HERMANNHESSE

Hermann Hesse, theNobel Prize-winningnovelist, poet, and criticwho enjoyed a cultlikereadershipamongyoungpeopleduringthe1960s,

was born in the quietBlack Forest town ofCalw,Germany,on July2,1877.Hewas thesonand grandson ofProtestant clergymenwho had served asmissionaries in India.Hesse attended theparochialmissionschoolwhere his father taughtand later the Latinschool in Göppingen.Having vowed “to be a

poet or nothing at all,”the headstrong youthfled the seminary inMaulbronnat theageoffourteen. ThereafterHesse rebelled againstall attempts at formalschooling. Instead hepursued a rigorousprogram of self-studythat focused onliterature, philosophy,and history andeventually found

employment at theHeckenhauer BookshopintheuniversitytownofTübingen.In 1899 Hesse

published RomantischeLieder (RomanticSongs), his first bookofpoetry, andEine Stundehinter Mitternacht (AnHour After Midnight), aseries of prose poemshailed by Rainer Maria

Rilkeasstanding“ontheperiphery of art.” Hessespent the next severalyearsworkingasaclerkat bookstores incosmopolitan Basel,where he studied arthistory and the writingsof the Swiss culturalhistorian JacobBurckhardt.Hesse brought out his

first novel, Peter

Camenzind, in 1904.Translated into Englishin 1969, this story of afailed writer whoembarksona journey todiscover the worldbecametheprototypeformuch of his fiction. Itssuccess enabled him tomarryandstart a familyin the idyllic Germanvillage of Gaienhofen.His second novel,Unterm Rad (1906;

translatedasBeneaththeWheel m 1968), provedequallypopular.Thetaleof a gifted adolescentcrushed by the brutalexpectationsofhisfatherand teachers, it wasproclaimed a “BlackForest Catcher in theRye” by The NationalObserver. Hesse nextpondered the sources ofcreativity in Gertrud(1910; translated as

Gertrude in 1955), anovel of self-appraisalthat strongly resemblesearly works by ThomasMann. Chronicwanderlust coupledwithgrowing discontent overhis bucolic Rousseau-like existence took himonaformativetriptotheEast Indies in 1911.Hesse’s troubleddomestic life providedthe basis for Rosshalde

(1914; translated asRosshalde 1970), theclassictaleofamantornbetween obligations tohis family and thelonging for a spiritualfulfillment that existsoutside the confines ofconventional society.The Christian ScienceMonitorcalledit“akindof disguised biography,an account of Hesse’squite private turmoil on

theeveofwar.”The outbreak of

World War I brought asharp change inHesse’sfortunes. An outspokenpacifist, he volunteeredfor service at theGerman consulate inBern and devotedhimself to relief workfor German interneesand prisoners of war.“The protest against the

war, against the raw,bloodthirsty stupidity ofmankind, the protestagainst the‘intellectuals,’especiallythosewhopreachedwar,constituted for me abitter necessity andduty,” Hesse laterobserved.Yetaseriesofarticles on war andpolitics written at thetime alienated thegenerally conservative

and nationalistic publicthat had bought hisbooksupuntilthen.During this same

period Hesse enduredtwo personal tragedies,the death of his fatherand the collapse of hismarriage. In 1916 hesuffered a completenervous breakdown andentered a sanatoriumnearLucerne toundergo

psychoanalysis with adisciple of Carl Jung’s.Seeking isolation,Hessesettled by himself inMontagnola, a remotemountain village on theoutskirts of Lugano insoutheasternSwitzerland, in thespringof1919.The publication of

Demian that same year(it appeared in English

in 1923) brought Hesseimmediate acclaimthroughout Europe.Based on his experiencewith Jungian analysis,this breakthrough novellaunched a series ofworks chronicling theWegnachInnen(inwardjourney) that he hopedwould lead to self-knowledge. In theexistential tradition ofNietzsche and

