Buddha

by Deepak Chopra

  When Suddhodana turned away without raising the ax, Canki didn’t hesitate to put his hand on the king’s arm—for the moment, he was ruler here.

  “You must.”

  Suddhodana held no deep contempt for the priesthood, and he knew that he had broken a sacred custom when his role was to uphold it. But at that moment the priest’s touch revolted him. He turned his back and walked steadily toward the palace.

  A woman was blocking his path. “You must look on him, Your Majesty. Please.”

  In the moment it took for him to hear these words, Suddhodana realized that Kakoli the nurse was blocking his way. She carried Siddhartha in her arms and hesitantly pushed him forward. Tears glittered in her eyes. “He’s precious. He’s a gift.” Since his wife’s death, the king had had nothing to do with his son. He couldn’t help feeling that if the boy had never been born, his wife would yet live.

  “I should look at him? Let him look at this.”

  Suddhodana glared at the nurse as he snatched the infant from her. The baby started to cry as his father lifted him above the heads of the mourners, giving him a good look at the smoldering corpse.

  “Sire!” Kakoli tried to grab the child back, but Suddhodana fended her off. Everyone turned around to stare. Suddhodana defied them with a look.

  “His mother died!” he shouted. “I have nothing left.” He wheeled on Kakoli. “Is that part of the gift?” The old nurse covered her mouth with one shaking hand. Her weakness only enraged Suddhodana further. He took a step toward her and was glad to see her shrink back from his threat. “Stop sniveling. Let Siddhartha behold what this filthy world is really like.”

  He handed the baby back and strode toward the palace. He entered the great hall, his eyes looking for a new target that would promise more fight than women and priests. Suddhodana needed a battle right now, something he could throw himself at with abandon.

  He stopped short at what he saw. An old charwoman was kneeling on the floor, scraping ashes out of the fireplace with her gnarled hands. Gray, unkempt hair hung down in her rheumy eyes. When she looked at him, she smiled, revealing a toothless maw. Suddhodana trembled. His own personal demon was here. He stood frozen in place, wondering bleakly what harm she meant him.

  The old crone shook her head as if in sympathy. Slowly she took a fistful of ash from the cold embers and held it over her head, letting the ash trickle down into her hair. She was mocking the mourners outside and him at the same time.

  Your poor, beautiful wife. We have her now. And we love her as much as you did.

  The char rubbed ash in her face, making dark streaks and smudges until only her wrinkled mouth and piercing eyes were left untouched. She had him trapped. If he broke down, releasing all his pent-up grief and horror, it would open a breach that the demons could exploit. Every time he thought of Maya his mind would be invaded by hideous images. But if he resisted her, clamping down his grief with steel bands, there would never be a release, and the demons would hover around him.

  The crone knew all this and waited for his reaction. Suddhodana’s eyes lost their anxiety and became hard as flint. In his mind’s eye he conjured up Maya’s face, then he took an ax and smashed her memory, once and for all. The air around him stank of funeral smoke drifting in from the garden. He had made the warrior’s choice.

  A HUNDRED OIL LAMPS flickered in the reception hall, each one held high as courtiers craned for a better look. At first the spectacle had been fairly calm, but when the animal sacrifices began, the cries of baby goats and the gleaming of knives changed the atmosphere. Restless now, the courtiers began to mill around, raising a clamor over the chanting Brahmins.

  In the middle of the melee stood Suddhodana, growing impatient. It was the official naming ceremony for his new son, and also the time when the baby’s birth chart would be read aloud by the court astrologers, the jyotishis. Siddhartha’s destiny would be pronounced and his whole life affected from this moment on. But pronounce was the one thing they weren’t doing. Instead, the four old men bent over the cradle, stroking their beards, mouthing ambiguous commonplaces. “Venus is beneficly placed. The tenth house shows promise, but the full moon is aligned with Saturn; his mind will take time to develop.”

  “How many of you are still alive?” Suddhodana grumbled. “Four? I thought there used to be five.”

