Miss Buddha Read online

  Miss Buddha

  A Novel by Ulf Wolf

  Smashwords Edition

  June 2016

  Copyright

  Miss Buddha

  Copyright © 2016 by Wolfstuff

  http://wolfstuff.com

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Smashwords License Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  ::

  Part One — Birth

  :: 1 :: (Tusita Heaven)

  The Bodhisatta Setaketu saw that the time had now come.

  After a nearly uncountable span in the Tusita Heaven awaiting his destiny, awaiting his return to the little blue planet so far below, how could he know that now was the time?

  Because, far below, man had begun once again to ask meaningful questions. Because nearly incessant war and slaughter had finally begun again to subside, and the northern part of the large Indian subcontinent now lay spent but peaceful after centuries of upheaval. For how long this peace would last he could not tell, but he did see that it would last long enough for his purpose.

  The barbarism that had flourished for the last many centuries had finally run out of breath or passion or both, and in the settling down he now saw a small, still lake of opportunity in that far-below spiritual darkness. And so, seeing by the light that he was, he knew that the time had come to show and share this light once more.

  Although he had made a point not to share his plans, word nonetheless spread throughout the Tusita realm that Setaketu was leaving for Earth, and as he prepared to descend many a well-wisher gathered to see him off, each proffering their advice as a parting gift—some sensible, most not. It is so very easy to be wise from such a safe distance.

  Embracing his friends one by one, thanking each for his or her well-meant guidance, Setaketu finally stepped back, bowed in slow and graceful namaskar to honor them all, then turned and strode toward gates that now swung open to admit soon to be Siddhattha Gotama into the cold and starry beneath and beyond.

  And that is how, with a final step, he left Tusita and with it the brilliant body he had worn so long. Then, as if falling through a long and dizzying shaft, he plummeted to Earth, through seas of lightless space, through the dust of a billion, billion stars, through harder and harder gravity, through miasmal planetary grasping, and finally into startled flesh that legend holds fell out of his mother’s side feet first to then take seven steps in each of the four directions: North, South, East, West.

  :: 2 :: (Pasadena)

  “We’ve already decided on a name,” said Melissa as she returned from the kitchen with a fresh pot of tea.

  “What did you pick?” said Becky.

  “Ruth,” she said while refilling her friend’s cup.

  “Ruth?”

  “Yes.” She straightened and rubbed the base of her now softly swelling belly in the way of mothers-soon-to-be, contented and proud. “She will be Ruth.”

  “Ruth is a fine name,” said Becky, even though she didn’t much care for it—a grumpy aunt of hers was also named Ruth, and she could not stand the woman.

  “We think so,” said Melissa.

  “When is she due?” said Becky.

  “Late January.” Melissa poured some more tea for herself as well, then eased herself back into her chair.

  :

  Melissa was twenty-six years old and this was her first child. She and Charles had been trying for a while—long enough, in fact, for Melissa to begin to worry, at times even wondering aloud to her husband if he thought there might be something wrong, since things were not “taking” as she put it—the word her obstetrician, Dr. Ross, favored in this situation and one day had explained to Melissa in some depth.

  “It’ll happen,” Charles would say. “It happens when it happens. Don’t you worry.”

  “I’m not really worried,” she’d say. “Just wondering.”

  “Don’t you worry,” Charles would say again, his attention already back on whatever it was that Melissa had interrupted—a football game, his breakfast read of the Los Angeles Times, outlining a brief or a response, chewing.

  And Charles had indeed been right, for it had happened—and he had recently had taken to reminding her of this a little too often, she thought, that things had indeed “taken.” So there was nothing wrong with him, now, was there?

  :

  Melissa’s husband Charles likes to be called precisely that. Charles. Not Charlie, or Chuck, or Chas, or Chip. Charles. That is his name, and that’s what he wants to be called. Every time. Even by his wife.

  Every time.

  :

  “Can you keep a secret?” said Melissa. “Well, it’s not really a secret, but still, don’t tell anyone, not yet anyway.”

  “Sure,” said Becky. Now done with her tea, and making small I’ll-soon- have-to-go movements on the sofa.

  “We’re to be part of a study. Ruth and I.”

  “What do you mean? What kind of a study?” said Becky, sensing, as she easily did, trouble. Becky could find shadows in the whitest snow—if not right away, then eventually: she would look and look until she did.

  “About first-time mothers and their babies. A writer came by last week and asked me if I minded, and I said no, of course not.”

  “A writer?”

  “Yes. Ananda Wolf was his name.”

  “Amanda Wolf?”

  “No, not Amanda, Ananda. With an n.”

  “What kind of a study?” Becky asked again.

  “It’s about how first-time mothers prepare for the baby. They want to follow the pregnancy from the fifth month or so till delivery. Preparations, worries, those kinds of things.”

  “They? Where is he from? Some university?”

