That is a good portent for the city I am now entering, thought Siddhartha. He felt the urge to go into the wood but then thought better of it, and only then did he become aware of how the servers and maids at the entrance had looked at him, with what contempt, with what mistrust, with what dismissal.
I am still a samana, he thought, still an ascetic and a beggar. I will not, as such, be allowed to stay, not be allowed into the wood. And he laughed.
As soon as he met someone on the road he asked about the wood and what the name of that woman was. He learned that it was the grove of Kamala, the famous courtesan, and that she owned a house in the city as well as the wood.
Siddhartha then made his way into the city. Now he knew where he should go.
In order to arrive there he allowed the city to drink him in, followed the crowds in the streets, stood still in the city squares, rested on the stone steps beside the river. As evening fell he made friends with a barber’s assistant whom he had seen at work in the shade of a dome. He came across him later that day as he prayed in a temple of Vishnu, and told him the stories about Vishnu and Lakshmi. He slept that night among the boats on the river and then, early in the morning, before the first customers arrived in his shop, he had the barber’s assistant shave him, cut his hair, comb his hair and dress it with fine oil. Then he went down to bathe in the river.
Late that afternoon when the beautiful Kamala was approaching her grove on her palanquin she found Siddhartha waiting at the entrance. He bowed to her and accepted her greeting to him. When the train of servants had nearly passed him he caught the attention of the last of them and asked him to inform his mistress that there was a young brahmin who wished to speak with her. Siddhartha waited, after a while the servant came back, invited him to follow him, led him in silence into a pavilion where Kamala lay on a couch and left him alone with her.
“Was it not you who stood outside there yesterday and offered me greeting? Kamala asked.
“Indeed, I did see you yesterday and offer you greeting.”
“But did you not have a beard yesterday, and long hair and dust in your hair?”
“You observed well, you saw everything. You saw Siddhartha, the brahmin’s son who left his home to become a samana and spent three years as a samana. Now, though, I have left that path and come to this city, and you were the first to greet me her, even before I had set foot in it. I can say that it is to you that I have come, o Kamala! You are the first woman with whom Siddhartha has spoken without his eyes lowered. I will never again lower my eyes when I meet with a beautiful woman.”
Kamala smiled and played with her fan of peacock feathers. And she asked, “And has Siddhartha come to me just to say this?”
“To say this and to give you my thanks for your beauty. And if it will not displease you, Kamala, I should like to ask you to be my friend and my teacher, for I still know nothing of the arts in which you are so expert.”
At this Kamala laughed out loud.
“This has never happened to me before, my friend, a samana comes to me out of the woods and wants to learn from me! It has never happened to me that a long-haired samana in a ragged loin cloth has come to me! There are many young men who do come to me, some of them are even the sons of brahmins, but they come wearing beautiful clothes and expensive shoes, they have perfumed hair and a purse full of money. That is what the young men look like who come to me, samana.”
Siddhartha said, “I am only beginning to learn from you. But I already learned from you yesterday. I have had my beard nicely removed, I have combed my hair and have oil in it. The things I lack are the things least important, most excellent lady: fine clothes, fine shoes, money in a purse. Do be aware that Siddhartha has undertaken much harder tasks than trifles like that, and has achieved them. Why should I not now achieve the task I undertook yesterday? To be your friend and to learn the pleasures of love from you! You will see what a good student I am, Kamala, I have learned many thing that are harder than what you have to teach me. Do you say, then, that Siddhartha is not good enough for you as he is, with oil in his hair but without clothes, without shoes, without money?”
Kamala laughed out loud and said, “No, worthy young man, he is not good enough! Not yet! He must have clothes, beautiful clothes, shoes must he have, fine shoes, he must have plentiful money in his purse, and he must bring presents for Kamala. Do you understand now, samana from the woods? Do you see?”
“I see it well,” Siddhartha exclaimed. “How could I have failed to see what has just come from a mouth such as this? Your mouth is like a fig freshly broken open, Kamala. My mouth, too, is red and fresh, it will suit your mouth well, you will see. But, beautiful Kamala, are you not at all afraid of this samana from the woods who has come to you to learn the arts of love?”
“Why should I be afraid of a samana, a stupid samana, come from the woods where the jackals live and who still has no idea of what women are?”
“The samana is strong, though. He fears nothing. He would be able to force you, handsome girl. He could rob you. He could hurt you.”
“No, samana, I’m not afraid of that. Has a samana or a brahmin ever been afraid that someone might come and attack him and rob him of his learning, his piety or his deep understanding? No, for those things belong to him alone, and he gives them to others only when he wants to give and to whom he wants to give. It is just the same for Kamala and the joys of love. Kamala’s mouth is red and lovely, but if you try to kiss it against Kamala’s will you will have not a drop of sweetness from it, even though it knows how to give so much sweetness. Siddhartha, you want to learn, so here is something for you to learn: You can beg for love, buy love, receive love as a gift, you can find it on the street, but you cannot steal love. This way that you have invented for yourself is wrong. No, and it would be such a pity if a charming young man such as yourself grabbed for it in a way that is so mistaken.”
Siddhartha smiled and bowed to her. “Yes, Kamala, you are quite right! It would be a pity. It would be an awful pity. No, I do not want any drop of sweetness from your mouth to be wasted on me, nor any drop of mine wasted on you! Only one option remains for us. Siddhartha must come back when he has the things that, at present, are lacking: clothes, shoes, money. But, noble Kamala, tell me, can you not give me just one more piece of advice?”
“A piece of advice Why not? Who would not be happy to give a piece of advice to a poor and innocent samana, just come down from the woods where the jackals live?”
“So tell me, dear Kamala, tell me where I should go so that I can obtain these three things as quickly as possible?”
“There are many who would like to know that, my friend. You will have to do what you have learnt to do, and take money for it, and clothes, and shoes. There is no other way for a poor man to obtain money. What can you do then?”
“I can think. I can wait. I can fast.”
“Is that all?”
“That is all. Wait, I can write poetry too. Will you give me a kiss in exchange for a poem?”
“Yes, I will give you a kiss, if I like the poem. What is the title of this poem then?”
Siddhartha thought about it for a moment, and then he spoke these verses:
The shadowy grove where went the lovely Kamala,The entrance there, where stood the brown-skin’d samana,There bowed he deep, he saw the lotus flower,And Kamala thanked him with smiles and graciousness.‘Tis lovely, thought he, to offer praise to gods,‘Tis lovelier still to sacrifice all for her.The lovely Kamala clapped her bangled hands.
“Your verses are lovely, brown samana, and indeed I have nothing to lose if I let you have a kiss for them.”
With a gesture of her eyes she drew him to herself, he leant his face to hers and put his mouth on her mouth, which was like a fig newly broken open. Kamala’s kiss was long, and Siddhartha felt deep astonishment at how she taught him, at how wise she was, at how she mastered him, pushed him away and drew him back, and at how this first kiss would be followed by many more, a long, well ordered, well-tested series of kisses, each of them different from the last, that awaited him. He remained standing, breathing deeply, and at that moment he was amazed at the fullness of knowledge, the fullness of things worth knowing, that promised themselves to him in front of his eyes.
