the kingdom of Sakya. Their increasing numbers baffled people, and the priests muttered about shiftless pretenders. Some kind of spiritual ferment was taking hold. Before he left home, Siddhartha was intrigued by this new movement, which didn’t even have a name yet.

  “It’s young rascals, these so-called holy men,” a silk merchant complained. “They fear work like the plague. They’re abandoning the farms and turning away from their parents. Nothing seems to hold them back, certainly not respect.”

  The merchant kept his own son tied close to his side with constant demands and a trickle of money, not enough for him to leave or to get married before the father arranged a match.

  “How do they live?” Siddhartha asked.

  “Like any other lazybones. I wouldn’t leave meat hanging in my front yard,” said the merchant. “You never know when the gods might want it.”

  Siddhartha ignored his cynicism. “Who teaches them?”

  “You call it teaching? What are the temples for? Not that the priests are much better, mind you.” Siddhartha pressed the point, and the merchant eventually realized that he wasn’t there simply to reinforce high-caste prejudice. “I’m amazed that you care, Your Highness. From what I can tell, the young ones seek out the older ones. They move around the forest from camp to camp, and the day they arrive at some makeshift school, they bow down before the teacher and ask about the Dharma, whatever his angle happens to be. Dharma? The priests filled us with enough of that.” Dharma could mean many things—a man’s occupation, the rules of proper conduct, a person’s holy duties as outlined by scripture. In this case it was a philosophy, a particular teaching that disciples committed themselves to learn.

  “And which Dharma is attracting the most followers?” Siddhartha asked.

  The merchant shrugged. “Who can say? The young ones keep wandering. They’re restless and never stay anywhere very long.”

  Other travelers that Siddhartha came in contact with were just as hostile. They would have been shocked if they could have penetrated Siddhartha’s defenses and seen what lay behind his hospitable smile. He belonged to the same young, restless breed that disappeared into the forest for years at a time. With each passing day he became more and more aware of his calling. Yet, time was pressing. If he stayed in the palace for just a few more years, the king would be old enough to step aside and bequeath Siddhartha the throne. He couldn’t let that happen. Not love, not family, not his own conscience could force him to betray himself.

  And this is what you call being true to yourself?

  Gautama’s mind wasn’t convinced. The rain continued to pour from the sky, and the road was so dark that more than once he slipped into the gully on the side. There was no use arguing with his mind, which seemed untamable anyway. Gautama wondered if he was alone among mortals, wanting to abandon all that was good in order to suffer the torment and uncertainty of the wild world. He’d add that to his long list of questions to ask his teacher once he found him. If he found him.

  12

  Gautama passed several travelers on the road who could have directed him to one of the forest ashrams where teachers were located. He greeted them humbly, letting them decide to accept his company for a few miles or not; a handful offered him food for his bowl. But he was reluctant to throw himself into the midst of a band of disciples. Gautama wanted to learn, but he didn’t want to give up who he was. His only model for a spiritual teacher was Canki, who had a hidden motive for everything he said.

  It wasn’t long before he ran across a wandering monk, a thin, sunburned man who seemed old enough to have had a family with grown children. Gautama expected that the sannyasis he met would be very serious or very eccentric. But this monk, who gave his name as Ganaka, turned out to be cheerful and sociable.

  “I’ve been away for twelve years now, lad,” he said as they walked along the road. “You meet all sorts. But now the local people know me, and I’m treated pretty well. Your first holdup’s a shock, though. The dacoits like you to know who’s boss.”

  “Do you belong to an ashram?” Gautama asked.

  Ganaka shrugged. “I’ve visited them. You get too hungry sometimes.”

  “What Dharma do you follow?”

  The older monk gave him a look. “Is that what you’re af
ter? I didn’t know you were one of those.” He had nothing more to say for a while, and Gautama wondered with some puzzlement if the word Dharma had offended him. How could you be a monk without a teaching? When he decided to speak again, the older monk said, “Don’t let them fool you.”

  “Who?”

  “These teachers who promise enlightenment. Listen to the voice of experience. I’m not enlightened, and you won’t be either. They’ll feed you a pack of high-sounding ideas, you’ll work for them year after year, and then when they’ve worn you out, you’ll leave with the taste of ashes in your mouth.”

