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
though
