3
At that point I remember beginning to feel restless, trapped in Father’s palace. “I need to grow up, Father,” I remember saying to him one day. “When I was born I announced that I was the King of the World and now here I am, nearly thirty years old and spending my days lying in my chariot-themed bed, wearing my favorite golden helmet!”
“But you love your golden helmet, Siddhartha.”
“I do love it, Stepmother, but that is not the point. The point is that there must be something more to life than this.”
“Would you like to redesign your bedroom, son?” Father asked me. “Make it look more like a dragon’s lair, as you have sometimes mentioned?”
“No, Father, that is not at ALL what I want,” I cried out, stomping away in frustration.
“Where are you going, Siddhartha?” Father called after me.
“I am going for a chariot ride!”
An hour later, accompanied by my driver, Chandaka, I was riding around the palace grounds in my best golden chariot. All my horses, including my (by far) favorite steed, Kamthaka, were wearing gold. (ASV 3:8) I was wearing my usual outfit: silks and jewels. My hair was long, flowing and frankly magnificent, topped with my finest helmet, which was decorated with golden lightning bolts.
As Chandaka drove us around the palace grounds, the citizens lined up and threw flowers at me. “They love me for my marvelous personality and conspicuous beauty, Chandaka,” I announced. (ASV 3:11) “Yes, my lord.”
As we neared our typical “turnaround” spot, an impulse suddenly came over me. “Exit the palace gates,” I commanded Chandaka.
“But my lord, we are not supposed to do that.”
“Do as I say, Chandaka.”
“But your father—”
“Exit the palace gates NOW, Chandaka.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
Five minutes later, we were driving through the city outside the gates. It looked different than anyplace I’d ever been before, shabbier, more broken down and drab. I was studying a decaying building when I suddenly gasped. On the side of the road was a hunched-over old man, white-haired and extremely wrinkly. “What on earth is that creature?” I whispered to Chandaka. (ASV 3:28)
“It is an old man, my lord.”
“What do you mean, ‘old man’?” I demanded as I stared at the withered creature limping along with the help of a wooden staff.
“Things age, my lord,” Chandaka said. “Did you actually not know that?”
I turned and looked Chandaka in the eye. “Will I age too?”
Chandaka averted his eyes. “Chandaka,” I demanded. “Tell me, Chandaka.”
“Everything ages, my lord,” he murmured.
Oh, how my great soul shuddered when I heard that! (ASV 3:34) I looked around at the people on the street, many of whom were laughing and talking. “Why are they not horrified, Chandaka? How can they live with this dreadful knowledge?”
“Perhaps they are accustomed to the idea of getting older, my lord.”
“Well, I am not accustomed to it, Chandaka. I am not in the LEAST accustomed to it! Honestly, how am I supposed to take pleasure in life again, knowing that I will get old ?”
“Perhaps we should head back to the palace now, my lord.”
“No, Chandaka, no. I need to know the truth about life. I will know the truth about life.”
Five minutes later, we came upon a second horrid sight. A pale man with a swollen belly and open sores was shaking and muttering “mother” over and over again as he staggered along the road. (ASV 3:41) (This man didn’t actually “exist,” by the way. Neither had the “old man”; they were both just creations of the gods, meant to get my attention. Which they definitely did!)
“What is wrong with that man?” I whispered to Chandaka in amazement.
“He is sick, my lord.”
“Sick?? What on earth do you mean ‘sick’?”
“His body is ailing, my lord. He is in pain.”
“Are you telling me that humans experience pain, Chandaka?”
“Have you yourself never experienced pain, my lord?”
“Oh, I have, obviously, but other people feel it too?” Before Chandaka could answer, I cried out, “Stop the chariot immediately—I wish to talk to this man!” Chandaka did so and I jumped out of my seat and hurried to the sick man. I stared at him for a moment, then said, “Does it hurt to be sick?”
“Yes, my lord, it hurts very much.”
“How do you go on?”
“It is sometimes difficult, my lord.”
“I can imagine. How could you enjoy life with such disgusting open sores on your body? Honestly I can’t stand even having to look at the disgusting sores on your body.”
“My lord,” Chandaka said quietly, coming up behind me, “we really must return to the palace. Your father will not be pleased about this.”
“Never mind my father, Chandaka, I am not a child, I am a full-grown man and I told you I need to understand the world. We will continue.”
As we got back into the carriage, I looked at the people passing by on the street. “Why do they look so happy, Chandaka? Are they deluded? YOU’RE ALL GOING TO GET SICK!!” I yelled at the people.
A few minutes later we hit the worst sight of all. Turning a corner, I saw people huddled in a doorway, crying.
“This one we should pass by, my lord,” Chandaka muttered.
“Why?”
“This one is … exceedingly difficult.”
“What do you mean, Chandaka?”
“Please let us keep going, my lord.”
“What are all those people doing?”
“They are crying, my lord.”
“You there—why do you cry? Stop, Chandaka!”
“We have lost our mother, sir.”
“Yes, well, I lost my mother too,” I replied, exiting the chariot again. “She died to preserve the sanctity of her womb after I was born, but I never cried about it.”
I pushed through the weeping people, through a small hallway and into a main room, where I suddenly stopped. There, on a table before me, garlanded with flowers, laid a stiff, grey corpse. (The gods had created this corpse too obviously; she was kind of a “dummy” who had never actually “lived.”) As I stared down at the dead body, I felt like I couldn’t breathe, like time itself
