They fired, and Siddhartha was fortunate. The arrows
flew over his body with a swish of air , missing him. He wheeled around, and regaining his self-possession, he fired rapidly ,
first at the back of one horseman, then at the other . His timing was perfect. They were still struggling to turn their mounts around when his arrows hit
them, and both men fell. Siddhartha had fired so rapidly that they seemed to
go down simultaneously . The crowd roared. For the first time in his life
Siddhartha felt exulted by battle; he rose in his stirrups and acknowledged
the accolades. This was something, the first thing, he had earned for
himself. But despite his triumph, Mara’ s laughter rang in his ears. Siddhartha
was disoriented, and he scanned the tournament field. Only one of the
archers had gotten to his feet. The other lay on the ground writhing in
agony . Siddhartha jumped down and ran over to him. He saw with horror
that the man had been hit in the throat, the arrow’ s point coming out the
back of his neck. Arms lifted the wounded man to a sitting position, hands tried to
dislodge the arrow . He groaned and almost passed out. Siddhartha’ s head
swam in the confusion. He was dimly aware that someone broke of f the
arrow’ s tip so that the shaft could be pulled through the man’ s neck, but thiscaused a tremendous gush of blood, which shot so far that it hit Siddhartha
in the chest. “Do something,” he pleaded, aware in the midst of everything that his
voice sounded high and panicky , more a boy’ s voice than a man’ s. He
looked up to see that the king had arrived. The soldiers parted for him. His
father barked for someone to fetch a physician, but by that time the
wounded man had lost consciousness, his head limply tilted to one side like
a broken doll’ s. From the fountain of blood still erupting, but with weaker
and weaker force, it was obvious he was lost. Suddhodana pulled out a silk
kerchief and pressed it to the man’ s wound. “Did you know him?” asked Siddhartha, although he had no idea why
that would matter . His father grimly shook his head. The presence of death
quieted the bystanders, until a new voice broke the silence. “Amazing. Someone was actually hurt. Fire the stagemaster .”
Devadatta pushed his way through the packed bodies sur rounding the
corpse. He stared at it coldly . “It’s his own fault for missing his cue, isn’ t
it?” He turned to Siddhartha, whose whole body was shaking. “Y ou
couldn’ t have fought for real, I can see that.”
The bystanders were shocked, waiting for the king to explode with rage,
but Suddhodana kept silent. His guilt told him that Devadatta was right—
nobody was meant to get hurt when the prince was involved. He gazed at
his son, and Siddhartha instantly read the truth. Siddhartha willed himself to stop shaking and got to his feet. He drew
his sword, glaring at Devadatta. “Y ou said you wanted to fight me today . I
accept your challenge.”
“No!”
For a moment it sounded as if his father had shouted, but Channa
stepped through the crowd. “No, I’ll fight the bastard. It’ s about time.”
Channa took two strides, raising his fist to take a swing at Devadatta. But inhis wildness he lost his balance, and the blow only grazed Devadatta’ s
cheek. Devadatta spit on his palm and wiped his cheek with a look of disgust,
as if it were covered with excrement. “I beg my rights, Y our Highness.” Devadatta dropped to one knee in
front of Suddhodana. “This low-caste scum touched me. Y ou all saw it. I
beg my rights.” The crowd stirred and became uneasy as the king remained
immobile and silent for several seconds. “The king acknowledges Devadatta’ s rights.” Suddhodana finally spoke
but not with his usual force. “He can decide the fate of any low-caste who
has defiled him.”
Devadatta smiled. “Death,” he said. Suddhodana scowled. “Think carefully . It was just a touch, young
prince. Let me remind you, this is a cause for justice.”
“I’m only looking for justice. This scum intended to catch me of f guard,
knock me over , and then stab me. See, his weapon.”
By now two guards had grabbed Channa and wrestled the dagger from
him. Pushed to his knees, Channa shouted, “If that’ s what I was going to do,
let me finish it!”
Devadatta shrugged and held his open hands out to the king. “My case
is proved. Let me have my rights, as you promised.”
“No, let me have mine.”
Without warning Siddhartha was kneeling at the king’ s feet beside his
cousin, his voice on the edge of rage. “I have the right to fight in place of
my brother , and Channa is my brother in everything but name. Everyone
knows it, so why pretend? If any man of caste dares to defame Channa, I
will fight that man, whoever he is.”This was the moment that Canki shouldn’ t have missed by leaving
early . As high Brahmin, he had full authority , over even a king, to decide
disputes of caste. These were many and complicated. Scriptures held, for
example, that if the shadow of an untouchable fell across the path of a
Brahmin, unclean contact had taken place and the Brahmin must return
home to bathe. Food touched by someone of low caste could not be eaten
by someone of high caste. This was clear enough, but what if the high-caste
person was dying and the food was needed to save his life? Canki held
court over these bewildering issues. But he had left the scene. “Get up, both of you,” Suddhodana ordered. W ith disgust he knew that
Devadatta had more right on his side than the prince. Often in the heat of
battle a low-caste’ s weapon had accidentally nicked a high-caste comrade’ s,
drawing barely a few drops of blood. But this was enough to condemn the
offender to death if the high-caste soldier demanded it. Channa clearly
intended to draw blood; the waters weren’ t muddied until Siddhartha
foolishly intruded. Suddhodana now had no choice. “The two princes both have right on their side,” he announced. “I will
betray justice if I decide against either of them, so let Nature be the judge. The two princes will fight.”
No one expected this judgment, but the first to recover from the general
consternation was Devadatta, who gave a wolfish grin. Between arrogance
and despair at his situation, he knew he had no future, not one befitting his
worth. His fatalistic streak would be satisfied if he managed to kill this
despised cousin who had led to his own imprisonment, or else got killed
trying. “Sword and dagger ,” he said. Siddhartha nodded grimly . Already free of helmet and chest plate, he
began to strip of f the rest of his armor for better mobility . But more than
that, he wanted the fight to be decisive. The truth was that each of them—
Siddhartha, his father , and Devadatta—was trapped by the others. Astonishingly , all three had come to this realization at the same exact
moment, a moment from which there was no turning back. OceanofPDF .com9
The sky was divided between sun and clouds as the fighters circled each
other . They had stripped down to cotton pants, their chest and feet bare. Siddhartha kept his eyes fixed on Devadatta’ s, because as tempting as it was
to watch his opponent’ s hands, he knew that Devadatta’ s glance would give
away his intentions. Siddhartha felt he was moving in a dream. A part of his mind floated
high above, looking down in wonder that a fight to the death ensued. But
Siddhartha’ s instincts for survival were strong. He shook himself and made
the opening lunge, his sword hand ahead of his dagger so that by warding
off the first blade, Devadatta might open himself to the second one. Devadatta was agile and ready—he jumped to the side with a shouted “Ha!”
and slashed with his own sword. Siddhartha went by too fast and wasn’ t hit. Devadatta began a relentless round of parry and thrust, making
Siddhartha counter blow after blow with his sword. Each time metal
clanged on metal, a shock wave went up his arm. Siddhartha’ s muscles
ached, and he knew that Devadatta had an advantage over him. This was his
cousin’ s first combat of the day , while Siddhartha had been fighting for
hours. He had to win quickly or his ener gy would fail. Knowing that
Devadatta was following his eyes as well, he made a feint, glancing right,
taking a half step in that direction. When Devadatta’ s dagger followed him,
the move opened up his body , and Siddhartha stuck his sword into the
exposed midrif f. It was incredible luck. If the blow had struck home, it
would have been fatal.But in the instant before the blade entered Devadatta’ s body , Siddhartha
heard his heartbeat thud in his ears with long stretches in between the
strokes. He felt the breeze blow the hairs on his forearm slowly , delicately ,
back and forth, and each blink of an eye was like a door closing, leading to
blackness, before it opened again and the world reappeared. He felt very dif ferent from before—calm, free of anger . Out of the
corner of his eye he could see that the mood of the king had shifted. Suddhodana was returning to reason, and as he did, the thought of loss of
his only son was intolerable. Suddhodana was within half a breath of
stopping the fight. He had yet to register that Siddhartha was about to win. The last thing Siddhartha’ s eye caught was his sword inching closer to its
perfect tar get. Suddhodana shouted, “Stand back, a fighter is down!” He wanted to run
forward and embrace his son. The prince stood over Devadatta’ s fallen
body , panting hard. “Get up,” he said. Devadatta was shaking his head. Instead of delivering
a fatal wound, Siddhartha’ s sword tip had been deflected, slicing the skin
over his heart. He spat out the dust he’d swallowed going down, aiming
deliberately at Siddhartha’ s feet. Siddhartha’ s eyes fixed on the slimy spot it
made. He held out his hand to Devadatta. “Y ou win, if it pleases you.”