“Your verses are lovely,” Kamala declared, “if I were rich I would give you a piece of gold for them. Though you will find it very hard to gather as much money as you need by making up verses. You will, after all, need such a lot of money if you want to be the friend of Kamala.”
“Th..the way you kiss, Kamala!” Siddhartha stammered.
“Yes, I am good at that, aren’t I. That is why I am never short of clothes and shoes and jewelry and all those nice things. But what will become of you? Can you think of nothing else but thinking and fasting and making up verses?”
“I know the songs for performing sacrifice, too,” said Siddhartha, “though I no longer wish to sing them. I know magic spells, too, though I no longer wish to cast them. I have read the scriptures ...”
“Stop,” Kamala interrupted him. “You can read? And write?”
“Of course I can. There are many who can.”
“Most people cannot. Even I cannot. It is very good that you can read and write, very good. You will even be able to put the magic spells to good use.”
At that moment a servant girl came running and whispered something into her mistress’s ear.
“I have a visitor,” Kamala declared. You must go Siddhartha, quickly, you need to be aware that no-one should ever see you here! I will see you again tomorrow.”
But she ordered the maid to give the pious brahmin a white shirt. Before he knew what was happening to him the maid had led Siddhartha away through indirect paths to a summerhouse, given him the shirt, drawn him into the undergrowth and emphasised to him that he should leave the grove as quickly as possible and without being seen by anyone.
He was content to do as he had been told. He was used to the woods and made his way out of the grove and over the hedge without a sound. He was content to make his way back into the town, the shirt, rolled into a bundle, under his arm. He went to the door of a travellers’ hostel and asked silently for food, and silently accepted a piece of rice cake. This is probably the last day, he thought, when I will ever beg for food.
Pride suddenly flamed up in him. He was no longer a samana, it was no longer appropriate for him to beg. He gave the rice cake to a dog and, himself, went without food.
“Life here in the world is simple,” Siddhartha thought. “There are no difficulties. When I was still a samana everything was difficult, it took much effort and, in the end, it was without hope. Everything is easy now, the lesson in kissing that Kamala gave me was easy. I need clothes and money, that is all, and aims like that are petty and close at hand, no-one would lose any sleep about them.”
He had long since discovered where Kamala’s house in the city was, and the following day he arrived at its door.
“It is going well,” she called out to him. “You are expected by Kamaswami, and he is the richest businessman in the city. If he likes you he will take you into his service, so do be clever, won’t you, brown samana. I have had others tell him all about you. Be friendly to him, he is very powerful. But do not be too modest about yourself! I do not want you to be just one of his servants, you will have to be his equal, or else I will not be happy with you. Kamaswami is getting old, he is becoming complacent. If he likes you he will place a lot of trust in you.”
Siddhartha thanked her and laughed, and when he told her he had eaten nothing that day or the previous day she had bread and fruit brought for him to eat.
“You have been lucky,” she told him as he left, “one door after another is opening up for you. How could that be possible? Are you performing magic?”
Siddhartha said, “Yesterday I told you I know how to think, to wait, and to fast, but you thought that would be of no use. But it is very useful, Kamala, you will see. You will see that the stupid samanas in the wood learn to know and to do many nice things that you do not know how to do. Two days ago I was just a ragged beggar, one day ago I had already kissed Kamala, and soon I will be a businessman with money and with all the things that you think are important.”
“I expect you will,” she conceded. “But where would you be without me? What would become of you if Kamala did not help you?”
“Dear Kamala,” said Siddhartha, standing up straight, “when I came to you in your grove it was I who made the first step. I was resolved to learn the art of love from this most beautiful of women. From the very moment when I formed this resolution I also knew that I would succeed in it. I knew that you would help me, I knew it from the moment I first glimpsed you at the entrance to the grove.”
“What if I had not wanted to?”
“You did want to. Kamala, listen: if you throw a stone into water it drops quickly to the bottom by the fastest route it can. Siddhartha does nothing, he waits, he thinks, he fasts, but he goes through the things of the world like a stone through water without doing anything, without making any effort; he is drawn, he lets himself fall. His objective pulls him to itself, for he allows nothing into his soul that might work against his objective. That, Kamala, is what Siddhartha learnt among the samanas. That, Kamala, is what fools call magic in the supposition that it is performed by demons. Nothing is ever performed by demons, there are no demons. Anyone can perform magic, anyone can attain his objectives if he is capable of thought, if he is capable of waiting, if he is capable of fasting.”
Kamala listened to him. She loved his voice, she loved the look in his eyes.
“Maybe, my friend,” she said quietly, “you are right in what you say. Maybe it is also true that Siddhartha is an attractive man, that the look of him will appeal to women, maybe that is what brings him all his luck.”
With a kiss, Siddhartha took his leave. “I hope you are right, my teacher. I hope the look of me will always please you, I hope you will always bring me luck!”
Siddhartha went to see Kamaswami the businessman, he was shown into a house of opulence, servants led him past costly carpets into a chamber where he waited for the master of the house.
Kamaswami entered, a fast-moving, nimble man with very grey hair, with very clever and cautious eyes and an acquisitive-looking mouth. Master and guest offered friendly greetings to each other.
“I am told,” the businessman began, “that you are a brahmin, a man of learning, but you seek a position in the service of a businessman. Have you fallen into need then, brahman, is that why you seek a position of service?”
“No,” said Siddhartha, “I have not fallen into need and I never have had difficulties. You should be aware that I come from the samanas, among whom I lived for a long time.”
“How can you not be in need if you have come from the samanas? Do samanas not live completely without possessions?”
“I am without possessions,” said Siddhartha, “if that is what you mean. Certainly, I am without possessions. But I am without possessions by my own free will, so I am not in need.”
“What do you think you will live on if you have no possessions?”
“I have never thought about that, sir. I have been without possessions for more than three years, and have never given a thought to what I should live on.”
“You have lived on the possessions of others then, have you?”
“That is what some would say. But a businessman, too, lives on the possessions of others.”
“Well said. But he does not take the possessions of others for nothing; he gives them his goods for them.”
“That does indeed seem to be their relationship. Each takes, each gives, that is life.”
“But, if I may ask: if you have no possessions what do you have to give?”
“Each gives what he has. The warrior gives strength, the businessman gives goods, the teacher gives teaching, the farmer gives rice, the fisherman gives fish.
“Very well. And what is it, then, that you have to give? What is it that you have learnt to do?”
“I can think. I can wait. I can fast.”
“Is that all?”
“I think that is all!”
“And what is the good of that? Fasting, for instance, what is the good of that?”
“It is a lot of good, sir. If a man has nothing to eat then fasting is the cleverest thing of all that he can do. If, for instance, Siddhartha had never learnt to fast he would now have to perform some kind of service, be it for you or anyone else, for hunger would force him into it. But now Siddhartha can wait in peace, he knows no impatience, he knows no urgency, he can long withstand the siege of hunger and can laugh in its face. That, sir, is the good of fasting.”
“You are right, samana. Wait a moment.”
Kamaswami went out and came back with a roll of paper which he handed to his guest, asking, “Can you read this?”
