—
Yasodhara’s Dream. Yasodhara dreams that she is walking in a sunny courtyard. Across the courtyard she sees her husband, walking alone. She calls out to him. He smiles his boyish, enchanting smile and begins to walk toward her. The sun shining on his face and arms fills her with warmth, as if he were bringing her the light of the sun. Midway between them, on the courtyard grass, she notices a white object. When Gautama draws near it, he bends over and picks it up. He stands with it in his hands as she comes up to him. She sees that it is a white bowl. He is holding the bowl in both hands, staring at it as if he expects it to burst into speech. She stands beside him, waiting for him to look at her. “My lord,” she says, but he does not hear her. She tugs at his arm, but he does not feel her. Wearily she sinks to her knees and leans her head against his leg.
—
The Other Side. Below him Gautama sees the moonlit treetops, the clearing, and the little Master on the hill. Above him soars the rampart. On the moonlit wall he sees the gigantic shadow of his lifting and falling wings. He imagines the wing-shadows rising higher and higher until they reach the top of the wall and suddenly vanish. And then? What lies on the other side? Gautama remembers the boyhood chariot ride with his father: “Nothing is there. Everything is here.” He remembers philosophical conundrums posed by his teachers. If you draw a line around Allness, what lies on the other side? If you do not draw a line around Allness, does it never end? Now he is nearing the limit of the known world. And beyond? The swan-wings are heavy, but Gautama is strong. As he approaches the top of the wall, he hears a sound as of rattling or low rumbling. Above him, he notices a narrow aperture that runs along the wall near the top. From the aperture emerges a broad and finely meshed net, stretched between two horizontal poles. Below him, a second net emerges from the wall. The upper net drops and entangles his wings. He thrashes helplessly as he falls into the lower net. Slowly, entrapped in a cocoon of netting, he sinks toward the trees.
—
Chanda Reflects. As the nets enclose Gautama and gradually lower him to earth, Chanda watches from the high branches where he has concealed himself. He continues peering through the leaves as the Leaf Artist hurries down the hillside, across the clearing, and into the woods to assist the fallen Prince. When Chanda is certain that his friend is unharmed, he returns to the Summer Palace and sends a messenger to the King, who, as Chanda well knows, has followed the entire adventure with close attention. Immediately after Gautama’s first visit to the artisans’ quarters, the Leaf Artist began to meet regularly with the King. In the presence of Chanda, the King instructed the Master to prepare the swan wings. The next day, he ordered royal guards to penetrate the hollow passages of the rampart and climb the inner stairways in order to operate the two concealed net-mechanisms, installed many years ago for the purpose of foiling foreign invaders. Chanda passes a sleepless night. In the morning he makes his way to the Park of Six Bridges and sits under an acacia tree at the side of a stream. What kind of man has he become? He has always thought of himself as a loyal friend, watching anxiously over Gautama’s happiness. Yet lately he can think of himself only as an instrument of his friend’s unhappiness, a traitor and spy who serves no one but the King. It’s true that the King loves his son dearly and desires nothing but his happiness, so long as that happiness is of the kind that embraces the world and its delights. But Gautama can no longer surrender himself to those delights. Or is it, rather, that the small world of the Three Palaces is no longer large enough for the restless son of a mighty King? Chanda sees again the great wings struggling in the net and turns his inward sight away. The world within the world is too small for a man with a restless heart. He must pass to the other side of the rampart, he must confront the great world in all its splendor. Of course: the other side. There’s no time to waste.
—
Languor. Gautama speaks to no one of his night adventure, which soon comes to seem no more than a summer dream. How likely is it, after all, that he rose like a great bird above the trees to the top of the rampart, one summer night when the moon was a white swan in a blue lake? But ever since his return to everyday life, a strangeness has settled over things. When, standing in the archers’ field, he pulls back the bowstring, he feels the bending of the bow and the ripple of tension in his arm, but at the same time he has the sense that he is remembering this moment, which already took place long ago: the sun shining on the wood of the arrow, the iron drum in the distance, the rough bowstring sliding along his forearm, his hair flowing over his shoulders. When, at night, he visits Yasodhara in her chamber and stares deep into her eyes, he feels that he is looking back at her from a future so distant that it is like whatever lies beyond the line drawn around Allness. When he laughs with Chanda, when he walks alone in the Park of Six Bridges or the Bower of Quiet Delights, when he observes his hand slipping beneath the transparent silk that reveals and conceals the thighs of a concubine, he is moved in the manner of a man who, walking along a path, suddenly recalls a moment from his childhood. One afternoon, bending over a pond to examine the water-grass growing beneath the surface, Gautama sees his face gazing up at him from the water. The reflection appears to be resting below the surface of the pond. At once he imagines the face straining to see him clearly but seeing him only through the silken water, which, however clear and undisturbed it may be, remains between the face and what it wishes to see like the pieces of colored silk that hang in the palace windows. There is a quietness in things, a gentle remoteness. At times he can feel the edges of his lips beginning to form a smile, without accomplishing a motion that might be called a smile, as if the act of smiling required of him a concentration, an unremitting energy of attention, that he can no longer summon.
