Creation (80 page)

When I asked about the Buddha, Prince Jeta said, “He achieved nirvana four years ago.”

“After eating a very heavy dinner of pork and beans.” Ambalika was now her usual uncautious self.

“That is only hearsay.” Prince Jeta was not pleased with her levity. “All we know for certain is that he left us peacefully. His last words were: ‘All things are transitory. Work out your salvation with diligence.’ ”

“Is Sariputra still head of the order?”

Prince Jeta shook his head. “He died before the Buddha. Ananda is now in charge. They’re all in residence, by the way.”

“Busy arguing about what the Buddha said or did not say.” Ambalika was as intolerant as ever of the other world and its devotees.

“Ananda is a good custodian,” said Prince Jeta, without much conviction. “He sees to it that the monks continue to memorize everything that the Buddha said, just as they did when he was alive.”

“Except”—and I spoke from sad personal experience of priests—“the Buddha is now no longer here to correct them.”

“True. And I don’t need to tell you that there are already serious disagreements about what he may or may not have said.”

“There will be more.” Over the years I have never ceased to be astonished and infuriated by the new doctrines that the Zoroastrians conveniently issue in my grandfather’s name. Just before I left Susa for the last time, I paid a call on the chief Zoroastrian. When he ascribed to my grandfather some nonsensical verses I told him, very sharply, that Zoroaster had never said any such thing. With a straight face, the charlatan replied, “You are right. The prophet did not say it in
this
life. He spoke those verses to me in a recent dream, and ordered me to write them down the moment I woke up.”

Thus Truth is defeated by the Lie—at least in the time of the long dominion. Well, those false priests will feel the molten metal. That is a fact.

The next few weeks were most pleasant. Although the stout Ambalika no longer attracted me in a sexual way, I found her not only companionable but clever. Our first night together, she led me out onto the roof that overlooked the river. I remember that the moon was in decline, that the smoke of the cook-fires on the quay beneath us were as pungent as ever, that nothing ever changes in India.

“No one can hear us now.” We sat side by side on a divan, the moon’s light directly in our eyes. Far off to the east, one could just make out the Himalayas, a dark mass against the sky.

“Where is your father?” I had no intention of meeting that volatile figure if I could avoid it.

“In the dry season, he’s always with the army. So he’s probably somewhere on the Licchavi border. They’re Very stubborn. I can’t think why. If they surrendered, he might save a few. Now he’ll kill them all.”

“He really is the universal monarch, isn’t he?” Since I did not know to what extent my wife was her father’s partisan, I was guarded.

“Well, there’s been no horse sacrifice but ... Yes, he is the first of all the kings in our history.”

We watched shooting stars, and listened to someone play an out-of-tune zither beneath us.

“I suppose you’ve married again?” She asked the question without any particular emphasis.

“Yes. I am—or was—married to the Great King’s sister. She’s dead now.”

“Were there children?”

“No. My only children have you for a mother.”

“I’m honored.” Ambalika’s tone was grave, but she was plainly mocking me.

I ignored the mockery. “As far as I know, there is no precedent for someone like me to have sons in a far-off land, by a king’s daughter.”

“
Persia
is the far-off land.” Ambalika was sharp. “
We
are home.”

“I thought that you wanted to go back with me to Persia.”

Ambalika laughed. “Let us say that I should like to go to Persia quite as much as you’d like to have me there!”

“I would like—”

“Don’t be silly!” She was suddenly very like the young girl I had married. “You wouldn’t know what to do with me and I certainly wouldn’t know what to do in a country full of snow and ice and blue-eyed people.” She shuddered at the thought.

“But our sons—”

“—must stay here.”

“Must?” I was suddenly angry. After all, they were
my
sons, and I very much wanted to take them home to Susa, with or without their mother.

“Yes, must. Anyway, you have no choice in the matter. Neither do I,” she added. “It’s my father’s will. He likes the idea of Persian grandsons. He thinks one day they’ll be useful.”

“To send on embassies? But if they’ve never visited their homeland, what use will they be?”

“He’ll find one. Don’t worry. Anyway, he’s sent for old Caraka. To teach them Persian.”

I was pleased that Caraka was still alive. According to Ambalika, he had been superintendent of the ironworks at Magadha.

