“I
don’t want anyone to think I have an expert barber .”
“No, you’re just another monk with hardly a stitch to wear ,” Channa
said. They parted there by the river as the sun came over the treetops. Channa
refused to say farewell; he kept his arms tightly pinned by his side to deflect
Siddhartha’ s attempt to embrace him. As Siddhartha walked away , he
trained his eyes straight ahead for the first hour . The jungle canopy was
fairly dense, even though trees had been cut down to make the road. For a
while he hardly knew how he felt, except in the most basic physical ways. His body felt lighter; the slightest breeze ruf fled his thin silk shawl and
passed coolly over his skin. Being without long hair and heavy robes was
exhilarating and unnerving. Having been a hunter , he knew how to forage for fruit and wild greens;
in the past few years he’d spent days on long treks without provisions. But
it wasn’ t the physical necessities that worried him. T o really be Gautama, he
would need to find a teacher . There were forest hermitages scattered over
the countryside, most of them near big villages and towns. Saf fron-robed
beggars had become a common sight on the wide streets of cities beyond
the kingdom of Sakya. Their increasing numbers baf fled people, and the
priests muttered about shiftless pretenders. Some kind of spiritual ferment
was taking hold. Before he left home, Siddhartha was intrigued by this new
movement, which didn’ t even have a name yet. “It’s young rascals, these so-called holy men,” a silk merchant
complained. “They fear work like the plague. They’re abandoning the farms
and turning away from their parents. Nothing seems to hold them back,
certainly not respect.”
The merchant kept his own son tied close to his side with constant
demands and a trickle of money , not enough for him to leave or to get
married before the father arranged a match. “How do they live?” Siddhartha asked.“Like any other lazybones. I wouldn’ t leave meat hanging in my front
yard,” said the merchant. “Y ou never know when the gods might want it.”
Siddhartha ignored his cynicism. “Who teaches them?”
“You call it teaching? What are the temples for? Not that the priests are
much better , mind you.” Siddhartha pressed the point, and the merchant
eventually realized that he wasn’ t there simply to reinforce high-caste
prejudice. “I’m amazed that you care, Y our Highness. From what I can tell,
the young ones seek out the older ones. They move around the forest from
camp to camp, and the day they arrive at some makeshift school, they bow
down before the teacher and ask about the Dharma,  whatever his angle
happens to be. Dharma? The priests filled us with enough of that.” Dharma
could mean many things—a man’ s occupation, the rules of proper conduct,
a person’ s holy duties as outlined by scripture. In this case it was a
philosophy , a particular teaching that disciples committed themselves to
learn. “And which Dharma is attracting the most followers?” Siddhartha
asked. The merchant shrugged. “Who can say? The young ones keep
wandering. They’re restless and never stay anywhere very long.”
Other travelers that Siddhartha came in contact with were just as hostile. They would have been shocked if they could have penetrated Siddhartha’ s
defenses and seen what lay behind his hospitable smile. He belonged to the
same young, restless breed that disappeared into the forest for years at a
time. W ith each passing day he became more and more aware of his calling. Yet, time was pressing. If he stayed in the palace for just a few more years,
the king would be old enough to step aside and bequeath Siddhartha the
throne. He couldn’ t let that happen. Not love, not family , not his own
conscience could force him to betray himself. And this is what you call being true to yourself? Gautama’ s mind wasn’ t convinced. The rain continued to pour from the
sky, and the road was so dark that more than once he slipped into the gullyon the side. There was no use ar guing with his mind, which seemed
untamable anyway . Gautama wondered if he was alone among mortals,
wanting to abandon all that was good in order to suf fer the torment and
uncertainty of the wild world. He’d add that to his long list of questions to
ask his teacher once he found him. If he found him. OceanofPDF .com12
Gautama passed several travelers on the road who could have directed him
to one of the forest ashrams where teachers were located. He greeted them
humbly , letting them decide to accept his company for a few miles or not; a
handful of fered him food for his bowl. But he was reluctant to throw
himself into the midst of a band of disciples. Gautama wanted to learn, but
he didn’ t want to give up who he was. His only model for a spiritual teacher
was Canki, who had a hidden motive for everything he said. It wasn’ t long before he ran across a wandering monk, a thin, sunburned
man who seemed old enough to have had a family with grown children. Gautama expected that the sannyasis he met would be very serious or very
eccentric. But this monk, who gave his name as Ganaka, turned out to be
cheerful and sociable. “I’ve been away for twelve years now , lad,” he said as they walked
along the road. “Y ou meet all sorts. But now the local people know me, and
I’m treated pretty well. Y our first holdup’ s a shock, though. The dacoits like
you to know who’ s boss.”
“Do you belong to an ashram?” Gautama asked. Ganaka shrugged. “I’ve visited them. Y ou get too hungry sometimes.”
“What Dharma do you follow?”
The older monk gave him a look. “Is that what you’re after? I didn’ t
know you were one of those.” He had nothing more to say for a while, andGautama wondered with some puzzlement if the word Dharma  had
offended him. How could you be a monk without a teaching? When he
decided to speak again, the older monk said, “Don’ t let them fool you.”
“Who?”
“These teachers who promise enlightenment. Listen to the voice of
experience. I’m not enlightened, and you won’ t be either . They’ll feed you a
pack of high-sounding ideas, you’ll work for them year after year , and then
when they’ve worn you out, you’ll leave with the taste of ashes in your
mouth.”
There was a lot to read in Ganaka’ s bitter tone. In a sympathetic voice
Gautama said, “T ell me your experience. I want to know .”
Ganaka sighed. “In that case, you’d better have some of my bread. I was
going to save it until you were out of sight.” He reached into his shawl and
pulled out a lar ge round roti, or flat bread, folded into quarters. He ripped
off half for Gautama, but not before blessing it. “I see myself in you,” the
older monk began. “I left home after my wife died. I was a vendor of ghee
and spices in a village, never rich enough to own a proper store but not poor
either .”
“And you were devout?”
“Oh, yes. Raised by a strict father who sent us to the temple for lessons
as soon as we could walk. As a child I believed. Even when my dear
Bhadda died in so much pain, moaning pitifully for her suf fering to end, I
believed. I gave away all my earthly possessions, and with the blessing of
the priests I set out on my journey .”
“I think you’re still devout,” said Gautama. “Y ou bless your food. Even
when no one is watching, I imagine.”
“Habit,” the older monk said curtly . “Anyway , the road is a hard life. I
went to visit the forest ashrams, eager as a bridegroom the night after the
wedding. I sat at the guru’ s feet and waited, mouth open like a gaping fish. That’ s why I see myself in you. Y ou want them to drop their wisdom intoyour gaping mouth. Y ou’re prob ably a philosopher . No of fense, but I can
tell by your accent that you never sold rubbish from a stall in the open
bazaar .”
“I can’ t disagree,” said Gautama diplomatically , caught between smiling
at the older monk, who clearly had been dying for someone to talk to, and
worrying about the tale of disillusion that was about to unfold. Ganaka tore of f a chunk of roti with his yellow teeth. “They’re
shameless, these gurus. The garbage they spew as truth! Do they think
we’re fools? They must, as I found out the hard way . I took some of the
younger disciples aside and joked with them a bit. Little stuf f. Does this
guru get paid by the yarn, like a wandering storyteller? Does he think you
can feed cows on moonbeams? Next thing I knew , I got thrown out bodily ,
like I came to steal their shoes. Hypocrisy .” His voice trailed of f mournfully
as he ran out of spleen. “Moonbeams and hypocrisy .”
“What did you decide to do?”
“I couldn’ t go home. I’d given almost everything to the priests, and they
don’t give back. But you’ve got some sense, you could see that I’m still
devout. I pray , and I have a circuit of householders who feed me and let me
take refuge from the storm.”
“Pardon me, but aren’ t you simply waiting to die?” asked Gautama. Ganaka shrugged. “It’ s a life.”
