18
Not long after that, another female problem arose: My stepmother Prajapati showed up, wanting to join my sangha. “My son,” she murmured quietly as she entered my chamber and bowed down before me. (CV 10:1)
“Stepson,” I quickly responded
“ … What’s that?” she said, looking up at me with her weathered old face.
“Stepson. While I recognize that you were like a mother to me, you were not actually my mother. I am your stepson and you should call me that.”
“Do you know why I am here, Siddhartha?”
“I do and I am sorry, Aunt, but what you ask is simply not possible.”
“Why?”
“Women inspire lust in men, Aunt, and I will not allow lust to enter the sangha.”
“I am old, Siddhartha.”
“You are old, Aunt, that is certainly true. But not all women are old. Some are young and attractive and those women, I assure you, would quickly become dangerous to the sangha.”
“I beg of you, my son, as the woman who raised you—”
“Again, Aunt, please, stepson. Understand this is not in any way personal, it is simply that women are, how best to put this, defiled.”
“Women are human beings, Siddhartha, just like you.”
I quickly stood up. “I am sorry, Aunt, but I cannot honor your request. Good luck on your journey home.” With that, I turned and walked away from her. (ANG 8:51)
At first I thought I had handled my “woman problem” but the truth was that it was about to get much worse. Because not long afterwards Yasodhara sat before me. I stared at her in chilly silence for a long moment before she finally spoke.
“I have missed you, husband. We have both missed you, Rahula and I.”
“Ah yes. How is Rahula?”
“He is well, husband. He looks just like you.”
I nodded vaguely. A moment passed, then: “To get to the point here, Yasodhara, I understand that, like my aunt, you wish to join my sangha, is that correct?”
“Yes, husband.”
I studied her for a moment, stroked my chin. “How old are you now, Yasodhara?”
“Thirty-eight, husband.”
“You look quite well. Prajapati is old and ugly (her words, by the way, not mine), but you, Yasodhara, you would surely be a distraction within the sangha, whether you wished to be or not.”
“I would do anything to be near you, husband.”
“I’m sorry, Yasodhara, but the answer must be no. Good luck on your journey home.”
As I stood and started to exit the room, Yasodhara grabbed my arm. “You speak so much of compassion, husband, but will you show no compassion for me? Will you show no compassion for poor Rahula?” (MSV; ASV 9:28–34)
“Stop it, Yasodhara.”
“He searched for you endlessly, Siddhartha, haunting the palace every night and whimpering to himself, ‘Papa, where are you? Papa, please, where are you??’”
“The pain you are describing was caused merely by ignorance, Yasodhara.”
“How can you be so brutal, husband?”
“Calm yourself, Yasodhara.”
“You have hurt me, Siddhartha.”
“Life has hurt you, Yasodhara. Life hurts us all.”
“No, husband, you—YOU—you have hurt me.” I turned and started out of the room, but Yasodhara rose and followed me. “I was like a widow, Siddhartha, I cried for months, for years.” (LSV 8:31–9:35; BL)
“You need to calm down, Yasodhara. And please stop calling me Siddhartha. I am the Buddha now.”
“I loved you, Siddhartha, god help me. I love you still. Oh please allow me to be near you, husband, please my darling, please …”
“Yasodhara—”
“I am your lawful wife, Siddhartha. I am your lawful …” With that, she began to sob, moaning through her tears, “I … am … so … wretched.”
I hesitated for a long moment, then sat down next Yasodhara and spoke to her in a soft, calming voice. “I would like to tell you a story now, Yasodhara.”
As she looked up at me through her tears: “It is no surprise that you love me the way you do, Yasodhara. The truth is that you have always loved me this way, in every single lifetime we have shared. That’s right, Yasodhara, you and I have known each other many times before. In one particular lifetime, for instance, I was a fairy named Canda who lived in the mountains and you were my fairy wife, also named Canda.” (FCJAT)
“ … I was named Canda too?”
