And in his all-too-familiar way, he fell amiably silent, refusing to speak anymore. I tried to concentrate on the present moment, where he would remain alive forever.
With the rains ending, I began to overhear talk among the younger monks that mercenaries were in town. We were still in Bimbisara’s grove, having spent the season there, and now dark rumors slithered about concerning Prince Ajatasattu, who supposedly wanted his father to abdicate, as Devadatta continued to hint that the Tathagata should do likewise. I often spotted Devadatta conferring with Ajatasattu and members of his retinue, and each time I approached all talk stopped. When I mentioned this to the Tathagata, he refused to involve himself in this intrigue, reminding me that the rains retreat was almost over, and we would soon be going on the road to teach. Then, on an overcast morning in Rajagaha, where about fifty monks and I had gone on foot to collect our alms food, I caught sight of my brother.
We had just entered the city gates of reinforced teak that ascended high above us, dark and glowering, especially in cloudy weather. But the atmosphere was brightened by the usual colorful crowd: bronze-skinned construction workers with clay-splattered dhotis, glittering nobles with crimson turbans and bronze scimitars, barefoot dancers with jangling silver bells around their ankles, and holy seekers of all kinds, along with animals from elephants and war horses to tiny yellow finches twittering in gilded cages. The air smelled of wood smoke, frying spices, and a mixture of human and animal pong.
Our line of monks let itself be carried by the crowd’s motion as we made our way to the side streets where householders stood waiting to fill our bowls. Turning a corner, we eddied around a half dozen soldiers in black paridhanas fitted out with bronze daggers and iron swords. The tallest of them appeared to be their leader. I stared at the cleft in his chin, the set of his jaw, the righteous flare in his eyes. A deadly chill closed around my heart. The man had to be Jagdish.
He looked almost the same as I remembered him, older of course, but he, too, had our family’s youthful appearance—his hair still mainly black, his shaven jaw almost as firm as a thirty-year-old’s. The skin sagged around his eyes, but they retained their almond shape. I kept walking. I wasn’t terribly worried at this point in my life that he’d recognize me, an aged monk among other monks, but I took no chances even as my mind thrashed about, frantic to know what he was doing here of all places. I thought of the hushed conversations in the Sangha and the suspicious meetings between Devadatta and Prince Ajatasattu, which excluded the King, loyal follower of the Tathagata that he was. I also thought of Jagdish reporting my “womanizing” to Devadatta so many years earlier. All my suspicions about the two of them conspiring returned. They could well be plotting against the Tathagata himself.
I spent the afternoon in the city questioning laypeople, mainly innkeepers and shop owners, about the military presence in town. No one knew exactly what these mercenaries wanted, but one word kept coming up: assassins. Finally, I convinced the local paan seller, a notorious gossip, that to supply me with information would gain him much needed karmic merit with the Tathagata, who he believed could fly to the deva realms and walk through walls. The paan seller confirmed my suspicions; Devadatta had been seen several times conversing with certain Brahmins known to oppose the Tathagata, who had in turn been seen with Jagdish.
I thanked him and returned to the bamboo grove, reflecting that I had my own karma to worry about. Once again, I’d broken my monk’s precepts and engaged in deception, which I’d done by omitting the fact that I’d never witnessed the Tathagata’s supernatural powers. I vowed this violation of the truth would be my last, never imagining, as it turned out, that I’d break this vow in less than two days.
That evening, I attempted once again to convince the Tathagata that he was in danger. He was in his wattled hut, meditating between interviews. “Ananda,” he said, “there are two people in the world that you have yet to forgive. Devadatta and Jagdish. Don’t you find it strange that these are the same two you now accuse of threatening my life?”
“I have evidence, not the least of which is that Jagdish has come to this city! Why can’t you see this?”
He smiled wearily, as if to encourage a child who once again has gotten his lesson wrong. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll make sure to remain mindful of my immediate surroundings. And you be mindful of your emotions, for only if people think you’re sufficiently enlightened will they give you the authority you’ll need to recite the Dharma once I’m gone.”
