Siddhartha
In the shade of the house, in the sunlight on the riverbank near the boats, in the shade of the sal tree forest, in the shade of the banyan fig Siddhartha grew up, the handsome son of the Brahmin, the young falcon, together with Govinda, his friend, the son of a Brahmin. His father’s heart skipped joyously for this son who was quick to learn, who was thirsty for knowledge; in him he saw growing a great sage and priest, a prince among the Brahmins (5). But he, Siddhartha, did not delight himself, he was no pleasure to himself (6). At one time samanas had passed through Siddhartha’s city, as cetics on a pilgrimage, three scrawny, faded men, neither old nor young, dust and blood on their shoulders, nearly naked, scorched by the sun, ringed by solitude, alien and hostile to the world, foreigners and haggard jackals in the realm of human beings. Siddhartha spoke to Govinda, saying: “Tomorrow morning, my friend, Siddhartha will go to the samanas. He will become a samana,”(9). Siddhartha spoke: “With your permission, Father. I have come to tell you that I wish tomorrow to depart your house and go to the ascetics. It is my wish to become a samana. May it please my father not to oppose this.” Then the father spoke: “It is unbecoming for Brahmin to speak vehement or angry words. But my heart is vexed. I would not like to hear this request from your lips a second time,” (10). He spoke, “Go into the forest and be a samanas. Having found bliss in the forest, come and teach me bliss. If you find disappointment, then come back and together again let us sacrifice to the gods. Go now and kiss your mother, tell her where you are going (12).
Siddhartha had a single goal before him, one and one only: to become empty, empty of thirst, empty of desire, empty of dreams, empty of joy and pain (13). Instructed by the eldest of the Samanas, Siddhartha practiced moving away from the self, practiced meditation, following new rules, the Samanas’ rules (14). Siddhartha spoke: “It does not seem that way to me, my friend. What I have learned up to this day with the Samanas, this, o Govinda, I could have learned more quickly and more simply: In any tavern in a brothel district, my friend, among men who haul freight and play at dice I could have learned it,” (15). Someone had appeared, someone named Gautama, the Exalted One, the Buddha, who within himself had overcome the suffering of the world and brought the wheel of rebirth to a standstill (18). On this same day Siddhartha let the eldest of the Samanas know of his decision, that he wanted to leave. He caught gaze of the old man with his own, captivated him, made him mute, made him lose his will, subjected him to his own commanding him to do, without a sound, whatever was demanded of him. And so the old man bowed down several times, performed consecrating gestures, stammered out a pious farewell wish. On the road Govinda said: “O Siddhartha, you learned more from the Samanas than I knew. It is difficult, it is very difficult, to bewitch an old Samana. Truly, if you had remained there, you would soon have learned how to walk on water,” (21).
Govinda was delighted, and filled with joy he cried out: “Well then, we have reached our goal and our road is at an end! But tell us, mother of all pilgrims, do you know him, the Buddha, have you seen him with your own eyes?” The woman spoke: “Many times have I seen him, the Exalted One. On many days I have seen him walk through the alleyways, keeping silence, in his yellow cloak, how in silence he extends his beggar’s bowl at the doors of the houses, how he walks away carrying full bowl,”(24). [Siddhartha says,] “Look!” he said softly to Govinda. “That man is the buddha.” Attentively Govinda turned his gaze toward the monk in the yellow cowl, who in no way appeared any different from the hundreds of other monks. And soon Govinda also recognized it: This is the man. And they followed after him and carefully observed him (24). [Siddhartha] gazed attentively at Gautama’s head, at his shoulders, at his feet, at his hand that hung calmly, and it seemed to him that every joint of every finger of this hand was teaching that spoke, breathed, smelled of, glistened with truth (25). When the Buddha—night had already come—finished his speech, many a pilgrim came forward and asked to received into the community, taking refuge in the teachings. And Gautama accepted them, by saying: “You have heard the teachings well, they have been preached well. Come to us and walk in blessedness, prepare an end to all suffering,” (26). Siddhartha spoke to him amiably: “Do not forget, Govinda, that now you belong to the Samanas of the Buddha! You have renounced your home and your parents, you have renounced your origin and your property, renounced your own will, renounced friendship. This is the will of the teachings. This is the will of the Exalted One. This is your own will. Tomorrow, o Govinda, I shall leave you,” (27) He has robbed me, the Buddha, Siddhartha thought, he has robbed me, and yet he has given me a greater gift. He has robbed me of my friend, who believed in me and who now believes in him, who was my shadow and now is Gautama’s shadow. But he has given me the gift of Siddhartha, my self (31).
