Chapter 7
SANSARA
..For a long time, Siddhartha had
lived the life of the world and of lust,.though without being a part of
it. His senses, which he had killed off.in hot years as a Samana, had
awoken again, he had tasted riches, had.tasted lust, had tasted power;
nevertheless he had still remained in his.heart for a long time a
Samana; Kamala, being smart, had realized this.quite right. It was still
the art of thinking, of waiting, of fasting,.which guided his life;
still the people of the world, the childlike.people, had remained alien
to him as he was alien to them...Years passed by; surrounded by the good
life, Siddhartha hardly felt.them fading away. He had become rich, for
quite a while he possessed a.house of his own and his own servants, and
a garden before the city by.the river. The people liked him, they came
to him, whenever they needed.money or advice, but there was nobody close
to him, except Kamala...That high, bright state of being awake, which he
had experienced that.one time at the height of his youth, in those days
after Gotama's.sermon, after the separation from Govinda, that tense
expectation, that.proud state of standing alone without teachings and
without teachers,.that supple willingness to listen to the divine voice
in his own heart,.hat slowly become a memory, had been fleeting; distant
and quiet, the.holy source murmured, which used to be near, which used
to murmur within.himself. Nevertheless, many things he had learned from
the Samanas, he.had learned from Gotama, he had learned from his father
the Brahman,.had remained within him for a long time afterwards:
moderate living,.joy of thinking, hours of meditation, secret knowledge
of the self,.of his eternal entity, which is neither body nor
consciousness. Many.a part of this he still had, but one part after
another had been.submerged and had gathered dust. Just as a potter's
wheel, once it has.been set in motion, will keep on turning for a long
time and only slowly.lose its vigour and come to a stop, thus
Siddhartha's soul had kept on.turning the wheel of asceticism, the wheel
of thinking, the wheel of.differentiation for a long time, still
turning, but it turned slowly and.hesitantly and was close to coming to
a standstill. Slowly, like.humidity entering the dying stem of a tree,
filling it slowly and.making it rot, the world and sloth had entered
Siddhartha's soul,.slowly it filled his soul, made it heavy, made it
tired, put it to.sleep. On the other hand, his senses had become alive,
there was much.they had learned, much they had experienced...Siddhartha
had learned to trade, to use his power over people, to enjoy.himself
with a woman, he had learned to wear beautiful clothes, to give.orders
to servants, to bathe in perfumed waters. He had learned to eat.tenderly
and carefully prepared food, even fish, even meat and poultry,.spices
and sweets, and to drink wine, which causes sloth and.forgetfulness. He
had learned to play with dice and on a chess-board,.to watch dancing
girls, to have himself carried about in a sedan-chair,.to sleep on a
soft bed. But still he had felt different from and.superior to the
others; always he had watched them with some mockery,.some mocking
disdain, with the same disdain which a Samana constantly.feels for the
people of the world. When Kamaswami was ailing, when he.was annoyed,
when he felt insulted, when he was vexed by his worries as.a merchant,
Siddhartha had always watched it with mockery. Just slowly.and
imperceptibly, as the harvest seasons and rainy seasons passed by,.his
mockery had become more tired, his superiority had become more.quiet.
Just slowly, among his growing riches, Siddhartha had assumed.something
of the childlike people's ways for himself, something of
their.childlikeness and of their fearfulness. And yet, he envied them,
envied.them just the more, the more similar he became to them. He envied
them.for the one thing that was missing from him and that they had,
the.importance they were able to attach to their lives, the amount
of.passion in their joys and fears, the fearful but sweet happiness
of.being constantly in love. These people were all of the time in
love.with themselves, with women, with their children, with honours or
money,.with plans or hopes. But he did not learn this from them, this
out of.all things, this joy of a child and this foolishness of a child;
he.learned from them out of all things the unpleasant ones, which
he.himself despised. It happened more and more often that, in the
morning.after having had company the night before, he stayed in bed for
a long.time, felt unable to think and tired. It happened that he became
angry.and impatient, when Kamaswami bored him with his worries. It
happened.that he laughed just too loud, when he lost a game of dice. His
face.was still smarter and more spiritual than others, but it rarely
laughed,.and assumed, one after another, those features which are so
often.found in the faces of rich people, those features of discontent,
of.sickliness, of ill-humour, of sloth, of a lack of love. Slowly
the.disease of the soul, which rich people have, grabbed hold of
him...Like a veil, like a thin mist, tiredness came over Siddhartha,
slowly,.getting a bit denser every day, a bit murkier every month, a bit
heavier.every year. As a new dress becomes old in time, loses its
beautiful.colour in time, gets stains, gets wrinkles, gets worn off at
the seams,.and starts to show threadbare spots here and there, thus
Siddhartha's.new life, which he had started after his separation from
Govinda, had.grown old, lost colour and splendour as the years passed
by, was.gathering wrinkles and stains, and hidden at bottom, already
showing its.ugliness here and there, disappointment and disgust were
waiting..Siddhartha did not notice it. He only noticed that this bright
and.reliable voice inside of him, which had awoken in him at that time
and.had ever guided him in his best times, had become silent...He had
been captured by the world, by lust, covetousness, sloth, and.finally
also by that vice which ha had used to despise and mock the.most as the
most foolish one of all vices: greed. Property,.possessions, and riches
also had finally captured him; they were no.longer a game and trifles to
him, had become a shackle and a burden..On a strange and devious way,
Siddhartha had gotten into this final and.most base of all dependencies,
by means of the game of dice. It was.since that time, when he had
stopped being a Samana in his heart, that.Siddhartha began to play the
game for money and precious things, which.he at other times only joined
with a smile and casually as a custom of.the childlike people, with an
increasing rage and passion. He was a.feared gambler, few dared to take
him on, so high and audacious were his.stakes. He played the game due to
a pain of his heart, losing and.wasting his wretched money in the game
brought him an angry joy, in no.other way he could demonstrate his
disdain for wealth, the merchants'.false god, more clearly and more
mockingly. Thus he gambled with high.stakes and mercilessly, hating
himself, mocking himself, won thousands,.threw away thousands, lost
money, lost jewelry, lost a house in the.country, won again, lost again.
That fear, that terrible and petrifying.fear, which he felt while he was
rolling the dice, while he was worried.about losing high stakes, that
fear he loved and sought to always renew.it, always increase it, always
get it to a slightly higher level, for in.this feeling alone he still
felt something like happiness, something.like a intoxication, something
like an elevated form of life in the.midst of his saturated, lukewarm,
dull life...And after each big loss, his mind was set on new riches,
pursued the.trade more zealously, forced his debtors more strictly to
pay, because.he wanted to continue gambling, he wanted to continue
squandering,.continue demonstrating his disdain of wealth. Siddhartha
lost his.calmness when losses occurred, lost his patience when he was
not payed.on time, lost his kindness towards beggars, lost his
disposition for.giving away and loaning money to those who petitioned
him. He, who.gambled away tens of thousands at one roll of the dice and
laughed at.it, became more strict and more petty in his business,
occasionally.dreaming at night about money! And whenever he woke up from
this ugly.spell, whenever he found his face in the mirror at the
bedroom's wall to.have aged and become more ugly, whenever embarrassment
and disgust came.over him, he continued fleeing, fleeing into a new
game, fleeing into a.numbing of his mind brought on by sex, by wine, and
from there he fled.back into the urge to pile up and obtain possessions.
In this pointless.cycle he ran, growing tired, growing old, growing
ill...Then the time came when a dream warned him. He had spend the hours
of.the evening with Kamala, in her beautiful pleasure-garden. They
had.been sitting under the trees, talking, and Kamala had said
thoughtful.words, words behind which a sadness and tiredness lay hidden.
She had.asked him to tell her about Gotama, and could not hear enough of
him,.how clear his eyes, how still and beautiful his mouth, how kind
his.smile, how peaceful his walk had been. For a long time, he had to
tell.her about the exalted Buddha, and Kamala had sighed and had said:
"One.day, perhaps soon, I'll also follow that Buddha. I'll give him
my.pleasure-garden for a gift and take my refuge in his teachings."
But.after this, she had aroused him, and had tied him to her in the
act.of making love with painful fervour, biting and in tears, as if,
once.more, she wanted to squeeze the last sweet drop out of this
vain,.fleeting pleasure. Never before, it had become so strangely clear
to.Siddhartha, how closely lust was akin to death. Then he had lain
by.her side, and Kamala's face had been close to him, and under her
eyes.and next to the corners of her mouth he had, as clearly as never
before,.read a fearful inscription, an inscription of small lines, of
slight.grooves, an inscription reminiscent of autumn and old age, just
as.Siddhartha himself, who was only in his forties, had already
noticed,.here and there, gray hairs among his black ones. Tiredness was
written.on Kamala's beautiful face, tiredness from walking a long path,
which.has no happy destination, tiredness and the beginning of
withering,.and concealed, still unsaid, perhaps not even conscious
anxiety: fear of.old age, fear of the autumn, fear of having to die.
With a sigh, he had.bid his farewell to her, the soul full of
reluctance, and full of.concealed anxiety...Then, Siddhartha had spent
the night in his house with dancing girls.and wine, had acted as if he
was superior to them towards the.fellow-members of his caste, though
this was no longer true, had drunk.much wine and gone to bed a long time
after midnight, being tired and.yet excited, close to weeping and
despair, and had for a long time.sought to sleep in vain, his heart full
of misery which he thought he.could not bear any longer, full of a
disgust which he felt penetrating.his entire body like the lukewarm,
repulsive taste of the wine, the.just too sweet, dull music, the just
too soft smile of the dancing.girls, the just too sweet scent of their
hair and breasts. But more.than by anything else, he was disgusted by
himself, by his perfumed.hair, by the smell of wine from his mouth, by
the flabby tiredness and.listlessness of his skin. Like when someone,
who has eaten and drunk.far too much, vomits it back up again with
agonising pain and is.nevertheless glad about the relief, thus this
sleepless man wished to.free himself of these pleasures, these habits
and all of this pointless.life and himself, in an immense burst of
disgust. Not until the light.of the morning and the beginning of the
first activities in the street.before his city-house, he had slightly
fallen asleep, had found for a.few moments a half unconsciousness, a
hint of sleep. In those moments,.he had a dream:..Kamala owned a small,
rare singing bird in a golden cage. Of this bird,.he dreamt. He dreamt:
this bird had become mute, who at other times.always used to sing in the
morning, and since this arose his attention,.he stepped in front of the
cage and looked inside; there the small bird.was dead and lay stiff on
the ground. He took it out, weighed it for a.moment in his hand, and
then threw it away, out in the street, and in.the same moment, he felt
terribly shocked, and his heart hurt, as if he.had thrown away from
himself all value and everything good by throwing.out this dead
bird...Starting up from this dream, he felt encompassed by a deep
sadness..Worthless, so it seemed to him, worthless and pointless was the
way he.had been going through life; nothing which was alive, nothing
which was.is some way delicious or worth keeping he had left in his
hands. Alone.he stood there and empty like a castaway on the
shore...With a gloomy mind, Siddhartha went to the pleasure-garden he
owned,.locked the gate, sat down under a mango-tree, felt death in his
heart.and horror in his chest, sat and sensed how everything died in
him,.withered in him, came to an end in him. By and by, he gathered
his.thoughts, and in his mind, he once again went the entire path of
his.life, starting with the first days he could remember. When was
there.ever a time when he had experienced happiness, felt a true bliss?
Oh.yes, several times he had experienced such a thing. In his years as
a.boy, he has had a taste of it, when he had obtained praise from
the.Brahmans, he had felt it in his heart: "There is a path in front
of.the one who has distinguished himself in the recitation..{It seems to
me, as if there are a few words missing from.the German text, which I
can only guess. My guess is, that.it should read: Ein Weg liegt vor dem,
der sich im Hersagen.der heiligen Verse, ...}..of the holy verses, in
the dispute with the learned ones, as an.assistant in the offerings."
