Stay
put until me and the boy come back for you.” Bikram wasn’ t stern with the
seven-year -old, who was never addressed as “boy .” He just made clear what
was needed. Siddhartha obeyed automatically . He hung back as Channa and his father rounded the corner and entered
an open stall. The gate shut behind them. Siddhartha squatted in the straw-
covered dirt. His eyes roamed over the array of saddles and bridles hanging
on the wall; he caught the clinking of hammers on the smithy’ s forge out
back. Listening intently , he thought he heard Bikram’ s muttered voice, then
Channa’ s.
The boy was uneasy being left alone. He had a secret. Not the kind he
was ashamed to reveal so much as one he couldn’ t fathom. To escape
thinking about it, he gazed up at the stable roof. It was old, and the timbers
had warped over the winter , letting in the rain and beams of bright sunlight
when the weather was clear . His eyes caught a sunbeam now , and he watched motes of dust dance in
it. Look closer . Siddhartha shivered and tried not to listen. The words in his head didn’ t
feel like his own. They came unlike ordinary thoughts. The voice had begun
about a week earlier—this was his secret—and almost always said the same
thing. Look closer . The sunbeam fell warmly across his eyelids, and he felt dreamy . The
dust motes seemed to seize his attention and grow bigger . What if we ar e made of dust? All things that come fr om the earth ar e
only dust. Siddhartha looked down at his arm and brushed away the film of dried
dung that had settled on it. More dust flew up into the sunlight.I am just dust, he thought. He jumped to his feet and began to run. Only dust. The voice had turned on him, was suddenly harsh and mocking. Siddhartha didn’ t want to hear it anymore, and it was all the boy could do
not to cry . He raced toward the stall where Channa had gone. He paused at
the gate, not wanting to be seen this way , weak and shaken. Above him, in
the shadowy rafters, an unseen figure sat. Eyes watched the boy trying to
calm down, and a calculating mind considered its next move. Siddhartha pushed at the gate, but it was locked from the inside. On the other side Bikram’ s voice was sharp. “Hold her down, I said.”
Siddhartha heard a horse whinnying in pain and hooves clomping
against the ground. He peered through a crack in the gate. A sick old mare
was lying on her side, heaving and quivering. At one end crouched Channa,
trying his best to hold the mare’ s head still. At the other end Bikram was
tying her hind legs together with rope; he had already tied the front legs,
and they clomped helplessly against the ground. Bikram stood up. Siddhartha saw the grimness in his face and the fear in Channa’ s.
“It’s going to be all right,” the boy whispered into the mare’ s ear, which
twitched as if hearing a nearby predator . Eyes rolling wide and white with
terror , the horse sensed what was coming. “I need you to be strong,” said Bikram. “Y ou know why the prince
couldn’ t be here for this?”
“No.”
His father shrugged. “No need. Just remember , he can’ t be here,
understand?” Channa nodded. “Once everyone’ s asleep tonight, we’ll take
her outside the gates and bury her . He doesn’ t ever need to know she’ s
dead.” Channa nodded again.Above Siddhartha, an unseen figure—Mara himself—peered down,
considering his next move. He had waited a long time to rejoin the boy and
draw him closer . Close enough to become a voice in his head. The demon
clapped his hands, wondering if the boy might look up, but Siddhartha’ s
eyes were fixed on the scene in the stall. Bikram picked up a heavy ax and
turned the blunt side of the blade outward, like a club. He walked slowly to
the mare’ s head. “Look away , boy .”
Channa did as he was told; his father raised the ax high in the air ,
brawny knots standing out from his bare arm. Out of the corner of his eye
Channa saw him bring the ax down; there was a loud thud and the crunch of
bone, but in the instant before, as if sensing its fate supernaturally , the old
mare screamed. Siddhartha heard it as he ran, a piercing pitiful cry that made the other
horses shiver in their stalls. He was terrified, but he hadn’ t witnessed the
blow . Something pulled the boy away at the last second—weakness, or a
better impulse?—saving him from the grisly sight. Panicked, he ran outside,
putting as much distance between himself and the stables as he could. Prajapati’ s two young servants saw him and gave chase. Mara knew the moment was ripe. He was suddenly beside Siddhartha,
arms and knees pumping as he matched him stride for stride. “Yah!” the demon shrilled. “Giddyap! Let’ s see you run!”
Siddhartha turned his head, and his eyes widened. It was only a quick,
panicky glance, but Mara was certain he’d been seen. It was the first time, a
milestone. Turning his gaze from the horrible sight, Siddhartha focused on the
palace ahead of him. The building was huge and ornate, a thing of beauty
according to every visitor the young prince had held audience with. He ran
through an arched doorway , not slowing at all. Soon he reached the closed
door of his father ’s bedroom. No one had followed him, and gradually his
breath stopped burning in his chest. Cautiously , hearing the murmur ofvoices from within, Siddhartha tried the lock. It was open. Moving with the
natural stealth of a child, he pulled the door open and peered inside. His father ’s private chambers were vast and ornate. The best silks and
the finest gold made up the bedding and decorated the furniture. Polished
floors gleamed with candlelight, and a small group of men huddled around
his father ’s bed. Suddhodana sat propped up by pillows. The men around him were court
physicians, who poked and prodded, examining their royal char ge gingerly . “Get on with it,” he grumbled. “If you’re here to get me closer to dying,
don’t bother . Time is taking care of that.”
Siddhartha drew back. He had never known his father to be sick, barely
recognized these men as doctors. They had rarely appeared in his short life,
and only before dawn. The king didn’ t want his son to be awake when he
needed tending. But Siddhartha could vaguely remember , as if seeing
through a fevered haze, the same poking and prodding he now observed. One of the physicians gestured to another , who held a lar ge wooden
bucket with a lid. Removing it, the second physician reached inside and
withdrew a lar ge, fat leech. “Lie back, Y our Majesty . This will be the last time, I promise.” The lead
physician was a thick man with gentle hands. He was called Gandhik,
Siddhartha remembered. T aking the leech, Gandhik applied it directly over
his father ’s heart. It was all Siddhartha could do to remain silent when he
saw the six leeches already feeding on his chest. Swollen and dark, they
looked like they were trying to crawl inside him. “Disgusting,” the king snapped. “Y ou and your so-called arts.” He
heaved a sigh of resignation. “Disgusting.”
“Hold still, Y our Majesty ,” Gandhik directed in a quiet, patient tone. “I want to be strong again,” Suddhodana said. Then he shook his head. “Who am I fooling? I want to be young  again.”Lying there on the pillows, his graying hair feathered out around him,
the king permitted the indignities of medicine as a distraction—they kept
him from dealing with the passage of time. Every day seemed to be a
weight around his neck, depriving him of another ounce of strength. “You will be strong after this,” Gandhik promised, holding another
writhing leech pinched between his forefinger and thumb. Something in his
reassurance sounded false, even to himself. “Idiots!” the king exploded. “Flatterers! I might as well suck my own
blood.” He glared at the leech and struggled with giving up on the whole
damned business of medicine, only to lean back, his eyes closed, no longer
willing to look. “Get on with it.” Cautiously , Gandhik applied the final
leech to the king’ s chest. Siddhartha’ s eyes focused on this, but his mind was fixed on something
he couldn’ t comprehend: his father showing fear . This sent tremors through
him, as if he had been standing on a mountainside that suddenly began to
slide out from under his feet. Siddhartha backed away and closed the door
without a sound. When he turned around, he nearly ran over another boy in the hallway . “What are you, a spy?” the stranger said. He had a taunting voice and
disdainful eyes, which looked down on Siddhartha almost six inches above
his own eyes. At the word spy, Siddhartha jumped. “I’m not,” he stammered. The older boy’ s eyes narrowed suspiciously . Siddhartha blushed with
shame, and suddenly he knew without being told that someone important
had just entered his life. OceanofPDF .com5
It took a moment before Siddhartha had enough presence of mind to ask,
“Who are you? Why did you sneak up on me like that?”
