One day when he was nine years old, Siddhartha and his schoolmates were allowed to attend the ritual first plowing of the fields. Gotami herself dressed Siddhartha right down to the fine slippers on his feet. Attired in his royal best, King Suddhodana presided over the ceremonies. High ranking holy men and brahmans paraded in robes and head-dresses of every color imaginable. The ceremony was held next to the finest fields in the kingdom, not far from the palace itself. Flags and banners waved from every gate and along every roadside. Colorful displays of food and drink were laid out on altars crowded along the roads. Minstrels and musicians strolled among the throngs of people, adding mirth and merriment to the bustling festivities. Holy men chanted with utmost solemnity as Siddhartha’s father and all the dignitaries of the court stood facing the unfolding ritual.
Siddhartha stood towards the back with Devadatta and Kaludayi at his sides. The boys were excited because they had been told that when the rituals were over, everyone would enjoy a feast spread out on the grassy meadow. Siddhartha did not often go on picnics, and he was delighted. But the holy men’s chanting went on and on what seemed like forever, and the young boys grew restless. Unable to endure any longer, they wandered off. Kaludayi held onto Siddhartha’s sleeve, and off they went in the direction of the music and dancing. The hot sun blazed and the performers’ costumes grew wet with perspiration. Beads of sweat shone on the dancing girls’ foreheads. After running about among the scenes of entertainment, Siddhartha, too, grew hot and he left his friends to seek the shade of the rose-apple tree alongside the road. Beneath the cool branches, Siddhartha felt pleasantly refreshed.
At that moment, Gotami appeared and, spotting her son, she said, “I’ve been looking all over for you. Where have you been? You should return now for the conclusion of the ceremony. It would please your father.”
“Mother, the ceremony is too long. Why must the holy men chant so long?”
“They are reciting the Vedas, my child. The scriptures have a profound meaning, handed down by the Creator Himself to the brahmans countless generations ago. You will study them soon.”
“Why doesn’t Father recite the scriptures instead of having the brahmans do it?”
“Only those born into the brahmana caste are permited to recite the scriptures, my child. Even kings who wield great power must depend on the services of the brahmans for priestly duties.”
Siddhartha thought over Gotami’s words. After a long pause, he joined his palms and entreated her, “Please, Mother, ask Father if I may stay here. I feel so happy sitting beneath this rose-apple tree.”
Giving in good-naturedly to her child, Gotami smiled and nodded. She stroked his hair, and then returned down the path. At last the brahmans concluded their prayers. King Suddhodana stepped down into the fields and, together with two millitary officers, began to plow the first row of the season, as cheers resounded among the crowd. Then the farmers followed the king’s example and began to plow their fields.
Hearing the people’s cheers, Siddhartha ran to the edge of the fields. He watched a water buffalo straining to pull a heavy plow, followed by a robust farmer whose skin was bronzed from long work in the sun. The farmer’s left hand steadied the plow while his right hand wielded a whip to urge the buffalo on. Sun blazed and the man’s sweat poured in streams from his body. The rich earth was divided into two neat furrows. As the plow turned the earth, Siddhartha noticed that the bodies of worms and other small creatures were being cut as well. As the worms writhed upon the ground, they were spotted by birds who flew down and grabbed them in their beaks. Then Siddhartha saw a large bird swoop down and grasp a small bird in its talons. Utterly absorbed in these events, standing beneath the burning sun, Siddhartha, too, became drenched in sweat. He ran back to the shade of the rose-apple tree. He had just witnessed so many things strange and unknown to him. He sat cross-legged and closed his eyes to reflect on all he had seen. Composed and erect, he sat for a long time, oblivious to all the singing, dancing, and picnicking taking place around him.
Siddhartha continued to sit, absorbed by the images of the field and the many creatures. When the king and queen passed by sometime later, they discovered Siddhartha still siting in deep concentration. Gotami was moved to tears seeing how beautiful Siddhartha looked, like a small, still statue. But King Suddhodana was seized with sudden apprehension. If Siddhartha could sit so solemnly at such a young age, might not the holy man Asita’s prophecy come true? Too disturbed to remain for the picnic, the king returned alone to the palace in his royal carriage. Some poor, country children passed by the tree speaking and laughing happily. Gotami motioned them to be quiet. She pointed to Siddhartha sitting beneath the rose-apple tree. Curious, the children stared at him. Suddenly, Siddhartha opened his eyes.
Seeing the queen, he smiled. “Mother,” he said, “reciting the scriptures does nothing to help the worms and the birds.”
Siddhartha stood up and ran to Gotami and clasped her hand.
- From the book "Old Path White Clouds" by Thich Nhat Hanh.
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