Deepak Chopra - Buddha - A Story of Enlightenment

“If the interviews are too much for you, I can always take a few off your hands,” Channa said. Some of the younger girls were barely twelve; it wasn’t expected that he would live with them immediately-arrangements would be made. But delay was only temporary. Suddhodana couldn’t be put off.

“Choose a girl who plays with dolls, choose an old maid of nineteen,” the king said. “But you can’t walk away without choosing someone.” They both knew that the future of the dynasty was at stake.

On the ceremonial day when all the hopeful brides were assembled at court, Siddhartha entered the hall in the same elaborate coat and plumed red turban he had worn when he turned eighteen. Each girl was prostrate on the floor, and as the prince walked down the line, he would catch a fetching or shy glance, a glint in one eye that promised sensual delight, in another a darting shyness that spoke of innocence and even bewilderment. Only one girl didn’t look up at him, keeping her veiled face to the floor. She made Siddhartha curious.

“A great day!” declared Suddhodana in a loud, jovial voice. But when his son walked into his embrace, he whispered in his ear, “None of your tricks. They’re not here so you can pray with them.”

Siddhartha knelt. “I know my duty, father.” As he turned around, a chamberlain ran up and handed him a garland of gold necklaces. Siddhartha pulled out a strand and approached the first girl.

“You are very beautiful. Why do you wish to marry me?” he asked, lifting her from the floor. Her direct gaze told him she wasn’t shy.

“Because you are kind and good. And handsome.” She gave him a seductive look, one that was well practiced. Siddhartha knew it was called “the assassin’s knife” in the manuals of love that noble girls were given to read. He bowed and handed her the gold necklace. He returned a smile that was gracious, but Siddhartha wasn’t practiced at hiding his feelings, and the girl knew she had no chance. Her father would be furious.

To the second girl he said, “If anyone could be even more beautiful, it’s you. Why do you want to marry me?”

The second girl had kept close watch on what happened to the first. She said, “To give you sons as magnificent as yourself.” Her voice had the ring of sincerity, but Siddhartha suspected that she was simply better trained. The love manuals taught that a man must always feel that he is making his own decisions while at the same time being carefully manipulated. If a woman was skillful, and applied eros when it was useful, he wouldn’t even know what was happening. Siddhartha bowed and handed the second girl a necklace. She put it on with a haughty toss of the head as he moved on.

The king felt anxious. “He doesn’t like any of them,” he whispered to Canki.

The high Brahmin was unruffled. He knew that discrimination can hold out against desire only so long. “Patience, sire. He’s a young man. When peaches are ripe, no one leaves the market without buying one.” But nothing about Siddhartha’s manner looked promising by the time he had reached the last girl. She looked up at him but didn’t remove her veil.

From behind the girl, her father nudged her with a fierce whisper. “Go ahead. Get up and look at him!” She took a moment before rising. Now Siddhartha remembered who she was. The one girl who had made him curious.

“I cannot tell if you are beautiful,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Yashodhara.”

“May I see you?”

She kept her veil on. “Is my appearance the only thing that would make me worthy? If so, don’t look at me. My face might conceal a false heart.”

Siddhartha smiled. “A good answer. Then tell me: Why do you wish to marry me?”

“I’m not sure yet. I don’t know you, and you haven’t made any pretty speeches, the way you did to the others.”

Siddhartha was intrigued by these words, but he also had to see her. He lifted Yashodhara’s veil. She wasn’t beautiful in the way the first girls had been, modeled from the pages of the love manuals. But instantly he knew how he felt.

“You’re wonderful, because you were made to be loved.”

Up to this moment she had had the advantage, but now Yashodhara blushed. “That was a pretty speech, but too short for me to make up my mind. My father will be so disappointed if I come away empty-handed. Can I have a necklace?”

She held out her hand and Siddhartha frowned. “Was that a good enough reason for you to come here?”

She replied, “Sire, I live in the deep woods, four long days’ journey from here. My father is very anxious that I marry you. But a gold necklace can feed a hundred of my starving people, those I left behind.”

“Girl!” her father rebuked.

Siddhartha held up his hand. “It’s all right.” He bowed to Yashodhara. “With your first words I found that you are honest, and now I find that you are also kind. What more can I wish for?” He took her hand and led her to kneel before the king as the hall rang with cheers. There was no need for a long betrothal. Just as Siddhartha said, Yashodhara was a woman who existed to be loved, and their union was as real as Suddhodana’s with Maya. Yet it was known to both of them, if to no one else in the world, that Yashodhara had wept inconsolably on their honeymoon night.

Siddhartha turned red. “If I was clumsy or did something wrong-”

She put a finger to his lips. “No, don’t.”

“Then why are you so unhappy? An hour ago you seemed to be in love.”

“An hour ago I didn’t realize that you are going to leave me one day.”

He smothered her with kisses to reassure her and chided her gently about being a superstitious girl like the maids who ran to the temple for a good luck charm if they spilled the milk. Yashodhara’s words were never repeated between them. Ten years wasn’t enough to erase the memory, however, and when it came to pass that her husband did decide to leave her, Yashodhara was crushed by seeing her premonition come true.

All these memories danced before Gautama’s mind along with the image of his wife. The recollection of her sorrow was the only thing that enabled him to defeat his arousal. Gautama’s back slumped, and he wondered for the first time since finding his master if abandoning his family wasn’t an unforgivable sin.

Suddenly Gautama felt a stinging pain on one cheek. He opened his eyes to see his master standing over him, hand raised. Sharply the hand came down and slapped the other cheek.

“Why did you do that, sir? What did I do to offend you?”

The old hermit shrugged. “Nothing. You smelled like a man who sleeps with women. I knocked the stink off.”

This incident stuck in Gautama’s mind for two reasons-because it permanently banished any images of Yashodhara from his mind, and because it was the most words in a row that the hermit had spoken. But his master wasn’t setting a precedent for garrulousness. Weeks passed, the monsoons came, and he said not another word. This became a time of great peace for Gautama. One day he went for firewood but couldn’t find any that wasn’t soaked from the rains. He recalled a cavern formed by fallen boulders where perhaps some dry logs might have lodged.

Walking through the woods, he felt the rain coming down, but the monsoons were warm and he was toughened by months of exposure. His body didn’t shiver or his mind complain. Yet as he kept walking, Gautama noticed that he started feeling chilled, and a hundred yards farther on he was shaking badly. By the time he reached the cavern of boulders, he felt quite uncomfortable and his mind was attacking him mercilessly. Go home. This crazy master is going to turn you into his slave or a crazy recluse like himself. Run! It was as if he’d been taken back to his first day on the road.