Before Gautama could pose another question, they heard a commotion
up ahead. A man was screaming curses, a woman was crying. Gautama’ s
steps quickened, and when he rounded the next curve he saw what the
trouble was. A laden bullock cart going to market had run of f into the ditch. Several bags of grain had spilled out. A woman was crouched on the
ground trying to scoop up the scattered grain with her hands, while over her
stood her furious husband. “Are you an idiot? Y ou’re putting dirt back in the bags. Stop bawling!”
he shouted. He began to beat her about the shoulders with his bullock goad.Gautama came toward them. When he saw a monk, the husband
sullenly lowered his stick. “Is your animal hurt?” Gautama asked, noticing
that the bullock, which was old and blind in one eye, had fallen onto its
front knees. Without answering, the man began to apply the goad heavily to the
bullock, who lowed mournfully as it struggled to regain its footing. Out of
panic it pulled the wrong way and tilted the cart farther over; more bags
spilled out, and the woman began to weep loudly . Beside himself now , the
man couldn’ t decide which one to beat next, the bullock or his wife. “Wait,” begged Gautama. “I can help you.”
“How?” the husband grumbled. “If I have to give you a bag of rice,
you’re cheating me.”
“Don’ t think about that, just try to calm down,” Gautama coaxed. Once he got the husband to back of f from his rage, Gautama helped him
free the bullock from its yoke and unload the cart. Then he and the man
shouldered the cart from the rear and with considerable grunting and
groaning rolled it out of the ditch. While they sweated in the hot sun, the
wife sat in the shade holding the bullock’ s tether and fanning herself with a
palm leaf. “There.” Gautama stood back after the last bag of grain had been put
back into place. Without a word the man got into the driver ’s seat. “Are you coming or
not?” he said sourly to his wife. She put her hands on her hips. “Why? So I can go home with a man
who beats his bullock into a ditch and is so stupid it takes a monk to show
him how to get it out again?”
Gautama could see that the man wanted to hit her again with the goad,
but his shame kept him from doing it in front of a holy man. He bit his lip
while his wife climbed into the cart, flashing a contemptuous smile at theyoung monk. The cart began to trundle of f. Over his shoulder the man said,
“Whatever rice you can pick out of the road is yours. Namaste.”
Gautama turned around to find Ganaka standing a dozen yards away
laughing, and he was clearly laughing at him. “How long have you been
standing there?” Gautama demanded, feeling the blood rising to his face. “The whole time,” said the older monk nonchalantly . He was chewing a
stem of sour grass he’d plucked from the roadside. “Is there a stream nearby? I need to wash my face,” Gautama said
curtly . There was no point, he thought, in asking why Ganaka hadn’ t helped
or if he had heard of the monastic vow of service. The older monk led the
way to a fresh rivulet in the forest. Gautama poured water from his begging
bowl over his head and shoulders while Ganaka watched, squatting on his
heels. “Those people didn’ t love you for what you did,” he pointed out. “I didn’ t expect them to,” Gautama replied. The stream was shallow
enough that the water he poured over his back felt as warm as bathwater . His tense muscles began to relax. Ganaka said, “If you didn’ t want them to love you, at least you wanted
gratitude. Y ou’re just too proud to admit it. And angry that I laughed at you. Imagine, here you are being a saint, and a monk, no less, ridicules you for
it.”
Hearing the truth stung, but Gautama was too exhausted to work up
heavy resentment. Instead he said, “W as I ridiculous in your eyes?”
“Why would it matter? A saint has to rise above ridicule. Maybe I was
trying to teach you that.”
“Are you my teacher now? I thought you hated teachers.” Gautama
knew that he had let childish pique creep into his voice, but he didn’ t care.He expected Ganaka to keep on mocking him, but the older monk’ s
voice grew suddenly serious. “I’m part of the world. If you want a teacher ,
turn to the world.”
Gautama stepped out of the water , feeling cooler but still sore with the
sense of having been badly used. “The world’ s wisdom is contained in you? Congratulations.”
“Not all the world’ s wisdom, but a piece of it. The piece you need to
hear,” said Ganaka calmly . “And what is that?”
“Are you free enough of anger to listen?” Ganaka asked. He met
Gautama’ s stare. “I didn’ t think so.” He sat under a tree and watched
Gautama as indif ferently as he had watched the husband and wife in
trouble. Gautama could have walked away , but after a moment he felt
settled enough to sit down beside the older monk. “Everything you say is true,” he admitted. “Only it shouldn’ t be. That’ s your position, isn’ t it? That when you act
like a saint, you should be loved, and whoever sees you doing good works
should be inspired to join you.”
“All right, yes,” said Gautama reluctantly . “What’ s your position? That
you can be my teacher by standing around and letting me do all the work?”
“There was no work to do.”
“I think there was,” Gautama protested. “Then tell me where I’m wrong. The man would have calmed down
eventually and figured out how to unyoke his animal and empty the cart. He
and his wife were strong enough to push the cart out of the ditch, and if they
weren’ t, they could walk back to their village and get help. So by helping
them, you kept them from helping themselves.”
“Go on.”“If you thought you were preventing violence because the man stopped
beating his wife, all you really did was shame him. He will not only resent
you for that; he will beat his wife extra hard tonight to make a point. He is
master , she is slave.”
“And no one should try to show them a better way?”
“Maybe, but why should it be you? They had parents and priests who
taught them right from wrong. They must know families where the wife
isn’t beaten every time the husband loses his temper . Or maybe they don’ t.
Why should it be up to you? Y ou’re a wandering beggar ,” Ganaka pointed
out. Gautama was too tired to ar gue in the face of the older monk’ s certainty . “I’m sorry you feel that way ,” he mumbled. Ganaka laughed with a hint of scorn. “Y ou can do better than that. I can
tell what you’re thinking. Y ou’re highborn, so that makes you right. No
question about it.”
“Do you always goad people like this?” Gautama asked, resolving not
to make himself the butt of this irksome cynic. “Is there any other way to learn?” Ganaka replied. “If you don’ t want
the world to have more shame, helplessness, and slavery , stop doing what
you did today . All you did was increase it.” He got to his feet, as indif ferent
as if they’d been talking about the possibility of rain, and looked around for
the shortest way back to the main road. “Thank you for the bread, and the company ,” Gautama said, forcing the
words out. Ganaka shrugged. “I may not be enlightened enough to suit you, my
idealistic lad. But I’m far from being a fool. Don’ t pretend you’re a saint. Experience tells me that they might not even exist.”
 THE OLD KING  mourned the day he saw his son ride out the gates of
Kapilavastu, but he didn’ t send guards to break into the Shiva temple and
arrest the high Brahmin. The writing had been on the wall a long time
before their plan finally failed. Canki realized that fate had turned against
him, and he decided to appear in the king’ s chambers one morning
unannounced. He bowed without prostrating himself on the floor . “I hope you don’ t have the gall to try to console me,” Suddhodana
grumbled. He had taken to sleeping late, and more often than not there was
a young courtesan on the pillow by his side, the only consolation
Suddhodana wanted these days. “I’m only a priest, bringing the king’ s wishes before the gods,” Canki
said. “I had only one wish, and you failed to make it come true. Y our
presence is distasteful to us. Y ou should stay home.”
They had hatched their conspiracy almost thirty years earlier , and
Suddhodana wasn’ t one to look backward. He placed little faith in the
promise that Siddhartha would return. “Return as what?” he said. “He’ll
never come back a king.” The last part he didn’ t voice aloud to anyone, just
as he didn’ t voice a secret intention he had, to name Devadatta as his
successor . The notion had come to him in a dream. He often revisited old
battles in his dreams, but not as he had fought them. Instead he was a
wanderer among the dead. Night after night Suddhodana saw himself asleep in his tent, still
dressed in armor . He would wake up feeling stifled, suf focating for air . He
would throw aside the tent flap, and scattered around him in the moonlight
would be bodies, thick on the ground in poses of agony . He didn’ t weep
over them; he hated them for troubling his peace. However , this dream was dif ferent. He wandered the dusty field
listlessly , head bowed. He came across a shallow grave. A body lay faceup,
arms crossed over its chest. A cloud passed away from the moon, and he
recoiled to see Siddhartha’ s corpse. A cry erupted from his chest, and
Suddhodana leaped into the grave. He embraced the corpse, which washorribly cold. Suddhodana was wracked with sobs, so strongly that he was
sure it would wake him up. Instead, the corpse moved. Suddhodana
clutched it tighter , praying that his own life could seep into his son and
revive him. The corpse’ s head was beside his ear , and a voice said, “The prince is
not the king.” These were Siddhartha’ s words, and the moment they were
spoken Suddhodana woke up in a cold sweat, but not before he got an
instant’ s glimpse of the face again, which melted into dust. He turned now to Canki. “Y ou’ve been released. That’ s why I’m not
going to kill you,” he said. “Released?”