Then, he had felt it in his heart: "There.is a path in front of you, you
are destined for, the gods are awaiting.you." And again, as a young man,
when the ever rising, upward fleeing,.goal of all thinking had ripped
him out of and up from the multitude of.those seeking the same goal,
when he wrestled in pain for the purpose of.Brahman, when every obtained
knowledge only kindled new thirst in him,.then again he had, in the
midst of the thirst, in the midst of the pain.felt this very same thing:
"Go on! Go on! You are called upon!" He.had heard this voice when he had
left his home and had chosen the life.of a Samana, and again when he had
gone away from the Samanas to that.perfected one, and also when he had
gone away from him to the uncertain..For how long had he not heard this
voice any more, for how long had he.reached no height any more, how even
and dull was the manner in which.his path had passed through life, for
many long years, without a high.goal, without thirst, without elevation,
content with small lustful.pleasures and yet never satisfied! For all of
these many years, without.knowing it himself, he had tried hard and
longed to become a man like.those many, like those children, and in all
this, his life had been.much more miserable and poorer than theirs, and
their goals were not.his, nor their worries; after all, that entire
world of the.Kamaswami-people had only been a game to him, a dance he
would watch, a.comedy. Only Kamala had been dear, had been valuable to
him--but was.she still thus? Did he still need her, or she him? Did they
not play.a game without an ending? Was it necessary to live for this?
No, it.was not necessary! The name of this game was Sansara, a game
for.children, a game which was perhaps enjoyable to play once, twice,
ten.times--but for ever and ever over again?..Then, Siddhartha knew that
the game was over, that he could not play it.any more. Shivers ran over
his body, inside of him, so he felt,.something had died...That entire
day, he sat under the mango-tree, thinking of his father,.thinking of
Govinda, thinking of Gotama. Did he have to leave them to.become a
Kamaswami? He still sat there, when the night had fallen..When, looking
up, he caught sight of the stars, he thought: "Here I'm.sitting under my
mango-tree, in my pleasure-garden." He smiled a little.--was it really
necessary, was it right, was it not as foolish game,.that he owned a
mango-tree, that he owned a garden?..He also put an end to this, this
also died in him. He rose, bid his.farewell to the mango-tree, his
farewell to the pleasure-garden. Since.he had been without food this
day, he felt strong hunger, and thought.of his house in the city, of his
chamber and bed, of the table with the.meals on it. He smiled tiredly,
shook himself, and bid his farewell to.these things...In the same hour
of the night, Siddhartha left his garden, left the.city, and never came
back. For a long time, Kamaswami had people look.for him, thinking that
he had fallen into the hands of robbers. Kamala.had no one look for him.
When she was told that Siddhartha had.disappeared, she was not
astonished. Did she not always expect it? Was.he not a Samana, a man who
was at home nowhere, a pilgrim? And most of.all, she had felt this the
last time they had been together, and she was.happy, in spite of all the
pain of the loss, that she had pulled him so.affectionately to her heart
for this last time, that she had felt one.more time to be so completely
possessed and penetrated by him...When she received the first news of
Siddhartha's disappearance, she went.to the window, where she held a
rare singing bird captive in a golden.cage. She opened the door of the
cage, took the bird out and let it.fly. For a long time, she gazed after
it, the flying bird. From this.day on, she received no more visitors and
kept her house locked. But.after some time, she became aware that she
was pregnant from the last.time she was together with
Siddhartha.
Chapter 8
..Siddhartha walked through the
forest, was already far from the city, and.knew nothing but that one
thing, that there was no going back for him,.that this life, as he had
lived it for many years until now, was over.and done away with, and that
he had tasted all of it, sucked everything.out of it until he was
disgusted with it. Dead was the singing bird, he.had dreamt of. Dead was
the bird in his heart. Deeply, he had been.entangled in Sansara, he had
sucked up disgust and death from all sides.into his body, like a sponge
sucks up water until it is full. And full.he was, full of the feeling of
been sick of it, full of misery, full of.death, there was nothing left
in this world which could have attracted.him, given him joy, given him
comfort...Passionately he wished to know nothing about himself anymore,
to have.rest, to be dead. If there only was a lightning-bolt to strike
him.dead! If there only was a tiger a devour him! If there only was
a.wine, a poison which would numb his senses, bring him forgetfulness
and.sleep, and no awakening from that! Was there still any kind of
filth,.he had not soiled himself with, a sin or foolish act he had
not.committed, a dreariness of the soul he had not brought upon
himself?.Was it still at all possible to be alive? Was it possible, to
breathe.in again and again, to breathe out, to feel hunger, to eat
again, to.sleep again, to sleep with a woman again? Was this cycle not
exhausted.and brought to a conclusion for him?..Siddhartha reached the
large river in the forest, the same river over.which a long time ago,
when he had still been a young man and came from.the town of Gotama, a
ferryman had conducted him. By this river he.stopped, hesitantly he
stood at the bank. Tiredness and hunger had.weakened him, and whatever
for should he walk on, wherever to, to which.goal? No, there were no
more goals, there was nothing left but the.deep, painful yearning to
shake off this whole desolate dream, to spit.out this stale wine, to put
an end to this miserable and shameful life...A hang bent over the bank
of the river, a coconut-tree; Siddhartha.leaned against its trunk with
his shoulder, embraced the trunk with one.arm, and looked down into the
green water, which ran and ran under him,.looked down and found himself
to be entirely filled with the wish to.let go and to drown in these
waters. A frightening emptiness was.reflected back at him by the water,
answering to the terrible emptiness.in his soul. Yes, he had reached the
end. There was nothing left for.him, except to annihilate himself,
except to smash the failure into.which he had shaped his life, to throw
it away, before the feet of.mockingly laughing gods. This was the great
vomiting he had longed for:.death, the smashing to bits of the form he
hated! Let him be food for.fishes, this dog Siddhartha, this lunatic,
this depraved and rotten.body, this weakened and abused soul! Let him be
food for fishes and.crocodiles, let him be chopped to bits by the
daemons!..With a distorted face, he stared into the water, saw the
reflection of.his face and spit at it. In deep tiredness, he took his
arm away from.the trunk of the tree and turned a bit, in order to let
himself fall.straight down, in order to finally drown. With his eyes
closed, he.slipped towards death...Then, out of remote areas of his
soul, out of past times of his now.weary life, a sound stirred up. It
was a word, a syllable, which he,.without thinking, with a slurred
voice, spoke to himself, the old word.which is the beginning and the end
of all prayers of the Brahmans, the.holy "Om", which roughly means "that
what is perfect" or "the.completion". And in the moment when the sound
of "Om" touched.Siddhartha's ear, his dormant spirit suddenly woke up
and realized the.foolishness of his actions...Siddhartha was deeply
shocked. So this was how things were with him,.so doomed was he, so much
he had lost his way and was forsaken by all.knowledge, that he had been
able to seek death, that this wish, this.wish of a child, had been ale
to grow in him: to find rest by.annihilating his body! What all agony of
these recent times, all.sobering realizations, all desperation had not
brought about, this was.brought on by this moment, when the Om entered
his consciousness: he.became aware of himself in his misery and in his
error...Om! he spoke to himself: Om! and again he knew about Brahman,
knew.about the indestructibility of life, knew about all that is
divine,.which he had forgotten...But this was only a moment, flash. By
the foot of the coconut-tree,.Siddhartha collapsed, struck down by
tiredness, mumbling Om, placed his.head on the root of the tree and fell
into a deep sleep...Deep was his sleep and without dreams, for a long
time he had not known.such a sleep any more. When he woke up after many
hours, he felt as if.ten years had passed, he heard the water quietly
flowing, did not know.where he was and who had brought him here, opened
his eyes, saw with.astonishment that there were trees and the sky above
him, and he.remembered where he was and how he got here. But it took him
a long.while for this, and the past seemed to him as if it had been
covered by.a veil, infinitely distant, infinitely far away, infinitely
meaningless..He only knew that his previous life (in the first moment
when he thought.about it, this past life seemed to him like a very old,
previous.incarnation, like an early pre-birth of his present self)--that
his.previous life had been abandoned by him, that, full of disgust
and.wretchedness, he had even intended to throw his life away, but that
by a.river, under a coconut-tree, he has come to his senses, the holy
word.Om on his lips, that then he had fallen asleep and had now woken up
and.was looking at the world as a new man. Quietly, he spoke the word Om
to.himself, speaking which he had fallen asleep, and it seemed to him as
if.his entire long sleep had been nothing but a long meditative
recitation.of Om, a thinking of Om, a submergence and complete entering
into Om,.into the nameless, the perfected...What a wonderful sleep had
this been! Never before by sleep, he had.been thus refreshed, thus
renewed, thus rejuvenated! Perhaps, he had.really died, had drowned and
was reborn in a new body? But no, he knew.himself, he knew his hand and
his feet, knew the place where he lay,.knew this self in his chest, this
Siddhartha, the eccentric, the weird.one, but this Siddhartha was
nevertheless transformed, was renewed,.was strangely well rested,
strangely awake, joyful and curious...Siddhartha straightened up, then
he saw a person sitting opposite to him,.an unknown man, a monk in a
yellow robe with a shaven head, sitting in.the position of pondering. He
observed the man, who had neither hair.on his head nor a beard, and he
had not observed him for long when he.recognised this monk as Govinda,
the friend of his youth, Govinda who.had taken his refuge with the
exalted Buddha. Govinda had aged, he too,.but still his face bore the
same features, expressed zeal, faithfulness,.searching, timidness. But
when Govinda now, sensing his gaze, opened.his eyes and looked at him,
Siddhartha saw that Govinda did not.recognise him. Govinda was happy to
find him awake; apparently, he had.been sitting here for a long time and
been waiting for him to wake up,.though he did not know him..."I have
been sleeping," said Siddhartha. "However did you get here?".."You have
been sleeping," answered Govinda. "It is not good to be.sleeping in such
places, where snakes often are and the animals of the.forest have their
paths. I, oh sir, am a follower of the exalted.Gotama, the Buddha, the
Sakyamuni, and have been on a pilgrimage.together with several of us on
this path, when I saw you lying and.sleeping in a place where it is
dangerous to sleep. Therefore, I sought.to wake you up, oh sir, and
since I saw that your sleep was very deep,.I stayed behind from my group
and sat with you. And then, so it seems,.I have fallen asleep myself, I
who wanted to guard your sleep. Badly,.I have served you, tiredness has
overwhelmed me. But now that you're.awake, let me go to catch up with my
brothers.".."I thank you, Samana, for watching out over my sleep," spoke
Siddhartha.."You're friendly, you followers of the exalted one. Now you
may go.then.".."I'm going, sir. May you, sir, always be in good
health.".."I thank you, Samana."..Govinda made the gesture of a
salutation and said: "Farewell.".."Farewell, Govinda," said
Siddhartha...The monk stopped..."Permit me to ask, sir, from where do
you know my name?"..Now, Siddhartha smiled..."I know you, oh Govinda,
from your father's hut, and from the school.of the Brahmans, and from
the offerings, and from our walk to the.Samanas, and from that hour when
you took your refuge with the exalted.one in the grove
Jetavana.".."You're Siddhartha," Govinda exclaimed loudly. Now, I'm
recognising.you, and don't comprehend any more how I couldn't recognise
you right.away. Be welcome, Siddhartha, my joy is great, to see you
again.".."It also gives me joy, to see you again. You've been the guard
of my.sleep, again I thank you for this, though I wouldn't have required
any.guard. Where are you going to, oh friend?".."I'm going nowhere. We
monks are always travelling, whenever it is not.the rainy season, we
always move from one place to another, live.according to the rules if
the teachings passed on to us, accept alms,.move on. It is always like
this. But you, Siddhartha, where are you.going to?"..Quoth Siddhartha:
"With me too, friend, it is as it is with you. I'm.going nowhere. I'm
just travelling. I'm on a pilgrimage."..Govinda spoke: "You're saying:
you're on a pilgrimage, and I believe in.you. But, forgive me, oh
Siddhartha, you do not look like a pilgrim..You're wearing a rich man's
garments, you're wearing the shoes of a.distinguished gentleman, and
your hair, with the fragrance of perfume,.is not a pilgrim's hair, not
the hair of a Samana.".."Right so, my dear, you have observed well, your
keen eyes see.everything. But I haven't said to you that I was a Samana.
