For weeks he had wandered on until he found Udaka, his next teacher . Udaka wasn’ t a philosopher but a pure yogi, devoting his every moment to
achieving divine union. Because he sat in silence most of the day , Udaka
felt more like the forest hermit, yet he fathered the bikkhus around him
every night and spoke. “Some of you are new here, some have traveled with me for years. Which of you has met God?” he asked. A few of the older bikkhus, after
some hesitation, raised their hands.“You new ones, look around and pay attention. See those with their
hands up? They are the greatest fools, and you must never listen to them,”
said Udaka. Somebody gave a sharp laugh; the older bikkhus stirred
uncomfortably . “How can you meet God when God is invisible and ever -present?”
Udaka asked. “If He is everywhere, you cannot meet God, and you cannot
leave Him, either . So how many of you are seeking God right now , with all
your hearts?”
This time a great many of the men sitting around the campfire raised
their hands. “T ake a close look at yourselves,” said Udaka. “Y ou too are
fools. I just told you that God is everywhere. How can you seek what is
already here? If someone came up to you and said, ‘A thousand pardons,
sir, but I am seeking this mysterious thing called air . Can you tell me where
it is?’ you would mark him down as a fool, wouldn’ t you? Y et you follow
like sheep somebody’ s word who told you that you must seek God.”
What Udaka taught instead was redeeming the soul, or atman . “Your
soul is just as invisible as God, but it belongs to you. It’ s your divine spark,
hidden and disguised by restless desires. Y our atman is always watching
you, but you do not notice it. Y ou notice your next meal, your next
argument, your next fear . It is always drawing you closer to the divine, but
you do not heed it. Y ou heed a thousand desires instead. Be still and know
your soul. Seek it, and when you meet your soul, seize it for yourself,
because it’ s worth far more than gold.”
Gautama, who had been disillusioned by the higher self, felt a sympathy
for this new teaching. For one thing, it gave him time in seclusion, where he
could meditate and sit in the cool silence that he considered his real home. Udaka knew that the other bikkhus held the new arrival in awe; they vied to
sit next to Gautama because his mere presence deepened their meditations. The guru put Gautama on his right hand when the group next sat together ,
and this unspoken gesture was enough to raise him above even the most
senior monks, who were not so holy that they enjoyed being displaced. “Let them hate you, let them love you. It’ s all a waste of time,” Udaka
said indif ferently . Gautama believed him. He’d grown up in a world tornapart by worse things than petty jealousy in an ashram. “But if another monk hates me,” asked Gautama, “why can’ t he see that
he is being distracted from his purpose?”
“He might. His soul could send him a message,” Udaka said. “But not always? He could go on hating me a long time, then.”
“Yes.”
Gautama felt a disquiet. “But if the soul is always loving, why doesn’ t it
tell him immediately not to hate me? What reason does it have to hold
back?”
“You’re asking me to be wiser than the soul,” said Udaka, with a trace
of irritation. “Don’ t be so clever . I’ve never seen anyone think their way to
heaven.”
Now Gautama knew what his disquiet was about. He had lost the forest
hermit and Alara. If he kept on this way , Udaka would fall away next. Disciples without masters are like fallow fields where no rain falls. He
couldn’ t do without nourishment. Udaka knew this too; he gave Gautama a
hard look. “Y ou have something more to say? Perhaps you want to ask me
about humility .”
“No.” Gautama kept his composure. “I wanted to tell you that I’ve been
having a vision. My wife comes to me. She says that I deserve compassion. Can you tell me what that means?”
“Ignore it.”
Udaka said this without the slightest sign that he cared about such
things. Gautama wouldn’ t be put of f, however . “Master ,” he said, “many of the disciples have left homes and women
they love. Their children are for getting their father ’s face. Can’ t a devoted
wife be part of my soul?”“No one belongs in your soul but you,” said Udaka. “Then perhaps her image is a message. Y ou said that the soul sends
messages.”
“But it doesn’ t send dreams. She’ s the figment of an ignorant mind,”
Udaka said curtly . “What if you caught a cold? W ould you want me to tell
you what the soul means when it sends you a cold? Get over her as you
would get over any other disease.” Gautama’ s master had never been
married, and like many yogis he made a sour face whenever women were
mentioned. Udaka’ s revulsion bothered Gautama. Does he imagine that
women have no souls? But the discussion was over . Gautama bowed and
left without an other word. That night he returned to his tent, where he found Ganaka sitting up
eating a bowl of millet gruel. “Why so worried, saint?” asked Ganaka,
looking up. “You must be feeling better .”
“Much.” Ganaka began slurping the last bit of gruel from the bowl. “I
should be strong enough in the morning to leave.”
“Where will you go?” asked Gautama. “Deeper into the jungle. I don’ t intend to be found a second time.”
Gautama was shocked. “Y ou’re going to try to kill yourself again?”
“Of course. It’ s my Dharma.” Ganaka looked perfectly calm and
serious, speaking without a trace of cynicism. “Strange, isn’ t it? I have to
eat to get the strength to go out and starve myself.”
“I can’ t let you,” Gautama blurted out. He was so shaken that he wanted
to pace back and forth. Instead, he forced himself to sit on the ground with
his hands folded in his lap. His heart pounded. Ganaka said, “There are two things even a saint can’ t stop. One is being
born, and the other is dying.” He waited for Gautama to protest. It was hardto miss who in the tent was calmer and more collected. “Killing yourself is a sin,” said Gautama, then he stopped himself. Ganaka wasn’ t a fool or ignorant of scripture. “Please explain what you
mean,” Gautama said. Ganaka burst out laughing. “Excuse me, but I just can’ t help myself,
little saint. Look at you. Y ou wanted to jump out of your skin when I told
you what I’m going to do. But you didn’ t. Oh, no, you controlled yourself. You know how a holy man acts, and I must say you’ve gotten it down. I
wish I could train a monkey half as well.”
Gautama felt the heat creeping up his face. “That’ s unfair .”
“Who cares? I’m going to die tomorrow . I can say what I want.” The
strange thing is that Ganaka wasn’ t speaking harshly; his tone toward
Gautama was almost kind. “I once told you that you reminded me of my
younger self. Has it occurred to you yet that I might be your older self?”
Seeing the scowl that Gautama was trying not to show , Ganaka broke out
into laughter again. “Y ou’re like a traveling show . I can see at least five or
six people fighting inside you. Quite a spectacle.”
“Stop it!” Gautama jumped to his feet and began pacing as anxiously as
he’d wanted to since entering the tent. “Good,” said Ganaka. “Even a cat is smart enough to thrash its tail
when it’ s disturbed. Most people aren’ t.”
This show of implacable honesty caused Gautama’ s heart to sink. “You’re making me so sad,” he said, half pleading. “Then I’ll stop,” said Ganaka. “W isdom is never sad, and you want one
last word of wisdom, don’ t you?” He stood up and placed his hands on
Gautama’ s shoulders to stop him in place. “Dharma is worthless unless it
teaches one how to be free. I have listened to all the masters, read all the
scriptures, bathed in all the sacred springs. I found freedom in none of
them.”“And killing yourself will set you free?”
“When all else fails, whatever is left must be right,” Ganaka said with
serious simplicity . He let go of Gautama and turned away for a moment. “What is freedom, little saint? It’ s the end of struggle. Is not death the same
thing? I want to meet God, but my ef forts have failed. Not just failed, but
made me more unhappy than when I was married and lived with a loving
wife. I do not say your seeking is a fraud. Perhaps you must walk as many
paths as I did before you reach this point.”
He turned back and fixed Gautama with a clear , unflinching gaze. “Y ou
can shed your tears now .”
“I won’ t weep for you,” said Gautama mournfully . Ganaka sat back down on the cot. It was very late, and he was ready for
sleep. “I meant weep for yourself. Whatever I am today , you will be
tomorrow .”
He lay down and turned his back on Gautama, who sat vigil for hours. He wanted to be awake in case one last plea would dissuade Ganaka when
he woke up. But time stands still in the dark. The next thing Gautama knew
he woke up with light in his eyes and his head lolling on his chest. He
looked toward the cot with faint hope. It was empty . OceanofPDF .com15
One morning Ananda didn’ t find Gautama in his tent. Several days had
passed since the disappearance of Ganaka. None of the bikkhus were told
anything about him, and only Ananda learned the grim truth. In the vastness
of the jungle there was no possibility of searching for him, wherever he had
gone to die. Gautama was badly shaken. “How can we believe in supernatural powers, Ananda? No power in
heaven protected him, or even cared,” said Gautama. “Ganaka had fallen
into despair , and I couldn’ t save him.”