“What about Cathay?” she asked, adjusting her spangled shawl against the warm night wind. “Did you marry anyone there?”

“I had two charming concubines. But no wife.”

“No children?”

“No. Cathayan women have mastered the art of not having babies.”

Ambalika nodded. “I have heard that. Of course we have certain spells that always work, except when they don’t.”

“Cathayan women drink some sort of potion. But when you ask what it is, they simply giggle. As a people, they’re very secretive. Anyway, my two girls were delightful. You would have enjoyed them.”

“I would enjoy almost
any
company here. As the single wife of an invisible husband in the house of a grandfather who has no concubine under the age of sixty, I’m rather on my own. What did you do with the girls when you left Cathay?”

“I sent one home to her village with enough money to get herself a husband, and the other was taken into the household of a friend.” Fan Ch’ih had been so enamored of my second concubine that I was delighted to be able to make him a present which he genuinely appreciated.

“I shall be denied their company.” Ambalika sounded almost sad. “But then, soon, I shall be denied your company, shan’t I?”

“I must report to the Great King,” I said.

“And once you’ve done that, you’ll be far too old ever to come back here.” Ambalika’s bluntness had always startled—and charmed—me. In the dark, listening to her clear, mocking voice, I was able to ignore the hoops of flesh that had so entirely smothered the slender girl whom I had married in what seemed, even then, to have been another life.

“Would you like me to stay?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “We’ve been apart too long.”

“What about the king?”

Ambalika was silent. I put my arm about her shoulders. This was a mistake. The illusion of youth created by darkness was dispelled by touch. But we remained in each other’s arms for some time; and she told me of the bloody times through which the countries of the Gangetic plain had passed. “We were particularly frightened when the army of Koshala was destroyed. In fact, we were all set to leave the city when the king sent us word, secretly, that we were to stay, that Shravasti would be spared because the Buddha was in residence!” She laughed softly into my neck. “My father’s interest in the Buddha is not unlike mine. But he knew that the Buddha was popular. He also knew that the Buddhist order hated King Virudhaka for having destroyed the Shakya republic. Of course, no one suspected then that my father was going to eliminate all the other republics once he was crowned in Shravasti. Anyway, the people here greeted Father as if he were some sort of liberator. And, so far, he has behaved himself.”

“Does he see you?”

“Oh, yes. We’re very friendly and, of course, he’s delighted with his grandsons. He always asks me about you, hopes to see you again, weeps ...”

“Still?”

“Still. But now there’s so much more to weep about than there was.” Beyond that single sentence, Ambalika made no criticism of her father. But women are always attracted to power. I do not think there could ever be a conqueror so bloody that most women would not willingly lie with him in the hope of bearing a son who would be every bit as ferocious as the father.

SHORTLY BEFORE THE ANNUAL CARNIVAL that takes Shravasti by storm when all days are given over to pleasure, Prince Jeta and I paid a call on Ananda at the Buddhist monastery. I accompanied Prince Jeta’s litter on foot.

“I seldom leave the house,” he murmured as we made our way through the cheerful crowds. “But I want to be present when you talk to Ananda. He’ll be delighted with your Cathayan stories.” Because Prince Jeta had been fascinated by my accounts of Confucius and Master Li, he assumed that the new leader of the Buddhist order would be equally interested. That was the only sign of naïveté that I was ever to detect in my old friend. If there is one thing the professional priest detests, it is being told about a rival religion or system of thought.

The bamboo park was now entirely devoted to the Buddhist order. The hut where the Buddha had lived was surrounded by a low wall while, nearby, a large new building was going up. “A convent,” said Prince Jeta. “Ambapali is building it. And she will be the first nun.”

“The courtesan from Vaishali?”

“Yes. After the Buddha died, she came here ... with all her money. A lucky thing, too.”

“Yes. I saw the ruins of Vaishali.”

“She is devoting the rest of her life to the order. I deeply admire her. She is very holy.”

“Also very old,” I could not help but add. It is quite common for successful courtesans to turn to religion or philosophy when their beauty goes. It will be interesting to see what becomes of Aspasia.