“From our plot. I’m not heartless. I know what I’ve done, to my son and
to all those people who suf fered.”
Canki had never heard the king talk this way; remorse wasn’ t in his
nature. In fact, the high Brahmin had intruded in the royal chambers to
remind Suddhodana that his son still had a great destiny ahead of him. “You must have another plan. I will aid you however I can. I sense that
you’ve found a ray of hope. T rue?”
Suddhodana gave a derisive snort. “So, you’re not in your dotage after
all. I thought priests softened when they saw heaven coming closer .” He
didn’ t wait for a reply . “What if Devadatta is king? Do we trust him?”
“Is that really necessary?” Canki said coolly . After Sujata’ s
disappearance Devadatta had fallen under a cloud, yet he might be a
necessary tool, and for that reason the king hadn’ t banished him. “Explain yourself,” Suddhodana demanded. “The boy came here as a prisoner . He turned into a schemer . You have
no idea if he really loves you or simply fears you. For myself, I don’ t think
anyone could find out the truth. But it doesn’ t matter . What matters isambition. If you promise Devadatta the throne, two purposes will be served. You will put out the fire of his hatred. And you will give your kingdom to
someone as vicious as you are.”
Heaven had to be close indeed for anyone, let alone a Brahmin, to risk
those last words. Suddhodana looked at Canki, who had lost much of his
imposing bulk. His haughtiness seemed to have shrunk with his body . “You call it vicious, I call it being strong,” Suddhodana said. Canki and the king bent their heads together , rethinking every aspect of
the new plan, mulling over every possible point where it might go wrong. Conspiracy was their only bond, and now that new blood flowed into it, the
king felt alive as he hadn’ t for a long time. SUDDHODANA WOULD NEVER KNOW  if a demon or a god had sent him his
prophetic dream. But a demon wanted Devadatta to be king. Of that there
was no doubt. For almost ten years Mara had been bored by mortal af fairs. He had watched Devadatta and Siddhartha like twin horses trying to break
the yoke that bound them. He hated the way humans clung to indecision. Devadatta had grown more violent over the years. His night excursions
into the poor parts of the city ended as often in murder now as in rape. Since he was protected by caste, no one dared assassinate him for fear that
they would be damned in the afterlife. So the common people set up watch,
and when Devadatta’ s horse was spied, or if he showed his face in a tavern,
word spread quickly and doors were locked. He found himself lurking
deserted streets, and in time his great problem wasn’ t his obsessive ur ge to
hurt—it was loneliness. His only escape these days was to go out riding, either to hunt deer or
race his mount mile after mile until both rider and horse were totally spent. This reckless sport injured and crippled several fine horses, but it was the
only way Devadatta had found to for get himself. One day soon after
Siddhartha left to become a sannyasi—a decision Devadatta considered
criminal for a prince of the blood but one that he rejoiced in as well, fornow he had an opening, an opportunity to seize control of the kingdom—
Devadatta had left the main road in order to force his horse to gallop where
the trees were thick, adding to the thrill of his excursion. Suddenly he smelled smoke in the air . He stopped and rose in the
stirrups, casting his eyes over the trees until he saw the thin wisp of a
campfire. Normally he wouldn’ t have cared. Fires were set by woodcutters
and other workers, never women. But Devadatta heard a faint whisper in his
ear, and on impulse he rode toward the fire. Sitting by the fire with his back turned to him was Siddhartha, and he
hadn’ t become a monk at all. He was still wearing his princely robe and
embroidered skirt. His cousin had simply run of f for some secret reason. In
the next instant, however , Devadatta’ s horse stepped on a twig with a loud
crack. The man by the fire turned his head, and Devadatta saw that he was
mistaken. The man smiled nervously , and his cracked teeth and stubbled
beard betrayed that he was a beggar . Devadatta could see that he was
roasting a dead parrot he must have scavenged on the forest floor . “Friend, can I help you?” The man stood up, smiling anxiously . “Don’ t call me friend,” said Devadatta coldly . “Where did you steal
those clothes? Did you kill someone for them, or are you with the dacoits?”
“Kill?” The man looked alarmed now as Devadatta slowly rode toward
him. “I couldn’ t be no killer , or no dacoit, sir . As Y our W orship can see, I’m
all alone.”
It was true that forest thieves always traveled in packs. “What if I
believe you? Y ou still have on royal clothes, anyone can see, filthy as
they’ve gotten,” said Devadatta, making his voice as menacing as he could. The man started to strip Siddhartha’ s robes of f. “Y ou can have ’em, sir . I
never been to court. I knew they was fine clothes, but I never suspected
them of being royal. Not for a minute, I swear .”
The poor man was too frightened to run and had no chance of escape if
he did. Devadatta had already seen what must have happened in his mind’ seye. A wretched beggar lying in a ditch. His fool of a cousin taking pity—
hadn’ t he already wasted years ministering to the poor? No doubt he lifted
the beggar up and gave him the clothes of f his back. Devadatta shook his
head. “Stop trembling,” he said. “And put your clothes back on. Y ou think I’d
touch them?”
“Thank you, sir .” The beggar mumbled his gratitude and with one eye
glanced over at the fire, where he had dropped the parrot. His meal had
roasted to a crisp, and he looked pained. “It’s ruined,” said Devadatta, nodding toward the fire. “For get it. I’ll
make sure you don’ t need to beg anymore.”
The beggar ’s smile would have turned to a look of puzzlement, but he
had no time for that. It took a matter of seconds for Devadatta to draw his
sword and even less, given his years of practice with the weapon, to chop
off the beggar ’s head with one swipe. That evening Suddhodana heard women wailing outside his rooms. Something in their cries was heartrending. This wasn’ t another funeral
formality for an aged courtier . He opened the door to see every lady at court
kneeling along the entire length of the main corridor . “Out of my way!”
He strode through the mass of female bodies, bent as low as hummocks
in a meadow , with little care that he was stepping on them. In the main
courtyard of the palace the court men formed a dense crowd, some
murmuring in low , grim tones, others shouting oaths and imprecations. The
crowd was a thick, angry mass like a single creature. By now Suddhodana’ s
blood was cold. It could only be one thing. The crowd parted when he was
spotted, and all but the most senior advisers and generals prostrated
themselves on the cobblestones, which were still hot as cooking stones so
soon after sunset. “Where is he? Where is my son?”Suddhodana followed the eyes of the men around him. Their gaze
formed a path, and at the end stood Devadatta. He had dismounted. Over
his tall horse, whose sides were panting from a hard ride, a body was
draped. It took a second before the king recognized his son’ s clothes
hanging of f the corpse. The head had been cut of f, leaving a grisly stem. Suddhodana recoiled in revulsion. He had no desire to come closer or to
take a second look. He turned and put one foot ahead of the other until he
had reached the security of his darkened rooms. The heat of the
cobblestones seeped through his sandals. The old king felt it, and somehow
his hot shoes stuck in his mind, the way trivial things often do, as the first
thing he remembered on the long road of suf fering that stretched ahead
forever . OceanofPDF .com1 3
The moment Gautama stepped into the small clearing, he knew that he’d
found what he was looking for . A crude thatched lean-to faced him from
under the shade of an old tree. The shadows were deep, but he could see a
hermit sitting in lotus position. There was no trail of footprints or telltale
smoke in the air to lead Gautama to this place. He had been away from
home for three months now , and he was an adept forest dweller himself. No
longer did he wake up with a start in the middle of the night fearing danger
from the snap of a twig. He could let his footsteps wander where they
wanted to, and now here he was. He crossed the small clearing and stood over the hermit, who could
have been Asita—slender , wiry build, nut brown skin, thinning hair with a
long beard. Gautama moved as silently as he could, and he didn’ t speak in
greeting to the old ascetic, who made no motion, not even the flutter of an
eyelid, to acknowledge his visitor . Finding the shade of a nearby tree,
Gautama sat under it and folded his legs. For ten years now he had been
meditating, and just as Asita promised, it had become his refuge from the
outside world. At first he had found it hard to settle down completely . As the scriptures
say, the mind is like a runaway coach, and the driver never stops whipping
the horses. But from inside the coach a voice whispers, “Please stop.” At
first the team and driver ignore the voice. It is very soft; it never insists. Over time, however , the voice wins obedience, and the driver and horses
stop wildly galloping. Bit by bit they slow down until the mind is at rest. Thus Siddhartha learned a basic lesson: whatever can run can also stand
still.Gradually the tree shade moved away , and he began to sweat. He could
see an orange glow in his eyelids and knew , if it was this near sunset, that
hours must have passed. Gautama took a peek, but the hermit was still
motionless under his lean-to. There was no guarantee that he possessed any
wisdom or could be a useful teacher . But Gautama had promised himself
that he would seek out someone like Asita. How can freedom be taught
except by someone who is free? Darkness descended, and still there was no sign of activity . Gautama got
to his feet and headed toward a stream he’d crossed near the clearing. Stooping to drink, he realized that waiting could take longer than he’d
thought. He collected some fruit from the trees and headed back to the
clearing. He fashioned a bed of boughs and went to sleep. The hermit
became a black outline against the nearly black night sky . In this way three days passed. The hermit’ s ability to remain as still as
one of the Shiva statues outside Canki’ s temple impressed Gautama deeply . His own body ached from the hours he had put in sitting and waiting for
something to happen. He fidgeted, obeyed the call of nature, ate and drank
when he had to. Like a force of nature, the wiry old man remained
immobile. Once or twice Gautama gave a soft cough to make his presence
known. On the second day he ventured to say “Namaste” in a quiet voice. On the evening of the third day , he walked over to the ascetic, squatted on
his heels beside him, and said, “Sir?”
