“Angulimala,” Buddha said.
The priest got angry. “Don’t say such a thing. This is a holy place.”
Buddha said, “I think you forbid the name of Angulimala because you fear he might hear and invade your kingdom.” The old priest squinted his eyes, wondering if he was being mocked. “I can help,” Buddha added.
This offer was greeted with a harsh laugh. “How? Are you a warrior monk? It wouldn’t matter. Angulimala has killed his share of warriors. He has powers. He exchanged his soul for them.”
“What powers?”
“He can outrun a horse. He can hide without being seen and spring down on travelers from the tops of trees. Enough?”
“Perhaps, if any are true. I doubt that these powers have been observed if he kills everyone he meets and the few survivors are terrified,” said Buddha.
The priest, who was bald and slightly hunched, relented slightly. “You’re right about that, stranger. Come with me. I can feed you, and with a little food in your stomach you might stop deluding yourself that you can help.” The old priest managed a tight smile; something deep inside had been touched by the stranger’s offer. They retired to the temple kitchen, and when the stranger’s bowl was filled with rice and lentils, the two sat outside in the shade to eat.
“As you know, anguli means fingers,” said the priest. “To terrify everyone the more, this killer collects the fingers of his victims and wears them as a necklace around his throat. Very few know his real story, but I am one. The monster began life as the mild son of a Brahmin family with no money. At fourteen he was sent to school in a nearby village, with the hope that once he was educated he could perform rites at the temple and restore his family’s fortunes.
“But the Brahmin who ran the school was of unbalanced mind. He accused the boy of sleeping with his wife and threw him out in disgrace.” Buddha didn’t detect much pity for suffering in the old priest’s heart, but he genuinely felt sorry for the wronged boy.
“The scandal reached home before the boy did. When he crossed the threshold, his father beat him brutally and threw him out to fend for himself. The family’s hopes for restoring their fortunes were dashed. It didn’t matter that their son was innocent.”
As the priest recounted the tale, Buddha could see every event in his mind. What lay ahead looked much darker. “There was nothing for him to live for but death,” Buddha murmured.
“He was born cursed, and there’s no hope for him,” the old priest said severely.
“Did anyone try to give him hope?” asked Buddha. The priest scowled, but their meal was over. In gratitude, Buddha bowed his head. He didn’t prostrate himself at the Brahmin’s feet. This caused the old priest to keep a moody silence as he escorted his visitor to the gate.
“You’re a fool to go after him. I can see that’s what you have in mind,” the Brahmin said. “But if you must, here’s a charm to protect you.” He held out some dried herbs bundled with a prayer scribbled on a leaf. Buddha accepted it.
“Tell me one thing,” said Buddha. “Why does Angulimala kill so many people?”
“To save himself,” the old priest replied. “The disgraced boy took to the woods. He began to live like an animal. He ate roots and insects and covered his body with hides. They say by chance he met a wandering fortune-teller, who told him the curse could be lifted only by collecting a thousand fingers and offering them as sacrifice to Shiva. That’s why he wears his terrible necklace.”
“Then I must help him,” said Buddha. “Otherwise Angulimala will show up here one day to sacrifice his necklace on your altar.”
The old priest shuddered visibly and then slammed the gate shut behind him.
THOUGHTS OF ANGULIMALA stayed in Buddha’s mind that day and the next morning. Why was he drawn to the monster?
He walked deeper into the jungle to face the question. It was a blazing afternoon when Buddha found himself on a hidden trail through the jungle. There was a rustle, then before he could turn his head, a wild beast jumped down from the trees and crouched before him. The covering of matted hides made Angulimala look like a giant ferocious ape baring its fangs.
Buddha regarded the wild man’s teeth, which had been crudely filed to a point, and his necklace of withered fingers. In his left hand he carried a long curved blade. “Namaste,” said Buddha. Angulimala growled.
“I cannot save you unless you tell me how you are suffering,” said Buddha. “An animal doesn’t need saving.”
The wild man showed no reaction. He could reach his prey in one leap, so he raised his knife and with a howl sprang toward Buddha. When he came to earth, however, his knife slashed at empty air. Buddha was standing, as before, two paces away. Angulimala looked bewildered.
“You do not have to ask for mercy or forgiveness,” said Buddha. “Speak your real name, not the monster’s that you have assumed.”
The wild man took another leap at Buddha, and as before, when he landed his blade swished through the air. Buddha was standing two paces away.
“I can only stop a moment,” Buddha said. “But if you want my help, come to me.”
He turned his back on Angulimala and began slowly walking away. Behind him there was a scream of rage. One thing the old Brahmin had said was true: Angulimala possessed enough demonic energy that he could outrun a horse. He charged at Buddha, his knife stretched out in front like a spear. It should have taken only a few seconds to reach his prey, but Buddha remained a step ahead. Angulimala sped up, panting as he ran. His bare feet stirred up a cloud of dust, but he couldn’t close the gap between himself and Buddha. This kept up for ten minutes, until the wild man fell to the ground, clutching at his cramped legs. Buddha turned around and regarded him.
“There’s a small distance between you and me,” he said mildly. “Shall I close it? I can.”
He reached down and touched the killer’s matted hair, and Angulimala began to weep. “Please tell me your real name,” Buddha urged. There was a pause, and Angulimala shivered from head to toe. “Why?” he moaned. By this he meant, Why should anyone help me? I am damned.
“I will tell you, but I can’t explain to an animal,” said Buddha.
Angulimala clutched at himself, writhing on the ground. Buddha stood quietly, letting the demonic energy drain away. It would take more than a single seizure to purify the wild man, but this was a beginning. After he had thrashed in the dust for some minutes, a name came out. “Anigha,” he said.
“Look at me, Anigha,” Buddha said. “We are brothers.”
The wild man was pacified from exhaustion, his body spent. He raised his head as Buddha bent over to bless him. “You were once a great saint,” said Buddha. “Now you have become a great sinner. This was not a curse. The cycle of birth and rebirth has brought you full circle. The same thing happens to everyone. It has happened to me.”
Each word he spoke caused a change in Anigha. His eyes looked far away; he seemed to remember something deep and profound. Tears rolled down his cheeks. “I am damned,” he said aloud, his voice becoming more human.
“No, you share the same fate as everyone,” said Buddha. “You wanted to find a way out of suffering. The only difference is that you asked for the life of a monster. You imagined that if you caused enormous suffering, you would be immune to it.”
The weight of Anigha’s crimes was crushing him-he groaned.
“It’s horrible to bring hell on earth,” said Budddha. “There was another purpose, though, that no one sees.” Anigha stared in bafflement. “You hungered for the supreme truth many lifetimes ago. The gods failed you; your vows as a monk led to nothing but deeper disappointment. So you swore that you would not be redeemed unless the greatest sinner received the same treatment.”