“Yes, we were both fairies named Canda who ate pollen and dressed in flowers and danced around, isn’t that charming? One day, however, a wicked human shot me with an arrow (the human was apparently attracted to you, Yasodhara, because you were quite a pretty little fairy, yes you were) and my life was in grave danger until you talked Brahma into helping me and so I lived, isn’t that marvelous, Yasodhara, I lived because of you. You were devoted to me, you see, as you always have been and as you always will be. I hope that makes you feel better.”
She grabbed my hand and kissed it, pressing it to her tear-stained face. “Let me learn from you … Buddha?”
That night as we were eating dinner, Ananda glanced over at me. “Could you not find some way of allowing Prajapati and Yasodhara to be part of the sangha, master?”
“No, Ananda, I could not and please stop asking me about it.”
“I do so only because Prajapati and Yasodhara are not going away, master. They are continuing to follow us everywhere we go.”
“I am fully aware of that, Ananda.”
“We have told them to leave but they won’t listen. Their feet are bleeding very badly, master.”
“Yes, and that is because they are not made for this life, Ananda. They do not belong here, which is my point exactly.”
Ananda and I ate in silence for a long moment. Then: “Can women not even achieve enlightenment, master?”
“Hmm?”
“Can women not even achieve enlightenment? Is enlightenment only for men?”
“Women can achieve enlightenment, of course, Ananda, theoretically speaking. But what Prajapati and Yasodhara are asking of me simply cannot occur and fine, I will tell you why. I have never disclosed the following to you or anyone else, Ananda, so brace yourself: My perfect wisdom will only last for one thousand years.” (CV 10:1)
“Oh master, no!”
“I’m afraid so.”
“But why?”
“That I don’t know, it’s simply the way things are. My insights will resonate for a thousand years and after that be completely forgotten.”
“That is awful, master!”
“But that is not all, Ananda. If women were to enter the sangha, my words would not last a thousand years but rather, prepare yourself, five hundred years.” (ANG 8:51)
“Oh no!”
“For just as when mold strikes, the crops are doomed, if women were to strike the sangha, it too would be doomed.”
An hour later, at bedtime, out of the blue: “What if women were inferior to men, master?”
“What do you mean by inferior, Ananda?”
“I don’t know exactly, just … inferior in every way. Mightn’t that work?”
I started to speak, then stopped and considered Ananda’s question.
19
“I have decided that women may join the sangha, Ananda,” I announced over tea the next morning. (CV 10:1)
“Oh, master!”
“But only under the following condition: That they play an inferior role in the community.”
“Yes, master, of course!”
“One example: A woman who has been a nun for, let us say, fifty years meets a man who has been a monk for, let us say, one day. The woman is still the man’s inferior, she must defer to him, she must pay her respects to him. This one-day monk may criticize this fifty-year nun all he wishes for as long as he wishes but she may not criticize him at ALL, EVER.” (TV)
“Prajapati will be so happy, master, oh, this is such exciting
news.”
“No, Ananda, it is not exciting news. It is, in fact, terrible news. Allowing women into the sangha, as I already told you, will cut in half the period of time during which my profound teachings will illuminate the world.”
“Oh … Oh yes, master …”
“Please stop smiling like that, Ananda.”
A few days later, I stood before a small group of women, my sangha’s first nuns. At the front of the group was Prajapati; behind her was Yasodhara; behind her were many others. “Have you any lessons for us, Tathagata?” Prajapati asked me.
“I do, nuns. Please imagine a butcher, if you will. Please imagine that this butcher is killing a cow and carving it up with an extremely sharp knife. Imagine that the butcher cuts away all the cow’s flesh and organs, leaving only the cow’s hide. Have you imagined all this? Good. Now a question for you, nuns: If the butcher were to hold up the cow’s hide and pronounce, ‘This is the cow,’ would he be lying or speaking the truth? It still looks like the cow, but as it has been gutted and there is literally nothing left inside it, tell me, is it in fact the cow?” (NKV 3:274–75)
Some of the women glanced at each other, unsure. Finally Prajapati spoke. “We do not know, Tathagata.”
“Then I will tell you: The butcher is telling the truth, the empty hide is the cow. In fact, it is a superior version of the cow because the flesh and organs that the butcher cut away represented lust and desire. The butcher’s sharp knife represented noble wisdom removing these impurities and, when you get right down to it, the butcher basically represented me.”
