Miss Buddha by Ulf Wolf

soft splashing of water from
the fountain and impatient scraping of hoofs from the horses. Then
she looked at Ananda, Channa, and the two horses in turn, as if
they might help explain to her this strange, royal question.
    Finally, she said, realizing that Siddhattha
in fact did not know, “Leaves turn golden and red in the autumn,
leave their branches and fall to the ground. Teeth are no
different.”
    “But you are not a tree,” said the
Prince.
    “No,” said the old woman. “But I have my
seasons.”
    “But it is spring,” said Siddhattha.
    “Not for me,” she answered. “My spring was
many, many moons ago. I have lived a long life, and my autumn even
is soon past, for winter knocks on my door.”
    Then she added, as if instructing a child,
“I am an old woman. This is what happens to old women. To all
women, to all men, to all girls, to all boys. Time shows no
mercy.”
    “Ananda,” said the prince, still looking at
the woman for a breath or two, time, then turning to his friend.
“Is this true?”
    Ananda did not answer, but Channa said, “It
is true, my prince.”
     
    Once they returned to the palace, Siddhattha
asked that Ananda stay with him, which he gladly did. Naturally,
Ananda had expected many questions from his friend, but this was
not the reason the prince wanted his company, for he asked no
questions, and said little else. He simply wanted his friend
nearby.
    And wanted him by his side the next morning,
when the prince stirred Ananda from sleep even before the sun
bruised the sky.
    “Ananda, wake.” A strong hand on his
shoulder, a gentle shake.
    “What is it?” A tired Ananda getting his
bearings.
    “Take me back to the fountain.”
    Ananda came all awake. “Shall I tell
Channa?”
    “No, we walk.”
    “But the King,” began Ananda.
    “We walk,” said Siddhattha, in so princely a
way that it brooked no argument.
    And so they walked. They stole out of the
palace, and they walked.
    Perhaps Siddhattha had more questions for
the old woman, and perhaps he had expected to find her there, but
she was gone. In her stead sat an old man, leprous arms twisted
into a permanent plea, and fingerless hands forming a mockery of a
bowl. “Please, Sir,” said the old man, revealing two dark
teeth.
    Again, Siddhattha was first repulsed by this
sight, but curiosity soon rose the larger. “What happened to you?”
he asked.
    “Please, Sir,” repeated the leper, motioning
his make-believe hand-bowl toward the Prince.
    Siddhattha had brought nothing to give, but
Ananda had, and dropped a small piece of silver into the
permanently cupped palms.
    “Thank you, Sir,” said the leper.
    “What happened to you?” asked Siddhattha
again.
    “What do you mean, Sir?”
    “What happened to your arms, and your legs,
and your hands?”
    The leper did not understand. He looked down
at his hands to see if some strange change had beset and perhaps
healed them, but he found them as damaged as always. He then looked
at Ananda, perhaps he could explain such a strange question.
    For the third time, Siddhattha asked, “What
happened to you?”
    “You mock me,” said the leper.
    Siddhattha turned to Ananda, and Ananda knew
what question was coming. “No,” he said. “As the old woman was not,
nor is this leper mocking you.”
    “Leper?” said Siddhattha.
    “Yes.”
    “Have you never seen such as one as me?”
said the leper.
    “No,” said Siddhattha, “I have not.”
    “You must have lived a very sheltered life,”
said the leper, “for we are no strangers to the world.”
    Siddhattha looked at Ananda again, then back
to the leper. “Yes,” said Siddhattha, “I believe I have.”
     
    Siddhattha insisted they take a different
way back to the palace, and Ananda—who expected Channa and horses
at any time—could but agree. The winding street led to the river
where a small gathering of solemn people were placing a corpse upon
a pyre. Ananda saw this first, and tried to steer his friend away
from the