I said:.I'm on a pilgrimage. And so it is: I'm on a
pilgrimage.".."You're on a pilgrimage," said Govinda. "But few would go
on a.pilgrimage in such clothes, few in such shoes, few with such
hair..Never I have met such a pilgrim, being a pilgrim myself for many
years.".."I believe you, my dear Govinda. But now, today, you've met a
pilgrim.just like this, wearing such shoes, such a garment. Remember, my
dear:.Not eternal is the world of appearances, not eternal, anything
but.eternal are our garments and the style of our hair, and our hair
and.bodies themselves. I'm wearing a rich man's clothes, you've seen
this.quite right. I'm wearing them, because I have been a rich man, and
I'm.wearing my hair like the worldly and lustful people, for I have
been.one of them.".."And now, Siddhartha, what are you now?".."I don't
know it, I don't know it just like you. I'm travelling. I was.a rich man
and am no rich man any more, and what I'll be tomorrow, I.don't
know.".."You've lost your riches?".."I've lost them or they me. They
somehow happened to slip away from me..The wheel of physical
manifestations is turning quickly, Govinda. Where.is Siddhartha the
Brahman? Where is Siddhartha the Samana? Where is.Siddhartha the rich
man? Non-eternal things change quickly, Govinda,.you know it."..Govinda
looked at the friend of his youth for a long time, with doubt in.his
eyes. After that, he gave him the salutation which one would use.on a
gentleman and went on his way...With a smiling face, Siddhartha watched
him leave, he loved him still,.this faithful man, this fearful man. And
how could he not have loved.everybody and everything in this moment, in
the glorious hour after his.wonderful sleep, filled with Om! The
enchantment, which had happened.inside of him in his sleep and by means
of the Om, was this very thing.that he loved everything, that he was
full of joyful love for everything.he saw. And it was this very thing,
so it seemed to him now, which had.been his sickness before, that he was
not able to love anybody or.anything...With a smiling face, Siddhartha
watched the leaving monk. The sleep had.strengthened him much, but
hunger gave him much pain, for by now he had.not eaten for two days, and
the times were long past when he had been.tough against hunger. With
sadness, and yet also with a smile, he.thought of that time. In those
days, so he remembered, he had boasted.of three three things to Kamala,
had been able to do three noble and.undefeatable feats:
fasting--waiting--thinking. These had been his.possession, his power and
strength, his solid staff; in the busy,.laborious years of his youth, he
had learned these three feats, nothing.else. And now, they had abandoned
him, none of them was his any more,.neither fasting, nor waiting, nor
thinking. For the most wretched.things, he had given them up, for what
fades most quickly, for sensual.lust, for the good life, for riches! His
life had indeed been strange..And now, so it seemed, now he had really
become a childlike person...Siddhartha thought about his situation.
Thinking was hard on him, he.did not really feel like it, but he forced
himself...Now, he thought, since all theses most easily perishing things
have.slipped from me again, now I'm standing here under the sun again
just as.I have been standing here a little child, nothing is mine, I
have no.abilities, there is nothing I could bring about, I have learned
nothing..How wondrous is this! Now, that I'm no longer young, that my
hair is.already half gray, that my strength is fading, now I'm starting
again.at the beginning and as a child! Again, he had to smile. Yes, his
fate.had been strange! Things were going downhill with him, and now he
was.again facing the world void and naked and stupid. But he could not
feed.sad about this, no, he even felt a great urge to laugh, to laugh
about.himself, to laugh about this strange, foolish world..."Things are
going downhill with you!" he said to himself, and laughed.about it, and
as he was saying it, he happened to glance at the river,.and he also saw
the river going downhill, always moving on downhill,.and singing and
being happy through it all. He liked this well, kindly.he smiled at the
river. Was this not the river in which he had intended.to drown himself,
in past times, a hundred years ago, or had he dreamed.this?..Wondrous
indeed was my life, so he thought, wondrous detours it has.taken. As I
boy, I had only to do with gods and offerings. As a youth,.I had only to
do with asceticism, with thinking and meditation, was.searching for
Brahman, worshipped the eternal in the Atman. But as a.young man, I
followed the penitents, lived in the forest, suffered of.heat and frost,
learned to hunger, taught my body to become dead..Wonderfully, soon
afterwards, insight came towards me in the form of the.great Buddha's
teachings, I felt the knowledge of the oneness of the.world circling in
me like my own blood. But I also had to leave Buddha.and the great
knowledge. I went and learned the art of love with.Kamala, learned
trading with Kamaswami, piled up money, wasted money,.learned to love my
stomach, learned to please my senses. I had to spend.many years losing
my spirit, to unlearn thinking again, to forget the.oneness. Isn't it
just as if I had turned slowly and on a long detour.from a man into a
child, from a thinker into a childlike person? And.yet, this path has
been very good; and yet, the bird in my chest has.not died. But what a
path has this been! I had to pass through so much.stupidity, through so
much vices, through so many errors, through so.much disgust and
disappointments and woe, just to become a child again.and to be able to
start over. But it was right so, my heart says "Yes".to it, my eyes
smile to it. I've had to experience despair, I've had to.sink down to
the most foolish one of all thoughts, to the thought of.suicide, in
order to be able to experience divine grace, to hear Om.again, to be
able to sleep properly and awake properly again. I had to.become a fool,
to find Atman in me again. I had to sin, to be able to.live again. Where
else might my path lead me to? It is foolish, this.path, it moves in
loops, perhaps it is going around in a circle. Let.it go as it likes, I
want to to take it...Wonderfully, he felt joy rolling like waves in his
chest...Wherever from, he asked his heart, where from did you get
this.happiness? Might it come from that long, good sleep, which has done
me.so good? Or from the word Om, which I said? Or from the fact that
I.have escaped, that I have completely fled, that I am finally free
again.and am standing like a child under the sky? Oh how good is it to
have.fled, to have become free! How clean and beautiful is the air here,
how.good to breathe! There, where I ran away from, there everything
smelled.of ointments, of spices, of wine, of excess, of sloth. How did I
hate.this world of the rich, of those who revel in fine food, of
the.gamblers! How did I hate myself for staying in this terrible world
for.so long! How did I hate myself, have deprive, poisoned,
tortured.myself, have made myself old and evil! No, never again I will,
as I.used to like doing so much, delude myself into thinking that
Siddhartha.was wise! But this one thing I have done well, this I like,
this I must.praise, that there is now an end to that hatred against
myself, to that.foolish and dreary life! I praise you, Siddhartha, after
so many years.of foolishness, you have once again had an idea, have done
something,.have heard the bird in your chest singing and have followed
it!..Thus he praised himself, found joy in himself, listened curiously
to his.stomach, which was rumbling with hunger. He had now, so he felt,
in.these recent times and days, completely tasted and spit out, devoured
up.to the point of desperation and death, a piece of suffering, a piece
of.misery. Like this, it was good. For much longer, he could have
stayed.with Kamaswami, made money, wasted money, filled his stomach, and
let.his soul die of thirst; for much longer he could have lived in
this.soft, well upholstered hell, if this had not happened: the moment
of.complete hopelessness and despair, that most extreme moment, when
he.hang over the rushing waters and was ready to destroy himself. That
he.had felt this despair, this deep disgust, and that he had not
succumbed.to it, that the bird, the joyful source and voice in him was
still alive.after all, this was why he felt joy, this was why he
laughed, this was.why his face was smiling brightly under his hair which
had turned gray..."It is good," he thought, "to get a taste of
everything for oneself,.which one needs to know. That lust for the world
and riches do not.belong to the good things, I have already learned as a
child. I have.known it for a long time, but I have experienced only now.
And now I.know it, don't just know it in my memory, but in my eyes, in
my heart,.in my stomach. Good for me, to know this!"..For a long time,
he pondered his transformation, listened to the bird,.as it sang for
joy. Had not this bird died in him, had he not felt its.death? No,
something else from within him had died, something which.already for a
long time had yearned to die. Was it not this what he.used to intend to
kill in his ardent years as a penitent? Was this not.his self, his
small, frightened, and proud self, he had wrestled with.for so many
years, which had defeated him again and again, which was.back again
after every killing, prohibited joy, felt fear? Was it not.this, which
today had finally come to its death, here in the forest, by.this lovely
river? Was it not due to this death, that he was now like.a child, so
full of trust, so without fear, so full of joy?..Now Siddhartha also got
some idea of why he had fought this self in.vain as a Brahman, as a
penitent. Too much knowledge had held him.back, too many holy verses,
too many sacrificial rules, to much.self-castigation, so much doing and
striving for that goal! Full of.arrogance, he had been, always the
smartest, always working the most,.always one step ahead of all others,
always the knowing and spiritual.one, always the priest or wise one.
Into being a priest, into this.arrogance, into this spirituality, his
self had retreated, there it sat.firmly and grew, while he thought he
would kill it by fasting and.penance. Now he saw it and saw that the
secret voice had been right,.that no teacher would ever have been able
to bring about his salvation..Therefore, he had to go out into the
world, lose himself to lust and.power, to woman and money, had to become
a merchant, a dice-gambler, a.drinker, and a greedy person, until the
priest and Samana in him was.dead. Therefore, he had to continue bearing
these ugly years, bearing.the disgust, the emptiness, the pointlessness
of a dreary and.wasted life up to the end, up to bitter despair, until
Siddhartha the.lustful, Siddhartha the greedy could also die. He had
died, a new.Siddhartha had woken up from the sleep. He would also grow
old, he.would also eventually have to die, mortal was Siddhartha, mortal
was.every physical form. But today he was young, was a child, the
new.Siddhartha, and was full of joy...He thought these thoughts,
listened with a smile to his stomach,.listened gratefully to a buzzing
bee. Cheerfully, he looked into the.rushing river, never before he had
like a water so well as this one,.never before he had perceived the
voice and the parable of the moving.water thus strongly and beautifully.
It seemed to him, as if the river.had something special to tell him,
something he did not know yet, which.was still awaiting him. In this
river, Siddhartha had intended to.drown himself, in it the old, tired,
desperate Siddhartha had drowned.today. But the new Siddhartha felt a
deep love for this rushing water,.and decided for himself, not to leave
it very soon.
Chapter 9
..By this river I want to stay,
thought Siddhartha, it is the same which.I have crossed a long time ago
on my way to the childlike people, a.friendly ferryman had guided me
then, he is the one I want to go to,.starting out from his hut, my path
had led me at that time into a new.life, which had now grown old and is
dead--my present path, my present.new life, shall also take its start
there!..Tenderly, he looked into the rushing water, into the transparent
green,.into the crystal lines of its drawing, so rich in secrets.
Bright.pearls he saw rising from the deep, quiet bubbles of air floating
on.the reflecting surface, the blue of the sky being depicted in it.
With.a thousand eyes, the river looked at him, with green ones, with
white.ones, with crystal ones, with sky-blue ones. How did he love
this.water, how did it delight him, how grateful was he to it! In his
heart.he heard the voice talking, which was newly awaking, and it told
him:.Love this water! Stay near it! Learn from it! Oh yes, he wanted
to.learn from it, he wanted to listen to it. He who would understand
this.water and its secrets, so it seemed to him, would also understand
many.other things, many secrets, all secrets...But out of all secrets of
the river, he today only saw one, this one.touched his soul. He saw:
this water ran and ran, incessantly it ran,.and was nevertheless always
there, was always an at all times the same.and yet new in every moment!
Great be he who would grasp this,.understand this! He understood and
grasped it not, only felt some idea.of it stirring, a distant memory,
divine voices...Siddhartha rose, the workings of hunger in his body
became unbearable..In a daze he walked on, up the path by the bank, up
river,.listened to the current, listened to the rumbling hunger in his
body...When he reached the ferry, the boat was just ready, and the
same.ferryman who had once transported the young Samana across the
river,.stood in the boat, Siddhartha recognised him, he had also aged
very.much..."Would you like to ferry me over?" he asked...The ferryman,
being astonished to see such an elegant man walking along.and on foot,
took him into his boat and pushed it off the bank..."It's a beautiful
life you have chosen for yourself," the passenger.spoke. "It must be
beautiful to live by this water every day and to.cruise on it."..With a
smile, the man at the oar moved from side to side: "It is.beautiful,
sir, it is as you say. But isn't every life, isn't every.work
beautiful?".."This may be true. But I envy you for yours.".."Ah, you
would soon stop enjoying it. This is nothing for people.wearing fine
clothes."..Siddhartha laughed. "Once before, I have been looked upon
today because.of my clothes, I have been looked upon with distrust.
