Bride of the Buddha Page 24

  As it turned out, I didn’t get back until almost the time for the Dharma talk. Although my robes were wrinkled and smelled of the river, I judged myself presentable and made my way straight to the pavilion where the talk was to be held. In spite of fatigue and the stinging of my wounded back, my optimistic mood continued, until I noticed that everything was strangely quiet except for a rising breeze and the far off hollow knocking of a woodpecker.

  All at once Kavi emerged from the trees. “Ananda! Where have you been?”

  “I tried to visit householders and got waylaid.” As much as possible, I always told the truth, but the stricken look on Kavi’s bright little face made me pause. “Where is everyone?”

  “You didn’t hear? The Tathagata decided that we all needed to leave for the Vesali forest dwellings at once. Master Jagdish complained that the monks were disturbing his women.”

  His worried look deepened. “We need to leave right now, Ananda. We have to catch up before midnight.”

  He’d covered for me. I looked back at the pavilion, occupied only by the small hunched form of a wizen-faced monkey, scratching its belly and muttering to itself. There was nothing for me here but desolation.

  12

  On that long walk to Vesali, made grueling by the heat, I had no opportunity to broach the topic of female ordination with the Tathagata, but I was determined to try again once we reached our destination. Of course I worried about Pajapati. Had anyone even told her that we’d left? What if she’d shown up at the Tathagata’s lodgings, only to find them empty? I feared she’d give up on ordination altogether.

  The hundred or so monks in our company bypassed the actual city of Vesali, which was as large as Bimbisara’s capital and reputedly even more friendly to the Tathagata—and settled down in a nearby monastery consisting of a gabled, all-purpose wooden building and scattered one-person huts in the adjoining forest. The canopy of heavy-crowned sal and elm trees offered relief from the heat, though I feared it would bring gloom—at least for me—when the rains arrived. I missed Rahula, currently in temporary seclusion with his teachers and several younger monks reportedly on the brink of awakening, but at least I could be glad for his ongoing happiness. What distressed me far more was what had happened with Pajapati.

  On the second day after our arrival, following almsrounds to the wealthy suburbs surrounding the city, I saw a chance to speak to the Tathagata about her desire to ordain. By now I’d located the well and taken up my practice of carrying buckets of water to the washhouse for the monks to rinse their bowls. Kavi, Naveen, and several of the other younger monks always helped me—something I encouraged as a way of developing their arm and back strength. I hated to see young boys weak and vulnerable—especially when they went out on the road to teach the Dharma on their own. Many muscle-developing activities—such as chopping wood or any kind of digging—were denied monks, both to encourage the mutual dependence of monks and laypeople and also to help the monks avoid directly harming living beings, such as trees and their inhabitants, as well as creatures who lived underground. So I had no qualms about letting the boys take over carrying water while I waited for the Tathagata in the shade. Around me, darts of white sunlight flickered shyly over the undergrowth, as if knowing they intruded on an alien domain; far above, the treetops rustled with the usual crowds of birds and monkeys, their complaints and scoldings forming yet another canopy, one of sound.

  Soon enough I spotted the Tathagata entering and then leaving the wash house after cleaning his bowl and storing it with everyone else’s. But no sooner had I started walking in his direction when Devadatta flashed in front of me, blocking my way.

  “Blessed One,” he addressed the Tathagata. “I know what this monk has come to tell you.”

  “I had no idea your psychic powers were so advanced,” I said. “But perhaps the Tathagata would like me to use actual words to confirm them.”

  The Tathagata raised an eyebrow at me, just as I was tasting that nasty satisfaction that comes with sarcasm and the bitterness that follows, and I realized for the thousandth time how such remarks create suffering in the speaker as well as in the listener. Once again, instead of first meditating myself into a state of equanimity before taking action, I had allowed all sorts of attachments and emotions to accompany me here, including my dislike of Devadatta.