  There was a lot to read in Ganaka’s bitter tone. In a sympathetic voice Gautama said, “Tell me your experience. I want to know.”

  Ganaka sighed. “In that case, you’d better have some of my bread. I was going to save it until you were out of sight.” He reached into his shawl and pulled out a large round roti, or flat bread, folded into quarters. He ripped off half for Gautama, but not before blessing it. “I see myself in you,” the older monk began. “I left home after my wife died. I was a vendor of ghee and spices in a village, never rich enough to own a proper store but not poor either.”

  “And you were devout?”

  “Oh, yes. Raised by a strict father who sent us to the temple for lessons as soon as we could walk. As a child I believed. Even when my dear Bhadda died in so much pain, moaning pitifully for her suffering to end, I believed. I gave away all my earthly possessions, and with the blessing of the priests I set out on my journey.”

  “I think you’re still devout,” said Gautama. “You bless your food. Even when no one is watching, I imagine.”

  “Habit,” the older monk said curtly. “Anyway, the road is a hard life. I went to visit the forest ashrams, eager as a bridegroom the night after the wedding. I sat at the guru’s feet and waited, mouth open like a gaping fish. That’s why I see myself in you. You want them to drop their wisdom into your gaping mouth. You’re probably a philosopher. No offense, but I can tell by your accent that you never sold rubbish from a stall in the open bazaar.”

  “I can’t disagree,” said Gautama diplomatically, caught between smiling at the older monk, who clearly had been dying for someone to talk to, and worrying about the tale of disillusion that was about to unfold.

  Ganaka tore off a chunk of roti with his yellow teeth. “They’re shameless, these gurus. The garbage they spew as truth! Do they think we’re fools? They must, as I found out the hard way. I took some of the younger disciples aside and joked with them a bit. Little stuff. Does this guru get paid by the yarn, like a wandering storyteller? Does he think you can feed cows on moonbeams? Next thing I knew, I got thrown out bodily, like I came to steal their shoes. Hypocrisy.” His voice trailed off mournfully as he ran out of spleen. “Moonbeams and hypocrisy.”

  “What did you decide to do?”

  “I couldn’t go home. I’d given almost everything to the priests, and they don’t give back. But you’ve got some sense, you could see that I’m still devout. I pray, and I have a circuit of householders who feed me and let me take refuge from the storm.”

  “Pardon me, but aren’t you simply waiting to die?” asked Gautama.

  Ganaka shrugged. “It’s a life.”

  Before Gautama could pose another question, they heard a commotion up ahead. A man was screaming curses, a woman was crying. Gautama’s steps quickened, and when he rounded the next curve he saw what the trouble was. A laden bullock cart going to market had run off into the ditch. Several bags of grain had spilled out. A woman was crouched on the ground trying to scoop up the scattered grain with her hands, while over her stood her furious husband.

  “Are you an idiot? You’re putting dirt back in the bags. Stop bawling!” he shouted. He began to beat her about the shoulders with his bullock goad.

  Gautama came toward them. When he saw a monk, the husband sullenly lowered his stick. “Is your animal hurt?” Gautama asked, noticing that the bullock, which was old and blind in one eye, had fallen onto its front knees.

  Without answering, the man began to apply the goad heavily to the bullock, who lowed mournfully as it struggled to regain its footing. Out of panic it pulled the wrong way and tilted the cart farther over; more bags spilled out, and the woman began to weep loudly. Beside himself now, the man couldn’t decide which one to beat next, the bullock or his wife.

  “Wait,” begged Gautama. “I can help you.”

  “How?” the husband grumbled. “If I have to give you a bag of rice, you’re cheating me.”

  “Don’t think about that, just try to calm down,” Gautama coaxed.

  Once he got the husband to back off from his rage, Gautama helped him free the bullock from its yoke and unload the cart. Then he and the man shouldered the cart from the rear and with considerable grunting and groaning rolled it out of the ditch. While they sweated in the hot sun, the wife sat in the shade holding the bullock’s tether and fanning herself with a palm leaf.

