The Dhamma Man

by Vilas Sarang

  The other great hope of the times were the Upanishads. In the seventh century BC, they were just surfacing, and they caught on among the intellectual youth. The mystique was further reinforced, for the Upanishads were a kind of a ‘secret’ doctrine. (‘Upa-ni-shad’, translated literally, means, ‘to sit down with someone, a guru’); the guru would teach the doctrine privately.

  The Upanisads were still appearing, one by one, when Siddharth was in his youth. He, as a raja’s son, had no dearth of teachers. Siddharth chose to learn about this new thing from Bhrigu Rishi, who was specially known for his knowledge of the Upanishads.

  The Upanishads had the freshness and the romantic wonder of the Vedas in their young days:

  ‘Who is this one?’

  ‘We worship him as the Self.’

  ‘Which one is the Self?’

  ‘He whereby one sees, or whereby one hears, or whereby one smells odour …’

  This is from the Aitaraya Upanishad. And the lines that follow are from the Swetasvatara Upanishad:

  What is the cause, Brahman? Whence are we born?

  Whereby do we live? And on what are we established …

  This wonder was wonderful, exhilarating, but it did not solve Siddharth’s problem. It did not reconcile for him the three visions that were seared in his mind.

  Siddharth found that the Upanishads taught the doctrine of all-unity, the unity of the absolute. As it is said bluntly in the Katha Upanishad: ‘The Wise one, that is, the Atman, or thyself, is not born, nor dies’. The monism of the Upanishads was something that young Siddharth viewed suspiciously. As a mature philosopher, Buddha contradicted these assertions of Indian philosophy. There is, he declared, neither an immortal soul that survives the body, nor an absolute in and behind all things.

  ‘Prince, you do not like the Upanishads very much, do you?’ Bhrigu Rishi asked.

  ‘Reverend sir, truth to tell, I am doubtful about this one-god-only, or one-absolute-only principle. I foresee that in the future centuries Hindus will go back to their revelling in many gods.’

  ‘That may be so, O prince! But there are many other things in the Upanishads.’

  ‘I am aware of that. That is why I am persisting in my studies of the texts. The brilliance of the thoughts is astounding—a continual feast for the intellect.’

  ‘Exactly, O prince. Here is one bit:

  See, truly, not for the love of the wife is a wife dear, but for love of the Self a wife is dear.

  See, truly, not for the love of the sons are sons dear, but for love of the Self sons are dear …

  And so on.’

  ‘Each thought makes you ponder, reverend sir.’

  ‘Listen to this long thought:

  He who passes beyond hunger and thirst, beyond sorrow and delusion, beyond old age and death—Brahmins who know such a Self overcome desire for sons, desire for wealth, desire for worlds, and live the life of mendicants. For desire for sons is desire for wealth, and desire for wealth is desire for worlds, for both these are merely desires. Therefore let a Brahmin become disgusted with learning and desire to live as a child. When he has become disgusted both with the state of childhood and with learning, then he becomes an ascetic. When he has become disgusted both with the non-ascetic state and with the ascetic state, then he becomes a Brahmin.

  ‘By what means would he become a Brahmin?’

  ‘By that means by which he does become such a one. Aught else than this Self (Atman) is wretched.’

  Siddharth was moved by this thought from the Brihadaranyak Upanishad. It seemed to echo his own thoughts: ‘For both are merely desires … then he becomes an ascetic …’ The young man who was soon going to live a life without family, a life of wandering, a life as a sraman, is being spoken to here.

  Bhrigu Rishi introduced the young man to other thought currents prevalent at the time. Principal among them was the Lokayata, whose name means ‘directed towards the (visible) world’, and whose leader was Charvaka. The Lokayatas were also called nastika, god-deniers. The Lokayatas declared: ‘There is no god.’ People ridiculed them. Later, Buddha avoided making any statement. He would say, ‘Let us shelve that question. We have more immediate questions: suffering, craving and others.’ One belief of the Lokayatas which Buddha firmly eschewed is: ‘Live happily as long as life remains in you, and eat ghee even if you are in debt. The only thing of value in life is what increases happiness.’ This thought was repugnant to Buddha.