  Devadatta, of course, saw his opportunity. “The monk Ananda can decide for himself the adequacy of my psychic abilities. I believe he wishes to discuss the preposterous topic of whether women should be allowed to ordain.”

  All I could think was that someone had seen me approaching Pajapati and reported this to Devadatta. But who?

  Devadatta continued. “However, most of us agree that the presence of female monastics would affect our community in the way of hail falling on a ripening wheat field: the field will not flourish but come to ruin.”

  I was determined to stay polite. “Although your image is striking,” I said, “I fear it has no real meaning.”

  “Does it not?” Devadatta’s narrow face seemed to become even narrower. “Well, then, consider a household with many women and few men—would it be productive? Of course it wouldn’t.”

  I felt my politeness disintegrating. “One could say that households overstocked with men present every bit as much of a problem,” I said. “Even our revered Sangha seems to suffer from its members treating each other harshly and fighting over doctrinal minutiae—so much that, if you remember, last year the Tathagata left us for three months so he could meditate in peace apart from quarreling monks. It’s my humble view that our community might well be helped by the presence of women.”

  The Tathagata raised his eyebrow again, but said nothing.

  Devadatta tightened his upper robe across his body. “The holy life would not last,” he said. “The Dharma would soon be forgotten.”

  “That’s nothing more than an opinion,” I said. “I hope you’re not attached to it.”

  “It’s no mere opinion. Women, with their scant wisdom and preoccupation with love, can have only a negative effect on the Dharma. This is self-evident.”

  “Is it?” I asked. “According to whom, the bulls in the fields?”

  Devadatta turned to the Tathagata. “Are you going to let this monk get away with such a heinous example of wrong speech?”

  “Enough,” the Tathagata said, addressing us like quarreling children. “Devadatta, allow me to speak in private to this monk as to why his view is incorrect. This show of animosity is only creating suffering for all involved.”

  “Certainly not me,” Devadatta said. “I have gone beyond all suffering.”

  The Tathagata said nothing.

  “Allow me to add one more observation,” Devadatta said. “Beware of this overly handsome monk, Master. He’s always gathering the girls around him, supposedly to learn the Dharma, but who knows? Our cousin Jagdish saw him lurking around the women of his household more than once. He was even worried that he’d sneaked into their private quarters.”

  “That’s a lie!” I said, even though I thought I saw the smallest hint of a smile on the Tathagata’s face, and I myself had to appreciate the irony that my former suitor was now accusing me of womanizing. But then a realization darker than the forest shade filled me: It was Jagdish who’d reported me to Devadatta. The thought of the two of them joining forces to undermine social freedom, women, and me in particular turned my dark realization into an even darker foreboding. “I spoke only to Pajapati, who is sixty-five years old.”

  “You spoke to my stepmother?” the Tathagata said. “What of the Dharma could you have said to her that I had not expressed?” He spoke this as a simple question, but the animals’ clamor in the trees overhead seemed to underscore his disapproval.

  “I would like to reply to you in private,” I said, my throat tight. “As you suggested.”

  “Come with me,” the Tathagata said,
nodding a dismissal to Devadatta, and I followed him into the woods. Devadatta stalked off in the opposite direction.

  I never would have guessed that in later years, many of Devadatta’s words would be attributed to the Tathagata, particularly those against women. No matter, I would have made the same replies to whoever spoke such nonsense. And I still would, although without the sarcasm. But back then I had little compassion for Devadatta, whose deluded fears about women endangering the discipline crucial for enlightenment no doubt caused him great suffering.

  The Tathagata and I ended up out of earshot of even the most far-flung hut, in not so much a clearing as a gap between huge trees where two moss-covered logs lay in the half-light. Everything was damper here, with a mossy smell and a small stream making salivary sounds in the near distance. We’d entered the deepest part of the forest where even the dry season couldn’t wholly penetrate.

