The Wandering Mind
Chapter Two: The King
The first thing Ananta learnt on the road was that a man could leave his possessions behind without leaving his needs.
He had imagined that wandering with Kassapa would free him from the anxieties that had governed his father’s life. There would be no field to cultivate, no creditor waiting at the door, no harvest to calculate against the coming season. The road belonged to everyone, and the shade beneath a tree could not be withheld by a landlord.
Yet hunger followed them. So did thirst, illness and the need for shelter. When the rains came unexpectedly, they searched for somewhere dry. When food was scarce, they walked farther. In villages where people welcomed wandering ascetics, they ate well. Elsewhere, they went without.
Ananta discovered that possessing little did not mean depending upon no one.
One afternoon, after they had travelled for several hours without food, an elderly follower named Suda complained that a prosperous household had refused them a meal.
“The man has three granaries,” Suda said. “He could feed us all without noticing the loss.”
“Perhaps he has already promised the grain to others,” Ananta replied.
“He is wealthy enough.”
“How do you know what he owes?”
Suda laughed.
“You still speak like a farmer.”
“I was a farmer.”
“And now you are a wanderer. You should learn to leave such concerns behind.”
Ananta did not answer. He remembered his father measuring grain at the end of a poor harvest, setting aside seed before calculating what the family could eat. A granary might appear full to a stranger while its contents were already claimed by the next season.
Later, Kassapa shared the food he had received from another household.
Ananta watched Suda eat.
The man who had been angry at a farmer’s refusal appeared entirely satisfied with the generosity of someone else.
Ananta wondered whether Suda’s understanding of freedom was different from his own.
He had begun to notice such differences among the followers. Some were disciplined and content with little. Others argued about food, sleeping places and the attention their teacher gave them. A few seemed to regard the denial of karmic merit as freedom from every expectation placed upon them.
Kassapa rarely interfered in their smaller disagreements.
Ananta sometimes wished he would.
But whenever he considered asking why, he remembered the question that had first unsettled him beneath the trees near his village.
If killing produced no karmic evil and generosity no karmic merit, on what grounds could anyone be required to behave differently?
He had not found an answer.
Nor had he stopped searching.
They travelled through settlements where merchants exchanged cloth, metalwork, salt and grain. Ananta saw fields more productive than those near his home, and villages where even the smallest plots were cultivated carefully. He learnt that some households welcomed wandering teachers because they valued their arguments, while others offered food simply because custom required it.
At times he was asked to explain Kassapa’s doctrine.
He became more confident in doing so.
When a man insisted that suffering proved wrongdoing in a previous life, Ananta asked how he knew. When another claimed that generosity guaranteed prosperity, Ananta pointed towards the hungry children sitting outside his house.
Yet he discovered that questioning other people’s beliefs was easier than examining his own.
He had begun speaking of freedom as though he understood it. But he still remembered the two oxen he had surrendered to Dhanapala.
Their absence troubled him unexpectedly.
He remembered the younger animal resisting when the creditor’s servant took its rope. He remembered stroking its neck and walking beside it until it became calm.
Had he acted responsibly by giving the animals towards the debt? Or had he merely purchased the freedom to leave?
The debt remained unpaid in full. The field remained uncultivated unless someone else chose to work it. His mother’s seeds were in another household.
Sometimes he imagined returning.
Then he would remember the questions Kassapa had raised, and the thought of returning to his former life seemed as difficult as continuing the journey.
One evening, while the wanderers rested near a village well, news arrived from Rājagṛha.
King Ajātasattu had sent for Pūraṇa Kassapa.
The messenger was accompanied by two guards and carried himself with the assurance of a man whose words were backed by royal authority.
“The king wishes to speak with the teacher,” he announced.
Kassapa asked when the meeting was to take place.
“Within three days.”
“Then we shall come.”
The messenger appeared surprised by the simplicity of the reply.
When he had gone, the followers gathered around Kassapa.
Some were pleased. Others were anxious.
“Perhaps the king wishes to honour you,” Suda said.
“Perhaps he wishes to question me,” Kassapa replied.
“Why would a king seek answers from a man who owns nothing?” another follower asked.
“Why would owning a kingdom provide every answer?” Kassapa said.