Dostoevsky, Hesseportraystheturmoilofadocileyoungmanwhoisforced to questiontraditional bourgeoisbeliefs regardingfamily,society, and faith. “Theelectrifying influenceexercised on a wholegeneration just after theFirst World War byDemian… isunforgettable,” recalledThomas Mann. “With

uncanny accuracy thispoetic work struck thenerve of the times andcalled forth gratefulrapture from a wholeyouthful generationwhobelieved that aninterpreter of theirinnermost life had risenfrom their own midst.”“The autobiographicalundercurrent givesDemian anExistentialistintensity and a depth of

understanding rare incontemporary fiction,”said the SaturdayReview. “Hesse is not atraditional teller of talesbut a novelist of ideasandamoralist of ahighorder.”“Almost all the prose

worksIhavewrittenarebiographiesofthesoul,”Hesse asserted,“monologues inwhicha

single individual isobserved in relation totheworldandtohisownego.” Exploring theoriental religiousconcepts that becamecentral to his work, hewroteSiddhartha (1922;translatedintoEnglishin1951), which recountsthespiritualevolutionofaman living in India atthe time of Buddha.Perhaps more than any

other of his novels,Siddhartha reflectsHesse’s belief that “thetrueprofessionofmanistofindhiswayhimself.”“Forme,Siddharthaisamore potent medicinethan the NewTestament,” said HenryMiller; Kurt Vonnegut,Jr., deemed it Hesse’s“simplest, clearest,mostinnocent tale of seekingandfinding.”

Hesse again utilizedthe tools ofpsychoanalysis in DerSteppenwolf‘(1927’;translated asSteppenwolf in 1929), anovel that probes the“two souls” of areclusive intellectualwhose animalistic urgesstrive for release.Inspiredbythedissoluteaftermath of Hesse’sfailed second marriage

to a much youngerwoman,itisarguablyhismost autobiographicalbook,onehailedbyTheNew York Times as “asavage indictment ofbourgeois society.”Hesse pursued similarthemes in Narziss undGoldmund (1930;translated as NarcissusandGoldmund1968)bypresenting parallelbiographiesofanascetic

monk and a rapturousman of the world.Thomas Mann calledNarcissus andGoldmund “a poeticnoveluniqueinitspurityand fascination.” TheNew York Times BookReview agreed. “Whatmakesthisshortbooksolimitlessly vast is thebody-and-soul-shakingdebate that runs throughit, which it has the

honestyandcouragenotto resolve: between theflesh and the spirit, artand scientific orreligious speculation,action andcontemplation, betweenthe wayfaring and thesedentaryinus.”In 1931, Hesse

married for a third timeand moved to a newhome in Montagnola.

His happiness isreflected in DieMorgenlandfahrt (1932;translated as TheJourney to the East m1957), a personal fairytale in which hereaffirms his belief inthe superiority of therealms of art andthought. With Hitler’srise topower,Hesse(bythen a Swiss citizen)began harboring Jewish

refugees and blacklistedartists fleeing the ThirdReich. Soon his workwas declared“undesirable” in NaziGermany. In 1932 hestarted writing thefuturistic novel thatendures as his magnumopus.Publishedin1943,Das Glasperlenspiel(translated asThe GlassBead Game in 1969)takes place in the year

2400 in a Utopian landwhere artists andintellectuals strive toattain “perfection, purebeing, the fullness ofreality.” “The sublimework of [Hesse’s] oldage, The Glass BeadGame [is] drawn fromall sources of humanculture, both East andWest,”observedThomasMann. “This chaste anddaring work, full of

fantasy and at the sametime highly intellectual,is full of tradition,loyalty, memory,secrecy—without beingin the least derivative.”AdmiredaswellbyT.S.Eliot andAndréGide, itiswidelyseenasthekeyto a full understandingofHesse’sthought.Hesse was awarded

the Nobel Prize for

Literaturein1946.KriegundFrieden,hislifelongreflections on war andpolitics, came out thesame year; in 1971 itappearedinEnglishasIfthe War Goes On. Oneof Europe’s grand oldmen of letters, Hessespent his final years inseclusion atMontagnolacompiling volumes ofhis poetry, essays, andcorrespondence.