  We sat down on the logs. They were shockingly green, as if they had absorbed the color from somewhere else. “Pajapati wants to ordain,” I said, and I presented my arguments for women’s ordination.

  The Tathagata smiled as I finished speaking but not in an encouraging way. “Consider how much my stepmother’s accomplished without ordination!” Strangely, his face seemed to shine with his preenlightenment innocence, the pride of a child for a parent. “Why should she have to subject herself to monastic life?”

  “The overwhelming majority of people, men and women, are unable to attain enlightenment in isolation.” I was aware of sounding pedantic, but in my urgency I felt I needed to cut through my former husband’s inexplicable innocence. “Not to mention that most women lack Pajapati’s advantages,” I said. “And that women need female examples to make them truly understand their potential to penetrate the deepest truths of the universe.”

  The Tathagata’s innocent look sharpened into an intent search of my face, as if to find a way into it and fill me with his own understanding. “There’s another problem,” he said. “I had the premonition that if women ordain, Dharma would cease to be taught on earth far earlier in this epoch than otherwise.”

  In spite of the heat, a chill passed through my bones. “I don’t see how you can blame women for the future failure of the teachings.”

  “I don’t at all,” he said. “But the danger comes when the sexes live in proximity and play the same roles.” He was silent for a moment, long enough for memories of our marriage to arise. Siddhartha and I had shared many tasks, living together with a mutual regard almost unknown to householder couples, and our marriage had ended in pain.

  My former husband continued. “If the two sexes lived together in full respect and understanding, they would discover whole new ways to delight in each other—as I did in my marriage.” His face wore the slightest of sad smiles, as if to remind me of the knowledge we shared—or perhaps he’d arranged this sadness on his face to arouse a similar resigned emotion in me. “Soon they’d begin to wonder whether some of the rules could be changed, starting with the rule of celibacy. They’d abandon the discipline needed for full enlightenment. Instead, they’d settle for just enough Dharma to improve their daily lives, convincing themselves that they could find paradise on earth.”

  I stared down at the green-glowing dead log I was sitting on, a heretical thought taking root. “Maybe that would be all right,” I said. “Maybe just that little bit of Dharma would suffice to make life worth living.”

  “How can you say that! Surely you remember how it was with me before I went forth, when I thought I could remake the world into a heaven on earth? Then I came upon the truth of impermanence. Not only of our lives but of contentment itself. I saw how my desires multiplied whenever one of them was satisfied, causing even more discontent. And the fear and then the pain of loss made everything worse.” Now his level eyes under his perfectly arced eyebrows were aimed directly into me, and for that moment he was my husband again, explaining himself.

  I replied accordingly, a righteousness in my tone. “Yes, of course you suffered, but maybe if you’d had that little bit of Dharma, you needn’t have gone to such extremes.” And we might have a good life together, with more children and… I stopped myself and watched my thoughts proliferate—memories, regrets, images of idyllic lives both with him and with Bahauk. Along with thoughts came more emotions, stampeding through body, mind, and heart.

  He shook his head as if he actually saw my mental tumult hovering in front of him. “Unless there are practitioners dedicated completely to the Dharma and demonstrating its truth, your so-called ‘little bit’ of Dharma will die out. Even the most well-meaning people will do what I did, try to make a deva realm on earth, and they’ll cling to their notions of what that heaven is and how to create it—and eventually cause great harm to all who disagree with them. Wars, murder, torture, starvation in times of plenty—the world as we know it.” He leaned forward, his eyes softening. “Maintaining the monastic discipline means keeping the Dharma alive, with its promise of a far greater happiness than worldly joy. Please tell me that you remember that happiness.”

  As if by the sheer power of his mind, I remembered those rare times when the universe sprang open inside my heart, of being freed from time and loneliness. A state beyond any happiness that the sensual world could provide.

  Although these experiences had faded like all else, I remembered being awake.

  “But why do women have to be left behind? It’s not fair!”

