“But if another monk hates me,” asked Gautama, “why can’t he see that he is being distracted from his purpose?”
“He might. His soul could send him a message,” Udaka said.
“But not always? He could go on hating me a long time, then.”
“Yes.”
Gautama felt a disquiet. “But if the soul is always loving, why doesn’t it tell him immediately not to hate me? What reason does it have to hold back?”
“You’re asking me to be wiser than the soul,” said Udaka, with a trace of irritation. “Don’t be so clever. I’ve never seen anyone think their way to heaven.”
Now Gautama knew what his disquiet was about. He had lost the forest hermit and Alara. If he kept on this way, Udaka would fall away next. Disciples without masters are like fallow fields where no rain falls. He couldn’t do without nourishment. Udaka knew this too; he gave Gautama a hard look. “You have something more to say? Perhaps you want to ask me about humility.”
“No.” Gautama kept his composure. “I wanted to tell you that I’ve been having a vision. My wife comes to me. She says that I deserve compassion. Can you tell me what that means?”
“Ignore it.”
Udaka said this without the slightest sign that he cared about such things. Gautama wouldn’t be put off, however.
“Master,” he said, “many of the disciples have left homes and women they love. Their children are forgetting their father’s face. Can’t a devoted wife be part of my soul?”
“No one belongs in your soul but you,” said Udaka.
“Then perhaps her image is a message. You said that the soul sends messages.”
“But it doesn’t send dreams. She’s the figment of an ignorant mind,” Udaka said curtly. “What if you caught a cold? Would you want me to tell you what the soul means when it sends you a cold? Get over her as you would get over any other disease.” Gautama’s master had never been married, and like many yogis he made a sour face whenever women were mentioned. Udaka’s revulsion bothered Gautama. Does he imagine that women have no souls? But the discussion was over. Gautama bowed and left without another word.
That night he returned to his tent, where he found Ganaka sitting up eating a bowl of millet gruel. “Why so worried, saint?” asked Ganaka, looking up.
“You must be feeling better.”
“Much.” Ganaka began slurping the last bit of gruel from the bowl. “I should be strong enough in the morning to leave.”
“Where will you go?” asked Gautama.
“Deeper into the jungle. I don’t intend to be found a second time.”
Gautama was shocked. “You’re going to try to kill yourself again?”
“Of course. It’s my Dharma.” Ganaka looked perfectly calm and serious, speaking without a trace of cynicism. “Strange, isn’t it? I have to eat to get the strength to go out and starve myself.”
“I can’t let you,” Gautama blurted out. He was so shaken that he wanted to pace back and forth. Instead, he forced himself to sit on the ground with his hands folded in his lap. His heart pounded.
Ganaka said, “There are two things even a saint can’t stop. One is being born, and the other is dying.” He waited for Gautama to protest. It was hard to miss who in the tent was calmer and more collected.
“Killing yourself is a sin,” said Gautama, then he stopped himself. Ganaka wasn’t a fool or ignorant of scripture. “Please explain what you mean,” Gautama said.
Ganaka burst out laughing. “Excuse me, but I just can’t help myself, little saint. Look at you. You wanted to jump out of your skin when I told you what I’m going to do. But you didn’t. Oh, no, you controlled yourself. You know how a holy man acts, and I must say you’ve gotten it down. I wish I could train a monkey half as well.”
Gautama felt the heat creeping up his face. “That’s unfair.”
“Who cares? I’m going to die tomorrow. I can say what I want.” The strange thing is that Ganaka wasn’t speaking harshly; his tone toward Gautama was almost kind. “I once told you that you reminded me of my younger self. Has it occurred to you yet that I might be your older self?” Seeing the scowl that Gautama was trying not to show, Ganaka broke out into laughter again. “You’re like a traveling show. I can see at least five or six people fighting inside you. Quite a spectacle.”
“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.
15
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.