“Why should it depend on you?” Ananda asked. “Do you know who Buddha is?”
“No.” Ananda shifted with embarrassment. “Buddha can protect people,” Gautama said. “Better than this?” Ananda held up an amulet he’d been given as a baby
by his parents, who purchased it at a temple with half a year ’s income from
their farm. “Yes, much better than that. Don’ t ask me how . I’m the last person
who’d know . I should have protected Ganaka.”
Mention of Buddha puzzled Ananda, but he took heart that this god,
even if he’d never heard of him, was helping his friend. That was how he
understood Gautama’ s words. Ananda believed that the gods never letanyone out of their sight. It bothered him that Gautama didn’ t respect the
gods anymore. Sometimes he spoke of God, who was like the soul of the
universe or a spirit that permeated everything. As a child Ananda had been
brought up to believe that the gods were dif ferent faces of one God. But
lately even that God was on shaky ground with Gautama. “We can pray to Buddha together ,” Ananda said. “Or I can make an
offering in the fire tonight.” Perhaps that would lift Gautama from his
gloom. Instead of answering, Gautama closed his eyes. This was his way of
getting out of reach. None of the other monks could go as deeply into
samadhi, and when he was in this state, Gautama heard and saw nothing. Ananda departed, and then rain came during the night, turning the trampled
ground of the encampment into a mud slick. Thunder rumbled overhead. Ananda’ s shawl was soaked and useless for
warmth, but he pulled it close to fend of f a growing disquiet. Every monk
was pledged to serve the master , but he had pledged to serve Gautama. He
had done this silently , in his own heart. T o him, Gautama was already a
great soul. He kept that to himself too. Ananda frowned as he hurried through the rain to peer into all the
makeshift shelters. When he was sure that Gautama was nowhere in camp,
Ananda took a deep breath and knocked on Udaka’ s door . Disturbing the
master could result in something more physical than a rebuke. There was no
answer , though, and Ananda turned back. After all, he had no proof that
anything drastic had happened. He was only a few steps away when the guru’ s door flew open, and
Gautama stepped out. He looked pale and drawn, and when he set eyes on
Ananda, he could have been looking at a stranger . Ananda’ s heart pounded. “What’ s happened?”
Gautama shook his head and walked past. He of fered no protest,
though, when Ananda followed him into his tent. The lower ing gray skiesmade the interior oppressively dark. Suddenly Gautama had something to
say. “I have no faith anymore,” he said. “I’ll be gone by tonight. Dear friend,
don’t try to follow me. I’ll come for you when it’ s time. Be patient.”
Ananda’ s lip trembled. “Why can’ t I come?”
“Because you’ll try to stop me, as I tried to stop Ganaka.” The
comparison filled Ananda’ s face with alarm, but before he could say
anything Gautama went on. “I’m not going to kill myself; don’ t worry . But
something may happen, something severe.”
“You’ve told the master?”
Gautama shook his head. “Only that I’m taking a journey that may be
long or short. If he lives by his own teaching, he won’ t sorrow over losing
one disciple. If he gets angry , then I’m right to stop serving him. I’m only
sorry to say good-bye to you.”
Heartsick, Ananda fell into a gloomy silence; the two sat in the gray
light listening to raindrops pelting the roof of the tent. Gautama placed a
comforting hand on his shoulder . “There’ s no reason to keep secrets from you. I was brought a message,”
he said. “A traveler came to camp this morning, and I stumbled across him
in one of the huts. I knew from his accent that he was a Sakyan, so I tried to
leave, but I wasn’ t fast enough.”
“Fast enough for what?”
“To not be recognized. The stranger threw himself at my feet and began
to weep. I entreated him to get up, but he wouldn’ t. The bikkhus in the hut
began to murmur and exchange looks. Finally the stranger looked up and
told me that I was supposed to be dead.”
“Dead?” said Ananda. “Because you left everything behind?”“Worse, much worse. I have a cousin named Devadatta. He’ s filled with
jealousy and has always set himself against me. When I left home my fear
was that he would gain influence at court. Now he has, and in the most
terrible way .”
Gautama told Ananda what he had just learned about how Devadatta
had found a beheaded corpse in the forest wearing Siddhartha’ s robes. “Everyone believed him. The head was never found. Probably Devadatta
committed the murder himself. He’ s capable of it.” Gautama’ s voice died
away mournfully . “I caused this disaster . Everyone I loved has been
plunged into suf fering.”
“But it’ s a fraud,” Ananda protested. “Send a messenger home and tell
them.”
“If I do that, Devadatta will be arrested and executed. I didn’ t sacrifice
my family’ s happiness for that. Killing him would make a mockery of my
search. I have to push on. I haven’ t done enough.”
“But they’ll suf fer even more to think you’re never coming back,”
Ananda said. Instead of persuading Gautama, this seemed to harden him. “The person
they once knew is never coming back. If that’ s what they wait and hope for ,
then I might as well be dead.”
Hard as he tried, Gautama could not conceal the anguish in his voice. Ananda reached out and grabbed his hand. “Go home, put everything back
in order . I’m not brilliant like you, but if I caused so much pain to my
family , I would consider it the same as betraying God.”
This speech moved Gautama, but as he considered what Ananda had
said, his face grew darker . “You’re condemning me to a trap, my friend. I
set my whole heart on meeting God. I abandoned everything for his sake. If
that is the same as betraying God, my situation is hopeless. So is yours, and
everyone’ s here.”There were more ar guments that afternoon, more pleas from Ananda,
but Gautama had made up his mind. The skies were so dark that they
blended seamlessly into nightfall. Gautama didn’ t permit Ananda to keep
vigil beside his cot until dawn; he recalled how much it had hurt when he
woke up to find Ganaka gone. “Before we part, I want you to understand something,” he said. “I was
raised in a palace, but I was a prisoner there. I had only one friend, so I
spent hours alone or with the servants. What most fascinated me were the
silk weavers. I discovered them bent over their looms in a tiny upstairs
chamber . The room was full of the smell of indigo and saf fron. The weavers
didn’ t talk among themselves; all I heard was the clack of shuttles running
back and forth. “There was one old woman, stooped and nearly blind, who did
something I couldn’ t understand. If a thread snapped, she would unload her
loom completely and start over again. I asked her why she destroyed a
week’ s work over a single thread. She answered me in a word: karma. “Karma keeps good and evil in balance. Karma is a divine law . When
the law is violated, however innocently , it can’ t be undone. One snapped
thread alters the whole design; one misdeed alters a person’ s destiny .”
Ananda listened carefully , wanting to remember every word from
Gautama in case they never met again. “So the thread of your life has been
broken,” he said. “I thought it broke the day I left home. But I was naive. When I ended
as Siddhartha, his karma continued to follow me. I feel as troubled as the
day I left my wife and child a year ago. My hunger is for freedom, but the
trap keeps closing tighter . Instead of attacking me directly , the demons sow
discord everywhere around me. There’ s only one thing left to try .” Gautama
had skirted the truth, that the demons actually feared him. “But what are you going to do?” Ananda pleaded, trying not to think
about how alone he would be after this night.Gautama wanted to protect his intentions, but he relented a little. There
was a good chance that he would fail, and if that happened he would return
home, not try to find the next guru. “Death has been stalking me since the
day I was born. Eventually , no matter how hard I struggle, death will win—
the hunter will kill his prey . But until then I have one chance to turn the
tables. If I move quickly , I may be able to kill death first. There’ s no other
way, not if you want to be free.”
 
IN A COUNTR Y where villages were a day apart and travelers hugged a strand
of road winding through miles of uncharted wilderness, Gautama could
disappear into the green world and never be seen again. He set out to do just
that, but it was too dangerous to go alone. T igers don’ t mind eating
idealists. Therefore, once he had left Udaka’ s camp behind, Gautama
searched for more rigorous company . They would have to be monks. They
would have to be willing not to talk for days or weeks at a time. Finally ,
they would have to push their bodies so far that only two choices remained:
bursting through to freedom or perishing in mortal form. Gautama made the same proposition to every monk he encountered:
“Come with me and defeat your karma once and for all. Death is playing a
game with us. It’ s a long game, but in the end the outcome is certain. Now’ s
your only chance to defeat the pain and suf fering that became your
inheritance the day you were born.”