“I don’t want you to die prematurely,” I said, and with these words my fears burgeoned, even as the Tathagata dismissed me with a kind but firm nod.
By the time I reached my own hut, I was convinced that only I could save him from the mercinaries, although I had enough presence of mind to ask, was this Mara’s doing, this self-importance clothed in mounting torment? Not to mention that I was virtually helpless, an elderly woman disguised as a monk committed to never harming another living being.
But I had to do something.
The following morning I made a private alms visit to Bimbisara’s physician, which I often did to procure medications for the monks. Long ago I’d used some of these substances as cosmetics; now I needed them to transform my face into that of the demon who would visit my brother. The day was bright and sunny, making it reasonable for me to request some kohl to protect some of the older monks’ sensitive eyes; I also asked for turmeric powder, my old friend, to help with the digestive problems that had lingered on since the monsoon. In my hut, I mixed the turmeric into a soapy red paste and blended the kohl with seed oil. Yes, I was already involved in unwholesome acts of deception. Surely they were justified if they saved the Tathagata’s life! That is, if my intentions were pure.
Yet how could I know? What I was about to do was hardly suitable for a person of my age—monk or woman. But no one else had seen fit to stop my brother, killer of my lover and countless others, most likely even our sister, and he was now seeking to destroy the opportunity for all beings to end their suffering forever.
A desire shuddered through me to see Jagdish in hell.
Involuntarily, I gasped. Had I really had such an evil thought? Apparently, by plotting against my brother, I had prepared the soil for hatred and delusion to sprout and flourish in my heart. Oh, so quickly!
Whatever I did tonight, I had to do mindfully and take no pleasure in feelings of revenge.
As soon as I finished my chores, I headed for the outer forest, ostensibly to meditate but actually to change into my widows’ white clothes, the ones I still kept hidden in whatever cave or hut I occupied for when I had to crawl away to die. I took with me the medicine vials, as well as a hand-sized oil lamp, a half-dozen cleaning rags, and a little clay jar containing a mixture of lard, ash, and lye for washing my face afterwards. In a tangled grove of palms and ivy, I buried my yellow robes and placed a rock over the spot. Then I started out for Rajagaha, draping my head in a thin white scarf.
I’d learned from various shopkeepers where my brother was staying, at a courtesan’s brick mansion that also functioned as an inn. It stood on a side street, not far from the main road. By the time I arrived, the city was glimmering with oil lamps and smelling heavily of their smoke, the air vibrating with the human din of shouts, conversational chatter, flute warbles, and—as I reached the house’s voluptuously carved wooden gate—the moans and shrieks of love.
In spite of my nervousness, I had little trouble entering the courtyard—brown brick and dripping with jasmine—I passed myself off as a servant, a hunched-over widow who begged for rice and stray coins as payment for any sweeping and scrubbing I could do. Here was yet one more example of impermanence to ponder—that women are the most visible of beings in youth, only to fade away with our beauty until in age we are as close to invisible as a being can get. Tonight I took advantage of this invisibility, an anonymous crone peeking into boudoirs and banquet rooms. Jagdish was in one
of the latter, seated at a table with a dozen of his cohorts, the group wreathed by spangled women undulating their hips, caressing the men’s muscled bare arms, and murmuring as many flattering lies as they needed to create the illusion that they were the source of supreme happiness. My brother merely scowled even as he pinched breasts and bottoms between swigs of wine. A woman-hater, resenting his dependence on them for physical relief.
I returned to the courtyard, which was empty but for three bejeweled women lolling in wrought-iron swings. I bowed and spoke in my most elderly and obsequious voice. “I have a digestive potion that Jagdish Gotama wishes me to deliver to his room.”
The oldest of the women, about forty and wrapped in crimson silk, shrugged. “Second floor, right-hand corner. But don’t expect him there anytime soon.” With this remark, she glanced at her companions, and the three of them shared a titter at the idea of an old widow waiting in a virile man’s bedroom. I thanked them, smiling at the humor that helped them forget that they shared the old widow’s fate.