Ananta listened.
He knew the name Ajātasattu. Everyone in Magadha knew it.
He also knew that the king had succeeded his father, Bimbisāra, under circumstances people discussed cautiously. In markets and roadside shelters, Ananta had heard conflicting accounts. Some said the former king had been imprisoned. Others spoke of hunger, confinement and death. Few were willing to say openly what they believed had happened.
The story troubled Ananta.
He had watched his own father weaken through illness and poverty. He could not imagine deliberately bringing suffering upon him.
Yet he had also known anger towards Dhanapala so fierce that, for a moment, he had wanted to strike him.
He wondered whether the difference between himself and a violent man lay in his character or merely in what he had been able to do.
The following morning, Kassapa called him.
“You will accompany me.”
“To the king?”
“Yes.”
Ananta was astonished.
“Why me?”
“You have asked many questions about my teaching. You may find it useful to hear another man’s.”
Ananta bowed.
That night he lay awake, imagining the royal court.
He thought of the question he would ask if the king permitted him to speak.
How could a man possess everything Ananta had abandoned and still need the counsel of a wandering ascetic?
Rājagṛha lay among hills whose rocky slopes enclosed the settlements and roads below. The city was unlike the villages through which Ananta had travelled. Merchants moved along crowded streets. Labourers carried timber and stone. Carts waited beside storehouses, and armed men watched the movement of people near the royal compound.
Ananta had visited markets before, but never one of such size.
He noticed how much labour was required to sustain the city. Water had to be carried, grain delivered, animals fed and buildings repaired. Behind every prosperous household stood the work of people who owned far less.
He wondered whether a king ever considered how many hands were needed to make his authority possible.
At the entrance to the royal compound, the guards examined the visitors.
Ananta expected Kassapa to be intimidated.
The old ascetic waited with the same patience he showed when villagers argued over who should speak first.
Inside, servants moved quietly through shaded passages. The floors were swept clean. Water stood ready in polished vessels. Everything seemed arranged so that those who entered would understand the power of the person they had come to see.
Yet Ananta noticed something else.
The guards watched one another almost as carefully as they watched the visitors.
He remembered the stories about Bimbisāra.
A kingdom, he thought, might be difficult to acquire and no easier to keep.
Ajātasattu received Kassapa in a chamber open on one side to a courtyard.
He was younger than Ananta had expected. His bearing was controlled, but he did not appear entirely at ease. He listened closely when Kassapa was announced and dismissed several attendants before inviting the teacher to sit.
Ananta remained behind Kassapa with two other followers.
The king began courteously.
“Teacher, men undertake different occupations because they expect something from them. A farmer cultivates his land and receives grain. A merchant travels and returns with goods. A craftsman labours and receives payment. Even a servant may earn food, clothing and shelter through his work.”
Kassapa listened.
“What does a man gain,” the king continued, “when he leaves his household, abandons possessions and devotes himself to the contemplative life? Is there a benefit he may recognise while he is still alive?”
Ananta was pleased.
He had asked himself a similar question during his first weeks on the road.
He hoped Kassapa would speak of freedom from inherited fear, the opportunity to examine beliefs or the peace that sometimes came from living without the demands of property.
Instead, Kassapa asked:
“What benefit do you seek, Majesty?”
The king considered this.
“One that does not depend upon a promise about another life.”
“Then why do you ask those who speak of another life?”
“Because men claim that actions bear consequences beyond what we can see. They say that a ruler must consider not only what his commands achieve, but what those commands will bring upon him.”
“Do you believe them?”
“I have heard them since childhood.”
“That was not my question.”
A faint smile appeared on the king’s face.
“You speak as though I were one of your pupils.”
“I speak as though you have asked me a question.”
Ajātasattu accepted the reply.
“Very well. I do not know whether I believe them. That is why I have sought teachers.”
Kassapa waited.
“Some say a man’s deeds follow him into another life,” the king continued. “Others say sacrifice can remove the burden of wrongdoing. Still others insist that certain actions cannot be forgiven.”
“And what do you wish to know?”
“Whether a man may act and remain free of the moral consequences others threaten him with.”
Ananta looked towards the king.