Devadatta refused the hand with contempt. “It’ s not going to be that
easy, boy ,” he hissed. Siddhartha ignored the jibe and turned around. “I quit this fight,” he said in a loud voice, keeping his eyes away from
the king’ s. “I can’ t prevail over a better man. Give the honor to my cousin.”
Suddhodana shook his head. “Y ou have prevailed. The contest is over ,”
he shouted, but few heard him. Screams rent the air be cause, at the moment
when Siddhartha turned away from him, Devadatta lifted his dagger and
raked its rippled blade across the small of his opponent’ s back. Siddhartha
staggered. Devadatta brought back his arm to strike straight up into his
enemy’ s stomach as he doubled over .Siddhartha never gave him the chance. He reached out and grabbed
Devadatta’ s hair with one hand while batting the threatening dagger away
with the other . The gash it made across his palm was insignificant; rage
canceled out the pain. He banged Devadatta’ s skull into the packed dirt. The
first time was enough to make his opponent half senseless, but Siddhartha
repeated the action twice more. Devadatta’ s eyes betrayed panic when he
realized that he was alone and defenseless. The second time his head
smashed against the ground, his eyes glazed over; the third smash, and they
rolled up into his head. Siddhartha paid no attention. He lifted Devadatta’ s limp body of f the
ground in a wrestler ’s hold around the chest, squeezing the breath out of
him. It was remarkably easy to do, as if he were shaking a rag doll. Siddhartha locked his arms into a vice and leaned back, his face to the sky . Inside a voice said, “ This is freedom. This is what the gods feel like when
they mete out death.” Siddhartha believed the voice and waited for the
moment when he would let Devadatta’ s body fall. As his face turned up to the sky , which was still divided between sun
and clouds, his arms felt Devadatta’ s body grow more and more still. Surrender , and be fr ee. For the first time since he could remember , a voice came to him from
another place. Siddhartha’ s grip weakened just a fraction. Surrender , and be fr ee. When the voice came back again, Siddhartha could hardly keep from
shouting back, Haven’ t I alr eady surr ender ed? He had conceded the fight to
his enemy , yet instead of freeing him, it had opened him to treachery . What
was this new surrender? Where would it take him? Siddhartha felt seized
with fear . If he let go of Devadatta, their old enmity would be twice as
strong; he would have failed his father and turned victory into humiliation. None of that mattered now . Deep down he knew what he had to surrender . The voice wanted him to jump into the abyss, a place deep inside and
completely unknown to him. It was the only way out.Devadatta quivered and softly moaned. Siddhartha dropped him without
being aware of his action. He walked to the edge of a clif f—the image in his
mind was as real to him as anything he’d ever seen—and leaped. He saw
his arms fly up and the yawning gulf, like a monstrous mouth, below him. His first impulse was to shriek, so dizzying was the sensation of
plummeting into emptiness. This must be like dying,  he thought. He
couldn’ t feel his body anymore; no sights or sounds reached him from the
outside world. But his worst fears were unfounded. The void was not a
place of destruction and chaos. No, it was very dif ferent. He saw his mother holding a baby in her arms, and her face was the sun. He saw Mara sitting on his throne surrounded by swarming, buzzing
entities, and his face was the night. He saw his father , an infant swaddled in
a suit of armor , crying to be let out because he was suf focating. He saw
Sujata, the stars, Channa riding the white stallion Kanthaka. The spectacle
whirled and slipped past him like painted gossamer , and Siddhartha
laughed, feeling exhilarated. The things that had meant so much were as
thin and fragile as tissue. He kept on falling. The tissuelike images flew apart. It was like
watching the wind scatter leaves, and the leaves were his life. As this life
evaporated before his eyes, Siddhartha felt a shiver , as if someone had
ripped of f his winter coat and left him naked in the cold. But he wasn’ t
naked, and far from dead. Instead of the mask of images and memories,
surrounding him on every side was something pure and free: life itself. He
couldn’ t remember who he was. There was nothing left of his fears and
dreams, nothing to do, nothing to want. He was simply alive, the breath of
the breath, the eye of the eye. The falling sensation ended. Siddhartha was held in suspension, an
invisible spider dangling from an invisible thread. It would have been
wonderful to remain like that. It would have been everything. Then a low
throbbing could be heard like distant thunder , and it rolled toward him, a
wave of thunder that boomed in the night until the muf fled boom turned
into a word. “Son?”Siddhartha opened his eyes. His father ’s stricken face covered the sky . I’m all right,  he wanted to say , seeing the sick worry in the king’ s eyes. No
words came out. They were stifled by Siddhartha’ s emotions. He reached
back in his mind, trying to return to where he’d been after he leaped into the
abyss. There was nothing there. He felt his father lifting his head; other arms were under his legs and
torso. They lowered him onto a litter , and then he was jounced up and down
as the bearers ran with him toward the palace. He was returning to his right
mind now , full of images and memories once again. What had he done to
Devadatta? What would happen to Channa? His whole body felt heavier; it
was being tied to earth again by a thousand threads. Siddhartha struggled,
desperate to break free. Then a physician’ s soothing voice said, “T ry to
calm down. Quit fighting.” Someone pressed a cold slimy thing to his
forehead, and the last thing Siddhartha saw before passing out was the
painted ceiling of his father ’s bedroom, in the image of the sky . “HEAT STROKE, THA T’S ALL . Did you see his face? He was sweating like
mad, then he turned white as a sheet before they carried him of f. He could
have died.”
“He went crazy . It was bound to happen. Don’ t you know the pressure
he’s under? Y ou’d crack too.”
“The wretched boy’ s cursed. My wife has a maid who can see demons. The one she saw around him almost scared her to death.”
The rumor mill at court hummed with excited speculation. No one could
make their favorite theories stick. They were too bewildered over
Siddhartha’ s sudden outbreak of violence. W ould he ever be himself again? The gods of gossip were not sure. After three days the leeching was over ,
and the royal physicians, squeezing clotted blood between their fingers,
declared that the worst poisons had been extracted. The astrologers sounded
guardedly optimistic about the transit of Mercury coming to an end after it
had combusted with the sun. In their eyes, malefic forces had taken over
Siddhartha. Suddhodana didn’ t believe any of it. But no one had died, and ifhis guests went away thinking he had raised a half-demented son, it was
better than thinking he had raised a gentle one. Even though Devadatta’ s dagger had drawn considerable blood, and
losing more was dangerous, Siddhartha felt no distress over the leeching—
not compared to the shroud of sadness that would not unwind from his
heart. His father refused to leave him unattended, but late at night when the
nurse’ s head lolled on her breast—Siddhartha made sure she was given a
double cup of liquor with supper—he crept out of bed and paced the floor . In his mind he would approach the edge of an abyss again, but when he
jumped, nothing happened. It was simply his imagination. Siddhartha got reluctant permission to have Channa admitted to his
room. He breathed a sigh when he set eyes on him. He was still alive. Siddhartha’ s relief was too enormous to disguise. Channa was embarrassed;
he raised his voice and talked about the whole af fair with bravado. “No
one’s going to kill me. I have friends everywhere. I’m protected.” But
Siddhartha noticed welts on Channa’ s shoulders, and when he pressed him
for an explanation, the truth emer ged. There was consternation on the field of combat when Siddhar tha and
Devadatta had both been carried away . The king ordered the massed
fighters to remain in place, which added an air of threat to the confusion,
but he wanted to make sure that every guest realized that his army was
always at the ready . No one had time for Channa, who ran back to the
stables and packed his best saddle horse to leave. As he was stuf fing food
and blankets into leather bags, he sensed that someone had entered the stall. “Father?” He turned around expecting to confront Bikram, who would
never for give him for touching a high-caste. But it was the king, who had
not for gotten Channa for a moment. He brandished a whip in his hands. “I expect you to take what’ s coming to you and then keep your mouth
shut.”
Without waiting for a reaction, Suddhodana struck the youth across the
chest with the lash’ s iron-tipped barbs—there were three, a gentler version
of the deadly seven-tipped whip used in battle. The pain was excruciating;Channa fell to the ground and rolled over , which was fortunate, because the
king was in a genuine rage and vented it by striking him, over and over ,
across the back and shoulders instead of his face. The only way that Channa could keep from passing out was to force
himself not to count the blows. This one’ s the last,  he thought every time the
iron hooks raked his flesh. It never was the last, however , or so it seemed. Then he became aware that the searing pain was coming not from the lash
anymore but from the wounds he already had. Channa risked looking up,
and he saw the king stooped over , panting hard with the whip dropped to
the stable floor . “Walk around, make sure everyone sees your wounds. Don’ t dress them
for two days.” Suddhodana was focused on him, but not with rage or
implacable cold hatred. Channa could almost read sympathy , as if he’d had
to punish his own son. “Then have Bikram hide you for a month,
somewhere far away . Somewhere a hired assassin won’ t look. They’re lazy;
they won’ t go very far to find you. And never go near Devadatta again,
understand?”
