He could feel, as he grew used to being in his body again, that it could endure no more. Yet all he could think about was finding the five monks to tell them that he was enlightened. Gautama tried to uncross his stick legs and get up, but when he moved them an inch, the wasted muscles screamed with pain. He stared at them with a slight frown of disapproval, like a new father who feels helpless when the baby cries.
Gautama felt no sympathy for his body, but it would have to be dealt with. He willed his limbs to move, and slowly he began to crawl along the forest floor. It felt damp and hot; there were vermin that slid under his skin, and fungi and rocks. He could hear running water nearby. He sensed his body’s desperate thirst. Maybe he would get to water in time, maybe not. He kept crawling, but the forest floor barely crept beneath him now. He could practically count each beetle that his weight crushed. A small snake, colored brilliant red, slithered away at the level of his face. The air became very still, and moving any farther, even at a crawl, became impossible.
Lying there, he never expected that enlightenment would be the last thing to happen before he died.
PART THREE.BUDDHA
16
While he lay motionless on the ground, Gautama became dimly aware that a shadow had fallen over him. When it moved, he assumed it must be the outline of a large animal, a predator drawn by his smell. The animal would most likely be hungry, yet it made no difference to Gautama how his time on earth ended.
“Please don’t die.”
The girl’s voice caused his eyes to look up, almost against his will. She was startled and moved back shyly. She must have been all of sixteen, and alone. Gautama closed his eyes and waited for her timidity to send her away. Instead, he felt soft warm hands on either side of his face. The girl raised his head slightly and wiped the grime away from his cheeks with a corner of her sari. It was faded blue and threadbare, a poor girl’s sari.
“Here.”
She pressed something to his mouth. A bowl, and its edge hurt his cracked dry lips. Gautama shook his head, and a croaked word came out of his throat.
“No.”
The girl said, “Are you a god?”
Gautama felt a wave of delirium; her words sounded meaningless. The girl said, “I’ve come to the river to be blessed by the god who lives there. It’s my wedding day in a month.”
A god? Gautama couldn’t even smile. He shook his head slightly and let his face fall back to touch the warm jungle floor. But from wasting away he had become weaker than the girl, so he couldn’t resist when she turned him over and held him upright in her arms. She did this effortlessly.
“You must.” She held the bowl to his mouth again. “Don’t be stubborn. If my offering is good enough for a god, you’re not better than him, are you?”
Now a smile rose inside Gautama. “Go find your god,” he mumbled. He clenched his jaw so that she couldn’t pour the contents of the bowl into him. There was no purpose in her being there.
“I won’t leave you here,” she said. “I can’t have people saying that Sujata did something like that.”
In the midst of his torpor, Gautama’s mind suddenly became alert. What she said didn’t seem possible. “Tell me your name again.”
“Sujata. What’s wrong?”
The girl saw tears streaming down the dying man’s cheeks. His emaciated body began to tremble in her arms. She felt terribly sorry for him. Weakly he opened his mouth, and Sujata poured a little food into it. She had cooked sweet rice in milk for the river deity. The dying man accepted more. His stubbornness had vanished, though the girl had no idea why.
In a stricken voice he mumbled, “What have I done?”
“I don’t know,” said the girl, confused. But she was no longer shy or frightened by him. “We have to get you home. Can you walk at all?”
“In a little while.” Gautama ate the rest of the sweet rice with painful slowness. Then Sujata left him for a moment and returned with some water. He drank it greedily, his cracked lips bleeding slightly as he opened his mouth.
“I’ll carry you as far as I can, and then I’ll get my brother,” Sujata said. Gently she lifted Gautama to his feet. His brittle legs looked like they might snap. He couldn’t walk, but he was light enough so that the girl could prop him against her shoulder. Together they hobbled their way up the narrow trail she had taken to the river. They arrived at a road, and Sujata placed him under a tree, propped up against the trunk like a limp doll.
“Wait here. Don’t let anyone move you.”
Tears started rolling down his cheeks again. Sujata found it hard to watch; she hurried away and soon disappeared around the bend. Gautama wished she hadn’t gone. He suddenly felt alone and desolate. Sujata. He hadn’t heard that name in fifteen years. But he had not forgotten her. This was the cause of his weeping, because five years of austerity hadn’t wiped out his memories. It all came back in a flood: his first sight of Sujata on his eighteenth birthday when his robes were gaudy enough for an elephant. Winding his red turban. The excitement he suppressed when he felt stirrings of desire for her. As soon as he recalled these things, it was as if a dead flower in the desert received the spring rains. His mind unfolded in layers, bringing back image after image from the past, and with them the emotions he had wanted to extinguish. He was badly dehydrated, and soon his tear ducts had nothing more to offer.
Gautama rolled his head back and stared at the jungle. It gave back nothing. It was neither a friendly haven nor a dangerous wilderness. The flowers weren’t smiling, the air was not luxuriously moist and enveloping. The blank face of Nature was all he saw, and a surge of horror ran through Gautama. He wanted to vomit, but with all his will he forced the sweet rice and water to stay down. Weak as he was, he could dimly hear his thoughts, and they told him he had to survive. Karma hadn’t died, and neither had he.
The light began to fade. Gautama knew it was close to noon, so he must be fainting. His head grew light; a cold sweat beaded his chest. It was a relief to lose consciousness, so he allowed himself to sink into the sensation of falling and falling. Scarlet parrots scolded loudly overhead; he lay so still that a couple of curious monkeys began to advance down the tree trunk with caution. Gautama wasn’t aware of this. His mind was captured by the face of Ganaka, which he saw clearly. It wore an expression he couldn’t read. Grief? Contempt? Compassion? Blackness swallowed up whatever it was.
SUJATA’S HUT WAS FLIMSY, its mud walls cracked. There was almost no protection from the weather, which meant that spring could enter as it pleased. Gautama lay in bed, weak and feverish, for some weeks before he noticed this. One morning a white sal blossom floated down from the trees, slid sideways on the breeze, and came in through a large crack in the wall. It landed on Gautama’s face and rested there. The fragrance opened his eyes.
“Aren’t you pretty?”
Sujata laughed and lifted the flower to her nose. “Thank you, noble sir.” She pinned it behind her ear. The girl took her nursing duties lightly, hiding any worries she might have from her patient.
“Nothing seems pretty to me,” Gautama said. He had taken to speaking his mind.
“I don’t believe you,” said Sujata.
They were alone together every day. The hut had been abandoned after her grandmother died, and she had begged her family to let the stranger recover there. Her family didn’t want to set eyes on his skin-covered skeleton anyway, so Sujata got what she wanted without objection.
Gautama lifted himself up on his elbows. It was the most effort he had expended since arriving there. “I want to go outside.”
“I won’t stop you,” said Sujata with mock indifference.