“Here,” he said, taking the cloth from her hands. “You have to leave me something to do for myself.” Expertly he wound the turban, but his eyes stayed on Sujata.
Where is she from? Kumbira couldn’t recall. Country girls were regularly brought to court as servants, and this one was new. Kumbira had grown accustomed to such as her. The king constantly replenished the supply of fresh faces around the prince the way one would restock a trout stream.
“You’re not here to gawk, girl,” Kumbira warned, raking Sujata with a disapproving stare.
The girl dropped her gaze to the floor. “I wasn’t, milady.”
“Don’t talk back. You have a lot to learn. Perhaps you should begin somewhere else.” With a flurry of hands Kumbira shooed her away. “Go, go!” Disconcerted, Sujata bowed and left the room.
“She could have stayed,” Siddhartha murmured. Kumbira said nothing. She wasn’t angry with the girl; she had only dismissed her to save the prince from being impulsive in front of tongues that would spread rumors throughout the palace. If he was seriously interested in Sujata, or even casually inclined, he could summon her in private.
Siddhartha sank back into a moody silence as the final touches were put on his costume, in the form of a peacock feather dashingly stuck in his turban and delicate white satin slippers on his feet. With a last frown at his reflection, he made for the door, then turned back.
“What’s her name?” His voice was almost too low to catch.
“Sujata,” said Kumbira. He repeated it under his breath. “So you noticed one,” Kumbira said. “Finally.” Despite the small feeling of apprehension that niggled at her, she couldn’t help teasing him. Siddhartha frowned, but he was too unsure of himself on these grounds to put much into the effort. He reached into his robe and pressed something into Kumbira’s palm, a heavy coin.
“Silence is golden,” he said with a shy, serious expression.
Kumbira nodded, and Siddhartha left noiselessly on slippered feet. They shared a small secret now, yet Kumbira felt inexplicably that he was drawing away from her permanently. There was no reason why this should be so, but she squeezed the gold coin in her hand like the memento of a lost cause. If only she understood the boy.
A PROWLING TIGER crouching in wait or an eagle in its aerie may find it simple to be alone, but humans don’t. We have many ways of being alone, and each has its peculiar complications. On the day that Siddhartha turned eighteen, three people felt completely alone in the palace. Siddhartha was alone because he didn’t know who he was and couldn’t ask anyone. The king was alone because he feared that his project was about to fail. Devadatta was alone because he had been dragged down into private torment without hope of rescue. These three experienced very different forms of loneliness, yet they had one thing in common. They fought to make sure that no one else suspected.
Suddhodana stood on the ramparts watching the long train of litters, wagons, and carts bringing his guests and their retinues to the capital. From down below some had spotted him and waved or got down from their conveyances to bow in salutation. He stood still, not acknowledging their greetings. The weather was fine, the roads to Kapilavastu clear. He had sent out a band of troops to patrol the mountain passes where bandits lurked. In his mind this day was not a coming-of-age feast but a political event. There would be baked peacocks draped in their feathered skins as if still alive, saffron rice steamed with an equal weight of sesame seeds, whole kid goats roasted in butter, betel leaves wrapped in silver foil, honey wine to drink, rose conserve whose scent almost induced a swoon, barley beer in huge casks as the night worn on, and women’s flesh offered in dark private alcoves for dessert. But all this richness was actually a show of force. His guests knew it. Most of them appeared on Suddhodana’s orders, not by invitation. He was presented with the delicate task of transferring their fear and respect, which had been owed to him over many bloody years, to his son. The prospect filled him with gloom.
His eye shifted to the tower where Siddhartha was waiting before his official appearance. “I don’t want you mingling. Don’t greet anybody, don’t let anyone see you. We want them to feel awe when they first set eyes on you. This is your stage, and you have to master it completely.”
“I will do all you ask,” Siddhartha replied.
“Stop it, I don’t want words. What good have words ever done me? This is the first day of your future. Unless you fill them with fear, these people will one day turn into your enemies, that I promise.”
“Fear?” Siddhartha considered the word as if it came from a foreign tongue. “I’m not a threat. Why not keep it that way?”
“Because fear is policy. It’s protection. People are either at your feet or at your throat. It’s up to you which one.” Suddhodana delivered these axioms with complete conviction.
“You protect me, and I’m not afraid of you,” Siddhartha reminded him. This was true. The distance between father and son had wavered over the years, sometimes reaching a pole of complete misunderstanding. But Siddhartha had never been afraid of his father or of what disobedience might bring out in him. As he had grown, the prince acquired a combination of qualities that baffled the king: mildness alongside courage, patience shored up by will, trust combined with sharpness of mind. Suddhodana could never predict which one would emerge. He was reminded every day that two different people seemed to live inside one skin.
“Hasn’t the Brahmin taught you anything?” the king burst out impatiently. “What I’m telling you is real, it’s true. Without creating fear, you can’t get respect. Without respect, you can’t have peace among potential enemies. Once it comes to bloodshed, nobody is afraid enough. Passion makes men fight to the death, and fear in battle is forgotten or despised. It’s useless once the swords are drawn. But fear will keep men from getting to bloodshed, if you manage it right.”
This wasn’t a studied speech, but it was no impulsive outburst, either. Suddhodana had planned to confront his son with the realities of a king’s existence. The time had to be ripe; the boy had to be old enough to accept the lesson but not so old that he would imagine himself wiser than his father. Suddhodana could only pray that his timing was right. He studied Siddhartha’s face for a reaction.
“How is fear managed?” asked Siddhartha. His hesitant tone wasn’t encouraging, but at least he had asked the right question.
“Fear should be applied like medicine,” his father replied. “Use just enough as a remedy but not so much that it becomes a poison. Medicine isn’t pleasant. But the pain it causes cures a greater pain.” Suddhodana had practiced this analogy until he thought it was easy to understand and forceful enough to be remembered.
“Fate has dealt us a fortunate hand,” Suddhodana went on. “We have the mountains to the north and west guarding our backs. I’ve fought on that front occasionally, but my eye keeps looking east. To the east you have strong kings, in Magadha and Kosala. Together they could overwhelm us by sheer numbers. They are almost strong enough to do it without allying. But they don’t attack because I inflicted pain on them first. I bit their throats like a small dog that can drive back a bigger one because it’s more fierce. The big dog will remember the bite and forget that its enemy is actually smaller.”
“You cast a spell,” Siddhartha said. It was a peculiar remark, and it stopped his father cold.
“More than a spell. I killed real men. One day you will too.”
There, I’ve said it. He had put before his son an inevitability, not simply a possibility. “A king has never existed who didn’t fight and kill,” he said with emphasis.