When Siddhartha left the grove, in which the Buddha, the Perfect One, remained, in which Govinda remained, then he felt that the life he had lived until that time also remained behind him in the grove, separate from him. Walking along slowly Siddhartha turned and brooded. He recognized that he was no longer a youth but had become a man. He had relinquished the last teacher who had appeared to him on his path, even him, the highest and wiser teacher, the most Holy One, Buddha, he had to part from him, he had not been able to accept his teachings (33). [Siddhartha says,] “I am no longer who I was, I am no longer an ascetic, I am no longer a priest, I am no longer a Brahmin. What then should I do back home in my father’s house? Study? Perform sacrifices? Practice meditation? All this is past, none of this is on my path any longer,” (35). Govinda had become a monk, and thousands of monks were his brothers, wore is garment, believed his beliefs, spoke his language. But he, Siddhartha, where did he fit in? Whose life would he share? Whose language would he speak? [Siddhartha] He felt: This had been the last shudder of awakening, the final convulsion of birth. And instantly he set out again, starting to walk quickly and impatiently, no longer toward home, no longer to his father, no longer back (36).
Siddhartha learned something new on every step of his path, for the world was transformed, and his heart was spellbound (39). What he said to Gautama: That the Buddha’s secret treasure was not his teachings, but rather the inexpressible, what could not be taught, what he had once learned in the hour of his enlightenment—this is what it was, what he was now distilling from experience, what he was now beginning to experience (40). As the day began, Siddhartha asked his host the ferryman to take him across the river. The ferryman took him across the river on his bamboo raft (41). “Certainly. This too I have learned from the river: Everything returns! You, too, Samana, will come back. Now, farewell! May your friendship be my reward. Think of me when you sacrifice to the gods!” Where the village ended the path crossed a brook, and at the edge of the brook a young woman kneeled, washing clothing. When Siddhartha greeted her, she raised her head and looked up at him with a smile; he could see the dazzling whites of her eyes. He called out a blessing, as is the custom among travelers, and asked how far it was to the next city (42). “To tell you this, and to thank you for being so beautiful. And if it does not offend you, Kamala, I would like to ask you to be my friend and teacher, for as yet I know nothing of the art of which you are the mistress,” (45). [Kamala says,] “You are expected at Kamswami’s, he is the wealthiest merchant in the city. I do not want you to become his servant, you should become his equal, otherwise I will not be happy with you. If he likes you, he will entrust a great deal to you,” (49).
Siddhartha went to see the merchant Kamaswami, he was shown into a prosperous residence; servants conducted him between valuable tapestries into a chamber, where he awaited the master of the house, (53). [Kamaswami says,] “We still have many things to discuss together. For today, I invite you to be my guest and take up residence in this house.” Siddartha learned a great deal that was new, but Siddhartha regarded it all as a game whose rules he took pains to learn precisely , but whose substance did not touch his heart. But daily at the hour when she called him, he visited the lovely Kamala, in the handsome clothing, in fine shoes, and soon he also brought presents along with him. The value and meaning of his present life lay here with Kamala, not in Kamaswami’s trade, (55). [The merchant says,] “This Brahmin,” he remarked to a friend, “is not real salesman and will never be one; his soul is never passionately involved in trade. But he as the secret of those to whom success comes of his own accord,” (56). [Siddhartha] gave advice, he was compassionate, he gave gifts, he allowed himself to be cheated a little, and this entire game and the passion with which people played it occupied his thoughts just as much as the gods and Brahman had once occupied them, (58). [Kamala says,] “You have learned my art well, Siddhartha. Someday, when I am older, I want to have your child. And nonetheless, my love, you have remained a samana, nonetheless you do not love me, you love no human being. Is this not so?” “It may well be so,” Siddhartha said wearily. “I am like you. You do not love either—how could you practice love as an art otherwise? People of our kind may not be able to love. Child people can love; that is their secret,” (60).
