Long ago, Prince Siddhartha Gautama was born to the king and queen of the Śākya clan in the ancient Indian kingdom of Kapilvastu. On the night of Siddhartha’s conception, his mother, Queen Maya (there she is, starry teeth and all), dreamed that an enormous white elephant, resplendent with six tusks, had entered her body on the right side. The priests who interpreted this dream told her that it meant her son would be exceptional, either as a great king or as a wandering ascetic. So as Siddhartha grew, his father—who, like most kings, rather preferred kingliness to asceticism—worked hard to make Siddhartha’s life perfect, so he would never think of leaving it. Thus, the young Siddhartha experienced no strife of any kind. He witnessed no decay, no pain. If an attendant fell ill, she was removed from the palace immediately. If a gardener’s hair grew gray, he was replaced. Imperfect flowers were cut at the root before the prince could happen upon them. Siddhartha lived in a world of endless health and beauty and joy. But he was not allowed to go outside the palace walls, and as he grew older, he also grew curious. Finally, he convinced his father to let him see the land they governed.

The king was nervous. He instructed Siddhartha’s driver, Channa, to show his son only beauty. So, Siddhartha saw mountains and rivers, he saw sky deep as ocean. But on the way home, Siddhartha saw something else on the side of the road: a peasant doubled over in pain, his body thin and covered with sores. What’s wrong with that man? Siddhartha asked. He is sick, said Channa. His body is diseased and weak. Siddhartha, confused, was silent until they reached the palace gates. But soon he begged to be allowed out again, and this time, despite the pains Channa took to avoid it, Siddhartha saw an old crone hobbling along the road. What has happened to this woman? Siddhartha asked. Why does she walk this way? Channa lowered his eyes. She is old, he said. She has lived a long time, and her body has been very nearly used up. Upset, Siddhartha asked to be taken home immediately. But after a time, they ventured out once more, and on this trip, Siddhartha saw something he found more troubling than ever before: a body lying cold and still on a stretcher. Channa told him the body was dead, and that it would not rise again. Will I die also? asked Siddhartha. My wife? My son? You know Channa’s answer.