What kind of a man is that, Channa?” he asked me. “An old man, my Prince,” I replied. How had an old man come so close to us? The king had forbidden it!

“Old?” the prince asked, for he had no idea what that meant.

“One who has lived for many years, my Prince,” I told him.

“Will I become an old man too one day?” the prince enquired.

“Yes, it is the fate of all men. All who are born must one day become old,” I said.

The prince thought about this and was shaken.

“What good is it then,” I heard him say to himself, “to take so much pride in being young?”

We had hardly gone a bit further when he saw something else he had no name for. It was a pale man, very thin, whose wasted fingers shook uncontrollably as he tried to wrap his shawl around himself and whose breath came with a terrifying rattle.

“What is wrong with this man, Channa?” Siddhartha asked. There was panic in his voice.

“He is ill, my Prince,” I replied, quelling my apprehension.

“Ill? And what does that mean?” asked the prince who had never been sick in his life.

“It means when your body is no longer healthy, and is full of pain.”

“Pain!” the prince repeated. His voice was oddly heavy. “Does pain happen to everyone?”

“Yes my Prince. It is only natural to fall ill and feel pain.”

“What good then, Channa?” he said despairingly, “to be so proud of being healthy?”

There was more to come. A little while later, the prince saw a group of men carrying a man who lay stiff and cold on a stretcher.

“What has happened to him, Channa?” Siddhartha cried.

“He is dead, my Prince,” I answered softly. “He has reached the end of his life. That is what lies in store for all of us.”

“Alas!” the prince sighed. “And here I am so proud simply because I am alive!”

We drove on in silence. I could tell from the way the prince sighed and shifted uncomfortably in his seat that he couldn’t stop thinking of all he had seen. Why had he not seen any of it before? I could tell he wanted to rush back to the palace and hide himself among his dancing girls and his princely pursuits. But something prevented him.

“Stop!” he suddenly cried. “Stop! Who is that?”

I halted, The prince was pointing to a man who sat peacefully by the wayside. He wore a simple robe, his head was shaved, and in his hand was a plain wooden bowl. Eyes closed, the man sat, a look of pure contentment on his face.

“What has he got that makes him look so happy?” the prince asked me.

“Nothing, my Prince,” I answered. “He has given up everything, his possessions, his family, his desires. He is a monk.”

The prince fell silent, as if all his doubts had been removed.

He did not know it, but the four omens sent by the devas had been seen. The wheel of fate had begun rolling, and no one could stop it now.

To be continued

Extracted from The Greatest Stories Ever Told; By Sampurna Chattarji;
Publisher: Puffin