  “Because not enough women want enlightenment.” He shook his head gravely, as if this was an unarguable fact. “If they were the sex chosen to ordain, the Sangha would die out.”

  “You don’t know that, and you haven’t proven that proximity of the sexes alone will destroy the discipline. Men and women would still live in separate dwellings. The idea that sexual attraction would take over is just a view, as you yourself would say.”

  He nodded. “But my views belong to someone who’s free of the distortions of craving. Whereas you can’t deny that you, like all unawakened people, are still under the sway of afflictive emotions.”

  As he spoke, my anger, which I might have expected, failed to arise; I was coming to fear that something hidden, even to him, was determining his arguments. “Your view may be impartial,” I said, “but it’s limited by what we’ve believed our entire lives. As you always say, you’re not a god and you don’t look down from an objective heaven.”

  “I can only judge from my own experience,” he said, and I had to admit that in the flickering darkness, the light in his eyes seemed to come from pure concern for the welfare of all beings. “I’ve known the suffering of women, starting with my own mother, and I’ve experienced firsthand the deprivations of the holy life. Women would suffer from its demands much more than men.”

  This time I met his intense gaze with my own. Using my ability to detach myself at least temporarily from my own needs and wishes, I opened myself to whatever truth I could find in his face. All at once I was transported back into my marriage, to that day I fainted and he changed forever, but this time I experienced it from Siddhartha’s point of view. Until this moment, I could not have imagined the sharp knife of purest terror that had cut through his viscera at the sight of me—it was beyond the simple terror of death. It was as if he could not bear the slightest hint of female suffering. Was it because he’d experienced the death of his mother at such a young age? In any case, I saw that in that moment, Siddhartha determined never to subject women to any kind of physical pain.

  I blinked, and I was back to the present with one new conviction: Siddhartha had felt that terror but not the Tathagata. At the time of his awakening my former husband let go of his fear of and grief over female pain, transforming them into a compassion that was their equal in size and power. This compassion, I was convinced, was blinding the Tathagata to reality.

  He uncrossed his legs and made as if to stand. “Look at it this way,” he said. “Everyone can
awaken eventually. Women aspirants will be reborn as males, or in the deva realms.”

  A grayness settled over me. “I have no experience of rebirth,” I said, my voice dry and desolate. “You know that.”

  “And you know that rebirth and deva realms are ways of speaking.” He stood up. “Of expressing the truth that our self-centered lives are an illusion. For the unawakened, this spiritual path requires faith. Remember when you first joined the Sangha. You promised to cultivate faith.”

  I looked down at my hands. At this point, faith seemed like another form of blindness.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said. “If I could end your suffering, I would.” When I didn’t look up, he vanished into the forest.

  I remained sitting in that grove until darkness had swallowed every glint of light. Then I lay down in the mulch, with only insects’ voices and my own desperation as a cover. How could I ever pit my views and opinions against a system of beliefs about the female sex that even a Buddha couldn’t escape?

  The all-engulfing blackness of the forest prevented me from leaving before dawn. I alternated between meditation and sleep, Mara’s armies charging through both of these states. In the invisible undergrowth, mental and physical, all my old regrets and recriminations lurked, and as the night wore on, Mara’s most powerful commander took over: what the monks called the Hindrance of Doubt.

  Doubt’s main strategy was to snare me with questions. What had meditation ever done for me, really? Was I better off now than in those days and weeks after Siddhartha left, my mind in chaos, my heart and body enslaved to one agony after another? What about my original quest to seek out my sister’s spirit? Had the practice helped me or just supplied me with delusion?

  All night long I tried to avoid these snares by simply being aware of them, like dodging rope-traps in the jungle. But every snare was baited with the false promise of certainty, that all I had to do was give myself completely to doubt and I’d come up with some absolute truth, which however terrible, would either lead to disrobing or not. Of course the possibility of making this decision—condemning either myself, the Dharma, or the universe—was the supreme bait of all, because it promised a sense of being in control.