  If these philosophical riches were not enough, a young man could go to a grove at the edge of the town which attracted many people, and where people with diverse views used to argue passionately. There were all kinds of people: for instance there were the Ajivikas, the fatalists, and there were the loosely religious, who changed their faith every six months. There was such an intellectual ferment in the sixth century BC in India that perhaps it is not a matter of wonder that one such as Buddha came to be.

  Not one gem, but two! For the father of what we now call Jainism, Mahavir Vardhaman, was also born at about the same time as Buddha. Both Jainism and Buddhism are close. The word ‘ahimsa’, which is in such vogue nowadays, is the prominent feature of both religions; but Jainism is far more dynamically—and eye-catchingly, one might say—and doctrinally in favour of ahimsa. It is this fierce ahimsa, or non-violence, that clashed with the Vedic sacrifices.

  Since Jainism and Buddhism were coeval, and geographically close together, there was often competition between the two to acquire the greatest possible number of followers. Both religions are sraman sangh (organizations based on disciples). Both religions reject the idea of an all-powerful godhood. Jainism does not accept the authority of the Vedas. Jainism is very old; it did not spring up with the enlightenment of a Buddha. There were twenty-four tirthankars (a superior, wisdom-spreading mahatma) before the last one, Mahavir; the first three tirthankars are mentioned in the Yajur Veda. Jainism has a formidably abstract and complex textual base.

  However, in spite of its ancient origin, Jainism was not able to spread its message widely or to spread as far and wide as Buddhism. Buddhism is inherently cosmopolitan; it consistently picks up followers, or at least admirers. Jainism has a provincial feel, a contentment with its generations-old devotees. Buddhism has glamour, an aura that is like a magnet. In its heydays, Buddhism spread its message far and wide. Even today, Chinese and Japanese pilgrims come to India to visit the holy sites of Buddhism.

  But the sad irony is that in its homeland, Buddhism has almost disappeared. The invisible and insistent pressure of the mammoth shadow of Hinduism has practically wiped out all traces. There are pockets here and there where the religion survives: the Tibetan refugees, Dr B.R. Ambedkar’s Dalit converts. However, Buddhism, of course, survives energetically in Sri Lanka, and in some Southeast Asian countries. Jainism may be provincial, but it endures with stability in select Indian areas. Buddha and Mahavir were not only contemporary, but lived quite close to each other. Mahavir died in the town of Pava, the town in which Buddha finally fell ill. Buddha died in Kusinara, six miles from Pava. In spite of having lived and died near each other, there is no mention, or record, of the two great men having met and talked together. They were probably busy collecting followers!

  When he was twenty or twenty-one years old, Siddharth had an unusual experience. There was a group of four or five Kshatriya boys, all from prominent families. One of them, Hemgupt, came to see Siddharth early one morning. ‘Let’s go, Siddharth,’ Hemgupt said. ‘We have an important rendezvous.’

  ‘What is it … something to do with girls?’

  ‘Not at all. You’ll find out when we get there. Bring your horse.’

  The two went in the direction of the jungle. They stopped near a jungle stream. Two of their friends were already there. Beside the stream was the dead body of a full-grown male tiger.

  ‘Ugrasen and I killed this tiger last evening with our arrows. We covered it with branches and leaves.’

  ‘What are we going to do with it?’ Sidd
harth asked.

  ‘We will open its chest and eat its heart. This Ugrasen here is very good at cutting up animals.’

  ‘Eat its heart? Are you serious?’

  ‘Of course, Siddharth. If you eat a tiger’s heart, you get the tiger’s courage. We are Kshatriyas; we will be warriors soon and this is especially good for us.’

  Siddharth kept silent.

  With a sharp knife, Ugrasen cut a section of the tiger’s chest expertly. He took out the tiger’s heart. He asked Hemgupt to bring a large leaf of a particular tree. Ugrasen laid out the tiger’s heart on the leaf. Then he cut it into four equal parts.

  ‘Here, friends, take a share,’ he said.

  Each picked up a piece of the tiger’s heart. Siddharth didn’t.

