One night when I was in my late twenties, however, Yasodhara got the better of me. She poured wine for me, glass after glass, until I could barely see straight. She then pressed her body against me and whispered provocative things in my ear and before I knew it the dismal deed had taken place. I had kept my wife at bay for twelve years, but that one night I was weak and wouldn’t you know it, the worst possible thing happened: Yasodhara got pregnant. (NK)
3
At that point I remember beginning to feel restless, trapped in Father’s palace. “I need to grow up, Father,” I remember saying to him one day. “When I was born I announced that I was the King of the World and now here I am, nearly thirty years old and spending my days lying in my chariot-themed bed, wearing my favorite golden helmet!”
“But you love your golden helmet, Siddhartha.”
“I do love it, Stepmother, but that is not the point. The point is that there must be something more to life than this.”
“Would you like to redesign your bedroom, son?” Father asked me. “Make it look more like a dragon’s lair, as you have sometimes mentioned?”
“No, Father, that is not at ALL what I want,” I cried out, stomping away in frustration.
“Where are you going, Siddhartha?” Father called after me.
“I am going for a chariot ride!”
An hour later, accompanied by my driver, Chandaka, I was riding around the palace grounds in my best golden chariot. All my horses, including my (by far) favorite steed, Kamthaka, were wearing gold. (ASV 3:8) I was wearing my usual outfit: silks and jewels. My hair was long, flowing and frankly magnificent, topped with my finest helmet, which was decorated with golden lightning bolts.
As Chandaka drove us around the palace grounds, the citizens lined up and threw flowers at me. “They love me for my marvelous personality and conspicuous beauty, Chandaka,” I announced. (ASV 3:11) “Yes, my lord.”
As we neared our typical “turnaround” spot, an impulse suddenly came over me. “Exit the palace gates,” I commanded Chandaka.
“But my lord, we are not supposed to do that.”
“Do as I say, Chandaka.”
“But your father—”
“Exit the palace gates NOW, Chandaka.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
Five minutes later, we were driving through the city outside the gates. It looked different than anyplace I’d ever been before, shabbier, more broken down and drab. I was studying a decaying building when I suddenly gasped. On the side of the road was a hunched-over old man, white-haired and extremely wrinkly. “What on earth is that creature?” I whispered to Chandaka. (ASV 3:28)
“It is an old man, my lord.”
“What do you mean, ‘old man’?” I demanded as I stared at the withered creature limping along with the help of a wooden staff.
“Things age, my lord,” Chandaka said. “Did you actually not know that?”
I turned and looked Chandaka in the eye. “Will I age too?”
Chandaka averted his eyes. “Chandaka,” I demanded. “Tell me, Chandaka.”
“Everything ages, my lord,” he murmured.
Oh, how my great soul shuddered when I heard that! (ASV 3:34) I looked around at the people on the street, many of whom were laughing and talking. “Why are they not horrified, Chandaka? How can they live with this dreadful knowledge?”
“Perhaps they are accustomed to the idea of getting older, my lord.”
“Well, I am not accustomed to it, Chandaka. I am not in the LEAST accustomed to it! Honestly, how am I supposed to take pleasure in life again, knowing that I will get old ?”
“Perhaps we should head back to the palace now, my lord.”
“No, Chandaka, no. I need to know the truth about life. I will know the truth about life.”
Five minutes later, we came upon a second horrid sight. A pale man with a swollen belly and open sores was shaking and muttering “mother” over and over again as he staggered along the road. (ASV 3:41) (This man didn’t actually “exist,” by the way. Neither had the “old man”; they were both just creations of the gods, meant to get my attention. Which they definitely did!)
“What is wrong with that man?” I whispered to Chandaka in amazement.
“He is sick, my lord.”
“Sick?? What on earth do you mean ‘sick’?”
“His body is ailing, my lord. He is in pain.”
“Are you telling me that humans experience pain, Chandaka?”