Wouldn't you,.ferryman, like to accept these clothes, which are a
nuisance to me,.from me? For you must know, I have no money to pay your
fare.".."You're joking, sir," the ferryman laughed..."I'm not joking,
friend. Behold, once before you have ferried me across.this water in
your boat for the immaterial reward of a good deed. Thus,.do it today as
well, and accept my clothes for it.".."And do you, sir, intent to
continue travelling without clothes?".."Ah, most of all I wouldn't want
to continue travelling at all. Most of.all I would like you, ferryman,
to give me an old loincloth and kept me.with you as your assistant, or
rather as your trainee, for I'll have to.learn first how to handle the
boat."..For a long time, the ferryman looked at the stranger,
searching..."Now I recognise you," he finally said. "At one time, you've
slept in.my hut, this was a long time ago, possibly more than twenty
years ago,.and you've been ferried across the river by me, and we parted
like good.friends. Haven't you've been a Samana? I can't think of your
name any.more.".."My name is Siddhartha, and I was a Samana, when you've
last seen me.".."So be welcome, Siddhartha. My name is Vasudeva." You
will, so I hope,.be my guest today as well and sleep in my hut, and tell
me, where you're.coming from and why these beautiful clothes are such a
nuisance to you."..They had reached the middle of the river, and
Vasudeva pushed the oar.with more strength, in order to overcome the
current. He worked calmly,.his eyes fixed in on the front of the boat,
with brawny arms..Siddhartha sat and watched him, and remembered, how
once before, on that.last day of his time as a Samana, love for this man
had stirred in his.heart. Gratefully, he accepted Vasudeva's invitation.
When they had.reached the bank, he helped him to tie the boat to the
stakes; after.this, the ferryman asked him to enter the hut, offered him
bread and.water, and Siddhartha ate with eager pleasure, and also ate
with eager.pleasure of the mango fruits, Vasudeva offered
him...Afterwards, it was almost the time of the sunset, they sat on a
log by.the bank, and Siddhartha told the ferryman about where he
originally.came from and about his life, as he had seen it before his
eyes today,.in that hour of despair. Until late at night, lasted his
tale...Vasudeva listened with great attention. Listening carefully, he
let.everything enter his mind, birthplace and childhood, all that
learning,.all that searching, all joy, all distress. This was among
the.ferryman's virtues one of the greatest: like only a few, he knew
how.to listen. Without him having spoken a word, the speaker sensed
how.Vasudeva let his words enter his mind, quiet, open, waiting, how
he.did not lose a single one, awaited not a single one with
impatience,.did not add his praise or rebuke, was just listening.
Siddhartha felt,.what a happy fortune it is, to confess to such a
listener, to burry in.his heart his own life, his own search, his own
suffering...But in the end of Siddhartha's tale, when he spoke of the
tree by the.river, and of his deep fall, of the holy Om, and how he had
felt such.a love for the river after his slumber, the ferryman listened
with twice.the attention, entirely and completely absorbed by it, with
his eyes.closed...But when Siddhartha fell silent, and a long silence
had occurred, then.Vasudeva said: "It is as I thought. The river has
spoken to you. It.is your friend as well, it speaks to you as well. That
is good, that is.very good. Stay with me, Siddhartha, my friend. I used
to have a wife,.her bed was next to mine, but she has died a long time
ago, for a long.time, I have lived alone. Now, you shall live with me,
there is space.and food for both.".."I thank you," said Siddhartha, "I
thank you and accept. And I also.thank you for this, Vasudeva, for
listening to me so well! These people.are rare who know how to listen.
And I did not meet a single one who.knew it as well as you did. I will
also learn in this respect from.you.".."You will learn it," spoke
Vasudeva, "but not from me. The river has.taught me to listen, from it
you will learn it as well. It knows.everything, the river, everything
can be learned from it. See, you've.already learned this from the water
too, that it is good to strive.downwards, to sink, to seek depth. The
rich and elegant Siddhartha is.becoming an oarsman's servant, the
learned Brahman Siddhartha becomes a.ferryman: this has also been told
to you by the river. You'll learn.that other thing from it as
well."..Quoth Siddhartha after a long pause: "What other thing,
Vasudeva?"..Vasudeva rose. "It is late," he said, "let's go to sleep. I
can't.tell you that other thing, oh friend. You'll learn it, or perhaps
you.know it already. See, I'm no learned man, I have no special skill
in.speaking, I also have no special skill in thinking. All I'm able to
do.is to listen and to be godly, I have learned nothing else. If I
was.able to say and teach it, I might be a wise man, but like this I am
only.a ferryman, and it is my task to ferry people across the river. I
have.transported many, thousands; and to all of them, my river has
been.nothing but an obstacle on their travels. They travelled to seek
money.and business, and for weddings, and on pilgrimages, and the river
was.obstructing their path, and the ferryman's job was to get them
quickly.across that obstacle. But for some among thousands, a few, four
or.five, the river has stopped being an obstacle, they have heard
its.voice, they have listened to it, and the river has become sacred
to.them, as it has become sacred to me. Let's rest now,
Siddhartha."..Siddhartha stayed with the ferryman and learned to operate
the boat, and.when there was nothing to do at the ferry, he worked with
Vasudeva in.the rice-field, gathered wood, plucked the fruit off the
banana-trees..He learned to build an oar, and learned to mend the boat,
and to weave.baskets, and was joyful because of everything he learned,
and the days.and months passed quickly. But more than Vasudeva could
teach him, he.was taught by the river. Incessantly, he learned from it.
Most of all,.he learned from it to listen, to pay close attention with a
quiet heart,.with a waiting, opened soul, without passion, without a
wish, without.judgement, without an opinion...In a friendly manner, he
lived side by side with Vasudeva, and.occasionally they exchanged some
words, few and at length thought about.words. Vasudeva was no friend of
words; rarely, Siddhartha succeeded.in persuading him to speak..."Did
you," so he asked him at one time, "did you too learn that secret.from
the river: that there is no time?"..Vasudeva's face was filled with a
bright smile..."Yes, Siddhartha," he spoke. "It is this what you mean,
isn't it: that.the river is everywhere at once, at the source and at the
mouth, at the.waterfall, at the ferry, at the rapids, in the sea, in the
mountains,.everywhere at once, and that there is only the present time
for it, not.the shadow of the past, not the shadow of the
future?".."This it is," said Siddhartha. "And when I had learned it, I
looked at.my life, and it was also a river, and the boy Siddhartha was
only.separated from the man Siddhartha and from the old man Siddhartha
by a.shadow, not by something real. Also, Siddhartha's previous births
were.no past, and his death and his return to Brahma was no future.
Nothing.was, nothing will be; everything is, everything has existence
and is.present."..Siddhartha spoke with ecstasy; deeply, this
enlightenment had delighted.him. Oh, was not all suffering time, were
not all forms of tormenting.oneself and being afraid time, was not
everything hard, everything.hostile in the world gone and overcome as
soon as one had overcome time,.as soon as time would have been put out
of existence by one's thoughts?.In ecstatic delight, he had spoken, but
Vasudeva smiled at him brightly.and nodded in confirmation., silently he
nodded, brushed his hand over.Siddhartha's shoulder, turned back to his
work...And once again, when the river had just increased its flow in the
rainy.season and made a powerful noise, then said Siddhartha: "Isn't it
so,.oh friend, the river has many voices, very many voices? Hasn't it
the.voice of a king, and of a warrior, and of a bull, and of a bird of
the.night, and of a woman giving birth, and of a sighing man, and a
thousand.other voices more?".."So it is," Vasudeva nodded, "all voices
of the creatures are in its.voice.".."And do you know," Siddhartha
continued, "what word it speaks, when you.succeed in hearing all of its
ten thousand voices at once?"..Happily, Vasudeva's face was smiling, he
bent over to Siddhartha and.spoke the holy Om into his ear. And this had
been the very thing which.Siddhartha had also been hearing...And time
after time, his smile became more similar to the ferryman's,.became
almost just as bright, almost just as throughly glowing with.bliss, just
as shining out of thousand small wrinkles, just as alike to.a child's,
just as alike to an old man's. Many travellers, seeing the.two ferrymen,
thought they were brothers. Often, they sat in the.evening together by
the bank on the log, said nothing and both listened.to the water, which
was no water to them, but the voice of life, the.voice of what exists,
of what is eternally taking shape. And it.happened from time to time
that both, when listening to the river,.thought of the same things, of a
conversation from the day before.yesterday, of one of their travellers,
the face and fate of whom had.occupied their thoughts, of death, of
their childhood, and that they.both in the same moment, when the river
had been saying something good.to them, looked at each other, both
thinking precisely the same thing,.both delighted about the same answer
to the same question...There was something about this ferry and the two
ferrymen which was.transmitted to others, which many of the travellers
felt. It happened.occasionally that a traveller, after having looked at
the face of one of.the ferrymen, started to tell the story of his life,
told about pains,.confessed evil things, asked for comfort and advice.
It happened.occasionally that someone asked for permission to stay for a
night with.them to listen to the river. It also happened that curious
people came,.who had been told that there were two wise men, or
sorcerers, or holy.men living by that ferry. The curious people asked
many questions, but.they got no answers, and they found neither
sorcerers nor wise men, they.only found two friendly little old men, who
seemed to be mute and to.have become a bit strange and gaga. And the
curious people laughed and.were discussing how foolishly and gullibly
the common people were.spreading such empty rumours...The years passed
by, and nobody counted them. Then, at one time, monks.came by on a
pilgrimage, followers of Gotama, the Buddha, who were.asking to be
ferried across the river, and by them the ferrymen were.told that they
were were most hurriedly walking back to their great.teacher, for the
news had spread the exalted one was deadly sick and.would soon die his
last human death, in order to become one with the.salvation. It was not
long, until a new flock of monks came along on.their pilgrimage, and
another one, and the monks as well as most of the.other travellers and
people walking through the land spoke of nothing.else than of Gotama and
his impending death. And as people are flocking.from everywhere and from
all sides, when they are going to war or to the.coronation of a king,
and are gathering like ants in droves, thus they.flocked, like being
drawn on by a magic spell, to where the great Buddha.was awaiting his
death, where the huge event was to take place and the.great perfected
one of an era was to become one with the glory...Often, Siddhartha
thought in those days of the dying wise man, the.great teacher, whose
voice had admonished nations and had awoken.hundreds of thousands, whose
voice he had also once heard, whose holy.face he had also once seen with
respect. Kindly, he thought of him, saw.his path to perfection before
his eyes, and remembered with a smile.those words which he had once, as
a young man, said to him, the exalted.one. They had been, so it seemed
to him, proud and precocious words;.with a smile, he remembered them.
For a long time he knew that there.was nothing standing between Gotama
and him any more, though he was.still unable to accept his teachings.
No, there was no teaching a.truly searching person, someone who truly
wanted to find, could accept..But he who had found, he could approve of
any teachings, every path,.every goal, there was nothing standing
between him and all the other.thousand any more who lived in that what
is eternal, who breathed what.is divine...On one of these days, when so
many went on a pilgrimage to the dying.Buddha, Kamala also went to him,
who used to be the most beautiful of.the courtesans. A long time ago,
she had retired from her previous.life, had given her garden to the
monks of Gotama as a gift, had taken.her refuge in the teachings, was
among the friends and benefactors of.the pilgrims. Together with
Siddhartha the boy, her son, she had gone.on her way due to the news of
the near death of Gotama, in simple.clothes, on foot. With her little
son, she was travelling by the river;.but the boy had soon grown tired,
desired to go back home, desired to.rest, desired to eat, became
disobedient and started whining...Kamala often hat to take a rest with
him, he was accustomed to having.his way against her, she had to feed
him, had to comfort him, had to.scold him. He did not comprehend why he
had to to go on this exhausting.and sad pilgrimage with his mother, to
an unknown place, to a stranger,.who was holy and about to die. So what
if he died, how did this concern.the boy?..The pilgrims were getting
close to Vasudeva's ferry, when little.Siddhartha once again forced his
mother to rest. She, Kamala herself,.had also become tired, and while
the boy was chewing a banana, she.crouched down on the ground, closed
her eyes a bit, and rested. But.suddenly, she uttered a wailing scream,
the boy looked at her in fear.and saw her face having grown pale from
horror; and from under her.dress, a small, black snake fled, by which
Kamala had been bitten...Hurriedly, they now both ran along the path, in
order to reach people,.and got near to the ferry, there Kamala
collapsed, and was not able to.go any further. But the boy started
crying miserably, only interrupting.it to kiss and hug his mother, and
she also joined his loud screams for.help, until the sound reached
Vasudeva's ears, who stood at the ferry..Quickly, he came walking, took
the woman on his arms, carried her into.the boat, the boy ran along, and
soon they all reached the hut, were.Siddhartha stood by the stove and
was just lighting the fire. He looked.up and first saw the boy's face,
which wondrously reminded him of.something, like a warning to remember
something he had forgotten. Then.he saw Kamala, whom he instantly
recognised, though she lay unconscious.in the ferryman's arms, and now
he knew that it was his own son, whose.face had been such a warning
reminder to him, and the heart stirred in.his chest...Kamala's wound was
washed, but had already turned black and her body was.swollen, she was
made to drink a healing potion. Her consciousness.returned, she lay on
Siddhartha's bed in the hut and bent over her stood.Siddhartha, who used
to love her so much. It seemed like a dream to.her; with a smile, she
looked at her friend's face; just slowly she,.realized her situation,
remembered the bite, called timidly for the boy..."He's with you, don't
worry," said Siddhartha...Kamala looked into his eyes. She spoke with a
heavy tongue, paralysed.by the poison. "You've become old, my dear," she
said, "you've become.gray. But you are like the young Samana, who at one
time came without.clothes, with dusty feet, to me into the garden. You
are much more like.him, than you were like him at that time when you had
left me and.Kamaswami. In the eyes, you're like him, Siddhartha. Alas, I
have also.grown old, old--could you still recognise me?"..Siddhartha
smiled: "Instantly, I recognised you, Kamala, my dear."..Kamala pointed
to her boy and said: "Did you recognise him as well?.He is your
son."..Her eyes became confused and fell shut. The boy wept, Siddhartha
took.him on his knees, let him weep, petted his hair, and at the sight
of.the child's face, a Brahman prayer came to his mind, which he
had.learned a long time ago, when he had been a little boy himself.