  ‘Eat, Siddharth, eat,’ Hemgupt urged.

  ‘No, I will not do such a thing.’

  ‘Siddharth, we are all Kshatriyas. You may be a general soon. Or even king. It’s for your own good that we are telling you this.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, friends. But such a thing does not fit my beliefs.’

  ‘Do you want to be a tapaswi and join a monastery?’

  ‘Not necessarily. But I cannot do what you are telling me to.’

  ‘All right, friends; we will divide the fourth part among ourselves,’ Ugrasen said.

  They finished eating and prepared to leave.

  ‘What are you going to do with the tiger’s body?’ Siddharth asked.

  ‘I will ask my servants to take it home,’ Ugrasen said. A tiger’s body then was as precious as it is now. Traditional medicine uses tiger parts like the liver and testicles for various ailments. The body fat would be melted and preserved as a remedy for aches and pains.

  The four young horsemen trooped out of the jungle, Ugrasen leading, Siddharth last.

  Siddharth understood that this was another example of orthodox beliefs, not very different from Vedic elaborations.

  The idea that he had been playing with became stronger—the idea of becoming a sraman, a wandering seeker.

  5

  Shuddodan observed Siddharth’s pensive mind and his distracted gaze. He sometimes sat far away on the palace wall, all alone. He gazed into the distance with longing in his eyes, perhaps imagining the Himalayas. It was as if he was already dreaming of the free mendicant’s life, unfettered by the householder’s duties.

  Shuddodan also observed, with alarm, Siddharth’s lack of interest in things military. A Kshatriya boy not excited about bows and arrows and swords! That was most unusual. No doubt, as a matter of course, Siddharth went through the motions of fencing, wrestling and handling elephants, but his mind was not in it.

  At this point, Shuddodan hit upon an idea most parents begin thinking of around this time: get the child married. An excellent way of tying the offspring firmly to family bonds.

  The marriage was arranged. The prospective father-in-law made his reluctance plain. Who would give his beloved daughter to a namby-pamby, introverted groom? An idea was suggested. A contest was to be arranged; one that tested both brawn and brains. Some boys of the same age were selected. They looked at Siddharth and started laughing. Shuddodan was worried, and a little humiliated. Siddharth looked at his father and seeing his discomfiture, assured him: ‘Don’t worry, father. These dullards are no threat to me.’ And indeed, Siddharth roundly beat everyone.

  In keeping with custom, this was an arranged marriage. But not altogether. The girl was called Bimbadevi or Yashodhara. Some of her friends also called her Gopa. Siddharth and Bimbadevi had seen each other at the young people’s gatherings that Shuddodan had had arranged to inculcate in his son a taste for female company. Sometimes there were late night musical soirées, exclusively for Siddharth and the women. Women vied with one another to get the attention of the prince. They drank the sura wine lustily while Siddharth only pretended to drink. Later at night, when most girls were in a stupor, Siddharth silently got up and made his way through the welter of female limbs. With more and more liquor, inhibitions vanished, and all kinds of stratagems were used to gain Siddharth’s attention, some not quite so savoury. Siddharth found this spectacle revolting, but he was a prince, and princes had to get used to royal ways.

  Bimbadevi was a well-brought-up, well-behaved girl. And though the king’s command to attend these gatherings could not be ignored, there was no question she would participate in the bacchanalia. Siddharth had seen Bimbadevi just once and that she instantly fell in love with the prince was not much of a surprise. Although not well built, Siddharth was tall and handsome. Most of all, it was the peculiar quality of his face—especially his eyes—that attracted Bimbadevi. There was a maturity about his lips and his eyes that Bimbadevi found magnetic. Although not altogether mirthless, there was a severity about the young man’s face, a composure about the look, and at the same time a tenderness, that Bimbadevi had seen in no other.

  Their eyes met, and Bimbadevi smiled. Siddharth, too, responded with a glimpse of a smile.

  ‘I was so joyful that you won the contest.’

  ‘I too am happy at the result.’

  ‘Well, we have, in the future, time enough to meet and talk. It’s not nice to indulge in personal talk in a public place.’

  ‘You are right, lady.’