The question was no longer merely about the benefits of wandering.
Kassapa answered without hesitation.
“I do not teach that actions create karmic merit or demerit. Killing does not produce the invisible evil men attribute to it. Generosity does not produce the invisible merit they expect. Neither violence nor restraint establishes a moral account that must be settled in another existence.”
The king leaned forward.
“Even when the action is deliberate?”
“Even then.”
“Even when a man understands what he is doing?”
“Understanding does not create the karmic substance you describe.”
“Even when the victim has done him no harm?”
“Even then.”
Ananta had heard these answers before.
Yet the king’s questions made them sound different.
In the villages, people had asked whether generosity would bring prosperity or whether wrongdoing would lead to punishment. Ajātasattu seemed interested in something more particular.
The king remained silent for a while.
Then he asked:
“Does the authority of a king change the matter?”
“Why should it?”
“A king may command a man to die without raising a weapon himself.”
“The command may bring about the death.”
“But does the king acquire karmic evil?”
“No.”
“And the executioner?”
“No.”
“And the man who persuaded the king to issue the command?”
“No.”
Ajātasattu looked towards the courtyard.
“Then none carries a moral burden into another life?”
“Not by virtue of the action.”
The king drew a slow breath.
Ananta wondered whether he felt relieved.
But the king’s next question surprised him.
“Teacher, if no karmic evil follows, does that make the action right?”
Kassapa looked at him.
“What do you mean by right?”
“Justified.”
“By what?”
“By necessity, perhaps. By duty. By the welfare of the kingdom.”
“Those are reasons men give for acting. They are not evidence of karmic merit.”
“Then you will not tell me whether an action is justified?”
“I will not pretend that denying karmic punishment establishes its justification.”
The king’s expression changed.
“Then your teaching removes a punishment but does not give me a reason for what I have done.”
“That depends upon what you have done.”
Ajātasattu looked at the old ascetic for a long time.
Ananta felt the atmosphere in the chamber alter.
The king dismissed the remaining attendants, leaving only a trusted guard near the entrance. Ananta and the other followers began to rise, but Kassapa indicated that they should remain.
“Teacher,” Ajātasattu said, “suppose a man believes another stands between him and something he considers necessary.”
“Necessary for what?”
“For his future.”
“Then he must examine whether the obstacle is real and whether the thing he desires is necessary.”
“Suppose he has already acted.”
“Then the action cannot be undone by examining it afterwards.”
The king lowered his eyes.
“Suppose the man was his father.”
No one moved.
Ananta felt his heart beating.
He had heard the rumours. Now the king had brought the subject into the room himself.
Kassapa did not appear startled.
“Are you asking whether the relationship creates karmic demerit?”
“Yes.”
“My answer remains the same.”
“Even if a son deprives his father of liberty?”
“Yes.”
“Even if the father dies?”
“Yes.”
Ajātasattu sat back.
For a moment Ananta expected the king to express relief. Instead, he seemed to be considering something that had become more difficult.
“Then there is no punishment waiting for such a son?”
“Not the karmic punishment I deny.”
“Then he is innocent.”
Kassapa shook his head slightly.
“You have reached a conclusion I did not give you.”
“How so?”
“You asked whether the act produces karmic evil. I answered no. Now you ask whether the son was justified. You have changed the question.”
“Is there a difference?”
“If a man takes a kingdom through violence, does denying karmic punishment establish that he had a right to take it?”
The king said nothing.
“Does it establish that the kingdom is secure?”
“No.”
“Does it establish that those who suffered have ceased to suffer?”
“No.”
“Then what has been established?”
“That no karmic punishment follows.”
“That is what I have told you.”
Ajātasattu looked troubled.
“But if there is no punishment beyond this life, what remains of the wrongdoing?”
Kassapa answered carefully.
“Whatever has happened remains part of the world in which it happened. A father may be dead. A son may possess the throne. Those who served the father may remember him. Those who serve the son may fear him. None of these things requires an invisible account of merit and demerit.”
The king’s eyes narrowed.
“You speak of political consequences.”
“I speak of consequences you can recognise.”
“And what of the man himself?”
“What of him?”
“Suppose he cannot forget.”