Siddhartha looked at the roll on which a business contract was written and began to read out what it said.
“Excellent,” said Kamaswami. “And now will you write something on this sheet for me?”
He gave him pen and paper, and Siddhartha wrote and gave the sheet of paper back.
Kamaswami read, “Writing is good, thinking is better. Cleverness is good, patience is better.”
“You can write very well,” the businessman praised him. We will have a lot to talk about together. For today, though, I ask you to be my guest and to take up residence in this house.”
Siddhartha thanked him and accepted his offer, and now he lived in the merchant’s house. Clothes were brought to him, and shoes, and a servant prepared his bath for him every day. Twice a day a copious meal was brought in, but Siddhartha ate only once a day and he neither ate flesh nor drank wine. Kamaswami told him about his business, showed him his goods and his warehouses, let him see his accounts. Siddhartha learned many new things, he listened much and spoke little. He remembered the words of Kamala and was never the merchant’s subordinate, he forced him to see him as his equal, even to treat him as more than his equal. Kamaswami took great care over his business, often even showing passion for it, but Siddhartha saw it all as a game. He made the effort to learn the rules of the game, but the content of the game did not touch his heart.
Siddhartha had not been long in Kamaswami’s house before he took part in its owner’s business affairs. Every day, but at the time she stipulated, he would visit the beautiful Kamala, wearing fine clothes, fine shoes, and he soon began also to bring her presents. He learned a lot from her red and skillful mouth. He learned a lot from her gentle and supple hand. In matters of love Siddhartha was still a child, he was inclined to throw himself blindly and insatiably into his pleasures as if into a bottomless pit, but Kamala taught him from the very basics, she taught him that you cannot receive pleasure without giving pleasure, that every gesture, every stroke, every touch, every look, every tiny part of the body has its secret, and waking those secrets will bring happiness to whoever knows about them. She taught him that lovers should never separate immediately after the celebration of their love, not without each admiring the other, not without having conquered and having been conquered, so that neither will feel over-sated or abandoned or cross, or feel that one has misused the other or feel to have been misused. The hours he spent with this clever and beautiful artist were a time of wonder, he became her student, her lover, her friend. The value and meaning of his life now lay here with Kamala, not with the business affairs of Kamaswami.
The businessman delegated the writing of important letters and contracts to him, and formed the habit of seeking his advice on all important decisions. He saw quickly that Siddhartha knew little about rice and wool, about shipping and commerce, but he saw that what he did brought good luck, he saw that Siddhartha knew far more than he about peace and equanimity, about the art of listening, and saw his acumen in understanding strangers. “This brahmin,” he said to a friend, “is not a proper businessman and he never will be, his soul never goes into affairs with any passion. But he has the secret of people to whom success comes of itself. Maybe it is because he was born under a good star, maybe it is magic, and maybe it is something he learned when he lived with the samanas. He only ever seems to be playing at business, business never seems to penetrate him, never to be his master, he never fears failure and he is never bothered by making a loss.”
The friend advised the businessman, “Give him a third of the profit of all the business he does for you, and let him bear the same proportion of the losses when they happen. That will make him more enthusiastic.”
Kamaswami followed this advice. But Siddhartha seemed little bothered by it. If he made a profit he accepted it with indifference; if he made a loss he would laugh and say, “Oh look, that did not go well!”
It did indeed seem that he was indifferent to affairs of business. One day he went out to a village to buy up a large harvest of rice, but when he arrived the rice had already been sold to another handler. Siddhartha nonetheless remained for several days in the village, making the farmers his guests, giving copper coins to their children, attended a wedding ceremony, and came back from his journey entirely happy and content. Kamaswami accused him of squandering time and money by not having come straight back. Siddhartha answered, “Do not tell me off, my friend! Nothing has ever been achieved by telling anyone off. If I have caused you to make a loss just let me bear it. I am very satisfied with this journey. I met many new people, a brahmin is now my friend, children played on my knees, farmers showed me their fields, no-one treated me there like a businessman.”
“That sounds all very nice,” exclaimed Kamaswami grudgingly, “but I should have thought that a businessman is what you actually are! Or did you go out there just for your own pleasure?”
“Certainly,” laughed Siddhartha, “certainly it was for my own pleasure that I went there. Why else would I have gone there? I have met new people, seen new places, enjoyed trust and friendliness, found friendship. Listen my friend, if I were Kamaswami I would have hurried back as soon as I saw that my attempt to purchase was in vain, I would have been full of annoyance, and in that case then time and money really would have gone to waste. As it is I have spent several days well, I have learned things, I have enjoyed the company of friends, I have done no harm to myself or anyone else either by getting cross or by being in too much of a hurry. And if I ever go there again, to buy a harvest in advance for instance or for any other reason, I will have a friendly welcome from cheerful people, and I will congratulate myself for not having been rushed or bad tempered this time. So leave things well enough alone, my friend, don’t harm yourself by telling me off! If the day ever comes when you see that Siddhartha has brought you any harm then just say the word and Siddhartha will go on his way. But till then let us just be content with each other as we are.”
The businessman tried to persuade Siddhartha by saying he was eating his, Kamaswami’s, bread, but this too was in vain. It was his own bread that he ate, or rather both of them ate the bread of others, the bread of everyone. Siddhartha never had an ear for Kamaswami’s worries, and Kamaswami made many worries for himself. If a deal was in process that might go badly, if goods dispatched seemed to have been lost, if a debtor seemed unable to pay, Kamaswami was never able to convince his co-worker that it would be of any use to speak words of anger or concern, to furrow one’s brow, to lose any sleep. One time when Kamaswami reproached Siddhartha the claim that everything he knew he had learned from him, Siddhartha replied, “Don’t be so ridiculous! What I have learnt from you is the price of a basket of fish and how much interest you can exact for money you lend. Those things are your kind of knowledge. You have never taught me to think, my dear Kamaswami, it might be better if you wanted to learn thinking from me.”
It was true that Siddhartha’s heart was not in business. Business was good for him to obtain money for Kamala, and he obtained much more than he needed. Moreover, Siddhartha was only concerned with people. Their business, craft, worries, pleasures and follies had earlier been as strange and distant as the moon, but now he took an interest in them. He had no difficulty in talking with everyone, to live with everyone, to learn from everyone, but the easier this was the more he became aware that there was something that separated him from them, and that was because he had been a samana. He saw how people lived their lives in a way that was like children or animals, something he both loved and despised. He saw their strivings, saw their sufferings and saw them turn grey about things that seemed to him not worth that price, about money, about petty pleasures, matters of petty honour, he saw them shouting and insulting each other, he saw them lamenting for pains which a samana would merely smile at, and for losses which a samana does not feel.