Slowly,.with a singing voice, he started to speak; from his past and
childhood,.the words came flowing to him. And with that singsong, the
boy became.calm, was only now and then uttering a sob and fell asleep.
Siddhartha.placed him on Vasudeva's bed. Vasudeva stood by the stove and
cooked.rice. Siddhartha gave him a look, which he returned with a
smile..."She'll die," Siddhartha said quietly...Vasudeva nodded; over
his friendly face ran the light of the stove's.fire...Once again, Kamala
returned to consciousness. Pain distorted her face,.Siddhartha's eyes
read the suffering on her mouth, on her pale cheeks..Quietly, he read
it, attentively, waiting, his mind becoming one with.her suffering.
Kamala felt it, her gaze sought his eyes...Looking at him, she said:
"Now I see that your eyes have changed as.well. They've become
completely different. By what do I still.recognise that you're
Siddhartha? It's you, and it's not you."..Siddhartha said nothing,
quietly his eyes looked at hers..."You have achieved it?" she asked.
"You have found peace?"..He smiled and placed his hand on hers..."I'm
seeing it," she said, "I'm seeing it. I too will find peace.".."You have
found it," Siddhartha spoke in a whisper...Kamala never stopped looking
into his eyes. She thought about her.pilgrimage to Gotama, which wanted
to take, in order to see the face of.the perfected one, to breathe his
peace, and she thought that she had.now found him in his place, and that
it was good, just as good, as if.she had seen the other one. She wanted
to tell this to him, but the.tongue no longer obeyed her will. Without
speaking, she looked at him,.and he saw the life fading from her eyes.
When the final pain filled.her eyes and made them grow dim, when the
final shiver ran through her.limbs, his finger closed her eyelids...For
a long time, he sat and looked at her peacefully dead face. For a.long
time, he observed her mouth, her old, tired mouth, with those
lips,.which had become thin, and he remembered, that he used to, in the
spring.of his years, compare this mouth with a freshly cracked fig. For
a long.time, he sat, read in the pale face, in the tired wrinkles,
filled.himself with this sight, saw his own face lying in the same
manner,.just as white, just as quenched out, and saw at the same time
his face.and hers being young, with red lips, with fiery eyes, and the
feeling of.this both being present and at the same time real, the
feeling of.eternity, completely filled every aspect of his being. Deeply
he felt,.more deeply than ever before, in this hour, the
indestructibility of.every life, the eternity of every moment...When he
rose, Vasudeva had prepared rice for him. But Siddhartha did.not eat. In
the stable, where their goat stood, the two old men.prepared beds of
straw for themselves, and Vasudeva lay himself down.to sleep. But
Siddhartha went outside and sat this night before the.hut, listening to
the river, surrounded by the past, touched and.encircled by all times of
his life at the same time. But occasionally,.he rose, stepped to the
door of the hut and listened, whether the boy.was sleeping...Early in
the morning, even before the sun could be seen, Vasudeva came.out of the
stable and walked over to his friend..."You haven't slept," he
said..."No, Vasudeva. I sat here, I was listening to the river. A lot it
has.told me, deeply it has filled me with the healing thought, with
the.thought of oneness.".."You've experienced suffering, Siddhartha, but
I see: no sadness has.entered your heart.".."No, my dear, how should I
be sad? I, who have been rich and happy,.have become even richer and
happier now. My son has been given to me.".."Your son shall be welcome
to me as well. But now, Siddhartha, let's.get to work, there is much to
be done. Kamala has died on the same bed,.on which my wife had died a
long time ago. Let us also build Kamala's.funeral pile on the same hill
on which I had then built my wife's.funeral pile."..While the boy was
still asleep, they built the funeral pile.
Chapter 10
..Timid and weeping, the boy had
attended his mother's funeral; gloomy.and shy, he had listened to
Siddhartha, who greeted him as his son and.welcomed him at his place in
Vasudeva's hut. Pale, he sat for many.days by the hill of the dead, did
not want to eat, gave no open look,.did not open his heart, met his fate
with resistance and denial...Siddhartha spared him and let him do as he
pleased, he honoured his.mourning. Siddhartha understood that his son
did not know him, that.he could not love him like a father. Slowly, he
also saw and understood.that the eleven-year-old was a pampered boy, a
mother's boy, and that he.had grown up in the habits of rich people,
accustomed to finer food, to.a soft bed, accustomed to giving orders to
servants. Siddhartha.understood that the mourning, pampered child could
not suddenly and.willingly be content with a life among strangers and in
poverty. He did.not force him, he did many a chore for him, always
picked the best piece.of the meal for him. Slowly, he hoped to win him
over, by friendly.patience...Rich and happy, he had called himself, when
the boy had come to him..Since time had passed on in the meantime, and
the boy remained a.stranger and in a gloomy disposition, since he
displayed a proud and.stubbornly disobedient heart, did not want to do
any work, did not pay.his respect to the old men, stole from Vasudeva's
fruit-trees, then.Siddhartha began to understand that his son had not
brought him.happiness and peace, but suffering and worry. But he loved
him, and he.preferred the suffering and worries of love over happiness
and joy.without the boy. Since young Siddhartha was in the hut, the old
men had.split the work. Vasudeva had again taken on the job of the
ferryman all.by himself, and Siddhartha, in order to be with his son,
did the work in.the hut and the field...For a long time, for long
months, Siddhartha waited for his son to.understand him, to accept his
love, to perhaps reciprocate it. For.long months, Vasudeva waited,
watching, waited and said nothing. One.day, when Siddhartha the younger
had once again tormented his father.very much with spite and an
unsteadiness in his wishes and had broken.both of his rice-bowls,
Vasudeva took in the evening his friend aside.and talked to
him..."Pardon me." he said, "from a friendly heart, I'm talking to you.
I'm.seeing that you're tormenting yourself, I'm seeing that you're in
grief..You're son, my dear, is worrying you, and he is also worrying me.
That.young bird is accustomed to a different life, to a different nest.
He.has not, like you, ran away from riches and the city, being
disgusted.and fed up with it; against his will, he had to leave all this
behind..I asked the river, oh friend, many times I have asked it. But
the river.laughs, it laughs at me, it laughs at you and me, and is
shaking with.laughter at out foolishness. Water wants to join water,
youth wants to.join youth, your son is not in the place where he can
prosper. You too.should ask the river; you too should listen to
it!"..Troubled, Siddhartha looked into his friendly face, in the many
wrinkles.of which there was incessant cheerfulness..."How could I part
with him?" he said quietly, ashamed. "Give me some.more time, my dear!
See, I'm fighting for him, I'm seeking to win his.heart, with love and
with friendly patience I intent to capture it..One day, the river shall
also talk to him, he also is called upon."..Vasudeva's smile flourished
more warmly. "Oh yes, he too is called.upon, he too is of the eternal
life. But do we, you and me, know what.he is called upon to do, what
path to take, what actions to perform,.what pain to endure? Not a small
one, his pain will be; after all, his.heart is proud and hard, people
like this have to suffer a lot, err a.lot, do much injustice, burden
themselves with much sin. Tell me, my.dear: you're not taking control of
your son's upbringing? You don't.force him? You don't beat him? You
don't punish him?".."No, Vasudeva, I don't do anything of this.".."I
knew it. You don't force him, don't beat him, don't give him
orders,.because you know that "soft" is stronger than "hard", Water
stronger.than rocks, love stronger than force. Very good, I praise you.
But.aren't you mistaken in thinking that you wouldn't force him,
wouldn't.punish him? Don't you shackle him with your love? Don't you
make him.feel inferior every day, and don't you make it even harder on
him with.your kindness and patience? Don't you force him, the arrogant
and.pampered boy, to live in a hut with two old banana-eaters, to whom
even.rice is a delicacy, whose thoughts can't be his, whose hearts are
old.and quiet and beats in a different pace than his? Isn't forced,
isn't.he punished by all this?"..Troubled, Siddhartha looked to the
ground. Quietly, he asked: "What.do you think should I do?"..Quoth
Vasudeva: "Bring him into the city, bring him into his mother's.house,
there'll still be servants around, give him to them. And when.there
aren't any around any more, bring him to a teacher, not for
the.teachings' sake, but so that he shall be among other boys, and
among.girls, and in the world which is his own. Have you never thought
of.this?".."You're seeing into my heart," Siddhartha spoke sadly.
"Often, I have.thought of this. But look, how shall I put him, who had
no tender heart.anyhow, into this world? Won't he become exuberant,
won't he lose.himself to pleasure and power, won't he repeat all of his
father's.mistakes, won't he perhaps get entirely lost in
Sansara?"..Brightly, the ferryman's smile lit up; softly, he touched
Siddhartha's.arm and said: "Ask the river about it, my friend! Hear it
laugh about.it! Would you actually believe that you had committed your
foolish acts.in order to spare your son from committing them too? And
could you in.any way protect your son from Sansara? How could you? By
means of.teachings, prayer, admonition? My dear, have you entirely
forgotten.that story, that story containing so many lessons, that story
about.Siddhartha, a Brahman's son, which you once told me here on this
very.spot? Who has kept the Samana Siddhartha safe from Sansara, from
sin,.from greed, from foolishness? Were his father's religious devotion,
his.teachers warnings, his own knowledge, his own search able to keep
him.safe? Which father, which teacher had been able to protect him
from.living his life for himself, from soiling himself with life,
from.burdening himself with guilt, from drinking the bitter drink
for.himself, from finding his path for himself? Would you think, my
dear,.anybody might perhaps be spared from taking this path? That
perhaps.your little son would be spared, because you love him, because
you would.like to keep him from suffering and pain and disappointment?