Kassapa was silent for a moment.
“Then he remembers.”
“Is memory a punishment?”
“It may cause suffering.”
“Then why does he suffer if no karmic evil has been produced?”
“Because suffering does not require karmic evil.”
Ananta felt the words settle within him.
He remembered the conversation beneath the trees near his village.
His mother had suffered, but her suffering did not prove she was guilty.
Now Kassapa was saying that a king might suffer after committing an act without that suffering proving the existence of karmic punishment.
The same distinction applied to both.
Ananta had never considered it from the other side.
Ajātasattu rose and walked towards the open courtyard.
“Teacher, men tell me that a son owes obedience to his father.”
“Do you believe them?”
“I believed it when I was a child.”
“And later?”
“Later I learnt that a king must sometimes oppose those closest to him.”
“Must he?”
“If he wishes to rule.”
“Then perhaps you mean that he must oppose them to obtain what he desires.”
The king turned.
“Do you think a kingdom can be governed without difficult decisions?”
“No.”
“Then why question the necessity?”
“Because difficulty does not establish necessity.”
Ananta watched the exchange with growing unease.
He had imagined Kassapa’s doctrine would offer the king freedom from guilt. Instead, the teacher seemed unwilling to give him what he sought.
The king returned to his seat.
“Tell me something, Kassapa. If killing produces no karmic evil, why should I restrain myself from killing those who threaten my throne?”
Kassapa looked towards the guard standing by the entrance.
“Do you believe killing every man who opposes you will make your kingdom secure?”
“Not every man.”
“Then you already distinguish between those you think must die and those you think may live.”
“Of course.”
“On what grounds?”
“Whether they threaten the kingdom.”
“Or whether they threaten you?”
The king’s face hardened.
“Sometimes the two are the same.”
“Sometimes they are not.”
For a moment Ananta feared the king would become angry.
Instead, Ajātasattu gave a short laugh.
“You have no kingdom to lose, teacher.”
“No.”
“No son waiting to inherit it.”
“No.”
“No ministers whose loyalty must be purchased.”
“No.”
“Then perhaps your freedom comes from having nothing worth defending.”
Kassapa considered this.
“Perhaps possessing nothing removes certain fears. It does not remove hunger, illness or death.”
“But it removes the need to govern.”
“Yes.”
“Then you cannot understand the burden of a king.”
“Not through having been one.”
Ajātasattu appeared satisfied.
But Kassapa continued.
“Nor can a king understand the life of a wanderer merely by possessing authority over him.”
The king looked at Ananta and the other followers.
“Perhaps that is why I asked what benefit comes from your way of life.”
“And perhaps,” Kassapa replied, “you hoped the answer would settle a question about your own.”
Ajātasattu did not deny it.
When the formal conversation ended, the king ordered food and water to be provided to the visitors.
Ananta was surprised that Kassapa accepted the provisions without ceremony. The teacher thanked the attendants and shared the food with his followers.
The king remained in the courtyard.
Ananta was preparing to leave when Ajātasattu addressed him.
“You are young to have abandoned your household.”
Ananta bowed.
“Yes, Majesty.”
“Did your father approve?”
“My father is dead.”
“And your mother?”
“She died before I joined the wanderers.”
The king studied him.
“Then what did you leave behind?”
“A house, a field and a debt.”
“A debt?”
“My father borrowed grain. The harvest failed. The debt grew.”
“And you left it unpaid?”
“I surrendered our two oxen to the creditor. He accepted them towards the debt. Some remains.”
“Then your creditor has reason to be dissatisfied.”
“Yes.”
“Yet you are here.”
Ananta felt the familiar discomfort of being judged by someone who did not know his circumstances.
“I could not repay it by remaining.”
“Perhaps not. Why did you follow Kassapa?”
“Because he taught me that suffering does not prove wrongdoing.”
The king looked interested.
“Did someone accuse your parents?”
“They said their suffering was the result of karma.”
“And you did not believe them?”
“I did not know how they could know.”
“Then your teacher relieved you of a burden.”
“Yes.”
Ajātasattu glanced towards Kassapa, who was speaking with one of the attendants.
“And what burden did you expect him to relieve me of?”
Ananta hesitated.