The women stared at me in evident confusion for a moment. “Are you saying that the hollowed out version of the cow is better, Tathagata?”
“Indeed I am, nun, for it is better for the cow, far better, to be an empty husk than to experience desire.”
The women were silent for a moment, then one of them asked, “Have you yourself ever been a woman, Tathagata?”
“I have indeed, sister, and thank you for asking. Once, nuns, in a previous lifetime, I was a beautiful, intelligent and charming queen named Rubyavarti. Sadly, there was a famine in my country. People were slowly starving to death, some of them were literally preparing to eat their own children. I knew I had to do something to help people and so, as a woman, I did the one thing that no man could possibly do: I fed others with my body.”
“You breast-fed your people, Tathagata?”
“In a manner of speaking. I cut my breasts off and people ate them.” (RUJAT)
“ … You cut your breasts off?”
“People were extremely impressed with my decision to do so. ‘Rubyavarti’s wise choice contrasts with her sex!’ they cried in joy. Afterwards, of course, my husband wished for my beautiful breasts to grow back and they magically did, but then do you know what happened, nuns?”
“You cut your breasts off again to feed more people, Tathagata?”
“That is an excellent guess, nun, but no. What actually happened is that the king of the gods came to me and asked what I wished for most of all and I told him, ‘My one and only wish is to be a man.’ He then granted my wish and I became a man. So you see, nuns, by cutting off my breasts I escaped the horrible fate of being a woman. Isn’t that an excellent story?”
The women stared at me in silence.
As we were heading back to our chambers, Ananda turned to me: “Master?”
“What is it, Ananda?”
“Why would a butcher do such a thing?”
“ … What?”
“Why would a butcher cut all the meat off a cow and then stitch it back together as an empty husk?”
“Oh be quiet, Ananda.”
“Yes, master, I’m so sorry, master.”
I did have one moderately successful encounter with a woman during this stretch of time. It occurred when I flew up to heaven and visited my dead mother there. (MV 10:1)
“Siddhartha?” Mother whispered in amazement when she first saw me. She rushed to embrace me but I pushed her away. “I am not here to hug you, Mother. I am here to teach you the truth regarding Absolute Reality.”
“But my son—”
“We will begin with the Four Noble Truths, Mother.”
“But Siddhartha—”
“Do you want to hear about my profound insights or not?”
“Yes … yes, of course I do, my son,” she whispered. I lectured my mother for the next hundred hours. She mainly sat silently and listened to me, but at one point she did interject. “But my son,” she murmured, “life is not all pain, is it? Here you are before me, for instance, my beloved Siddhartha, and there is no pain in that.” Once again, she tried to embrace me; once again, I rebuffed her. “Soon I will leave you again, Mother, and you will never see me again because soon I will be extinct, so think of the pain of that, eh?” I replied. That shut her up.
After I finished describing Absolute Truth to my mother, I rose and started to leave. She touched my arm. “Please, Siddhartha, before you go, tell me, did you marry? Did you become a father? Am I a grandmother, my son?”
I hesitated, sighed. “I married and had a son, Mother.”
“What is his name?”
“Rahula.”
“Rahu—? But Siddhartha, that means ‘shackle.’”
“Exactly, because that’s what Rahula was to me, Mother, a shackle, as was my wife, Yasodhara. I left them both the day Rahula was born because that was when I first understood that attachments were nothing but traps and that I was not going to be trapped and please stop crying Mother or I will leave immediately.”
When she didn’t stop crying I left and as I flew back down to earth, I remember thinking to myself, “Why did I even bother with that?”
20
Yasodhara’s return to my life brought a second problem with it: Rahula. He was eleven years old now, quite handsome like me, but somewhat sour-looking, I thought. He was around a great deal and I often had no idea what to say to him. One night as he was washing my feet, however, I had an idea. “Do you see the water in your dipper, Rahula?” (MJ 61)
“Yes, Father.”
