The Four Sights

Once upon a time, in a Kingdom not too far from here, there lived a young prince by the name of Siddhartha.



Wanting to shelter the boy from the sufferings of the world, the king created a utopia for him within the walls of the palace, one in which only the young, healthy, and joyful would remain. The prince was given all he could desire, existing entirely within this locus of bliss.



As a young man, the prince began to consider the walls around his haven, and grew more and more curious. One night, taking his faithful servant with him as a guide and charioteer, he dared to venture beyond.



That night, he began to see the strange world that is our reality. He paused to see an old man, wrinkled and stooped over with age. “Channa,” he asked his servant, “What is this?”



“It is an aging, my Lord. Each person must grow old.”



The next night, the prince and Channa ventured out again, where they saw a sick person, incapacitated with pain and disease. “What's wrong with him, Channa?” worried the prince.



“It is illness My Lord. Each person must face disease.”



The third night, the prince came to the river, where a corpse was being prepared for cremation. Standing among the ashes of the river bank, watching as the corpse began to burn, he asked, “And this, Chenna?”



“It is death, My Lord. Each person must die.”



His mind filled with troubles of the sorrow and pain of life, the prince dared venture out for a fourth night. This night, he saw a man with a shaved head and orange robes, a man who seemed content. “How, Chenna, can this man be happy amongst so much suffering?”



“He is a monk, My Lord. He has renounced all in the sake of spiritual fulfillment, so that he may escape this endless cycle of suffering.”



With this, the prince chose to leave the palace and his fine belongings behind, cutting off his beautiful, long hair. He walked into forest until the trees blurred him from view, not to return without the knowledge of how to end suffering.



The prince, now the aesthetic, tried many spiritual paths and considered many spiritual gurus. Although none of them had the key to freedom from suffering, each taught him something.



Then, when he was ready, he took solace in solitude, sat under a great Bodhi tree, and thought.



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Once there was a young peasant woman, named Kell. She came to a country not far from the land of the great Prince, for she had heard stories of the Prince and wanted to learn if they were true.

This peasant came from a Kingdom on the other side of the world, a Kingdom that was known around the world. When she arrived, she was given only the finest things: a palace in which to live, servants to do as she desired, offerings of finery.



But she, unlike the prince, knew there was more.



On the first day she saw the beggars, thin and dusty children and women with dirty hands outstretched, crippled men and women with missing limbs and pungent odors. With no faithful charioteer to ask, she simply pondered, stomach twisted into a knot.



The second day, she saw the slums, the miles of make-shift tents and garbage amongst which children and stray dogs played. She went to the school and taught the poor children ABCs and 123s, wondering how these children could be saved.



On the third day, she saw the laborers, those carrying loads on their heads or serving tea to the others. She watched the rickshaw drivers, desperately thin men both old and young, carrying others like beasts of burden. She saw their dead eyes, numbed from life, glance around anxiously for a customer.



On the fourth day, she wept.



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A Buddha, I am not. But since I have come to India, I am reminded of this story so often.



I have seen sufferings that I cannot, would not, unsee. I have touched the extremes and they have sat with me. I have witnessed the world outside the palace, and now I have no choice but to disappear into the forest and hope, for all our sakes, that there are answers to be found.

I'm off to Dharamsala, searching for something.