In leaving home, therefore, Gotama was not abjuring the modern world for a more traditional or even archaic lifestyle (as monks are often perceived to be doing today), but was in the vanguard of change. His family, however, could scarcely be expected to share this view. The republic of Sakka was so isolated that it was cut off from the developing society that was growing up in the Ganges plain below and, as we have seen, had not even assimilated the Vedic ethos. The new ideas would have seemed foreign to most of the Sakyan people. Nevertheless, news of the rebellion of the forest-monks had obviously reached the republic and stirred the young Gotama. As we have seen, the Pali texts give us a very brief account of his decision to leave home, but there is another more detailed story of Gotama’s Going Forth, which brings out the deeper significance of the Pabbajja. It is found only in the later extended biographies and commentaries, such as the Nidana Katha, which was probably written in the fifth century c.e. But even though we only find this tale in the later Buddhist writings, it could be just as old as the Pali legends. Some scholars believe that these late, consecutive biographies were based on an old narrative that was composed at about the same time that the Pali Canon took its final shape, some one hundred years after Gotama’s death. The Pali legends were certainly familiar with this story, but they attribute it not to Gotama but to his predecessor, the Buddha Vipassi, who had achieved enlightenment in a previous age. So the tale is an archetype, applicable to all Buddhas. It does not attempt to challenge the Pali version of Gotama’s Going Forth, nor does it purport to be historically sound, in our sense. Instead, this overtly mythological story, with its divine interventions and magical occurrences, represents an alternative interpretation of the crucial event of the Pabbajja. This is what all Buddhas-Gotama no less than Vipassi-have to do at the beginning of their quest; indeed, everybody who seeks enlightenment must go through this transformative experience when he or she embarks on the spiritual life. The story is almost a paradigm of Axial Age spirituality. It shows how a human being becomes fully conscious, in the way that the Axial sages demanded, of his or her predicament. It is only when people become aware of the inescapable reality of pain that they can begin to become fully human. The story in the Nidana Katha is symbolic and has universal impact, because unawakened men and women all try to deny the suffering of life and pretend that it has nothing to do with them. Such denial is not only futile (because nobody is immune to pain and these facts of life will always break in), but also dangerous, because it imprisons people in a delusion that precludes spiritual development.
Thus the Nidana Katha tells us that when little Siddhattha was five days old, his father Suddhodana invited a hundred brahmins to a feast, so that they could examine the baby’s body for marks which would foretell his future. Eight of the brahmins concluded that the child had a glorious future: he would either become a Buddha, who achieved the supreme spiritual enlightenment, or a Universal King, a hero of popular legend, who, it was said, would rule the whole world. He would possess a special divine chariot; each one of its four wheels rolled in the direction of one of the four quarters of the earth. This World Emperor would walk through the heavens with a massive retinue of soldiers, and would “turn the Wheel of Righteousness,” establishing justice and right-living throughout the cosmos. This myth was clearly influenced by the new cult of kingship in the monarchies of Kosala and Magadha. Throughout Gotama’s life, he had to confront this alternative destiny. The image of the Universal Monarch (cakkavatti) would become his symbolic alter ego, the opposite of everything that he did finally achieve. The cakkavatti might be powerful and his feign could even be beneficial to the world, but he is not a spiritually enlightened man, since his career depends entirely upon force. One of the brahmins, whose name was Kondanna, was convinced that little Siddhatta would never become a cakkavatti. Instead, he would renounce the comfortable life of the householder and become a Buddha who would overcome the ignorance and folly of the world.
Suddhodana was not happy about this prophecy. He was determined that his son become a cakkavatti, which seemed to him a much more desirable option than the life of a world-renouncing ascetic. Kondanna had told him that one day Siddhatta would see four things-an old man, a sick person, a corpse and a monk-which would convince him to leave home and “Go Forth.” Suddhodana, therefore, decided to shield his son from these disturbing sights: guards were posted around the palace to keep all upsetting reality at bay, and the boy became a virtual prisoner, even though he lived in luxury and had an apparently happy life. Gotama’s pleasure-palace is a striking image of a mind in denial. As long as we persist in closing our minds and hearts to the universal pain, which surrounds us on all sides, we remain locked in an undeveloped version of ourselves, incapable of growth and spiritual insight. The young Siddhatta was living in a delusion, since his vision of the world did not coincide with the way things really were. Suddhodana is an example of exactly the kind of authority figure that later Buddhist tradition would condemn. He forced his own view upon his son and refused to let him make up his own mind. This type of coercion could only impede enlightenment, since it traps a person in a self which is inauthentic and in an infantile, unawakened state.
The gods, however, decided to intervene. They knew that even though his father refused to accept it, Gotama was a Bodhisatta, a man who was destined to become a Buddha. The gods could not themselves lead Gotama to enlightenment, of course, since they were also caught up in samsara and needed a Buddha to teach them the way to find release as acutely as any human being. But the gods could give the Bodhisatta a much-needed nudge. When he had reached the age of twenty-nine, they decided that he had lived in this fool’s paradise long enough, so they sent into the pleasure-park one of their own number, disguised as a senile old man, who was able to use his divine powers to elude Suddhodana’s guards. When Gotama saw this old man, while driving in the park, he was horrified and had to ask Channa, the charioteer, what had happened to the man. Channa explained that he was simply old: everybody who lived long enough went into a similar decline. Gotama returned to the palace in a state of deep distress.
When he heard what had happened, Suddhodana redoubled the guard and tried to distract his son with new pleasures-but to no avail. On two further occasions, gods appeared to Gotama in the guise of a sick man and a corpse. Finally, Gotama and Channa drove past a god dressed in the yellow robe of a monk. Inspired by the gods, Channa told Gotama that this was a man who had renounced the world, and he praised the ascetic life so passionately that Gotama returned home in a very thoughtful mood. That night, he woke to find that the minstrels and dancers who had been entertaining him that evening had fallen asleep. All around his couch, beautiful women lay in disarray: “Some with their bodies slick with phlegm and spittle; others were grinding their teeth, and muttering and talking incoherently in their sleep; others lay with their mouths wide open.” A shift had occurred in Gotama’s view of the world. Now that he was aware of the suffering that lay in wait for every single being without exception, everything seemed ugly-even repellent. The veil that had concealed life’s pain had been torn aside and the universe seemed a prison of pain and pointlessness. “How oppressive and stifling it is!” Gotama exclaimed. He leapt out of bed and resolved to “Go Forth” that very night.