But even.if you would die ten times for him, you would not be able to
take the.slightest part of his destiny upon yourself."..Never before,
Vasudeva had spoken so many words. Kindly, Siddhartha.thanked him, went
troubled into the hut, could not sleep for a long.time. Vasudeva had
told him nothing, he had not already thought and.known for himself. But
this was a knowledge he could not act upon,.stronger than the knowledge
was his love for the boy, stronger was his.tenderness, his fear to lose
him. Had he ever lost his heart so much.to something, had he ever loved
any person thus, thus blindly, thus.sufferingly, thus unsuccessfully,
and yet thus happily?..Siddhartha could not heed his friend's advice, he
could not give up the.boy. He let the boy give him orders, he let him
disregard him. He.said nothing and waited; daily, he began the mute
struggle of.friendliness, the silent war of patience. Vasudeva also said
nothing.and waited, friendly, knowing, patient. They were both masters
of.patience...At one time, when the boy's face reminded him very much of
Kamala,.Siddhartha suddenly had to think of a line which Kamala a long
time.ago, in the days of their youth, had once said to him. "You
cannot.love," she had said to him, and he had agreed with her and had
compared.himself with a star, while comparing the childlike people with
falling.leaves, and nevertheless he had also sensed an accusation in
that line..Indeed, he had never been able to lose or devote himself
completely to.another person, to forget himself, to commit foolish acts
for the love.of another person; never he had been able to do this, and
this was, as.it had seemed to him at that time, the great distinction
which set him.apart from the childlike people. But now, since his son
was here, now.he, Siddhartha, had also become completely a childlike
person, suffering.for the sake of another person, loving another person,
lost to a love,.having become a fool on account of love. Now he too
felt, late, once.in his lifetime, this strongest and strangest of all
passions, suffered.from it, suffered miserably, and was nevertheless in
bliss, was.nevertheless renewed in one respect, enriched by one
thing...He did sense very well that this love, this blind love for his
son, was.a passion, something very human, that it was Sansara, a murky
source,.dark waters. Nevertheless, he felt at the same time, it was
not.worthless, it was necessary, came from the essence of his own
being..This pleasure also had to be atoned for, this pain also had to
be.endured, these foolish acts also had to be committed...Through all
this, the son let him commit his foolish acts, let him.court for his
affection, let him humiliate himself every day by giving.in to his
moods. This father had nothing which would have delighted.him and
nothing which he would have feared. He was a good man, this.father, a
good, kind, soft man, perhaps a very devout man, perhaps a.saint, all
these there no attributes which could win the boy over. He.was bored by
this father, who kept him prisoner here in this miserable.hut of his, he
was bored by him, and for him to answer every naughtiness.with a smile,
every insult with friendliness, every viciousness with.kindness, this
very thing was the hated trick of this old sneak. Much.more the boy
would have liked it if he had been threatened by him, if he.had been
abused by him...A day came, when what young Siddhartha had on his mind
came bursting.forth, and he openly turned against his father. The latter
had given.him a task, he had told him to gather brushwood. But the boy
did not.leave the hut, in stubborn disobedience and rage he stayed where
he was,.thumped on the ground with his feet, clenched his fists, and
screamed in.a powerful outburst his hatred and contempt into his
father's face..."Get the brushwood for yourself!" he shouted foaming at
the mouth, "I'm.not your servant. I do know, that you won't hit me, you
don't dare; I.do know, that you constantly want to punish me and put me
down with.your religious devotion and your indulgence. You want me to
become like.you, just as devout, just as soft, just as wise! But I,
listen up, just.to make you suffer, I rather want to become a
highway-robber and.murderer, and go to hell, than to become like you! I
hate you, you're.not my father, and if you've ten times been my mother's
fornicator!"..Rage and grief boiled over in him, foamed at the father in
a hundred.savage and evil words. Then the boy ran away and only returned
late at.night...But the next morning, he had disappeared. What had also
disappeared was.a small basket, woven out of bast of two colours, in
which the ferrymen.kept those copper and silver coins which they
received as a fare..The boat had also disappeared, Siddhartha saw it
lying by the opposite.bank. The boy had ran away..."I must follow him,"
said Siddhartha, who had been shivering with grief.since those ranting
speeches, the boy had made yesterday. "A child.can't go through the
forest all alone. He'll perish. We must build a.raft, Vasudeva, to get
over the water.".."We will build a raft," said Vasudeva, "to get our
boat back, which the.boy has taken away. But him, you shall let run
along, my friend, he is.no child any more, he knows how to get around.
He's looking for the.path to the city, and he is right, don't forget
that. He's doing what.you've failed to do yourself. He's taking care of
himself, he's taking.his course. Alas, Siddhartha, I see you suffering,
but you're suffering.a pain at which one would like to laugh, at which
you'll soon laugh for.yourself."..Siddhartha did not answer. He already
held the axe in his hands and.began to make a raft of bamboo, and
Vasudeva helped him to tied the.canes together with ropes of grass. Then
they crossed over, drifted.far off their course, pulled the raft upriver
on the opposite bank..."Why did you take the axe along?" asked
Siddhartha...Vasudeva said: "It might have been possible that the oar of
our boat.got lost."..But Siddhartha knew what his friend was thinking.
He thought, the boy.would have thrown away or broken the oar in order to
get even and in.order to keep them from following him. And in fact,
there was no oar.left in the boat. Vasudeva pointed to the bottom of the
boat and looked.at his friend with a smile, as if he wanted to say:
"Don't you see what.your son is trying to tell you? Don't you see that
he doesn't want to.be followed?" But he did not say this in words. He
started making a.new oar. But Siddhartha bid his farewell, to look for
the run-away..Vasudeva did not stop him...When Siddhartha had already
been walking through the forest for a long.time, the thought occurred to
him that his search was useless. Either,.so he thought, the boy was far
ahead and had already reached the city,.or, if he should still be on his
way, he would conceal himself from him,.the pursuer. As he continued
thinking, he also found that he, on his.part, was not worried for his
son, that he knew deep inside that he had.neither perished nor was in
any danger in the forest. Nevertheless, he.ran without stopping, no
longer to save him, just to satisfy his desire,.just to perhaps see him
one more time. And he ran up to just outside of.the city...When, near
the city, he reached a wide road, he stopped, by the entrance.of the
beautiful pleasure-garden, which used to belong to Kamala, where.he had
seen her for the first time in her sedan-chair. The past rose.up in his
soul, again he saw himself standing there, young, a bearded,.naked
Samana, the hair full of dust. For a long time, Siddhartha stood.there
and looked through the open gate into the garden, seeing monks in.yellow
robes walking among the beautiful trees...For a long time, he stood
there, pondering, seeing images, listening to.the story of his life. For
a long time, he stood there, looked at the.monks, saw young Siddhartha
in their place, saw young Kamala walking.among the high trees. Clearly,
he saw himself being served food and.drink by Kamala, receiving his
first kiss from her, looking proudly and.disdainfully back on his
Brahmanism, beginning proudly and full of.desire his worldly life. He
saw Kamaswami, saw the servants, the.orgies, the gamblers with the dice,
the musicians, saw Kamala's.song-bird in the cage, lived through all
this once again, breathed.Sansara, was once again old and tired, felt
once again disgust, felt.once again the wish to annihilate himself, was
once again healed by the.holy Om...After having been standing by the
gate of the garden for a long time,.Siddhartha realised that his desire
was foolish, which had made him go.up to this place, that he could not
help his son, that he was not.allowed to cling him. Deeply, he felt the
love for the run-away in his.heart, like a wound, and he felt at the
same time that this wound had.not been given to him in order to turn the
knife in it, that it had to.become a blossom and had to shine...That
this wound did not blossom yet, did not shine yet, at this hour,.made
him sad. Instead of the desired goal, which had drawn him here.following
the runaway son, there was now emptiness. Sadly, he sat down,.felt
something dying in his heart, experienced emptiness, saw no joy
any.more, no goal. He sat lost in thought and waited. This he had
learned.by the river, this one thing: waiting, having patience,
listening.attentively. And he sat and listened, in the dust of the road,
listened.to his heart, beating tiredly and sadly, waited for a voice.
Many an.hour he crouched, listening, saw no images any more, fell
into.emptiness, let himself fall, without seeing a path. And when he
felt.the wound burning, he silently spoke the Om, filled himself with
Om..The monks in the garden saw him, and since he crouched for many
hours,.and dust was gathering on his gray hair, one of them came to him
and.placed two bananas in front of him. The old man did not see
him...From this petrified state, he was awoken by a hand touching
his.shoulder. Instantly, he recognised this touch, this tender,
bashful.touch, and regained his senses. He rose and greeted Vasudeva,
who had.followed him. And when he looked into Vasudeva's friendly face,
into.the small wrinkles, which were as if they were filled with nothing
but.his smile, into the happy eyes, then he smiled too. Now he saw
the.bananas lying in front of him, picked them up, gave one to the
ferryman,.ate the other one himself. After this, he silently went back
into the.forest with Vasudeva, returned home to the ferry. Neither one
talked.about what had happened today, neither one mentioned the boy's
name,.neither one spoke about him running away, neither one spoke about
the.wound. In the hut, Siddhartha lay down on his bed, and when after
a.while Vasudeva came to him, to offer him a bowl of coconut-milk,
he.already found him asleep.
Chapter 11
..For a long time, the wound
continued to burn. Many a traveller.Siddhartha had to ferry across the
river who was accompanied by a son or.a daughter, and he saw none of
them without envying him, without.thinking: "So many, so many thousands
possess this sweetest of good.fortunes--why don't I? Even bad people,
even thieves and robbers have.children and love them, and are being
loved by them, all except for me.".Thus simply, thus without reason he
now thought, thus similar to the.childlike people he had
become...Differently than before, he now looked upon people, less smart,
less.proud, but instead warmer, more curious, more involved. When he
ferried.travellers of the ordinary kind, childlike people,
businessmen,.warriors, women, these people did not seem alien to him as
they used to:.he understood them, he understood and shared their life,
which was not.guided by thoughts and insight, but solely by urges and
wishes, he felt.like them. Though he was near perfection and was bearing
his final.wound, it still seemed to him as if those childlike people
were his.brothers, their vanities, desires for possession, and
ridiculous aspects.were no longer ridiculous to him, became
understandable, became lovable,.even became worthy of veneration to him.
The blind love of a mother.for her child, the stupid, blind pride of a
conceited father for his.only son, the blind, wild desire of a young,
vain woman for jewelry and.admiring glances from men, all of these
urges, all of this childish.stuff, all of these simple, foolish, but
immensely strong, strongly.living, strongly prevailing urges and desires
were now no childish.notions for Siddhartha any more, he saw people
living for their sake,.saw them achieving infinitely much for their
sake, travelling,.conducting wars, suffering infinitely much, bearing
infinitely much, and.he could love them for it, he saw life, that what
is alive, the.indestructible, the Brahman in each of their passions,
each of their.acts. Worthy of love and admiration were these people in
their blind.loyalty, their blind strength and tenacity. They lacked
nothing, there.was nothing the knowledgeable one, the thinker, had to
put him above them.except for one little thing, a single, tiny, small
thing: the.consciousness, the conscious thought of the oneness of all
life. And.Siddhartha even doubted in many an hour, whether this
knowledge, this.thought was to be valued thus highly, whether it might
not also perhaps.be a childish idea of the thinking people, of the
thinking and childlike.people. In all other respects, the worldly people
were of equal rank.to the wise men, were often far superior to them,
just as animals too.can, after all, in some moments, seem to be superior
to humans in their.tough, unrelenting performance of what is
necessary...Slowly blossomed, slowly ripened in Siddhartha the
realisation, the.knowledge, what wisdom actually was, what the goal of
his long search.was. It was nothing but a readiness of the soul, an
ability, a secret.art, to think every moment, while living his life, the
thought of.oneness, to be able to feel and inhale the oneness. Slowly
this.blossomed in him, was shining back at him from Vasudeva's old,
childlike.face: harmony, knowledge of the eternal perfection of the
world,.smiling, oneness...But the wound still burned, longingly and
bitterly Siddhartha thought of.his son, nurtured his love and tenderness
in his heart, allowed the.pain to gnaw at him, committed all foolish
acts of love. Not by itself,.this flame would go out...And one day, when
the wound burned violently, Siddhartha ferried across.the river, driven
by a yearning, got off the boat and was willing to go.to the city and to
look for his son. The river flowed softly and.quietly, it was the dry
season, but its voice sounded strange: it.laughed! It laughed clearly.
The river laughed, it laughed brightly.and clearly at the old ferryman.