Unaware that he wassufferingfromleukemia,Hermann Hesse died inhissleepfromacerebralhemorrhage on August9, 1962. “The entireworkofHesseisapoeticeffortforemancipation,”said André Gide. “Ineach of [his books] Irefind the sameindecision of soul; itscontoursare illusiveandits aspirations, infinite.”

Hesse’s longtime friendandcountrymanThomasMann remarked, “Formehislifework,withitsroots in native Germanromanticism, for all itsoccasional strangeindividualism, its nowhumorouslypetulantandnowmysticallyyearningestrangement from theworld and the times,belongs to the highestand purest spiritual

aspirationsand laborsofourepoch.”Hesse’s call for self-

realization coupled withhis celebration ofEastern mysticismearned him a hugefollowing amongAmerica’scounterculture in thedecade after his death.“Rarely, since ageneration of young

Europeans deckedthemselves out in theblue frock coat andyellow vest of Goethe’sWerther, has the youthculture of an agerespondedsorapturouslyto a writer,” observedthe Hesse scholarTheodore Ziolkowski in1973. Hesse “is deeplyloved by those amongthe American youngwhoarequesting,”wrote

KurtVonnegut, Jr. “Thewanderers of Hessealways find somethingsatisfying—holiness,wisdom,hope.”And theLondon Times LiterarySupplement concluded,“The Hesse we readtodayisinfactnolongerthebittersweetelegistofWilhelmine Germany,the anguishedintellectual entre deuxguerres, the serene

hermit of Montagnolaaprès Nobel. The culthas adjusted thekaleidoscope of Hesse’sworks in such a way asto bring into focus aHesse for the 1970s:environmentalist, waropponent, enemy of acomputerizedtechnocracy, who seeksheightened awareness…and who is prepared tosacrificeanythingbuthis

integrity for the sake ofhisfreedom.”

CONTENTS

BIOGRAPHICALNOTE

INTRODUCTION by TomRobbinsTRANSLATOR’SPREFACE

SIDDHARTHA

PARTONE

THESONOFTHEBRAHMIN

AMONGTHESAMANAS

GAUTAMA

AWAKENING

PARTTWO

KAMALA

AMONGTHECHILDPEOPLESANSARABESIDETHERIVER

THEFERRYMAN

THESONOM

GOVINDA

GLOSSARY OF SANSKRITTERMS, DEITIES, PERSONS,PLACES,ANDTHINGS

READINGGROUPGUIDE

INTRODUCTION

TomRobbins

Dostoevsky is credited with havinginvented the psychological novel—although considering the millions ofpagesoftediouslyinternalized,angst-riddenprose that have fluttered in onthe Russian’s long, dark coattails(fictionthathasbeenbothacrimeanda punishment), maybe “accused of”ratherthan“creditedwith”isthemoreappropriatephrase.

The problem, for writers andreaders alike, with all this inwardgazing ishow fewofus evergaze infar enough to justify the strain. Toreap lasting rewards, to escape thebriarpatchofperpetuatedtrauma, thegazer must delve beneath the egolevel, the personality level, the levelof genetic predisposition andenvironmental conditioning, mustpenetrate more deeply even than thearchetypal underworld. One of theveryrareWesternauthorsnotonlytoplumb those arcane depths but to doso in a narratively entertaining,stylisticallyengagingfashion(therebymaking Dostoevsky’s overheatedlemons into cool and refreshing,thoughhighlypotent, lemonade),wasHermannHesse.

SteepedinGermanmysticismand

Asianphilosophy(hetraveledtwicetotheFarEast),andhavingexpandedhisawareness by ingesting on severaloccasions hallucinogenic mescaline,Hesse (1877-1962) was perhapsideallyqualifiedtoinventanewkindof psychological novel. Gradually hehadcometorecognizethatveryoftendespair,misery, and degeneration aresimplythepricewe’rechargedforourbadattitudesandmyopicvision.Oncehebecameconvincedthatwehumanscan alter reality by altering ourperceptions of it, the lid was off thepitcher.Hessewenttohiswritingdeskandpouredthenectar.