They both knew that Channa was being let of f easy . By rights he should
have been turned over to the priests, who would have meted out maximum
punishment as a show of power over the king. As Suddhodana turned away ,
Channa mumbled, “Thank you.”
The king looked back at him, and now his eyes were stone cold. “Y our
father was a horse thief when I met him. That’ s a hanging of fense, and if I
ever have a whim to kill him, why not take the son along too? Just to be
sure.”
Channa related only the bare bones of this incident to Siddhartha. The
prince was troubled enough by the welts he could see; the worst were
hidden under Channa’ s tunic. Several days passed before Siddhartha told
Channa about his own mysterious experience. Channa was amazed. “Y ou turned into a god. What else could it be?”Siddhartha didn’ t know whether to be shocked or amused. But when
Channa’ s face remained serious, even a little awed, he said, “I shouldn’ t
have told you. I should just go to old Canki and get him to purify me.”
“I wouldn’ t. Not until somebody purifies him.” Channa’ s contempt for
the Brahmin was open, despite the risk he was running if the priest should
find out. “How long have I been getting school from him? Ever since any of
us can remember . You think that matters? He’d see me stretched out on a
rack as soon as look at me. He thinks I’m an animal, and he has scripture to
back him up.”
Siddhartha looked grim. “And I’m not much better .”
Channa was stunned; the color rushed to his face. Siddhartha rushed
ahead. “I mean, caste keeps my life perfect. That’ s the word you used,
right? It doesn’ t matter if you’re stronger than me or smarter or braver . The
fact that we embraced when you walked in the door today could mean a
death sentence if my father decreed it.”
Channa straightened up. “I am stronger than you, that part’ s true.”
“The rest is true too.” Siddhartha couldn’ t help smiling. Channa said, “Y ou can change the world when it’ s yours to play with. The rest of us have to live in it.”
“You think I’m going to get the world?”
“It’s just what they say .”
Siddhartha knew it was better to let the whole subject die. He had lived
a long time with the knowledge that even his best friend, at some level that
reason couldn’ t touch, regarded him with superstitious awe. It wouldn’ t
matter that Channa had seen the worst of Siddhartha, watched him cry , run
away , complain bitterly about his father . It wouldn’ t matter that the prince
was a creature of flesh and blood or that Channa had often in the heat of
sword practice drawn his blood. Being the friend of a royal gave Channathe special status and protection that he enjoyed. But there was a limit to
royal protection with an enemy as cunning as Devadatta. The realization came to Siddhartha that he had always regarded his
cousin with anxiety . Devadatta had been like a blade held lightly against his
throat. That’ s what was now missing. Fear . Siddhartha couldn’ t bring back
the old sense of threat. If he wasn’ t afraid of Devadatta anymore, what else wasn’ t he afraid of? Siddhartha reached inside and opened the hidden trunks of memory ,
expecting that phantoms of dread would fly out. But the trunk was empty . He had been a death-haunted child, a boy full of fears without a mother . Tears were rolling down his cheeks now . It was the first time in his life
that truth had made Siddhartha weep. That’ s what had changed when he
jumped into the abyss. He exchanged illusion for truth. He felt purified, and
yet some part of him couldn’ t rejoice in it. What would it be like to be the
only man who wasn’ t afraid? His father was afraid despite his battles won;
Canki was afraid despite the favor of the gods; Channa was afraid despite
his bravado. None of them would be able to grasp this change in
Siddhartha. They might even hate him for it. WITH THE CUR TAINS CLOSED  and one candle guttering to a spark, Sujata’ s
room was almost dark. She lay in bed staring at the ceiling. In her mind she
kept going over what she should have said to Siddhartha. Everything had
gone wrong. Even when she got her heart’ s desire and he showed that he
wanted her , she had run away . Sometimes when she woke up in the middle
of the night, all Sujata could think about was the fact that Siddhartha had
looked at her with longing. She fixed that look in her mind and swore she
would never let it go. The simple truth is that Sujata was waiting for Siddhartha to come to
her on his own. So when she lay half asleep and the door creaked open,
Sujata was instantly wide awake. She trembled under the sheets and
widened her eyes to see him in the dark, to make sure this wasn’ t another
phantom of her imagination.She saw the outline of a strong young man moving toward the bed, his
bearing erect, moving quickly because he desired her so strongly . Fear and
exultation fought wildly in Sujata’ s breast. If only her bed could have been
prepared properly for love, with scattered flower petals, rose water , and
sprinkled spices known to make a man aroused. For a fleeting instant Sujata thought of her mother and wondered if she
had been in the same situation. She banished this thought as soon as it
came. She didn’ t want to think about anything when Siddhartha’ s hand took
hers; he was bending over her , lowering his face to kiss her . “Hold still. If you scream I’ll kill you.”
Scream was all she wanted to do, in that instant when she realized this
wasn’ t Siddhartha and horror had entered her sanctuary . The man’ s hand
came over her face, covering mouth and nose so that she would be too
breathless to cry out, even to think. But panic had already seen to that. “You’ve been waiting for me a long time. I’ve seen your light. I wanted
the moment to be perfect, sweetheart.”
It was unmistakably Devadatta. He tore open her bodice with quick
efficiency and began to knead her breasts with his hands, roughly and
without consideration for how it hurt her . Please stop…. I’ll do whatever you want. With her breathing cut of f, Sujata didn’ t know if she actually spoke
those words or if they were a desperate prayer . Devadatta had opened her
dress against her feeble struggling, and she felt his hand opening her legs. Half-suf focated as she was, she couldn’ t sob. Devadatta was having her , and
his thrusts were violent signals of his savagery and disdain. She went limp, hoping that her rapist would spare her more violence. Devadatta suddenly stopped what he was doing to her . “I know who you
want!” he said, and the menace in his voice should have warned her . But
Sujata, knowing she was dead, felt a flood of relief.The only mercy remaining to her was that Devadatta acted swiftly in the
dark. She couldn’ t detect him pulling out his rippled dagger . “Remember
that the last thing you ever saw was me,” he growled at the instant that the
blade swept across her eyes. Sujata heard a shriek that must have been her
own, then the searing pain came, and she stopped breathing. She was spared
the spectacle of Devadatta rolling of f her body with a groan. He tried to
control himself, but his hands were shaking. Devadatta realized his predicament: someone would come sooner or
later, and there was no time to waste. He seized hold of himself and started
the work in front of him. He wrapped Sujata in bed sheets and tied her
shrouded body with curtain cords. He easily slipped past the guards and
found a sentry’ s horse tethered by the gates. He loaded the corpse on its
rump and rode quietly toward the river . Mara was already there; he stood by
while Devadatta, still not speaking, strong enough that carrying the body
didn’ t make him groan with exertion, approached the water . “Weigh her down with stones,” Mara ordered. Devadatta shot him a
look of hatred and dumped the bundle into the water . The bed sheets were
not securely tied, and they billowed out over the surface of the river , a
spectral white like sails in the moonlight. They retained enough air in
bulges and bubbles that Sujata didn’ t sink immediately , and the fast current
carried her away . Devadatta didn’ t wait. He wanted to for get that Mara was
beside him. “Not beside, dearest. Inside,” Mara said with satisfaction. Devadatta trembled in despair . He had no doubt that the gods didn’ t
exist. But at that moment he understood why , when the horror of life finally
reveals itself, somebody had to invent them. OceanofPDF .com1 0
Sujata’ s disappearance wasn’ t discovered for several days. The first day a
maid ran to Kumbira with the news that the tray of food left outside Sujata’ s
door was untouched. “She’ s always pouting. W ait till she gets hungry enough.” Sujata’ s
staying in her room hadn’ t hid her plight from Kumbira, who knew well
enough that she was lovesick. But when her food was untouched the second
day, Kumbira knocked on the door and entered. What she saw made her
react quickly . “Run away . Now .”
Kumbira pushed the maid who had followed her out the door , hoping
that the drawn curtains hid the sight of blood on the stripped bed. But the
frightened girl certainly saw something, which left Kumbira very little time
before palace rumors would spread like wildfire. She immediately went to
the king and laid before him everything that had happened between Sujata
and the prince. Suddhodana took the news more calmly than she had expected. And if
the king was concerned about Sujata’ s fate, it certainly didn’ t show . “She
was too ashamed to stay . Send a few men to search where she went. Not too
many .” It wasn’ t even half an hour before Channa carried the news to the
prince, who immediately ran to Sujata’ s room. Kumbira had been swift
enough in having the bed removed; even so, Siddhartha was alarmed at
Sujata’ s sudden disappearance.“I’ve sent my men out,” Suddhodana told him. “What else do you
expect me to do? She wanted to go home. Somebody should have kept her
from getting so lonely .”