These words were not strange; every holy man knew that the world was
an illusion. The V edas talked about it endlessly . But each monk who heard
Gautama shook his head and looked away guiltily . “Your truth is too harsh,
brother . I’m already living a life that ordinary people consider impossible. One day I will meet God, but if I try to force his hand, the only reward I
may get is that I kill myself.”
Some put it this way , some another , but no one braved Gautama’ s
challenge. The more eloquent he grew , the more reluctant they became. “You look holy , but you may be a silver -tongued demon,” one old monk
reminded him. Eventually Gautama did find company , but not with his
words. He ceased to eat more than a handful of rice a day . His body wastedaway , and as his skin became a taut, translucent membrane clinging to his
bones, Gautama acquired a glow . His hands, which he held out to bless
anyone who asked, looked lar ger, as did his deep brown eyes. This aura of
saintly emaciation attracted five other monks, and once the band had
gathered, Gautama led them upriver into the high country , where they found
a large isolated cave. It was a breathtaking place to suf fer in. The sentinel peaks of the
Himalayas ringed the far horizon. The air was crisp and cold as the first ice
crust on a pond in winter . Gautama would wake up with supersensitive
hearing. The faint air currents sweeping up the valley sounded like the
breathing of the world. But rain made his bones ache, and thunder split his
head open—it would throb with pain for days. For some months he and the
five monks sat in their cave, doing the minimum of speaking, collecting
roots for food, filling their gourds from a stream. At first Gautama was worried that he was indulging himself, because no
matter how austere the conditions, he loved the life of austerity . Perhaps too
much. He tried sitting in the snow for hours to see if he could make his
body hurt so much that it would give up all its hopes for pleasure. Day after
day he repeated this, and then a miracle happened. Through the heavy
falling snow he saw a stranger walking toward him. At first he was only a
blurred dark shadow against the whiteness, but as he came nearer , Gautama
saw that it was not a man who had braved the storm but the god Krishna. He had the most serene and beautiful face; his skin was a deep blue-purple
that was all but black. Gautama prostrated himself in the snow . “I have waited to meet you all
my life,” he murmured. “I have abandoned everything for you.”
“I know ,” Krishna said. His voice rang among the mountains like dull
thunder . “Now go home and don’ t do anything so stupid again.”
The god turned his back and walked away . At that instant Gautama
woke up, shivering and starving. The skies were clear; there was no
snowstorm. He returned to the cave but said nothing to the five monks. Maybe he’d only had a dream; maybe Krishna was real. In either case
Gautama was determined not to heed a delusion. But he needed some kindof sign that his war against death was succeeding. All he got was that his
mind started to rebel. At first it complained of being lonely and afraid. It
argued that Gautama was hurting himself needlessly . In this phase the voice
Gautama heard in his head was whining and weak, like a small child’ s. As
the weeks passed, however , his mind grew fiercely angry . Gautama wanted to hasten its surrender , so the more his mind ranted,
the more he deprived himself. He would sit naked all night on a frozen lake
while his mind screamed in agony . If you want to kill me, do it now , Gautama said defiantly . He didn’ t
know who he was addressing, exactly . Perhaps not his mind but Y ama, the
lord of death. When dawn came and he wasn’ t dead, Gautama exulted. He
had gotten his sign, because the cold and the elements had not defeated him. He was still alive, which proved that he was stronger than sun, wind, and
cold. Bolder now , he wanted to push further . More extreme austerities lay
ahead. He could pile rocks on his chest or pierce his cheeks with sharpened
sticks. There were legendary yogis who tore their own arms of f and threw
them into the fire. But the five monks resisted. They had been given no
signs of their own. Gautama knew that he had to preach conviction into his
brother monks. Otherwise, he would open his eyes one day after a cruel
austerity and find that they had vanished. “You doubt my methods, don’ t you?” he said. “Yes,” said the eldest monk, who was named Assaji. “If you could see
yourself, you would be frightened. Why do you think that inviting death is
the way to defeat it?”
“Because when everything else has failed,” said Gautama, “whatever is
left must be the answer . I’ve done nothing yet to earn your respect, but
believe me when I say that I have tried everything to become free. I learned
the Dharma of the higher self, but I never met my higher self or heard a
word from it. I learned the Dharma of the soul, which was supposed to be
my speck of the divine, but no matter how blissful I might feel, the timealways came when I was overwhelmed once more by anger and sorrow . Much the same must be your experience.”
The five monks said nothing, which Gautama took to be assent. “In time I concluded that my struggles could last a lifetime, and to what
end? I will still be a slave to karma and a prisoner in this world. What is this
karma that visits us with so much suf fering? Karma is the body’ s endless
desires. Karma is the memory of past pleasure we want to repeat and past
pain we want to avoid. It’ s the delusions of ego and the storm of fear and
anger that besieges the mind. Therefore, I have resolved to cut karma out by
the roots.”
“How? Y ou think you know something that no one else knows?” Assaji
asked. His rail-thin body already showed the ef fects of years of austerity . “Myself, no. But you live the ascetic’ s life. Haven’ t you already spent
years sitting in silence, repeating your prayers, contemplating images of the
gods, reciting a thousand and eight names of V ishnu?” The eldest monk
nodded. “Has any of it made you free?”
“No.”
“Then why should you continue to do more of what doesn’ t work in the
first place? The temple priests taught you how to reach God—priests who
have not found freedom either , but who claim title to the holy teachings the
way a farmer puts a brand on cattle.” Gautama had eaten nothing for days
and barely slept. He wondered briefly if he sounded delirious. One of the younger monks interrupted. “T ell us your way .”
“On the road I met an old sannyasi named Ganaka, and he told me
something important. Let the world be your teacher . I couldn’ t understand
what he meant at first, but now I do. Every experience that traps me is a
worldly experience. The world is seductive and hard to interpret for what it
really is. Y et this world is nothing more than desire, and every desire makes
me run after it. Why? Because I believe it’ s real. Desires are phantoms,
concealing the grinning face of death. Be wise. Believe in nothing.”It took many nights around the fire, but Gautama and the five monks
came to an agreement. They would give their bodies nothing to live for in
the world, no desires to fulfill, no cravings to become a slave to. They
would sit like statues facing a wall, and no matter how many desires arose,
each one would be coldly turned away . “Even if we are tied to our karma by
ten thousand threads,” said Gautama, “we can break them one at a time. When the last attachment is gone, karma will be dead instead of us.”
He believed every word. Perhaps the five monks didn’ t, but they
followed him. They sat like statues facing a wall and waited. Gautama was
so fervent that he expected to reach his goal soon. Assaji wouldn’ t commit
himself. “Unhappiness is born of expectations that don’ t come true,” he
reminded his brother monk. “Even to expect nothing can be a trap.”
Gautama bowed his head. “I understand.” But this gesture of humility
disguised the fire he felt inside. In legend, other yogis had found
immortality . They were great aspirants, and Gautama saw himself as
nothing less. He chose a spot away from all shelter , sat down on a patch of
rocks without clearing them away , and waited. “IF YOU MUST GO , then go. I don’ t need a reason,” said Assaji. He looked on
Kondana with mild eyes that held no reproof. Kondana was the youngest of
the five monks, but he had proved the toughest in the end. “You already know my reasons. Look at him,” Kondana protested. He
pointed at a gnarled carving lying on the jungle floor , which was so close to
looking like weathered wood that at times he had to remind himself that it
was actually a living person—Gautama. “I can’ t stay and watch him kill himself,” said Kondana. “It’ s like
watching a corpse decay while it’ s still breathing.” He had already stayed
longer than three of the five monks. None were impatient. Since vowing to
follow Gautama, they had pursued enlightenment for five years. “He never moves anymore. I wonder where he is,” said Assaji.“I think he’ s in hell,” Kondana said mournfully . The years of austerity had caused many things to happen. They had all
gone through experiences in meditation that they never dreamed possible. Assaji himself had visited the home of the gods. He had watched Shakti, the
sinuous consort of Shiva, dance for him, a dance where every step shook
the worlds and the tinkle of ankle bells turned into stars. He had conversed
with the greatest sages, like V asishtha, who had been dead for centuries. Only Gautama never told such tales, and after winter settled in among the
Himalayan peaks, it was a matter of survival to force him to find a place
where they could be more protected. Reluctantly Gautama agreed, but only
on the condition that he would continue his austerities and that the five
monks would make no contact with other human beings. An emaciated man whose skin has toughened into cracked brown hide
and who has subsisted on a tenth of the food given to a newborn baby is not
a sight for ordinary eyes. Some people would consider him a fraud, others a
madman. The superstitious few would call him a saint. “I do not know who
I am anymore,” Gautama said. “But I am blessed, because it has taken me
only five years to know who I am not.”