  “He didn’t say. He looked a little like a professor, though. Actually, he looked more like a Buddhist monk with a bow tie. He was a writer, he said. Reminded me a little of professor Anderson at USC, remember him? Jeans and corduroy all the time, did he actually own any white shirts?”

  Becky shook her head that she didn’t remember, or didn’t care.

  “He was a very nice man,” added Melissa. “Quite the gentleman.”

  “Did he say where he was from?”

  “He said he was from Northern California.”

  “The Bay area?”

  “He didn’t say. Northern California.”

  “Did you sign anything? Did he leave anything?” She looked around, as if such an agreement should lie in plain sight for her review.

  No, she had not, and no, he had not. Melissa informed her friend. Then added, “He has called a few times since. We’re going to speak once a week, or so.”

  “Oh, Melissa.” Becky shook her head in her what-am-I-going-to-do-with-you way. Then she straightened and adopted her things-to-do, people-to-see face.

  “No, no. Becky. Really. It’s nothing fishy, I promise you.”

  Becky rose. “When was he here?”

  “Saturday before last.”

  “Does Charles know?”

  “Of course.”

  That was apparently the right answer, for Becky relaxed a little, as much as Becky would ever relax. Too concerned about everything was what Becky was.

  Melissa rose too and kissed her friend on the cheek. Becky kissed he
r back. A quick peck before she headed out into her so-many-things-to-do, so-much-to-worry-about world.

  :: 3 :: (Ancient India)

  The Buddha knew that the end was near.

  Buddha Gotama, nearing eighty now, had recently arrived with the Sangha, his order of monks, at Rajagaha, the capital of Magadha. It was as if the city itself knew, for the approaching end had gathered as dark clouds beyond the nearby mountains, slowly rising, darkening not only the sky.

  As the word spread, many came to see him. Princes and kings arrived with gifts; farmers and hunters, also with gifts. Ascetics, too; they brought reverence and bowed deeply before him.

  And many others came, bringing only eyes and awe.

  Few brought questions this time—as was usually the purpose for visiting the Buddha. No, this time they came from near and far only to see him, to catch one last glimpse of the Enlightened One. They came to bid him farewell.

  And as some left, others arrived, and the Buddha—ever patient, ever compassionate—saw them all, spoke with them all, admonished them all to follow the eightfold path, and to practice the Dhamma diligently.

  Though the end was near, it had yet to arrive. Outwardly, the Buddha seemed in good health and mostly in good spirits as well.

  But he worried, not about his approaching Parinibbana—his final leaving, for that was as it should be—but about his Dhamma, his teaching. He wondered whether he had, during his long ministry, truly managed to convey the truth practicably. Looking at his Sangha, and knowing that many of the monks were now arahants who had awoken and attained Nibbana, he felt sure, comforted. He had managed to plant the seed, they had sprouted and taken root, and the roots were many and surely strong enough to grow and protect the Dhamma.

  But when again his thoughts turned to the world and its immeasurable number of plants and creatures and humans and beings, and again saw how they dwarfed the Sangha into a speck of hardly anything at all, then he feared that his young Dhamma trees would soon wither and be swept away before the brute force of the world.

  For all around him, every day, every hour, every minute, there were so many signs of human folly proving these blundering souls near incapable of learning. And there were so many of them, so very, very many of them.

  And so, as he often did these final days—as if to make doubly, trebly sure—he would call his monks together and again present them an overview of his essential teachings. And again he would ask if they had any questions, and again he would answer those few that were voiced.

  On one such night at Rajagaha he rose and said, “Virtue is strength. Concentration is strength. Wisdom is strength. Concentration fortified with virtue brings even greater benefits and greater fruits.

  “Wisdom fortified with concentration brings even greater benefits and greater fruits. The mind fortified with wisdom is liberated from all cankers, particularly from the canker of sensual desire, the canker of desire for becoming, and the canker of ignorance.”

  The Sangha, to a man surprised that the Buddha had risen before them, listened attentively. The surrounding country was still alive with end-of-the-day chores and early evening tune-ups: birds calling one another, hundreds of frogs and thousands of crickets weaving a carpet of sound, undulating now over water and grass, surrounding the congregation of monks and their teacher.

  Into this colored silence the Buddha then announced, “Tomorrow morning, I will set out on my last journey.”

  As these words faded, it was as if even the crickets had heard, and the frogs, and the many birds, for the world came to a standstill, and silence filled the air. No bird called, and no wind whispered.

  Tomorrow morning, echoed the surrounding world, the Buddha will set out on his last journey.

  :

  The following morning the Buddha set out for Nelanda by the Ganges River, where he rested for a few days before, with a growing number of monks, he went on to Vesali.

  At Vesali—which had recently seen an epidemic—his weakening body was invaded by a lingering strain of the deadly disease, but although it gained good hold, he managed to first suppress and then dispel it by sheer power of will. The time had not yet come, he would keep Death at bay a little longer.