The hermit opened his eyes. “Y ou talk too much,” he said. His voice
was clear and alert; the trance he was waking up from was no ordinary kind. “Can you teach me?” Gautama asked, wanting to seize the moment
before the hermit retreated back into his deep samadhi  once more. But he
was too late. The hermit closed his eyes, and soon the sun set. Gautama
stretched out on the ground for the night, having no idea if he’d made any
progress. Apparently he had. When he woke up the next morning the hermit
was standing over him. “Maybe,” the hermit said. Gautama sprang to his feet. “What shall I do first?”“Be quiet.”
The hermit went back to his place under the lean-to and resumed his
meditation. Gautama suspected that he wouldn’ t open his eyes for another
three days. It took four . In the meantime, however , the new disciple wasn’ t
bored. Gradually he began to be filled with his teacher ’s presence. It
happened invisibly . Gautama was obliged to meditate along with his master . Imitating the guru was the main path for a disciple: you ate when the guru
ate, slept when the guru slept, listened when the guru spoke. Y et the greatest
teachers, so Siddhartha had been told when he interrogated visitors to court,
taught in complete silence. Apparently Gautama had run into one of those, for whenever he closed
his eyes, something new would happen. He found stillness, as before, but
now it was vibrant and alive, as if a shower of sparkling white light were
falling inside him. Its ef fervescence caused his body to tingle gently , a
delicious sensation that made it ef fortless to sit in meditation for hours at a
time. In between, when Gautama found that his limbs were too stif f and his
body too restless to sit any longer , he puttered around the clearing,
sweeping away debris, placing a gourd of water beside his master , gathering
fruit and firewood for the night. He was eager to ask the hermit how he
managed to enter a disciple and fill him with his presence. Then he
remembered his master ’s rebuke about talking too much. On the evening of
the fourth day the hermit surfaced from his samadhi. His first word was, “W ell?”
Gautama prostrated himself at the hermit’ s feet. He could have said, “I
am satisfied,” but his gesture of obeisance was enough. His teacher had
given him a taste of all that was to come, and when he said, “W ell?” he
meant, “Do you accept me?” The bond between a guru and a chela,  or
disciple, exists deep in the heart. Gautama had become so sensitized that
this one word, “W ell?” said everything. It said, This is how things will be. If
you want praise and smiles, go to someone else. I’m not her e to flatter you. The routine at camp was soon established. The disciple performed the
small duties that kept the necessities of life going. Most of the time the two
of them simply sat, facing each other across the clearing like two life-sizeicons abandoned by a sculptor in the forest. Then the face of Y ashodhara
began to appear in Gautama’ s mind. She was smiling, and he couldn’ t help
looking at her smile. The scriptures give permission to meditate upon
various divine images, so why not his wife? If love is divine, can’ t a woman
also be? Y et the moment Gautama fixed his mind’ s eye on Y ashodhara’ s
face, her body appeared, and it was not clothed. The young monk squirmed,
praying that his master didn’ t see the physical reaction this caused, which
wasn’ t his fault. He fought his reaction. Meditating on arousal wasn’ t in the scriptures. Yashodhara’ s face changed; it began to mock him. Her hands moved down
her body . He fought harder . Perhaps if he focused on the purity of his love
for her . Gautama thought about the day he chose her to be his wife. She was
sixteen, he was nineteen. He had given up on finding Sujata but was far
from losing her memory . When it was announced that he was to be
betrothed, eager fathers drove a long distance to present their daughters in
faraway Kapilavastu. Nobles, princes, and kings of neighboring domains
crossed the border with elaborate entourages of slaves and horses. Siddhartha sat on the ramparts looking down at the scene with Channa. “If the interviews are too much for you, I can always take a few of f your
hands,” Channa said. Some of the younger girls were barely twelve; it
wasn’ t expected that he would live with them im mediately—arrangements
would be made. But delay was only temporary . Suddhodana couldn’ t be put
off. “Choose a girl who plays with dolls, choose an old maid of nineteen,”
the king said. “But you can’ t walk away without choosing someone.” They
both knew that the future of the dynasty was at stake. On the ceremonial day when all the hopeful brides were assembled at
court, Siddhartha entered the hall in the same elaborate coat and plumed red
turban he had worn when he turned eighteen. Each girl was prostrate on the
floor , and as the prince walked down the line, he would catch a fetching or
shy glance, a glint in one eye that promised sensual delight, in another a
darting shyness that spoke of innocence and even bewilderment. Only one
girl didn’ t look up at him, keeping her veiled face to the floor . She made
Siddhartha curious.“A great day!” declared Suddhodana in a loud, jovial voice. But when
his son walked into his embrace, he whispered in his ear , “None of your
tricks. They’re not here so you can pray with them.”
Siddhartha knelt. “I know my duty , father .” As he turned around, a
chamberlain ran up and handed him a garland of gold necklaces. Siddhartha
pulled out a strand and approached the first girl. “You are very beautiful. Why do you wish to marry me?” he asked,
lifting her from the floor . Her direct gaze told him she wasn’ t shy. “Because you are kind and good. And handsome.” She gave him a
seductive look, one that was well practiced. Siddhartha knew it was called
“the assassin’ s knife” in the manuals of love that noble girls were given to
read. He bowed and handed her the gold necklace. He returned a smile that
was gracious, but Siddhartha wasn’ t practiced at hiding his feelings, and the
girl knew she had no chance. Her father would be furious. To the second girl he said, “If anyone could be even more beautiful, it’ s
you. Why do you want to marry me?”
The second girl had kept close watch on what happened to the first. She
said, “T o give you sons as magnificent as yourself.” Her voice had the ring
of sincerity , but Siddhartha suspected that she was simply better trained. The love manuals taught that a man must always feel that he is making his
own decisions while at the same time being carefully manipulated. If a
woman was skillful, and applied eros when it was useful, he wouldn’ t even
know what was happening. Siddhartha bowed and handed the second girl a
necklace. She put it on with a haughty toss of the head as he moved on. The king felt anxious. “He doesn’ t like any of them,” he whispered to
Canki. The high Brahmin was unruf fled. He knew that discrimination can hold
out against desire only so long. “Patience, sire. He’ s a young man. When
peaches are ripe, no one leaves the market without buying one.” But
nothing about Siddhartha’ s manner looked promising by the time he had
reached the last girl. She looked up at him but didn’ t remove her veil.From behind the girl, her father nudged her with a fierce whisper . “Go
ahead. Get up and look at him!” She took a moment before rising. Now
Siddhartha remembered who she was. The one girl who had made him
curious. “I cannot tell if you are beautiful,” he said. “What’ s your name?”
“Yashodhara.”
“May I see you?”
She kept her veil on. “Is my appearance the only thing that would make
me worthy? If so, don’ t look at me. My face might conceal a false heart.”
Siddhartha smiled. “A good answer . Then tell me: Why do you wish to
marry me?”
“I’m not sure yet. I don’ t know you, and you haven’ t made any pretty
speeches, the way you did to the others.”