  And Siddharth added, on the spur of the moment, ‘You are beautiful.’

  He surprised himself with what he said.

  Bimbadevi half smiled. She moved away. From a distance, she whispered to herself, ‘And you are beautiful too, prince.’

  The suhag raat, the wedding night. Bimbadevi was all ablaze; her soul shone through.

  ‘Nath …’ she could not say anything more.

  ‘Come, sit, Bimba.’ Siddharth took her hand in his. He caressed her face. Then he planted a light kiss upon her cheek.

  That seemed to release a flood of emotion in her. Without a thought, Bimba embraced Siddharth. Still, she could not kiss him on the lips.

  ‘Nath … my Nath …’ For a while Bimba could not say anything. Then she said, ‘Nath, I have been waiting for this day since the day our eyes met.’

  ‘Take it easy, Bimba,’ Siddharth said. ‘It is not good to abandon yourself to emotions.’

  ‘Say what you like, Nath. I cannot control myself.’

  The two stretched out on the bed, Bimba clinging to Siddharth. Now she kissed him all over; on the forehead, on the eyes, on the ears. But she, though ravenous, didn’t have the courage to kiss Siddharth on the lips.

  Then she said: ‘Kiss me on the lips, Nath.’

  Siddharth smiled a half smile, and kissed her on the lips.

  It was a taste, no more, for Bimba, and even that seemed shot through with a reticence she could not quite put her finger on. She felt that Siddharth was holding something back. But she convinced herself that she was satisfied. Perhaps, she thought, Siddharth was diffident.

  They talked. About their childhood, about all kinds of experiences. It was mostly Bimba who spoke.

  Late in the night Bimba said, ‘Nath, I am grateful for one thing.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘You did not insist on going to the extreme on the very first night.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not much interested in that.’

  Bimba had actually thanked her husband for not forcing himself upon her, but she was disappointed with his answer.

  Even after two or three nights, Bimba’s husband showed no interest in exercising his conjugal privilege—or rather, duty. Yes, it seemed more like a duty as far as Siddharth was concerned, a duty he was reluctant to discharge. Bimba had heard stories of conjugal nights, how the man behaved like a wolf, turning something which was supposed to be the pinnacle of pleasure into an experience of pain and horror. And here she was, having an experience quite the contrary. By the third night, she had positively geared up for full sexual fulfilment—she wanted it, however painful or traumatic it might be.

  Yet, it did not come. Her husband did not go beyond endearing words and re
strained caresses. Women then, like many women now, did not have the courage to boldly tell their husbands what they wanted. Bimba felt as though she was in limbo; unsure, puzzled and confused.

  On the fourth day of what was supposed to be her period of matrimonial bliss, Bimba summoned up the courage to broach the subject tentatively.

  ‘Nath, I want to ask you something …’

  ‘I know what it is that you want to ask.’

  ‘Answer the question then.’

  Her husband paused. Then he said, ‘You may be disappointed.’

  Bimba held her breath.

  ‘Look, Bimba, we will not be having sexual union for a long, long time.’

  Bimba stared at her husband.

  ‘Nath,’ she said past her dry, parched throat. ‘I don’t understand … I don’t understand what you are saying.’

  ‘Look, Bimba, if you want to enjoy a few days, a few months of marital life, it’s the only way.’

  ‘O Nath! Please stop talking in riddles. Tell me straight what’s on your mind.’

  ‘Wife, it has something to do with the vow I have taken.’

  ‘And what vow have you taken, Nath?’

  ‘To leave my household the day a son is born to me.’

  It was like the silent heat lightning of hot summer nights had fallen upon Bimba’s head.

  ‘But why? Why, Nath, why?’

  ‘From the earliest days, my goal has been to embrace, as soon as possible, the sramana life. I shall be able to do so when my last duty as a householder is fulfilled.’

  ‘But isn’t it cruel to us, to me personally, and to the son that is born to you? Think of it, your son will be raised fatherless.’

  ‘Wife, I have already talked to you of my heart’s desire. I have my goal and I will reach it.’

  ‘Then, my Nath, you could have left your house, your family, long ago. Why did you wait so long?’