Buddha: A Story of Enlightenment

17

The sun rose, and Gautama found himself sitting on the soft, springy ground under the pipal tree. He got to his feet and tried walking. It was a strange experience-as he passed through the forest, the forest seemed to pass through him. Its breath mingled with his; its trees and vines extended from his body. He could feel the wind blowing through the swaying canopy overhead.

Gautama knew that everything had changed permanently. From now on, living in the physical world would be like dreaming. He could make things appear and disappear as easily as a dreamer does. A castle made of gold or a circle of angels around his head, stars exploding into bursts of white light or a deer nestling in his lap to sleep-they all appeared instantly at the hint of a thought.

Now he could sit under the pipal tree, silent and unmoving, and never return to the world. His journey was complete. But he still had a choice. To leave or stay?

Everyone from his past had given up on him long ago. And if he suddenly reappeared, how would he explain what he had become? The priests would certainly call him a fraud. Great souls are safe only as long as they stay put in the scriptures.

Gautama’s choice weighed heavily on him. Several mornings he felt that someone was thinking about him. Yashodhara. When her name came to him, Gautama saw her clearly. His wife was sitting alone in her room, mending a hem by the light of an open window. Gautama had seen her face many times during his wandering, but this was different. He was in the room with her, feeling her yearning, which was always for him. One person hadn’t given up.

Gautama thought of other people and found them as well. Channa was saddling a roan warhorse in the stables, and Gautama sensed that he was now master there; old Bikram had died. Suddhodana was asleep, alone with the drapes drawn. He was trying to escape a bad dream about an old battle.

Gautama could be anywhere and everywhere he wanted. Just by thinking of people, he could touch their minds. Not everyone would listen. Not everyone would feel his touch, but for a moment their troubles would ease. Is that what a Buddha did? Without warning, he started weeping. He was no longer husband, lover, or friend. He was a new Buddha, untried, wobbly, three days out of the womb. But he had no doubt that Gautama no longer existed.

The new Buddha arose, adjusted his saffron robe, and began walking toward the road, the same as on a thousand other days. Once he reached the road, he found it completely empty, even though the time was early morning, when farmers’ carts should have been trundling to market. The emptiness seemed even odder after hours had passed and still he hadn’t met a single wagon or foot traveler.

Buddha could be completely alone in the world. Why not? It was his world to do with as he pleased. He was the one dreaming it. Some skittish parrots overhead burst into flight as Buddha laughed out loud. This was outrageous! If a king ruled the world, he would run wild. He would tear it to shreds in anger, toy with it, wrap his body in its sensual delights.

Instead, he possessed the world as Buddha, so none of those possibilities came true. His powers flowed from the other side of silence, where the mind can make anything happen. For a little while the new Buddha enjoyed himself, pulling the sun through the sky like a toy cart, swirling the winds around the poles, shedding rain on a parched desert. This private diversion didn’t last long. Buddha’s world should have people in it whom he could care for. He recalled what Canki had said about a Golden Age-an age without suffering, where abundance was normal and scarcity forgotten in the dim past.

At that moment his vision was shattered by a scream. He saw a woman running toward him, her sari torn to shreds, her arms bleeding. In her panic the woman was blind to Buddha’s existence until she was nearly upon him. Then her eyes registered him standing there, still and calm.

With a cry she rushed to throw herself into his arms, overwhelmed with relief. When she was two steps away, he held his hand up in blessing. The woman stopped in her tracks. She quivered with terror, her breast heaving.

“No more fear,” Buddha whispered. “Give it to me.”

She dropped to the road as if her body had melted and began to weep.

“All,” said Buddha. “Give it all to me.”

The woman became very still; the crying had stopped. Buddha erased the images of terror from her mind. He saw a knife. Teeth like fangs. A necklace made of severed fingers. The images were nightmarish. With the slightest touch, he made them vanish. But one image wouldn’t melt away-the body of her dead husband. He lay in the dust of the road, his throat slashed.

The woman was touching Buddha’s feet now in supplication. Something inside her knew who he was. She gazed at him through her eyes and said, “Please.”

Buddha stopped himself from consoling her. He lifted the woman’s head and met her gaze. “It is done,” he said. She shuddered and fainted. After a moment, as Buddha stood motionless, a man rounded the corner driving an ox cart. Her husband. Buddha gestured for him to approach, and he sped up. Seeing his wife on the ground, the husband jumped down in alarm.

“What happened?” he cried.

“It will be all right. Let’s put her in the cart.” The two of them gently laid her in the straw behind the driver’s seat. The husband had some fresh water in a goatskin bag; he wanted to splash it on her to reassure himself that she was all right. Buddha stopped his hand. “Let her wake up on her own. She may be surprised to see you, but calm her with loving words. You understand?”