Havingshiftedhis focus from theconcerns that had traditionallyoccupied serious novelists (socio-economic conflicts, physicalchallenges, romantic entanglements);

from familiar territory to regionsoutside the zone of normalexpectations, Hesse was now in aposition to compose startling newnovels-of-ideas, novels containingsuch ideas, in fact, as had seldom ifever been expressed in modernliterature.

Like the existentialists, Hesseseemedtoviewthemassofhumanityas one big twitchy, squealy, many-headed beast caught in a trap of itsown making. Unlike Camus andSartre,however,hesuspectedthetrapmight be sprung through a kind ofalchemical transformation and/orspiritualtranscendence.

Alchemical transformation heexplored brilliantly in his 1927masterpiece, Steppenwolf, destined to

become, for obvious reasons, afavorite of the psychedeliccounterculture. As far out as it was,however, Steppenwolf was pungentwith the musk of Old Europe. Fiveyears earlier, exhaling a sandal-woodeffluviumofborrowedspirituality,hepenned a shorter, though no lesscourageous, novel that follows thecorkscrew path of a well-born EastIndianwho is fervently, if somewhaterratically, searching for ultimatemeaninginlife:anambitious“goldenchild” whose goals do not lie at thetop of any ordinary ladder, a restlesstraveler whose destination could notbefoundonanymap.

In the parlance of cinema,Siddhartha would qualify as a “roadmovie.”Butbecausetheprotagonist’spersonalmottothroughouthisvarious

andsometimescontradictorystagesofdevelopment remains “Thinking,waiting, fasting,” and because hewandersbarefootinanage(circa500B.C.)when therewasnaryapedal topush to the metal, he logs in a tinyfraction of the mileage accumulatedby,say,thecharactersinOntheRoad.

Siddhartha nonetheless does bearasuperficialresemblancetoKerouac’snovel, in which, despite theirrelentless pursuit of kicks, thebeatniks maintain a fascination withEastern philosophy, and, howevercrudely, demonstrate a hunger forspiritual illumination. For his part,Siddharthaalsotakesadetourthroughthe pleasurelands of flesh andfermentation before moving on tomorerefinedground.

Judeo-Christian-Islamic ethos tothe contrary, there is an extremelyblurrylinebetweenanappetiteforlifeand a yearning for God, and bothKerouac and Hesse intuited thissensual/spiritual interface, though,eachforhisownreasons,neitherwasentirelycomfortablewithameltingofthe largely artificial boundary:Kerouac’s fictional hipsters wererestrained by the author’s ownCatholic guilt, whereas Hesse’spilgrim temporarily loses himself inthe realm of the senses, therebyderailinghis quest for unionwith theAbsolute and illustrating the perilsthatcanarisewhenthespirit isvotedoutofofficebythebody.(Itshouldgowithout saying that the opposite isequallyasdangerous.)

At thispoint itmightbe tempting

tocompareSiddharthatoanotherfinenovel about a youngman’s quest formeaning, W Somerset Maugham’sTheRazor’sEdge,butwhileparallelsdefinitely exist, the differencesbetween the two books are nearly aspronounced as those between aChicagohotdogandaBombaycurry.Maugham’ssearcher,LarryDarrell,isaMidwesternAmericanwhostartsoutnot knowing squat about matters ofenlightenment. Siddhartha, on theother hand, is up to his shining browin holy ritual even as a boy. ThedissatisfiedDarrell,merely“hopingtomake something interesting of hislife,” begins by rejecting a career inbourgeois business. The dissatisfiedSiddhartha, a brahmin’s son,commences his journey by rejectingthe same sacred methodologies that

Darrell eventuallyendsupembracing(tohisbetterment,itmustbesaid).

Indeed,Siddhartha’s journeymaybe plotted as a long succession ofjettisoned doctrines and renounceddogmas. Everyone around himbelieves him destined to mature intoanall-starbrahmin,theLeBronJamesofHindu theology, but unfulfilled byablutions,scripturesanddiscourse,hewalks away from guaranteed successin the religious arena. Later, he alsospurns an opportunity to hang withGautama (the SublimeOne, himself),obviouslynotknowing—ornotcaring—which side his bread is buddhaedon.

