“His type can’t stop himself. If he lays eyes on one colicky baby, he’ll throw all his money on the bed if he has any,” they said, quieting the hotheads.
Siddhartha’s second ritual of farewell had been to kiss his baby son. The boy was four, old enough to have his own room. The prince had taken a candle and tiptoed in. Rahula slept, not curled up in a ball like most children, but facedown with his limbs spread-eagled, as if he was prepared to take flight. He lay like that now, and his father looked at him a long time, then turned away without kissing him. Resolved as he was, regret would have its way. If he wakes up and sees me, I’ll never go.
That night of departure Channa drove a chariot to protect Siddhartha, but instead of standing behind him the way he would in battle, the prince rode Kanthaka, who was old but still strong.
When the gates of Kapilavastu closed behind them and they hit the main dirt road, Kanthaka’s hoofbeats became a dull thud, like muffled drums at a funeral. They moved slowly toward the river. Channa’s back was rigid with anger; he refused to break his sullen silence. By sunrise the prince was bathing in the green, slow-flowing river. He stepped out and wrapped a saffron skirt around his waist.
“What do I do with those?” asked Channa. He pointed at the embroidered robe and silk shirt hanging from a tree limb. There was no need to give him instructions-royal finery was burned after it was discarded. Channa just wanted an excuse to pick a quarrel.
“It’s a waste to burn them if you’re really coming back,” he said. “Or did you just tell her that?”
Siddhartha ignored the jibe. “Do what you want. They belong to someone who isn’t me anymore.” He took out a short-bladed razor and began to cut his long hair as close to the scalp as he could.
“Isn’t you anymore?” Channa shook his head with disbelief. He had no idea why Siddhartha had gone crazy, only that he had.
Siddhartha continued quietly cutting his hair. He hadn’t reckoned on how much sorrow he would create around him by deciding to leave. His father fumed and screamed at the servants. Channa whipped the chariot horses too hard. Smiling court ladies acted vaguely as if they’d been jilted. What they really felt, deep inside, was that he had died.
Siddhartha held out the razor to him. “Do you mind?” he said. Channa looked startled. “You’ve done so much for me, friend. This is the last thing I’ll ask.” Siddhartha pointed at the back of his head, where he had made a mess of cutting his hair. Channa reluctantly took the blade. He squatted beside Siddhartha on his heels and began to cut. He was expert at it. This was something that women didn’t do. Barbering was left to men, and on the battlefield soldiers would trim off hair that was too long to fit under a helmet.
At first he was rough, and Siddhartha, saying nothing, gave him a questioning look. “Sorry,” Channa mumbled. After a moment he began to settle down. The intimate act distracted him from his grief. Channa knew, as everyone at court did, that only he was allowed to touch the prince-tapping his shoulder to make a point in argument, brushing dirt off his hunting jacket, embracing him when Siddhartha rode off to the villages-but no one openly spoke about this breach of caste rules.
“That’s enough.” Siddhartha took the razor from Channa’s hands. “I don’t want anyone to think I have an expert barber.”
“No, you’re just another monk with hardly a stitch to wear,” Channa said.
They parted there by the river as the sun came over the treetops. Channa refused to say farewell; he kept his arms tightly pinned by his side to deflect Siddhartha’s attempt to embrace him. As Siddhartha walked away, he trained his eyes straight ahead for the first hour. The jungle canopy was fairly dense, even though trees had been cut down to make the road. For a while he hardly knew how he felt, except in the most basic physical ways. His body felt lighter; the slightest breeze ruffled his thin silk shawl and passed coolly over his skin. Being without long hair and heavy robes was exhilarating and unnerving.
Having been a hunter, he knew how to forage for fruit and wild greens; in the past few years he’d spent days on long treks without provisions. But it wasn’t the physical necessities that worried him. To really be Gautama, he would need to find a teacher. There were forest hermitages scattered over the countryside, most of them near big villages and towns. Saffron-robed beggars had become a common sight on the wide streets of cities beyond the kingdom of Sakya. Their increasing numbers baffled people, and the priests muttered about shiftless pretenders. Some kind of spiritual ferment was taking hold. Before he left home, Siddhartha was intrigued by this new movement, which didn’t even have a name yet.
“It’s young rascals, these so-called holy men,” a silk merchant complained. “They fear work like the plague. They’re abandoning the farms and turning away from their parents. Nothing seems to hold them back, certainly not respect.”
The merchant kept his own son tied close to his side with constant demands and a trickle of money, not enough for him to leave or to get married before the father arranged a match.
“How do they live?” Siddhartha asked.
“Like any other lazybones. I wouldn’t leave meat hanging in my front yard,” said the merchant. “You never know when the gods might want it.”
Siddhartha ignored his cynicism. “Who teaches them?”
“You call it teaching? What are the temples for? Not that the priests are much better, mind you.” Siddhartha pressed the point, and the merchant eventually realized that he wasn’t there simply to reinforce high-caste prejudice. “I’m amazed that you care, Your Highness. From what I can tell, the young ones seek out the older ones. They move around the forest from camp to camp, and the day they arrive at some makeshift school, they bow down before the teacher and ask about the Dharma, whatever his angle happens to be. Dharma? The priests filled us with enough of that.” Dharma could mean many things-a man’s occupation, the rules of proper conduct, a person’s holy duties as outlined by scripture. In this case it was a philosophy, a particular teaching that disciples committed themselves to learn.
“And which Dharma is attracting the most followers?” Siddhartha asked.
The merchant shrugged. “Who can say? The young ones keep wandering. They’re restless and never stay anywhere very long.”
Other travelers that Siddhartha came in contact with were just as hostile. They would have been shocked if they could have penetrated Siddhartha’s defenses and seen what lay behind his hospitable smile. He belonged to the same young, restless breed that disappeared into the forest for years at a time. With each passing day he became more and more aware of his calling. Yet, time was pressing. If he stayed in the palace for just a few more years, the king would be old enough to step aside and bequeath Siddhartha the throne. He couldn’t let that happen. Not love, not family, not his own conscience could force him to betray himself.
And this is what you call being true to yourself?
Gautama’s mind wasn’t convinced. The rain continued to pour from the sky, and the road was so dark that more than once he slipped into the gully on the side. There was no use arguing with his mind, which seemed untamable anyway. Gautama wondered if he was alone among mortals, wanting to abandon all that was good in order to suffer the torment and uncertainty of the wild world. He’d add that to his long list of questions to ask his teacher once he found him. If he found him.
12
Gautama passed several travelers on the road who could have directed him to one of the forest ashrams where teachers were located. He greeted them humbly, letting them decide to accept his company for a few miles or not; a handful offered him food for his bowl. But he was reluctant to throw himself into the midst of a band of disciples. Gautama wanted to learn, but he didn’t want to give up who he was. His only model for a spiritual teacher was Canki, who had a hidden motive for everything he said.