The other boy stared without reply . He wore heavy embroidered clothes
that marked him as the favored of some king’ s court. Under them, his body
was already developing muscles on a lean frame. He must have been at
least twelve. “I didn’ t sneak up. Y ou’re just too blind to see.”
“Sorry .”
Siddhartha’ s meekness made the other boy draw himself up to his full
height and cross his arms. “I came looking for you. Didn’ t they tell you?”
Siddhartha shook his head, which earned him a pitying look. “Y ou don’ t
talk much. Do you spend the day under a rock? Y ou look pale enough.”
Each taunt was having less and less ef fect. Siddhartha knew he wasn’ t
pale, and though cowed at first, he wasn’ t afraid of the stranger . He said,
“You must be my cousin. They said you were coming.”
“See? Even you can make sense if you try .”
Siddhartha said nothing. The arrival of this aggressive visitor added one
more unwelcome shock to the day . His father limited the number of people
who saw his son and limited even further the number who actually had a
conversation with him.“Do you think you can remember a name? Mine’ s Devadatta, and I’m
just as good as you are. T ry and remember that too.”
Siddhartha would have bowed in greeting and was tempted to even after
this barrage. He recalled what his father had told him: “Y ou’re getting
lonely . We have to do something about that.” The next day an order was
sent to summon a suitable companion, and Suddhodana congratulated
himself on his choice. Devadatta was born to a branch of the Sakyan royal
line and was old enough to travel on a saddle up the steep trails from his
home kingdom, where he held the rank of prince. Devadatta was tired of bantering, so he grabbed the cap Siddhartha was
wearing and dangled it out of reach, watching the smaller boy try to jump
up and snatch it back. “We need to have an understanding, just you and me,” he said. “They
made me leave home against my will. I’m not old enough to get my way . Not all the time, I mean.” Devadatta smiled, his mouth a narrow , tight line. “I didn’ t want to come to this godforsaken place. Or to meet you.” He
jammed the cap on Siddhartha’ s head again. Siddhartha took a step backward so he could bolt down the hallway if
he had to. “You’re really scared of the leeches, aren’ t you?” Devadatta taunted. “No.” Siddhartha said, ashamed that he’d been seen but not wanting
anyone to think he was afraid. Devadatta lifted his shirt to expose a dozen fresh scars all over his chest. They were bright pink half-moons against his dark skin. “I had a fever last month; they leeched me so I wouldn’ t die. That’ s why
they’re in there with your papa. He’ll probably die too.” Devadatta stared
the smaller boy down. “I wasn’ t a baby about it. Not like you. Go ahead,
touch them, if you’re really not scared.”Unwilling to endure any more, Siddhartha turned and fled down the
long hallway . He wanted to get away from everything: his cousin, the
physicians with their bucket of bloodsuckers, and most of all the helpless
feeling that he was trapped in a nightmare. Deriding laughter burned in his
ears as he ran. SOON SUDDHODANA W AS EXUL TING  in Devadatta’ s presence. “This is a
prince of the blood. T reat him like my second son,” he announced in open
court. In private he set the usual spies on the newcomer , who was probably
acting as a spy himself. In the king’ s mind he had accomplished two goals
at once. His son, who showed signs of a dangerous passivity , would have a
model to follow , someone close to his own age but tougher . In addition, a
neighboring kingdom, intimidated by Suddhodana’ s wrath if it refused, had
given up its heir apparent to his control. Having caught Devadatta in a trap,
Suddhodana lavished smiles on the boy and catered to his whims, which
promised to be precocious and plentiful. That year , at the arrival of spring, the king threw a feast to celebrate. Siddhartha was awake before dawn, brightening up at the prospect of what
lay ahead. He knew that people lived outside the palace walls, but he could
only imagine what that must be like. The most mundane thing—walking
along a dusty road through a market town—must be amazing (although
he’d never seen a town and only knew about roads to faraway places from
books). All he had to do was ask people about themselves, and Siddhartha
was certain they would recount wondrous stories. When the festivities began, however , the rush of new sensations was
beyond anything he had imagined. Colorful banners emblazoned with
pictures of the gods, bright lanterns, and gold-embossed decorations
transformed the palace grounds into a mythical place. He ran through flocks
of jugglers and acrobats; he listened open-mouthed to wandering
storytellers in garish masks who had spent years learning how to keep
villagers in suspense as they described Hanuman, king of the monkeys,
flying with a mountain in his hands because a rare herb that grew there was
needed to heal the battle-wounded Lakshman, brother of the divine Lord
Rama. The monkey god couldn’ t find the herb, so he ripped up the entiremountain in order to return in time. W ould he? The audience gasped,
ignoring the fact that they had all heard the tale a hundred times. But nothing was better than the manic hour when the celebrants ran
around the grounds hurling fistfuls of dyed powder at each other . Clouds of
red, green, and yellow filled the air . Shrieking ladies ran away from panting
pursuers, coyly allowing themselves to be caught, then breaking into peals
of laughter as they threw dye in their paramours’ faces. W ithin minutes
everyone was covered in a patchwork of hues. Two older girls a little ways away suddenly caught his eye. Standing
beside one of the tables heavily laden with food, they chattered, pretending
not to look in Siddhartha’ s direction. They know I’m a prince,  Siddhartha thought, smiling a little. This made
him braver , and he approached, concealing the pouches of scarlet powder
behind his back. He worked hard to remain innocent looking. When he was
within a few feet of them, he sprang his surprise. A red fog hung in the air
for a moment before the wind pulled it away . The two girls squealed and
laughed, enjoying his unexpected attention considerably more than the
prank. When the air cleared there was an awkward pause. “Hello,” Siddhartha said. The two girls exchanged a look, as if trying to
decipher this message. The braver one took a deep breath. “Hello,” she replied. No guards descended; nothing exploded. So the
other one tried saying a word. “Y ou’re the prince?” Not as if she doubted it,
but as if she might not have the right to ask. Siddhartha nodded. “My father is the king.”
The girls lapsed into silence. Siddhartha wasn’ t sure how well things
were going. He wished he weren’ t alone. “Hey , cousin!”
Siddhartha turned around to see Devadatta a few feet away . He had his
fist poised in the air , and a second later he threw with all his might. A greencloud billowed out. Siddhartha was reaching into his own pouch, happy to
join in, when he felt a sharp pain in his forehead. He staggered back, then
touched the spot. His hand came away stained a warm, sticky crimson. Devadatta had put a rock in with the powder before he threw it. A new surprise, not the pain, held Siddhartha’ s attention. He had yet to
see his own blood. His cousin was laughing at him and looking toward the
girls, expecting them to appreciate the joke. But they had run away in
alarm. Devadatta shrugged and turned his attention back to Siddhartha. “Let’ s play again, only try to stay awake this time, okay?” He stooped down
to find another sharp rock. Siddhartha was never far from watchful eyes, and it was only a moment
before Suddhodana arrived on the scene as Devadatta threw his second
missile, not bothering to disguise it with dye. It hit Siddhartha in the chest
and made him cry out. He doubled over with a wince. Devadatta considered
this a favorable outcome and had another rock in hand already , but he spied
the king and hesitated. There was a small crowd around them now . Suddhodana nodded at Devadatta, “Go on.”