Siddhartha was stung by his father ’s implication. The pleasure pavilion
had been open to him since he was sixteen, but in those two years he hadn’ t
gone there. Suddhodana was of fended by this show of chastity . “I didn’ t put
those girls there so you could pray with them,” he had once taunted. Stymied by his father ’s indif ference to Sujata, Siddhartha ran to
Channa. “W e have to find her .”
“Do we? Stop and think,” said Channa. “There’ s a good chance your
father is behind it himself. He wants her gone.”
“You think she’ s like an old horse?” Siddhartha said coldly . He was well
aware that his father caused people to disappear from sight after a certain
age, no dif ferent from what went on in the stables. Channa didn’ t argue. He put a saddle on his favorite mount and started
to lead it outside. “Don’ t tell anyone I’m gone,” he said. “Y ou’re staying
here.” He saw Siddhartha flush a deep scarlet. “Go ahead, blame me,” said
Channa. “Y ou can’ t risk leaving.”
Siddhartha was all too aware that if he rode past the palace gates in
search of Sujata, no one could predict his father ’s reaction. Every person at
court had connived to keep him prisoner . But that wasn’ t going to stop him. Siddhartha strode over to the saddle rack, took down a saddle, and began to
cinch it on Kanthaka. The stallion usually stood still for him, but it shied
and almost bucked. “Easy ,” Siddhartha whispered. When he had mounted, Siddhartha headed toward the woods, leading
the way . On their hunts Channa had once pointed out a stream that ran
steeply down a hillside and more than once, despite the king’ s soldiers on
patrol, the prince wondered if it was an escape route. Channa had said,
“There’ s a dry gully at the bottom. If I ever wanted to leave withoutanybody knowing, I’d take the horses through the stream first to kill the
scent. It’ s even steeper beyond. Nobody bothers to patrol it.”
They headed that way now because if he was gone even an hour a
scouting party would be sent out after him. That much was a given. The
stream was easy to find; it was steep and rocky enough that both riders kept
quiet, concentrating on the horses’ footing. The dry gully , as Channa had
promised, got even steeper . They decided to walk the animals down. Under
the black jungle canopy of tangled trees and vines, the sun struck their skin
in dappled spots, but each speck felt searing at high noon. It wasn’ t the way
Siddhartha had envisioned his break to freedom. Reality dictated otherwise. Channa began talking again, letting out his sentences in short bursts as
he negotiated the scree-strewn slope. “My father swore me to secrecy about
what happened when you and I were still sucking at the breast. The king
sent them all away . All the old, sick ones. It was a bad time.”
Siddhartha had come to that conclusion on his own. After his mother ’s
death, it was the grimmest fact about his birth. Channa stopped talking,
trying to calm his horse as the slippery ground slid out from under its feet. The gully led to an over grown bamboo thicket, the space between the trees
too close for a horse to squeeze through. “There’ s an old road just beyond. They took some of them that way .”
“Who?”
“Some women. Ones the king didn’ t need anymore.”
Channa was recounting the past in a clipped, flat voice, like a physician
noting the cause of death. “He told Bikram to take them out a secret way ,
the one we’re following. He didn’ t want anybody to see.”
Siddhartha had a realization. “Y ou hate him, don’ t you?”
“You really want to know?” W ithout turning around, Channa lifted up
his shirt, exposing the full extent of his wounds from the whipping. “A
king’ s no better than a criminal.” Silence followed until they reached theend of the thick bamboo. Channa stopped his horse and faced Siddhartha. “You can turn back, you know . Nobody would be the wiser .”
“Why would I?”
Channa looked more thoughtful than Siddhartha had ever seen him. “Your father may be a bastard, but he could be right, doing what he did. He
kept misery away from you. Isn’ t that a good thing? I try to work it out in
my mind.”
“He wasn’ t right.”
The determination in Siddhartha’ s voice caught Channa’ s attention. “Three years went by . One of the women had a baby . Life was too hard,
and she died. The baby survived. So your father sent guilt money and food,
year after year .”
“Until she was old enough to bring to court,” said Siddhartha. “Just be glad she’ s not your half sister .” Channa’ s tone was indif ferent
now. He’d taken the weight of f his shoulders. “So, their village is up ahead. That’ s where we have the best chance of finding Sujata if she did run away . Not that I believe it.”
Siddhartha didn’ t ask Channa what he did believe. He had his own
premonitions. He couldn’ t escape the fact that he hadn’ t seen Devadatta in
the past few days. It would be like him to kidnap Sujata for revenge. Far
better if the king had packed her of f in the night instead. Siddhartha gazed down at the village, which looked normal from a
distance, a single dirt street winding between low bamboo huts, the only
oddity being the parched wastelands and untended fields on the outskirts. Why ar en’t the farmers tending their cr ops? “Come on. Y ou can’ t really see much from here,” said Channa. He led
the way down a narrow rutted trail. W eeds grew up to the horses’ stomachs.Channa pointed them out. “Nobody comes this way . They probably haven’ t
seen visitors for half a year .”
“Why not?” There was no plague in the area, and the lushness of the
under growth meant there had been no recent drought. “Because this is ‘the for gotten city .’ That’ s what everyone calls it. I like
‘the king’ s city’ better . Don’ t ask me any more,” said Channa. In half a mile the trail leveled of f, and soon they were riding past the
first few huts on the village fringe. Their roofs were rain-stained gray , the
wood jambs falling down around the sagging doors. No one seemed to live
inside, or else they were used to hiding from strangers. The next clump of
huts was just as dilapidated. Siddhartha caught a glimpse of faces at the
window that withdrew as soon as he spied them. “Here,” said Channa. He dismounted in front of a hut more ruined than
the rest, its door stolen and the carved ornaments of gods and demons
stripped from the eaves. “This was hers, the mother ’s.”
Sujata couldn’ t be her e, living like this,  Siddhartha thought. But he got
down and followed Channa into the bleak shell of a house. The evidence of
vermin and gaping holes in the floor told him that no one had entered in
months. A torn scrap of red silk over the back window and a cracked teapot
beside the charcoal hole used for cooking were the only signs that a woman
could have made a home there. “Let’ s go back. I’ll demand that my father tell me where she is,”
Siddhartha said, his heart sinking. He sensed a truth he couldn’ t face. When they stepped outside, things had changed. People had emer ged
from nowhere, like rabbits from their warrens. A clutch of men surrounded
the horses. “Stop! Hey , stop!” Channa shouted. A few of them were trying to
uncinch the saddles. Channa was armed and they weren’ t, but when he drew
his sword, Siddhartha held his arm back.“Who are they?” he asked grimly . The people, perhaps a dozen in all, were starving and dressed in rags
that hung from their bones. All had gray hair , sometimes only a scrap left
over their exposed skulls. “They’re the for gotten,” said Channa. “W e’ve come to their city .”
“And my father sent them here?”
Channa nodded. The decrepit old men who tried to steal their saddles
had fallen to the ground, prostrating themselves. The women came forward
and mutely held their cupped hands out for food. “Give them what we
have,” said Siddhartha. There were bits of provisions in the saddlebags. He
looked away when Channa produced bread and meat to hand out; he
couldn’ t face the sight of beggars clawing for scraps. The scuf fle drew more attention, and now Siddhartha could see others
approaching from the main part of the village. “Let’ s go,” ur ged Channa. “Why? They’re not dangerous.” This went without saying since the
newcomers were as old as the first ones they’d met. Channa was restless nonetheless. “I could knock them all down with
one swipe of my sword,” he said. “But it’ s still not safe.”
“Why not? What’ s wrong with them?”
Channa didn’ t know how much Siddhartha was oblivious of, so he
spoke as if to a small child. “These people were at court when you were
born, and even then they were too old to be kept around. Those over there,
walking with crutches, they’re lame. They’ve been sick, but nobody treated
them. The ones who are coughing with their mouths covered over with
cloth, don’ t touch them. They’re sick; they carry disease, and we could get
it too. I’m still young and healthy , thank you.”
“We’ll become like them?” asked Siddhartha, genuinely puzzled. “Someday .”“All of us?”