—
The King Makes Up His Mind. The King is bitterly disappointed in Chanda. Not only has the elaborate and costly plan of attracting the Prince to the Island of Desolation failed entirely, but the failure has led to his son’s rebellion and the attempted flight over the rampart. At the same time, the King feels beholden to Chanda, who oversaw the movements of the hidden guards and the testing of the nets in the wall. More than any other person, Chanda, whatever his faults, is responsible for the safe return of his son. The thought of the Prince fills the King with anxiety. His son is withdrawing from the world of rich pleasures into some dubious inner realm that can only unfit him for kingship. And the King is beginning to feel his age: just the other night, rising from dinner, he experienced a slight dizziness that forced him to rest for a moment with both hands on the table, while faces turned to him with sharp looks. The kingdom has never been stronger, but enemies are pressing on the borders and will take advantage of any weakness, any indecisiveness. Is it possible that by shielding his son from knowledge of the world he has encouraged the very tendency toward inwardness he was trying to prevent? The thought is inescapable as he walks with Chanda in the Garden of Seven Noble Pleasures and listens skeptically to the latest plan. Chanda proposes that Gautama be allowed to ride out beyond the ramparts in order to behold the glory of the realm over which he will one day rule. The route will be carefully chosen in advance. Gautama will ride through leafy alleys and make his way past the mansions of noblemen toward the outskirts of the city. The world, in its vastness and variety, will thrill his soul. He will understand what it means to be the future ruler of a glorious kingdom. The plan strikes the King as dangerous. He can command every motion, every smile and footfall, every budding leaf, within the little world of the Three Palaces, but beyond the ramparts the large world streams away. There, things are so little subject to meticulous supervision that entire trees fall down whenever they like. What if the Prince, who has always been protected from the harshness of life, should see something that disturbs him? What if the great, teeming world dizzies him and drives him more fiercely inward? The King rejects the proposal brusquely, passes his hand over his eyes, and uneasily agrees, on condition that ten thousand servants prepare the route by sweeping the roads clean a
nd removing from view all unpleasant sights.
—
The Eastern Gate. At dawn the Eastern Gate swings open: the two halves of the Inner Gate and the two halves of the Outer Gate. Preceded by a thousand chariots and five thousand horsemen, Gautama rides beside Chanda in a gold chariot drawn by two white horses glittering with emeralds and rubies. Everything stands out sharply: the broad well-swept path, the towering mimosa trees hung with silk banners, the flash of a sword blade against the brown gleam of a horse’s flank. Deep among the trees he sees, rising like a vision or a painted image on a wall, a nobleman’s mansion with balustrades and turrets. As the progression advances, people begin to appear on both sides of the road, which leads to the outskirts of the city on the river. Gautama sees glistening black hair with red and orange flowers, a child’s knuckles like pebbles in a stream. He can feel his senses bursting open. The world is a torrent. Beauty is a brightness that burns the eyes. If he reaches out his hand, he’ll gather in his palm the sky, the jeweled horses, the broad path lined with glowing faces. He wants to swallow the world. He wants to eat the world with his eyes. Each blade of grass at the side of the road stands out like a sword. Beside a brilliant yellow robe he notices a dark shape in the grass. He orders Chanda to halt the chariot. It is some kind of animal—an animal with hands. Gautama steps down from the chariot. The creature is an animal-man, seated at the side of the path. There is no hair on the top of its head, though long white hair-strands fall along the sunken cheeks. Its eyes are dull and muddy, the skin of its face hangs from the bone. The creature’s fingers, spread on its knees, look like bird claws. In the half-open mouth, Gautama sees a single brown tooth. An ugly odor, harsher than stable smells, rises like steam. Gautama turns to Chanda, who remains standing in the chariot. “What is this creature?” He sees fear in Chanda’s eyes.
—
What Chanda Knows. Chanda knows that it is still possible to deceive Gautama, but he also knows that he has come to the end of lying. His answer will provoke an outburst of ferocious questions, which he is determined to answer truthfully. The answers will trouble his friend, whose eyes are already darkening. Gautama will turn back to the palace grounds and shut himself away. He will speak to no one. How can it have happened? The road was swept clean, the woods trimmed and painted, the houses carefully searched for the elderly, the sickly, and the deformed. Wouldn’t it be better to say that the creature is a great insect that makes its home in roadside grass? Wouldn’t it be kinder to describe it as a monster captured from a distant kingdom, where men live on the floors of lakes? Chanda sighs, looks directly into his friend’s eyes, and says: “That is an old man.” Old age is not allowed in the world of the Three Palaces. He will have to explain everything to his friend, who is still a child, in some ways. Gautama is looking hard at him. Chariot wheels shine in the sun.