[Siddhartha’s] senses, which he had mortified during his fervent samana years, were awake again, he had tasted wealth, tasted lust, tasted power; nonetheless, for a long time in his heart he had remained a samana, the wise Kamala correctly recognized this. His life still was guided by the art of thinking, of waiting, of fasting (61). Since the time Siddhartha had ceased to be a samana in his heart , he had begun to play the game for money and valuables—before then he had taken part casually and with a smile, as a custom of the child people. He played out of his heart’s affliction , gambling away with wretched money an squandering it created a wrathful joy within him (63-64). Then one day a warning dream came to him. Never had it been so peculiarly clear to Siddhartha how closely lust is related to death. His heart filled with misery he thought he could no longer bear, filled with revulsion, by which he felt entirely permeated, as if by the tepid, loathsome taste of the wine, by the overly sweet, desolate music, by the exceedingly soft smiles of dancing girls, by the far too-sweet smell of their hair and breasts (65-66). He was terribly frightened, and his heart so pained him, it was as if he had cast away from himself everything of value and all things good along with the dead bird. Worthless, so it seemed to him, the conduct of his life had been worthless and senseless up to that point; nothing living, nothing in anyway valuable or worth keeping had remained in his hands. Alone he stood and empty, like a shipwreck on the shore (66). [When Kamala] was first informed of Siddhartha’s disappearance, she opened the door of the cage, took the bird out and let it fly away. From this rayon she received no more visitors, and she kept her house locked. After some time had passed though, she was aware she was pregnant from the last time she and Siddhartha had been together (68).
Siddhartha roamed the forest, already far away from the city, with but one thought in mind, that he could no longer return, that the life he had been leading for many years was over and done, savored and sucked dry even to revulsion (69). He released his arm from the tree trunk and turned a little, so as to plummet down vertically, finally to go under. He sank, with closed eyes, down toward death. The holy “OM,” which signifies something like “the perfect” or “perfect completion.” And the moment the sound “OM” touched Siddhartha’s ear, his slumbering mind awakened and recognized the folly of his action (70). Govinda, the friend of his youth, who had taken refuge in the excited Buddha. Govinda had grown old, he as well, but his face still bore its old features, and it spoke of diligence, of faithfulness, of seeking, of timidity. But now as Govinda felt his gaze, opened his eyes and looked at him, Siddhartha saw that Govinda did not recognize him (72). Govinda spoke: “You say you are on a pilgrimage, and I believe you. But pardon, o Siddhartha, you do not resemble a pilgrim. You wear the garb of a rich man, you wear the shoes of a nobleman, and your hair, scented with perfumed water, is not the hair of a pilgrim, not the hair of a samana. And now, Siddhartha, what are you now?” [Siddhartha says,] The wheel of forms turns quickly, Govinda. Where is Siddhartha the Brahmin? Where is Siddhartha the samana? Where is Siddhartha the rich man? Quickly the mutable changes, Govinda, you know that,” (73-74). That is why he had to endure those hideous years, bear the disgust, the instruction, the senselessness of a barren and irrecoverable life, even to the end, even to bitter despair, even until the voluptuary Siddhartha, the avaricious Siddhartha could die. He was dead, a new Siddhartha had awakened from sleep. The new Siddhartha, however, felt a deep love for this flowing water, and himself resolved not to leave it again so soon (78-79).
By this river I want to remain, Siddhartha thought, the same one I came to when I was on my way to the child people, back then a friendly ferryman took me across, to him I want to go , from outside his hut my path once led to a new life, which has now grown old and died—may my current path, my current new life issue from there also! (81). [The Ferryman said,] “Once you slept in my hut, it was long ago, maybe more than twenty years, and you were brought across the river by me, and we parted as good friends. Were you not a Samana?” (82). And over time his smile became more and more like that of the ferryman, it grew almost as radiant, it glowed nearly as blissfully, equally luminous out of the thousand little folds, equally childlike, equally senile (86). On one of these days, when so many were making pilgrimage to the dying Buddha, Kamala, once the most beautiful of all the courtesans, was also on a pilgrimage to him (88). Siddhartha smiled: “I knew you at once, Kamala, my love.” Kamala pointed to her boy and said: “Did you recognize him too? He is your son.” Her eyes strayed wildly and fell closed. The boy cried; Siddhartha took him onto his lap, let him cry, [and] stroked his hair (89). Once again Kamala regained consciousness. She remembered wanting to make a pilgrimage to Gautama in order to see the face of the one perfect man to inhale his peace, but that instead of him, now she had found Siddhartha, and it was good, just as good, as having seen the other (90). [Vasudeva explains,] “Kamala has died on the same bed my wife once died upon. On the same hill too we shall build Kamala’s funeral prey, the one on which I once built my wife’s funeral pyre.” While the boy still slept, they built the funeral pyre (91).
