Buddha: A Story of Enlightenment

10

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. Wait 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 offended 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 indifference to Sujata, Siddhartha ran to Channa. “We 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 different 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. “You’re staying here.” He saw Siddhartha flush a deep scarlet. “Go ahead, blame me,” said Channa. “You 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 without anybody 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 overgrown 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. “You hate him, don’t you?”

“You really want to know?” Without 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 the end 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 indifferent now. He’d taken the weight off 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 off 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 aren’t the farmers tending their crops?

“Come on. You can’t really see much from here,” said Channa. He led the way down a narrow rutted trail. Weeds 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 undergrowth meant there had been no recent drought.

“Because this is ‘the forgotten 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 off, 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 here, 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 emerged 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 forgotten,” said Channa. “We’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 scuffle drew more attention, and now Siddhartha could see others approaching from the main part of the village. “Let’s go,” urged 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 suffered? 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. We’re going.”

Siddhartha climbed up again, but instead of turning Kanthaka toward home, he kept riding into the forgotten 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. You’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 promise, 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 saffron 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 offerings 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. Without a word he jumped into the saddle. He felt the priest’s tight, bony grip on his ankle, but he kicked free and galloped off. Behind him the population of the forgotten 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 leaned over and whispered, “Forgive 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? Your 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? Would it do the slightest good to send them to the forgotten 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. “Wait, don’t you know me?” Siddhartha was baffled 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, growing fainter 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 forgotten 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 puff 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.