“I do not know, Majesty.”
“You heard our conversation.”
“Yes.”
“Then answer.”
Ananta gathered his courage.
“Perhaps you wished to know whether your actions had brought punishment upon you.”
“And you?”
“I wished to know whether my parents’ suffering was punishment.”
The king nodded slowly.
“Then we came to the same teacher from opposite directions.”
Ananta had not thought of it that way.
Ajātasattu continued.
“You wished to discover that those who suffered were innocent. I wished to discover whether one who caused suffering must be guilty.”
Ananta looked at the king.
“Did you discover it?”
“Did you?”
“My teacher says suffering does not prove guilt.”
“And does that establish your parents’ innocence?”
Ananta was silent.
He had always believed his parents innocent. But Kassapa had not known them. His teaching challenged the claim that suffering proved wrongdoing; it did not provide a complete account of their lives.
“No,” Ananta admitted. “Not by itself.”
“Then what do you know?”
“I knew my parents. I knew how they lived.”
“And that is why you believe they were good?”
“Yes.”
The king looked away.
“I knew my father too.”
Ananta felt the words more deeply than he expected.
He had imagined the king’s father as a figure of royal authority, surrounded by soldiers and advisers. Now he found himself wondering whether Bimbisāra had once spoken to his son as Ananta’s father had spoken to him, whether he had taught him to ride, to judge men, to recognise the changing seasons.
A father remained a father even inside a palace.
“Majesty,” Ananta said cautiously, “may I ask you something?”
“You have already asked several things.”
“Then one more.”
“Ask.”
“If your teacher told you that no karmic punishment would follow from your actions, would you feel differently about your father?”
Ajātasattu did not answer at once.
“What do you mean?”
“Would you remember him differently?”
The king looked towards the courtyard.
“No.”
“Would you wish that something had happened differently?”
The guard shifted his weight.
Ajātasattu remained silent.
Ananta feared he had gone too far.
Then the king said, “You ask dangerous questions for a man who owns nothing.”
Ananta lowered his head.
“I meant no disrespect.”
“Perhaps that is why you asked.”
The king walked towards a low stone seat beneath the shade.
“Tell me, Ananta, if your creditor came tomorrow and announced that your father’s debt no longer existed, what would change?”
“I would no longer owe him.”
“Would your father return?”
“No.”
“Would your mother?”
“No.”
“Would the years they spent worrying become years of peace?”
“No.”
“Then forgiveness of a debt changes the present, but it does not alter the past.”
Ananta looked at him.
“Yes.”
“Perhaps the same is true of other debts.”
The king said nothing more.
As Ananta prepared to depart, Ajātasattu asked one final question.
“Would you have followed Kassapa if your parents were alive, your field prosperous and your creditor satisfied?”
Ananta opened his mouth.
He had never imagined such a life.
If his father had lived, they might have worked together through the next harvest. If his mother had remained healthy, she would have prepared the seed and worried over the weather. If the debt had been paid, Ananta might have married, raised children and continued cultivating the same land.
Would he have sought Kassapa?
He did not know.
“Perhaps not,” he said.
The king nodded.
“Then be careful, young man. A teaching may be true, but the relief it gives you is not proof of its truth.”
Ananta looked up.
“Does that apply to you as well, Majesty?”
Ajātasattu’s expression changed.
For a moment Ananta thought he had offended him.
Then the king replied, “Especially to me.”
They left the royal compound before sunset.
The streets were crowded with people returning from their work. Merchants were closing their stalls. Labourers carried tools over their shoulders. A woman argued with a seller over the price of grain.
Ananta found the ordinary noise strangely reassuring.
Inside the palace, the king had spoken of killing, duty, punishment and remorse. Outside, people were concerned with food, wages, trade and the coming evening.
Yet Ananta knew that royal decisions could reach into every part of their lives.
A king might order a tax, seize a field, raise an army or imprison a man. Those who suffered the consequences might never stand before him or know why the decision had been made.
Ananta remembered Dhanapala.
The creditor had possessed little power compared with Ajātasattu, but enough to shape the lives of Ananta’s family.
He wondered whether power changed a man’s moral responsibilities or merely enlarged the consequences of his choices.