Siddhartha was intrigued by these words, but he also had to see her . He
lifted Y ashodhara’ s veil. She wasn’ t beautiful in the way the first girls had
been, modeled from the pages of the love manuals. But instantly he knew
how he felt. “You’re wonderful, because you were made to be loved.”
Up to this moment she had had the advantage, but now Y ashodhara
blushed. “That was a pretty speech, but too short for me to make up my
mind. My father will be so disappointed if I come away empty-handed. Can
I have a necklace?”
She held out her hand and Siddhartha frowned. “W as that a good
enough reason for you to come here?”
She replied, “Sire, I live in the deep woods, four long days’ journey
from here. My father is very anxious that I marry you. But a gold necklace
can feed a hundred of my starving people, those I left behind.”“Girl!” her father rebuked. Siddhartha held up his hand. “It’ s all right.” He bowed to Y ashodhara. “With your first words I found that you are honest, and now I find that you
are also kind. What more can I wish for?” He took her hand and led her to
kneel before the king as the hall rang with cheers. There was no need for a
long betrothal. Just as Siddhartha said, Y ashodhara was a woman who
existed to be loved, and their union was as real as Suddhodana’ s with Maya. Yet it was known to both of them, if to no one else in the world, that
Yashodhara had wept inconsolably on their honeymoon night. Siddhartha turned red. “If I was clumsy or did something wrong—”
She put a finger to his lips. “No, don’ t.”
“Then why are you so unhappy? An hour ago you seemed to be in
love.”
“An hour ago I didn’ t realize that you are going to leave me one day .”
He smothered her with kisses to reassure her and chided her gently
about being a superstitious girl like the maids who ran to the temple for a
good luck charm if they spilled the milk. Y ashodhara’ s words were never
repeated between them. T en years wasn’ t enough to erase the memory ,
however , and when it came to pass that her husband did decide to leave her ,
Yashodhara was crushed by seeing her premonition come true. All these memories danced before Gautama’ s mind along with the
image of his wife. The recollection of her sorrow was the only thing that
enabled him to defeat his arousal. Gautama’ s back slumped, and he
wondered for the first time since finding his master if abandoning his
family wasn’ t an unfor givable sin. Suddenly Gautama felt a stinging pain on one cheek. He opened his
eyes to see his master standing over him, hand raised. Sharply the hand
came down and slapped the other cheek. “Why did you do that, sir? What did I do to of fend you?”The old hermit shrugged. “Nothing. Y ou smelled like a man who sleeps
with women. I knocked the stink of f.”
This incident stuck in Gautama’ s mind for two reasons—because it
permanently banished any images of Y ashodhara from his mind, and
because it was the most words in a row that the hermit had spoken. But his
master wasn’ t setting a precedent for garrulousness. W eeks passed, the
monsoons came, and he said not another word. This became a time of great
peace for Gautama. One day he went for firewood but couldn’ t find any that
wasn’ t soaked from the rains. He recalled a cavern formed by fallen
boulders where perhaps some dry logs might have lodged. Walking through the woods, he felt the rain coming down, but the
monsoons were warm and he was toughened by months of exposure. His
body didn’ t shiver or his mind complain. Y et as he kept walking, Gautama
noticed that he started feeling chilled, and a hundred yards farther on he
was shaking badly . By the time he reached the cavern of boulders, he felt
quite uncomfortable and his mind was attacking him mercilessly . Go home. This crazy master is going to turn you into his slave or a crazy r ecluse like
himself. Run! It was as if he’d been taken back to his first day on the road. He found an armful of dry kindling, and when the rain abated he headed
back to camp. Now the process reversed itself. The closer he got to the
small clearing, the better he felt. His mind calmed down, and the shivering
in his limbs subsided. As he set foot in camp and saw his master again,
perfect peace descended like a curtain over his whole being. Gautama
stared at the old hermit in wonder . “Mara.”
Gautama was startled. “What?”
“Mara is interested in you.” Gautama opened his mouth, but the hermit
shook his head abruptly . “You know it’ s true. Y ou knew it before you came
here.”
Gautama trembled, sensing that a gulf was opening up between himself
and his master . He was surprised at how afraid this made him feel. “Ihaven’ t thought of Mara in years,” he protested. “And so you kept him away . For a time.”
The hermit breathed a deep sigh, as if he had to remind his body how to
return to the physical world before he could say another word. A few
agonizing moments passed. Siddhartha felt his heart sink. If he can smell
that I have a wife, what must a demon smell like? he thought. The hermit said, “Mara will keep away from me. He has no interest in
feeding when the bowl is empty . You are dif ferent.”
“What interest could he have in me?” asked Gautama. “You don’ t know?” The old hermit saw the look of baf flement in his
disciple’ s eyes. “There’ s something he can’ t let you find out. Y ou must go
beyond anything I can teach. That’ s the only way to rid yourself of the
demon,” his master said. Gautama felt panicky . He bowed to the ground and seized the hermit’ s
gnarled feet. “At least tell me what I’m looking for .”
When he got no reply , Gautama glanced up to see that the old hermit
had closed his eyes again and was far away . The disciple could barely sleep
that night. When he woke up before dawn he saw no dark outline against
the night sky . His master had left. Grief overwhelmed Gautama, and yet
deep down he wasn’ t completely shocked—his master could only do the
right thing. That was their bond, and he would never betray it. At that
moment leaving had been the right thing. Gautama could have hung around camp for a few hours or perhaps a
day to see if his abandonment was only temporary . But the storm in his
heart and the return of despairing thoughts told him something definitive. His master had withdrawn his protection; therefore, their relationship had
come to an end. Carefully the young monk tidied up the camp. He swept the
ground and put a fresh gourd of water beside the place under the lean-to
where the hermit sat. Then he bowed to the grass mat that had been his
master ’s only throne and departed.As it turned out, one shred of their relationship was left. As he trudged
back to the main road several miles away , Gautama fell to musing. He saw
the hermit’ s face and its look of pity . He heard his own desperate plea, “At
least tell me what I’m looking for .” The hermit turned implacable; he closed
his eyes and refused to speak. Only this time the answer came silently in
Gautama’ s mind. There is one thing Mara can never let you find out: the truth about who
you r eally ar e.
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Gautama wandered down the road, his whole being churning with what
the hermit had told him. Before he left his father ’s kingdom he had fought
against Mara the only way he knew how—by trying to alleviate suf fering
and want wherever he could. Saints persevere even though the tide of
suffering rolls back in despite their compassion. Mara had survived a lot of
saints. What was one more? But a strange new element had been added. The forest hermit implied
that the demon was afraid of Gautama. But why? Demons are immortal;
they can’ t be harmed physically . The riddle went even deeper . Gautama
seemed to be the only person Mara feared. These thoughts kept turning over in Gautama’ s head like wheels within
wheels. How remarkable that in one day all the peace he had gained with
his master in the forest had come undone. Why even seek a teacher if the
same thing would only happen again? Gautama muttered the only words of
consolation that he could remember . “Surrender and be free.”
“Did you say something, brother?”
“What?” Gautama looked up to see another monk about his age. “How
long have you been standing there?”
“A few minutes. Care to join us? Y ou’ve got a hungry look about you. There’ s a well-of f farmer up the road, and his wife doesn’ t exactly hateme.” The young monk spoke with a half smile and a sense of assurance. Gautama rose and followed him down the shade-dappled dirt road. At the
next bend he saw a patch of brilliant saf fron flash through the trees, and
when a small band of monks rounded the bend, the one Gautama was with
waved to them. “Press on!” he shouted. Gautama remained silent, melting into the group like a stray fish
merging back into its school. The monk who had gathered him in was taller
and older than the others. “Where are you headed?” he asked. “East.” Gautama replied. There were big towns toward the east, and
with lar ge populations there would be more ashrams and all the famous
teachers. He’d ask for help with his dilemma. “Who are you?” the taller monk asked. Gautama gave his name and the taller monk gave his: Pabbata. “We’ll take you as far east as we’re headed,” Pabbata said. “Y ou’ll be
safer in a pack. These four scruf fs are my cousins.”