The boy didn’ t need any more encouragement. He threw again and hit
Siddhartha in the shoulder , hard enough to draw blood again. None of the
onlookers came to the rescue; even Prajapati, late to arrive, glanced at the
king and knew that she couldn’ t interfere. Siddhartha looked around. His
face flushed with shame, and he wanted to run, but his father ’s voice
stopped him. “No! Stay and fight.”
The courtiers exchanged nervous glances; some of the more
tenderhearted ladies clutched their hands to their breasts. Suddhodana kept
his eyes on his son, watching stonily for a response. When the boy didn’ t
move, only gazing vaguely into the distance, his father gave a small, almost
indecipherable snort, which Devadatta took as a signal that he had won. He
relaxed and dropped the rock in his fist, giving one last look of pity at his
victim. He pushed his way through the spectators and was gone.Suddhodana stepped forward and knelt beside his son. “Listen to me. You can’ t let him do that. In this family , we fight.” Siddhartha hung his
head, biting his lip. “Y ou’re my only son, aren’ t you?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“From now on, there’ s not going to be any more ‘papa,’ you
understand? From now on it’ s ‘sir .’”
Siddhartha felt a rock being put into his hand, and his father ’s much
larger hand closed it into a fist. “Go.”
The king stood up, and the courtiers parted the way , making a path in
the direction Devadatta had gone. Siddhartha felt the sharp edges of the
flinty stone against his palm. He gathered himself to run but had taken only
a step when his father ’s voice stopped him. “Here, let me clean you up first.” Suddhodana bent over and wiped the
blood from the boy’ s forehead. “Y ou have to see him to fight him. It might
get in your eyes.” His father ’s tone still had an edge, but Siddhartha
instinctively knew that in those few seconds his father had changed, had felt
a twinge of remorse or tenderness. The next instant he was being given a
rough shove and found himself running hard toward a pavilion beside the
pond where Devadatta had disappeared. SIDDHAR THA ROUNDED THE CORNER  of the pavilion by the lotus lake beyond
the sight of his father . He ducked into an archway that led inside, then he
made an escape near the water ’s edge. He didn’ t care where his cousin was. He dropped the rock clutched in his fist; the flinty edges had dug red
indentations in his palm. His other wounds were throbbing, but Siddhartha
ignored the pain. He threw himself down among the tall reeds by the pond. It was almost the only real hiding place he had ever found. Panic distorts
time, so he had no idea how long it was before he began to feel better . Buthis heart eventually stopped racing, and in the aftermath of distress he
began to feel drowsy and drained. Siddhartha was his father ’s son, yet he wasn’ t. There were no words to
express why this was true. The heavy expectations weighing on his
shoulders mystified him. The rocks thrown at him, the humiliation that
followed—all hurt. But worse was knowing that Devadatta, a cruel stranger ,
filled his father ’s expectations better than he did. Siddhartha watched a
hawk circling on motionless wings overhead. Unable to see beyond the
palace walls, he could still gaze above them. Then the hawk closed its
wings like scissors and dropped toward earth. In less than a second it
changed from an emblem of escape to a deadly missile hurtling down upon
an innocent prey . At that moment, although he scarcely suspected it, not Siddhartha but
Devadatta was the prey . Devadatta had fled from his victory in high spirits,
tinged with the bitterness of knowing that he was still the king’ s prisoner . The boy was bored with the childishness of the festival. He slowed his pace,
and then noticed that a man, a stranger , had appeared from nowhere. He
was tall and cloaked in the coarse hemp of a traveler . Despite the man’ s
stealth and the dif ference in their sizes, Devadatta wasn’ t afraid; his
arrogance protected him. His hand felt for the dagger at his side. The cloaked stranger raised an admiring eyebrow as if to say , We have a
man her e after all. He drew his own dagger . “Come on,” he said. “Y ou deserve to die.”
Devadatta backed away , startled. “Why?” His voice still betrayed no
fear, and he unsheathed his own weapon, ready to fight. “Not for anything you’ve done, but for what I’m going to make you
do.” Quicker than the eye could catch, the stranger lunged forward, grabbed
Devadatta’ s dagger by the blade, and snatched it from his grasp. Then he
burst out laughing at the boy’ s stunned reaction. The stranger ’s hand held
the razor -sharp blade tightly , yet not a drop of blood appeared.“You were unkind to draw on me,” the stranger said calmly , “but Mara
is kind enough for two.” He handed Devadatta his knife back. It was as hot
as a burning coal, and the boy dropped it with a shriek of pain. “Damn you, demon!”
Mara bowed ironically at being recognized so quickly . “Not many are
brave enough to curse me. Not on first meeting. Usually they’re more
occupied with their terror .”
Devadatta glared back defiantly . “Why are you here? I’m not going to
die.” He uttered these words with impressive certainty . Mara said nothing in
reply . One arm lifted, bringing the edge of his cloak with it. The cloak was
lined with black. Devadatta’ s gaze fell on it for an instant before the
blackness seemed to expand. One moment the cloak was making a small
billowy circle around Mara’ s head; the next it swelled to enclose the boy
before the entire pavilion disappeared, and Devadatta found himself in total
darkness, warm and suf focating. With a shriek he plummeted into a looming void. There was no telling
how long he fell, but it was certain that when he landed, it was with a bone-
jarring crash. For a moment Devadatta writhed helplessly , the wind
knocked out of him, before he became aware of hard, cold stone beneath his
body . “Where am I? Speak!” he shouted. “Oh, I’ll speak, never you fear .”
Mara’ s voice was right beside him. Devadatta reached out to strike, as
enraged as he was frightened. Or , to be more precise, he dealt with fear by
turning it into rage. His fists struck empty air . Mara admired the boy . It was
rare for someone so young to be fearless in peril, no matter how much was
empty bravado. Mara needed someone with certain qualities: hotheaded,
reckless, unable to judge the limits of his own danger , wily but stupid
enough to fall into the lure of arrogance. This one would do.“What do you want?” Devadatta shouted into the empty blackness. He
gradually became aware, however , that this blackness wasn’ t total; he could
see a faint glimmer in the distance. From that and the stone underneath him,
he surmised that he was in a cave and, since the air was frigid, a mountain
cave. Mara could have explained everything, but he preferred to watch and
wait. Arrogance and bravado have their limits, so he bided his time—an
hour, then two, then six—until he heard Devadatta’ s teeth chattering and
sensed the despair rising in his chest. “You are here to learn,” said Mara. The broken silence made Devadatta jump. He controlled his anger this
time; his mind had had time to work, and he knew that he was in a demon’ s
power . Exactly who or why was still unclear , but he had to be careful of
more traps. T wo were enough. “I’m a prince; I can bar gain with you,” he said, his eyes moving from
side to side in case the demon showed himself. Which Mara did, appearing
as he had in the pavilion, a tall stranger in a black cloak. “You aren’ t listening. I said you’re here to learn.”
“Learn what?” Pause. “I’m listening.”
Mara caught the note of defeat in the boy’ s voice; he couldn’ t pretend to
himself any longer that he had the upper hand. “Learn to be king,” said
Mara. “Don’ t be ridiculous,” the boy flared. “I’m going to be king, anyway . I
don’t need you for that, whoever you are.”
“Ridiculous! My dear fool, you gave away your chances the moment
you set foot away from home. There is no throne waiting for you back
there, not now or ever .”