The balcony overlooking the courtyard was dark and narrow, lit only by wall sconces. Earlier I’d spotted a couple of empty bed chambers, doors ajar, where now I stopped to borrow a mirror, my throat tight with guilt—Second Precept: Never take what is not freely given. I whispered a plea for forgiveness, then made my way to the room where my brother was staying. It was a corner chamber hung with striped tapestries and furnished with a table, a stool, a stand-alone closet the height of a man, and a canopied bed large enough for two or three people to engage in many kinds of imaginative copulation. If I knew my brother, he wouldn’t bring a woman to this room, preferring to sleep alone after having degraded himself with the female sex. But if he brought someone, so be it.
I needed to prepare my face. Daubing on the kohl and turmeric pastes, I thought of Bahauk’s war paint, the night he almost converted me to demon belief. My demon face would be far worse: a glossy fire-red skull and face with black-smeared teeth, eyes sunk into hell-black hollows. Pale, wormy tongue writhing in the darkness of its mouth-pit below black-rimmed nostrils. Black neck, and hands and arms saturated in blood-scarlet. I rearranged my widow’s robes, fraying the sleeves with quick jerks to the thin white fabric. I wound the long scarf around my waist to give form to my figure, then threw the ends over my shoulders to be used later to drift veils of mystery through the air. I hid behind the closet, extinguished my lamp, and waited.
Downstairs, it took a long time for the noises of rutting and revelry to subside. Now I was glad for my practice, because in the growing silence my mind dredged up all kinds of fears. My brother would see through me, he’d have me arrested, he’d panic and kill me. I was only partly successful at calming myself. All my subterfuges and breaking of precepts, not to mention my rekindled anger, had greatly agitated my mind. There’s good reason that the prerequisite for meditation practice is a moral life. A quiet conscience forms the major part of a quiet mind.
It was the absolute bottom of the night when my brother finally tramped through the door, a cursing, sweat-stinking presence but alone. Muttering an incantation to whatever gods he was worshiping these days, he slumped into bed. He lay on his back, fully clothed, snoring, a change from the Jagdish who always took pride in discipline. Another example of impermanence, I told myself. It seemed the anger and greed in his heart had finally triumphed over his pride.
I waited for his breathing to even out and sink him into the farthest depths of sleep, for I wanted his rise to the surface to be as disorienting as possible. I could only hope that my own thundering heart wouldn’t wake him, especially when I took his sword off its hook and cast it into the bushes outside the window. It was then my second treacherous fantasy burst in on me, passing away almost immediately but filling me with horror. I saw myself plunging the blade into my brother’s breast.
Forgive me, I prayed to all beings. May my motivations be pure.
But it was time to act. The sword disposed of, I tiptoed out the door and lit my lamp on the nearest sconce. Back inside, I placed the lamp on the floor and crept over to the bed, where I poked my brother hard in his still firm belly. Then I rushed back to the room’s opposite side and climbed up on the stool, my robes drifting down as if I were floating. As he stirred, I hissed as loud as I could. His eyes blinked open. “Who?”
I hissed again, just as loud. “We know what you did.”
He sat bolt upright and stared ahead, not entirely awake. Then his gaze flew to the room’s upper corner where the sound was coming from. My black teeth were bared, but they remained closed together, thanks to my ability, inspired by Devadatta’s magic tricks, to throw my voice. “We know what you did,” I repeated.
He half-scrambled, half-fell out of bed, then lunged for the wall, grappling the bare brick for his sword.
“There are no manmade weapons in hell,” I hissed, then treated him to a performance of my writhing tongue.
“What are you!” His demand, loud as it was, cracked with fear.
I cast my voice to the room’s other side, and spoke in the lowest register of the low voice I had cultivated over decades. “Those who kill a Buddha will live in hell forever.”
“What are you talking about!”
I spoke through my demon teeth. “We have seen you and the monk Devadatta plotting against his life.”