Ananda somewhat resembled the Buddha, a likeness that he did nothing to minimize. With many bows, the head of the sangha escorted Prince Jeta’s litter into the main hall of the monastery. I followed.

Several hundred youthful monks were reciting the Buddha’s words. I noticed that many of them were wearing newly made yellow robes. This was an innovation. In the old days they could only wear those scraps of cloth that they had begged.

Ananda showed us into a low-ceilinged room at the back of the monastery’s third courtyard. “Here I do my best to remember,” he said.

As Prince Jeta’s litter bearers withdrew, Ananda turned to me. “I remember you with delight,” he said. “Sariputra spoke so highly of you.”

When Prince Jeta told Ananda about my Cathayan adventures, the holy man affected interest. But it was Prince Jeta, not Ananda, who asked me to expound the wisdom of the Cathayans. I did so, briefly. Ananda was politely bored. Finally he said, “Master Confucius strikes me as entirely too much of this world to be truly serious.”

“He believes that the world of men is the only world there is,” I said. “That’s why he thinks it such a serious matter, our behavior in the only world there is.”

“We would agree on that last part, certainly, and his notion of what constitutes a true gentleman is very close to what we know to be true. That’s why I find it so strange that he has not yet noticed what is so obvious—the fact of nirvana. Just as he seems to be well on the way to the four noble truths”—Ananda made a loud vulgar popping sound, as tongue struck the inside of an inflated cheek—“he stops.”

“I don’t think he cares to go any further than this world.”

“That is to be pitied.”

“I think it unnecessary to pity Confucius.” I spoke more sharply than I intended, and Prince Jeta’s head shifted from Ananda to me.

Ananda smiled. “Our pity is general, my dear. Our pity is for all living things. To be alive is to be trapped in the cycle of birth and rebirth. Only he who was here and went away can be said to have achieved what should be the deliberate aim of all men.”

“Master K’ung would not agree.” I was surprised to find myself” speaking as if I were a disciple of Confucius. Actually, I had been horrified by his total indifference to the Wise Lord. Not only had he been indifferent to the
idea
of creation, he had refused to accept that duality which is implicit in all things. Although Confucius was entirely of this world, I defended him to Ananda. There is no end to human perversity. I suppose that one is always tempted to challenge those who think that they and they alone possess the truth or the way or the key to the mystery.

“What is Confucius’ idea of death?” For Prince Jeta’s sake, Ananda was affecting interest.

“I don’t really know. I suspect that he doesn’t think it matters. He is interested in life ...”

“Trapped in life! The poor man!”

“Who is not—trapped? Confucius is an honest man. He is often sad. He confesses to imperfection, something very rare, I have found, when dealing with this world’s holy men.” Ananda accepted my insult with a bland smile. I continued, “He wanted to govern a state for the general good. When this was denied him, he suffered, and because he suffered, he told everyone that was proof that he was by no means a perfect sage.”

“By no means a perfect sage,” repeated Ananda. “Are you certain that he showed no sign at all of wanting to break out of the cycle of birth and death and rebirth?”

“I don’t think he accepts the cycle.”

“That is ignorance, I fear.”

“No, not ignorance. Simply another kind of knowledge. He envisages a primal unity from which we come and to which we go.”

“That is perceptive, very perceptive.” Ananda turned to Prince Jeta. “It is a proof of the absolute wisdom of the Buddha that even in barbarous Cathay, a teacher is able to glimpse the truth—not
understand
it, mind you, but he does sense it.” Ananda smiled at me. “We are very pleased to hear this.” The little man’s complacency was deeply annoying.

“I’m sure,” I said, “Confucius would be pleased to know that in a far-off land his truths are also perceived, if only dimly.”

Ananda ignored not only what I said but the challenge offered. He turned to Prince Jeta. “You will be happy to know that we have finally perfected a system of drainage that is unique—at least for Shravasti. We have diverted the waters of an underground creek so that it now runs directly under the privies. We have also ...” He spoke at great length of hygiene, always a problem for Indian cities.

Finally, politely, Ananda turned back to me. “I seem to recall that when you were here the first time, you had quite different beliefs from what you appear now to have. At that time you believed in a supreme god, a single creator of the universe. Now, thanks to the teachings of this Cathayan, you are concerned only with ... deportment in the everyday world.”