“Now, you try,” Asita said.
The boy imitated the position, which felt strangely comfortable considering that he had never seen it before.
“Hands like this.” Asita held one hand on each knee and circled his thumb and forefinger. Siddhartha followed and then closed his eyes after he saw the hermit close his. They were both quiet. At first the boy was only aware of his surroundings. The air was cooler under the tree; the noon sun filtered lazily through the still canopy of leaves and flowers. Siddhartha felt drowsy, and for a moment he might have nodded off. But he was awake when the voice in his head said, Can you be still, without thinking? Don’t talk to yourself. Just breathe gently.
These words came into his head like his own thoughts, but he knew that they must be Asita’s. The two of them seemed to be connected. Siddhartha accepted this fact without questioning it. The old hermit wasn’t like anyone he had ever met. Certainly not like Canki, whom the boy vaguely feared. Then Siddhartha caught himself. He wasn’t supposed to think. After a moment his mind stilled. This happened naturally, like a breeze calming over a cool lake. He became aware of his breath going in and out in a soft rhythm. The whole thing was pleasant, soothing. He had the sense, almost physical, that he was sinking down into the earth or was being lowered into a well. Only his descent wasn’t frightening and what waited below wasn’t sheer blackness. It was more like a welcoming sleep, except that he remained awake in its arms.
Siddhartha lost track of time. Once he opened his eyes again, Asita was leaning on his staff watching him.
“They’re coming for you,” he said soberly. Siddhartha knew he meant the guards sent out by his father. “Can you remember what I’ve just showed you?”
Siddhartha nodded, although he wasn’t really sure that he had been shown anything. Asita picked up his doubt.
“Here is your safety. This is going to be your special place. When you feel confused or when someone is trying to make you what you are not, come back to this tree. Sit and close your eyes. Wait for the silence. Do nothing to make it come to you. It will come of its own accord.”
They could hear the return of soldiers shouting to each other by the pond. “Will I find you here?” asked Siddhartha.
Asita shook his head. “I had to think long and hard about even coming today. You are still in danger.”
“From what?” Siddhartha’s spirit was so settled that he was only mildly disturbed by Asita’s veiled warning.
“From everyone who thinks they know what your future should be. You are not alone. They are always watching.”
“I know.” Siddhartha’s voice was as sober as the hermit’s.
“Well, let that be. I am withdrawing my protection now, as of this moment. I don’t want to be like one of them.”
Asita’s voice had become tender and somewhat strange. Siddhartha didn’t understand why the old man’s gaze seemed so sad, or why he took a moment to bend over and touch Siddhartha’s feet. But the moment he did, the boy found himself closing his eyes again, and once more he descended into the well of silence, deeper this time, deep enough so that he didn’t hear Asita depart.
“Hey, over here!”
The shout was close by, and Siddhartha heard running footsteps approaching. He slowly opened his eyes to see a ring of guards around him. Some looked agitated, others relieved. The officer among them gave an order: “Run and tell the king.” He knelt down beside Siddhartha. “Where have you been? Did someone take you away?”
Siddhartha shook his head. He wished they would all leave. It would be much better if they did, if he didn’t have to return with them.
He wanted to close his eyes again, but instead he heard himself say, “I’ve just been here. Sitting by myself.”
The officer looked doubtful. “We’ve circled the place half a dozen times.”
If this was an implied question, Siddhartha didn’t answer it. He was too aware that his body was getting to its feet, as if another person were in charge of his muscles. He himself was still inside the silence. More people were running up now, including various courtiers dressed for the feast, some wobbly from drink. What time was it? He was surprised to see the sun low on the horizon.
The soldiers led the way, and Siddhartha felt himself return to the world. Everything was back in focus. His father greeted him with open arms and not a word about whether he had fought with Devadatta. With the tension broken, the revels became twice as raucous, continuing long past midnight. Siddhartha was allowed to stay up. He spent a closely guarded hour watching the dancers and tumblers, then went to his room and threw himself into bed, exhausted but with a head full of images that kept him awake a long time.
ERASING A MEMORY isn’t a simple process like erasing scribbles off a chalkboard. The eyes have the longest memory, followed by the nose. Who doesn’t remember the blinding white snows of yesterday, the swooning scent of a rose, the brilliance of an unfurled peacock’s tail? But try to imitate a robin’s song, something you’ve heard a thousand times. Few people can. Still less can we remember anything told us that was wise. Siddhartha swore to himself that he would never forget Asita’s words, but the years passed and the hermit’s message became more and more vague. Besides, what are a few profound sentences compared to the thousands of days that follow? In the prince’s case, each day was full to bursting, and by the time he was nearing adolescence, Siddhartha had forgotten that he had ever been under Asita’s protection or that it had ever been withdrawn.
The king kept his word and allowed his son’s education to be completely ruled by the high Brahmin. Canki’s was the first face the prince saw when he stepped out of his room in the morning and the last when he returned at night. Naturally, this constant familiarity made him trust his teacher. The heavy hulk of a man treated him well and told him many useful things. It was rather like being followed around by a learned ox. But just as naturally, Siddhartha escaped his schooling whenever he got the chance. He had worn a path to the stables by the time he was six, and it deepened every year. There he could waste endless time with Channa, whether to lie in the straw and discuss the future, saddle a horse to ride (both boys together, one to hold the reins, the other to kick with his spurs), or groom a mount that was lathered up and quivering from a hard workout. Most of the time they practiced fighting, the one thing Channa never tired of.
If Bikram happened to be watching over them, then the boys’ fighting followed strict rules. “We may have to kill, but we don’t butcher. We fight with style,” Bikram insisted. “Style is what makes the battling human.” He only half believed this motto, but it gave him a sense of dignity, and when he couldn’t help but see the carnage of battles long past in his mind’s eye, Bikram’s only refuge was his dignity-he had killed too many enemies the dirty way.
Before being handed a sword, each boy had his chest wrapped in thick straw padding bound with burlap on the outside. Their blades, shorter and lighter than a warrior’s, were dulled along the edge and the points shielded with a lead ball. These measures ensured that neither would get seriously hurt. “Don’t dull ’em so much as they won’t feel it,” Bikram ordered the armorer. “Bruises but no blood.”
As referee, he shouted, “Touch!” to make them part each time one sword made a hit. But there was only so much that could be done about Channa’s fierce temper. The boy would keep whaling away even after his foe was hit, and then Bikram would jerk him back with a scolding oath and a cuff on the ear. They both knew he was secretly proud.
Often Siddhartha felt bad about besting his friend. But Channa had it coming. Each small victory he managed meant days of listening to him crow. Both of them bore colorful bruises from the blunted blades.