He was open to everything that these people brought him. The businessman was welcome who brought canvas for him to buy, the debtor was welcome who came asking for a loan, the beggar was welcome who spent an hour to tell him the story of his poverty but who was not half as poor as any samana. He behaved toward the rich foreign businessman in the same way as to the servant who shaved him or the street seller, and would allow him to cheat him of a few petty coins when he bought bananas. When Kamaswami came to him to lament his troubles or to accuse him of having handled a deal badly he listened to him with cheerful interest, wondered about him, tried to understand him, acknowledged that he was right on some small points when he had to, and then he would turn away to the next person who wanted his attention. And there were many who did want it, many who came to do business with him, many who came to cheat him, many who came to obtain information from him, many who wanted his pity, many who wanted his advice. He gave advice, he showed pity, he gave advice, he allowed himself to be cheated, slightly, and all this game, and all the passion with which all these people played it, occupied his thoughts just as much as, at one time, thoughts about the gods and about Brahman.
From time to time he would feel, deep in his breast, a faint and tender voice that gently admonished, gently complained, so gentle he was hardly aware of it. Then he would become aware for an hour of what an odd life he was leading, that he was doing all these things just as a game, that although he was cheerful and felt moments of pleasure his real life was flowing past without touching him. He played with his business affairs and the people he came into contact with in the same way as a sportsman plays with his ball, he watched them and found fun in so doing; in his heart, in the source of his being, he was not present. There was a place where that source flowed, but how far that place was from him, flowing and flowing out of sight, no longer had anything to do with his life. And there were times when he was alarmed at thoughts of this sort, and he wished he too could be granted a passion for all the childish to activity of the day, to take part in it with his heart, truly to live, truly to do, truly to enjoy life instead of just standing at one side of it as an onlooker. But he always went back to the beautiful Kamala, learned the art of love, practised the cult of lust by which, more than anywhere else, giving and taking become the same thing, he talked with her, learned from her, gave her his advice, accepted her advice. She understood him better than Govinda once had, she was more like him than Govinda had been.
One day he said to her, “You are like me, you are different from most people. You are Kamala, nothing else, and deep inside you there is peace and a refuge where you can go at any time and feel that that is your place, just as I can. Few people have that, though all people could have it.”
“Not all people are clever,” said Kamala.
“No,” said Siddhartha, “that is not what it is about. Kamaswami is just as clever as I am, but he has no place of refuge within himself. Others have one, people whose understanding is like that of a small child. Most people, Kamala, are like a leaf falling through the air and is blown from side to side, it twists, it staggers, till it hits the ground. There are others, though not many, who are like the stars, they follow a fixed course, no wind blows them, they have their laws and their path set within themselves. All the learned men and all the samanas - and I have known many of them - had one of this sort among them, a perfect one, and I can never forget him. He is Gotama, the noble one who disseminated that teaching. Thousands of young men listen to his teachings every day, they follow his precepts every hour of every day, but each one of them is a falling leaf, they do not have law and teachings within themselves.”
Kamala looked at him with a smile. “You are talking about him again,” she said, “you have your samana thoughts again.”
Siddhartha was silent, and they played the game of love, one of the thirty or forty different games that Kamala knew. Her body was as supple as a jaguar’s, and as the bow of a hunter; whoever learned the art of love from her came to know many joys, many secrets. She played long with Siddhartha, she drew him close, pushed him back, manipulated him, enveloped him: he enjoyed his mastery until he had been defeated and then, exhausted, he would rest at her side.
The courtesan leant over him, looked long into his face, into his now tired eyes.
“You are the best lover,” she said thoughtfully, “I have ever known. You are stronger than the others, more supple, more willing. You have learnt my art well, Siddhartha. One day, when I am older, I would like to have a child from you. But, my love, you have never stopped being a samana, and that means you do not love me, there is no-one whom you love. Am I right?”
“You might well be right,” said Siddhartha, tired. “I am like you. You do not love either - if you did, how could you carry on with love making as a craft? Perhaps people like you and me cannot love. The childlike people can; that is their secret.”
Siddhartha had spent a long time in the world of pleasure, though without being a part of it. In his years as a devoted samana he had put his senses to death but now they woke anew, he had tasted riches, tasted voluptuousness, tasted power; but in his heart he had remained a samana throughout this lengthy time, just as Kamala, clever Kamala, had seen. His life had been directed by the art of thinking, of waiting, of fasting, and it continued to be so. The people of the world, the childlike people, continued to be strangers for him, just as he was a stranger for them.
The years went by and Siddhartha, wrapped in affluence, barely noticed how each of them passed away. He had become rich, he had long been the owner of his own house with servants and a garden by the river just outside the city. People liked him, they came to him when they needed money or advice, but, apart from Kamala, no-one was close to him.
That lofty, bright awareness that he had once experienced at the high point of his youth in the days after Gotama’s sermon, the time since the separation from Govinda, that taut expectation, that proud independence without teachings and without a teacher, that readiness to hear the voice of the divine from many sources, including his own heart, all this had slowly turned into mere memories, had become something ephemeral; the source of holiness that had once been near to had him become something distant, something whose murmurings had become quiet, though it had once murmured within him. It was true that much of what he had learned from the samanas, that he had learned from Gotama, that he had learned from his father the Brahmin, had remained within in him through this time: a modest life, the joy of thinking, hours in meditation, secret knowledge of his self, the eternal self which is neither body nor awareness. Much of it remained within him, but the rest had little by little sunk down and become covered in dust. Like the potter’s wheel that, once set turning, will continue long to turn, and only slowly will tire and lose its motion, the wheel of asceticism in Siddhartha’s soul, the wheel of thinking, the wheel of discernment, continued to turn and was still turning, but it turned slowly and hesitantly and was close to stopping. Slowly, like damp that soaks into the trunk of a dying tree, slowly filling it and making it decay, the world and apathy had insidiously soaked into Siddhartha’s soul, slowly filling it and making it heavy, making it tired. His senses, though, gained vigour, for they had learned much, experienced much.
Siddhartha had learned how to do business, how to exercise power over people, to have pleasure with women, he had learned to wear nice clothes, to give orders to servants, to bathe in perfumed water. He had learned to eat dainty and carefully prepared foods, even to eat fish and meat and fowl, spices and sweet things, to drink wine that makes you weary and forgetful. He had learned to play with dice and on the chess board, to observe dancers, to be carried on a litter and to sleep on a soft bed. But he had always felt he was different from others, superior to them, he always looked on them with a touch of laughter, with a touch of jeering contempt, with that very contempt that a samana always feels for people of the world. When Kamaswami was in a bad mood, when he became quarrelsome, when he felt he had been treated badly, when he felt over-burdened with the worries of business, Siddhartha had always found it laughable. But slowly and imperceptibly, as harvest times and rainy seasons came and went, his contemptuous laughter became more tired, his sense of superiority became subdued. Only slowly, there among his increasing wealth, Siddhartha had taken on something of the character of the childlike people, something of their naivety, something of their anxiety. And yet he envied them, and the more like them he became the more he envied them. He envied them for the one thing he did not have and they did have, he envied them for the importance they attributed to their lives, he envied the passion they felt in their joys and sorrows, envied the worried but sweet happiness they had in their never-ending loves. Their love for themselves, for women, for their children, for money or honours, for hopes and plans, these people were always in love with something. But it was not from them that he learned this, especially not their childlike joys and childlike follies; what he learned from them was the unpleasant things, the things he himself despised. More and more often, in the morning after spending the evening with friends he would lie long in bed feeling dull and tired. When Kamaswami bored him with his worries he would become irritable and impatient. When he lost a game playing at dice he would laugh much too loudly. His face was still cleverer and more spiritual than others’ but it seldom laughed, and one by one it took on the features so often seen in the face of rich people, features of discontent, of poor health, of surliness, of apathy, of indifference to others. Slowly, the sickness of the soul seen in rich people took hold of him.