Siddhartha turns orthodoxHinduism inside out, flicks thetranslucent lint fromBuddha’smuch-

contemplated navel, and deserts theextremist samanas with whom he’sbeen starving himself in the forest;becoming increasinglyconvinced that“a true seeker could not acceptdoctrine.” Finally, the seeker evenrejects seeking, concluding thatultimaterealitycanneverbecapturedin a net made of thought, and that“knowing has no worse enemy thanthedesiretoknow.”Strongstuff.

Lest his ongoing rebellion smackof impudenceorevennihilism, itcanbe reported, without giving away toomuch to the first-time reader, thatSiddhartha’s litany of “No’s” leadshim to one loud, resounding “Yes!”He trashes the This, he torches theThat, only to arrive at an acceptanceoftheAll.Intheend,evenmankind’s“nervous, proud little ego” is no

longer despised as our worst enemybut rather accepted as just anotherpiece of foolishness to be smiled ataffectionatelyandcalmlyobserved.

To reach that plateau of sereneaffirmation, Siddhartha has to reducemainstream Hinduism and nascentBuddhism to their essence, and whatremains in the bottom of his doubleboiler is a systemless system thatperhapsmostcloselyresemblesZen.

Forreasonsofhistoricalaccuracy,ZencouldnothavebeenmentionedinHesse’s book, but the attitudes thatweretoengenderZen,toshapeit,arevery much at play here. There is,however, one glaring discrepancy.TheZenperspective is inmanywaysacomicperspective,andSiddharthaisas humorless as a hot rock. (We

shouldn’t blame this on Hesse’sGermanic temperament. Germansactuallyhaveagreatsenseofhumor:Otherwisethere’dbenosuchthingaslederhosen.)

Those of us who believe thatwisdom unleavened by humor isfundamentally unwise are destined tobe confounded by Siddhartha, for asarid of cosmicwit as it is, it radiatesmoregenuinewisdomthanjustaboutany novel ever published. How canthis be? Well, although Siddharthaisn’texactlyabarreloflaughs,itdoespaytributetolaughter.Atthesaddestmoment in his life, the protagonisthears a river laughing at his despair,laughingat timeandatall theworld,and,buoyed, ismoved toaskhimselfifexistenceisnotacomedy.

Siddhartha is attuned to the riverby his friend and confidant, a simpleferryman who is perhaps the truebuddha in this tale; and the eternalfreedom resonant in the stream’sthousand voices emboldens thepilgrim, too, to letgo, loosenup,andbecome eternally free. If thesoundtrack of Steppenwolf is themusic of Mozart, drawing downgenius from the stars, Siddhartha’ssoundtrack is a raga of river burbleandleafrustle:elementarysongswitha natural immunity to the virus ofopportunismthatseemssoonerorlaterto infect society’s every attempt atorganizedexpression.

Hardly a repository of proto-NewAge, feel-goodfluff,Siddharthatotessome heavy emotional freight—but itbears its loadwith theattentivegrace

of aZenmaster carrying a bundle offirewoodbacktohishut.

Atoughlittlewind-tossedblossomofanovel,Siddharthacomestorestinaplaceofdeepwisdom.Ah,butwhileithascontinued,decadeafterdecade,to inspire its readers, to expose themto the mysteries of wisdom, it hasnever pretended that it could makethem more wise. The road toenlightenment is an unpaved road,closed to public transportation. It isbecausewemust travel its lastmilesunencumbered and alone that Hessehas his traveler remind usemphatically that“Wisdomcannotbepassedon.”Andthatremindermaybethe hardest, most valuable jewel inthisliterarylotus.

TOM ROBBINS is the author of

eightoffbeatbutpopularnovels,allofwhich remain in print. They includeEven Cowgirls Get the Blues,Jitterbug Perfume, Fierce InvalidsHome from Hot Climates, and VillaIncognito.His newmostly nonfictioncollection is Wild Ducks FlyingBackward.

