Deepak Chopra - Buddha - A Story of Enlightenment

“It’s me, Sujata. Stay where you are. You’re safe.”

Siddhartha put his hand on the left wall of the maze. It guided him back to the last turn, and this time he took the route he’d passed up before. At that moment the moon disappeared behind a cloud, and in the darkness he ran into somebody blocking the way.

“Sujata?” he whispered.

Her voice came back, and it was very close. “How fitting. You’re lost in the maze of your mind, and now you’re lost in this maze.”

Siddhartha was startled by Sujata’s arrogant tone, but it was definitely her voice. “I saw you running away. Are you in trouble?”

“I’m never in trouble. I make trouble.”

Sujata’s voice had deepened, and despite his attraction to her, Siddhartha instinctively took a step backward. His eyes had adjusted to the dark, and he perceived that the figure before him was not the curved, slim-hipped girl.

“Who are you?” Siddhartha’s hand went to the hilt of his sword, though he wondered how much use a weapon would be against a magician, if that was what he was confronting. Canki had told him that such beings existed and must be countered through ritual observances that made a person immune to spells and malevolent magic.

“I can be her if that makes you more comfortable. I can be whoever you imagine.” The shadowy figure stepped closer, and there was no doubt that its voice was now a man’s.

“Have you hurt her? Where is she?”

The stranger drew himself up; he smoothed his long-nailed fingers against the sides of his robe. “How do you know I’m not her? How do we know who anyone really is?”

“I’m going back.” Siddhartha made a move to leave, but the stranger’s voice spoke again with a peculiar allure.

“You think that if I take her shape she must be in danger? You could be right. The greatest danger she faces right now, however, is from you.”

Siddhartha’s temper flared. “Deceiver! Whoever you are, either fight me or leave me in peace.”

The stranger’s voice took on an aggrieved tone. “You mistake me, young sir. I’ve come to bring you peace, only peace. How can I convince you?”

The moon had come out again, and Siddhartha saw that he was confronting a tall young man, somewhat older than himself, who could have been his cousin, Devadatta. For a moment he almost called out Devadatta’s name, but he realized that this encounter couldn’t be anything but supernatural.

“Don’t you recognize me?” the tall young man said. “I’m the son your father always wanted, the one you could become.”

Darkness couldn’t conceal the truth of what the stranger said. Siddhartha was looking at himself a few years older. “What is your purpose here? I am already the son my father wants.” Despite his attempt to sound confident, the stranger laughed at him.

“Your father wants a son who steals away in the night without a word? I’m surprised. He has worked so hard to keep you here. But I understand. Fathers don’t know everything. It’s right that they shouldn’t.” The stranger’s voice had a sinuous ability to shift between arrogance, familiarity, and cajolery. It stung and soothed at the same time. Siddhartha was feeling uncertain, and although the stranger made no threatening gestures, the mere sight of him drained Siddhartha’s body; he felt slack and weak.

“You won’t succeed, you know,” the stranger said. “At escaping, I mean. This is your rightful place. We just have to decide how you are to occupy it.”

The stranger was taunting him and making no effort to disguise it. “Tell me your name,” Siddhartha demanded.

“Siddhartha.”

“Then you are only a mocking demon, and I mistook you for someone of power.”

The stranger’s fingers curled like a cat deciding whether to use its claws or keep them retracted. “Don’t be rash. I’m here because I know you. Don’t act surprised, either. It’s time to be frank, isn’t it? A prince who is running away from a throne must be very confused, don’t you agree?”

Mara watched Siddhartha hesitate in his reply. His bantering with the youth had not been for his own amusement. It went deeper than that. The shapes he took, the words he spoke were all part of a test. He wanted to find the best way to penetrate Siddhartha’s mind, and so he circled it like a surgeon finding the exact place for the first cut.

“I didn’t tell you my name because I was a little offended,” said Mara. “You know me very well, and yet you offered no greeting. Is that any way to behave?”

Siddhartha shuddered slightly. He had never seen this shape before, but the voice in the darkness raised faint, troubled memories of a voice he had once heard in his head. Visions of his mother’s lifeless body shrieked through his mind.

“See,” Mara hissed. “He’s starting to be convinced.”

Then the demon’s body jerked fitfully, twisting and bending in places where there were no joints. The tall young man became a floppy doll, which collapsed to the ground. Now its limbs folded into one another, turning into a crouched dwarf. Siddhartha froze in place, and the hummock became a formless mass that palpitated, waiting to take on whatever form his terror dictated. Whether from horror or a reserve of strength that he didn’t know he possessed, Siddhartha’s mind became silent, without thought.

“Nothing to say to me? Really?” Mara taunted. “After all we’ve been through.” Now Siddhartha saw a funeral pyre, a skull crumbling to ashes. His nostrils were filled with the stench of death.

Mara was confident that these reminders would create a crack, that riding the crest of terror, he could penetrate Siddhartha’s mind. It was important to Mara that he do this, because to bring down the prince by his own fear was far better than using a tool, even one as talented as Devadatta.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Siddhartha said quietly. It was a deceptive quiet because inside himself he felt a battle being fought on the edge of awareness. It wasn’t a battle of words or images; everything proceeded silently, like a creeping epidemic or like foul, noxious air seeping through a cracked windowpane.

This was no stranger. Siddhartha had known all along who he was and that his name was Mara. He felt trapped and helpless. All his life he had endured the demon’s attentions on the periphery of his mind.

“What do you want of me?”

Mara offered his hand. “I want to teach you. I want to help.” He smiled, but the taint of his intentions marred the effort. Siddhartha didn’t take the proffered hand. He sank on the ground, burying his face between his knees. If he was the special target of Mara’s intentions, there must be a reason. It could be great sin or great weakness on his part, but Siddhartha knew this wasn’t the case. It was nothing he had ever done that attracted the demon. Therefore, it had to be something he might do. The fact that he hadn’t defeated Mara in one night didn’t mean he would always fail.

Mara scowled, watching the motionless youth crouched before him. It was a delicate moment. He could feel the workings of Siddhartha’s mind; gradually the crack that Mara had found began to close up again. Siddhartha began to feel calmer. His mind had created a train of argument that he could believe in. He would vanquish the demon, not by resisting him but by finding a place that was already safe from him. Siddhartha didn’t know where that place was yet, but with an uncanny certainty he knew it existed. Siddhartha looked up, seeing the full moon overhead, and he realized that no one was looming over him anymore and no shadow appeared except the one cast by the high walls of the maze.

Mara, who had shed his mortal form, watched the prince leave without pursuing him. The demon felt that a great secret had been stripped from him, and by someone so guileless and young. Siddhartha had figured out that demons enter the mind when we resist them. The stronger our efforts to fortify ourselves against temptation, the stronger temptation has us in its grip. Mara sighed. But his confidence wasn’t shaken. He still had his allies. The coming battle would be interesting, which wasn’t often the case. He was irked, but he wouldn’t be defeated. Of that Mara could be certain.