“You all wanted to be monks?” asked Gautama with surprise. Pabbata laughed sheepishly . “We all wanted to see more of life than a
quarter -acre field that the jungle tries to take back every year .” His cousins
nodded in assent. They began to chat among themselves, ignoring the
stranger , and it didn’ t take long for Gautama to take their measure. These
were typical young men, all but Pabbata still adolescents, who needed to get
out and stretch. They eyed every pretty farm girl who passed by on the
road, joked with anyone who spoke their dialect, eagerly asked for news
and gossip if they were lucky enough to meet a villager from near their
home. Gautama didn’ t have to close his eyes for the disguise of saf fron
robes to vanish. “Have you found a Dharma?” he asked Pabbata when there was a lull
and the group fell relatively quiet. He expected the taller monk to answer
indifferently or with a joke, but his face lit up.“I think about the Dharma night and day ,” he said. His cousins laughed, and one said, “He’ s the serious one. W e let him
think for the rest of us.”
Pabbata’ s spine stif fened. “W ithout a teaching, we’re no better than
shiftless beggars.” This rebuke, mild as it was, irked his cousins, who sped
up and left Gautama and Pabbata to trail behind. Gautama was glad to see
them go. Suddenly Pabbata asked, “Do you know why I stopped for you?”
“You seem kind.”
“Maybe. Fat lot of good that does you on these roads. No, it was
something else. I was trudging behind my cousins, cursing the heat,
thinking about someone I left behind, if you know what I mean. All at once
I felt this cool breeze, and when I looked in the shadows, there you were. You understand?”
“No.”
Pabbata looked disbelieving. “Y ou’re putting me on, right?”
When Gautama didn’ t reply , the taller monk’ s eyes widened. “Y ou mean
you don’ t know? It was you. I felt your presence.”
Siddhartha could feel himself flush a deep scarlet. “That’ s impossible. Let me assure you—”
“Assure me?” Pabbata guf fawed. “I had a feeling you were high-caste. Look at you, even saying that makes you go red.”
Gautama was drawn to the tall countrified monk. He said, “I’ve been
with a saint in the forest. I felt his presence. Every day , every minute. It
made me—I don’ t know what it made me.”
“Drunk, maybe. That type can throw you of f your head, that’ s for sure.”
Pabbata stopped for a second and then replied, “So you must be a saint too.Like attracts like, isn’ t that how it works?”
“Not in this case.”
Pabbata shook his head, frowning. “Y ou shouldn’ t talk about yourself
that way . Karma is shy . It’s easy to drive the good kind away .” He sped up
to rejoin his cousins. Gautama lagged behind, and after a moment he heard
loud laughter and banter . He was tempted to fade back and lose the other
monks, but he didn’ t. Pabbata looked over his shoulder and saw Gautama a
few yards behind them. “Don’ t be shy , princess!”
The jibe, like everything Pabbata said, was good-natured. Gautama
could do worse than travel in such company . Maybe the next town or the
next teacher could of fer him some answer . And so the saf fron-clad
sojourners walked on together for several days. Gautama lightened the time
between farmhouses by finding fruit and fresh water that the others couldn’ t
spy; in return, they were much more persuasive beggars and flirted with the
country wives for extra roti and rice. “This one makes good mango pickle. It’s worth a kiss behind the barn,” one of the cousins said with a wink. One morning Gautama had gotten up before dawn, as he was
accustomed to do with his master , and meditated in the faint blue-gray light. He washed himself in a stream and shaved his beard with the sharp shell of
a freshwater mussel. As he walked back to camp, he felt a strange
sensation. After a moment he realized a cool breeze was tickling the back of
his neck. The morning was already heavy with heat, and he stopped. He
raised one hand and could definitely feel a cool current of air around his
head. Gautama had felt such a sensation around his master without
comprehending why . Gautama turned his steps and headed back toward the main road instead
of to camp. He hadn’ t met a better person the whole time he’d been
wandering. And yet he couldn’ t stay now , not if it meant being turned into a
false god.Emer ging from the thick jungle growth, Gautama saw that the main
road was crowded with travelers. He ducked his head and kept as close to
himself as possible. But he couldn’ t help becoming part of the passing
parade. Farmers’ carts were a constant sight, trundling to market and home
again. There was the occasional merchant caravan, usually surrounded by
armed guards to protect the precious bales of silk and spice stowed in a
horse-drawn wagon. Gautama regarded them all with troubled eyes. They were like
phantoms to him, no longer made of flesh and blood. They were dream
images that he could pass his hand through if they came close enough. As
their bodies faded, he saw something else more clearly . Each person carried
an invisible burden. The young monk was amazed that he hadn’ t seen it
before. Everyone walked or rode with their lives on their shoulders, a pack
of memories that spilled over with disappointment and sorrow . This one had
never recovered from losing a wife in childbirth. That one was afraid of
starving. That other one fretted over a runaway son who may have died in
battle. And always there was the pall of age and sickness, the endless worry
over money , the unceasing doubts about the future. “Look!”
A small child, bolder than the others, pointed at Gautama, then jumped
down from the cart he was riding in. He ran up and tugged at the monk’ s
saffron skirt with a smile. The boy didn’ t beg for anything; he just held on
to the skirt and walked beside Gautama. Instead of scolding him or calling
him back, the parents nodded benignly . “I have to find my brothers again,” mumbled Gautama. He removed the
little boy’ s hand and turned around. W alking away , he could hear the child
crying behind him, and this, as much as the stares people were giving him,
distressed Gautama. He’d heard children crying like that many times, when
there was no food or the kind Prince Siddhartha had run out of coins for
them. But Gautama had given this child nothing and taken nothing away . Except himself. Gautama found the path that had led him to the main road, and soon he
was swaddled in the protective gloom of the jungle. The five cousins wouldstill be in camp. They were never eager to travel in the heat of the day . Once
he found them, Pabbata looked puzzled over why Gautama had been gone
so long, but he kept this to himself. Solitude was a monk’ s privilege, one of
the few . Gautama had taken the precaution of gathering some mangoes on
the way , which placated the other cousins in case they had questions to
pose. He lay down under a tree, gazing up at the dappled light that filtered
down and made small white circles on the forest floor . He couldn’ t find a
way to fall asleep as the others dozed of f.
Own nothing. Give everything. It was all he could think about. “DO YOU RECOGNIZE ME ?”
Gautama lifted the sick man’ s head and brought a water gourd to his
lips. The man had been unconscious when the novice monks, the bikkhus,
found him. Only Gautama thought he was still alive. He ordered the
bikkhus to put the body in his tent and leave the two alone. They obeyed
without question. First, because wherever Gautama went, from camp to
camp, ashram to ashram, he was revered. He had emer ged from the forest
only a year before, yet many of the novices whispered that someone like
him, a man of stature and power , should be master , not a worn-out old yogi. There was a second reason too. If the man they found in the forest
actually was dead, Gautama might bring him back to life. Miracle stories
swirled around him, and no amount of discouragement on Gautama’ s part
could make them die down. “Do you recognize me?” Gautama repeated when he saw the old man’ s
eyes flutter and then open. “I—I’m not sure.”
Hunger and dehydration had made the man’ s mind weak. He looked
around the tent, baf fled at how he had gotten there. Then his gaze returned
to Gautama’ s face and stayed there. “Ah,” he said. “The saint.”“That’ s what you called me, Ganaka. But don’ t worry . Didn’ t you also
tell me that saints don’ t exist?”
Feeble as he was, Ganaka summoned a cynical smile. “Y ou waited this
long to prove that I’m wrong?”
His head fell back; he struggled with another wave of delirium. Ganaka
had been found deep in the forest, sheerly by accident when the bikkhus
were chasing down a deer with bow and arrow . “I didn’ t ask for your help,”
he mumbled. “It’ s my life. Who are you to save it?”
“Weren’ t you about to give it away?”
Gautama had sensed such a possibility . Someone as experienced as
Ganaka didn’ t just wander away alone unless it was to die. The careworn
monk turned his head away and refused to answer . “We’ll talk later ,” Gautama said. He placed water and fruit beside the
cot and departed. Outside the tent his eyes saw dozens of huts in the lar ge
clearing. It was spring, and the younger bikkhus were feeling the ef fects—
they exercised, ar gued, talked in secret about girls they had left behind. Some missed home too much. Every day the weather was fair , a few more
failed to show up for evening prayers. Spring had more power over them
than God. Gautama walked among the campfires. By now he had explored every
city in the kingdom and those that lay far to the east, but he had avoided the
temptation to set foot inside the gates of Kapilavastu. As the word spread
and scores of villagers and farmers traveled out to find him and receive his
blessing, some were from Sakya and remembered him. If they murmured
“Prince” or “Y our Highness” when they prostrated themselves before him,
Gautama took no notice, gave no hint to acknowledge who he once had
been. Four years had made Gautama into Gautama. Of course he could still conjure up the old faces. But they didn’ t return
on their own anymore. In order to see images of Channa or Suddhodana, he
would ask to see them. “Learn to use your memo ries,” he told the younger
bikkhus. “Don’ t let them use you.”Ananda, a monk around his own age of thirty-three, ran up. He looked
vexed and excited. “Another miracle, brother . What should I do?”
