he tells me. I am bored and desire to play.
I ask if he will take me to the Next World, but he says that Osiris, who rules there, would not
allow it, not without the correct burial.
Desire to be reborn, he advises. Try again.
But how? I ask.
He shrugs, finding his lute in a golden case. You must surrender your love of this world, I
suppose. Allow it to happen. Wish it to happen. Picture it in your mind.
I would not be a slave, I say. I would live a carefree life, free of ambition or desire.
Then think hard on this desire, Tutankhamen advises as his image fades from my view.
A mummy case in the corner of the tomb begins to glow with a vivid white light. The case
grows until it is many feet tall. A strange hum emanates from within it.
I approach, irresistibly drawn to the light-filled case, and enter the light.
72
(On the Wheel of Rebirth) Pakistan, 538 B.C.E.:
Today I came upon a young man lying on the Peshawar road. I had met him in a friend's
home the evening before. His companion was a man who seemed of noble birth though
roughly dressed. Clearly they had both been traveling a long time. His friends name was
Guatama Siddhartha. The two companions had already had too much wine when they
began to argue over the nature of the soul. This Siddhartha believed that the soul perished
along with the body. My young nameless friend would have none of it, disagreeing
vehemently. "The soul lives on and on!" he declared.
"How do you know?" Siddhartha asked.
"I don't know how I know. I just know," the drunken, nameless one insisted.
"Perhaps we are saying the same thing and it is only the nature of earthly time that eludes
us," this Siddhartha allowed, desiring to smooth the argument and make peace, I believe.
The nameless one shook his head. "No. I think not."
"Perhaps one continues to be reborn depending on how one has behaved -- for good
or bad -- in the previous life.
73
One will continue to do this until all issues have been resolved or understood and then one
can cease to exist and move on to the bliss of Nirvana," Siddhartha explained.
The man whose name I did not know drained my friend's wine jug into his flask and sucked
it in. "I don't understand anything you say these days," he slurred.
"We have been drinking and carousing too much," Siddhartha said. "5ut when I tried to fast in order to become hoi y, I nearly died of starvation. I have been thinking that there must be
a middle way, a way that avoids the extremes of self-denial as well as the extremes of
earthly pleasure."
"Get out of here!" my nameless friend bellowed. "You're no fun anymore. You've gotten too serious. You're making my headaches come back."
With a bow, Siddhartha left.
"Go!" the nameless one shouted after him. "Go sit under a bodhi tree for the rest of your life, for all I care."
Not much afterward, my rowdy friend staggered out into the night alone, clutching his flask
of wine.
This morning I found him on the side of the road. I thought him dead and stepped closer.
His robe was askew and at first I thought he had been run through at the side with a sword
or spear. On closer inspection I realized it was a purple birthmark in the shape of an awful
gash.
I jumped back in surprise when he lifted his head and greeted me. I have never seen a
happier grin on any man.
74
Athens, 415 B.C.E.:
Luck be with you, Artem, my son. May the gods and goddesses of Mount Olympus bestow
you with blessings. I leave you here with this note on your blanket, on this sea-thrown rock.
It may be that you will die here, but I would rather this than that you be born into slavery. I
am a slave from Egypt sold here to Greece, the land that now rules my home.
You are a son of Egypt but your father is a freeborn citizen here in Athens. He knows not
whether you are boy or girl, only that you should be put out as not to bring disgrace.
Sewn into your blanket are these green peridot earrings brought from an island in the Red
Sea. They have
I ask if he will take me to the Next World, but he says that Osiris, who rules there, would not
allow it, not without the correct burial.
Desire to be reborn, he advises. Try again.
But how? I ask.
He shrugs, finding his lute in a golden case. You must surrender your love of this world, I
suppose. Allow it to happen. Wish it to happen. Picture it in your mind.
I would not be a slave, I say. I would live a carefree life, free of ambition or desire.
Then think hard on this desire, Tutankhamen advises as his image fades from my view.
A mummy case in the corner of the tomb begins to glow with a vivid white light. The case
grows until it is many feet tall. A strange hum emanates from within it.
I approach, irresistibly drawn to the light-filled case, and enter the light.
72
(On the Wheel of Rebirth) Pakistan, 538 B.C.E.:
Today I came upon a young man lying on the Peshawar road. I had met him in a friend's
home the evening before. His companion was a man who seemed of noble birth though
roughly dressed. Clearly they had both been traveling a long time. His friends name was
Guatama Siddhartha. The two companions had already had too much wine when they
began to argue over the nature of the soul. This Siddhartha believed that the soul perished
along with the body. My young nameless friend would have none of it, disagreeing
vehemently. "The soul lives on and on!" he declared.
"How do you know?" Siddhartha asked.
"I don't know how I know. I just know," the drunken, nameless one insisted.
"Perhaps we are saying the same thing and it is only the nature of earthly time that eludes
us," this Siddhartha allowed, desiring to smooth the argument and make peace, I believe.
The nameless one shook his head. "No. I think not."
"Perhaps one continues to be reborn depending on how one has behaved -- for good
or bad -- in the previous life.
73
One will continue to do this until all issues have been resolved or understood and then one
can cease to exist and move on to the bliss of Nirvana," Siddhartha explained.
The man whose name I did not know drained my friend's wine jug into his flask and sucked
it in. "I don't understand anything you say these days," he slurred.
"We have been drinking and carousing too much," Siddhartha said. "5ut when I tried to fast in order to become hoi y, I nearly died of starvation. I have been thinking that there must be
a middle way, a way that avoids the extremes of self-denial as well as the extremes of
earthly pleasure."
"Get out of here!" my nameless friend bellowed. "You're no fun anymore. You've gotten too serious. You're making my headaches come back."
With a bow, Siddhartha left.
"Go!" the nameless one shouted after him. "Go sit under a bodhi tree for the rest of your life, for all I care."
Not much afterward, my rowdy friend staggered out into the night alone, clutching his flask
of wine.
This morning I found him on the side of the road. I thought him dead and stepped closer.
His robe was askew and at first I thought he had been run through at the side with a sword
or spear. On closer inspection I realized it was a purple birthmark in the shape of an awful
gash.
I jumped back in surprise when he lifted his head and greeted me. I have never seen a
happier grin on any man.
74
Athens, 415 B.C.E.:
Luck be with you, Artem, my son. May the gods and goddesses of Mount Olympus bestow
you with blessings. I leave you here with this note on your blanket, on this sea-thrown rock.
It may be that you will die here, but I would rather this than that you be born into slavery. I
am a slave from Egypt sold here to Greece, the land that now rules my home.
You are a son of Egypt but your father is a freeborn citizen here in Athens. He knows not
whether you are boy or girl, only that you should be put out as not to bring disgrace.
Sewn into your blanket are these green peridot earrings brought from an island in the Red
Sea. They have
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