Weariness sank over Siddhartha like a veil, like a light mist that with every day became a little heavier, every month a little thicker, every year a little heavier. As when a new garment becomes old with time, loses its bright colours with time, gathers stains, gathers creases, becomes worn at its hems and, here and there, begins to show places that are worn and threadbare, so Siddhartha’s new life that he had begun when he took his leave of Govinda had become old, with the quickly passing years it had lost its colour and its sheen, it had gathered stains and creases. This ugly sight was hidden at the base of it but here and there it could already be seen, disappointment and disgust lay in wait for him. Siddhartha did not notice. He noticed only that the bright and certain voice of his inside which once had woken within him and had led him through his years of splendour had now become silent.
The world had taken possession of him, fun, lust, apathy, and lastly that very vice that he had most despised and for which he had had the most contempt because of its folly, greed. Even property, the owning of riches, had finally taken hold of him, it was no longer a frivolous game, it had become his chains and his burden. It was an odd and insidious path that had led Siddhartha into this final and most contemptible of dependencies, playing dice. To be exact, as soon as, in his heart, he had ceased to be a samana, he had begun to gamble for money and dainty luxuries. He had previously despised these things, he had previously taken part in them with laughing indifference as one of the things done by the childlike people, but now he took part with growing aggressivity and passion. Other gamblers viewed him with fear, few would dare to play against him because the stakes he laid down were so high and audacious. Something in his heart compelled him to gamble, money was something miserable and when he lost, when he threw it away, it brought him a haughty pleasure, there was no more ostentatious way, no more contemptuous way that he could display his disdain for riches, the idol of businessmen. So he gambled high and without reserve, he hated himself for this, he despised himself for it, he threw it in by the thousand, threw it away by the thousand, he lost money, lost jewelry, lost a country house, then he won again, then he lost again. The anxiety, every terrible and oppressive anxiety he felt while throwing the dice for worryingly high stakes was something he loved, he always sought to renew it, always to raise it, always to tickle it a little higher, for it was in this feeling alone that he could feel something like happiness, something like inebriation, something like a higher kind of life in among the sated, lukewarm, insipid life he led.
Every time he lost a large amount he thought of gaining new riches, threw himself into business with new vigour and pressed his debtors harder to make them pay, for he wished to gamble again, he wanted to squander again, wanted, again, to display the contempt he had for riches. Siddhartha no longer had the indifference he had had when he lost, he no longer had the patience he had shown for bad debtors, no longer had the goodwill he had practised toward beggars, no longer had the joy he had felt when he made gifts or lent money to them who asked, knowing it would not be repaid. He would stake ten thousand on a throw of the dice and laugh when he lost it, but in his business affairs he became stricter and pettier, and at night he sometimes dreamt of money! Whenever he awoke from this vile enchantment, whenever he looked in the mirror on the bedroom wall and saw his face changed and uglier, whenever he felt beset by shame and disgust, then he would flee from it, he would flee into new games of chance, flee into the numbness of lust, the numbness of wine, and from there flee back into piling up more possessions. He ran around in this meaningless circle until he was tired, until he was old, until he was ill.
Until he was admonished in a dream. He had spent the evening hours with Kamala in her gorgeous pleasure garden. They had sat talking under the trees, and Kamala offered some well-considered words, words with sorrow and tiredness hidden behind them. She had asked him to tell her about Gotama and could not hear enough about him, the clarity of his eyes, the quiet beauty of his mouth, the benevolence of his smile, the peace of his walk. He had to tell her about the noble buddha for great lengths of time, and Kamala would sigh and say, “One day, perhaps one day soon, I will go and follow this buddha too. I will give my pleasure garden to him and take refuge in his teachings.” But then she would tease him, she would lead him into playful lovemaking, she would chain him to her with a passion that was painful, with biting, with tears, as if she wanted, just once more, to press the last drops of sweetness out of this life of vain and short-lived fun. Never had it been so exceptionally clear to Siddhartha how close lust is to death. Then he would lie at her side and Kamala’s face would come close to his, and, clearer than ever before, he would read a message of anxiety under her eyes and at the corners of her mouth, a script of fine lines, of slight wrinkles, a script reminiscent of Autumn and of growing old just as Siddhartha was himself growing old, for he was now in his forties and had noticed grey hairs here and there among the black ones. Tiredness could be read on Kamala’s beautiful face, tiredness from traveling a long road that has no happy ending, tiredness and the start of her decline, and hidden there, not yet spoken of, was an anxiety that she was not yet aware of: fear of old age, fear of the Autumn, fear of the certainty of death. He had taken his leave of her with a sigh, his soul full of lethargy, full of concealed anxiety.
One time, when Siddhartha had spent an evening at home with wine and dancing girls, when he had played the superior with his peers, though he no longer was their superior, when he had drunk a great deal of wine and, tired but excited, he had not gone to seek his rest until long after midnight, he found himself in a state of despair and was close to tears. He waited long in the vain pursuit of sleep, his heart full of a sorrow that he thought he could no longer bear, full of disgust that seemed to permeate every part of him like the vile taste of lukewarm wine, like the over-sweet and vapid music, like the over-soft smiles on the dancers’ faces, like the over-sweet scent on their hair and their breasts. But what disgusted him more than anything else was himself, his perfumed hair, the smell of wine in his mouth, the tired slackness and the dullness of his skin. Just as one who has eaten or drunk too much will endure his vomiting and even feel glad at the relief it brings, so Siddhartha, unable to sleep, felt a gush of monstrous disgust and wished to be relieved of these pleasures, these habits, this entire life of meaninglessness. It was only when the first light of morning came, and the activities in the street in front of his house began to wake, that he drowsed, for a few moments felt some slight assuagement of his anguish, found something resembling sleep. And that was when he began to dream:
Kamala had a small and rare songbird that she kept in a golden cage. It was of this songbird that he dreamed. He dreamt: the bird had become silent, though it had formerly always sung in the morning time, and when he noticed this he went to the cage and looked in. There he saw the little bird lying dead and stiff on the floor. He took it out, held it for a while in his hand and then threw it away, out into the street. At that moment he felt horror at what he had done and felt such pain in his heart as if he had thrown out everything of any value, everything of any good about himself when he threw this bird out.
Waking from this dream he felt himself possessed by a deep sorrow. Worthless, it seemed to him, worthless and meaningless was the life he had been leading; nothing living, nothing that was in anyway beautiful or worth keeping had remained with him. He stood there alone and empty, like a castaway on the shore.