Now Assaji walked over to Gautama and with Kondana’ s help set him
upright again. He had fallen over during the night, and these days he was
lost in a samadhi so deep that nothing registered from the outside world. It
was up to the other monks to feed him by opening his mouth and placing a
handful of chewed rice in it. They carried him to the river to bathe him and
moved him out of the worst of the searing sun. All this made it appear that
Gautama was helpless and paralyzed. But Assaji knew that appearances
were deceiving. Gautama was on a quest the likes of which went back
almost before time. Kondana put on his sandals and tucked some dried berries into the
corner of his shawl. “W ill you come?” he asked Assaji. “No.”
“You still think he has a chance—he might succeed?”“I wouldn’ t say that.”
There was nothing more to talk about. Kondana bowed down before
Gautama and placed a pink wild orchid at his feet in reverence. He no
longer felt guilty over losing hope; he was too exhausted to feel much of
anything. As he left camp, Assaji touched him on the shoulder . “When the time comes I’ll send for you. The five of us should carry the
body back to his people.”
That was the last word Assaji said or heard for the next three months. Spring came, and every day brought a shower of creamy white blossoms
falling from the sal trees that blanketed the northern forest. Gautama had
not altered. At times he showed more signs of life than at other times. Assaji would hear him at night walking out of camp for the call of nature,
but that was rarely . The water level might dip in the gourd Assaji placed by
his side. What eventually broke was Assaji’ s own body . He got sick alone in the
jungle; for all he knew it was a sign. W rapped in his shawl, he suf fered the
delirium of fever for five days and nights. When the fever broke, he
shivered with cold sweat. Slowly his body returned to health, but with it
came an unexpected change. Assaji grew hungry again. He craved a real
meal and would scour the jungle floor for a dead parrot to take back and
cook. If I am r educed to unwholesome food, my quest is over , he thought. He
wasn’ t willing to sink to a subhuman level, no matter how enormous the
goal of enlightenment might be. He decided to tell Gautama. One morning
he crouched in front of his motionless brother , wiping away the dirt from
his face with water from the gourd. “I’m going,” he said. Gautama showed no signs of hearing him. “I must
think about my soul. If you die and I let you, my sin is as great as murder . You shouldn’ t be responsible for that. I’m ashamed to speak of sin to
someone like you, but there’ s no shame in it if you decide to come with
me.”Assaji’ s guilt made him feel that he’d said too much already . Like the
others, his faith had been worn down too far . Assaji lingered around camp a
few more days. He piled fruit next to Gautama and a week’ s supply of
water . How strange that this immobile icon should still be alive and that
behind his mask he was fighting such a huge battle. Face the wall like a
statue and give them nothing. Assaji remembered Gautama’ s rallying cry ,
but he couldn’ t follow it anymore. He left camp before dawn without a
sound. Gautama didn’ t hear him depart; he had heard nothing since he became
aware—and then only at the farthest edge of his mind—that Kondana was
gone. It didn’ t matter . He had come to realize that he was walking the path
alone. T wo journeys had to be made without companions: the journey to
your death and the one to enlightenment. In his meditations he had arrived at heaven before the others, but he said
nothing about it. There was dazzling beauty; golden celestial beings
materialized all around him, but then he took a route the other monks would
not. Gautama turned his back on the celestial beings. “I’ve already known
pleasure. What good does it do me to feel more?”
“This is heavenly pleasure,” the celestial beings said. “Which I can enjoy forever only after I die,” said Gautama. “Therefore
it’s as good as a curse.” He walked away and asked to see more suf fering. Thus he arrived at the gate of hell, where Gautama saw the terrifying
torments that lay beyond. But no demons came for him. Instead he heard
these words: “No sin brings you here. Do not pass.”
He entered anyway , of his own free will. I’ve known fear , he thought. And fear is death’ s chief weapon. Let me experience the worst torment, and
then fear will lose its hold over me. The phase of hellish torment lasted a long time because every morning
his broken bones and flayed skin grew back. “Where is Mara?” Gautama
asked. “I need to see the worst that he can do too.” But for some reason
Mara hung back and never appeared. Gautama wondered if this was a trap,but after a while the torments became routine, and his mind grew bored. One morning the demons failed to appear , and then the scenes of hell
disappeared, giving way to dark, motionless silence. Gautama waited. He knew he had defeated every form of suf fering he
could imagine. His body no longer felt pain; his mind gave rise to not a
single desire. And yet no sign came that he had reached his goal. Like an
endless, calm night, the silence bathed him. Gautama decided to open his
eyes. At first there was only a dim sensation of being wrapped in a blanket,
which after a time he realized was his body . He looked down. It was
midday , but someone had positioned him under the jungle canopy where no
sunlight ever penetrated. Surveying himself, Gautama saw two crossed
sticks. Legs. T wo dried monkey paws. Hands. He noticed a pile of rotting
fruit beside him, covered with ants and wasps. Suddenly he realized that he
was thirsty . He reached for his water gourd, but the last inch of liquid inside
was green and filled with mosquito larvae. He could feel, as he grew used to being in his body again, that it could
endure no more. Y et all he could think about was finding the five monks to
tell them that he was enlightened. Gautama tried to uncross his stick legs
and get up, but when he moved them an inch, the wasted muscles screamed
with pain. He stared at them with a slight frown of disapproval, like a new
father who feels helpless when the baby cries. Gautama felt no sympathy for his body , but it would have to be dealt
with. He willed his limbs to move, and slowly he began to crawl along the
forest floor . It felt damp and hot; there were vermin that slid under his skin,
and fungi and rocks. He could hear running water nearby . He sensed his
body’ s desperate thirst. Maybe he would get to water in time, maybe not. He kept crawling, but the forest floor barely crept beneath him now . He
could practically count each beetle that his weight crushed. A small snake,
colored brilliant red, slithered away at the level of his face. The air became
very still, and moving any farther , even at a crawl, became impossible. Lying there, he never expected that enlightenment would be the last
thing to happen before he died.OceanofPDF .comPART THREE
BUDDHA
OceanofPDF .com16
While he lay motionless on the ground, Gautama became dimly aware
that a shadow had fallen over him. When it moved, he assumed it must be
the outline of a lar ge animal, a predator drawn by his smell. The animal
would most likely be hungry , yet it made no dif ference to Gautama how his
time on earth ended. “Please don’ t die.”
The girl’ s voice caused his eyes to look up, almost against his will. She
was startled and moved back shyly . She must have been all of sixteen, and
alone. Gautama closed his eyes and waited for her timidity to send her
away . Instead, he felt soft warm hands on either side of his face. The girl
raised his head slightly and wiped the grime away from his cheeks with a
corner of her sari. It was faded blue and threadbare, a poor girl’ s sari. “Here.”
She pressed something to his mouth. A bowl, and its edge hurt his
cracked dry lips. Gautama shook his head, and a croaked word came out of
his throat. “No.”
The girl said, “Are you a god?”
Gautama felt a wave of delirium; her words sounded meaningless. The
girl said, “I’ve come to the river to be blessed by the god who lives there. It’s my wedding day in a month.”A god? Gautama couldn’ t even smile. He shook his head slightly and let
his face fall back to touch the warm jungle floor . But from wasting away he
had become weaker than the girl, so he couldn’ t resist when she turned him
over and held him upright in her arms. She did this ef fortlessly . “You must.” She held the bowl to his mouth again. “Don’ t be stubborn. If my of fering is good enough for a god, you’re not better than him, are
you?”
Now a smile rose inside Gautama. “Go find your god,” he mumbled. He
clenched his jaw so that she couldn’ t pour the contents of the bowl into him. There was no purpose in her being there. “I won’ t leave you here,” she said. “I can’ t have people saying that
Sujata did something like that.”
In the midst of his torpor , Gautama’ s mind suddenly became alert. What
she said didn’ t seem possible. “T ell me your name again.”
“Sujata. What’ s wrong?”
The girl saw tears streaming down the dying man’ s cheeks. His
emaciated body began to tremble in her arms. She felt terribly sorry for
him. W eakly he opened his mouth, and Sujata poured a little food into it. She had cooked sweet rice in milk for the river deity . The dying man
accepted more. His stubbornness had vanished, though the girl had no idea
why. In a stricken voice he mumbled, “What have I done?”
“I don’ t know ,” said the girl, confused. But she was no longer shy or
frightened by him. “W e have to get you home. Can you walk at all?”