  The implied threat was empty. Astrologers were strange but revered creatures, and the king knew it was dangerous to cross them. They belonged to the Brahmin caste, and although the king could hire them, he was only of the Kshatriya caste, which meant that in the eyes of God they were his superiors. After Maya’s funeral Suddhodana had spent days alone, refusing to unbolt his bedroom door. But there was a kingdom to look after, a line of succession to hold up to the world and his lurking enemies. It would be a sign of weakness for Suddhodana’s entire lineage if the astrologers had anything dark to say.

  “Is he safe, or is he going to die? Tell me now,” Suddhodana demanded.

  The eldest jyotishi shook his head. “It was the mother’s karma to die, but the son is safe.” These words were potent; everyone in the room heard and believed them. They would deter a potential assassin, in case someone had been hired to clandestinely murder the prince. Now the stars predicted the failure of any such attempt.

  “Go on,” the king demanded. The nearby clamor subsided in anticipation.

  “The chart belongs to one who will become a great king,” the eldest jyotishi intoned, making sure that these words too were heard by as many people as possible.

  “Why didn’t you say so to begin with? Get on with it. Let’s have it all.” Suddhodana was barking impatiently, but inside he felt tremendous relief.

  The astrologers glanced nervously at one another. “There are…complications.”

  “Meaning what, exactly?” Suddhodana glared, daring them to take back a word of their prediction. The eldest jyotishi cleared his throat. Canki, the high Brahmin, moved in closer, sensing that he might have to intervene.

  “Do you trust us, Your Highness?” the eldest jyotishi asked.

  “Of course. I’ve only executed one astrologer, maybe two. What do you mean to say?”

  “The chart foresees that your son will not rule Sakya.” Dramatic pause as the king cursed under his breath. “He will hold dominion over the four corners of the earth.”

  At this, general consternation broke out. Courtiers gasped, a few applauded, most were stunned. The jyotishi’s words had their intended effect. But Suddhodana stiffened.

  “How much am I paying you? Too much. You expect me to believe such a thing?” He forced a bemused tone. He wanted to test the old man’s resolve.

  Before the jyotishi could find a reply, however, there was a stirring in the crowd. The oil lamps, which had moved back and forth in the air like wandering stars, became still. Courtiers parted and bowed, making way for someone who had just entered the room—an eminence.

  Asita, Asita.

  Suddhodana didn’t have to hear the whispered name as it was passed along. He knew Asita on sight; they had met long ago. When Suddhodana was seven, he had been woken up by guards in the middle of the night. A pony was waiting for him beside his father, who rode a black charger. The old king said nothing, only nodding for the retinue to move forward. Suddhodana felt nervous, as his father often made him feel. They rode in a pack of guardsmen toward the mountains, and just when the boy thought he would fall asleep in the saddle, the old king stopped. He had the boy placed in his arms, and they went alone up a scree slope toward a cave above their heads. The mouth of the cave was hidden behind brush and fallen boulders, but his father seemed to know where to go.

  He stood in the dawn light and called, “Asita!” After a moment a naked hermit came out, neither obedient nor defiant. “You have blessed my family for generations. Now bless my son,” the king said. The boy stared at the naked man, who appeared by his beard, which was not yet completely gray, to be no more than fifty. How could he have blessed anyone for genera
tions? Then the old king set him on his feet; Suddhodana ran forward and knelt before the hermit.

  Asita leaned over. “Do you really want a blessing?” The boy felt confused. “Tell me truthfully.”

  Suddhodana had received many blessings in his short lifetime; the Brahmins were summoned if the heir apparent had so much as a runny nose. “Yes, I want your blessing,” he said automatically.

  Asita gazed at him. “No, you want to kill. And conquer.” The boy tried to protest, but Asita cut him short. “I am only telling you what I see. You don’t need a blessing to destroy.” As he said these words, the hermit held his hand over the boy’s head, as if administering what had been asked for. He nodded toward the old king, who stood some distance away out of earshot.

  “Take death’s blessing,” Asita said. “It’s the one you deserve, and it will serve you well in the future. Go.”

