As the gates of Kapilavastu drew close, Buddha prepared the way. He sent his presence ahead, and he could feel a growing excitement in Yashodhara. She ordered her servants to throw away the somber saris of a widow; she brought out old portraits of Siddhartha to show their son, Rahula, who might be frightened to see the return of a father he knew only in the cradle. Every day Yashodhara performed the same ritual. She would gather Rahula by her side and sit in the gazebo by the lotus pond, the place where Suddhodana’s pleasure pavilion used to stand. The old structure had been torn down and the courtesans given honest places as serving women. Siddhartha had never visited them. It was one way he could show his fidelity to Yashodhara. Now she waited there to show her fidelity to him.
Buddha knew that feeling his presence was not enough, though. His wife was still young; for that matter, Siddhartha would be only thirty-five. There was time for more children. Buddha’s presence couldn’t reach this part of Yashodhara’s nature. How could he change her mind without crushing her? The bliss of wedded life was what she lived for.
His mind was preoccupied when the five monks began to stir with agitation. Buddha looked up the road where they were pointing. A horse lathered with sweat and streaming with blood was running toward them in a panicked gallop. The five monks scattered to get out of the way. It was a powerful black stallion. None of them dared to pull Buddha from harm’s way; he stood his ground, and as the animal got near, it reared, slashing out with its iron-shod front feet. For a second the huge animal balanced in midair, thrashing. Then its hooves came to earth without hitting their target. The stallion trembled with pain and terror, but it didn’t rear again and slowly began to calm down.
“What happened?” asked Assaji, pressing the cloth of his robe to the horse’s worst wound. “Where did this come from?”
“Only one thing is possible,” said Buddha. “War. We’ll be in the thick of it soon enough.”
They hadn’t gone another mile before his prediction came true; the din of battle could be faintly heard in the distance. “I am the cause of this,” said Buddha. The five monks protested, but Buddha said no more. The group had their hands full keeping the wounded stallion from bolting when he caught the scent of death. More than once Buddha had to pause and look the animal directly in the eye. “The only way to convince him that he doesn’t need to be afraid is to show him that I am not. Animals are wiser than us in that regard. If they don’t feel peace, they aren’t fooled by peaceful words.”
The monks knew that Buddha did not make casual remarks. His every utterance was dedicated to teaching them the truth. Very soon the noise of battle grew loud enough that they could hear steel striking against steel and the anguished cries of dying soldiers. Buddha stopped and listened. “Words of peace fooled my father. Devadatta has tricked him into war.” Then he pointed away from the conflict. “Home first.” An hour later they saw the towers of the gates to the capital city. The road widened, and the last hundred yards were paved with cobblestones.
“Who’s there?” a sentry cried.
“One you called Siddhartha,” said Buddha.
“I can’t let anyone in who isn’t a citizen, and I don’t know that name,” said the sentry, peering through a slot above them. He was young, almost a boy. The real soldiers were all away to do the king’s killing.
“Send for Princess Yashodhara’s maid. She will recognize me,” said Buddha. The sentry’s face vanished from the top of the gate. They waited, then the great wooden gates opened just wide enough to admit them and the stallion. Buddha saw where his wife was. Having heard the name Siddhartha, she sent her maid scurrying to the gates while she hurriedly examined herself in the mirror and wrapped herself in a sari threaded with gold.
She was panting and sweating slightly when she seated herself in the gazebo. Rahula was taking a nap, and Yashodhara almost woke him up, but she didn’t want him to see her weep uncontrollably, so she came alone. The wind was light, but whenever it turned slightly she could faintly catch the sounds of war, which increased her anxiety.
“My dear.”
She had been so distracted that he was there before she heard him. With a cry, Yashodhara jumped to her feet, ran to Buddha, and threw her arms around him. She was sensitive to his slightest response, and her heart swelled when she felt his arms hold her without hesitation. This came as such an enormous relief that she began to sob. A husband would have said, “There’s no cause for that. I’m home now. It’s all right.” Yashodhara’s husband said none of those things.
Buddha let go of her, and for an instant Yashodhara felt completely abandoned. She wanted to clutch at him, but he raised a finger in a small gesture, and her arms fell to her sides. “You are my beloved wife. It’s your right to embrace me,” said Buddha. “No one shall ever do that again. Not even you.”
Yashodhara trembled. She had spent years blocking out of her mind any image of Siddhartha as a monk. Even at that moment she kept her eyes fixed on his face, refusing to see his saffron robes. His features began swimming before her, but she wasn’t fainting-no black curtain descending over her eyes, no cold sweat and chill moving up toward her head. Instead, Yashodhara felt warm, and the warmth began in her heart. It radiated outward. What was happening to her? The world disappeared from sight, not in blackness but in the glow of a white light that had no source. She caught one last glimpse of the sun, but it was pale compared to the light that now filled up her whole being. Now she was certain that the light came from this man who used to be her husband.
“This is your time, Yashodhara. Surrender and be free.”
19
Buddha didn’t spend the night in Kapilavastu but took the five monks and headed for the battlefield. It was near sunset when they arrived at a hilltop overlooking the fighting. In the waning light neither side was leading a charge. Elephants and horses had been pulled back from the front. All that remained of the din of war was the clash of swords. Foot soldiers fought in bands with the enemy, raising dust around them.
Buddha sat down on the ridge. From above, every soldier was like a frantic puppet flailing away. Some puppets ran around, bumping into other puppets. They bounced off each other, then one would fall and not get up again. Many puppets littered the field, some writhing a little, others very still.
“Are we going down there?” Kondana asked nervously. “What place is it for monks?”
“We have no other choice,” said Buddha. “War is no different from what happens every day. It’s another way that men have found to suffer.”
“But life isn’t always a war,” Kondana pointed out.
“Not openly,” said Buddha. “But if men weren’t so afraid of dying, they would fight every day, and in their hearts their dearest wish would be to see every enemy destroyed.” By now the light had faded, ending the skirmishes on the field. The last thing one could see were the scavengers who crept onto the scene to loot dead bodies. The wind carried sweet birdcalls up the hill, mixed with moans of wounded soldiers.
“Master, what you’re saying is very dark. It makes the situation hopeless,” said Kondana.
“Hope never ended a war.”
That was Buddha’s last word for the night. He folded his robes around him and lay on the ground. The five monks had learned that he had no concern for where he slept or who was nearby. But they had gotten into the habit of seeing after his comforts to the small extent he would allow. They fetched a gourd of water to place by his side and some food brought from the capital. They built a fire and together lay down apart from him out of respect.