“In a little while.” Gautama ate the rest of the sweet rice with painful
slowness. Then Sujata left him for a moment and returned with some water . He drank it greedily , his cracked lips bleeding slightly as he opened his
mouth.“I’ll carry you as far as I can, and then I’ll get my brother ,” Sujata said. Gently she lifted Gautama to his feet. His brittle legs looked like they might
snap. He couldn’ t walk, but he was light enough so that the girl could prop
him against her shoulder . Together they hobbled their way up the narrow
trail she had taken to the river . They arrived at a road, and Sujata placed
him under a tree, propped up against the trunk like a limp doll. “Wait here. Don’ t let anyone move you.”
Tears started rolling down his cheeks again. Sujata found it hard to
watch; she hurried away and soon disappeared around the bend. Gautama
wished she hadn’ t gone. He suddenly felt alone and desolate. Sujata. He
hadn’ t heard that name in fifteen years. But he had not for gotten her . This
was the cause of his weeping, because five years of austerity hadn’ t wiped
out his memories. It all came back in a flood: his first sight of Sujata on his
eighteenth birthday when his robes were gaudy enough for an elephant. Winding his red turban. The excitement he suppressed when he felt stirrings
of desire for her . As soon as he recalled these things, it was as if a dead
flower in the desert received the spring rains. His mind unfolded in layers,
bringing back image after image from the past, and with them the emotions
he had wanted to extinguish. He was badly dehydrated, and soon his tear
ducts had nothing more to of fer. Gautama rolled his head back and stared at the jungle. It gave back
nothing. It was neither a friendly haven nor a dangerous wilderness. The
flowers weren’ t smiling, the air was not luxuriously moist and enveloping. The blank face of Nature was all he saw , and a sur ge of horror ran through
Gautama. He wanted to vomit, but with all his will he forced the sweet rice
and water to stay down. W eak as he was, he could dimly hear his thoughts,
and they told him he had to survive. Karma hadn’ t died, and neither had he. The light began to fade. Gautama knew it was close to noon, so he must
be fainting. His head grew light; a cold sweat beaded his chest. It was a
relief to lose consciousness, so he allowed himself to sink into the sensation
of falling and falling. Scarlet parrots scolded loudly overhead; he lay so still
that a couple of curious monkeys began to advance down the tree trunk with
caution. Gautama wasn’ t aware of this. His mind was captured by the faceof Ganaka, which he saw clearly . It wore an expression he couldn’ t read. Grief? Contempt? Compassion? Blackness swallowed up whatever it was. SUJATA’S HUT W AS FLIMSY , its mud walls cracked. There was almost no
protection from the weather , which meant that spring could enter as it
pleased. Gautama lay in bed, weak and feverish, for some weeks before he
noticed this. One morning a white sal blossom floated down from the trees,
slid sideways on the breeze, and came in through a lar ge crack in the wall. It landed on Gautama’ s face and rested there. The fragrance opened his
eyes. “Aren’ t you pretty?”
Sujata laughed and lifted the flower to her nose. “Thank you, noble sir .”
She pinned it behind her ear . The girl took her nursing duties lightly , hiding
any worries she might have from her patient. “Nothing seems pretty to me,” Gautama said. He had taken to speaking
his mind. “I don’ t believe you,” said Sujata. They were alone together every day . The hut had been abandoned after
her grandmother died, and she had begged her family to let the stranger
recover there. Her family didn’ t want to set eyes on his skin-covered
skeleton anyway , so Sujata got what she wanted without objection. Gautama lifted himself up on his elbows. It was the most ef fort he had
expended since arriving there. “I want to go outside.”
“I won’ t stop you,” said Sujata with mock indif ference. Gautama gave a wry smile. “Since when did you become so cruel?” He
fell back onto his pillow . She was right; he wasn’ t strong enough to be
helped into the sunlight yet. “Are you still marking the days?”Sujata glanced at a piece of bark nailed to one wall; it had twenty X’s
scratched into it. “There, see?”
“You must have left out quite a few . Has it been a month, maybe three
months?”
Not wanting him to know that he had been ill for five weeks, Sujata
defended herself. “I’d have no fiancé if you stayed three months. It’ s bad
enough already .” She began to feed him a mixture of boiled rice and lentils. She wasn’ t complaining. Her good-hearted husband-to-be didn’ t mind
waiting a while longer; they had been engaged since she was eleven. “Will you go home when you’re well?” she asked. Gautama turned his face away , avoiding the next bite of food. “I’m
sorry ,” Sujata said. “Y ou’ve taken vows.”
He gave her a serious look. “W ould you respect a man who would keep
a vow even if he died?”
“You mean you?” She shook her head. “No.”
Gautama didn’ t mind that he was as passive and dependent as a baby . All he basically knew how to do was be still. There wasn’ t a scrap of
enlightenment left. The gods had had their joke. Now he was just another
starving wretch who had been found, addled and lost, wandering in the
forest. Because his healing was so slow , time slowed down with it. He’d idle
an hour watching a sunbeam move across the floor in the morning. Specks
of dust floated hazily in it, and a holy verse came to mind. “W orlds come
and go like dust motes in a beam of sunlight shining through a hole in the
roof.” He used to think those words were beautiful; now they were flat. He
got stronger every day , but inside he never lost his horror . Nature’ s blank
face continued to stare back at him wherever he looked. His eyes would
move from the sores on his skin to the sun shining through the open
window , then to Sujata’ s face and the sal blossom in her ear . They were all
the same dull nothing.“Starting tonight, I’m going to feed myself,” Gautama announced. “And
tomorrow I’m going outside, even if you have to carry me.” Sujata smiled. “You’ve gotten too fat. I’ll drop you.”
Because he couldn’ t stop himself from speaking his mind, Gautama
said, “Do you know how beautiful you are?”
“Oh!” Sujata had picked up a broom to sweep the packed-mud floor . Her hair was roughly tied back; she was too poor to own any makeup, and
she rouged her cheeks with berry stain when she knew her fiancé was
coming. “Why do you talk like that? Y ou said you took a vow .” She looked
embarrassed and displeased. “My vow must be very powerful. I can see that you’re beautiful, but I
don’t care.”
Now Sujata looked more displeased. T urning her back, she swept the
floor with a vengeance, throwing up clouds of dust. For half an hour they
had nothing to say to each other . But then two monkeys fighting in the yard
made Sujata laugh, and when she adjusted Gautama’ s bedclothes, her eyes
regarded him mildly , without a hint of resentment. After that, as promised, he fed himself and was taken on wobbly legs
out into the yard. He wasn’ t a limp doll anymore, so he could be sat in a
wicker chair instead of being propped against a tree. Sujata was surprised
that he didn’ t care where he was put, in sun or shade. One day she came out
to find that he’d stepped on some foraging red ants, and now a hundred of
them, fierce biters, were climbing up his leg. Gautama didn’ t wince; he
didn’ t even look down at them. Brushing the attackers of f, and with them the blood from their bites, she
said, “What are you doing to yourself? I didn’ t pull you out of the woods so
you’d care about nothing. Find something, and do it quick.” She turned
away and began to cry . “I’d obey you if I could,” said Gautama. “I owe you everything.”His voice sounded humble and sincere, but inside he was as detached
from her distress as from everything else. Sujata sensed this, no doubt. Otherwise how to explain the fact that he woke up the next day to find the
hut empty? She left pots of food but nothing else. The door was locked, the
floor still damp from being washed. Gautama took this all in and waited. He
wondered, as an impartial spectator might wonder watching a stranger , if
his mind would grieve or feel abandoned. When nothing happened, he went
outside to watch the clouds, something he did every day . Every day that he grew stronger , he felt more removed from that
fiercely certain monk who had been willing to die for God. Gautama wasn’ t
a zealot anymore, but there was nothing to put in its place. He took his eyes
off a camel-humped cloud and looked at his hands. They had fleshed out
again, and so had his wasted arms and legs. He tried to remember how old
he was. Thirty-five seemed right. Y oung enough to take up honest labor or
return to the monk’ s life, or even go home and become the good prince
again. It was time to choose one, since he couldn’ t remain alone in Sujata’ s
hut. Choosing seemed impossible, though. He was a blank. At best he was a
vaporous, drifting cloud, like the ones he stared at. After a while, Gautama
decided to imitate a cloud by going nowhere in particular . He cleaned the
hut of any sign that he had ever stayed there, shut the door behind him, and
walked away . When his sandals contacted the familiar packed dirt of the road, his gait
settled into a mechanical tread. Soon he passed other travelers, but they
didn’ t look his way . Maybe he’d lost his presence too, or perhaps it was just
his half-starved appearance. Gautama’ s eyes saw the sights of the jungle—
birds, animals, the light streaming in bright bars through the still leaf
canopy—and he had the impression that every sensation was passing
through him. I am water , he thought. I am air . This wasn’ t unpleasant. If he was going to spend the rest of his life as a
blank, feeling transparent wasn’ t the worst thing. He walked a bit farther ,
and he had another thought. I am not suffering. When had he stopped
suffering? He didn’ t know , because his body had been in pain for those
weeks, which distracted him. Physical pain wasn’ t the same as suf fering, herealized that. Suf fering happens to a person, and he was fairly sure he had
turned into something new , a nonperson. He stared at the sunset, its red-gold streaks breaking through tall white
clouds. Over the jungle canopy he saw the crest of a tall tree and headed for
it. The ground around the tree was soft and springy , free of fungus. He
looked up and saw that this was a pipal or fig tree. The sky darkened
quickly; soon it was barely possible to see sapphire patches between the
black silhouettes of the foliage. Gautama sat down to meditate. He wondered if a nonperson needed to meditate, and at first the answer
seemed to be no. When he closed his eyes he didn’ t sink into a cool, safe
silence. Instead, it was like being in a lightless cave where there was no
difference between having his eyes open or shut. But since he had nothing
to do and nowhere to go, he decided that meditation was as good as
anything else. He caught sight of the waning moon, which was three-
quarters full. V aguely Gautama thought it would be nice to be the moon. And then he was. It didn’ t happen immediately . He sat, and the waning moon turned into
a sliver , then a hairline of luminescence in the sky , before it waxed again. He caught a glimpse of it only once a night; otherwise he had his eyes
closed. Nothing was changing inside him. Only by the moon did Gautama
realize when seven weeks had passed. “I’m here. Y ou can open your eyes now .”