—
The Southern Gate. Gautama orders Chanda to turn back from the procession and reenter the Eastern Gate. For seven days and seven nights he sits under the kimsuka tree by the fountain in the Bower of Quiet Delights and broods over the dark shape at the side of the road. The Old Man is within him: he is that man. His son is that man. That man dwells in the blood of his wife, in the blood of all beautiful women. How could he not have known? He has always known. He has known and not known. He has not known but he has known. On the morning of the eighth day he rises and seeks out Chanda. He will ride out again; he is not afraid. Together they ride through the Southern Gate. Gautama remembers how everything stood out sharply when he set forth through the Eastern Gate, and he longs to be wakened from his dark dream by the fierce brightness of the world. In the distance he can see spires and towers shimmering in a blue haze. On both sides of the road stand royal guards, who cheer him on his way. As he greets one guard, who is separated from the next by an arm’s length, Gautama notices someone seated on the ground between them. He stops the chariot, dismounts, and stands looking down at a young man as thin as a child. His eyes are clouded. His breath sounds wet. The young man is trembling and groaning in the sun. A greenish liquid flows from his nose and mouth. His leg is yellow with urine. Gautama turns violently to Chanda, who does not lower his eyes. Chanda says: “That is a sick man.”
—
The Western Gate. The journey is broken off. For seven days and seven nights Gautama broods over the decay of the body. On the morning of the eighth day he rides with Chanda through the Western Gate. Scarcely has he set forth when he sees a horse-drawn cart moving slowly at the side of the road, followed by people wailing and hitting their chests with their fists. In the cart a man is lying on his back, his limbs stiff as columns, his face empty as stone. Gautama looks harshly at Chanda. “What is happening?” he asks.
—
Seeing. Gautama returns through the Western Gate. He speaks to no one. He goes directly to the quarters of the concubines, in order to find forgetfulness. Something is not right. The women smile at him, but their teeth are broken and brown, their breasts sag like sacks of dirt, their arms are crooked sticks. A naked girl lying on her stomach looks over her shoulder at him. A snake crawls out from between her buttocks. Her face is a grinning bone. Gautama flees into the bright afternoon. Overhead, the sun is a ball of blood. He looks at his hand. Cracks appear in the skin. A black liquid hangs from his fingertips.
—
The Northern Gate. On the eighth day Gautama orders the Northern Gate to be opened. He must see the world as it is. What is the world? He will walk breast-high in blood and excrement, he will kiss the mouths of the dead. Not far from the gate he sees a man walking at the side of the road. The man is carrying a white bowl. He wears a simple robe and walks peacefully. His hair is cut close to his scalp. The whiteness of the bowl, the stillness of the arms, the serenity of the gaze, all draw Gautama’s tense attention. Chanda explains that the man is an ascetic, who carries a begging bowl. Once he was a wealthy man, head of a great house with many servants. Now he has nothing, which he calls everything. When Chanda turns to look at his friend, he sees Gautama staring at the white bowl with a look of ferocity.
—
In the Garden of Seven Noble Pleasures. In the indigo night, King Suddhodana is walking in the Garden of Seven Noble Pleasures. The moonlight rippling over his arms like white silk, the dark odors of the rose-apple trees, soothe him and fill him with peacefulness. He can permit himself to feel a measure of calm, for the reports from Chanda have made him warily hopeful. The Prince has ridden out through all four gates and each time has returned quickly. He appears to prefer the familiar pleasures of the world within the ramparts to the difficult pleasures of the unknown world. He will never be a conqueror of kingdoms. Instead, he will rule from the Three Palaces and embellish the lands that his father has won. It is good. For there is a time of expansion, and a time of consolidation; a time of blood, and a time of wine. The soldiers will obey him, for disobedience is death. And after the reign of King Siddhartha Gautama will come the reign of Gautama’s son, who already handles his horse like a man and speaks with the easy authority of one born to rule. Rahula will take command like his grandfather before him, he will ride out and conquer new lands. The young boy fills him with pride. But then, there is no reason to rush things; the King himself is still strong. Only the other day he hunted from dawn to nightfall and later, in the women’s quarters, made a young concubine cry out with pleasure.