Siddhartha stopped, he bent over the.water, in order to hear even
better, and he saw his face reflected in.the quietly moving waters, and
in this reflected face there was.something, which reminded him,
something he had forgotten, and as he.thought about it, he found it:
this face resembled another face, which.he used to know and love and
also fear. It resembled his father's face,.the Brahman. And he
remembered how he, a long time ago, as a young man,.had forced his
father to let him go to the penitents, how he had bed his.farewell to
him, how he had gone and had never come back. Had his.father not also
suffered the same pain for him, which he now suffered.for his son? Had
his father not long since died, alone, without having.seen his son
again? Did he not have to expect the same fate for.himself? Was it not a
comedy, a strange and stupid matter, this.repetition, this running
around in a fateful circle?..The river laughed. Yes, so it was,
everything came back, which had not.been suffered and solved up to its
end, the same pain was suffered over.and over again. But Siddhartha want
back into the boat and ferried back.to the hut, thinking of his father,
thinking of his son, laughed at by.the river, at odds with himself,
tending towards despair, and not less.tending towards laughing along at
himself and the entire world...Alas, the wound was not blossoming yet,
his heart was still fighting his.fate, cheerfulness and victory were not
yet shining from his suffering..Nevertheless, he felt hope, and once he
had returned to the hut, he felt.an undefeatable desire to open up to
Vasudeva, to show him everything,.the master of listening, to say
everything...Vasudeva was sitting in the hut and weaving a basket. He no
longer used.the ferry-boat, his eyes were starting to get weak, and not
just his.eyes; his arms and hands as well. Unchanged and flourishing was
only.the joy and the cheerful benevolence of his face...Siddhartha sat
down next to the old man, slowly he started talking..What they had never
talked about, he now told him of, of his walk to.the city, at that time,
of the burning wound, of his envy at the sight.of happy fathers, of his
knowledge of the foolishness of such wishes, of.his futile fight against
them. He reported everything, he was able to.say everything, even the
most embarrassing parts, everything could be.said, everything shown,
everything he could tell. He presented his.wound, also told how he fled
today, how he ferried across the water,.a childish run-away, willing to
walk to the city, how the river had.laughed...While he spoke, spoke for
a long time, while Vasudeva was listening.with a quiet face, Vasudeva's
listening gave Siddhartha a stronger.sensation than ever before, he
sensed how his pain, his fears flowed.over to him, how his secret hope
flowed over, came back at him from.his counterpart. To show his wound to
this listener was the same as.bathing it in the river, until it had
cooled and become one with the.river. While he was still speaking, still
admitting and confessing,.Siddhartha felt more and more that this was no
longer Vasudeva, no.longer a human being, who was listening to him, that
this motionless.listener was absorbing his confession into himself like
a tree the rain,.that this motionless man was the river itself, that he
was God himself,.that he was the eternal itself. And while Siddhartha
stopped thinking.of himself and his wound, this realisation of
Vasudeva's changed.character took possession of him, and the more he
felt it and entered.into it, the less wondrous it became, the more he
realised that.everything was in order and natural, that Vasudeva had
already been like.this for a long time, almost forever, that only he had
not quite.recognised it, yes, that he himself had almost reached the
same state..He felt, that he was now seeing old Vasudeva as the people
see the.gods, and that this could not last; in his heart, he started
bidding his.farewell to Vasudeva. Thorough all this, he talked
incessantly...When he had finished talking, Vasudeva turned his friendly
eyes, which.had grown slightly weak, at him, said nothing, let his
silent love and.cheerfulness, understanding and knowledge, shine at him.
He took.Siddhartha's hand, led him to the seat by the bank, sat down
with him,.smiled at the river..."You've heard it laugh," he said. "But
you haven't heard everything..Let's listen, you'll hear more."..They
listened. Softly sounded the river, singing in many voices..Siddhartha
looked into the water, and images appeared to him in the.moving water:
his father appeared, lonely, mourning for his son; he.himself appeared,
lonely, he also being tied with the bondage of.yearning to his distant
son; his son appeared, lonely as well, the boy,.greedily rushing along
the burning course of his young wishes, each.one heading for his goal,
each one obsessed by the goal, each one.suffering. The river sang with a
voice of suffering, longingly it sang,.longingly, it flowed towards its
goal, lamentingly its voice sang..."Do you hear?" Vasudeva's mute gaze
asked. Siddhartha nodded..."Listen better!" Vasudeva
whispered...Siddhartha made an effort to listen better. The image of his
father,.his own image, the image of his son merged, Kamala's image also
appeared.and was dispersed, and the image of Govinda, and other images,
and they.merged with each other, turned all into the river, headed all,
being the.river, for the goal, longing, desiring, suffering, and the
river's voice.sounded full of yearning, full of burning woe, full of
unsatisfiable.desire. For the goal, the river was heading, Siddhartha
saw it.hurrying, the river, which consisted of him and his loved ones
and of.all people, he had ever seen, all of these waves and waters
were.hurrying, suffering, towards goals, many goals, the waterfall, the
lake,.the rapids, the sea, and all goals were reached, and every goal
was.followed by a new one, and the water turned into vapour and rose to
the.sky, turned into rain and poured down from the sky, turned into
a.source, a stream, a river, headed forward once again, flowed on
once.again. But the longing voice had changed. It still resounded, full
of.suffering, searching, but other voices joined it, voices of joy and
of.suffering, good and bad voices, laughing and sad ones, a hundred
voices,.a thousand voices...Siddhartha listened. He was now nothing but
a listener, completely.concentrated on listening, completely empty, he
felt, that he had now.finished learning to listen. Often before, he had
heard all this, these.many voices in the river, today it sounded new.
Already, he could no.longer tell the many voices apart, not the happy
ones from the weeping.ones, not the ones of children from those of men,
they all belonged.together, the lamentation of yearning and the laughter
of the.knowledgeable one, the scream of rage and the moaning of the
dying ones,.everything was one, everything was intertwined and
connected, entangled.a thousand times. And everything together, all
voices, all goals, all.yearning, all suffering, all pleasure, all that
was good and evil, all.of this together was the world. All of it
together was the flow of.events, was the music of life. And when
Siddhartha was listening.attentively to this river, this song of a
thousand voices, when he.neither listened to the suffering nor the
laughter, when he did not tie.his soul to any particular voice and
submerged his self into it, but.when he heard them all, perceived the
whole, the oneness, then the great.song of the thousand voices consisted
of a single word, which was Om:.the perfection..."Do you hear,"
Vasudeva's gaze asked again...Brightly, Vasudeva's smile was shining,
floating radiantly over all the.wrinkles of his old face, as the Om was
floating in the air over all the.voices of the river. Brightly his smile
was shining, when he looked at.his friend, and brightly the same smile
was now starting to shine on.Siddhartha's face as well. His wound
blossomed, his suffering was.shining, his self had flown into the
oneness...In this hour, Siddhartha stopped fighting his fate, stopped
suffering..On his face flourished the cheerfulness of a knowledge, which
is no.longer opposed by any will, which knows perfection, which is
in.agreement with the flow of events, with the current of life, full
of.sympathy for the pain of others, full of sympathy for the pleasure
of.others, devoted to the flow, belonging to the oneness...When Vasudeva
rose from the seat by the bank, when he looked into.Siddhartha's eyes
and saw the cheerfulness of the knowledge shining.in them, he softly
touched his shoulder with his hand, in this careful.and tender manner,
and said: "I've been waiting for this hour, my dear..Now that it has
come, let me leave. For a long time, I've been waiting.for this hour;
for a long time, I've been Vasudeva the ferryman. Now.it's enough.
Farewell, hut, farewell, river, farewell, Siddhartha!"..Siddhartha made
a deep bow before him who bid his farewell..."I've known it," he said
quietly. "You'll go into the forests?".."I'm going into the forests, I'm
going into the oneness," spoke Vasudeva.with a bright smile...With a
bright smile, he left; Siddhartha watched him leaving. With deep.joy,
with deep solemnity he watched him leave, saw his steps full of.peace,
saw his head full of lustre, saw his body full of light.
Chapter 12
..Together with other monks,
Govinda used to spend the time of rest.between pilgrimages in the
pleasure-grove, which the courtesan Kamala.had given to the followers of
Gotama for a gift. He heard talk of an.old ferryman, who lived one day's
journey away by the river, and.who was regarded as a wise man by many.
When Govinda went back on his.way, he chose the path to the ferry, eager
to see the ferryman..Because, though he had lived his entire life by the
rules, though he was.also looked upon with veneration by the younger
monks on account of his.age and his modesty, the restlessness and the
searching still had not.perished from his heart...He came to the river
and asked the old man to ferry him over, and when.they got off the boat
on the other side, he said to the old man:."You're very good to us monks
and pilgrims, you have already ferried.many of us across the river.
Aren't you too, ferryman, a searcher for.the right path?"..Quoth
Siddhartha, smiling from his old eyes: "Do you call yourself a.searcher,
oh venerable one, though you are already of an old in years.and are
wearing the robe of Gotama's monks?".."It's true, I'm old," spoke
Govinda, "but I haven't stopped searching..Never I'll stop searching,
this seems to be my destiny. You too, so it.seems to me, have been
searching. Would you like to tell me something,.oh honourable
one?"..Quoth Siddhartha: "What should I possibly have to tell you,
oh.venerable one? Perhaps that you're searching far too much? That in
all.that searching, you don't find the time for finding?".."How come?"
asked Govinda..."When someone is searching," said Siddhartha, "then it
might easily.happen that the only thing his eyes still see is that what
he searches.for, that he is unable to find anything, to let anything
enter his mind,.because he always thinks of nothing but the object of
his search,.because he has a goal, because he is obsessed by the goal.
Searching.means: having a goal. But finding means: being free, being
open, having.no goal. You, oh venerable one, are perhaps indeed a
searcher, because,.striving for your goal, there are many things you
don't see, which are.directly in front of your eyes.".."I don't quite
understand yet," asked Govinda, "what do you mean by.this?"..Quoth
Siddhartha: "A long time ago, oh venerable one, many years ago,.you've
once before been at this river and have found a sleeping man by.the
river, and have sat down with him to guard his sleep. But, oh.Govinda,
you did not recognise the sleeping man."..Astonished, as if he had been
the object of a magic spell, the monk.looked into the ferryman's
eyes..."Are you Siddhartha?" he asked with a timid voice. "I wouldn't
have.recognised you this time as well! From my heart, I'm greeting
you,.Siddhartha; from my heart, I'm happy to see you once again!
You've.changed a lot, my friend.--And so you've now become a
ferryman?"..In a friendly manner, Siddhartha laughed. "A ferryman, yes.
Many.people, Govinda, have to change a lot, have to wear many a robe, I
am.one of those, my dear. Be welcome, Govinda, and spend the night in
my.hut."..Govinda stayed the night in the hut and slept on the bed which
used to.be Vasudeva's bed. Many questions he posed to the friend of his
youth,.many things Siddhartha had to tell him from his life...When in
the next morning the time had come to start the day's journey,.Govinda
said, not without hesitation, these words: "Before I'll.continue on my
path, Siddhartha, permit me to ask one more question..Do you have a
teaching? Do you have a faith, or a knowledge, you.follow, which helps
you to live and to do right?"..Quoth Siddhartha: "You know, my dear,
that I already as a young man, in.those days when we lived with the
penitents in the forest, started to.distrust teachers and teachings and
to turn my back to them. I have.stuck with this. Nevertheless, I have
had many teachers since then. A.beautiful courtesan has been my teacher
for a long time, and a rich.merchant was my teacher, and some gamblers
with dice. Once, even a.follower of Buddha, travelling on foot, has been
my teacher; he sat with.me when I hat fallen asleep in the forest, on
the pilgrimage. I've also.learned from him, I'm also grateful to him,
very grateful. But most of.all, I have learned here from this river and
from my predecessor, the.ferryman Vasudeva. He was a very simple person,
Vasudeva, he was no.thinker, but he knew what is necessary just as well
as Gotama, he was a.perfect man, a saint."..Govinda said: "Still, oh
Siddhartha, you love a bit to mock people, as.it seems to me. I believe
in you and know that you haven't followed a.teacher. But haven't you
found something by yourself, though you've.found no teachings, you still
found certain thoughts, certain insights,.which are your own and which
help you to live? If you would like to.tell me some of these, you would
delight my heart."..Quoth Siddhartha: "I've had thoughts, yes, and
insight, again and.again. Sometimes, for an hour or for an entire day, I
have felt.knowledge in me, as one would feel life in one's heart. There
have.been many thoughts, but it would be hard for me to convey them to
you..Look, my dear Govinda, this is one of my thoughts, which I have
found:.wisdom cannot be passed on. Wisdom which a wise man tries to pass
on.to someone always sounds like foolishness.".."Are you kidding?" asked
Govinda..."I'm not kidding. I'm telling you what I've found. Knowledge
can be.conveyed, but not wisdom. It can be found, it can be lived, it
is.possible to be carried by it, miracles can be performed with it, but
it.cannot be expressed in words and taught. This was what I, even as
a.young man, sometimes suspected, what has driven me away from
the.teachers. I have found a thought, Govinda, which you'll again regard
as.a joke or foolishness, but which is my best thought. It says:
The.opposite of every truth is just as true! That's like this: any
truth.can only be expressed and put into words when it is
one-sided..Everything is one-sided which can be thought with thoughts
and said with.words, it's all one-sided, all just one half, all lacks
completeness,.roundness, oneness. When the exalted Gotama spoke in his
teachings of.the world, he had to divide it into Sansara and Nirvana,
into deception.and truth, into suffering and salvation. It cannot be
done differently,.there is no other way for him who wants to teach. But
the world itself,.what exists around us and inside of us, is never
one-sided. A person or.an act is never entirely Sansara or entirely
Nirvana, a person is never.entirely holy or entirely sinful. It does
really seem like this,.because we are subject to deception, as if time
was something real..Time is not real, Govinda, I have experienced this
often and often.again. And if time is not real, then the gap which seems
to be between.the world and the eternity, between suffering and
blissfulness, between.evil and good, is also a deception.".."How come?"
asked Govinda timidly..."Listen well, my dear, listen well! The sinner,
which I am and which.you are, is a sinner, but in times to come he will
be Brahma again, he.will reach the Nirvana, will be Buddha--and now see:
these "times to.come" are a deception, are only a parable! The sinner is
not on his.way to become a Buddha, he is not in the process of
developing, though.our capacity for thinking does not know how else to
picture these.things. No, within the sinner is now and today already the
future.Buddha, his future is already all there, you have to worship in
him, in.you, in everyone the Buddha which is coming into being, the
possible,.the hidden Buddha. The world, my friend Govinda, is not
imperfect, or.on a slow path towards perfection: no, it is perfect in
every moment,.all sin already carries the divine forgiveness in itself,
all small.children already have the old person in themselves, all
infants already.have death, all dying people the eternal life. It is nor
possible for.any person to see how far another one has already
progressed on his.path; in the robber and dice-gambler, the Buddha is
waiting; in the.Brahman, the robber is waiting. In deep meditation,
there is the.possibility to put time out of existence, to see all life
which was,.is, and will be as if it was simultaneous, and there
everything is.good, everything is perfect, everything is Brahman.