The farmer nodded. By imagining the farmer alive and well again, he had erased the whole attack. It wasn’t difficult. He hadn’t raised the husband from the dead. All he did was say no softly to himself. The event he refused to accept no longer existed. Buddha smiled at the husband, and when he had nothing more to say, the farmer thanked him and left.

Power over time and fate. Buddha mused on this as he walked. Does a Buddha reverse every harm? Even if he had that power, did he have the right to change karma on a whim?

In a short while he saw the first huts of a small village. As he approached, people came out wearing suspicious and fearful looks. Some carried pitchforks and rusty swords. They glared as Buddha passed, and in each mind he heard the same word: Angulimala. He soon realized that this was the name of someone they all feared. A killer. A madman. A monster.

Buddha continued to the local temple, whose tiled roof was the highest point in the village. In the shadowy cool of the inner sanctum he saw an old priest cleaning the altar of faded flowers and burnt incense ashes. He approached.

“Namaste.”

The priest barely acknowledged him. Remote as this temple was, he maintained the air of a Brahmin. Instead of praying beside him, Buddha sat cross-legged before the altar and waited. The old priest threw a few fresh flowers onto the Shiva statue and turned to leave.

“Angulimala,” Buddha said.

The priest got angry. “Don’t say such a thing. This is a holy place.”

Buddha said, “I think you forbid the name of Angulimala because you fear he might hear and invade your kingdom.” The old priest squinted his eyes, wondering if he was being mocked. “I can help,” Buddha added.

This offer was greeted with a harsh laugh. “How? Are you a warrior monk? It wouldn’t matter. Angulimala has killed his share of warriors. He has powers. He exchanged his soul for them.”

“What powers?”

“He can outrun a horse. He can hide without being seen and spring down on travelers from the tops of trees. Enough?”

“Perhaps, if any are true. I doubt that these powers have been observed if he kills everyone he meets and the few survivors are terrified,” said Buddha.

The priest, who was bald and slightly hunched, relented slightly. “You’re right about that, stranger. Come with me. I can feed you, and with a little food in your stomach you might stop deluding yourself that you can help.” The old priest managed a tight smile; something deep inside had been touched by the stranger’s offer. They retired to the temple kitchen, and when the stranger’s bowl was filled with rice and lentils, the two sat outside in the shade to eat.

“As you know, anguli means fingers,” said the priest. “To terrify everyone the more, this killer collects the fingers of his victims and wears them as a necklace around his throat. Very few know his real story, but I am one. The monster began life as the mild son of a Brahmin family with no money. At fourteen he was sent to school in a nearby village, with the hope that once he was educated he could perform rites at the temple and restore his family’s fortunes.

“But the Brahmin who ran the school was of unbalanced mind. He accused the boy of sleeping with his wife and threw him out in disgrace.” Buddha didn’t detect much pity for suffering in the old priest’s heart, but he genuinely felt sorry for the wronged boy.

“The scandal reached home before the boy did. When he crossed the threshold, his father beat him brutally and threw him out to fend for himself. The family’s hopes for restoring their fortunes were dashed. It didn’t matter that their son was innocent.”

As the priest recounted the tale, Buddha could see every event in his mind. What lay ahead looked much darker. “There was nothing for him to live for but death,” Buddha murmured.

“He was born cursed, and there’s no hope for him,” the old priest said severely.

“Did anyone try to give him hope?” asked Buddha. The priest scowled, but their meal was over. In gratitude, Buddha bowed his head. He didn’t prostrate himself at the Brahmin’s feet. This caused the old priest to keep a moody silence as he escorted his visitor to the gate.

“You’re a fool to go after him. I can see that’s what you have in mind,” the Brahmin said. “But if you must, here’s a charm to protect you.” He held out some dried herbs bundled with a prayer scribbled on a leaf. Buddha accepted it.

“Tell me one thing,” said Buddha. “Why does Angulimala kill so many people?”

“To save himself,” the old priest replied. “The disgraced boy took to the woods. He began to live like an animal. He ate roots and insects and covered his body with hides. They say by chance he met a wandering fortune-teller, who told him the curse could be lifted only by collecting a thousand fingers and offering them as sacrifice to Shiva. That’s why he wears his terrible necklace.”

“Then I must help him,” said Buddha. “Otherwise Angulimala will show up here one day to sacrifice his necklace on your altar.”

The old priest shuddered visibly and then slammed the gate shut behind him.

THOUGHTS OF ANGULIMALA stayed in Buddha’s mind that day and the next morning. Why was he drawn to the monster?

