One and a half hours by rickshaw from the crowded Hindu
pilgrimage town of Gaya in northeast India, a massive
stone temple rises two hundred feet above the mud-and-straw
cottages of the village of Bodhgaya; to the west of the temple
there is a tree, and under the tree there is a space. To this space,
it is said, came Prince Siddhartha Gautama, about the year 528
B.C.E., in search of true happiness. He had run away from his
kingdom, wife, and family; he had studied under accomplished
gurus; and he had nearly killed himself with a severe fast. Noth-
ing had worked, nothing "led to the cutting off of desire." But
now, fortified with just sufficient food, his body and mind were
functioning smoothly, and he felt that if he sat beneath this tree,
resolving not to move "even though flesh should drop from
bone," he would break through the tangle of rebirth and become
Buddha, the Awoken One. What he saw was at once so intangible
and yet so obvious, like the space in which he sat, he at first
refused to speak of it, believing it would be a waste of time. The
gods, however, persuaded him that there were some beings "with
little dust on their eyes" who could understand. Generations of
his followers have since tried to wipe the dust from their eyes,

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