To be clear, I have no “ego” about any of these things. I state them merely as facts. The truth is that I long ago transcended ego (ATT 1:11–15); I do not even have an ego—I am interested only in love and compassion. (MJ 90) But it is undeniably the case that I was a dazzling and wondrous boy. Everything came easily to me. I could master any subject without any instruction. I spoke sixty-four different languages, each with its own alphabet. I was extremely gifted at mathematics. I once informed my father that I could count all the atoms in the world. Father, justifiably amazed, said, “That is a lot of atoms, son.” “Yes, it certainly is, Father,” I agreed. “Will that not take you a very long time, Siddhartha?” “No, Father, in fact, I can do it in the time it takes you to draw a single breath!” That left Father speechless. (LV 10–12)
I was also a brilliant archer. One time I entered an archery tournament (which is amusing in a way because, honestly, why would anyone think they could beat me?) and I was just about to shoot when I stopped and turned to the crowd. “With this bow of meditative concentration,” I announced to them, “I will fire the arrow of wisdom and kill the tiger of ignorance in all living beings!” I still remember how impressed people were by my eloquence. I then fired my arrow, which flew straight through an iron wall before disappearing deep in the earth. (LV 10–12) “The young prince is a wonderment,” the people all proclaimed. Which again, ego aside, I was.
As I have mentioned, Father did not want me to know that suffering existed. For that reason, sickness, old age and death were strictly forbidden from my presence. As soon as a servant hit the age of forty or so they were quickly removed from the palace, as was anyone who got ill. I remember observing a man sneeze one day and thinking to myself, “What was that about?” and then noticing that the man was gone the next day. Even ugly people were banned from my sight. Only healthy and beautiful young people were allowed to be near me. And it wasn’t just people either. If a goat got sick, it was quickly slaughtered. Even plants were treated this way; if they wilted even slightly, they were instantly uprooted. “Are you getting older?” I remember once asking my father. “Not at all,” he responded. “Are you wearing make-up?” I continued. “Of course not,” he huffed, though in hindsight he obviously was.
Sometimes I look back and wonder: Did I actually not grasp that people aged and got sick? Did I not notice myself aging? Did I myself never get sick? Could I have actually reached nearly thirty years of age without realizing that death existed? The truth is, there was some small inner part of me that sensed there was more to life than eternal health, youth and happiness. Glimpses of truth, that is, did occasionally break through.
The first one occurred when I was eight years old. There was a planting ceremony of some sort taking place. It was a very hot day, the sun was beating down. I sat in the shade of an apple tree observing the ceremony and as I sat there, I slowly went into a kind of trance. In hindsight, I understand that this was the first time I ever entered into the state of Oneness. The gods, perhaps impatient for me to begin saving the world, apparently wanting me to remain in this state of Oneness as long as possible, literally stopped the sun from moving for several hours, thus allowing me to remain comfortably in the shade. (NK)
Another important childhood epiphany: I was ten years old this time, once again sitting under an apple tree. (I was drawn to sitting under trees from the start.) A bird swooped down and pecked the ground near me, then flew away with a worm in its beak and I remember thinking to myself at that moment: “The worm will die.” This led to the following question: “Does that mean everything will die?” Instantly I knew the answer: Of course everything would die. I felt a profound wave of sadness at this realization. “Things die,” I whispered to myself. “And before they die, they suffer.”
A few years after that, I married the beautiful Princess Yasodhara. Father assumed that Yasodhara and I would quickly have children but thirteen years flew by and we remained childless. Why, you wonder? Because I was not ready to be a father, that’s why. For that reason I did not lie with Yasodhara, not even one time. Trying to pique my interest in women, Father surrounded me with scantily clad dancing girls—a lot of them—40,000, to be exact. (NK) But the dancing girls’ presence didn’t work on me; I was too strong, I resisted. I had zero intention of creating a screaming little red-faced baby, because why on earth would I want that? (Also, to be honest, Yasodhara bled every month, which I found sickening.)
One night when I was in my late twenties, however, Yasodhara got the better of me. She poured wine for me, glass after glass, until I could barely see straight. She then pressed her body against me and whispered provocative things in my ear and before I knew it the dismal deed had taken place. I had kept my wife at bay for twelve years, but that one night I was weak and wouldn’t you know it,