“Have you yourself never experienced pain, my lord?”
“Oh, I have, obviously, but other people feel it too?” Before Chandaka could answer, I cried out, “Stop the chariot immediately—I wish to talk to this man!” Chandaka did so and I jumped out of my seat and hurried to the sick man. I stared at him for a moment, then said, “Does it hurt to be sick?”
“Yes, my lord, it hurts very much.”
“How do you go on?”
“It is sometimes difficult, my lord.”
“I can imagine. How could you enjoy life with such disgusting open sores on your body? Honestly I can’t stand even having to look at the disgusting sores on your body.”
“My lord,” Chandaka said quietly, coming up behind me, “we really must return to the palace. Your father will not be pleased about this.”
“Never mind my father, Chandaka, I am not a child, I am a full-grown man and I told you I need to understand the world. We will continue.”
As we got back into the carriage, I looked at the people passing by on the street. “Why do they look so happy, Chandaka? Are they deluded? YOU’RE ALL GOING TO GET SICK!!” I yelled at the people.
A few minutes later we hit the worst sight of all. Turning a corner, I saw people huddled in a doorway, crying.
“This one we should pass by, my lord,” Chandaka muttered.
“Why?”
“This one is … exceedingly difficult.”
“What do you mean, Chandaka?”
“Please let us keep going, my lord.”
“What are all those people doing?”
“They are crying, my lord.”
“You there—why do you cry? Stop, Chandaka!”
“We have lost our mother, sir.”
“Yes, well, I lost my mother too,” I replied, exiting the chariot again. “She died to preserve the sanctity of her womb after I was born, but I never cried about it.”
I pushed through the weeping people, through a small hallway and into a main room, where I suddenly stopped. There, on a table before me, garlanded with flowers, laid a stiff, grey corpse. (The gods had created this corpse too obviously; she was kind of a “dummy” who had never actually “lived.”) As I stared down at the dead body, I felt like I couldn’t breathe, like time itself had stopped and I had been standing in that spot for an eternity. In truth, it was probably five seconds before Chandaka was beside me, whispering, “We must go now, my lord.”
“This woman is dead, isn’t she, Chandaka?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Because things die, don’t they?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“It’s not only worms, is it?”
“No, my lord, it is all things.”
“Which means—I will die, doesn’t it, Chandaka?”
“Please, my lord …”
“I will die, won’t I, Chandaka? I WILL DIE, WON’T I?? TELL ME!”
Chandaka finally nodded. “Death is the fate of all living things, my lord.”
“Of course it is,” my mind fairly shouted. “How could it be otherwise? Worms die, plants die, everything dies, including me.” As Chandaka started to lead me out of the room, hot tears streamed down my noble face. “I’m going to DIE, Chandaka,” I found myself moaning as he led me back to the chariot. “I, Prince Siddhartha, the King of the World, am going to DIIIIEEE!” Feeling both helpless and enraged, I sank down into my seat and glared balefully at the people passing by. “Why do you look so happy, you fools?? I AM GOING TO DIE, I AM GOING TO DIII
EEEEE!” (ASV 3:58–61)
It all came together then. Life was pain. That was all life was, pain. I rode in silence, feeling the weight of this profound insight. Finally Chandaka looked over at me. “Are you alright, my lord?”
“No, Chandaka, I am not alright. I am frankly overwhelmed by the hideous sights I have been subjected to! So much pain, Chandaka.”
“Yes.”
“So much suffering.”
“Indeed, my lord.”
“How am I supposed to enjoy feasting on savory grilled meats or drinking fine chilled wines or sniffing sweet perfumes after seeing all of these vile things, Chandaka?”
“I do not know, my lord.”
“Get me back to the palace,” I moaned in despair.
But the gods had one final sight they needed me to see. As we reapproached the palace gates, there, sitting by the side of the road, close enough for me to touch, sat a small, thin man with a shaved head. He was wearing a yellow robe and holding an empty wooden bowl. As we slowly drove past him, I turned to Chandaka. “What is he?”
