Yasodhara quickly regained her strength and soon was able to return to her work, while also spending much time with baby Rahula. One spring day, at Queen Gotami’s insistence, Channa drove Siddhartha and Yasodhara out into the countryside for an outing. They brought Rahula along and a young servant girl named Ratna to help care for him.
Pleasant sunlight streamed down upon tender green leaves. Birds sang on the blossoming branches of ashok and rose-apple trees. Channa let the horses trot at a leisurely pace. Country folk, recognizing Siddhartha and Yasodhara, stood and waved in greeting. When they approached the banks of the Banganga River, Channa pulled on the reins and brought the carriage to a sudden halt. Blocking the road before them was a man who had collapsed. His arms and legs were pulled in toward his chest and his whole body shook. Moans escaped from his half-open mouth. Siddhartha jumped down, followed by Channa. The man lying in the road looked less than thirty years old. Siddhartha picked up his hand and said to Channa, “It looks as though he’s come down with a bad flu, don’t you think? Let’s massage him and see if it helps.”
Channa shook his head. “Your highness, these aren’t the symptoms of a bad flu. I’m afraid he’s contracted something far worse—this is a disease for which there is no known cure.”
“Are you sure?” Siddhartha gazed at the man. “Couldn’t we take him to the royal physician?”
“Your highness, even the royal physician can’t cure this disease. I’ve heard this disease is highly infectious. If we take him in our carriage, he might infect your wife and son, and even yourself. Please, your highness, for your own safety, let go of his hand.”
But Siddhartha did not release the man’s hand—he looked at it and then at his own. Siddhartha had always enjoyed good health, but now looking at the dying man no older than himself, all he had taken for granted suddenly vanished. From the riverbank came cries of mourning. He looked up to see a funeral taking place. There was the funeral pyre. The sound of chanting intertwined with the grief-stricken cries and the crackling of fire as the funeral pyre was lit.
Looking again at the man, Siddhartha saw that he had stopped breathing. His glassy eyes stared upward. Siddhartha released his hand and quietly closed the eyes. When Siddhartha stood up, Yasodhara was standing close behind him. How long she had been there, he did not know.
She spoke softly, “Please, my husband, go and wash your hands in the river. Channa, you do the same. Then we will drive into the next village and notify the authorities so they can take care of the body.”
Afterward, no one had the heart to continue their spring outing. Siddhartha asked Channa to turn around, and on the way back no one spoke a word.
That night, Yasodhara’s sleep was disturbed by three strange dreams. In the first, she saw a white cow on whose head was a sparkling jewel, as bright as the North Star. The cow strolled through Kapilavatthu headed for the city gates. From the altar of Indra resounded a divine voice, “If you can’t keep this cow, there will be no light left in all the capital.” Everyone in the city began chasing after the cow yet no one was able to detain it. It walked out the city gates and disappeared.
In her second dream, Yasodhara watched four god-kings of the skies, atop Mount Sumeru, projecting a light onto the city of Kapilavatthu. Suddenly the flag mounted on Indra’s altar flapped violently and fell to the ground. Flowers of every color dropped like rain from the skies and the sound of celestial singing echoed everywhere throughout the capital. In her third dream, Yasodhara heard a loud voice that shook the heavens. “The time has come! The time has come!” it cried. Frightened, she looked over at Siddhartha’s chair to discover he was gone. The jasmine flowers tucked in her hair fell to the floor and turned to dust. The garments and ornaments which Siddhartha had left on his chair transformed into a snake which slithered out the door. Yasodhara was filled with panic. All at once, she heard the bellowing of the white cow from beyond the city gates, the flapping of the flag upon Indra’s altar, and the voices of heaven shouting, “The time has come! The time has come!”
Yasodhara awoke. Her forehead was drenched with sweat. She turned to Siddhartha and shook him. “Siddhartha, Siddhartha, please wake up.”
He was already awake. He stroked her hair to comfort her and asked, “What did you dream, Gopa? Tell me.”
She recounted all three dreams and then asked him, “Are these dreams an omen that you will soon leave me in order to go and seek the Way?”
Siddhartha fell silent, then consoled her, “Gopa, please don’t worry. You are a woman of depth. You are my partner, the one who can help me to truly fulfill my quest. You understand me more than anyone else. If, in the near future, I must leave and travel far from you, I know you possess the courage to continue your work. You will care for and raise our child well. Though I am gone, though I am far away from you, my love for you remains the same. I will never stop loving you, Gopa. With that knowledge, you will be able to endure our separation. And when I have found the Way, I will return to you and to our child. Please, now try to get some rest.”
Siddhartha’s words, spoken so tenderly, penetrated Yasodhara’s heart. Comforted, she closed her eyes and slept.
The following morning, Siddhartha went to speak to his father. “My royal father, I ask your permission to leave home and become a monk in order to seek the path of enlightenment.”
King Suddhodana was greatly alarmed. Though he had long known this day might arrive, he had certainly not expected it to take place so abruptly. After a long moment, he looked at his son and answered, “In the history of our family, a few have become monks, but no one has ever done it at your age. They all waited until they were past fifty. Why can’t you wait? Your son is still small, and the whole country is relying on you.”