He walked deeper into the jungle to face the question. It was a blazing afternoon when Buddha found himself on a hidden trail through the jungle. There was a rustle, then before he could turn his head, a wild beast jumped down from the trees and crouched before him. The covering of matted hides made Angulimala look like a giant ferocious ape baring its fangs.

Buddha regarded the wild man’s teeth, which had been crudely filed to a point, and his necklace of withered fingers. In his left hand he carried a long curved blade. “Namaste,” said Buddha. Angulimala growled.

“I cannot save you unless you tell me how you are suffering,” said Buddha. “An animal doesn’t need saving.”

The wild man showed no reaction. He could reach his prey in one leap, so he raised his knife and with a howl sprang toward Buddha. When he came to earth, however, his knife slashed at empty air. Buddha was standing, as before, two paces away. Angulimala looked bewildered.

“You do not have to ask for mercy or forgiveness,” said Buddha. “Speak your real name, not the monster’s that you have assumed.”

The wild man took another leap at Buddha, and as before, when he landed his blade swished through the air. Buddha was standing two paces away.

“I can only stop a moment,” Buddha said. “But if you want my help, come to me.”

He turned his back on Angulimala and began slowly walking away. Behind him there was a scream of rage. One thing the old Brahmin had said was true: Angulimala possessed enough demonic energy that he could outrun a horse. He charged at Buddha, his knife stretched out in front like a spear. It should have taken only a few seconds to reach his prey, but Buddha remained a step ahead. Angulimala sped up, panting as he ran. His bare feet stirred up a cloud of dust, but he couldn’t close the gap between himself and Buddha. This kept up for ten minutes, until the wild man fell to the ground, clutching at his cramped legs. Buddha turned around and regarded him.

“There’s a small distance between you and me,” he said mildly. “Shall I close it? I can.”

He reached down and touched the killer’s matted hair, and Angulimala began to weep. “Please tell me your real name,” Buddha urged. There was a pause, and Angulimala shivered from head to toe. “Why?” he moaned. By this he meant, Why should anyone help me? I am damned.

“I will tell you, but I can’t explain to an animal,” said Buddha.

Angulimala clutched at himself, writhing on the ground. Buddha stood quietly, letting the demonic energy drain away. It would take more than a single seizure to purify the wild man, but this was a beginning. After he had thrashed in the dust for some minutes, a name came out. “Anigha,” he said.

“Look at me, Anigha,” Buddha said. “We are brothers.”

The wild man was pacified from exhaustion, his body spent. He raised his head as Buddha bent over to bless him. “You were once a great saint,” said Buddha. “Now you have become a great sinner. This was not a curse. The cycle of birth and rebirth has brought you full circle. The same thing happens to everyone. It has happened to me.”

Each word he spoke caused a change in Anigha. His eyes looked far away; he seemed to remember something deep and profound. Tears rolled down his cheeks. “I am damned,” he said aloud, his voice becoming more human.

“No, you share the same fate as everyone,” said Buddha. “You wanted to find a way out of suffering. The only difference is that you asked for the life of a monster. You imagined that if you caused enormous suffering, you would be immune to it.”

The weight of Anigha’s crimes was crushing him-he groaned.

“It’s horrible to bring hell on earth,” said Budddha. “There was another purpose, though, that no one sees.” Anigha stared in bafflement. “You hungered for the supreme truth many lifetimes ago. The gods failed you; your vows as a monk led to nothing but deeper disappointment. So you swore that you would not be redeemed unless the greatest sinner received the same treatment.”

Now Anigha grasped Buddha’s feet and was sobbing loudly as his pain poured out. Buddha took his hands away and lifted him up. “If you are part of me, you need nothing else to be saved,” he said.

Anigha said, “But I have killed.”

“You fell into evil so that you could prove to yourself that there is a reality that evil cannot touch. Will you let me show it to you?”

Anigha listened quietly, then he looked down at his filthy body clothed in bloodied hides. They were unrecognizable now as part of him. He led Buddha to a stream and washed the dirt away. When he had washed off as much as he could, he came out of the water. “I will follow you anywhere,” he said. “Angulimala is dead.”

“You will always be with me. But for the moment you need to stay here,” said Buddha. “Devote yourself to atonement. Leave food for the poor. Offer flowers and water at the temple gate for those who want to make sacrifice. Help lost travelers whom you once terrified. Whatever you do, don’t show yourself. I will return for you very soon.”

Anigha didn’t find it easy to let Buddha go; he still half-believed that he was in a dream devised by a mischievous demon. After a while, though, his exhaustion made him nod off as the two sat under a tree talking. Buddha arose and left quietly. He gave no thought to where he was going next. But something had happened that he alone knew. He had altered the course of evil with a touch and a word.

He was still a new Buddha, four days out of the womb, but every moment was bringing him greater power and more wisdom to use it well.