Gautama was past having delusions, so the voice must be real. He
opened his eyes. A yogi with long locks and a beard had found him and was
sitting with crossed legs under the tree. The moonlight was bright enough to
reveal the face of the doomed monk Ganaka. “You don’ t have to disguise yourself,” said Gautama. “I was expecting
to see you, Mara.”
“Really?” The form of Ganaka smiled. “I didn’ t want to shock you. I
am, as you know , basically kind.”“Kind enough to show me an image of grief? I am past grieving,”
Gautama said. “Then take this image as a greeting from Ganaka instead. I know him
well,” said Mara. “He is in my care now .”
“Then he must be in a place of torment. But I am beyond horror too. So
tell me quickly why you’ve come, with as few lies as you can.”
“I’m here to teach you. Remember , that was my of fer when you were
young,” Mara said. “But you misjudged me, as everyone does. Now you
must be wiser .”
“You think it’ s wiser to have a demon for a teacher?” As they bantered,
Gautama felt nothing toward Mara, neither fear nor dislike. Even
wondering why the demon had sought him was a faint impulse on the edge
of his mind. “You still misjudge me,” Mara said in a cajoling voice. “I know the
secrets of the universe. No knowledge can be kept from me since my role is
to see into the crevices of every soul. I will share all that I know with you.”
“No.”
“I didn’ t hear that. Y ou’ve craved knowledge ever since I met you. I
saw it in your eyes. Why turn your back on me now? I’m greater than these
yogis you’ve wasted your time with,” the demon said. “The one who wanted to know everything no longer exists,” said
Gautama. “I have nothing left to ask.”
“Stubbornness doesn’ t become you, my friend. I’m disappointed.”
Mara’ s tone of voice was smooth and assured, but he was sitting close
enough that Gautama felt the demon’ s body tremble with suppressed rage. Mara said, “I thought you were above other souls. But if you insist on being
common, let me satisfy what you really want.”These words were greeted with peals of laughter . Through the trees
came three beautiful women carrying oil lamps; incense swirled around
them. As Gautama watched, a pool of water appeared in the forest. The
women began to disrobe, casting glances at him and giggling softly . “My three daughters,” said Mara. “They never fail to charm, so why
pretend? Y ou want them.”
The women had silky pale skin and full breasts. Gautama looked on
while they bathed themselves, using every suggestive gesture they could
find; their hands were delicate, and the way they touched themselves only
faintly hinted at lewdness. “I told them you weren’ t coarse, but as you can see, they will adapt
themselves to your every desire,” said Mara. “Yes, I see that,” said Gautama. “The man who once had a wife no
longer exists. I can accept your daughters as new wives. T ell them to
approach.”
Mara smiled with satisfaction. The three women emer ged from the
bathing pool and draped themselves with gossamer saris that showed their
naked bodies in the moonlight. Mara made a gesture, and the first daughter
knelt submissively before Gautama. “What is your name, beautiful one?” Gautama asked. “I am T anha.”
“Your name means ‘desire.’ I will take you for a wife, but unfortunately
I have no desire for you. If you marry me, you will never feel desire or be
desired ever again. Is that acceptable?”
Before his eyes the lovely face of T anha turned into the face of a long-
toothed demon, and with a howl she vanished from sight. “Let me see your second daughter ,” said Gautama. Mara, looking
displeased, waved his hand abruptly , and the second young woman kneltbefore them. “What is your name, beautiful one?” asked Gautama. “Raga.”
“Your name means ‘lust.’ I was born a male, and therefore your appeal
is well known to me. I will take you for a wife, but if we marry , you must
respect my vows. Y our heart of fire will be turned to ice, and you will never
lust or be lusted after again. Is that acceptable?”
In an instant Raga was transformed into a ball of fire, which rushed at
Gautama to sear his flesh. Instead, the fire passed through him and
vanished. “Show me your last daughter ,” Gautama said. “The first two won’ t have
me.”
Mara jumped to his feet in a rage. “Y ou treat my gentle girls badly . They only want to serve you, and in return you cruelly abuse them.”
“But your third daughter is so beautiful, I can’ t possibly mistreat her . Bring her to me. I’m sure we will be married,” Gautama said gently . Mara
regarded him with dark suspicion but made a small gesture. The third
daughter knelt before them. “Don’ t ask me my name,” she said. “I am free of all desire and lust. I
am as indif ferent to you as you are to me. W e are perfectly matched.”
“You’re very subtle,” said Gautama. “But I already know your name. It’s Arati, or ‘aversion.’ Y ou want nothing because you hate everything. I
will make you my wife, but only on the condition that you open yourself to
love. Is that acceptable?”
Arati’ s face assumed a look of unspeakable disgust. In alarm Mara
reached his arms out to hold on to her , but he was too late. In an instant she
vanished like the others. The demon gave a howl that grew louder andfiercer until it filled the whole forest. He swelled in size, and the form of
Ganaka dropped away . Mara began to grow his four horrible faces. “I’m going to see you as you really are. Good,” said Gautama. “Arrogance!” Mara screamed. “Y ou shall see me, all right, and the
moment you do, you will die.”
He began to make mysterious signs in the air that Gautama didn’ t
understand, and like magic, the kingdom of the demons descended to earth. The forest floor crawled with poisonous snakelike demons, slithering over
Gautama’ s lap, while batlike demons tried to bite his face. A phalanx of
elephants crashed through the trees, trampling other demons of damned
souls whose bodies were crushed underfoot. Because the demon world
consists of the most disgusting and terrifying forms that the human mind
can conceive of, there was no end to the waves of Mara’ s subjects that
emer ged in the moonlight. Mara himself rode a massive bull elephant that held writhing souls
between its jaws. At first he remained aloof, waiting for his army to
annihilate Gautama by sucking it into a maelstrom of torment. But when he
saw the calmness of Gautama’ s gaze, Mara became agitated. “Resist me all you like. I will never depart from you, and neither will
my subjects. This spectacle is what you will see for the rest of your life.”
“I am not resisting. Y ou are all welcome to stay ,” said Gautama. “Y ou
cannot attack what isn’ t here, and I am not here.”
“Not here?” said Mara. “Y ou’re insane.”
“Or perhaps I just lack a soul. Doesn’ t it take a soul to be damned?”
The calmness of Gautama’ s speech not only infuriated the demon king
but caused his subjects to begin to fade away like shadow puppets on a
screen or summer lightning inside a cloud.“Prove it to yourself,” said Gautama. “If you can find my soul, it’ s
yours. I have stopped caring, myself.”