“Liar!”This heated outburst made Mara decide to wait again, and so he delayed
another few hours while Devadatta grew colder and lonelier and the weight
of the demon’ s words had sunk in. Then, because he knew that gratitude can
be as ef fective as fear , Mara clapped his hands, and a small campfire
appeared in the cave some yards away from the boy . Devadatta rushed over
to it and warmed his shivering body . “The only throne you have a hope of
capturing is Siddhartha’ s,” said Mara. The firelight made Devadatta’ s eyes
gleam. As always, the demon had grasped an idea that was already in his
victim’ s mind. “His father is too strong. Y ou cannot overthrow him. But it is
through him that you will depose the son.”
Every added word inflamed Devadatta, who for got the distress and
danger he was in. He hadn’ t genuinely hated his small cousin; his feelings
up to now had been a mixture of pity and jealousy . “It won’ t take much to
get rid of him,” he said. The cloaked stranger held up his finger . “More than you think. Much
more.”
The boy took this as an insult to his physical strength, the one advantage
he knew that he had over his cousin. “Y ou don’ t think I can crush him? All
it takes is a knife or an arrow when we’re out hunting.”
“Think again. The king would have you killed immediately . He
wouldn’ t even care if you did it. He’d know it was you.”
Devadatta paused. He and Suddhodana were enough alike that he saw
the truth of this. W ouldn’ t he kill anyone in the vicinity of the prince if he
were the father and his son died mysteriously? After a moment’ s
deliberation Devadatta said, “If I let you teach me, what will it cost?”
Mara laughed. “Y ou have nothing to give. A prince without a throne is
also a prince without a fortune. Y ou must be slow if you didn’ t consider
that. T oo slow to bar gain, except with your life. I’m going.”
“Wait, you can’ t leave me here!”The boy sounded agreeably terrified. Mara clapped his hands again, and
the sputtering campfire went out. He was satisfied with the opening he’d
made. Let the boy rest a night in the cave. He would be afraid of freezing to
death, but Mara could keep the spark of life going. He had the minutest
control over death, after all. “Wait!”
The boy called louder , but his sinking heart knew that he was alone
now. There was nothing near but the settling blackness and the glimmer of
light coming from the mouth of the cave. Devadatta headed for it, creeping
with one hand on the stone wall to steady himself. He climbed over rubble,
and he felt something—a rat?—scramble over his foot. When he reached
the light, the cave opened out into a sizable mouth. Devadatta stepped from
the cave onto ice-hardened snow , which extended in all directions. He was
near the top of a Himalayan peak, the kind of place that the truly fearless
yogis sought out for their solitude. But Devadatta felt no holy presence in
this hostile landscape. There was no sign that any human being had ever
been there, not the faintest trace of a trail going downslope. All Devadatta
could spy was the last wink of the fading sun before it disappeared beneath
the horizon. His mind searched for words and failed. Standing between
himself and the fast-descending blackness was nothing. OceanofPDF .com6
It took Devadatta most of the night to figure out how to escape from the
cave. While there was still a glimmer of light in the sky , he staved of f
despair by scouring crevices for kindling to burn and scraps of vegetation to
gnaw on. Not that he could have started a fire with his bare hands. Eventually he stopped this fruitless activity and busied himself with hating
Mara. He fantasized about the revenge he would wreak if he survived. The
night was so thick he lost all concept of time. Finally there was nothing to
do but curl up on the stone floor of the cave, shivering and defiant, and wait
to die. It took a while longer to give up hope entirely . Only when there was no
possible way out did his mind stop whirling in panic, and then Devadatta
considered a simple question: Could demons physically transport a person
anywhere? What if the cave was just an illusion? The moment he
considered this possibility , two things happened. He heard the faintest echo
of Mara laughing at him, and he fell fast asleep. When he woke up, he was
lying on the ground near the pavilion on the spot where the demon had
shown himself. Devadatta sat up, rubbing his stif f, aching limbs. The sun
was setting, and so he must have lain unconscious there for hours. He walked onto the veranda that circled the pavilion. T orch flames were
reflected on the water of the lotus pond. From the distance he heard
drunken laugher . The king’ s revelries were continuing into the night. Devadatta headed toward the sound. For some mysterious reason his ordeal
in the cave didn’ t drain him. He felt stronger , in fact. He craved more than
ever to do exactly what he had set out to do that morning: lure one of the
maids into a corner and torment Siddhartha. Both desires came to mindagain, and they aroused him to the point that he began to run. Devadatta
didn’ t care if he ran into a girl or Siddhartha first. Neither would come
away for getting the encounter . Why can demons roam the mind in this way , taking advantage of
innocent people? What made Devadatta prey to the terrors of the cave was a
tiny thing: he was claustrophobic. As an infant he had almost suf focated in
his thick swaddling clothes when a careless nurse left him wrapped up in
the sun. Mara knew this weakness, and all he had to do was to throw his
cloak over the boy . Devadatta’ s mind would do the rest. It would erupt with
the memory of being suf focated and begin to panic. It was easy for the
demon to shape mindless panic into a nightmare. The boy couldn’ t wake up
from the nightmare; it held him in its grip for as long as Mara wanted. A
moment of terror could be transformed into a week in the dreaded cave. And Mara could accomplish the same thing with anyone. ALONE AND DISCONSOLA TE, Siddhartha roamed the grounds. It had become
his habit to be alone as much as he could. He felt he had no other choice. “People seem to be afraid of me. They barely look at me or they run away . Why?” he had asked Channa not long before. “You think I’m afraid of you?” Channa shot back. “Not you. The whole rest of the world.”
This wasn’ t exactly true. If you are holding a fragile egg and are afraid
of dropping it, you are afraid not of the egg but of the consequences. The
same was true of the courtiers around Siddhartha. So many doors were shut
to Siddhartha, so many faces held low to the ground, so many eyes averted
that he felt bewildered and mistook their attitude for fear . Even Bikram fell
to his knees and prostrated himself when Siddhartha came into the stables. The only exception was if Channa was also present; the king had told
Bikram he could stand then because a father shouldn’ t be humbled in front
of his own son.“They’re just scared not to be perfect,” said Channa when Siddhartha
wouldn’ t let the thing go. “The king would find out.”
“And then what?”
Channa pointed to the high palace walls. “He throws them out. That’ s
what I hear .” Channa thought of the horses he and his father buried beyond
the walled perimeter . “Only they’re not dead.”
Siddhartha knew in his heart of hearts that the horses that disappeared
from the stables didn’ t leave alive, and it made him anxious that something
dark happened to a lord or lady who suddenly vanished from the morning
levee when the king assembled the court for a greeting and allowed them to
watch silently as he ate breakfast. None of Siddhartha’ s favorites had
disappeared yet, thankfully . “When I’m the king, nobody gets thrown over the wall,” he said, but
that was a rare remark; Channa would never recall another time when
Siddhartha referred to taking the throne, not in the near future, the distant
future, or ever . Siddhartha’ s mind was wandering through these gloomy thoughts as he
stood alone by his favorite pool, the one surrounded by tall reeds. He knelt
down and paddled his hands in the cool water . The pond was shallow there,
and in the shadow of a floating lotus he saw something—the nymph of a
dragonfly creeping slowly over the mud. Siddhartha watched it. The
miniature monster moved steadily , fearlessly , on the prowl. A tiny silver
minnow swam by , and with a startling leap the nymph snatched it in its
jaws. The minnow shuddered once and was still, its eyes open and shiny
even as it died. Siddhartha shuddered along with it. Why did he feel the
pain of such a tiny , insignificant creature? “A very good question. Maybe it’ s your gift.” Startled, Siddhartha stood
up to see an old man in front of him, a hermit. His skin was brown and
weather worn. He wore a flimsy silk shawl thrown over his torso and a
rough hemp skirt. The hermit was leaning on his staf f by the waterside,
gazing at the boy , his eyes unreadable in their depth.The hermit said, “Y ou found me. And very quickly at that.”