In low spirits, Siddhartha betook himself to one of the pleasure gardens he owned, he locked the gate, sat down under a mango tree, felt the death in his heart and bleakness in his heart, he sat and felt how something in him was dying, wilting, coming to its end. Gradually he gathered his thoughts together and, in his mind, walked once more along the whole of his life’s path, beginning at the first day when he was able to think. When was it that he had ever been happy, felt any real joy? Oh yes, he had experienced these things many times. He had tasted that joy when, as a boy, he had been praised by the brahmins and he felt it in his heart, “There is a path that follows from recitation of holy scripture, from argument with the learned ones, from excelling when assisting in the performance of sacrifice,” Then, what he felt in his heart was, “There is a path for you to follow, the path to which you are called, the gods are expecting you.” And again when he was a young man because his thoughts rose ever higher, they tore out and away from the commonplace many who had the same objectives, because he was in accord with the sufferings and the meanings of Brahman, because when he attained new wisdom it would only arouse thirst for more knowledge, because, held in this thirst, held in the pain of this self, he had always again felt, “Forward! Forward! You have received the call!” He had accepted this call when he left home and chose the life of a samana, and again when he left the samanas and sought the path of perfection, although that was also a path into the unknown. How long was it, now, that he had not heard that voice, how long was it since he had attained any new heights, how level and barren had his path become? It had been many years, years without any higher objective, no thirsting, no rising, content with petty pleasures and nonetheless never satisfied! Throughout all these years, without knowing it himself, he had striven to be a person like these masses, he had longed for it, to be like these children and in the process had made a life for himself that was much more poor and miserable than theirs, for their objectives were not his objectives, nor were their worries his worries, all this world of people like Kamaswami had been just a game for him, a dance to be looked at, a comedy. Kamala alone was dear to him, was something he valued - but was she still? Did he still need him, or he her? Were they not playing a game without end? Was it necessary to live a life for that? No, it was not necessary? The name of this game was sansara, a children’s game, a game that it was good to play one, twice, ten times - but over and over again?
Then Siddhartha came to see that the game was at its end, that he was no longer able to play it. A shudder ran down his body, in his innermost parts, as he felt that something had died.
All that day he sat under the mango tree thinking of his father, thinking of Govinda, thinking of Gotama. Had he really had to leave these people and become a Kamaswami? He still sat there as night began to fall. When looked up and saw the stars he thought, “Here I am, sitting under my own mango tree, in my own pleasure garden.” A faint smile came to his face - was it necessary, then, was it proper, was it not a foolish game to be the owner of a mango tree, to be the owner of a garden?
He put an end to this too, this too died within him. He rose, took his leave of the mango tree, took his leave of the pleasure garden. He had not eaten all day and so felt very hungry, he thought of his house in the city, of his chambers there and his bed, he thought of the table laden with food. With a weary smile he shook his head and took his leave of these things.
There and then, at that hour of the night, Siddhartha left his garden, left the city and never returned to them. Kamaswami had his servants search long for him, he thought he had fallen into the hands of bandits. Kamala did not send anyone to search for him. She was not surprised when she heard of Siddhartha’s disappearance. Was it not something she had always expected? Was he not a samana, a pilgrim without a home? And she had felt it most of all when she was last with him, and deep within her pain at losing him she was glad, glad that she had drawn him so deep into her heart that last time she saw him, glad that she had once more felt so entirely possessed and pervaded by him.
When she first received the news of Siddhartha’s disappearance she crossed to the window, where she kept a rare songbird captive in a golden cage. She opened the door of the cage, took the bird out and let him fly away. She looked long after him as he flew. From that day on she received no more visitors and kept her house closed. But some while later she became aware that her last meeting with Siddhartha had left her pregnant.
Siddhartha wandered through the woods, already far from the city, and he knew just one thing, that he could never go back, that this life that he had lived through many years was ended and gone, he had tasted its joys, sucked out its pleasures, till it disgusted him. The songbird he had dreamt of was dead. The songbird in his heart was dead. He had been entangled deep in sansara, he had drawn death and disgust into himself from every side, like a sponge sucking in water till it is saturated. He was full of weariness, full of misery, full of death, there was nothing more in the world that could appeal to him, could give him pleasure, could give him reassurance.
He yearned to know nothing more about himself, to have peace, to be dead. If only a thunderbolt would come and strike him down! If only a tiger would come and eat him! If only he had wine, poison, that would numb his senses, oblivion and sleep, never more to wake! Was there any kind of filth left with which he had not already besmirched himself, was there any kind of sin or folly that he had not committed, anything he had not done that for his soul was entirely fruitless? Was it even possible still to live? Was it possible to draw in breath, let out breath over and over again, to feel hunger, once more to eat, once more to sleep, once more to lay with a woman? Was this circle not, for him, exhausted and closed off?
Siddhartha arrived at the great river that flowed through the wood, the same river that the ferryman had taken him across when he was a young man and had just departed from Gotama’s community. On the bank of this river he stopped and he stood there, uncertain what to do. He was weak from tiredness and hunger, and why should he go on, where to, what for? No, he had no objectives any more, there was nothing but the deep and sorrowful yearning to shake all this barren dream from himself, to pour away this stale wine, to put an end to this pitiful and shameful life.
There was a tree that hung over the river bank, a coconut tree. Siddhartha leant his shoulder against it, put his arms around the trunk and looked down into the green water as it continued to flow beneath him. He looked down into it and found himself possessed with the wish to let go of the tree and to perish in the water. A grisly emptiness was reflected back at him from the water, a reflection that showed the awful emptiness of his soul. Yes, he had come to the end. There was nothing more for him than to extinguish himself, than to strike down the picture of deformity that was his life, to throw it down at the feet of the gods who laugh at him in contempt. This was the great breakthrough that he had longed for: death, the destruction of the form he hated! The fish could come and eat him, Siddhartha the dog, the deluded, the decayed and putrid body and the flaccid and abused soul! The fish and the crocodiles could come and eat him, the demons could dismember him!
His face distorted into a scowl he stared into the water, saw his distorted face mirrored back at him, and he spat at it. Deep in tiredness he loosened his arm from the tree trunk and twisted round slightly so that he would fall vertically and finally go under. With eyes closed he sank down to meet his death.
From some distant place his soul began to twitch, from some time past in his tired life came a sound. It was one word, one syllable which he uttered to himself without a thought and with voice that mumbled, the ancient word that formed the beginning and the end of any brahmanist prayer, the holy word “OM”, meaning “perfection” or “completion.” And at the moment when the sound of “Om” touched Siddhartha’s ear his dormant spirit suddenly awoke and saw the folly of what he was doing.
Siddhartha was deeply shocked. So this was the state he had come to, this was how lost he was, how confused. He was so forsaken by any kind of wisdom that he was able to seek death, that this whim, this childish whim, could have grown within him: to find peace by extinguishing his body! All that he had recently suffered, all the disillusionment, all the doubts, none of these things had the effect on him that Om had at that moment as it entered his consciousness: and he became able to see his misery and his folly.
Om! he said to himself: Om! And he knew of Brahman, knew that life could not be destroyed, knew once more everything about the divine that he had forgotten.
All this, however, lasted for just one moment, just a flash. Siddhartha sank down at the foot of the coconut tree, lay down exhausted, and muttering Om he laid his head on the root of the tree and sank into a deep sleep.