Mara leaped from the elephant and crouched on the ground in front of
Gautama. “Done!” he hissed. He had never experienced any creature,
mortal or divine, without a soul, and now this fool had freely surrendered
his. “Y ou’re mine, and I will claim you when it pleases me.” Every other
spectre had disappeared by now . Mara’ s four malignant faces lingered for a
few more seconds before he too vanished. Gautama doubted he would ever see him again. The existence of his
soul, like everything else, held no interest. T otal detachment is the one great
healer of karma. Y et the whisper of desire softly said, “Do not kill me. Have
pity. Let me know even your slightest wish.”
He looked up and remembered the moon, which was perfectly full as it
floated above the jungle canopy . “Let me become the moon,” Gautama replied. “I have nothing to wish
for down here.”
He had only wanted to have sway over his own destiny . It was the
simplest of human wishes, yet it had been a source of fear and uncertainty
his whole life. Everyone had told him, directly or indirectly , that it was
impossible. Gautama felt a slight resistance even now , as if the gods would
destroy him on the spot for usurping their power . Instead, he felt the last
veil fall away from his mind, a sensation a hundred times more delicate
than dropping a layer of gossamer . Then he became the moon and
experienced what the moon experienced. It was impossible to put into
words: a cool serenity that thrilled at its own existence. A concern for
nothing but light itself. Gautama was aware of all these ingredients, yet the
thing itself was inef fable. The moon seemed to know that he had arrived, and he felt it bow down. I have waited. His gaze searched the sky , and these words seemed to come
from everywhere, not just the moon but also the stars and the blackness
between the stars. His heart began to swell.I have waited too. The sky bent down to envelop him. Now he understood why he had to
become a nonperson. He had to be naked. Only in innocence does the mask
fall away . So this is it, he thought. The truth. Gautama gave his heart
permission to swell beyond the sky . He didn’ t know what lay beyond, or
how far he could go. He had found his freedom, and in freedom everything
is permitted. OceanofPDF .com17
The sun rose, and Gautama found himself sitting on the soft, springy
ground under the pipal tree. He got to his feet and tried walking. It was a
strange experience—as he passed through the forest, the forest seemed to
pass through him. Its breath mingled with his; its trees and vines extended
from his body . He could feel the wind blowing through the swaying canopy
overhead. Gautama knew that everything had changed permanently . From now on,
living in the physical world would be like dreaming. He could make things
appear and disappear as easily as a dreamer does. A castle made of gold or
a circle of angels around his head, stars exploding into bursts of white light
or a deer nestling in his lap to sleep—they all appeared instantly at the hint
of a thought. Now he could sit under the pipal tree, silent and unmoving, and never
return to the world. His journey was complete. But he still had a choice. T o
leave or stay? Everyone from his past had given up on him long ago. And if he
suddenly reappeared, how would he explain what he had become? The
priests would certainly call him a fraud. Great souls are safe only as long as
they stay put in the scriptures. Gautama’ s choice weighed heavily on him. Several mornings he felt
that someone was thinking about him. Y ashodhara. When her name came to
him, Gautama saw her clearly . His wife was sitting alone in her room,
mending a hem by the light of an open window . Gautama had seen her facemany times during his wandering, but this was dif ferent. He was in the
room with her , feeling her yearning, which was always for him. One person
hadn’ t given up. Gautama thought of other people and found them as well. Channa was
saddling a roan warhorse in the stables, and Gautama sensed that he was
now master there; old Bikram had died. Suddhodana was asleep, alone with
the drapes drawn. He was trying to escape a bad dream about an old battle. Gautama could be anywhere and everywhere he wanted. Just by
thinking of people, he could touch their minds. Not everyone would listen. Not everyone would feel his touch, but for a moment their troubles would
ease. Is that what a Buddha did? W ithout warning, he started weeping. He
was no longer husband, lover , or friend. He was a new Buddha, untried,
wobbly , three days out of the womb. But he had no doubt that Gautama no
longer existed. The new Buddha arose, adjusted his saf fron robe, and began walking
toward the road, the same as on a thousand other days. Once he reached the
road, he found it completely empty , even though the time was early
morning, when farmers’ carts should have been trundling to market. The
emptiness seemed even odder after hours had passed and still he hadn’ t met
a single wagon or foot traveler . Buddha could be completely alone in the world. Why not? It was his
world to do with as he pleased. He was the one dreaming it. Some skittish
parrots overhead burst into flight as Buddha laughed out loud. This was
outrageous! If a king ruled the world, he would run wild. He would tear it to
shreds in anger , toy with it, wrap his body in its sensual delights. Instead, he possessed the world as Buddha, so none of those
possibilities came true. His powers flowed from the other side of silence,
where the mind can make anything happen. For a little while the new
Buddha enjoyed himself, pulling the sun through the sky like a toy cart,
swirling the winds around the poles, shedding rain on a parched desert. This
private diversion didn’ t last long. Buddha’ s world should have people in it
whom he could care for . He recalled what Canki had said about a GoldenAge—an age without suf fering, where abundance was normal and scarcity
forgotten in the dim past. At that moment his vision was shattered by a scream. He saw a woman
running toward him, her sari torn to shreds, her arms bleeding. In her panic
the woman was blind to Buddha’ s existence until she was nearly upon him. Then her eyes registered him standing there, still and calm. With a cry she rushed to throw herself into his arms, overwhelmed with
relief. When she was two steps away , he held his hand up in blessing. The
woman stopped in her tracks. She quivered with terror , her breast heaving. “No more fear ,” Buddha whispered. “Give it to me.”
She dropped to the road as if her body had melted and began to weep. “All,” said Buddha. “Give it all to me.”
The woman became very still; the crying had stopped. Buddha erased
the images of terror from her mind. He saw a knife. T eeth like fangs. A
necklace made of severed fingers. The images were nightmarish. W ith the
slightest touch, he made them vanish. But one image wouldn’ t melt away—
the body of her dead husband. He lay in the dust of the road, his throat
slashed. The woman was touching Buddha’ s feet now in supplication. Something inside her knew who he was. She gazed at him through her eyes
and said, “Please.”
Buddha stopped himself from consoling her . He lifted the woman’ s
head and met her gaze. “It is done,” he said. She shuddered and fainted. After a moment, as Buddha stood motionless, a man rounded the corner
driving an ox cart. Her husband. Buddha gestured for him to approach, and
he sped up. Seeing his wife on the ground, the husband jumped down in
alarm. “What happened?” he cried.“It will be all right. Let’ s put her in the cart.” The two of them gently
laid her in the straw behind the driver ’s seat. The husband had some fresh
water in a goatskin bag; he wanted to splash it on her to reassure himself
that she was all right. Buddha stopped his hand. “Let her wake up on her
own. She may be surprised to see you, but calm her with loving words. Y ou
understand?”
The farmer nodded. By imagining the farmer alive and well again, he
had erased the whole attack. It wasn’ t difficult. He hadn’ t raised the
husband from the dead. All he did was say no softly to himself. The event
he refused to accept no longer existed.