That evening, Kassapa sat beneath a tree outside the city.
Ananta waited until the others had gone.
“Teacher, may I ask about the king?”
“You may.”
“He seemed troubled by what happened to his father.”
“Perhaps.”
“Did your teaching relieve him?”
“You heard his questions.”
“He wanted to know whether killing brings karmic evil.”
“Yes.”
“And you told him it does not.”
“Yes.”
“Then why did he remain troubled?”
“Ask yourself what he was troubled by.”
Ananta considered this.
“Perhaps he feared punishment.”
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps he regretted what he had done.”
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps he feared losing the throne.”
“That too is possible.”
“Then we do not know.”
“We know what he asked. We do not know everything he intended.”
Ananta looked towards the distant city.
“Majesty asked whether I would have followed you if my parents had lived and the harvests had been good.”
“What did you say?”
“That perhaps I would not.”
“And does that trouble you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought I followed you for the truth.”
“Did you cease to care about truth because you were suffering?”
“No.”
“Did your suffering establish that my teaching was true?”
“No.”
“Then what have you discovered?”
Ananta was silent for a long time.
“That I had reasons for listening to you which were not themselves reasons to believe you.”
Kassapa nodded.
“That is worth discovering.”
“But if I began with a desire to escape my father’s debt, how can I trust my judgement?”
“By examining it.”
“And if I discover that I believe something only because it comforts me?”
“Then you must decide whether comfort is sufficient.”
Ananta shook his head.
“It is not.”
“Then continue.”
He looked at the teacher.
“Majesty wished to be free of the consequences of his actions. I wished to be free of consequences I had not chosen.”
“Are you certain that is all either of you wished?”
“No.”
“Then perhaps you have more to examine.”
That night Ananta slept beneath a tree beyond the city walls.
He thought of his father’s oxen.
When he surrendered them to Dhanapala, he had felt both sorrow and relief. Sorrow because the animals had belonged to his family, and relief because giving them away made departure possible.
He had told himself he was acting responsibly. Perhaps he had been. But he had also wanted to leave.
He thought of his mother feeding strangers.
Had she acted because she believed generosity would earn merit? Sometimes she had spoken of such things. Yet he had seen her share food when no one was watching and when no blessing was offered in return.
He could not know every reason that had moved her.
Then he thought of Ajātasattu.
The king had asked whether killing produced karmic punishment, but Ananta suspected that the answer alone could not settle what troubled him.
Perhaps a man could cease fearing punishment and still remember the face of someone he had harmed.
Perhaps he could justify an action to others without being satisfied by his own justification.
Perhaps remorse did not prove the existence of karma any more than suffering proved guilt.
These possibilities disturbed Ananta because they did not contradict Kassapa’s teaching. They seemed to arise from it.
He had expected that denying karmic reward and punishment would make human conduct easier to understand.
Instead, it had made the reasons for acting more difficult to examine.
If a man did not refrain from cruelty because he feared punishment, why did he refrain?
If a woman helped the hungry without expecting merit, what moved her?
If a king could acquire a throne through violence, what could justify his claim to rule?
And if Ananta himself had left home in search of truth, how much of that search had begun as a desire to escape a life he could no longer endure?
He remembered the king’s final words.
A teaching may be true, but the relief it gives you is not proof of its truth.
Ananta turned towards the road.
He still respected Kassapa. Indeed, he respected him more for refusing to give the king an answer merely because the king desired it.
But Ananta now understood something he had not understood when he first joined the wanderers.
It was possible to question the beliefs of others while remaining almost entirely ignorant of the reasons for one’s own.
He had spent months asking people how they knew what they claimed to know.
He had rarely asked himself why he wanted certain things to be true.
The difference kept him awake long after the others had fallen asleep.
Before dawn, he heard the first movements of the travellers preparing for another day.
He rose, gathered his belongings and went to join them.
Behind him lay the city of a king who possessed almost everything Ananta had abandoned.
Ahead lay the road, where neither wealth nor poverty could settle the questions that had begun to trouble him.
He wondered whether the king would sleep more peacefully that night.
Then he wondered why he cared.
For the first time, Ananta did not hurry to answer himself.
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