TRANSLATOR’SPREFACE

Hermann Hesse’s Siddhartha: AnIndian Poem is a novel that inhabitstwo distinct locations: an imaginedIndia of the fifth and sixth centuriesB.C., and a Machine Age Europe inwhich the heightened efficiency andautomationofeverydaylifeprompteda greatmanywriters, not just Hesse,toretreatintovarioussortsofpastoralidylls. These modern idylls weregenerally set not in mountains andmeadows but in the landscapes of

interior existence. Less than ageneration had passed sinceSigmundFreudhadmappedoutthecontoursofthehumanpsyche,andHessewasoneofmanywritersof theperiod(amongthemRobertMusil,ArthurSchnitzler,Frank Wedekind, Hugo vonHofmannsthal, Robert Walser,Thomas Mann, and Franz Kafka) todevote themselves to exploring themental—and often sexual—coming-of-age of youngmen in aworld thattook little interest in theirdevelopment as individuals. Hessebegan writing Siddhartha in 1919,onlyayearafterthecloseoftheFirstWorld War, which had devastatedEurope with unprecedented violence.This war, fought with the modernmachinery of airplanes, tanks, andbombs, took the lives of 8.5 million

menacrossEurope(withafurther7.8million missing in action), and ofthosewhoreturnedhome,manywerephysically and psychologicallyscarred. There was scarcely a familyanywhere in Germany not directlyimpacted by this war. Before it wasover, Hesse fled to neutralSwitzerland,where he fought bitterlyagainst the war machine in animpassioned series of newspaperarticles while undergoingpsychoanalysis with a pupil of CarlJung’s.

Siddhartha, then, with itsemphasis on soul-searching andharmony, on stillness, balance, andpeace, represented an escape to aworld inwhich a boy could grow upuntouchedbystrifeanddevotehislifeto seeking the path of his own

personaldevelopment.Thatthisquestintersects only loosely with theBuddhist and Hindu doctrines Hesseinvokes inhisnovelneednot troubleusasreaders:Siddharthaisachildofhistime,afindesiècleyouthwhohasputonaloinclothandmonk’srobefora fancy-dress ball. The novel is notintendedtoshowusIndiaasitwasinthe age of the Buddha. (One mightnotice, for one thing—as TomRobbins did when he read this newtranslation—thatHesse has populatedhis novel with improbable fauna:chimpanzeesand jaguars,creatures tobe found in India only in zoos.) Infact,Siddharthaisnothinglessthanamodern bildungsroman in whichIndian religions—pursued here notfroman ethnographic impulse, out ofa desire for accuracy, but rather as

dictated by the author’s inspiration—become a powerful metaphor whosevery distance from the Europeanreality of the time just goes to showhowunbearablethatrealitywas.

Hesse subtitled Siddhartha “eineindische Dichtung,” “an Indianpoem.”ThewordDichtungmightalsohave been translated as “fiction,” butthe overtones of the word are toopostmodern. Dichtung also has adistinguished history in Germany, acountry that calls itself the land ofpoets and thinkers; it appears, forexample, in the title of JohannWolfgang von Goethe’s memoirPoetry and Truth, where it signifiesnot only written lines of verse, butmake-believe in general. In truth,Hesse’snovelisaworkofpoetry,andIhavetriedtopreservehisattentionto

language in my translation.Siddharthaissuffusedwithasenseofharmony and measure, and Hesse’ssentences tend to fall just so, with agreat deal of gravitas and a certaindecadent lushness. He often repeatsphrases, which has the effect of achantorincantation.Thusitiscrucialfor the sentences of the translation tohave an elegant, melodious cadence,richinassonance—this iswhatHessereadslikeinGerman.Whatmakesthebook luminous in the original is theway the quest for perfection/Nirvanais reflected in thequiet beautyof theprose.