  Bewildered but not offended, the boy got to his feet and ran back to his father, who seemed satisfied. But as time unfolded, the boy came to see that his father was a weak king, vassal to rulers around him who dominated with stronger will and greater armies. He came to be ashamed of this fact, and although he never quite knew what Asita meant by death’s blessing, Suddhodana did not object when his own nature turned out to be fierce and ambitious.

  “You honor us.” Suddhodana dropped to his knees as Asita approached. The hermit looked older now, but not three decades older, the time since they had last met. Asita ignored the king and walked directly to the cradle. He glanced down, then he turned to face the jyotishis.

  “The chart.” Asita waited until the scroll of sheepskin was passed to him. He gazed at it for a moment.

  “A great king. A great king.” Asita repeated the words in a flat, emotionless voice. “He will never be.”

  Tense silence.

  Asita replied, “What do I care about thrones?” He might have been indifferent to the king, but Asita could not take his eyes away from the baby.

  “Without a doubt there is a great ruler in his chart,” the eldest jyotishi insisted.

  “Do you not see that?” Suddhodana asked anxiously.

  But the hermit acted strangely. Without replying, he knelt before the baby with his head bowed. Siddhartha, who had been quiet up to now, took an interest in this new person; he kicked his feet, and one of them brushed the top of Asita’s head. Suddenly tears began to roll down Asita’s cheeks. Suddhodana bent down to lift him to his feet. The revered ascetic allowed this gesture, which under normal circumstances would have been a serious affront to a holy man.

  “What did you ask?” he said, seeming like a withered old man at that moment.

  “My son—why will he not rule? If he’s fated to die, tell me.”

  Asita looked at the king as if noticing him for the first time. “Yes, he will die—to you.” The court stirred restlessly, but Suddhodana, who should have asked all this in private, was beyond caring who overheard. “Explain yourself,” he said.

  Asita paused, seeing confusion and dismay in the king’s face. “The boy has two destinies. Your jyotishis were right about only one.”

  Although he was speaking to the father, Asita’s gaze never moved from the infant. “Your will is to make him a king. He may grow up to choose the other way. His second destiny.”

  Suddhodana looked totally bewildered. “What is this second destiny?”

  “To rule his own soul.” A relieved smile crossed the king’s face. “You think that’s so easy?” said Asita.

  “I think only a fool would exchange the world for such a destiny, and I will make damn sure my son isn’t a fool.”

  “Once he dies to you, you will be sure of nothing.” The king’s smile vanished. “You’re making a mistake. Ruling the world is child’s play. To truly rule your soul is like ruling creation. It is above even the gods.”

  The old hermit wasn’t finished. “You too are in his chart. It says you will either suffer over your son as no father ever has or you will bow down before him.”

  Suddhodana’s disbelief was a roar. “You’re wrong, old monk. I can turn him into what I want.” Suddhodana’s face was mottled with rage. “Now get out! All of you!”

  Even for gossip-hungry courtiers, the drama had been too much. Half the oil lamps had already sputtered out. In the dim light their retreating figures looked like insubstantial shadows bowing their way out of the king’s presence. The jyotishis led the way with profuse apologies and anxious blessings. Canki wanted to be last in the room, but he found it politic to go when the king glared daggers at him. After a moment only Asita was left.

  With the audience gone, Suddhodana could speak freely. “Is all that you said true? Is there nothing I can do?”

  “No matter what I say, you will do it anyway.” Without reproof, Asita began to leave, only to be held back once more.

  “Tell me just one thing. Why did you weep tears when you saw my son?” asked Suddhodana.

  “Because I will not live long enough to hear the immortal truth that Buddha will speak,” Asita said.

  4

  The next morning Suddhodana rode his warhorse up the hillside toward the imposing Shiva temple his father had built on the crest. The king’s melancholy had changed overnight, replaced by determination. A score of bullock carts were gathered outside the temple gates, the great patient beasts searching lazily for grass sprouting from the earth packed hard by the sandals of devotees.