“I didn’ t find anyone. I was just here,” Siddhartha protested. The hermit smiled, which made papery creases at the corners of his
eyes, something Siddhartha had never seen before. Everything about the
stranger made him seem like an apparition. “These things don’ t work quite
the way you suppose. I am Asita.”
An older boy , or a very dif ferent one, would have wanted to know how
someone else’ s voice got into his head. Siddhartha accepted that something
inexplicable could still be real. “Why are you here? Does my father know?”
“Another good question. T o which I can give a simple answer , since
your other question is more complicated. Y our father would be very
displeased to see me here. Does that matter?” Before Siddhartha could
reply , Asita said, “Of course it does. He’ s the one you look up to.”
Siddhartha took this as a criticism. “Everyone looks up to him. He’ s
king here.”
“Let’ s not worry about that for the moment. Have you heard other
voices in your head? T ell me the truth.” Siddhartha hung his head. “I
thought as much. Y ou have a feeling nature, a very deep one. Y ou will sense
things that other people can’ t. Unfortunately , not all those things will be
good for you. There’ s nothing I can do about that, do you understand?”
“I don’ t want to be dif ferent, but you say I have to be. No, I don’ t
understand.”
Asita took a step toward him and laid a rough hand on his shoulder . “No
mother , and a father you trust completely . We have to take that into
account.”
Siddhartha grew more uneasy . “I can hear the guards coming. Y ou have
to go. Y ou said you shouldn’ t be here.” Soldiers were shouting at each other
from the far side of the pond, and the voices were getting closer .The stranger shook his head. “I can take care of them.”
Whatever he meant was a mystery to Siddhartha, because Asita did
nothing that he could see. Y et when three guards came combing the tall
reeds, they didn’ t see the two of them standing there in plain sight. The boy
hesitated. “It’s your choice,” said Asita calmly . “Call for them, or stay and listen
to me.” W ithout a word, the boy waited until the guards were safely away . “Good,” Asita said. “I am only here to show you a few things. If I keep
protecting you, you won’ t find your own way , and you must do that.”
“How have you been protecting me? Are you the one who keeps me
here, inside these walls?”
“No. I have been protecting you in many ways, but not physically .”
Asita bent down and looked the boy in the eye. “Y our father wants to
live through you. But he doesn’ t have that right. Believe me.” Siddhartha
looked away , biting his lip. “Y ou are so young. I only wish—” Asita’ s voice
trailed of f, and he stood up again. “No one’ s fate was ever decided by
talking. I have something to show you, and now it’ s time.”
Overhanging the water was a lar ge rose-apple tree in full bloom. “I told
you that you have a gift, but it’ s not a simple one. Already you have begun
to experience it, but each time you do, you are tempted to run away . Does
this tree remind you of anything?” Siddhartha shook his head. “You were barely four years old. It was time for the spring plowing, and
your father held a feast like this one. It was his role to go out into the fields
and plow with the common farmers, a great sight. Everyone wanted to see
it, including your nurses. So they left you under a rose-apple tree, just like
this one. Y ou don’ t remember at all?”
Siddhartha didn’ t know what to say . A strange sense inside him, like a
clearing mist, made him uncertain. Asita went on. “Nobody realized it, but
you were watching closely , and as the plow blades turned the fresh earth
over, you saw something very tiny but very disturbing. The bodies ofinsects and worms had been chopped into bits by the plow , along with other
small newborn creatures. How did you feel?”
“I can’ t remember how a baby feels.”
Asita’ s gaze didn’ t waver , and Siddhartha hung his head. It took a
moment before he murmured, “I wanted to cry . Why should I cry over a
half a worm?”
“You felt as if you had seen your own family hurt, and this frightened
you, didn’ t it? No need to answer . We both know . The feeling was too big
for you. But something else happened next—”
At that instant Siddhartha lost the sound of Asita’ s voice, because the
clearing mist inside him revealed the scene the hermit was describing. Siddhartha saw himself in his baby’ s robes sitting under the tree. He saw
himself look up at the overhanging blossoms, and suddenly he was back
there again. But what he felt was no longer anguish at the small creatures
cut to bits by the plow . Something new had washed over him. The beautiful
tree, the immense blue sky , the inrush of the spirit of spring—they made
him hurt again, but this time with a pang of pure joy . And yet somehow the
two things were connected. The sight of violence, which hurt so much,
transformed into a joy that wanted to burst out of his chest. Siddhartha came back to himself, gazing at Asita, who seemed to be
reading his thoughts. “That was your gift. Y ou mustn’ t run away from it.”
“Did I run away then?”
“No, you didn’ t have a conscience then.” Asita said. “Y ou didn’ t know
enough to feel ashamed or dif ferent. Y ou fell into that beautiful thing for
hours, and when they found you, everyone was astonished that you hadn’ t
moved from the same spot all day . They were so astonished they didn’ t
even notice something much more interesting.”
Siddhartha held up his hand. “Don’ t say it.”
“Ah. So someone did notice.”Although he had sat under the rose-apple tree all day , the tree’ s shadow
hadn’ t moved. It stood in the same place overhead. And so the child was
shielded against the sun’ s fierce heat until his nurses ran back again. “Is that what you call protecting me?” asked Siddhartha, unsure whether
to look upon this as a miracle or just one more thing that made him not like
other children. “You are troubled, and you shouldn’ t be. Come.”
Asita sat down under the tree now . Siddhartha watched as the hermit
crossed his legs and straightened himself until his spine was perfectly erect. From long practice he made this look ef fortless. “Now , you try ,” Asita said. The boy imitated the position, which felt strangely comfortable
considering that he had never seen it before. “Hands like this.” Asita held one hand on each knee and circled his
thumb and forefinger . Siddhartha followed and then closed his eyes after he
saw the hermit close his. They were both quiet. At first the boy was only
aware of his surroundings. The air was cooler under the tree; the noon sun
filtered lazily through the still canopy of leaves and flowers. Siddhartha felt
drowsy , and for a moment he might have nodded of f. But he was awake
when the voice in his head said, Can you be still, without thinking? Don’ t
talk to yourself. Just br eathe gently . These words came into his head like his own thoughts, but he knew that
they must be Asita’ s. The two of them seemed to be connected. Siddhartha
accepted this fact without questioning it. The old hermit wasn’ t like anyone
he had ever met. Certainly not like Canki, whom the boy vaguely feared. Then Siddhartha caught himself. He wasn’ t supposed to think. After a
moment his mind stilled. This happened naturally , like a breeze calming
over a cool lake. He became aware of his breath going in and out in a soft
rhythm. The whole thing was pleasant, soothing. He had the sense, almost
physical, that he was sinking down into the earth or was being lowered into
a well. Only his descent wasn’ t frightening and what waited below wasn’ tsheer blackness. It was more like a welcoming sleep, except that he
remained awake in its arms. Siddhartha lost track of time. Once he opened his eyes again, Asita was
leaning on his staf f watching him. “They’re coming for you,” he said soberly . Siddhartha knew he meant
the guards sent out by his father . “Can you remember what I’ve just showed
you?”