Gautama frowned. “What marvel did I supposedly perform this time?”
“There’ s a cripple just come to camp. Hobbled in on crutches, then he
fell on his knees and called out your name. He gave a few twitches, and
now he’ s walking again.”
“Aren’ t you impressed, Ananda? Y ou’d think with all my powers I
could prevent my feet from getting blisters when we walk down a rocky
trail.”
Ananda was too exercised to smile. “He’ s just one of those cheats who
wants a free meal.”
“Don’ t we give food to anyone? Even cheats?”
Ananda bit his tongue. No one was closer to Gautama in their travels,
thanks to his sincerity about God and his total devotion to Gautama. Recently , though, the short, stocky Ananda, who exuded stubbornness as
much as loyalty , had become like a ser geant or an aide de camp as more and
more responsibilities fell Gautama’ s way with the bikkhus. “I think I know what to do,” Gautama said. He sat down by the central
campfire on a rough-hewn bench. Whenever they stopped for any length of
time the bikkhus bestirred themselves to build huts and stools and such
from forest timber . “Feed him well. Then say that I need his crutches to
help another lame man. If he hesitates to hand them over , tell him to come
and personally tell me why . I imagine he and the crutches will both be gone
in the morning.”
At last Ananda found a smile. “He’ll never hand them over . He needs
them for his next miracle down the road.”
“I think so.”Although he wasn’ t the senior monk, Gautama had been relieved of
chores around camp. He attended to the guru’ s major af fairs instead. “I
wouldn’ t burden you,” the guru said, “but you are cursed by your gift.”
“And what is my gift?” asked Gautama. “The bikkhus think you’re their father .”
“Shouldn’ t you be their father?”
The guru shrugged. “I already got rid of my curses.”
This master ’s name was Udaka, and he was the second luminary
Gautama had found in his wanderings. The first, who was named Alara, had
been a quiet, reclusive scholar , a Brahmin but nothing like Canki. Alara
paid no attention to caste. He immersed himself in the V edas and wouldn’ t
bother to eat unless someone placed a plate of food beside his study table. When he first walked in, Gautama immediately attracted Alara’ s attention. His head, bent close over a sacred text, whipped up, and his eyes squinted
as if looking into a bright light. Instead of saying hello, Alara asked a question. “Stranger , if the
scriptures tell me to avoid violence, is it enough that I walk past a fight and
not enter into it?”
Gautama, who was prepared to prostrate himself at the master ’s feet to
beg for instruction, was taken aback. He opened his mouth to say , “Tell me
the answer , wise one,” but what came out instead was, “Merely avoiding
violence shows virtue, but it shows much more virtue to help end the fight
and bring the combatants to a state of peace.”
“Ah.” Alara looked pleased. He patted the rough plank floor next to
him, signaling for Gautama to sit close by . He even shifted the small prayer
rug that he occupied so that his new disciple would be more comfortable. The next two months were nothing like the silence Gautama had shared
with the forest hermit. Alara was a gyani,  or philosopher . He thought and he
talked.“What is the mind for if not to find God?” he said. “The scriptures
assure us that this physical world is a mask, and yet the mask isn’ t physical. It’s made of illusion, and illusion is created by the mind. Do you
understand? What the mind has created, only the mind can undo.”
Gautama threw himself into a study of the V edas, the ancient scriptures,
and what Alara had said was holy writ. Every person has two selves, a
lower self that is born of flesh and tied to the illusions of the material world,
and a higher self that is eternal and unborn, with no attachments at all. The
lower self craves pleasure, the higher self knows only bliss. The lower self
cringes from pain, the higher self has never felt pain. If that was true, then
Gautama had to find his higher self or be lost in the endless quicksand of
the mind’ s deceptions. “You found me just in time,” said Alara. “Never mind that ordinary
people are wasting their lives in foolish dreams of finding lasting happiness. To the ignorant, pleasure and pain appear to be dif ferent, but wisdom tells
us they are the right and left hands of the lower self.”
For months Gautama focused on nothing else, praying, meditating, and
studying to find a path to his higher self. It was not dif ficult to believe in the
teaching of illusion, or maya,  because he continued to see ordinary people
as ghosts, weighed down with care and suf fering. Alara also looked like a
ghost, but there was no pain lingering around him. For his part, the old
gyani had never met a pupil like this one, and every day he delighted in him
more and more. One day , however , a young man of about twenty came and sat beside
the front door of Alara’ s hut. He was thin, almost emaciated, and his face
was one of the saddest Gautama had ever seen. As it happened, Alara
stepped out of his hut just as Gautama was about to hand the young stranger
a bowl of rice. W ith a swift, abrupt swipe, Alara knocked the bowl out of
his hand, and the rice scattered on the ground. Before Gautama could speak,
his master grabbed his arm and pulled him away . “Don’ t look back,” he said sharply .Behind them Gautama heard the young man cry , “Father!” At this
Alara’ s neck stif fened, but he kept his eyes straight ahead. When they were
out of sight of the hut he said, “Y es, he’ s my son. I do not greet him or
encourage him. Y ou shouldn’ t either .” Alara saw the baf fled look in
Gautama’ s eyes. “My lower self once had a family . They are of no concern
to me, just as this whole world is of no concern.”
“I understand,” said Gautama, lowering his eyes. “No, Gautama, I can see you don’ t. I have been on the ver ge of telling
you that there’ s little more I can teach you. But a true gyani must live what
he’s learned. How can you hope to reach your higher self if you remain tied,
even by the slightest thread, to this vale of illusion? Maya sets traps
everywhere.”
Gautama didn’ t argue. But he wondered, How would the sad young man
at Alara’ s door feel to know that he was an illusion, another trap to be
avoided? Two days later Gautama came into Alara’ s room, but he didn’ t take his
accustomed place on the floor beside him. The gyani didn’ t look up from
the page. He said, “I’m almost sad that you’re leaving. That’ s what you’re
here to announce, isn’ t it?”
“Yes.”
It could have ended there, simply , without a rupture. But Alara’ s hand
shook, and he threw down his scrolls. “Just who do you think you are?” he
asked irritably . “A disciple.”
“And since when does the disciple dare to teach the master?” Alara still
hadn’ t looked at Gautama, who could see the veins standing out in the old
man’ s neck. “I didn’ t mean to disturb you this way ,” said Gautama.“Insolence! I cannot be disturbed. Y ou haven’ t learned that by now?”
Gautama knelt on the floor without coming closer . Alara was unable to disguise his cold fury now . “If I need a demon to
shake my faith, I’ll call on a proper one, not a disciple who smiles and
smiles, only to betray me.”
This outpouring of blame didn’ t shake Gautama. He had lain awake
thinking about how his master , for all that he knew about illusion, had
fallen into a trap. The scriptures were his illusion. They led him to imagine
that he was free just because he could describe freedom out of a book and
think about it with his subtle mind. “I didn’ t come here to harm you,” said Gautama. “I no longer believe in
the higher self. I wish that I could. But it seems nothing more than a fine
phrase or an ideal no one ever attains. Y ou are good and wise, but you
became so by study—isn’ t it the lower self that reads the V edas?”
These words, intended to be mild, had the opposite ef fect. Alara hurled
a scroll at Gautama’ s head, then jumped to his feet, looking for a stick. “Get out, scoundrel!”
Gautama longed to say , “Who is so angry with me right now? Y our
higher self?” But Alara’ s eyes were bulging already . Gautama backed away
quickly .
