Leaving the City (II)

The prince spoke to his father with respectful humility, and said to him once more: "There are only four things I ask you to guarantee me — and on their account alone, I will set aside my wish to go forth.

Guarantee that my life will endure forever, that I will never fall ill or grow old, that everything I possess will never diminish or fail — and I will obey you, and set aside going forth."

The father king said to the prince: "Do not speak such words. These four things you ask — who could possibly guarantee that none of them will ever come to pass?

To ask for these four wishes is only to invite the world's own laughter at you.

Set aside, then, this wish to go forth, and take up instead the practice of the five desires."

The prince spoke to the king once more: "If these four wishes cannot be guaranteed, then you ought to grant your son leave to go forth, and let this wish not be obstructed.

If your own son were trapped inside a burning house, how could you not let him come out?

That all things must, by their very nature, come apart — who could fail, then, to seek release from this?

Rather than simply wait to be destroyed of oneself, it is better to depart from it by the true Dharma; and if one does not depart from it by the true Dharma, then when death itself arrives, who will be able to hold it back?"

The father king, understanding now that his son's heart was resolved beyond any turning, thought only of exerting every effort to keep him — for what use was there in speaking further?

He increased still further the number of palace women and the most exquisite pleasures of the five desires, and set a strict watch over him day and night, determined at all costs not to let him go forth.

The ministers throughout the kingdom came to where the prince sat, citing at length every manner of ritual propriety and law, urging him to submit to the king's command.

The prince, seeing his father so moved to grief that tears streamed from his eyes, withdrew for the time being to his own palace, and sat there in silent, upright reflection.

The palace women drew close around him in attendance, watching for any change in his expression, their gazes fixed on him without so much as a blink.

Like deer in an autumn forest fixing their eyes on the hunter, they stared at the prince's own dignified countenance, as steady and unmoving as a mountain of true gold.

The attendant women watched him closely, listening for his slightest word, waiting on the least change in his voice or expression, their hearts full of reverence and unease — just like those very deer in the forest.

Little by little the day drew down to dusk. The prince, there in the deepening night, shone with a brightness of his own, radiant as the sun lighting up Mount Sumeru. He sat upon a throne of the seven treasures, perfumed with fine sandalwood, surrounded by his palace women, who played for him music like the gandharvas' own — like Vaiśravaṇa's son and every kind of wondrous heavenly sound. Yet what occupied the prince's own heart was the supreme bliss of solitude and detachment alone; however many wondrous strains they played, none of it touched his heart at all. At that moment the Pure Abode gods, knowing that the prince's hour had come and that he was now resolved beyond doubt to go forth, suddenly descended and, wearied themselves of the whole company of attendant women, caused every one of them to fall asleep. Their postures grew slack and unguarded, exposing their bodies in ungainly disarray; drowsy and heavy-headed, they slumped this way and that, while their instruments lay scattered in disorder around them. Some leaned against one another or lay twisted on their sides; some seemed to have collapsed into some pit; their strings of jewels trailed like castoff chains, their garments twisted and binding their limbs. Some lay sprawled with their lutes still clutched to them, like people in the grip of torment; their robes of yellow and green lay strewn about, like the crushed petals of the kiṃśuka flower. Some lay full-length against the walls, their bodies bent like an unstrung bow; some had their hands still caught on the window lattice, as though they hung there like the strangled dead. They groaned and yawned again and again; some cried out as if in nightmare, drooling and weeping, their hair disheveled, their forms laid bare and unlovely, looking for all the world like people driven mad. Some had garlands of flowers fallen across their faces; some lay with their faces pressed to the floor; some had their whole bodies trembling and convulsing, like a lone bird shuddering on its perch. Some lay slumped against one another, using each other as pillows, their limbs tangled together; some frowned and knit their brows; some lay with their eyes shut and their mouths hanging open — every kind of disordered posture, scattered about in disarray, like corpses strewn across a battlefield.

The prince sat upright, surveying all these women, and thought: "Before, every one of them seemed the very image of refinement — their speech and laughter full of flattering cunning, their beauty and charm most artful and alluring — and yet now, every one of them lies here in this hideous disorder. This is the very nature of women — how, then, could anyone hold them dear? Bathed and dressed in borrowed adornment, they exist only to deceive and beguile the hearts of men. I have now seen through it entirely, and my going forth is settled, beyond any further doubt."

At that very moment the Pure Abode gods came down and opened the gate for him.

The prince then rose slowly, and made his way out from among the sleeping women. Pausing a moment in the inner chamber, he said to Chandaka: "My heart now thirsts, longing to drink from the very spring of ambrosia. Bring the horse quickly and saddle him — I mean to journey now to the land where nothing dies.

I know my own heart is resolved, my vow made firm and complete: these women, once so lovely, I have now seen in their true, hideous form.

The doors and gates, once shut fast, now stand open of themselves — and seeing these auspicious signs, I read in them the very key to the highest truth."

Chandaka thought to himself: he ought to obey the prince's command, and yet, should the king ever learn of it, he himself would surely be held to the gravest blame.

But the gods lent him their own spiritual power, so that, before he quite realized it, he had already brought the horse — a fine, well-paced steed, its harness inlaid with every kind of jewel.

Its mane stood high and glossy, its tail long and fine, its back compact, its ears short-haired, its belly like a deer's, its neck like a royal goose's, its brow broad, its nose round like a gourd, its throat like a dragon's, its haunches and chest square and full — every mark of the finest thoroughbred was complete in him.

The prince stroked the horse's neck, and, running his hand along his body, said to him: "My father has always ridden you into battle, and always overcome his enemies with you beneath him. Now I too wish to rely on you, to journey far to the very ford of ambrosia.

In battle, one has many companions in arms; in the pursuit of glory and pleasure, one has many companions in play; and even the merchant seeking treasure travels with many glad companions besides.

But when suffering comes, a true friend is hard to find, and in the search for the Dharma, one is certain to have few companions at all — yet whoever can be such a friend in both of these, will in the end attain true peace and good fortune.

I wish now to go forth, to deliver suffering beings from their pain; and you too, in seeking your own benefit, will thereby also aid every living creature — so give now your full strength, and press on through the long journey without ever growing weary."

Having spoken these words, he mounted the horse slowly, and, taking up the reins, set out at once in the pre-dawn dark — the men around him glimmering like a flowing stream beneath the sun, the horse himself drifting on like a white cloud.

He held his own body still, without any sudden motion; he held his breath, making no snort or cry; and four spirits came to cradle his hooves, so that he moved in utter secrecy, without the least sound.

The heavy gates, barred and bolted fast, were made by the gods themselves to open of their own accord.

Of all reverence, none surpasses that owed a father; of all love, none exceeds that borne a son; and every bond of affection, within the household and without, clings just as tightly in its own way.

Yet he set every such feeling aside, without a single thought left lingering behind, and passed lightly and swiftly out beyond the city — his eyes clear and pure as the lotus, which rises out of the very mud and mire that gave it birth.

Turning to look back once at his father's palace, he spoke these words of parting: "Until I have crossed beyond birth, old age, and death, I will never again have cause to come back this way."

Every god throughout the heavens, and every nāga and spirit in the open sky, rejoiced together and cried out in praise — for these alone were words of ultimate truth.

The gods and nāgas and spirits, delighted at this rarest of attainments, each lent their own radiance to light and guide his way.

Rider and horse together, their hearts equally keen, sped on like a shooting star; and before the eastern sky had even begun to lighten, they had already traveled three yojanas.