At the age of seven or eight the prince went to the annual plowing festival, where his father ceremonially guided the bullocks in plowing the first furrow. It was a long, stressful day, and when the boy grew sleepy his family set him down to rest on a platform under a rose apple tree. When they returned, hours later, they found him seated upright in the same position as they had left him. Disturbed by the ceaseless toil of the bullocks and plowmen and the plight of the tiny creatures who lost their homes and lives in the plowing, Siddhartha had become absorbed in reflection on the transience
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