“All of us,” said Channa. Ignoring what Siddhartha would think, he
kicked at a barefoot old woman who had crawled on the ground to touch his
sandals. Siddhartha was muttering words to himself that were never spoken
around him. Old. Lame. Sick. Diseased. How could he ever have imagined
that he had suf fered? Not compared to this. “How do they stand it?” he murmured. Now the gathering crowd’ s
mood had changed. Their hollow faces darkened, and there was angry
muttering. “They realize we’ve come from the court,” said Channa. He and
Siddhartha were dressed in plain white cotton, but the mounts’ trappings
were stamped with the royal insignia. “Get on your horse. W e’re going.”
Siddhartha climbed up again, but instead of turning Kanthaka toward
home, he kept riding into the for gotten city . The streets were lined with
haggard ghosts, and eyes bulging from hunger stared at him. Siddhartha
prayed that his aunties hadn’ t been banished here when they had
disappeared from court. There was one building better repaired than the others, and no one stood
in front of it. For some reason Siddhartha stopped, his attention drawn to its
covered windows and a Shiva statue at the door decorated with wilting
wildflowers. “I want to go inside,” he said. “No, you don’ t,” Channa said. The smell coming from the building was unmistakable. Siddhartha had
come across that smell in the woods where a rotting deer carcass lay . He
dismounted and pushed the door open. He stepped into a dim, moist, fetid
room. In the watery beams of light coming through the shutters Siddhartha
could see someone sleeping on a table, naked except for a light sheet across
the torso. No, not sleeping but lying motionless. The man’ s face was gray-white, eyes closed, and his slack, sagging mouth made him look both angry
and sad. “What is this place?” Siddhartha asked. He could guess well enough,
but talking helped him avoid getting sick. “The house of the dead. Don’ t get close. They’re not blessed.”
As his eyes adjusted to the light, Siddhartha saw that there were other
corpses on the floor , laid side by side and covered with burlap; the worst
smell came from them. The man on the table must be newly dead. Siddhartha wasn’ t aware that he had moved closer . He reached out and
touched the corpse, eerily certain that the old man would wake with a start. The coldness of the flesh surprised him; it felt colder than the air in the
room. Despite the fact that the man was dead, Siddhartha wanted to
apologize. He hadn’ t asked permission to touch him, and they were
strangers. “Is this all for them?” he asked. “Do the dead live in their house?”
“No, they’ll rot if they stay here. Bodies are burned,” explained Channa. Siddhartha winced. “So one day you might burn me,” he murmured. Channa had lingered by the door , and his reaction to Siddhartha’ s curiosity
was a growing impatience. “What’ s wrong with that? I’m glad if they burn me. My ashes will go
into the river . When there’ s nothing left for demons to grab on to, I’ll go to
heaven. Y ou’ll have to break my skull with an ax to let my spirit out first.”
If Channa intended to shock Siddhartha, it didn’ t work. Bemused,
Siddhartha muttered, “Is that how it’ s done? Then why are they still here? Don’ t they have axes?”
Channa shrugged. “There’ s no wood and nobody strong enough to cut
some. They probably wait for wandering monks to come through.”Channa’ s impatience wouldn’ t allow them to stay any longer . Siddhartha took the hand of the corpse, which had fallen limply to its side,
and replaced it across the man’ s chest. When he came out of the house of
the dead, the crowd outside looked angrier than before. “Prince?” someone called out. “Are you the king’ s son? Do you like
what you’ve done to us?” He hadn’ t counted on being recognized. A sense
of shame kept him from speaking. I will try to help you, I pr omise,  he thought. Muttered threats surrounded
Siddhartha as he walked up to Kanthaka. An old woman spat on the ground
while an unseen voice said, “Better your mother had died sooner , you hear
me? Why were you ever born?”
“Stop it!” One of the old men stepped forward, raising his hands and
shushing the others. His starved body was wrapped in dirty hemp cloth, but
underneath Siddhartha glimpsed saf fron rags, the color of Canki’ s robes. “The gods, not this noble youth, have brought such misfortune on us. We should give him money to take back and make of ferings for us.” Scorn
greeted the old priest’ s suggestion; he wriggled his way through the crowd. “Blessings, blessings,” he muttered as he edged closer to Siddhartha. The old priest smelled almost as bad as the corpses. He smiled
toothlessly , and Siddhartha was ashamed of himself for drawing back. “Bend close, young prince, and let me whisper a special blessing in your
ear.”
Siddhartha forced himself to lean over , closing his eyes against the old
man’ s fetid breath. “I accept your blessing,” he said politely . “And I curse you to hell unless you take me back with you.” The
vehemence in the old priest’ s voice was like cobra venom. Siddhartha
jerked back. W ithout a word he jumped into the saddle. He felt the priest’ s
tight, bony grip on his ankle, but he kicked free and galloped of f. Behind
him the population of the for gotten city jeered and catcalled. Others cried
out piteously , and when he could no longer hear any of them, Siddhartha
stopped. Kanthaka’ s sides were heaving; so were Siddhartha’ s. He leanedover and whispered, “For give me,” into Kanthaka’ s ear, even though he
hadn’ t driven him that hard. Channa caught up where the road was starting to slope back upward and
become a mountain trail again. Siddhartha waited for him. “How often have
you come here?” he asked. “Once or twice. But you’re not coming back. What’ s here for you? Y our
father won’ t let you save them, and by the time you’re king they’ll all be
dead. Face facts. One strong wind this winter is all it would take.”
Siddhartha hated these words but didn’ t argue. The sun was still
mercilessly hot, and they had given their goatskins of water to the old ones. Channa’ s right. It should be called the king’ s city . His conscience
searched for what to do. Should he go back and farm the fields himself with
a few slaves from the palace, against his father ’s wishes? W ould it do the
slightest good to send them to the for gotten city? Underneath all this was
Sujata, who haunted him now more than at the moment he had learned she
was gone. For a fleeting instant he could see her on a table in the house of
the dead. It was at that painful moment that Siddhartha caught a glimpse of
someone. A naked hermit was hidden in the thick underbrush, crouching on
his heels. His sun-brown skin made him nearly invisible against the ground
except for his beard, which was nearly white. If Siddhartha hadn’ t happened
to turn for a last glimpse behind, he would have missed him. “Asita!” Siddhartha called out, jumping down from his horse. The
sudden motion must have frightened the hermit, who scurried away into the
thicket out of sight. “W ait, don’ t you know me?” Siddhartha was baf fled but
plunged into the underbrush, heedless of thorns and snakes. The hermit was
escaping as noiselessly as a deer . Siddhartha stopped, straining his ears to
catch any telltale sound. Channa came up behind him. “What’ s wrong?”