Slowly [Siddhartha] saw and also understand that this eleven-year-old was a spoiled child, a mother’s boy who had grown up accustomed to wealth, accustomed to fine cooking, a soft bed, accustomed to ordering servants around (93). Vasudeva took his friend aside and spoke to him. “I speak from my heart and out of friendship. Your son, dear friend, troubles you, and he troubles me as well. The young bird is accustomed to a different life, a different nest. Unlike you, he has not run from riches and the city out of revulsion and glut, he had to leave all that behind against his will. Water chooses water, youth chooses your, your son is not in a place where he can thrive. Go and ask the river too, go and listen to what it tells you!” (94). Of course he felt that this love, this blind love for his son was a passion, something extremely human, that it was samsara, a muddy wellspring, a dark water. And yet , at the same time he felt it was not worthless, it was necessary, originating in his own being. Even this pleasure must be atoned for, even these pains must be experienced, even these follies committed (97). [Siddhartha’s son says,] “You think I should be like you, just as pious, just as soft, just as wise! But I, listen to me, what I want is to make you suffer, I would rather be a bandit and a murderer and go to hell than to be like you! I hate you; you are not my father, even if you were my mother’s lover ten times over!” But the next morning he was gone. “I must follow him,” said Siddhartha, who still trembled miserably since the boy had used abusive language on the prior day (98). After he had been standing at the garden gate for a long time, Siddhartha understood that the need that had driven him to this place was foolhardy, that he could not help his son, that he must not cling to him (99-100).
[Siddhartha] remembered, how back then, a youth, he had forced his father to let him to go to the penitents, how he had taken leave of him, how he left and never again returned. Had not his father also suffered the same pain over him as he now was suffering over his son? Had not his father died a long time ago, alone, without having seen his son again? Must he himself not await the same fate? Was it not a comedy, was there not something strange and stupid about repetition, this running in a fatal circle? (103). While he went on speaking, went on revealing himself and confessing, Siddhartha increasingly felt this was no longer a human being who listened to him; the motionless listener absorbed his confession as tree does the rain, the motionless on was itself the river, was itself god, was itself the eternal. He sensed he was now seeing the old Vasudeva the way people see the gods, and that this could not last; in his heart he began to take leave of Vasudeva (104). Vasudeva rose from his seat on the riverbank, he gently touched Siddhartha’s shoulder with his hand and said: “I have waited for this moment, dear friend. Now that it has come, let me go. For a long time I have waited for this moment, for a long time I have been Vasudeva the ferryman. Enough now, the time has come. Farewell, hut, farewell, river, farewell, Siddhartha!” (106). Radiant he walked away; Siddhartha gazed after him. With deep joy, deeply earnest, he followed him with his gaze, saw his steps full of peace, saw his head full of splendor, saw his form full of light.
When Govinda returned to the road, he chose the path to the ferry, eager to see this ferryman. For although he had lived his whole life according to the precepts, and was regarded by younger monks with the reverence due his age and his modesty, disquiet and seeking were still not extinguished in his heart. He came to the river, he asked the old man to transport him (109). “Are you Siddhartha?” he asked in a shy voice. “I would not have recognized you this time either! From my heart I greet you, Siddhartha, wholeheartedly I am glad to see you again! You have changed a great deal, Friend (110).Siddhartha spoke: “But I have learned most of all from this river, and from my predecessor, the ferryman Vasudeva. He was a very simple man, Vasudeva, he was no thinker, but he knew what was necessary just as well as Gautama, he had attained perfection, he was a saint. I have found: Wisdom cannot be conveyed. The wisdom a sage attempts to convey always sounds like folly. One can convey knowledge but not wisdom. One can find wisdom, one can live it, one can be borne by it, one can work wonders with it, but one can neither speak it nor teach it. A truth always only allows itself to be expressed and wrapped in word when it is unilateral. Everything that can be thought with thoughts and said with words is unilateral, everything one-sided, a moiety, everything lacks wholeness, roundness, unity. When the exalted Gautama, teaching, spoke of the world, he had to divide it into Samsara and nirvana, into illusion and truth, into suffering and release. One can do nothing else, there is no other way for the one who wants to teach,” (112). Bowing near to him and touching his forehead with his lips, something wonderful happened to him. While his thoughts lingered on Siddhartha’s strange words, while he was still vainly struggling with his own reluctance to think time away, imagining nirvana and samsara as one, while even a certain contempt for his friend’s words battled within him against a terrible love and awe. This, Govinda knew, was how the Perfect Ones smiled. Deeply he bowed, down to the earth, before the one who sat motionless, whose smile reminded him of everything he had ever loved in all his life, everything he had ever in all his life valued and held sacred (118).