“He is an ‘ascetic,’ my lord.”
“‘Ascetic’? What does it mean?”
“It means that he has renounced all worldly goods, my lord.”
“Why?”
“In search of inner peace, my lord.”
Those two words, “inner peace,” had a profound effect on me. I suddenly grabbed the reins from Chandaka and stopped the chariot right next to the ascetic. (NK) I stared at the skinny little man, who sat calmly, a gentle smile on his weathered face. “Old man,” I said to him. He nodded back at me. “You look quite wise.”
“I am merely a seeker, young prince,” the ascetic replied. Then he lowered his voice to something just above a whisper: “As you too soon will be.”
“How do you know that?”
“It is your destiny, young prince.”
4
By the time I got back to the palace I was overwhelmed with emotion. Seeing me rush past, Father instantly understood what had happened. “You went into the city, didn’t you, Siddhartha?”
I stopped, stared coldly at him. “Did you actually think I wouldn’t, Father?”
“I assumed you would when you were sixteen or seventeen, twenty at the very latest. When you didn’t do it then, no, I figured you wouldn’t.”
“Well, I did, Father. And by the way, why on earth did you think a king would be better off not knowing about suffering?”
“I didn’t think you could handle it, son.”
“Well guess what, I CAN handle it—you were wrong about that! Not only can I ‘handle it,’ I can save people from it!”
“How will you do that?”
“I don’t know yet, but I will!”
“Siddhartha, stop.”
“Leave me ALONE, Father!” I cried as I lurched past him and rushed upstairs to my room where I threw myself onto my chariot-themed bed and wept for hours.
Wanting to console me, Father sent dancing girls to my chambers. “Use your coquettishness to enrapture him,” he instructed them. (ASV 4:9–12) Some of the girls crept into my bed and began pressing their breasts against me. One of them whispered, “Perform your rites of adoration here, young prince,” hotly in my ear. When I leapt out of bed, another chesty woman stood in front of me, shook her earrings back and forth, then laughed and cried out in a merry voice, “Catch me if you can!” as she ran off. (ASV 4:32–39) I did not chase her, needless to say. I ducked into my closet and hid there, trembling with rage, one thought circling endlessly in my mind: “I WILL DIE. I WILL DIE. I WILL DIE.”
Suddenly furious, I yanked back the closet curtain and glowered at the busty harlots and screamed at them.
“You laugh and sport and carry on,” I cried, “but before long all of you will get old and sick and then you will DIE, YES, ALL OF YOU WILL DIE!!” One of the women, the one who’d been shaking her earrings at me, frowned. “You’re being extremely rude, young prince,” she said. Another dancing girl nodded.
“Obviously we know we’re going to get old and sick and then die, young prince, who doesn’t know that?” “Until today, ME!” I bellowed at them. “NOW GET OUT OF MY ROOM, GET OUT RIGHT NOW!!” After they left I cried myself to sleep.
The next morning I stood before Father and announced, “I wish to leave the palace.”
“What do you mean?”
“I wish to become an ascetic in order that I may achieve enlightenment and fulfill my true destiny of saving the world.”
“Go forth as an ascetic when you are older, Siddhartha, you are too young now.”
“I am nearly thirty years old, Father.”
“As I said, too young.”
I looked at my father, nodded. “If you can promise me four things, Father, I will stay here at the palace.”
“Anything, my son, anything at all—tell me.”
“Can you promise to stop sickness, old age, pain and death, Father? If so, I will stay.” (ASV 5:35)
“I cannot possibly stop those things, my son. You know that.”
“Exactly, and that is why I must leave and find the answers for myself. Goodbye, Father.”
As I started to turn away: “You will not survive out there, Siddhartha, you are a boy.”
“I am twenty-nine years old, Father!”
“You are soft, my son. You are not built to endure hardship!”