Therefore, I see.whatever exists as good, death is to me like life, sin
like holiness,.wisdom like foolishness, everything has to be as it is,
everything only.requires my consent, only my willingness, my loving
agreement, to be.good for me, to do nothing but work for my benefit, to
be unable to ever.harm me. I have experienced on my body and on my soul
that I needed sin.very much, I needed lust, the desire for possessions,
vanity, and needed.the most shameful despair, in order to learn how to
give up all.resistance, in order to learn how to love the world, in
order to stop.comparing it to some world I wished, I imagined, some kind
of perfection.I had made up, but to leave it as it is and to love it and
to enjoy.being a part of it.--These, oh Govinda, are some of the
thoughts which.have come into my mind."..Siddhartha bent down, picked up
a stone from the ground, and weighed it.in his hand..."This," he said
playing with it, "is a stone, and will, after a.certain time, perhaps
turn into soil, and will turn from soil into a.plant or animal or human
being. In the past, I would have said: This.stone is just a stone, it is
worthless, it belongs to the world of the.Maja; but because it might be
able to become also a human being and a.spirit in the cycle of
transformations, therefore I also grant it.importance. Thus, I would
perhaps have thought in the past. But today.I think: this stone is a
stone, it is also animal, it is also god, it is.also Buddha, I do not
venerate and love it because it could turn into.this or that, but rather
because it is already and always everything--.and it is this very fact,
that it is a stone, that it appears to me now.and today as a stone, this
is why I love it and see worth and purpose in.each of its veins and
cavities, in the yellow, in the gray, in the.hardness, in the sound it
makes when I knock at it, in the dryness or.wetness of its surface.
There are stones which feel like oil or soap,.and others like leaves,
others like sand, and every one is special and.prays the Om in its own
way, each one is Brahman, but simultaneously and.just as much it is a
stone, is oily or juicy, and this is this very fact.which I like and
regard as wonderful and worthy of worship.--But let me.speak no more of
this. The words are not good for the secret meaning,.everything always
becomes a bit different, as soon as it is put into.words, gets distorted
a bit, a bit silly--yes, and this is also very.good, and I like it a
lot, I also very much agree with this, that this.what is one man's
treasure and wisdom always sounds like foolishness to.another
person."..Govinda listened silently..."Why have you told me this about
the stone?" he asked hesitantly after.a pause..."I did it without any
specific intention. Or perhaps what I meant was,.that love this very
stone, and the river, and all these things we are.looking at and from
which we can learn. I can love a stone, Govinda,.and also a tree or a
piece of bark. This are things, and things can be.loved. But I cannot
love words. Therefore, teachings are no good for.me, they have no
hardness, no softness, no colours, no edges, no smell,.no taste, they
have nothing but words. Perhaps it are these which keep.you from finding
peace, perhaps it are the many words. Because.salvation and virtue as
well, Sansara and Nirvana as well, are mere.words, Govinda. There is no
thing which would be Nirvana; there is just.the word Nirvana."..Quoth
Govinda: "Not just a word, my friend, is Nirvana. It is
a.thought."..Siddhartha continued: "A thought, it might be so. I must
confess to.you, my dear: I don't differentiate much between thoughts and
words..To be honest, I also have no high opinion of thoughts. I have a
better.opinion of things. Here on this ferry-boat, for instance, a man
has.been my predecessor and teacher, a holy man, who has for many
years.simply believed in the river, nothing else. He had noticed that
the.river's spoke to him, he learned from it, it educated and taught
him,.the river seemed to be a god to him, for many years he did not know
that.every wind, every cloud, every bird, every beetle was just as
divine and.knows just as much and can teach just as much as the
worshipped river..But when this holy man went into the forests, he knew
everything, knew.more than you and me, without teachers, without books,
only because he.had believed in the river."..Govinda said: "But is that
what you call `things', actually something.real, something which has
existence? Isn't it just a deception of the.Maja, just an image and
illusion? Your stone, your tree, your river--.are they actually a
reality?".."This too," spoke Siddhartha, "I do not care very much about.
Let the.things be illusions or not, after all I would then also be an
illusion,.and thus they are always like me. This is what makes them so
dear and.worthy of veneration for me: they are like me. Therefore, I can
love.them. And this is now a teaching you will laugh about: love,
oh.Govinda, seems to me to be the most important thing of all.
To.thoroughly understand the world, to explain it, to despise it, may
be.the thing great thinkers do. But I'm only interested in being able
to.love the world, not to despise it, not to hate it and me, to be able
to.look upon it and me and all beings with love and admiration and
great.respect.".."This I understand," spoke Govinda. "But this very
thing was discovered.by the exalted one to be a deception. He commands
benevolence,.clemency, sympathy, tolerance, but not love; he forbade us
to tie our.heart in love to earthly things.".."I know it," said
Siddhartha; his smile shone golden. "I know it,.Govinda. And behold,
with this we are right in the middle of the.thicket of opinions, in the
dispute about words. For I cannot deny, my.words of love are in a
contradiction, a seeming contradiction with.Gotama's words. For this
very reason, I distrust in words so much, for.I know, this contradiction
is a deception. I know that I am in.agreement with Gotama. How should he
not know love, he, who has.discovered all elements of human existence in
their transitoriness, in.their meaninglessness, and yet loved people
thus much, to use a long,.laborious life only to help them, to teach
them! Even with him, even.with your great teacher, I prefer the thing
over the words, place more.importance on his acts and life than on his
speeches, more on the.gestures of his hand than his opinions. Not in his
speech, not in his.thoughts, I see his greatness, only in his actions,
in his life."..For a long time, the two old men said nothing. Then spoke
Govinda,.while bowing for a farewell: "I thank you, Siddhartha, for
telling me.some of your thoughts. They are partially strange thoughts,
not all.have been instantly understandable to me. This being as it may,
I thank.you, and I wish you to have calm days."..(But secretly he
thought to himself: This Siddhartha is a bizarre.person, he expresses
bizarre thoughts, his teachings sound foolish..So differently sound the
exalted one's pure teachings, clearer, purer,.more comprehensible,
nothing strange, foolish, or silly is contained in.them. But different
from his thoughts seemed to me Siddhartha's hands.and feet, his eyes,
his forehead, his breath, his smile, his greeting,.his walk. Never
again, after our exalted Gotama has become one with the.Nirvana, never
since then have I met a person of whom I felt: this is a.holy man! Only
him, this Siddhartha, I have found to be like this. May.his teachings be
strange, may his words sound foolish; out of his gaze.and his hand, his
skin and his hair, out of every part of him shines a.purity, shines a
calmness, shines a cheerfulness and mildness and.holiness, which I have
seen in no other person since the final death of.our exalted
teacher.)..As Govinda thought like this, and there was a conflict in his
heart, he.once again bowed to Siddhartha, drawn by love. Deeply he bowed
to him.who was calmly sitting..."Siddhartha," he spoke, "we have become
old men. It is unlikely for.one of us to see the other again in this
incarnation. I see, beloved,.that you have found peace. I confess that I
haven't found it. Tell me,.oh honourable one, one more word, give my
something on my way which I.can grasp, which I can understand! Give me
something to be with me on.my path. It it often hard, my path, often
dark, Siddhartha."..Siddhartha said nothing and looked at him with the
ever unchanged,.quiet smile. Govinda stared at his face, with fear, with
yearning,.suffering, and the eternal search was visible in his look,
eternal.not-finding...Siddhartha saw it and smiled..."Bent down to me!"
he whispered quietly in Govinda's ear. "Bend down to.me! Like this, even
closer! Very close! Kiss my forehead, Govinda!"..But while Govinda with
astonishment, and yet drawn by great love and.expectation, obeyed his
words, bent down closely to him and touched his.forehead with his lips,
something miraculous happened to him. While his.thoughts were still
dwelling on Siddhartha's wondrous words, while he.was still struggling
in vain and with reluctance to think away time, to.imagine Nirvana and
Sansara as one, while even a certain contempt for.the words of his
friend was fighting in him against an immense love and.veneration, this
happened to him:..He no longer saw the face of his friend Siddhartha,
instead he saw.other faces, many, a long sequence, a flowing river of
faces, of.hundreds, of thousands, which all came and disappeared, and
yet all.seemed to be there simultaneously, which all constantly changed
and.renewed themselves, and which were still all Siddhartha. He saw
the.face of a fish, a carp, with an infinitely painfully opened mouth,
the.face of a dying fish, with fading eyes--he saw the face of a
new-born.child, red and full of wrinkles, distorted from crying--he saw
the face.of a murderer, he saw him plunging a knife into the body of
another.person--he saw, in the same second, this criminal in bondage,
kneeling.and his head being chopped off by the executioner with one blow
of his.sword--he saw the bodies of men and women, naked in positions and
cramps.of frenzied love--he saw corpses stretched out, motionless, cold,
void--.he saw the heads of animals, of boars, of crocodiles, of
elephants, of.bulls, of birds--he saw gods, saw Krishna, saw Agni--he
saw all of these.figures and faces in a thousand relationships with one
another, each one.helping the other, loving it, hating it, destroying
it, giving re-birth.to it, each one was a will to die, a passionately
painful confession of.transitoriness, and yet none of then died, each
one only transformed,.was always re-born, received evermore a new face,
without any time.having passed between the one and the other face--and
all of these.figures and faces rested, flowed, generated themselves,
floated along.and merged with each other, and they were all constantly
covered by.something thin, without individuality of its own, but yet
existing, like.a thin glass or ice, like a transparent skin, a shell or
mold or mask of.water, and this mask was smiling, and this mask was
Siddhartha's smiling.face, which he, Govinda, in this very same moment
touched with his lips..And, Govinda saw it like this, this smile of the
mask, this smile of.oneness above the flowing forms, this smile of
simultaneousness above.the thousand births and deaths, this smile of
Siddhartha was precisely.the same, was precisely of the same kind as the
quiet, delicate,.impenetrable, perhaps benevolent, perhaps mocking,
wise, thousand-fold.smile of Gotama, the Buddha, as he had seen it
himself with great.respect a hundred times. Like this, Govinda knew, the
perfected ones.are smiling...Not knowing any more whether time existed,
whether the vision had lasted.a second or a hundred years, not knowing
any more whether there existed.a Siddhartha, a Gotama, a me and a you,
feeling in his innermost self.as if he had been wounded by a divine
arrow, the injury of which tasted.sweet, being enchanted and dissolved
in his innermost self, Govinda.still stood for a little while bent over
Siddhartha's quiet face, which.he had just kissed, which had just been
the scene of all manifestations,.all transformations, all existence. The
face was unchanged, after under.its surface the depth of the
thousandfoldness had closed up again, he.smiled silently, smiled quietly
and softly, perhaps very benevolently,.perhaps very mockingly, precisely
as he used to smile, the exalted one...Deeply, Govinda bowed; tears, he
knew nothing of, ran down his old face;.like a fire burnt the feeling of
the most intimate love, the humblest.veneration in his heart. Deeply, he
bowed, touching the ground, before.him who was sitting motionlessly,
whose smile reminded him of everything.he had ever loved in his life,
what had ever been valuable and holy to.him in his life.
---o0o---
[Contents] [Chapter
1- 6] [Chapter
7-12]
---o0o---
Source:
http://www.online-literature.com
