Deepak Chopra - Buddha - A Story of Enlightenment

“Why not?” There was no plague in the area, and the lushness of the undergrowth meant there had been no recent drought.

“Because this is ‘the forgotten city.’ That’s what everyone calls it. I like ‘the king’s city’ better. Don’t ask me any more,” said Channa.

In half a mile the trail leveled off, and soon they were riding past the first few huts on the village fringe. Their roofs were rain-stained gray, the wood jambs falling down around the sagging doors. No one seemed to live inside, or else they were used to hiding from strangers. The next clump of huts was just as dilapidated. Siddhartha caught a glimpse of faces at the window that withdrew as soon as he spied them.

“Here,” said Channa. He dismounted in front of a hut more ruined than the rest, its door stolen and the carved ornaments of gods and demons stripped from the eaves. “This was hers, the mother’s.”

Sujata couldn’t be here, living like this, Siddhartha thought. But he got down and followed Channa into the bleak shell of a house. The evidence of vermin and gaping holes in the floor told him that no one had entered in months. A torn scrap of red silk over the back window and a cracked teapot beside the charcoal hole used for cooking were the only signs that a woman could have made a home there.

“Let’s go back. I’ll demand that my father tell me where she is,” Siddhartha said, his heart sinking. He sensed a truth he couldn’t face.

When they stepped outside, things had changed. People had emerged from nowhere, like rabbits from their warrens. A clutch of men surrounded the horses.

“Stop! Hey, stop!” Channa shouted. A few of them were trying to uncinch the saddles. Channa was armed and they weren’t, but when he drew his sword, Siddhartha held his arm back.

“Who are they?” he asked grimly.

The people, perhaps a dozen in all, were starving and dressed in rags that hung from their bones. All had gray hair, sometimes only a scrap left over their exposed skulls.

“They’re the forgotten,” said Channa. “We’ve come to their city.”

“And my father sent them here?”

Channa nodded. The decrepit old men who tried to steal their saddles had fallen to the ground, prostrating themselves. The women came forward and mutely held their cupped hands out for food. “Give them what we have,” said Siddhartha. There were bits of provisions in the saddlebags. He looked away when Channa produced bread and meat to hand out; he couldn’t face the sight of beggars clawing for scraps.

The scuffle drew more attention, and now Siddhartha could see others approaching from the main part of the village. “Let’s go,” urged Channa.

“Why? They’re not dangerous.” This went without saying since the newcomers were as old as the first ones they’d met.

Channa was restless nonetheless. “I could knock them all down with one swipe of my sword,” he said. “But it’s still not safe.”

“Why not? What’s wrong with them?”

Channa didn’t know how much Siddhartha was oblivious of, so he spoke as if to a small child. “These people were at court when you were born, and even then they were too old to be kept around. Those over there, walking with crutches, they’re lame. They’ve been sick, but nobody treated them. The ones who are coughing with their mouths covered over with cloth, don’t touch them. They’re sick; they carry disease, and we could get it too. I’m still young and healthy, thank you.”

“We’ll become like them?” asked Siddhartha, genuinely puzzled.

“Someday.”

“All of us?”

“All of us,” said Channa. Ignoring what Siddhartha would think, he kicked at a barefoot old woman who had crawled on the ground to touch his sandals.

Siddhartha was muttering words to himself that were never spoken around him. Old. Lame. Sick. Diseased. How could he ever have imagined that he had suffered? Not compared to this.

“How do they stand it?” he murmured. Now the gathering crowd’s mood had changed. Their hollow faces darkened, and there was angry muttering.

“They realize we’ve come from the court,” said Channa. He and Siddhartha were dressed in plain white cotton, but the mounts’ trappings were stamped with the royal insignia. “Get on your horse. We’re going.”

Siddhartha climbed up again, but instead of turning Kanthaka toward home, he kept riding into the forgotten city. The streets were lined with haggard ghosts, and eyes bulging from hunger stared at him. Siddhartha prayed that his aunties hadn’t been banished here when they had disappeared from court.

There was one building better repaired than the others, and no one stood in front of it. For some reason Siddhartha stopped, his attention drawn to its covered windows and a Shiva statue at the door decorated with wilting wildflowers. “I want to go inside,” he said.

“No, you don’t,” Channa said.

The smell coming from the building was unmistakable. Siddhartha had come across that smell in the woods where a rotting deer carcass lay. He dismounted and pushed the door open. He stepped into a dim, moist, fetid room. In the watery beams of light coming through the shutters Siddhartha could see someone sleeping on a table, naked except for a light sheet across the torso. No, not sleeping but lying motionless. The man’s face was gray-white, eyes closed, and his slack, sagging mouth made him look both angry and sad.

“What is this place?” Siddhartha asked. He could guess well enough, but talking helped him avoid getting sick.

“The house of the dead. Don’t get close. They’re not blessed.”

As his eyes adjusted to the light, Siddhartha saw that there were other corpses on the floor, laid side by side and covered with burlap; the worst smell came from them. The man on the table must be newly dead.

Siddhartha wasn’t aware that he had moved closer. He reached out and touched the corpse, eerily certain that the old man would wake with a start. The coldness of the flesh surprised him; it felt colder than the air in the room. Despite the fact that the man was dead, Siddhartha wanted to apologize. He hadn’t asked permission to touch him, and they were strangers.

“Is this all for them?” he asked. “Do the dead live in their house?”

“No, they’ll rot if they stay here. Bodies are burned,” explained Channa.

Siddhartha winced. “So one day you might burn me,” he murmured. Channa had lingered by the door, and his reaction to Siddhartha’s curiosity was a growing impatience.

“What’s wrong with that? I’m glad if they burn me. My ashes will go into the river. When there’s nothing left for demons to grab on to, I’ll go to heaven. You’ll have to break my skull with an ax to let my spirit out first.”

If Channa intended to shock Siddhartha, it didn’t work. Bemused, Siddhartha muttered, “Is that how it’s done? Then why are they still here? Don’t they have axes?”

Channa shrugged. “There’s no wood and nobody strong enough to cut some. They probably wait for wandering monks to come through.”

Channa’s impatience wouldn’t allow them to stay any longer. Siddhartha took the hand of the corpse, which had fallen limply to its side, and replaced it across the man’s chest. When he came out of the house of the dead, the crowd outside looked angrier than before.

“Prince?” someone called out. “Are you the king’s son? Do you like what you’ve done to us?” He hadn’t counted on being recognized. A sense of shame kept him from speaking.

I will try to help you, I promise, he thought. Muttered threats surrounded Siddhartha as he walked up to Kanthaka. An old woman spat on the ground while an unseen voice said, “Better your mother had died sooner, you hear me? Why were you ever born?”