Siddhartha nodded, although he wasn’ t really sure that he had been
shown anything. Asita picked up his doubt. “Here is your safety . This is going to be your special place. When you
feel confused or when someone is trying to make you what you are not,
come back to this tree. Sit and close your eyes. W ait for the silence. Do
nothing to make it come to you. It will come of its own accord.”
They could hear the return of soldiers shouting to each other by the
pond. “W ill I find you here?” asked Siddhartha. Asita shook his head. “I had to think long and hard about even coming
today . You are still in danger .”
“From what?” Siddhartha’ s spirit was so settled that he was only mildly
disturbed by Asita’ s veiled warning. “From everyone who thinks they know what your future should be. Y ou
are not alone. They are always watching.”
“I know .” Siddhartha’ s voice was as sober as the hermit’ s.
“Well, let that be. I am withdrawing my protection now , as of this
moment. I don’ t want to be like one of them.”
Asita’ s voice had become tender and somewhat strange. Siddhartha
didn’ t understand why the old man’ s gaze seemed so sad, or why he took a
moment to bend over and touch Siddhartha’ s feet. But the moment he did,
the boy found himself closing his eyes again, and once more he descendedinto the well of silence, deeper this time, deep enough so that he didn’ t hear
Asita depart. “Hey , over here!”
The shout was close by , and Siddhartha heard running footsteps
approaching. He slowly opened his eyes to see a ring of guards around him. Some looked agitated, others relieved. The of ficer among them gave an
order: “Run and tell the king.” He knelt down beside Siddhartha. “Where
have you been? Did someone take you away?”
Siddhartha shook his head. He wished they would all leave. It would be
much better if they did, if he didn’ t have to return with them. He wanted to close his eyes again, but instead he heard himself say ,
“I’ve just been here. Sitting by myself.”
The of ficer looked doubtful. “W e’ve circled the place half a dozen
times.”
If this was an implied question, Siddhartha didn’ t answer it. He was too
aware that his body was getting to its feet, as if another person were in
charge of his muscles. He himself was still inside the silence. More people
were running up now , including various courtiers dressed for the feast,
some wobbly from drink. What time was it? He was surprised to see the sun
low on the horizon. The soldiers led the way , and Siddhartha felt himself return to the
world. Everything was back in focus. His father greeted him with open
arms and not a word about whether he had fought with Devadatta. W ith the
tension broken, the revels became twice as raucous, continuing long past
midnight. Siddhartha was allowed to stay up. He spent a closely guarded
hour watching the dancers and tumblers, then went to his room and threw
himself into bed, exhausted but with a head full of images that kept him
awake a long time. ERASING A MEMOR Y isn’t a simple process like erasing scribbles of f a
chalkboard. The eyes have the longest memory , followed by the nose. Who
doesn’ t remember the blinding white snows of yesterday , the swooning
scent of a rose, the brilliance of an unfurled peacock’ s tail? But try to
imitate a robin’ s song, something you’ve heard a thousand times. Few
people can. Still less can we remember anything told us that was wise. Siddhartha swore to himself that he would never for get Asita’ s words, but
the years passed and the hermit’ s message became more and more vague. Besides, what are a few profound sentences compared to the thousands of
days that follow? In the prince’ s case, each day was full to bursting, and by
the time he was nearing adolescence, Siddhartha had for gotten that he had
ever been under Asita’ s protection or that it had ever been withdrawn. The king kept his word and allowed his son’ s education to be
completely ruled by the high Brahmin. Canki’ s was the first face the prince
saw when he stepped out of his room in the morning and the last when he
returned at night. Naturally , this constant familiarity made him trust his
teacher . The heavy hulk of a man treated him well and told him many useful
things. It was rather like being followed around by a learned ox. But just as
naturally , Siddhartha escaped his schooling whenever he got the chance. He
had worn a path to the stables by the time he was six, and it deepened every
year. There he could waste endless time with Channa, whether to lie in the
straw and discuss the future, saddle a horse to ride (both boys together , one
to hold the reins, the other to kick with his spurs), or groom a mount that
was lathered up and quivering from a hard workout. Most of the time they
practiced fighting, the one thing Channa never tired of. If Bikram happened to be watching over them, then the boys’ fighting
followed strict rules. “W e may have to kill, but we don’ t butcher . We fight
with style,” Bikram insisted. “Style is what makes the battling human.” He
only half believed this motto, but it gave him a sense of dignity , and when
he couldn’ t help but see the carnage of battles long past in his mind’ s eye,
Bikram’ s only refuge was his dignity—he had killed too many enemies the
dirty way . Before being handed a sword, each boy had his chest wrapped in thick
straw padding bound with burlap on the outside. Their blades, shorter andlighter than a warrior ’s, were dulled along the edge and the points shielded
with a lead ball. These measures ensured that neither would get seriously
hurt. “Don’ t dull ’em so much as they won’ t feel it,” Bikram ordered the
armorer . “Bruises but no blood.”
As referee, he shouted, “T ouch!” to make them part each time one
sword made a hit. But there was only so much that could be done about
Channa’ s fierce temper . The boy would keep whaling away even after his
foe was hit, and then Bikram would jerk him back with a scolding oath and
a cuf f on the ear . They both knew he was secretly proud. Often Siddhartha felt bad about besting his friend. But Channa had it
coming. Each small victory he managed meant days of listening to him
crow . Both of them bore colorful bruises from the blunted blades. One day , when the boys had just turned fourteen together , it began as a
typical match. Channa tirelessly lunged and slashed, which was his favored
style. Siddhartha would watch and sidestep when he could, playing the
sinuous panther to Channa’ s clumsy bull. “Hit!” Channa cried out, but he was premature. He had only landed a
glancing blow to Siddhartha’ s burlap tunic. The reckless thrust gave him
too much momentum, and as he hurtled past, Siddhartha slapped him on the
butt with the flat of his blade. “I called a hit, didn’ t I?” Channa grumbled. Siddhartha just shrugged. Channa hated the grin on his friend’ s face, and rather than ar gue he risked a
second lunge, which also missed. Siddhartha fisted Channa’ s shirt in his
free hand, lifted his sword to his friend’ s throat, and drove him back against
the stable wall. Their breath hit each other ’s faces as they glared at each
other . Is this what my father takes such joy in? Siddhartha asked himself. He
knew by the way he talked about war and being in battle how his father felt
about the struggle to survive under bloody conditions. There was no referee this day because Bikram had been called to the
smithy to help hold an unruly warhorse that was being shod. The boys tookadvantage by fighting harder to test each other ’s limits. Setting himself, feet apart and weight balanced as he’d been instructed,
Siddhartha attacked with his blade. He had already learned that he had
reach and height as his advantage. He’d grown to be the leaner and taller of
the two. He struck quickly , getting as much brawn behind the blow as he
could. Channa lifted his sword and blocked, steel ringing against steel. The
harsh noise always made a few of the horses snort and stamp nervously in
their stalls. “Just say when you want me to stop playing around,” Siddhartha
taunted. They were both sweating heavily after an hour ’s practice. The
swelling of muscles in their limbs was suggesting the contours of men, not
boys. “Playing around?” Channa said. “I’m getting sore from holding back so
you can stay in the match.”
Although his strength was flagging and air burned his lungs as he
breathed, Siddhartha pursued Channa, driving his foe before him. “Hit!”