“You didn’ t see him? It was Asita.”“If it was, he’ s a million years old. I thought I saw an old man, that’ s all. Probably following us from the village,” said Channa. But they both knew an old man couldn’ t keep up with horses. Siddhartha was too excited to stop and convince Channa. “Asita!” he called. Siddhartha set a direction upslope and followed it, telling Channa to
wait below . There was no trail to follow anymore, and after a moment he
was immersed in deepest jungle. Scarlet parrots scolded him from
overhead; a lone monkey scouring the ground for fallen fruit was startled
and leaped up a tree with a scream. Siddhartha pressed on with more
energy, even though he knew he was running aimlessly , fueled by what he
wanted to find rather than what he would. Then, just when it was
undeniable that the jungle had swallowed up all traces of the hermit, he
stumbled on something. Hidden in the dense growth was a small clearing, so shaded by trees that
it felt like a green cave. Panting, Siddhartha stopped and looked around. Someone definitely lived here. From a fire circle, wisps of smoke arose. A
bamboo lean-to nestled in one corner with moss spread for a bed. His eye
was caught by a pile of rocks made into a shrine. On top was the only sign
that anyone but a primitive called the place home: a small picture of Shiva
painted in jewel tones, like the forlorn one he’d seen at the house of the
dead. But this god was well tended, with fresh pink wood orchids at the base. Shiva was sitting in lotus position, a tiger skin wrapped around his
shoulders. His eyes were closed; a mysterious smile played across his face. Gazing at him, Siddhartha felt exhausted. He had no idea where he was and
no longing for anywhere else. Perhaps the faint memory of a rose-apple tree
when he was a boy came to mind. He felt his legs give way , and he sat on
the ground facing Shiva. He folded his legs in the same position as the
god’s and closed his eyes. The green cave was cool and soothing. Siddhartha felt that he belonged
here, but there was little time for thinking. A kind of seductive silence
wanted to pull him in. It softly surrounded him, and he gave in to the
embrace. He could feel his breath moving in and out of his chest, growingfainter and fainter . A fly landed on his arm, and it was as if he could feel
every step of its feet before it flew away again. Nothing changed for a time—how long, he couldn’ t judge—and then
Siddhartha’ s eyes opened. Before him squatted the old hermit on his heels. It wasn’ t Asita, but the two were made from the same mold. The hermit had
deep brown eyes whose calm belied his weathered skin. Neither of them
moved. Then the hermit raised a finger to his lips, and Siddhartha nodded
imperceptibly , letting his eyelids close again, sinking back down into the
silence. Now he clearly saw the image of a boy sitting under a rose-apple
tree while the anxious world swirled around him. How had he for gotten
Asita’ s advice back then, that there would always be a place for him to go
when he was in trouble? With a deep sigh of relief, Siddhartha knew he was back. He hadn’ t
remembered the silence, but it had remembered him. And waited. It would
be so easy to sit forever . A gentle current flowed through his body , and
when a thought chanced to arise, it escaped like a dandelion puf f blown
away in the breeze. Before time and space disappeared like thieves in the night, he had a
fleeting perception. Something he couldn’ t identify—a cloud of golden
flecks? a ghost wearing a smile? a god?—was hovering a few inches over
his head, just where the current had escaped. The cloud or god shimmered
for a second. Siddhartha had the distinct feeling that it was watching him. Then without any warning it began to descend. OceanofPDF .comPART TWO
GAUTAMA THE MONK
OceanofPDF .com1 1
The skies had given plenty of warning all day . Clouds with sagging gray
bellies almost touched the treetops. Night fell quickly , before shelter could
be found. The young monk was curled up under a sal tree in the forest when
the rain hit, not with a few warm droplets but all at once, as if mischievous
monkeys in the trees had overturned a bucket on his head. The monk awoke
with a sputter . He squatted in the mud, shivering, soaked to the bone. Being
Prince Siddhartha had filled up twenty-nine years; being a penniless monk
had filled up barely a month. He noticed something nearby . A small clutch of men had built a
campfire whose flicker peeked through gaps in the jungle. The monk crept
near and saw that they had found protection in the mouth of a cave. It was
dangerous to intrude on them. They might be dacoits,  bandits who had no
scruples about killing a holy man simply for his sandals. Also, asking for
help wasn’ t part of the rules. If a wandering monk appeared at their back
door, householders were obligated to bring food out to him and of fer shelter
for the night; sacred duty demanded as much. But the beggar at the door
had to remain silent. Only his presence could speak for him, no matter how
hungry he might be, even starving. Sitting in meditation while your nose filled with the smells of rice and
lamb cooking over a fire was pure agony . A warrior ’s discipline, by
comparison, was child’ s play . The young monk always lost focus: he
salivated; his stomach growled. But this particular night he didn’ t have to
beg. One of the men sitting around the campfire noticed him and took pity . Siddhartha was startled to see him carrying an ax as he approached, but
then he realized the men were woodcutters.“Namaste, ” he murmured, bowing his head. The woodcutter , a
lumbering, thickset man, made no reply . Namaste  was the simplest form of
hello, but from a monk it was also a blessing: I greet what is holy in you. Siddhartha noticed that without thinking, he had put a harmless tone in his
voice. So in a single word he had said, “Hello, I bow to your sacredness. Please don’ t hurt me.”
“What are you hanging around for?” the man said gruf fly. “I saw your fire,” said Siddhartha. “I should have headed for a village,
but it got dark too soon.”
“Someone like you isn’ t going to get very far .” The man was scowling
now. “What’ s your name?”
“Gautama.” Siddhartha held his breath. He had taken on his family
name, which was known everywhere. But for centuries it had also been a
clan name, and many common people carried it. “Well, you didn’ t get any food today , Gautama, that’ s clear enough.”
The young monk had practiced saying the name in his head— Gautama,
Gautama —but this was the first time another person had used it. Losing his
old name was the start of losing his old self. He felt forlorn and victorious
at the same time. “You’d be better of f with an honest living that doesn’ t depend on
another man’ s sweat,” the woodcutter said. Gautama hung his head. If this was a taunt, it was better not to look him
in the eye. Exhausted or not, Gautama still knew how to defend himself like
a warrior . (When suspicious characters would stare at him and wait by the
road while he passed, his hand had reflexively reached for his sword hilt
before he remembered that it wasn’ t there.) He forced himself to have
humble thoughts. You’re a holy man. Let God pr otect you. Now the stranger was holding out something. “T ake it. Y ou can’ t expect
any food without a bowl, can you?” He pushed forward a smooth hollowgourd, split in half and filled with steamed rice and potatoes. “I’d ask you to
the fire, but some of the others—” He nodded in the direction of the group
huddling in the mouth of the cave. None had turned their heads to look at
the stranger crouching in the mud. “They’ve had bad run-ins with monks.”
Gautama nodded. In the month he had been wandering, he’d heard tales
of criminals and madmen who assumed the disguise of monks so they could
roam the countryside undisturbed. “A blessing on you, brother .” Gautama said this with complete sincerity ,
and he continued looking into his benefactor ’s eyes rather than diving into
the food. He knew that his accent gave away that he was high-caste. He
touched the man’ s arm in gratitude, and the woodcutter was startled. Sometimes, very rarely , a high-caste warrior or noble might take up the life
of a wandering monk, but they never touched anyone of low caste, even as
beggars. “And a blessing on you,” the man said. He got up and walked back to
the fire. As a sannyasi,  one who has completely renounced the world, Gautama
was allowed no possessions other than his saf fron robes, a walking stick, a
string of prayer beads around his neck, and a begging bowl. A monk ate out
of his bowl, and when he was done, he washed it in the river and wore it as
a hat to keep of f the sun and rain. The bowl was what he drank from, and
while he was bathing in the river he rinsed himself with it. Gautama turned
the gourd around, admiring its simplicity . Once he had eaten the food the woodcutter gave him, Gautama got to
his feet, trying not to groan from the cracked blisters on his soles. He took a
last, longing look at the fire—the men were drinking and laughing loudly
now—and began slip-sliding through the mud toward the road. Y ou
couldn’ t sleep too near the roads because of bandits. As he walked, he
wrapped his arms around his thin frame for warmth and tried to find
resignation. It’s just rain. This is nothing important. I accept it. I’m at
peace. But resignation was empty peace, with no real satisfaction. What
else could he try? Reverence.Holy gods, pr otect your servant in time of need. Repeating a prayer felt better , but his mind wasn’ t fooled by reverence,
either . It injected an ironic aside: If the gods wanted to pr otect you, why did
they leave you out in the rain? Gautama was astonished at how many ways
his mind could plague him. It blamed him for everything—for his blistered
feet, for getting lost in the forest, for making a bed from tree boughs that
turned out to be full of lice. Hadn’ t Prince Siddhartha’ s mind been calmer
before he left home? Sick of ar guing with himself, Gautama began to count
his steps. One, two, thr ee. It was a feeble trick to keep his doubts from attacking him. But he had
too many memories, the kind that he couldn’ t escape on the longest road. Four , five, six . The worst memory was of leaving his wife, Y ashodhara. She had
refused to watch Siddhartha ride beyond the gates. “Go at night. Don’ t tell
me when. It would be like having my heart broken twice,” she said. Her
face was careworn with the tears she had shed. The two had been married
almost ten years. It was such a love match that they had never spent a single
night apart. Yashodhara kept silent the first few days after he made his intention
known, but they shared a bed, and one night she found her voice, softly ,
next to his ear . “Isn’ t love enough, being here with me?”
Siddhartha wrapped his arm around her . He knew this question cost her
an ef fort. If he said no, she wasn’ t enough, Y ashodhara would feel like a
widow when he left. If he said yes, he had no ar gument for leaving. After a
moment he said, “Y ou are enough for this life.”
“Are you looking ahead to the next one?” she asked. “No, not that. This life is only part of who I am. I need to know
everything, and I can’ t by staying here.” His expression was deeply serious,although she couldn’ t see his face in the dark. “How can I know if I have a
soul? Ever since I was a boy I’ve assumed I did because everyone says so. How can I know if the gods are real? Or that I came from them?”