  Ananda—his first cousin and most trusted servant—noticed his master’s struggle and worried greatly about the Buddha’s health. Also, he worried—much like the Buddha himself—that perhaps there were things still unsaid or untaught that should be said and should be taught while there still was time.

  The Sangha had grown greatly over the years, and Ananda feared it might need further direction and more detailed rules from the Buddha himself in order to sustain it into the future, and he said as much to his master.

  But when it came to the Sangha and its rules, the Buddha did not agree. “I have given them all the rules they need,” he said. “I have seen and mapped the path of virtue for both bhikkhu and bhikkhuni. I have offered many, perhaps too many, rules and regulations to aid their practice. I have given them The Vinaya. What more does the Sangha expect from me, Ananda?”

  Then, although he did fear that perhaps the Dhamma was not yet complete, or not yet clear or accessible enough, he added (perhaps to put Ananda’s mind at ease): “I have taught Dhamma doctrine without separating the esoteric from exoteric, for there is only one Dhamma, the Dhamma. It’s all there, Ananda. It is all there, to the best of my ability. There is nothing that the Buddha holds back with the closed fist of a teacher. The Dhamma is the same whether bhikkhu, bhikkhuni, layman or laywoman.”

  “You have given them all that is needed,” said Ananda. “I see that.”

  The Buddha nodded, then said, “I am almost eighty years old, Ananda. I have come to the end of my life, and I can maintain this body only with difficulty, just as one maintains a dilapidated old cart. My body is at ease only when I enter and dwell in the signless deliverance of the mind. I am not long now for this world, Ananda. You must know that. And you must be prepared to ensure the preservation and the survival of the Dhamma.”

  Ananda, although he had known for some time that the end was near, hearing it so unequivocally from his master still welled his eyes, though he bravely fought back the tears lest he upset Gotama Buddha.

  But the Buddha noticed, and said, “Ananda, grieve not for my parting. Each of you are, and should be, an island unto yourself, dwell with yourself as a refuge and with no other as your refuge. Each of you should make the Dhamma your island. Dwell with the Dhamma as your refuge and with no other as your refuge.”

  Ananda understood this and took much comfort in the Buddha’s words; although his tears had not receded far.

  The Buddha remained in Vesali, and spent his last rainy season there. While there, he gave as many talks to his beloved Sangha as his strength would allow, still worrying that he had not taught all, or had not taught it well enough, or clearly enough.

  For the Buddha knew that once he left—no matter what Ananda and the other leaders of the Sangha did to preserve it—his teachings, the Dhamma, would soon begin to dissipate. Slowly at first, but as time grew between his living words and those reciting them, obscuring them with ever-widening elaborations, embellishments, and history, the Dhamma would diverge, first a word or two, then a phrase, into opinion and deficient understanding, to eventually even lose its true meaning. This was inevitable, nothing could withstand the onslaught of time. He knew this, and this was his greatest fear.

  Late one night he told Ananda, “Before long, my Parinibbana will come to pass. In three months’ time, I will pass utterly away.”

  Ananda, again holding back tears called to the surface at hearing the truth spoken so directly by his master, and with such finality, asked him—with as steady a voice as he could muster—if he could not remain. For the sake of the Dhamma, he said, for the sake of Ananda, he did not say.

  “Forty-five years ago,” replied the Buddha, “I decided—and silently promised the world—not to attain to final Nibbana until the Dhamma was well established, and well t
aught.”

  Ananda bowed his head that he understood.

  “I have now accomplished that,” said the Buddha. “The Dhamma is as complete as I can make it.”

  Then he said, “It may not be the perfect guide out of this maze, across this river, but it is a workable guide—remember and proclaim the Dhamma as such, Ananda. It is a workable guide. If diligently studied and applied, the Dhamma will take you across the river.”

  “Yes, Gotama.”

  “It could be clearer in places, it could be more succinct in others, and I worry sometimes about this, but I have reviewed, and turned it over in my mind this way and that, holding it to the light just so, and it is as I say, Ananda, it is workable. Followed, yes, it will lead you—unfailingly—across the river.”

  “I know.”

  “Remember that.”

  “I will.”

  Ananda then lost his battle with tears. When the Buddha saw this, he said, “Have I not taught from the very beginning, Ananda, that with all that is dear and beloved there must be change, separation, and severance? Have I not said that all that rises, comes into being, is conditioned, and subject to decay, must—sometimes sooner, sometimes later—cease and dissolve?”

  “You have,” answered Ananda.

  “Also,” said the Buddha, “The Buddha does not go back on his word, cannot go back on his word. In three months’ time I shall attain final Nibbana.”

  Then he asked Ananda to assemble the Sangha that he might address them again. Ananda did so.

  Once assembled, the Buddha again rose before them, and thus standing—although this was an effort for his ailing body—he exhorted them to learn and practice the Dhamma, the path to enlightenment. “This holy life must endure, it must endure long, for the welfare and happiness of many, out of compassion for the world, for the good, welfare, and happiness of devas and humans.”