Deep was his sleep and free of dreams, he had not known sleep like this for a long time. Many hours later when he woke it seemed to him that ten years had gone by, he heard the gentle flow of the water, did not know where he was or who had brought him there, abruptly he opened his eyes and was amazed to see trees and the sky above him, and then he remembered where he was and how he had arrived there. This process took a long time, though, and the past seemed to him to have had a veil thrown over it, it was infinitely far, it lay at infinite distance, infinitely meaningless. He knew only that his previous life (at first as he came back to his senses, this previous life seemed like something lying long in the past, an earlier incarnation, an early birth of his present self), that his previous life was something he had left behind, that, full of disgust and misery, he had even wanted to throw his life away, that instead he had regained consciousness at the side of a river under a coconut tree with the holy word Om on his lips, that he had then slept and now had woken and he looked at the world as a new person. Quietly, he spoke the word Om to himself, as he had done while he was falling asleep, and it seemed that all the time that he had been asleep had been nothing but a long immersion into saying Om, into thinking Om, a submersion and envelopment in Om, in the nameless, in the perfect.
It had been such a wonderful sleep! Sleeping had never before left him so refreshed, so renewed, so rejuvenated! Could it be that he really had died, had gone under and now been reborn in a new form? No, he knew himself, he knew his hand and his feet, knew the play where he lay, knew this self in his breast, this Siddhartha, the headstrong, the odd, this Siddhartha however was transformed, renewed, he had slept remarkably well and now he was remarkably alert, joyful and inquisitive.
Siddhartha sat up straight and saw a man facing him, a strange man, a monk in yellow robes with shaven head and in a position of meditation. He looked at the man, who had hair neither on his head nor his face, and he had not looked at him for long before he saw that this monk was Govinda, his childhood friend, Govinda who had taken refuge with the noble Buddha. Govinda had changed, just as he had, but he still bore the old features in his face that spoke of zeal, of loyalty, of searching, of fastidiousness. Govinda felt now that Siddhartha was watching him, opened his eyes and returned his gaze. Siddhartha saw that Govinda did not recognise him. Govinda was glad to see that he had woken, he had clearly long been sitting here waiting for him to wake even though he did not know him.
“I have been sleeping,” said Siddhartha. “What has brought you here?”
“You have been sleeping,” Govinda answered. “It is not good to sleep in places such as this where there are many snakes and where the beasts of the forest follow their paths. I, sir, am a follower of the noble Gotama, of the buddha, of the Sakyamuni, and when I and a number of members of our movement were travelling along this path in pilgrimage I saw you lying there asleep in a place where to sleep is dangerous. I therefore tried to wake you, sir, and as I saw that your sleep was very deep I remained behind my colleagues and sat beside you. And then, it seems, I fell asleep myself despite my wish to watch over you as you slept. I performed my task badly, tiredness overcame me. But now, now that you are awake, please allow me to leave you and catch up with my brothers.”
“Thank you for watching over my sleep, samana,” said Siddhartha. “You followers of the noble one are helpful. You are free to go.”
“I will go, sir. May you always fare well.”
“Thank you, samana.”
Govinda made the gesture of greeting and said, “Farewell.”
“Farewell, Govinda,” said Siddhartha.
The monk remained where he was.
“Sir, may I ask how you know my name?”
Siddhartha smiled.
“I know you, Govinda, I know you from your father’s hut and from the brahmins’ school, I know you from the sacrifices we performed and from our journey to join the samanas, I know you from that time when, in the grove of Jetavana, you took refuge with the noble one.”
“You are Siddhartha!” exclaimed Govinda out loud. “Now I recognise you, and I cannot understand why I did not recognise immediately. Welcome, Siddhartha, it is a great joy for me to see you again.”
“And it is a great joy for me too to see you. It was you who watched over me as I slept, and I thank you again for it, although I had no need of anyone to do so. Where are you going, my friend?”
“I am not going anywhere. We monks are always travelling, except in the rainy season, we always move from place to place, we live according to our rules, we spread out teachings, accept alms and then we move on. It is always so. But you, Siddhartha, where are you going?”
Siddhartha said, “It is the same with me as with you, my friend. I am not going anywhere. I am simply travelling. I am on a pilgrimage.”
Govinda said, “You say you are on a pilgrimage, and I believe you. But, Siddhartha forgive me, you do not look like a pilgrim. You wear the clothes of a rich man, you wear the shoes of a man of elegance, your hair smells of scented water and it is not the hair of a pilgrim, not the hair of a samana.”
“Yes, my friend, well observed, your sharp eye sees everything. But I did not tell you I am a samana. I said I am on a pilgrimage, and that is what I am, on a pilgrimage.”
“You are on a pilgrimage,” said Govinda. “I have been going on pilgrimage for many years, but I have never come across a pilgrim like this. There are not many who go on pilgrimage in clothes like this, or in shoes like this or with hair like this.”
“I believe you, my friend. But now, today, you have just a pilgrim like this, in shoes like this, with clothes like this. Remember this, my friend: The world of forms is transitory, our clothes are highly transitory, just like the way we have our hair and the hair itself and our bodies themselves. I am wearing the clothes of a rich man, you are quite right about what you have seen. I am wearing them because I was a rich man, and my hair is like the hair of a libertine or men of the world, because I was a libertine and a man of the world.”
“And now, Siddhartha, what are you now?”
“I do not know, I do not know it any more than you do. I am on a journey. I was a rich man and now I am not; and nor do I know what I will be tomorrow.”
“Did you lose all your riches?”
“I lost them, or they lost me. I no longer have them. The wheel of forms spins fast, Govinda. Where is Siddhartha the brahmin? Where is Siddhartha the samana. Where is the wealth of Siddhartha? Things that are transitory change fast, Govinda, you know that.”
Govinda stared long at his childhood friend, his eyes full of doubt. Then, using words that were very polite, he said goodbye and went on his way.
With a smile on his face, Siddhartha watched him as he went, he loved him still, faithful Govinda, conscientious Govinda. And how, at that moment, at that magnificent time after such a wonderful sleep permeated with Om, how could he not have loved someone and something? This was the very magic that had taken place in him by the power of Om while he was sleeping, he loved everything, he was filled with joyful love for everything he saw. It was also the reason, it seemed to him now, why he had earlier been very ill and unable to love anything or anyone.
With a smile on his face, Siddhartha watched the monk as he went. He felt much stronger after his sleep, but he was nonetheless painfully hungry as he had not eaten for two days and the time was long past when he had been hardened against hunger. With some sorrow, but also with laughter, he thought about that time. In those days, he remembered, he had boasted of three things to Kamala, three noble and invincible arts that he had mastered: fasting, waiting, thinking. These were his possessions, his power and his skill, his firm and trusty staff, these three arts were what he had learned in the hard-working and arduous years of his youth, these and no others. And now he had abandoned them, not one of them was in his possession any longer, not fasting, not waiting, not thinking. He had thrown them away for the most miserable of desires, for the most short-lived, for sensual pleasure, for affluence, for riches! They had rarely done him any good. And now, it seemed, he really had become one of the childlike people.
