THE FIRST OMEN: OLD AGE
Prince Siddhartha, now 29 years old, is in a contemplative mood as he rests on his bed in his royal palace. He has been educated in the Vedas, been trained in the art of warfare and is known for his skills in archery: The classical education of a prince destined to succeed his sire as king. He is also married, married at the age of sixteen to his beautiful cousin, the
Princess Yasodhara. And as he turns towards his wife of thirteen years, and sees her sleeping in beauty by his side in marital bliss, he wonders what more can a man want in this earthly life?
Pleasure palaces to live in, royal tanks with blue, red and white lotuses blooming to bathe in; royal gardens to stroll and breathe the scented air of flowers blossoming all around him; the evenings filled with royal banquets with eyes feasted upon the twirling hips and swaying breasts of courtesans as they perform their sensuous dances before the king and his royal court; and the return to the royal chamber and bed to embrace the love that awaits him there -- the love of his beautiful wife, Yasodhara. What more, indeed, can a man want in this earthly life?
He ponders tonight in melancholic thought, that blessed as he is with all these riches his royal station has lavished upon him through birth, bequeathed as he is with Yasodhara’s love, love his own loving heart has earned by deed, yes, what more can a man want or need to be happy in this best of all Kapilawastu world?
But yet, something nags him tonight, even as the same thought had troubled him these last few moons. Something’s amiss. He tells himself, “I am delicate, extremely delicate. In my father’s palace three lotus ponds have been made exclusively for me. He has built three palaces for me. One for winter, one for summer and one for me to dwell when the rains set in. Night and day, a white parasol is held over me so that I will not be touched by heat or cold, rain or sun, dust, leaves or even the indiscernible falling dew.”
Siddhartha harbours a troubled mind. In the midst of earthly bliss, he discerns a void. And he determines that night to flout his father’s orders not to leave the city gates and to explore the outer skirts of the city walls and discover whether there is something more to this life than that which he has found within the prison of his palace bars.
Waking early just ere the dawn, he summons his favourite charioteer and orders him to ready horse and chariot to adventure beyond the city gates; and to keep the mission confidential, especially from his sire, the king.
The guards at the gates are hesitant to open it for the prince to pass, for the king has given them strict orders not to let Siddhartha out but at the Prince’s urging, they allow him exit. After all, he is to be their future king. Dare they oppose him?
And, with the gates open, so they ride. Far into the countryside, through farmlands and terraced fields where Siddhartha sees for the first time in his adult life men toiling in their fields and tilling the lands. They ride on, through crowded little villages, through crowded narrow streets. Over narrow makeshift bridges hardly able to bear the weight of the royal chariot. The Prince is overjoyed to see the outer world, to discover the vibrancy of life pulsating in the broad acres of the land. To discover that there was more to life than the staid monotony he had known to exist within the cloistered walls of his kingly palace. This was a revelation and it exhilarates him.
Then suddenly the chariot screeches to a halt. Siddhartha lost in his own world of thoughts, is awoken from his reverie. “What is it?” he asks his charioteer, “Why have we stopped?”
The charioteer points to an old man with a crutch, struggling to cross the road.
‘Who is he?” Siddhartha asks. “And why is he crossing the road so blindly?” Didn’t he see us coming? Didn’t he hear us coming? “
“He is an old man my lord,” the charioteer replies. “Once he was like us. But with age one loses one’s faculties. He can neither see nor hear and he can barely walk. This is the price time inflicts upon us all. One to which each one is heir to. And those who in the prime of life mock the aged do so without realising that they too will end up aged and decrepit.”
Something in the sight of the old man tottering with his crutch and something in what the charioteer said strikes a chord in Siddhartha’s troubled heart. Of course, he has seen old age before. His own sire was old. But he had never realised it. And for the first time he becomes aware that old age awaits all. “That which you are, I once was,” as the old man said to a mocking youth, “and that which I am you will one day be.” The iron law of nature was that. There was no getting away from it. It is tattooed on every foetus born. And it surprises Siddhartha that, until now, he had not realised this simple truth.
The dam indeed was breached that. morn and doubts did trickle in,
To reveal to him that all life born contained a curse within;
How hour by hour, life trickled away, How time’s ravage no force could flay, not even that of a king;
As he pondered the first truth dawned:
Realised sorrow shadowed the born