—
Leave-taking. Outside the bedchamber, Gautama raises his hand to push aside the heavy curtain in the doorway. He hesitates and does not move. He can hear Yasodhara breathing in the marriage bed, with its high posts topped by carved lotus blossoms and its scarlet bed mat woven with a border of gold mandarin ducks. Through a second doorway is his son’s chamber. Gautama imagines himself bending over Rahula, who lies with his face turned to one side and his forearm flung across his chest. He is a healthy boy, skilled in archery and wrestling, an excellent horseman, a leader among his friends. Never does he seek out solitary places, where there is no soun
d but the dip of a swan’s beak in the water. Now Gautama imagines himself bending over Yasodhara. The thin light of an oil lamp shines on her cheek. Asleep, she is like the swan under the swan in the dark water, vivid and shut away. He will step into the chamber and bend over her, he will whisper his farewell. As he stands outside the curtain, imagining himself bending over her and whispering his farewell, he feels that she is far away, though he has only to push aside the curtain and step over to her. Soon the doorway, too, will be far away. Something troubles his thoughts, and now it is growing clearer, now he has it, he sees it: even here, at the threshold of his wife’s chamber, where his hand is lifted before the curtain, he is already elsewhere. To push through the curtain is not to say farewell, but to return from a journey that permits no return. An irritation comes over him. Is he still so bound to pleasure? He turns away, toward the night.
—
Moonlight. Chanda glances back as the great doors of the Northern Gate close behind him. Then he rides ahead with Gautama, each on his horse, along the moonlit path. Chanda is exhilarated and desolate: exhilarated because he is helping his friend escape from the prison-world of the Three Palaces, desolate because he knows that life without Gautama will be meaningless. It is Chanda who has secretly ordered the thirty guards of the Northern Gate to remove themselves to the other three gates, Chanda who has replaced them with six trustworthy attendants; it is Chanda who has prepared the horses and arranged the time of departure. The King will be enraged, he may even have Chanda arrested and flung into prison, but in time he will forgive him and in the end he will thank him. Gautama’s departure, the King will come to understand, could not have been prevented. Far better that his son should escape with a trusted friend who can lead him safely through the dangers of the night to the border of the Great Forest. As they ride along the path, Chanda repeatedly looks at the Prince, who stares straight ahead. His long hair, bound in back, bounces lightly between his shoulders. Chanda suddenly imagines the future knife cutting off the proud locks, the coarse robe replacing the fine silk that ripples in moonlight like trembling water. The son of King Suddhodana will carry a white bowl. His long fingers will shape themselves around the whiteness of the bowl. So vivid is the image of the begging Gautama that Chanda is startled to see the Prince in his long hair and silk robe, riding beside him on a white horse. The trees have begun to thin out a little. At a fork in the road Chanda leads them onto the right-hand path, which turns away from the city on the river. Dark fields on both sides stretch into the night. Although Gautama says nothing and looks only ahead, Chanda can feel, flowing from his friend, a strange lightheartedness. And after all, why not? They are riding out on an adventure, a world-adventure, on a fine night in summer. They’re like a couple of boys, playing in moonlight while the grown-ups are sleeping. In the night of the bright moon all things are possible, for moonlight is dream-light, and may the night go on. To be alive! To breathe! And when the adventure, like all adventures, comes to an end, there will be others. Tomorrow, in sunlight, they will walk across the courtyard to the musicians’ quarters, they will laugh in the air of summer. But he isn’t thinking clearly. Tomorrow his friend will not be with him. His friend will never be with him again. An uneasiness comes over Chanda. The long night has tired him. He can feel the tiredness tugging at him from the inside. He has to stay alert, on this night that must never end. But already he sees the Great Forest rising up before him. How can that have happened? The forest is coming nearer, it’s hurrying to meet them. Shouldn’t he have been paying closer attention? Now Gautama has stopped. He is dismounting, he is delivering his horse to Chanda. From his arms he begins to remove bracelets of jewels. Chanda wants to slow him down, to stop him forever, to explain that things are happening much too quickly, only moments ago they were riding along, two friends on a summer night. As Chanda receives the jewels, still warm from the Prince’s arms, he feels a trembling in his body. With a sense of deep violation, he falls to his knees and begs his friend to let him accompany him on his journey. There are snakes and wolves in the forest. The Prince’s feet, accustomed to swept paths, will walk on thorns. What will he eat? How will he sleep? Even as he cries out his need, Chanda is sick with shame and bows his head. He becomes aware of a silence around him and looks up in alarm, but Gautama is still standing there. Chanda hears a light wind in the trees, which seem to be speaking, unless it’s the night sky: “The time of sleeping is over.” He tries to understand, but he hears only the wind in the leaves. Gautama is pointing at the eastern sky. “Look. Daybreak.” Above a line of hills, a thin bar of dawn has appeared. A heavy tiredness comes over Chanda, like a weight of cloth. A yawn shudders through his face and runs along the length of his kneeling body. He bends his neck in weariness. On his shoulder he feels something. Is it the touch of a hand? He wants to shout out in wild joy, he wants to burst into bitter tears. When he opens his eyes he sees Gautama disappearing into the forest. Chanda waits, kneeling before the trees. The sky is growing light. A bird lands on a branch. After a while Chanda rises and, leading both horses, starts back along the path.
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