This time it was Channa calling out that he had been struck with the
point of Siddhartha’ s sword in the chest. The prince smiled grimly , shaking
his head. Let’s have this one out,  the smile said. Seeing Channa stumble of f
balance, Siddhartha tossed his sword with a quick twist of the wrist and
caught the hilt overhand, using it like a dagger to plunge into Channa’ s
heart. He felt the fierce exultancy of his dominance, and in an instant he
was kneeling over Channa’ s body , the edge of his blade tight against his
friend’ s throat. He let Channa up, not looking into his eyes. If their gazes met, he knew
Channa wouldn’ t be able to disguise a flicker of hatred, the despising look
of the defeated. There was something else too. He thought he heard
someone approaching all but silently . But before he could find out,
Siddhartha felt his legs go out from under him. As he had turned away ,
Channa had stuck his boot out and tripped him. Siddhartha fell facedown onthe stable floor , spitting out dung dust. The next thing he knew Channa had
rolled him over and was shoving the point of his sword into Siddhartha’ s
throat. Even shielded with lead, the tip dug painfully into his flesh. “You for got to finish me of f,” Channa said. He wore his usual gloating
grin, the one reserved for when he recovered from the threat of defeat. But
his eyes were dark with a feeling that left a cold spot in Siddhartha’ s heart
“See?” Channa said, leaning over him so their faces were only inches
apart. “That’ s the dif ference between you and me, Siddharth’.” He smiled
confidently . “I’m not even thinking about not killing you.”
“Did one of you girls talk about killing?” The two boys were startled. Without a sound Devadatta had appeared. “Y ou’ll never see the day , I
promise.” He drew closer , bestowing a pitying smile on them. “Care to give it a try?” Channa blurted out impetuously . He raised his
sword under Devadatta’ s chin. Siddhartha stif fened. The three of them were constantly in each other ’s
company . “Throw the three of them together ,” Canki had advised
Suddhodana. “If we isolate the prince, he will sense that we have designs on
him.” It was another of the small irritants in their relationship that the
Brahmin couldn’ t stop talking like a conspirator . “Why teach him to hate
Sakya’ s enemies when we only have to put him in the same room with an
enemy of his own?” The jealousy that Devadatta harbored toward his
younger cousin was no secret. “I don’ t mind the boy and his cousin. They’re both royal,” Suddhodana
conceded. “But why Channa?”
“We will give the prince someone he can trust and confide in. The day
will come when you won’ t be able to read his mind, and he will stop telling
you what he really thinks. Then we can turn to Channa and find out
everything.”
Secretly the king had doubts about this plan, but he had his own reasons
for agreeing to the Brahmin’ s suggestions. Devadatta would be able toreport on the priest’ s lessons in case they went too far in extolling the
Brahmins at the expense of warriors. And Channa might serve as an
informer in Siddhartha’ s private life—Canki was right about that. This arrangement at school sorely rankled Devadatta from the first. He,
a Kshatriya, had never physically touched or shared food with anyone like
Channa, a despised half-caste. This was the term for someone of unknown
parentage, and it was true that Channa had never known his mother . Her
name was never mentioned, nor did his father say why she had abandoned
them. Bikram himself had been born in the stables he now managed. When
Canki gathered his three pupils for lessons, Devadatta turned his back on
Channa; there was never an occasion when he addressed him directly . For
Channa to dare to pick a fight with him now was an outrage. Devadatta considered what to do. The two obvious possibilities were to
dismiss the taunt with cold silence or attack without warning. Inflicting a
swiping cut with his dagger would do. But Devadatta was eighteen now ,
already a man. Men don’ t respond to boys’ threats. The nicety of the
question teased him, and he decided the one thing he couldn’ t do was let the
insult pass. “What sort of test did you have in mind?” he asked. He spoke slowly ,
and as he did, he lifted up the point of Channa’ s sword and unscrewed the
lead ball. “W e’ve had enough of pretending.”
Channa was brave, but he was also fourteen. He stared nervously at the
naked point of his sword as Devadatta pulled his own weapon from its
scabbard. “Up to you, boy ,” Devadatta said. He watched Channa’ s Adam’ s apple
tremble. They both knew that Devadatta could run him clean through
without fear of reprisal. But there was something else that no one but Devadatta knew . The fear
he inspired did not come from his own menace. Siddhartha may have
forgotten Asita, but his cousin had not for gotten Mara. He wasn’ t allowed
to. The demon fanned every ember of resentment in him until it glowed red
hot. There was no mistaking the demonic element in Devadatta’ s character .When he picked a fight, he could intuitively read his opponent’ s weakness,
and he gave no quarter once the clash began. Mara had also made him an
extraordinary seducer . Devadatta moved in with unswerving confidence,
capable of using honeyed flattery or the grossest suggestion, and he didn’ t
give up until the prize was won. His passions had drawn him into the lowest
places—alleys and taverns where the pretensions of caste were thrown
aside. However , it was not this that made him extraordinary in matters of
lust. It was his complete ferocity toward any rival, even a husband, who
stood in his way . Devadatta didn’ t mind using a blade to persuade another
man that his woman was free for the taking. There were rumors of
clandestine murders that had resulted when the man put up too much
resistance. Whether the rumors were true or not, more than a few villagers
walked around with livid scars on their faces or across their chests. “I don’ t want to fight you. W e were just practicing,” Channa mumbled. “Not good enough. Y ou challenged me. Now you have a choice. Apologize on your knees, or get ready to wake up dead tomorrow .”
Devadatta smiled, but he wasn’ t pressing the issue for his own amusement. He had a point to make about crossing lines that shouldn’ t be crossed. If
Channa had been able to see beyond Devadatta’ s threats, he would have
realized that his enemy wasn’ t secure enough at court to actually kill
Siddhartha’ s best friend. “Stop it!” Siddhartha stepped in between the two. He had hesitated for a
moment, knowing that if he intervened, the fight would be deflected toward
him. Channa would hotly deny that he was about to back down; Devadatta
would curse Siddhartha for snatching away his prey . But that didn’ t happen. Instead, both opponents shoved him aside with looks of hot rage. “No, this has gone far enough.” Siddhartha stepped in again, and this
time Devadatta screamed at him with pure malevolence, “Get out of the
way!” But the hand that knocked him back with a stif f, clipped punch was
Channa’ s. The look in his friend’ s eyes said, Don’ t you dar e save me fr om
this! I will never for give you. Siddhartha was stunned. He couldn’ t actually see Mara working inside
his cousin, but he saw that Devadatta was not an arrogant aristocrat at all.He was a slave to his violent passions. And Channa was too. At that
moment there was no dif ference between them. They’r e not even people . What’ s happened to them? Siddhartha asked this question, and his vision seemed to pierce the two. Their bodies became transparent, like the filmy membrane of a fish’ s tail,
but instead of seeing blood coursing through the membrane, Siddhartha saw
lives. Each person was a package containing many lives, all crammed into
the tiny space of a body . A wave of hostility sur ged from the darkest past of
both fighters. Devadatta was only the carrier of this wave, its instrument, as
infected people carry typhoid. But Channa? How could he be a carrier too? Siddhartha did not reason any of this out. He felt it. Neither Devadatta
nor Channa had looked his way . He drew his sword and leveled it between
them. “Go ahead and fight,” he said, star ing them both down. “But you will
have to fight with my sword between you, and if you touch it, you have
challenged me, and that’ s the same as challenging the throne. Is that what
you want?”