  “There.” Gautama stood back after the last bag of grain had been put back into place.

  Without a word the man got into the driver’s seat. “Are you coming or not?” he said sourly to his wife.

  She put her hands on her hips. “Why? So I can go home with a man who beats his bullock into a ditch and is so stupid it takes a monk to show him how to get it out again?”

  Gautama could see that the man wanted to hit her again with the goad, but his shame kept him from doing it in front of a holy man. He bit his lip while his wife climbed into the cart, flashing a contemptuous smile at the young monk. The cart began to trundle off. Over his shoulder the man said, “Whatever rice you can pick out of the road is yours. Namaste.”

  Gautama turned around to find Ganaka standing a dozen yards away laughing, and he was clearly laughing at him. “How long have you been standing there?” Gautama demanded, feeling the blood rising to his face.

  “The whole time,” said the older monk nonchalantly. He was chewing a stem of sour grass he’d plucked from the roadside.

  “Is there a stream nearby? I need to wash my face,” Gautama said curtly. There was no point, he thought, in asking why Ganaka hadn’t helped or if he had heard of the monastic vow of service. The older monk led the way to a fresh rivulet in the forest. Gautama poured water from his begging bowl over his head and shoulders while Ganaka watched, squatting on his heels.

  “Those people didn’t love you for what you did,” he pointed out.

  “I didn’t expect them to,” Gautama replied. The stream was shallow enough that the water he poured over his back felt as warm as bathwater. His tense muscles began to relax.

  Ganaka said, “If you didn’t want them to love you, at least you wanted gratitude. You’re just too proud to admit it. And angry that I laughed at you. Imagine, here you are being a saint, and a monk, no less, ridicules you for it.”

  Hearing the truth stung, but Gautama was too exhausted to work up heavy resentment. Instead he said, “Was I ridiculous in your eyes?”

  “Why would it matter? A saint has to rise above ridicule. Maybe I was trying to teach you that.”

  “Are you my teacher now? I thought you hated teachers.” Gautama knew that he had let childish pique creep into his voice, but he didn’t care.

  He expected Ganaka to keep on mocking him, but the older monk’s voice grew suddenly serious. “I’m part of the world. If you want a teacher, turn to the world.”

  Gautama stepped out of the water, feeling cooler but still sore with the sense of having been badly used. “The world’s wisdom is contained in you? Congratulations.”

  “Not all the world’s wisdom, but a piece of it. The piece you need to hear,” said Ganaka calmly.

  “And what is that?”

  “Are you free enough of anger to listen?” Ganaka asked. He met Gautama’s stare. “I didn’t think so.” He sat under a tree and watched Gautama as indifferently as he had watched the husband and wife in trouble. Gautama could have walked away, but after a moment he fel
t settled enough to sit down beside the older monk.

  “Everything you say is true,” he admitted.

  “Only it shouldn’t be. That’s your position, isn’t it? That when you act like a saint, you should be loved, and whoever sees you doing good works should be inspired to join you.”

  “All right, yes,” said Gautama reluctantly. “What’s your position? That you can be my teacher by standing around and letting me do all the work?”

  “There was no work to do.”

  “I think there was,” Gautama protested.

  “Then tell me where I’m wrong. The man would have calmed down eventually and figured out how to unyoke his animal and empty the cart. He and his wife were strong enough to push the cart out of the ditch, and if they weren’t, they could walk back to their village and get help. So by helping them, you kept them from helping themselves.”

  “Go on.”

  “If you thought you were preventing violence because the man stopped beating his wife, all you really did was shame him. He will not only resent you for that; he will beat his wife extra hard tonight to make a point. He is master, she is slave.”

  “And no one should try to show them a better way?”

  “Maybe, but why should it be you? They had parents and priests who taught them right from wrong. They must know families where the wife isn’t beaten every time the husband loses his temper. Or maybe they don’t. Why should it be up to you? You’re a wandering beggar,” Ganaka pointed out.

  Gautama was too tired to argue in the face of the older monk’s certainty. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” he mumbled.

  Ganaka laughed with a hint of scorn. “You can do better than that. I can tell what you’re thinking. You’re highborn, so that makes you right. No question about it.”