“Unless you are careful to avoid lies, you will be no better than that dipper,” I said, then roughly knocked the water out of the dipper onto the floor. “Did you see what I just did, Rahula?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Unless you are careful to avoid lies, whatever is good in you will be lost in that same exact way.” Now I grabbed the dipper out of his hand and turned it upside down. “Do you see what I am doing now, Rahula?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Unless you are careful to avoid lies, you will become nothing but an empty vessel, like this dipper.” As Rahula stared back at me, I could see confusion in his eyes; “But Father, I’m not lying,” he was clearly thinking. Which was true, he wasn’t lying, he wasn’t even saying anything, how could he have been lying? A moment later, I tried a different approach. “Imagine an elephant, eh, Rahula? Imagine that this elephant is large, powerful and battle-hardened. Until this elephant has devoted his life to the king, however, Rahula, I tell you that he is not fully trained. Similarly, unless you avoid telling lies, you are not fully trained.” (RAH)
Again, Rahula stared back at me in obvious confusion. I found myself shifting uncomfortably. “The point I am trying to make here is that I am like a lion, Rahula, the king of all beasts. People are scared of me is what I am getting at, they tremble before me. ‘But we thought we were permanent, Tathagata,’ they whine to me. ‘Well, guess what, fools, you’re not permanent, you’re impermanent, just like everything else.’ That makes them shit, just like elephants do in my presence. Do you see my point?” (SY 22:78)
Still Rahula was silent. I turned away and shook my head. “This is why I left when he was a baby,” I remember thinking to myself. “To avoid moments exactly like this.”
A few years later, Rahula was sitting under a tree and meditating. “Try to be like the earth, Rahula,” I instructed him. “When people drop disagreea
ble things on the earth, shit for instance, the earth is not upset; the earth doesn’t even care. Or better yet, try to be like space, Rahula. Nothing bothers space and do you know why? Because ‘space’ is nothing. Be like that, be nothing.”
Rahula opened his eyes and stared directly at me. I instantly felt myself stiffen. “You must get rid of your ill will,” I informed him. “You are filled with cruelty and resentment. I can see it in your eyes.” (MJ 62)
Still he stared at me. I turned and walked away.
That night after dinner I sat Rahula down. “As you presumably know, Rahula, I have perfect remembrance of all my previous lifetimes.”
“Yes, Father.”
“I would like to tell you about the lifetime that occurred just prior to this one and was, consequently, extremely important. I was Prince Vessantara, Rahula, a great being, not necessarily ‘perfect’ yet but definitely ‘great.’ (VSJAT) One of the things that made me so great was my extraordinary generosity. To give you an idea, when I was born (which I had to do through my mother’s birth canal, which was utterly disgusting, but never mind that right now), I emerged talking. ‘Is there anything I can give away, Mother?’ I instantly asked. ‘I wish to give to charity!’ When my mother agreed, I roared like a little lion, Rahula, that’s how happy I was to be so generous.” (NK)
Rahula nodded, looking vaguely unsure.
“My wife in this previous lifetime was named Maddi, Rahula, and one night she had a terrible nightmare. She came rushing into my chambers in the middle of the night, begging me to comfort her. ‘Why are you here?’ I demanded of her. ‘I have had a nightmare, Prince Vessantara.’ But when Maddi described her nightmare to me, Rahula, I was not in the least disturbed by it. Rather I was elated by what I heard. Because I instantly understood that Maddi’s dream was prophetic and what it prophesied was that I was just about to fulfill the Perfection of Giving! Do you know how I was going to do that, Rahula?”
“No, Father.”
“I was going to give my children away!”
“ … What?”
“‘You ate some bad meat, woman,’ I told Maddi. ‘Go back to your bed, there’s nothing to your nightmare.’ I knew this wasn’t true, of course. I knew Maddi’s nightmare was prophetic but I told her otherwise out of compassion for her. The following day Maddi left our two children in my care. ‘Protect them, my Lord,’ she implored me as she went off in search of food. (Why a princess had to go off in search of food I’m still not entirely sure of, but no matter, moving on.) Not long after Maddi left, a man came to the house, Rahula. He was fat, filthy and deformed, with rotten teeth. He was horrible-looking really, he barely even looked human. But when this monstrous creature asked for my children, do you know what I felt at that moment, Rahula?”
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