Neither knew if this was a ridiculous ploy or brilliant diplomacy . The
two foes backed away , continuing their combat through hating looks. Devadatta sheathed his weapon, gave an arrogant bow , and left without a
word. Channa ran away with a look of barely concealed contempt. The
wind blew through the stable windows; gradually the air cleared. It was left
to Siddhartha to wonder if his gift had visited him again. If it had, why
should he take on the pain that others denied they even had? I’m the one they’r e going to blame. I kept them fr om killing each other . The deepest cut, the one that would not heal for years, was the contempt
he’d seen in Channa’ s eyes. If he as much as Devadatta was a carrier of
hatred, then there was no dif ference between them, and the distinction
between friend and enemy was meaningless. Something between
Siddhartha and Channa, the unspoken vow two boys take that nothing will
ever step between them, at that moment started to die. There was no
escaping it. Y et if Siddhartha could have found a way to erase just one
memory , this would have been the one.OceanofPDF .com7
You just might do. In a pinch.”
“Just? Thank you very much.” The youth in the mirror smiled at being
teased. At least Kumbira still thought of him as a child, if no one else did. “From me, that’ s saying a lot,” she replied. Kumbira regarded Siddhartha with an appraising eye. His ceremonial
dress fit perfectly . He stood in front of his reflection with a flutter of young
ladies-in-waiting around him. On this day , when he turned eighteen, he
would be acknowledged as the heir to old Suddhodana. He had begun the
robing ritual bare-chested and bare-legged before all the layers of cloth,
oils, and perfumes were piled on. Each of the women, Kumbira imagined,
would have looked upon him with lust-filled eyes if they dared. And why not ? she asked herself. There must be taller and richer princes
in the world, but not in their world. Still, she could see the boy in him. Much of Siddhartha’ s innocence was yet his. Kumbira cherished that about
him without being able to point it out to anyone. What his father wanted to
instill was the opposite of innocence. “Let me ask you something, Kumbira. How happy should I be right
now? If anyone knows, it must be you.”
“Don’ t talk nonsense!” Kumbira’ s eyes narrowed, and she snif fed at
him. “What am I smelling? He doesn’ t smell right. More sandalwood!”Immediately one of the young attendants raced away to the royal store of
unguents and spices. “It doesn’ t matter how I smell, Kumbira. I’m not dessert.”
“Don’ t be so sure.”
The girls tittered, and she saw his brief smile fade as he regarded
himself in the glass. The approaching day had seemed to dim any joy
Siddhartha once found in it. Kumbira had caught him of f guard at moments
when sadness darkened his eyes and held his mouth tight and narrow . It
nearly broke her heart to see him so withdrawn. She approached from behind and laid a rich silk sash across his chest. “What’ s the matter? Whisper in Kumbira’ s ear. I’ll send your troubles to the
gods, and they’ll never dare return.” Siddhartha shook his head. Kumbira
sighed. “Are you determined to spoil everything? The rest of the palace and
the people have been looking forward to this for a long time.” He didn’ t
answer . “Young men, that’ s what it is!” Kumbira snapped her fingers at the girl
sitting at the toiletry table, her momentum stopped by the prince’ s mood. “Rose water to sweeten the temper .” The girl grabbed the proper vial and
hurried over to anoint Siddhartha’ s flowing black hair , which curled at his
neck. Kumbira tucked in a stray lock. Every detail had to be managed
precisely . The king was introducing his heir to the world. As much as
Kumbira feared royal wrath, she wanted this day for the prince as fervently
as she would have wanted it for her own son. Siddhartha pulled on the jewel-encrusted coat held out for him. He
groaned and shifted under its weight. “Somebody must have made a
mistake. This is meant for one of the elephants.”
A girl giggled, and Kumbira shot her a look. Even though he had been
surrounded by women for two hours, something made Siddhartha’ s head
turn. He saw one of the youngest attendants try to cover her amusement by
coughing and waving a hand in front of her face as if she were choking. Kumbira was poised to drive the girl from the room when she noticedsomething more unset tling than a breach of decorum: Siddhartha had
evidently chosen that moment to discover how beautiful the young girl was. His eyes widened, and he unconsciously assumed a bolder stance, like a
peacock preening before a hen. Kumbira was wise in such ways. She had witnessed the behavior of
men for many years, and this reaction was unmistakable. She held her
tongue and waited to see what would happen. Although aging, Prajapati
kept a close eye on her char ge, and everyone remarked, not with complete
approval, on how chaste Siddhartha remained. Now Siddhartha’ s eyes were
still caught by the young girl who had laughed at him. Sujata was young
and soft, rounded in all the right places, with flowing hair and smooth skin. Even more attractive, though, was her discomfiture: she was blushing now
at the prince’ s interest in her . That, Kumbira knew from experience, was a
challenge no warrior could resist. But instead of confronting the girl’ s behavior with the arrogance that
highborn men often exhibited before a potential conquest, Siddhartha
blushed as well. For an uneasy moment the silence between the two young
people held sway in the dressing room. Hastily Kumbira stepped forward
between them, breaking the eye contact. She started to wind a red turban
around Siddhartha’ s head. “Here,” he said, taking the cloth from her hands. “Y ou have to leave me
something to do for myself.” Expertly he wound the turban, but his eyes
stayed on Sujata. Wher e is she fr om? Kumbira couldn’ t recall. Country girls were
regularly brought to court as servants, and this one was new . Kumbira had
grown accustomed to such as her . The king constantly replenished the
supply of fresh faces around the prince the way one would restock a trout
stream. “You’re not here to gawk, girl,” Kumbira warned, raking Sujata with a
disapproving stare. The girl dropped her gaze to the floor . “I wasn’ t, milady .”“Don’ t talk back. Y ou have a lot to learn. Perhaps you should begin
somewhere else.” W ith a flurry of hands Kumbira shooed her away . “Go,
go!” Disconcerted, Sujata bowed and left the room. “She could have stayed,” Siddhartha murmured. Kumbira said nothing.
Buddha_by_Deepak_Chopra.txt
Summarize the following text section accurately and concisely. Maintain specific details and numerical information, and use anti-repetition mechanisms:

        Stay
put until me and the boy come back for you. ” Bikram wasn’ t stern with the
seven-year -old, who was never addressed as “boy. ” He just made clear what
was needed. Siddhartha obeyed automatically. He hung back as Channa and his father rounded the corner and entered
an open stall. The gate shut behind them. Siddhartha squatted in the straw-
covered dirt. His eyes roamed over the array of saddles and bridles hanging
on the wall; he caught the clinking of hammers on the smithy’ s forge out
back. Listening intently, he thought he heard Bikram’ s muttered voice, then
Channa’ s. The boy was uneasy being left alone. He had a secret. Not the kind he
was ashamed to reveal so much as one he couldn’ t fathom. To escape
thinking about it, he gazed up at the stable roof. It was old, and the timbers
had warped over the winter, letting in the rain and beams of bright sunlight
when the weather was clear. His eyes caught a sunbeam now, and he watched motes of dust dance in
it. Look closer. Siddhartha shivered and tried not to listen. The words in his head didn’ t
feel like his own. They came unlike ordinary thoughts. The voice had begun
about a week earlier—this was his secret—and almost always said the same
thing.
Mara, a demon.
Who is the figure watching Siddhartha from above the stable?
To make him strong and not weak.
What is Siddhartha's father, the king, trying to achieve through his son?
It is Gandhik, a court physician, and he is attempting to apply a leech to the king's chest.
Who is the old man in the palace, and what is he doing?
Siddhartha's father wants him to be strong and fight, but he is disappointed in Siddhartha's inability to do so.
What is Siddhartha's father's expectation of him, and why is he disappointed?
The old man is Asita, and he claims to be able to read minds and teach Siddhartha certain things.
Who is the old hermit, and what does he claim to be able to do?