Buddha_by_Deepak_Chopra.txt
Summarize the following text section accurately and concisely. Maintain specific details and numerical information, and use anti-repetition mechanisms:

        For weeks he had wandered on until he found Udaka, his next teacher. Udaka wasn’ t a philosopher but a pure yogi, devoting his every moment to
achieving divine union. Because he sat in silence most of the day, Udaka
felt more like the forest hermit, yet he fathered the bikkhus around him
every night and spoke. “Some of you are new here, some have traveled with me for years. Which of you has met God. ” he asked. A few of the older bikkhus, after
some hesitation, raised their hands. “You new ones, look around and pay attention. See those with their
hands up. They are the greatest fools, and you must never listen to them,”
said Udaka. Somebody gave a sharp laugh; the older bikkhus stirred
uncomfortably. “How can you meet God when God is invisible and ever -present. ”
Udaka asked. “If He is everywhere, you cannot meet God, and you cannot
leave Him, either. So how many of you are seeking God right now, with all
your hearts. ”
This time a great many of the men sitting around the campfire raised
their hands. “T ake a close look at yourselves,” said Udaka. “Y ou too are
fools. I just told you that God is everywhere. How can you seek what is
already here. If someone came up to you and said, ‘A thousand pardons,
sir, but I am seeking this mysterious thing called air. Can you tell me where
it is. ’ you would mark him down as a fool, wouldn’ t you. Y et you follow
like sheep somebody’ s word who told you that you must seek God. ”
What Udaka taught instead was redeeming the soul, or atman. “Your
soul is just as invisible as God, but it belongs to you. It’ s your divine spark,
hidden and disguised by restless desires. Y our atman is always watching
you, but you do not notice it. Y ou notice your next meal, your next
argument, your next fear. It is always drawing you closer to the divine, but
you do not heed it. Y ou heed a thousand desires instead. Be still and know
your soul. Seek it, and when you meet your soul, seize it for yourself,
because it’ s worth far more than gold. ”
Gautama, who had been disillusioned by the higher self, felt a sympathy
for this new teaching. For one thing, it gave him time in seclusion, where he
could meditate and sit in the cool silence that he considered his real home. Udaka knew that the other bikkhus held the new arrival in awe; they vied to
sit next to Gautama because his mere presence deepened their meditations. The guru put Gautama on his right hand when the group next sat together,
and this unspoken gesture was enough to raise him above even the most
senior monks, who were not so holy that they enjoyed being displaced. “Let them hate you, let them love you. It’ s all a waste of time,” Udaka
said indif ferently. Gautama believed him. He’d grown up in a world tornapart by worse things than petty jealousy in an ashram. “But if another monk hates me,” asked Gautama, “why can’ t he see that
he is being distracted from his purpose. ”
“He might. His soul could send him a message,” Udaka said. “But not always. He could go on hating me a long time, then. ”
“Yes. ”
Gautama felt a disquiet. “But if the soul is always loving, why doesn’ t it
tell him immediately not to hate me. What reason does it have to hold
back. ”
“You’re asking me to be wiser than the soul,” said Udaka, with a trace
of irritation. “Don’ t be so clever. I’ve never seen anyone think their way to
heaven. ”
Now Gautama knew what his disquiet was about. He had lost the forest
hermit and Alara. If he kept on this way, Udaka would fall away next. Disciples without masters are like fallow fields where no rain falls. He
couldn’ t do without nourishment. Udaka knew this too; he gave Gautama a
hard look. “Y ou have something more to say. Perhaps you want to ask me
about humility. ”
“No. ” Gautama kept his composure. “I wanted to tell you that I’ve been
having a vision. My wife comes to me. She says that I deserve compassion. Can you tell me what that means. ”
“Ignore it. ”
Udaka said this without the slightest sign that he cared about such
things. Gautama wouldn’ t be put of f, however. “Master,” he said, “many of the disciples have left homes and women
they love. Their children are for getting their father ’s face. Can’ t a devoted
wife be part of my soul. ”“No one belongs in your soul but you,” said Udaka. “Then perhaps her image is a message. Y ou said that the soul sends
messages. ”
“But it doesn’ t send dreams. She’ s the figment of an ignorant mind,”
Udaka said curtly. “What if you caught a cold. W ould you want me to tell
you what the soul means when it sends you a cold. Get over her as you
would get over any other disease. ” Gautama’ s master had never been
married, and like many yogis he made a sour face whenever women were
mentioned. Udaka’ s revulsion bothered Gautama. Does he imagine that
women have no souls. But the discussion was over. Gautama bowed and
left without an other word. That night he returned to his tent, where he found Ganaka sitting up
eating a bowl of millet gruel. “Why so worried, saint. ” asked Ganaka,
looking up. “You must be feeling better. ”
“Much. ” Ganaka began slurping the last bit of gruel from the bowl. “I
should be strong enough in the morning to leave. ”
“Where will you go. ” asked Gautama. “Deeper into the jungle. I don’ t intend to be found a second time. ”
Gautama was shocked. “Y ou’re going to try to kill yourself again. ”
“Of course. It’ s my Dharma. ” Ganaka looked perfectly calm and
serious, speaking without a trace of cynicism. “Strange, isn’ t it. I have to
eat to get the strength to go out and starve myself. ”
“I can’ t let you,” Gautama blurted out. He was so shaken that he wanted
to pace back and forth. Instead, he forced himself to sit on the ground with
his hands folded in his lap. His heart pounded. Ganaka said, “There are two things even a saint can’ t stop. One is being
born, and the other is dying. ” He waited for Gautama to protest. It was hardto miss who in the tent was calmer and more collected. “Killing yourself is a sin,” said Gautama, then he stopped himself. Ganaka wasn’ t a fool or ignorant of scripture. “Please explain what you
mean,” Gautama said. Ganaka burst out laughing. “Excuse me, but I just can’ t help myself,
little saint. Look at you. Y ou wanted to jump out of your skin when I told
you what I’m going to do. But you didn’ t. Oh, no, you controlled yourself. You know how a holy man acts, and I must say you’ve gotten it down. I
wish I could train a monkey half as well. ”
Gautama felt the heat creeping up his face. “That’ s unfair. ”
“Who cares. I’m going to die tomorrow. I can say what I want. ” The
strange thing is that Ganaka wasn’ t speaking harshly; his tone toward
Gautama was almost kind. “I once told you that you reminded me of my
younger self. Has it occurred to you yet that I might be your older self. ”
Seeing the scowl that Gautama was trying not to show, Ganaka broke out
into laughter again. “Y ou’re like a traveling show. I can see at least five or
six people fighting inside you. Quite a spectacle. ”
“Stop it. ” Gautama jumped to his feet and began pacing as anxiously as
he’d wanted to since entering the tent. “Good,” said Ganaka. “Even a cat is smart enough to thrash its tail
when it’ s disturbed. Most people aren’ t. ”
This show of implacable honesty caused Gautama’ s heart to sink. “You’re making me so sad,” he said, half pleading. “Then I’ll stop,” said Ganaka. “W isdom is never sad, and you want one
last word of wisdom, don’ t you. ” He stood up and placed his hands on
Gautama’ s shoulders to stop him in place. “Dharma is worthless unless it
teaches one how to be free. I have listened to all the masters, read all the
scriptures, bathed in all the sacred springs. I found freedom in none of
them. ”“And killing yourself will set you free. ”
“When all else fails, whatever is left must be right,” Ganaka said with
serious simplicity. He let go of Gautama and turned away for a moment. “What is freedom, little saint. It’ s the end of struggle. Is not death the same
thing. I want to meet God, but my ef forts have failed. Not just failed, but
made me more unhappy than when I was married and lived with a loving
wife. I do not say your seeking is a fraud. Perhaps you must walk as many
paths as I did before you reach this point. ”
He turned back and fixed Gautama with a clear, unflinching gaze. “Y ou
can shed your tears now. ”
“I won’ t weep for you,” said Gautama mournfully. Ganaka sat back down on the cot. It was very late, and he was ready for
sleep. “I meant weep for yourself. Whatever I am today, you will be
tomorrow. ”
He lay down and turned his back on Gautama, who sat vigil for hours. He wanted to be awake in case one last plea would dissuade Ganaka when
he woke up. But time stands still in the dark. The next thing Gautama knew
he woke up with light in his eyes and his head lolling on his chest. He
looked toward the cot with faint hope. It was empty. OceanofPDF. com15
One morning Ananda didn’ t find Gautama in his tent. Several days had
passed since the disappearance of Ganaka. None of the bikkhus were told
anything about him, and only Ananda learned the grim truth. In the vastness
of the jungle there was no possibility of searching for him, wherever he had
gone to die. Gautama was badly shaken. “How can we believe in supernatural powers, Ananda. No power in
heaven protected him, or even cared,” said Gautama. “Ganaka had fallen
into despair, and I couldn’ t save him. ”
“Why should it depend on you. ” Ananda asked. “Do you know who Buddha is.
Udaka was upset because he felt that Gautama was not taking his teachings seriously and was still struggling with his own desires and attachments.
What was the reason for Udaka's harsh words to Gautama?
Gautama met Krishna, who told him that he was not worthy of worship and that he should go home. Gautama realized that he had been seeking God in the wrong way and that he needed to focus on himself and his own soul.
Who did Gautama meet in the cave, and what did he learn from him?
Gautama went through a period of extreme asceticism, starving himself and enduring physical pain to test his own desires and attachments. He eventually realized that he had to let go of his attachments and desires to achieve enlightenment.
What did Gautama do to test his own desires and attachments?
Gautama met Mara, the demon king, who tested him and presented him with various illusions, including the image of his wife and the temptation of his desires. Gautama remained detached and unmoved, and Mara and his minions disappeared.
Who did Gautama meet next, and what did he learn from him?
Gautama realized that he had to let go of his attachments and desires to achieve enlightenment. He also realized that he had become a "non-person" and that he was free from suffering.
What did Gautama realize at the end of his journey?