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.”
Hard as he tried, Gautama could not conceal the anguish in his voice. Ananda reached out and grabbed his hand. “Go home, put everything back in order. I’m not brilliant like you, but if I caused so much pain to my family, I would consider it the same as betraying God.”
This speech moved Gautama, but as he considered what Ananda had said, his face grew darker. “You’re condemning me to a trap, my friend. I set my whole heart on meeting God. I abandoned everything for his sake. If that is the same as betraying God, my situation is hopeless. So is yours, and everyone’s here.”
There were more arguments that afternoon, more pleas from Ananda, but Gautama had made up his mind. The skies were so dark that they blended seamlessly into nightfall. Gautama didn’t permit Ananda to keep vigil beside his cot until dawn; he recalled how much it had hurt when he woke up to find Ganaka gone.
“Before we part, I want you to understand something,” he said. “I was raised in a palace, but I was a prisoner there. I had only one friend, so I spent hours alone or with the servants. What most fascinated me were the silk weavers. I discovered them bent over their looms in a tiny upstairs chamber. The room was full of the smell of indigo and saffron. The weavers didn’t talk among themselves; all I heard was the clack of shuttles running back and forth.
“There was one old woman, stooped and nearly blind, who did something I couldn’t understand. If a thread snapped, she would unload her loom completely and start over again. I asked her why she destroyed a week’s work over a single thread. She answered me in a word: karma.
“Karma keeps good and evil in balance. Karma is a divine law. When the law is violated, however innocently, it can’t be undone. One snapped thread alters the whole design; one misdeed alters a person’s destiny.”
Ananda listened carefully, wanting to remember every word from Gautama in case they never met again. “So the thread of your life has been broken,” he said.
“I thought it broke the day I left home. But I was naive. When I ended as Siddhartha, his karma continued to follow me. I feel as troubled as the day I left my wife and child a year ago. My hunger is for freedom, but the trap keeps closing tighter. Instead of attacking me directly, the demons sow discord everywhere around me. There’s only one thing left to try.” Gautama had skirted the truth, that the demons actually feared him.
“But what are you going to do?” Ananda pleaded, trying not to think about how alone he would be after this night.
Gautama wanted to protect his intentions, but he relented a little. There was a good chance that he would fail, and if that happened he would return home, not try to find the next guru. “Death has been stalking me since the day I was born. Eventually, no matter how hard I struggle, death will win-the hunter will kill his prey. But until then I have one chance to turn the tables. If I move quickly, I may be able to kill death first. There’s no other way, not if you want to be free.”
IN A COUNTRY where villages were a day apart and travelers hugged a strand of road winding through miles of uncharted wilderness, Gautama could disappear into the green world and never be seen again. He set out to do just that, but it was too dangerous to go alone. Tigers don’t mind eating idealists. Therefore, once he had left Udaka’s camp behind, Gautama searched for more rigorous company. They would have to be monks. They would have to be willing not to talk for days or weeks at a time. Finally, they would have to push their bodies so far that only two choices remained: bursting through to freedom or perishing in mortal form.
Gautama made the same proposition to every monk he encountered: “Come with me and defeat your karma once and for all. Death is playing a game with us. It’s a long game, but in the end the outcome is certain. Now’s your only chance to defeat the pain and suffering that became your inheritance the day you were born.”