Buddha_by_Deepak_Chopra.txt
Summarize the following text section accurately and concisely. Maintain specific details and numerical information, and use anti-repetition mechanisms:

        “I
don’t want anyone to think I have an expert barber. ”
“No, you’re just another monk with hardly a stitch to wear,” Channa
said. They parted there by the river as the sun came over the treetops. Channa
refused to say farewell; he kept his arms tightly pinned by his side to deflect
Siddhartha’ s attempt to embrace him. As Siddhartha walked away, he
trained his eyes straight ahead for the first hour. The jungle canopy was
fairly dense, even though trees had been cut down to make the road. For a
while he hardly knew how he felt, except in the most basic physical ways. His body felt lighter; the slightest breeze ruf fled his thin silk shawl and
passed coolly over his skin. Being without long hair and heavy robes was
exhilarating and unnerving. Having been a hunter, he knew how to forage for fruit and wild greens;
in the past few years he’d spent days on long treks without provisions. But
it wasn’ t the physical necessities that worried him. T o really be Gautama, he
would need to find a teacher. There were forest hermitages scattered over
the countryside, most of them near big villages and towns. Saf fron-robed
beggars had become a common sight on the wide streets of cities beyond
the kingdom of Sakya. Their increasing numbers baf fled people, and the
priests muttered about shiftless pretenders. Some kind of spiritual ferment
was taking hold. Before he left home, Siddhartha was intrigued by this new
movement, which didn’ t even have a name yet. “It’s young rascals, these so-called holy men,” a silk merchant
complained. “They fear work like the plague. They’re abandoning the farms
and turning away from their parents. Nothing seems to hold them back,
certainly not respect. ”
The merchant kept his own son tied close to his side with constant
demands and a trickle of money, not enough for him to leave or to get
married before the father arranged a match. “How do they live. ” Siddhartha asked. “Like any other lazybones. I wouldn’ t leave meat hanging in my front
yard,” said the merchant. “Y ou never know when the gods might want it. ”
Siddhartha ignored his cynicism. “Who teaches them. ”
“You call it teaching. What are the temples for. Not that the priests are
much better, mind you. ” Siddhartha pressed the point, and the merchant
eventually realized that he wasn’ t there simply to reinforce high-caste
prejudice. “I’m amazed that you care, Y our Highness. From what I can tell,
the young ones seek out the older ones. They move around the forest from
camp to camp, and the day they arrive at some makeshift school, they bow
down before the teacher and ask about the Dharma,  whatever his angle
happens to be. Dharma. The priests filled us with enough of that. ” Dharma
could mean many things—a man’ s occupation, the rules of proper conduct,
a person’ s holy duties as outlined by scripture. In this case it was a
philosophy, a particular teaching that disciples committed themselves to
learn. “And which Dharma is attracting the most followers. ” Siddhartha
asked. The merchant shrugged. “Who can say. The young ones keep
wandering. They’re restless and never stay anywhere very long. ”
Other travelers that Siddhartha came in contact with were just as hostile. They would have been shocked if they could have penetrated Siddhartha’ s
defenses and seen what lay behind his hospitable smile. He belonged to the
same young, restless breed that disappeared into the forest for years at a
time. W ith each passing day he became more and more aware of his calling. Yet, time was pressing. If he stayed in the palace for just a few more years,
the king would be old enough to step aside and bequeath Siddhartha the
throne. He couldn’ t let that happen. Not love, not family, not his own
conscience could force him to betray himself. And this is what you call being true to yourself. Gautama’ s mind wasn’ t convinced. The rain continued to pour from the
sky, and the road was so dark that more than once he slipped into the gullyon the side. There was no use ar guing with his mind, which seemed
untamable anyway. Gautama wondered if he was alone among mortals,
wanting to abandon all that was good in order to suf fer the torment and
uncertainty of the wild world. He’d add that to his long list of questions to
ask his teacher once he found him. If he found him. OceanofPDF. com12
Gautama passed several travelers on the road who could have directed him
to one of the forest ashrams where teachers were located. He greeted them
humbly, letting them decide to accept his company for a few miles or not; a
handful of fered him food for his bowl. But he was reluctant to throw
himself into the midst of a band of disciples. Gautama wanted to learn, but
he didn’ t want to give up who he was. His only model for a spiritual teacher
was Canki, who had a hidden motive for everything he said. It wasn’ t long before he ran across a wandering monk, a thin, sunburned
man who seemed old enough to have had a family with grown children. Gautama expected that the sannyasis he met would be very serious or very
eccentric. But this monk, who gave his name as Ganaka, turned out to be
cheerful and sociable. “I’ve been away for twelve years now, lad,” he said as they walked
along the road. “Y ou meet all sorts. But now the local people know me, and
I’m treated pretty well. Y our first holdup’ s a shock, though. The dacoits like
you to know who’ s boss. ”
“Do you belong to an ashram. ” Gautama asked. Ganaka shrugged. “I’ve visited them. Y ou get too hungry sometimes. ”
“What Dharma do you follow. ”
The older monk gave him a look. “Is that what you’re after. I didn’ t
know you were one of those. ” He had nothing more to say for a while, andGautama wondered with some puzzlement if the word Dharma  had
offended him. How could you be a monk without a teaching. When he
decided to speak again, the older monk said, “Don’ t let them fool you. ”
“Who. ”
“These teachers who promise enlightenment. Listen to the voice of
experience. I’m not enlightened, and you won’ t be either. They’ll feed you a
pack of high-sounding ideas, you’ll work for them year after year, and then
when they’ve worn you out, you’ll leave with the taste of ashes in your
mouth. ”
There was a lot to read in Ganaka’ s bitter tone. In a sympathetic voice
Gautama said, “T ell me your experience. I want to know. ”
Ganaka sighed. “In that case, you’d better have some of my bread. I was
going to save it until you were out of sight. ” He reached into his shawl and
pulled out a lar ge round roti, or flat bread, folded into quarters. He ripped
off half for Gautama, but not before blessing it. “I see myself in you,” the
older monk began. “I left home after my wife died. I was a vendor of ghee
and spices in a village, never rich enough to own a proper store but not poor
either. ”
“And you were devout. ”
“Oh, yes. Raised by a strict father who sent us to the temple for lessons
as soon as we could walk. As a child I believed. Even when my dear
Bhadda died in so much pain, moaning pitifully for her suf fering to end, I
believed. I gave away all my earthly possessions, and with the blessing of
the priests I set out on my journey. ”
“I think you’re still devout,” said Gautama. “Y ou bless your food. Even
when no one is watching, I imagine. ”
“Habit,” the older monk said curtly. “Anyway, the road is a hard life. I
went to visit the forest ashrams, eager as a bridegroom the night after the
wedding. I sat at the guru’ s feet and waited, mouth open like a gaping fish. That’ s why I see myself in you. Y ou want them to drop their wisdom intoyour gaping mouth. Y ou’re prob ably a philosopher. No of fense, but I can
tell by your accent that you never sold rubbish from a stall in the open
bazaar. ”
“I can’ t disagree,” said Gautama diplomatically, caught between smiling
at the older monk, who clearly had been dying for someone to talk to, and
worrying about the tale of disillusion that was about to unfold. Ganaka tore of f a chunk of roti with his yellow teeth. “They’re
shameless, these gurus. The garbage they spew as truth. Do they think
we’re fools. They must, as I found out the hard way. I took some of the
younger disciples aside and joked with them a bit. Little stuf f. Does this
guru get paid by the yarn, like a wandering storyteller. Does he think you
can feed cows on moonbeams. Next thing I knew, I got thrown out bodily,
like I came to steal their shoes. Hypocrisy. ” His voice trailed of f mournfully
as he ran out of spleen. “Moonbeams and hypocrisy. ”
“What did you decide to do. ”
“I couldn’ t go home. I’d given almost everything to the priests, and they
don’t give back. But you’ve got some sense, you could see that I’m still
devout. I pray, and I have a circuit of householders who feed me and let me
take refuge from the storm. ”
“Pardon me, but aren’ t you simply waiting to die. ” asked Gautama.
Channa
Who did Siddhartha refuse to say farewell to before parting ways?
They move around the forest from camp to camp, and the day they arrive at some makeshift school, they bow down before the teacher and ask about the Dharma.
What did the merchant say about the young ones who seek out teachers?
Experience
What did the hermit say was the only way to learn?
He met Ganaka, a wandering monk, and learned that true teaching is not about words, but about actions and the way one lives.
Who did Gautama meet on the road, and what did he learn from him?
He realized that he was still struggling with his own desires and attachments, and that he needed to find a true teacher to help him overcome them.
What did Gautama realize about his own thoughts and desires after leaving his father's kingdom?