“Knowing everything is impossible,” she said. Siddhartha sighed and
held her closer . “It won’ t be forever ,” he promised. Y ashodhara tried to
believe him despite her experience. Everybody knew of husbands who ran
off into the forest and never came back. Becoming a sannyasi was a holy
act, but respectable men left it for old age. Many men waited until they were seventy , especially if they had money ,
and the richest built lavish summerhouses that were a mockery of spiritual
retreat. But all kinds of ne’er -do-wells ran away early . It was something you
did if life got too hard or you had too many mouths to feed. Yashodhara realized that some monks had a genuine calling. One day ,
despite her sorrow , she told her husband, “I know you have to go. I’m your
wife. I feel what you feel.” But scandal burned her cheeks anyway; a prince
of the blood deserting his kingdom was worse, infinitely worse, than some
farmer deserting his barren rice fields. Seven, eight, nine. Gautama’ s mind wasn’ t falling for the feeble trick. You nearly killed her ,
it said with bitter accusation. Ten, eleven, twelve. People can die of grief. How would you feel then? Gautama winced, remembering how much Y ashodhara had suf fered as
his departure neared. Every night made her dread that she would wake up
alone in the morning. There was nothing she could do for him, not even to
pack little things for his new life. On the other side of the palace gates a
beggar ’s existence awaited. Suddhodana, now enfeebled with arthritis, had
mustered up a brief, reproachful rage, as in the old days. “Y ou can’ t give me
one good reason,” he shouted. But the lit fuse sputtered out, and after that
his father ignored the whole subject.When it was finally time, the prince performed two farewell rituals. He
went into his wife’ s chamber and kissed her while she slept, a bar of soft
moonlight across her lips. This was a familiar ritual from the days when he
had first begun to ride out before dawn in order to reach poor , faraway
villages. The for gotten city had shriveled to nothing, its last feeble cast-of fs
taken under the prince’ s personal care. He had knelt by the bedside of those
who had cursed him the first day he rode into the village. There was one, a withered scarecrow of a woman named Gutta who was
as old as Kumbira, a former ladies’ maid overjoyed to come back to the
palace. She knew she was there to die. Siddhartha sometimes imagined that
Gutta might have been an auntie to him long ago. During her last days he
sat vigil, and one night he trusted her enough to ask, “Does it hurt to die?”
She shook her head. “Not as much as you’re hurting.”
“Why am I hurting?”
“How should I know?” The withered old maid had always been crabby ,
he knew , and dying hadn’ t sweetened her temper . After a moment she said,
“I’m luckier than you. I’m throwing of f my burden, but you keep adding
more to yours.”
“Is that what you see?” He had heard that the dying told the truth and
even had prophetic powers. She snorted. “Everybody does. Just look at you. Y ou’re kind, but you
think it’ s not enough. Y ou give to the poor and sick, but you don’ t feel
happy from it.” Her voice grew softer . “You mourn a dead girl there was no
hope of finding.”
The prince had looked away , feeling a pang from every word. His
mission of mercy began while he was searching for Sujata. It became his
custom to lead a pack mule loaded with food, crop seeds, and clothing
behind his magnificent white stallion, and the three became a familiar sight
in the countryside. For the sake of safety , an armed guard rode behind, but
he had made sure that the men kept far back, out of sight.“What does it say if I ride into a village with soldiers?” he asked his
father . “It says nobody better lay a hand on you,” replied the old king, who
wanted to send half the garrison with him. But his son couldn’ t stand the idea of showing people mercy with one
hand and a sword with the other . Soon his kindness was the thing that kept
him safe. The local thieves and bandits belonged to their own caste of
dacoits. Many of them benefited from the food he took to the starving
villages, since dacoit families and dacoit relatives lived in them. The
younger , headstrong thieves ar gued that they still had a right to loot any
gold a traveler might be carrying, but the elders knew he carried none. “His type can’ t stop himself. If he lays eyes on one colicky baby , he’ll
throw all his money on the bed if he has any ,” they said, quieting the
hotheads. Siddhartha’ s second ritual of farewell had been to kiss his baby son. The
boy was four , old enough to have his own room. The prince had taken a
candle and tiptoed in. Rahula slept, not curled up in a ball like most
children, but facedown with his limbs spread-eagled, as if he was prepared
to take flight. He lay like that now , and his father looked at him a long time,
then turned away without kissing him. Resolved as he was, regret would
have its way . If he wakes up and sees me, I’ll never go. That night of departure Channa drove a chariot to protect Siddhartha,
but instead of standing behind him the way he would in battle, the prince
rode Kanthaka, who was old but still strong. When the gates of Kapilavastu closed behind them and they hit the main
dirt road, Kanthaka’ s hoofbeats became a dull thud, like muf fled drums at a
funeral. They moved slowly toward the river . Channa’ s back was rigid with
anger; he refused to break his sullen silence. By sunrise the prince was
bathing in the green, slow-flowing river . He stepped out and wrapped a
saffron skirt around his waist.“What do I do with those?” asked Channa. He pointed at the
embroidered robe and silk shirt hanging from a tree limb. There was no
need to give him instructions—royal finery was burned after it was
discarded. Channa just wanted an excuse to pick a quarrel. “It’s a waste to burn them if you’re really coming back,” he said. “Or
did you just tell her that?”
Siddhartha ignored the jibe. “Do what you want. They belong to
someone who isn’ t me anymore.” He took out a short-bladed razor and
began to cut his long hair as close to the scalp as he could. “Isn’ t you anymore?” Channa shook his head with disbelief. He had no
idea why Siddhartha had gone crazy , only that he had. Siddhartha continued quietly cutting his hair . He hadn’ t reckoned on
how much sorrow he would create around him by deciding to leave. His
father fumed and screamed at the servants. Channa whipped the chariot
horses too hard. Smiling court ladies acted vaguely as if they’d been jilted. What they really felt, deep inside, was that he had died. Siddhartha held out the razor to him. “Do you mind?” he said. Channa
looked startled. “Y ou’ve done so much for me, friend. This is the last thing
I’ll ask.” Siddhartha pointed at the back of his head, where he had made a
mess of cutting his hair . Channa reluctantly took the blade. He squatted
beside Siddhartha on his heels and began to cut. He was expert at it. This
was something that women didn’ t do. Barbering was left to men, and on the
battlefield soldiers would trim of f hair that was too long to fit under a
helmet. At first he was rough, and Siddhartha, saying nothing, gave him a
questioning look. “Sorry ,” Channa mumbled. After a moment he began to
settle down. The intimate act distracted him from his grief. Channa knew , as
everyone at court did, that only he was allowed to touch the prince—
tapping his shoulder to make a point in ar gument, brushing dirt of f his
hunting jacket, embracing him when Siddhartha rode of f to the villages—
but no one openly spoke about this breach of caste rules.“That’ s enough.” Siddhartha took the razor from Channa’ s hands.
Buddha_by_Deepak_Chopra.txt
Summarize the following text section accurately and concisely. Maintain specific details and numerical information, and use anti-repetition mechanisms:

        They fired, and Siddhartha was fortunate. The arrows
flew over his body with a swish of air, missing him. He wheeled around, and regaining his self-possession, he fired rapidly,
first at the back of one horseman, then at the other. His timing was perfect. They were still struggling to turn their mounts around when his arrows hit
them, and both men fell. Siddhartha had fired so rapidly that they seemed to
go down simultaneously. The crowd roared. For the first time in his life
Siddhartha felt exulted by battle; he rose in his stirrups and acknowledged
the accolades. This was something, the first thing, he had earned for
himself. But despite his triumph, Mara’ s laughter rang in his ears. Siddhartha
was disoriented, and he scanned the tournament field. Only one of the
archers had gotten to his feet. The other lay on the ground writhing in
agony. Siddhartha jumped down and ran over to him. He saw with horror
that the man had been hit in the throat, the arrow’ s point coming out the
back of his neck. Arms lifted the wounded man to a sitting position, hands tried to
dislodge the arrow. He groaned and almost passed out. Siddhartha’ s head
swam in the confusion. He was dimly aware that someone broke of f the
arrow’ s tip so that the shaft could be pulled through the man’ s neck, but thiscaused a tremendous gush of blood, which shot so far that it hit Siddhartha
in the chest. “Do something,” he pleaded, aware in the midst of everything that his
voice sounded high and panicky, more a boy’ s voice than a man’ s. He
looked up to see that the king had arrived. The soldiers parted for him. His
father barked for someone to fetch a physician, but by that time the
wounded man had lost consciousness, his head limply tilted to one side like
a broken doll’ s. From the fountain of blood still erupting, but with weaker
and weaker force, it was obvious he was lost. Suddhodana pulled out a silk
kerchief and pressed it to the man’ s wound. “Did you know him. ” asked Siddhartha, although he had no idea why
that would matter. His father grimly shook his head. The presence of death
quieted the bystanders, until a new voice broke the silence. “Amazing. Someone was actually hurt. Fire the stagemaster. ”
Devadatta pushed his way through the packed bodies sur rounding the
corpse. He stared at it coldly. “It’s his own fault for missing his cue, isn’ t