“Father, a day upon the throne would be like a day of sitting on a bed of hot coals for me. If my heart has no peace, how can I fulfill your or the people’s trust in me? I have seen how quickly time passes, and I know my youth is no different. Please grant me your permission.”
The king tried to dissuade his son. “You must think of your homeland, your parents, Yasodhara, and your son, who is still an infant.”
“Father, it is precisely because I do think of all of you that I now ask your permission to go. It is not that I wish to abandon my responsibilities. Father, you know that you cannot free me from the suffering in my heart any more than you can release the suffering in your own heart.”
The king stood up and grabbed his son’s hand. “Siddhartha, you know how much I need you. You are the one on whom I have placed all my hopes. Please, don’t abandon me.”
“I will never abandon you. I am only asking you to let me go away for a time. When I have found the Way, I will return.”
A look of pain crossed King Suddhodana’s face. He said no more and retired to his quarters.
Later on, Queen Gotami came to spend the day with Yasodhara and in the early evening, Udayin, one of Siddhartha’s friends, came to visit with Devadatta, Ananda, Bhadya, Anuruddha, Kimbila, and Bhadrika. Udayin had organized a party and had hired one of the finest dancing troupes in the capital to perform. Festive torches brightened the palace.
Gotami told Yasodhara that Udayin had been summoned by the king and given the task to do everything he could think of to entice Siddhartha to remain in the palace. The evening’s party was the first of Udayin’s plans.
Yasodhara instructed her attendants to prepare food and drinks for all the guests before retiring to her quarters with Gotami. Siddhartha himself went out and welcomed his guests. It was the full moon day of the month of Uttarasalha. As the music began, the moon appeared above a row of trees in the southeastern sky.
Gotami confided her thoughts to Yasodhara until it was late and then excused herself to return to her own residence. Yasodhara walked with her to the veranda where she saw the full moon now suspended high in the night sky. The party was still in full swing. Sounds of music, talking, and laughter drifted from within. Yasodhara led Gotami to the front gate and then went on her own to find Channa. He was already asleep when she found him. Yasodhara awoke him and whispered, “It is possible the prince will require your services tonight. Prepare Kanthaka to ride. And saddle another horse for yourself.”
“Your highness, where is the prince going?”
“Please don’t ask. Just do as I have said because the prince may need to ride tonight.”
Channa nodded and entered the stable while Yasodhara returned inside the palace. She readied clothes suitable for traveling and placed them on Siddhartha’s chair. She took a light blanket to cover Rahula and then lay upon the bed herself. As she lay there she listened to the sounds of music, talking, and laughter. It was a long time before the sounds faded, then disappeared. She knew the guests had retired to their quarters. Yasodhara lay quietly as silence returned to the palace. She waited a long time, but Siddhartha did not return to their room.
He was sitting alone outside, gazing at the radiant moon and stars. A thousand stars twinkled. He had made up his mind to leave the palace that very night. At long last, he entered his chamber and changed into the traveling clothes awaiting him there. He pulled back the curtain and gazed upon the bed. Gopa was lying there, no doubt asleep. Rahula was by her side. Siddhartha wanted to enter and speak words of parting to Yasodhara, but he hesitated. He had already said everything that was essential. If he woke her now, it would only make their parting more painful. He let the curtain drop and turned to leave. Again, he hesitated. Once more he lifted back the curtain to take a last look at his wife and son. He looked at them deeply as though to imprint on his memory that familiar and beloved scene. Then he released the curtain and walked out.
As he passed the guest hall, Siddhartha saw the slumbering dancing girls sprawled across the carpets. Their hair was undone and dishevelled; their mouths hung open like dead fish. Their arms, so soft and supple during the dance, now looked as stiff as boards. Their legs were tangled across each other’s bodies like victims on a battlefield. Siddhartha felt as though he were crossing a cemetery.
He made his way to the stables and found Channa still awake.
“Channa, please saddle and bring Kanthaka to me.”
Channa nodded. He had prepared everything. Kanthaka was already bridled and saddled. Channa asked, “May I accompany you, prince?”
Siddhartha nodded and Channa entered the stable for his own horse. They led the horses out of the palace grounds. Siddhartha stopped and stroked Kanthaka’s mane. “Kanthaka,” he spoke, “this is a most important night. You must give me your best for this journey.”
He mounted Kanthaka and Channa mounted his horse. They walked them to avoid making any loud noise. The guards were fast asleep, and they passed through the city gates easily. Once well beyond the city gates, Siddhartha turned for a last look at the capital, now lying quietly beneath the moonlight. It was there that Siddhartha had been born and raised, the city where he had experienced so many joys and sorrows, so many anxieties and aspirations. In the same city now slept everyone close to him—his father, Gotami, Yasodhara, Rahula, and all the others. He whispered to himself, “If I do not find the Way, I will not return to Kapilavatthu.”
He turned his horse toward the south and Kanthaka broke into a full gallop.