  Suddhodana dismounted and let his horse graze with the bullocks. He strode into the main temple courtyard, which was filled with milling worshippers and sellers of sandalwood and ghee for ritual offerings. Awed eyes followed his progress, but Suddhodana had no time for ceremony. He had ridden without an entourage because he had a secret purpose in mind; he didn’t summon Canki to the palace because he was too impatient to wait for him.

  Now he burst into the inner sanctum, where the air was a heavy, sweet-smelling pall. A lone priest was performing the ritual Rudravishek. Slowly he poured ladles of milk over a tall polished stone, the Shiva lingam. The liquid left a faint blue veil on the ancient river rock. In the darkness Suddhodana’s eyes narrowed; they stung from the residue of pitch and incense hanging in the air.

  “Canki!”

  The priest stopped the oblation and turned toward the bellowing voice. The king’s eyesight had adjusted, and he recognized the high Brahmin himself at the altar. Some rich devotee, probably marrying a third or fourth wife, had paid handsomely for the ceremony.

  After a glance Canki turned back to his task. “I’m not finished yet,” he said.

  The king came up and seized the ladle from his hands. “You are now.”

  Canki bowed, then led the king away, padding silently over the stone floor on bare feet. He was quite capable of defying royalty, protected by his Brahmin privilege. Canki was solid and imposing, despite the rolls of fat exposed as he went, bare-chested, across the cobbled courtyard toward the cloister where the monks lived. The Brahmin lowered his heavy body onto a leather stool inside his cell, pointedly not waiting for the king to take a seat first. Suddhodana let the insult pass. “If you talk to God, you already know why I’m here,” he said.

  “I know that God wishes to please you in every way, Your Highness.” Canki gave a fawning smile meant to win over an angry king.

  “I want my son to rule the world.” Suddhodana said the words without hesitation. “Is this possible?”

  “Every father would want—”

  Suddhodana stepped closer, magnifying the threat he posed. “No! Either this is God’s will or it’s not. You are to tell me. Much rests on this. More than your life, in fact.”

  The balance between castes was delicate. If the rulers had a political reason to support religion, they did; if the priests needed to bring the people under their sway, they exerted influence over the rulers by promises of divine favor. Canki knew the system very well, and he also knew, despite his high caste, whose hand rested on the sword.

  He said, “You face many obstac
les in this endeavor, Your Highness. But it can be done.”

  “How?”

  “Seek to control the infant prince’s mind. He must be taught to think like you. To believe like you. And to lust as you lust.”

  This last was a barb, but Suddhodana waited patiently, hearing truth in the Brahmin’s words. If anyone knew how to control others’ minds, Canki did.

  “Train him well, as a complete warrior. Place his whole sense of worth on fighting, and on you.” Canki paused. “Am I helping?”

  Suddhodana realized at that moment why the jyotishis had been so nervous. They had consulted the high Brahmin as soon as they cast Siddhartha’s chart. No doubt they could foretell the king’s displeasure.

  “Is that all I have to do?” Suddhodana’s tone was cutting; they both knew his suspicion toward priests.

  “No. The most difficult part comes last.” Canki went to the window and pointed outside at a large stone statue of Shiva. “I am reminded of Lord Shiva’s story. You know it, of course.” This was another barb; the Brahmin continued without waiting for a reply.

  “Venerable sages had gathered in the forest to meditate, and Lord Shiva desired to learn from them. But he was mischievous, and he brought a woman with him to their retreat. This was a test, for the woman was actually Lord Vishnu in disguise. But the sages were too blinded with rage to see this. They vowed to kill this sacrilegious intruder, so from the sacred fire they engendered a monstrous tiger. The beast leaped upon Shiva, but with one fingernail he stripped the tiger of his skin and wrapped it around his shoulders. Then he thanked the sages for their courtesy in supplying him with a meditation cloak.

  “The sages’ fury redoubled after this impudence. The sacred fire absorbed their rage, and a second monster sprang out, this time an enormous serpent. But Shiva choked it with his hands and wrapped the carcass around his neck. He thanked the sages for providing him with a necklace. At that point they grew so furious that a third monster sprang from the fire—”