“I am far tougher than you realize, Father.”
“I’m sorry, Siddhartha, but I cannot allow you to leave.”
“Father—”
He nodded to his guards. “Take him back to his chambers.”
I shook my head in disbelief as they grabbed my arms. “It is not right to stop someone who wishes to escape from a house on fire, Father.” (ASV 5:37)
“But this house is not on fire, Siddhartha.”
“It is on fire, Father—ALL houses are on fire, LIFE ITSELF is on fire—and I am telling you that I must find a way to extinguish that fire!”
“This moment will pass, my son, you will see. Before long you will thank me for this.”
An hour later, I sat on my bed glaring at my two guards and trying to figure out what to do next. Suddenly I realized something incredible: I could turn invisible! (IDD) I quickly did so and slipped out the door. I stopped, passing the large room where my dancing girls stayed. Standing in the doorway, I gazed at their sleeping forms. What I saw was, in a word, disgusting. Some of the women had saliva running out of the corners of their mouths; others were weirdly covered with saliva, as if they had been licking themselves. A few women laid there with wide, gaping mouths, while others were snoring or gnashing their teeth. One woman laid there half-naked, her skirt hitched up, her legs spread. “That is monstrous,” I remember thinking to myself as I looked at her. “All you so-called beauties are not so beautiful now, are you?” I muttered to myself. “You are nauseating, in fact. And before long, you will be even more nauseating because before long you will be dead, you will be stinking, rotting corpses!” (NK; ASV 5:59–63)
“Everything is impermanent,” I remember whispering to myself at that moment. “There is only one permanent thing in life and that is pain.” The point of existence, I suddenly grasped, was escaping that pain. But how to do it?
That is what I now had to figure out.
5
Oh yes, there was one other thing that happened that week: My son Rahula was born. I named him “Rahula” because it means “shackle” and from the moment he was born, I knew that’s what Rahula was going to be to me, a shackle. (DP 345–46) (Not that it matters, but Rahula’s birth was grotesque. When I was born, there had been no blood at all, I was born pristine, like a perfect little gem. Rahula’s birth, I regret to say, was nothing like that, it was bloody, messy and hideous.)
Yasodhara’s door was open as I crept past the chamber where she dozed with our newborn baby asleep on her chest. The lamps in her room were burning low. There was the smell of scented oil and flowers were strewn across her bed. I sli
pped into the room, stared down at Rahula and shook my head sadly. This child’s life, like all lives, would be filled with nothing but pain and I was responsible for it. There was only one thing for me to do and I knew it: “I am leaving,” I whispered to the baby. “You are a shackle that binds me but now I am cutting you off.” (SV)
Yasodhara woke up and looked at me. “Siddhartha?” she whispered. “Why do you look so strange, husband?”
“I am going forth into the world, Yasodhara.”
She went up one elbow, rubbed her eyes. “‘Going forth,’ what does that mean?”
“I am going to live in the forest as an ascetic.”
“But … I don’t understand. When are you doing this?”
“Now. Tonight.”
“And … when are you returning?”
“Never.”
Her eyes widened. “But Siddhartha … what about Rahula, what about our son?”
“It is unfortunate that Rahula exists, Yasodhara. It would be far better if he didn’t.”
“Siddhartha, don’t say that.”
“But I will not be shackled by him or anyone else, Yasodhara. I henceforth declare myself free of all attachments, for it is only when one’s attachments are extinguished that one’s delusions can be extinguished.” (RH)
“Siddhartha, I love you.”
“And I love all living things.”
“Does that not include me?”
“It does, yes, but no more than that insect on the wall over there.”
“How can you be so cruel, husband?”
“I have a destiny to meet, Yasodhara. It would be cruel of me not to do so.” I started to rise. “I am leaving now.”
Yasodhara grabbed my arm, desperate. “Husband, please. Stay with us. Think of your son, husband—your SON.” (ASV 8:68)
The Buddha's Story Page 2