it. ” He turned to Siddhartha, whose whole body was shaking. “Y ou
couldn’ t have fought for real, I can see that. ”
The bystanders were shocked, waiting for the king to explode with rage,
but Suddhodana kept silent. His guilt told him that Devadatta was right—
nobody was meant to get hurt when the prince was involved. He gazed at
his son, and Siddhartha instantly read the truth. Siddhartha willed himself to stop shaking and got to his feet. He drew
his sword, glaring at Devadatta. “Y ou said you wanted to fight me today. I
accept your challenge. ”
“No. ”
For a moment it sounded as if his father had shouted, but Channa
stepped through the crowd. “No, I’ll fight the bastard. It’ s about time. ”
Channa took two strides, raising his fist to take a swing at Devadatta. But inhis wildness he lost his balance, and the blow only grazed Devadatta’ s
cheek. Devadatta spit on his palm and wiped his cheek with a look of disgust,
as if it were covered with excrement. “I beg my rights, Y our Highness. ” Devadatta dropped to one knee in
front of Suddhodana. “This low-caste scum touched me. Y ou all saw it. I
beg my rights. ” The crowd stirred and became uneasy as the king remained
immobile and silent for several seconds. “The king acknowledges Devadatta’ s rights. ” Suddhodana finally spoke
but not with his usual force. “He can decide the fate of any low-caste who
has defiled him. ”
Devadatta smiled. “Death,” he said. Suddhodana scowled. “Think carefully. It was just a touch, young
prince. Let me remind you, this is a cause for justice. ”
“I’m only looking for justice. This scum intended to catch me of f guard,
knock me over, and then stab me. See, his weapon. ”
By now two guards had grabbed Channa and wrestled the dagger from
him. Pushed to his knees, Channa shouted, “If that’ s what I was going to do,
let me finish it. ”
Devadatta shrugged and held his open hands out to the king. “My case
is proved. Let me have my rights, as you promised. ”
“No, let me have mine. ”
Without warning Siddhartha was kneeling at the king’ s feet beside his
cousin, his voice on the edge of rage. “I have the right to fight in place of
my brother, and Channa is my brother in everything but name. Everyone
knows it, so why pretend. If any man of caste dares to defame Channa, I
will fight that man, whoever he is. ”This was the moment that Canki shouldn’ t have missed by leaving
early. As high Brahmin, he had full authority, over even a king, to decide
disputes of caste. These were many and complicated. Scriptures held, for
example, that if the shadow of an untouchable fell across the path of a
Brahmin, unclean contact had taken place and the Brahmin must return
home to bathe. Food touched by someone of low caste could not be eaten
by someone of high caste. This was clear enough, but what if the high-caste
person was dying and the food was needed to save his life. Canki held
court over these bewildering issues. But he had left the scene. “Get up, both of you,” Suddhodana ordered. W ith disgust he knew that
Devadatta had more right on his side than the prince. Often in the heat of
battle a low-caste’ s weapon had accidentally nicked a high-caste comrade’ s,
drawing barely a few drops of blood. But this was enough to condemn the
offender to death if the high-caste soldier demanded it. Channa clearly
intended to draw blood; the waters weren’ t muddied until Siddhartha
foolishly intruded. Suddhodana now had no choice. “The two princes both have right on their side,” he announced. “I will
betray justice if I decide against either of them, so let Nature be the judge. The two princes will fight. ”
No one expected this judgment, but the first to recover from the general
consternation was Devadatta, who gave a wolfish grin. Between arrogance
and despair at his situation, he knew he had no future, not one befitting his
worth. His fatalistic streak would be satisfied if he managed to kill this
despised cousin who had led to his own imprisonment, or else got killed
trying. “Sword and dagger,” he said. Siddhartha nodded grimly. Already free of helmet and chest plate, he
began to strip of f the rest of his armor for better mobility. But more than
that, he wanted the fight to be decisive. The truth was that each of them—
Siddhartha, his father, and Devadatta—was trapped by the others. Astonishingly, all three had come to this realization at the same exact
moment, a moment from which there was no turning back. OceanofPDF. com9
The sky was divided between sun and clouds as the fighters circled each
other. They had stripped down to cotton pants, their chest and feet bare. Siddhartha kept his eyes fixed on Devadatta’ s, because as tempting as it was
to watch his opponent’ s hands, he knew that Devadatta’ s glance would give
away his intentions. Siddhartha felt he was moving in a dream. A part of his mind floated
high above, looking down in wonder that a fight to the death ensued. But
Siddhartha’ s instincts for survival were strong. He shook himself and made
the opening lunge, his sword hand ahead of his dagger so that by warding
off the first blade, Devadatta might open himself to the second one. Devadatta was agile and ready—he jumped to the side with a shouted “Ha. ”
and slashed with his own sword. Siddhartha went by too fast and wasn’ t hit. Devadatta began a relentless round of parry and thrust, making
Siddhartha counter blow after blow with his sword. Each time metal
clanged on metal, a shock wave went up his arm. Siddhartha’ s muscles
ached, and he knew that Devadatta had an advantage over him. This was his
cousin’ s first combat of the day, while Siddhartha had been fighting for
hours. He had to win quickly or his ener gy would fail. Knowing that
Devadatta was following his eyes as well, he made a feint, glancing right,
taking a half step in that direction. When Devadatta’ s dagger followed him,
the move opened up his body, and Siddhartha stuck his sword into the
exposed midrif f. It was incredible luck. If the blow had struck home, it
would have been fatal. But in the instant before the blade entered Devadatta’ s body, Siddhartha
heard his heartbeat thud in his ears with long stretches in between the
strokes. He felt the breeze blow the hairs on his forearm slowly, delicately,
back and forth, and each blink of an eye was like a door closing, leading to
blackness, before it opened again and the world reappeared. He felt very dif ferent from before—calm, free of anger. Out of the
corner of his eye he could see that the mood of the king had shifted. Suddhodana was returning to reason, and as he did, the thought of loss of
his only son was intolerable. Suddhodana was within half a breath of
stopping the fight. He had yet to register that Siddhartha was about to win. The last thing Siddhartha’ s eye caught was his sword inching closer to its
perfect tar get. Suddhodana shouted, “Stand back, a fighter is down. ” He wanted to run
forward and embrace his son. The prince stood over Devadatta’ s fallen
body, panting hard. “Get up,” he said. Devadatta was shaking his head. Instead of delivering
a fatal wound, Siddhartha’ s sword tip had been deflected, slicing the skin
over his heart. He spat out the dust he’d swallowed going down, aiming
deliberately at Siddhartha’ s feet. Siddhartha’ s eyes fixed on the slimy spot it
made. He held out his hand to Devadatta. “Y ou win, if it pleases you. ”
Devadatta refused the hand with contempt. “It’ s not going to be that
easy, boy,” he hissed. Siddhartha ignored the jibe and turned around. “I quit this fight,” he said in a loud voice, keeping his eyes away from
the king’ s. “I can’ t prevail over a better man. Give the honor to my cousin. ”
Suddhodana shook his head. “Y ou have prevailed. The contest is over,”
he shouted, but few heard him. Screams rent the air be cause, at the moment
when Siddhartha turned away from him, Devadatta lifted his dagger and
raked its rippled blade across the small of his opponent’ s back. Siddhartha
staggered. Devadatta brought back his arm to strike straight up into his
enemy’ s stomach as he doubled over. Siddhartha never gave him the chance. He reached out and grabbed
Devadatta’ s hair with one hand while batting the threatening dagger away
with the other. The gash it made across his palm was insignificant; rage
canceled out the pain. He banged Devadatta’ s skull into the packed dirt. The
first time was enough to make his opponent half senseless, but Siddhartha
repeated the action twice more. Devadatta’ s eyes betrayed panic when he
realized that he was alone and defenseless. The second time his head
smashed against the ground, his eyes glazed over; the third smash, and they
rolled up into his head. Siddhartha paid no attention. He lifted Devadatta’ s limp body of f the
ground in a wrestler ’s hold around the chest, squeezing the breath out of
him. It was remarkably easy to do, as if he were shaking a rag doll. Siddhartha locked his arms into a vice and leaned back, his face to the sky. Inside a voice said, “ This is freedom. This is what the gods feel like when
they mete out death. ” Siddhartha believed the voice and waited for the
moment when he would let Devadatta’ s body fall. As his face turned up to the sky, which was still divided between sun
and clouds, his arms felt Devadatta’ s body grow more and more still. Surrender, and be fr ee. For the first time since he could remember, a voice came to him from
another place. Siddhartha’ s grip weakened just a fraction.
He shot at the back of one horseman and then at the other, hitting both of them.
Who did Siddhartha shoot with his arrow?
"I know who you want!" (referring to the fact that he would never be able to leave the village)
What did Devadatta say when he realized he was trapped?
He decided that the two princes would fight, as he could not decide against either of them.
What did the king decide about the fight between Siddhartha and Devadatta?
He saw his mother, his father, and Sujata, all of whom were smiling and peaceful.
Who did Siddhartha see in his vision after jumping into the abyss?
He got down and ran over to the wounded man, who was hit in the throat, and tried to help him.
What did Siddhartha do after he discovered the bodies in the "house of the dead"?