Deepak Chopra - Buddha - A Story of Enlightenment

The day after the banquet everyone’s attention shifted to the king’s entertainments and the part that his son, now elevated in the world’s eyes, would play. No one saw the prince, however. The next morning Canki was summoned to Suddhodana’s chambers, where he found father and son huddled together. Siddhartha looked away, lost in his own private world. Obviously his father had been hammering at him, with less and less effect.

“Tell him,” Suddhodana commanded the moment Canki entered the room. “Put some sense in his head. He has to understand how serious this is.”

“The prince knows his duties very well, Your Highness,” Canki began.

Jumping to his feet Suddhodana erupted. “Stop it! I don’t need a politician. The boy doesn’t understand anything.”

“What exactly is the matter?” Canki resorted to his most placating tone.

Suddhodana glared at him. “I’ve arranged mock combats for tomorrow. The army has been readied. I want him”-he pointed at his son-“to fight the way he’s supposed to.”

Canki turned to Siddhartha. “And you refused? I’m surprised.”

Siddhartha kept silent. Canki already knew about the war games and the zeal that Suddhodana had put into them. The king didn’t want to stop at creating awe among his guests. He wanted them to witness firsthand what would happen to anyone who had secret hopes of defeating the son after the father was gone.

It was like going back to old times. The army had been roused from its long, lazy slumber. “Tell them they’re fighting for real,” Suddhodana had ordered. “Three gold pieces to the bloodiest warriors at the end of the day. Nothing impresses like blood.” Instead of dulling their swords and padding themselves with straw, his soldiers prepared to give and take real wounds. The only limit was that no blow should be deliberately fatal. “If you hit him and he doesn’t get up again, consider your enemy dead, for this one day only,” the generals instructed.

From the Shiva temple’s perch on the hill, Canki had looked over the plain stretched before the palace, filled day after day with military exercises. Suddhodana rode among his troops, nodding with approval the bloodier the games got. Behind him rode Siddhartha, looking pensive but raising no objections. Obviously, however, when the time came for him to lead the combat, he had balked.

Canki didn’t want to be caught between them, but he didn’t dare disobey the king. “Are you afraid to fight?” he asked Siddhartha. The prince shook his head but didn’t offer a word to defend himself.

“I’ve seen him with Channa. They go at it. No, it’s something else, something he won’t tell me,” Suddhodana grumbled.

Ignoring the presence of the priest, Siddhartha threw himself flat on the floor and seized his father’s feet. Suddhodana turned away, embarrassed by this show of humility, which to him expressed weakness. “For God’s sake, get up!”

“I won’t, not unless I can speak freely.”

Suddhodana’s eyes wandered the room in confusion. “Whatever you want. Just get up.”

But Siddhartha didn’t. His face touching the stone floor, he said, “I have never been what you wanted, and the more you demand, the less I am.”

“If you’re not what I wanted, then what are you?” the king said, now more bewildered than angry.

“I don’t know.”

“Ridiculous! I know who you are. He knows who you are.” Suddhodana looked at Canki, asking for support. The priest was at a loss. Canki was in service to a warrior king, but at heart he despised violence and had contempt for those who used it to get whatever they wanted. Kings were no better than murderers, the only difference being that they had a legal monopoly on killing. The Brahmin’s way was one of guile, patience, persuasion. To him, those were marks of superiority.

After a moment, he knelt beside Siddhartha and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Do what is asked of you. If you go one step at a time, everything will come easier. This is only a shadow, a charade of war. How will you know about yourself until you try?”

Skillful as he imagined himself to be, Canki had no effect on the prince, who ignored him and kept his eyes fixed on his father. “I want to go away,” he said.

A chill passed through Suddhodana’s body, a cold premonition of failure. “No, that isn’t possible,” he said in a flat, toneless voice. “Ask me for anything else, but not that.”

The sudden weakness in his father’s voice stirred Siddhartha, and he got slowly to his feet. “What have I said that makes you so disturbed? If you love me, let me see what lies beyond these walls.”

“You know nothing about my love,” snapped Suddhodana. He gazed into his son’s eyes, and what he saw there couldn’t be answered. Turning abruptly, the king left the room, pausing a moment at the door to signal to the high Brahmin. “No more words. Leave him be.”

CANKI SAT IN HIS STUDY, a plate of sesame rice uneaten by his side. His mind was filled with the troubles to come when the world discovered, as surely it would, the rift between king and prince. The Brahmin’s thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at his door. He had to conceal his surprise when it opened and Siddhartha, unannounced and alone, entered.

“Tell me about the gods,” he said.

Canki smiled easily. He pushed aside the plate of sesame rice, wondering inside if he shouldn’t be worried. To side with the prince, or to even seem to, could soon be an act of treason.

“I attend to the gods,” said Canki. “You don’t have to concern yourself with them.”

“But what do the gods want?” asked Siddhartha. “Why would they curse someone? Can a person sin and not know it?”

Canki cleared his throat to hide his momentary confusion. He had never known Siddhartha to confide in him, or to openly show anxiety. The youth was guarded, as princes should be. The priest decided not to ask why the sudden interest in curses.

“You want to know how to get into favor with the gods?” he said. “And so you should. It’s commendable.” Siddhartha, for the first time, placed himself at the priest’s feet, in the classic pose of a disciple asking his master for wisdom.

“The gods allow great suffering-wars, famine, crime, and immorality-because the people have forgotten how to please them,” Canki said. “Since no one can be perfectly good, there is much sin in the world. Rituals and sacrifices honor the gods and erase that sin.”

“But everyone honors the gods, and not everyone is happy,” Siddhartha pointed out. “Why does misfortune visit us?”

Canki waved his hands, pointing to piles of scriptures written on dried palm leaves and vellum, hundreds of scrolls lining the shelves of his cramped, airless study. “Every sin is a karma, and every karma has a precise remedy. It takes years to delve deep enough. You study and try to understand every detail. The invisible world is complex. The gods are fickle. Even then you may fail.”

“Have you ever failed?”

Canki was taken aback. “Brahmins cannot fail. Every word in the scriptures was delivered to a Brahmin.”

“And no one else? The gods have to find a priest or they don’t talk?”

Canki had a ready answer. It was his job to know all the answers, but he hesitated, his mind searching for a solution. Despite all the king’s efforts, his son was turning the other way. His deeper nature hadn’t been diverted. Canki wasn’t alarmed, however. Now he had a chance to influence Siddhartha, and it might be his last. He looked at the youth sitting at his feet and decided that the canniest course, for once, was to tell the truth. He said, “You are among the few who can understand. I’ve always sensed that, ever since you were a little child.”