CertainchoicesIhavemadeinthetranslation are worth noting. TheGerman word Ich—literally “I” inGerman—corresponds roughly to theEnglish“self,”but it is also theword

Freud picked for what in English iscalled the “ego,” and so I translate itas one or the other as contextdemands; for Hesse, the word meantboth at once. The German Lieber—literally “dear one” or “belovedone”—is such a common form ofaddress and appears so often in thenovel that I have given it multipleincarnationsas “friend,”“my friend,”“dear friend,” and even, in oneinstance, “my love.” I thought abouttranslating Hesse’s Lehre as“dharma,”sincethatwordisnowpartof our vocabulary in English, butdecided to stick with the Englishequivalents “doctrine” and“teachings,”whichserve justaswell.Finally, Hesse’s novel contains astriking quantity of languagecommonly associated with Christian

theology,andIwascarefultopreservetheseechoesinthetranslationaswell,withwordslike“bliss,”“redemption,”“preach,” “novice,” “saint,” and“sermon,” as well as Govinda’simpassioned question to his friendSiddhartha: “Why have you forsakenme?”

I am grateful to Kristin Scheibleand Richard Davis, who generouslyshared with me their expertise onIndian religions; to the Goethe-Institute Chicago, which sponsored astay at the Literarisches ColloquiumBerlin while I worked on thetranslation; to Judy Sternlight andJanet Baker for their editorialministrations; and to my husband,DonByron,formorethanIcansay.

—SUSANBERNOFSKY

THESONOFTHEBRAHMIN

In the shade of the house, inthe sunlight on the riverbankwheretheboatsweremoored,in the shade of the sal woodand the shadeof the fig tree,Siddhartha grew up, theBrahmin’shandsomeson,theyoung falcon, together with

hisfriendGovinda,thesonofaBrahmin.Sunlightdarkenedhis fair shoulders on theriverbank as he bathed,performedtheholyablutions,the holy sacrifices. Shadepoured into his dark eyes inthemangogroveasheplayedwith the other boys, listenedto his mother’s songs,performedtheholysacrifices,heard the teachings of hislearned father and the wisemen’s counsels. Siddhartha

had long since begun to joininthewisemen’scounsels,topracticewithGovinda theartof wrestling with words, topracticewithGovinda theartofcontemplation, thedutyofmeditation. He had masteredOm, the Word of Words,learned to speak itsoundlessly into himselfwhile drawing a breath, tospeakitoutsoundlesslyashisbreath was released, his soulcollected, brow shining with

his mind’s clear thought. Hehad learned to feel Atman’spresence at the core of hisbeing, inextinguishable, onewiththeuniverse.Joyleapedintohisfather’s

heart at the thought of hisson, this studious boy withhis thirst for knowledge; heenvisionedhimgrowinguptobe a great wise man andpriest, a prince amongBrahmins.

Delight leaped into hismother’s breast when shebeheld him, watched him ashewalkedand sat and stood,Siddhartha, the stronghandsome boy walking onslenderlegs,greetingherwithflawlessgrace.Lovestirredintheheartsof

the young Brahmin girlswhen Siddhartha walkedthrough the streets of theirtown with his radiant brow,

hisregaleye,hisnarrowhips.But none of them loved

him more dearly thanGovinda, his friend, theBrahmin’s son. He lovedSiddhartha’s eyes and hissweetvoice,lovedthewayhewalkedandtheflawlessgraceof his movements; he lovedallthatSiddharthadidandallhe said and most of all heloved his mind, his noble,passionate thoughts, his

ardentwill,hisnoblecalling.Govinda knew: This wouldbe no ordinary Brahmin, noindolent pen pusheroverseeing the sacrifices, nogreedy hawker ofincantations,novain,shalloworator, no wicked, deceitfulpriest, and no foolish, goodsheep among the herd of themultitude. Nor did he,Govinda, have any intentionof becoming such a creature,one of the tens of thousands

of ordinary Brahmins. Hiswish was to followSiddhartha, the beloved,splendid one. And ifSiddhartha should everbecomeagod,ifhewereeverto take his place among theRadiant Ones, Govindawished to follow him, as hisfriend, his companion, hisservant, his spear bearer, hisshadow.Thus was Siddhartha

