Deepak Chopra - Buddha - A Story of Enlightenment

“Stop it!” Gautama jumped to his feet and began pacing as anxiously as he’d wanted to since entering the tent.

“Good,” said Ganaka. “Even a cat is smart enough to thrash its tail when it’s disturbed. Most people aren’t.”

This show of implacable honesty caused Gautama’s heart to sink. “You’re making me so sad,” he said, half pleading.

“Then I’ll stop,” said Ganaka. “Wisdom is never sad, and you want one last word of wisdom, don’t you?” He stood up and placed his hands on Gautama’s shoulders to stop him in place. “Dharma is worthless unless it teaches one how to be free. I have listened to all the masters, read all the scriptures, bathed in all the sacred springs. I found freedom in none of them.”

“And killing yourself will set you free?”

“When all else fails, whatever is left must be right,” Ganaka said with serious simplicity. He let go of Gautama and turned away for a moment. “What is freedom, little saint? It’s the end of struggle. Is not death the same thing? I want to meet God, but my efforts have failed. Not just failed, but made me more unhappy than when I was married and lived with a loving wife. I do not say your seeking is a fraud. Perhaps you must walk as many paths as I did before you reach this point.”

He turned back and fixed Gautama with a clear, unflinching gaze. “You can shed your tears now.”

“I won’t weep for you,” said Gautama mournfully.

Ganaka sat back down on the cot. It was very late, and he was ready for sleep. “I meant weep for yourself. Whatever I am today, you will be tomorrow.”

He lay down and turned his back on Gautama, who sat vigil for hours. He wanted to be awake in case one last plea would dissuade Ganaka when he woke up. But time stands still in the dark. The next thing Gautama knew he woke up with light in his eyes and his head lolling on his chest. He looked toward the cot with faint hope. It was empty.

One morning Ananda didn’t find Gautama in his tent. Several days had passed since the disappearance of Ganaka. None of the bikkhus were told anything about him, and only Ananda learned the grim truth. In the vastness of the jungle there was no possibility of searching for him, wherever he had gone to die. Gautama was badly shaken.

“How can we believe in supernatural powers, Ananda? No power in heaven protected him, or even cared,” said Gautama. “Ganaka had fallen into despair, and I couldn’t save him.”

“Why should it depend on you?” Ananda asked.

“Do you know who Buddha is?”

“No.” Ananda shifted with embarrassment.

“Buddha can protect people,” Gautama said.

“Better than this?” Ananda held up an amulet he’d been given as a baby by his parents, who purchased it at a temple with half a year’s income from their farm.

“Yes, much better than that. Don’t ask me how. I’m the last person who’d know. I should have protected Ganaka.”

Mention of Buddha puzzled Ananda, but he took heart that this god, even if he’d never heard of him, was helping his friend. That was how he understood Gautama’s words. Ananda believed that the gods never let anyone out of their sight. It bothered him that Gautama didn’t respect the gods anymore. Sometimes he spoke of God, who was like the soul of the universe or a spirit that permeated everything. As a child Ananda had been brought up to believe that the gods were different faces of one God. But lately even that God was on shaky ground with Gautama.

“We can pray to Buddha together,” Ananda said. “Or I can make an offering in the fire tonight.” Perhaps that would lift Gautama from his gloom.

Instead of answering, Gautama closed his eyes. This was his way of getting out of reach. None of the other monks could go as deeply into samadhi, and when he was in this state, Gautama heard and saw nothing. Ananda departed, and then rain came during the night, turning the trampled ground of the encampment into a mud slick.

Thunder rumbled overhead. Ananda’s shawl was soaked and useless for warmth, but he pulled it close to fend off a growing disquiet. Every monk was pledged to serve the master, but he had pledged to serve Gautama. He had done this silently, in his own heart. To him, Gautama was already a great soul. He kept that to himself too.

Ananda frowned as he hurried through the rain to peer into all the makeshift shelters. When he was sure that Gautama was nowhere in camp, Ananda took a deep breath and knocked on Udaka’s door. Disturbing the master could result in something more physical than a rebuke. There was no answer, though, and Ananda turned back. After all, he had no proof that anything drastic had happened.

He was only a few steps away when the guru’s door flew open, and Gautama stepped out. He looked pale and drawn, and when he set eyes on Ananda, he could have been looking at a stranger. Ananda’s heart pounded.

“What’s happened?”

Gautama shook his head and walked past. He offered no protest, though, when Ananda followed him into his tent. The lowering gray skies made the interior oppressively dark. Suddenly Gautama had something to say.

“I have no faith anymore,” he said. “I’ll be gone by tonight. Dear friend, don’t try to follow me. I’ll come for you when it’s time. Be patient.”

Ananda’s lip trembled. “Why can’t I come?”

“Because you’ll try to stop me, as I tried to stop Ganaka.” The comparison filled Ananda’s face with alarm, but before he could say anything Gautama went on. “I’m not going to kill myself; don’t worry. But something may happen, something severe.”

“You’ve told the master?”

Gautama shook his head. “Only that I’m taking a journey that may be long or short. If he lives by his own teaching, he won’t sorrow over losing one disciple. If he gets angry, then I’m right to stop serving him. I’m only sorry to say good-bye to you.”

Heartsick, Ananda fell into a gloomy silence; the two sat in the gray light listening to raindrops pelting the roof of the tent. Gautama placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“There’s no reason to keep secrets from you. I was brought a message,” he said. “A traveler came to camp this morning, and I stumbled across him in one of the huts. I knew from his accent that he was a Sakyan, so I tried to leave, but I wasn’t fast enough.”

“Fast enough for what?”

“To not be recognized. The stranger threw himself at my feet and began to weep. I entreated him to get up, but he wouldn’t. The bikkhus in the hut began to murmur and exchange looks. Finally the stranger looked up and told me that I was supposed to be dead.”

“Dead?” said Ananda. “Because you left everything behind?”

“Worse, much worse. I have a cousin named Devadatta. He’s filled with jealousy and has always set himself against me. When I left home my fear was that he would gain influence at court. Now he has, and in the most terrible way.”

Gautama told Ananda what he had just learned about how Devadatta had found a beheaded corpse in the forest wearing Siddhartha’s robes. “Everyone believed him. The head was never found. Probably Devadatta committed the murder himself. He’s capable of it.” Gautama’s voice died away mournfully. “I caused this disaster. Everyone I loved has been plunged into suffering.”

“But it’s a fraud,” Ananda protested. “Send a messenger home and tell them.”

“If I do that, Devadatta will be arrested and executed. I didn’t sacrifice my family’s happiness for that. Killing him would make a mockery of my search. I have to push on. I haven’t done enough.”

“But they’ll suffer even more to think you’re never coming back,” Ananda said.

Instead of persuading Gautama, this seemed to harden him. “The person they once knew is never coming back. If that’s what they wait and hope for, then I might as well be dead.”