“You have the wrong man!”
I doubted this; otherwise he would name someone. But I had another test for him.
As he glared at me, shaking his head in feigned denial, I projected an imitation of our sister Kisa’s voice into the room’s opposite corner: “Brother, why did you poison me?”
From my own corner, I hissed again. “We know what you did.”
A sharp pungence almost knocked me backwards. My brother had urinated. “I did nothing!” he sobbed. “It was the gods! I prayed to them and they chose that mushroom! I just put it on her plate to test whether she had offended them!”
My viscera contracted, squeezing out my breath. So he had poisoned our sister, after all.
And now my Mara-self whispered to me outright: You shouldn’t have thrown his sword in the bushes. You have every right to cut out his liver and feed it to the crows.
I had no time to repent this thought, only to cast it aside. I had to keep going, speaking as Kisa: “Call off your men and confess to the Buddha or I will send you to hell before the first bird calls at dawn.” I picked up one of the cleaning rags and held it to the lamp’s flame. As it flared up, I let it drop to the floor. “Go, now! Purify yourself in the river, then go to the Buddha and beg forgiveness. Leave this place and speak to no one until you’ve made your confession. Or this whole building burns to white ash and you are lost forever.”
He crawled to his feet, trembling.
I made my voice ricochet all over the room, hisses and curses and threats. “Go! Now! Or die forever!” I lit up another rag and held it out.
My brother had all but liquified in terror. Smelling of excrement, he stumbled out the door.
I heard his clamor on the stair, heard the outside gate creak open and swing shut. Then came Mara’s final visit.
It took the form of a wild triumph somersaulting through me, making me want to tip over the table and tear the tapestries off the walls in sheer exhilaration. I’d done it!
I only had time to mutter a generalized forgiveness plea, no time to concentrate on remorse. I stamped out the burning rags, gathered my equipment, and rushed out the door.
After rearranging my white garments and veiling my face with my scarf, I hurried through the streets to the nearest well, deserted at this time of night. As quickly as possible, I washed off as much of the kohl and turmeric as I could, using my rags and the contents of the soap vial.
Once outside the city gates, I had my lamp to see my way through the nearly absolute blackness of the cloudy night, paying attention to every step. It was only when I reached t
he Bamboo Grove that I realized how often my higher motivations that night had been engulfed by the black ignorant ocean of anger and pride.
I sank to my knees in the cold sedge grass. I knew then that I’d have to confess to the Tathagata and beg his forgiveness. And that he might likely expel me from the Sangha.
If so, along with losing everyone I loved, I would fail in my life’s original purpose. I would let Deepa down. I would never awaken to her soul or find a way back to her, beyond mere glimpses on the path. And these glimpses were only memories, fading by the second even as the dawn seeped into the sky.
I opened my eyes in my stuffy little hut, the air smelling of straw heated by the midday sun. Panicked, I jolted to a sitting position. It had to be past noon. In spite of all my fears and regrets, I’d fallen asleep as soon as I reached shelter. My feat had exhausted me: I was no longer a twenty-year-old.
By now the Tathagata would be meditating on the small teak platform in the grove’s depths, a place restricted to private interviews for monks. With the rain’s retreat nearly over, he’d probably be alone—unless the assassins had visited, either with an apology or an attack. I hurried to the platform, stopping at the washhouse to scrub off any last traces of my demonic identity.
The sight of his solitary presence sitting cross-legged on the varnished floor made me want to weep with relief. I paused at the platform’s edge. Sun and shadow danced through the trees and over the Tathagata’s head and shoulders, now gaunt with age but still alive.
“I’m here to ask forgiveness,” I said, falling to my knees. I confessed everything, including my feelings of triumph and hate.
The Tathagata folded his hands, as equable as could be. “They have been here,” he said. “The whole Sangha is reverberating with the wondrous story of how the Tathagata stymied his would-be assassins by the power of a single enlightened glance. It seems I have you to thank.”
Bride of the Buddha Page 28