Siddhartha thought about his position. Thinking came hard to him, there was nothing in him that wanted to do it, but he forced himself.
Now, he thought, as all these transitory things have slipped away from me, now I stand here under the sun again as I did before when I was a small child, there is nothing that belongs to me, there is nothing I can do, nothing I am capable of doing, there is nothing I have learnt. This is wonderful! Now, when I am no longer young, when my hair is already half-grey, when my strength is beginning to fade, now is the time for me to start again from the beginning and be a child again! His fortunes had indeed been odd! He had been on a downward path and now he stood in the world once again penniless and naked and stupid. But he was unable to feel any concern about this, no, he even felt a strong urge to laugh, to laugh at himself, to laugh at this bizarre, ridiculous world.
“You’re on a downward path!” he said to himself, and laughed about it, and as he spoke his glance fell on the river, and he saw that the river was on a downward path too, always migrating downwards and, as it did so, it sang and was gay. He found that very pleasing, and he gave the river a friendly smile. Was this not the river in which he had wanted to drown himself, some time in the past, a hundred years ago, or had he dreamt it?
My life truly has been wonderful, he thought, wonderful are the varied courses it has taken. As a boy I had nothing to do with anything but the gods and making sacrifices to them. As an adolescent I had nothing to do with anything but asceticism, with thinking and meditation, I sought to find Brahman, venerated the eternal in Atman. As a young man, though, I followed the path of penitence, lived in the forest, suffered heat and frost, learnt to hunger, taught my body to die away. It was wonderful when, at that time, knowledge came to me through the teachings of the great buddha, I felt knowledge of the unity of the world, felt it flow within me like my own blood. But I had to go on my way even from the buddha and that great knowledge. I went on and learnt the joy of love from Kamala, learned business skills from Kamaswami, accumulated money, wasted money, learned to love my stomach, learned to flatter my senses. It took me many years to lose my spirit, to lose the ability to think, to forget unity. Is it not so, that I went slowly and by circuitous routes from being a man to being a child, from a thinking being to a childlike being? This was a very good way, though, and the bird within my breast did not die. But what a way it was! There was so much stupidity, so much vice, so much folly, so much disgust and disappointment and misery that I had to go through before simply becoming a child again and to be able to start anew. But it was the right way, my heart tells me yes, my eyes laugh about it. I had to experience doubt, I had to sink down to that most foolish of thoughts, the thought of suicide, before I could experience mercy, before I could hear Om again, before I could sleep properly again and before I could wake properly again. I had to become a fool before I could find Atman within myself again. I had to commit sin before I could live again. Where will my path lead me from here? This is a foolish path, it goes round in loops, perhaps it goes round in circles. Whichever way it chooses to go, I will follow it.
In his breast he felt a surge of wonderful joy.
Where from then, he asked his heart, where from do you have this gaiety? Could it be that it comes from that long and wholesome sleep that did me so much good? Or from the word Om that I spoke? Or could it be because I have escaped, that my flight is completed, that I am at last free again and stand once more under the sky as a child? I have escaped, I have become free, and it is so good! How pure and lovely the air is here, how good to breathe it! There, the place whence I escaped, everything smelt of ointment, of spices, of wine, of excess, of lethargy. How I hated this world of the rich, of the world of luxury, the world of gamblers! How I hated myself for staying so long in this dreadful world! How I hated myself, robbed myself, poisoned and tortured myself, how I made myself old and bad tempered! No, I will never again delude myself, as I so much used to like doing, never again think that Siddhartha is a wise man! But this is something it was right to do, this is something that pleases me, this is something for which I should praise myself, that I have put an end to this self-hatred, to this life of folly and barrenness! I praise you, Siddhartha, after so many years of folly you have once again had an idea, you have done something, you have heard the bird singing in your breast and you have followed him!
Thus he praised himself, had pleasure in himself, listened with curiosity to his stomach, which was rumbling with hunger. In the last few days, he felt, he had tasted pain, he had tasted sorrow, he had tasted them completely and thoroughly, he had eaten them totally to the point of doubt and of death and then he had spat them out. It was good, so. He could have remained much longer with Kamaswami, making money, wasting money, filling his belly and letting his soul go thirsty, he could have lived much longer in this soft, well-cushioned Hell if this had not happened: that moment of perfect doubt and despair, that moment when he was at such an extreme that he hung over the flowing water and was ready to destroy himself. He had felt doubts and the deepest disgust but had not succumbed to them, the bird within him that was his voice and his source of gaiety was still living, and this filled him with joy, this brought him to laughter, this made his face, under his grey hair, beam.
“It is good,” he thought, “to experience everything you need to know yourself. I learned as a child that wealth and worldly pleasures are not good. It is something that I have long known but only now experienced. And now I know it, I know it not only in my thoughts but with my eyes, with my heart, with my stomach. It is good for me that I know it!”
He thought long about his transformation, he listened to the bird as it sang for joy. Had this bird within him not died, had he not felt its death? No, it was something else within him that had died, something that had long been yearning for death. Was it not this that in his earlier years of fervent penitence he had wanted to kill off? Was it not his Self, his petty, anxious and proud Self, that he had struggled against for so many years that found victory over him again and again, that reappeared each time he killed it off, each time he forbade himself pleasure, each time he was afraid? Was it not this that today had finally found its death, here in the woods by this lovely river? Was it not because of this death that he was now like a child, so full of trust, so without fear, so full of joy?
Siddhartha now also began to understand why his efforts against this Self were in vain when he was a brahmin, when he was a penitent. He had been hindered by too much knowledge, too much of the holy verses, too many rules of sacrifice, too much castigation, too much doing and too much striving! He had been full of pride, he had been always the cleverest, always the keenest, always one step ahead of the others, always the one who knew, the one who was spiritual, always the priest or the wise man. His Self had crept into this priesthood, into this pride, into this spirituality, it sat firmly there and grew while Siddhartha thought he was destroying it with fasting and penitence. Now he could see it, and he saw that the secret voice had been right, that no teacher could ever have removed this Self. That is why he had had to go out into the world, to lose himself in fun and power and women and money, had had to be a businessman, a gambler, a drinker and to be greedy, till the priest and the samana within him were dead. That is why he had had to continue to endure these years of loathsomeness, to bear the disgust, the emptiness, the meaninglessness, of a life that was lost and barren, right till the end, till the bitter doubt, till Siddhartha the sybarite, Siddhartha the greedy, was even ready to die. He did die, a new Siddhartha awoke from that sleep. Even he would grow old, even he would have to die one day, Siddhartha was impermanent, every form was impermanent. But today he was young, he was a child, and the new Siddhartha was full of joy.
These were his thoughts, he listened with a smile to his stomach, listened with gratitude to a buzzing bee. He looked happily into the river as it flowed, water had never been to pleasing to him as this water, he had never been so strongly aware of the beauty of water, of its voice, of what it represents. The river seemed to have something special to say to him, something he still did not know, something still waiting for him. This was the river where Siddhartha had wanted to drown himself, this was the river where the old, tired, doubting Siddhartha today had drowned. But the new Siddhartha felt profound love for this rushing water and he promised himself never again to be so rash in leaving it.