beloved by all. He broughtthemalljoy,filledthemwithdelight.To himself, though,

Siddhartha brought no joy,gave no delight. Strollingalong the rosy pathways ofthe fig garden, seated in theblue-tinged shade of theGrove of Contemplation,washinghislimbsinthedailyexpiatory baths, performingsacrifices in the deep-

shadowedmangowood,withhisgesturesofflawlessgrace,hewas beloved by all, a joyto all, yetwas his own heartbereftofjoyDreamsassailedhim,and troubled thoughts—eddyingupfromthewavesofthe river, sparkling downfrom the stars at night,meltingoutofthesun’srays;dreams came to him, and adisquietofthesoulwaftinginthesmokefromthesacrifices,murmuring among the verses

of the Rig-Veda, welling upin the teachings of the oldBrahmins.Siddhartha had begun to

harbor discontent. He hadbeguntofeelthathisfather’slove and the love of hismother, even the love of hisfriend Govinda, would notalwaysand forever suffice togladden him, content him,sate him, fulfill him. He hadbegun to suspect that his

venerablefatherandhisotherteachers, all wise Brahmins,had already given him therichest and best part of theirwisdom, had already pouredtheir plenty into his waitingvessel,yetthevesselwasnotfull: His mind was notcontent,hissoulnotatpeace,his heart restless. Theablutionsweregood,buttheywere only water; they couldnotwashawaysin,couldnotquench his mind’s thirst or

dispel his heart’s fear. Thesacrificesand the invocationsof the gods were mostexcellent—but was this all?Did the sacrifices bringhappiness? And what of thegods?Was it really Prajapatiwho had created the world?Was itnot ratherAtman,He,the Singular, the One andOnly?Weren’tthegodsmereshapes,creationslikeyouandme, subject to time,transitory? And was it then

good, was it proper, was itmeaningful, a noble act, tosacrifice to the gods? Towhom else should onesacrifice, towhomelse showdevotion, if not to Him, theSingular,Atman?Andwherewas Atman to be found,where did He reside, wheredid His eternal heart liebeating? Where else butwithin oneself, in theinnermost indestructible coreeachman carries inside him.

But where, where was thisSelf, this innermost, utmostthing? It was not flesh andbone, it was not thought andnot consciousness, at leastaccording to the wise men’steachings.Wherewasitthen,where? To penetrate to thispoint, to reach the Self,oneself, Atman—could therebe any other path worthseeking?Yet thiswas a pathno one was showing him; itwasapathnooneknew,not

his father, not the teachersand wise men, not the holysongs intoned at thesacrifices! They kneweverything, these Brahminsand their holy books,everything, and they hadapplied themselves toeverything, more thaneverything: to thecreationofthe world, the origins ofspeech,offood,ofinhalationand exhalation; to the ordersofthesenses,thedeedsofthe

gods—they knew infinitelymany things—but was therevalue in knowing all thesethings without knowing theOne, the Only thing, thatwhich was important aboveall else, thatwas, indeed, thesolematterofimportance?Tobesure,manyversesin

theholybooks, above all theUpanishads of the Sama-Veda, spoke of thisinnermost, utmost thing:

splendidverses.“Yoursoulistheentireworld”waswrittenthere, and it was written aswellthatinsleep,thedeepestsleep, man entered theinnermost core of his beingand dwelt in Atman. Therewasgloriouswisdomintheseverses; all the knowledge ofthewisestmenwascollectedhere inmagicwords, pure asthe honey collected by bees.It was not to be disregarded,this massive sum of

knowledge that had beencollected here by countlessgenerations of wiseBrahmins.But where were the

Brahmins, where the priests,where the wise men orpenitentswho had succeedednot merely in knowing thisknowledge but in living it?Where was the master whohadbeenabletotransporthisownbeing-at-home-in-Atman

from sleep to the wakingrealm, to life, to all hiscomings and goings, hiseverywordanddeed?Siddhartha knew a great

many venerable Brahmins,above all his father, a pure,learned, utterly venerableman. Worthy of admirationwashis father, still and regalhis bearing, his life pure, hiswords full of wisdom; fineandnoblethoughtsresidedin

his brow. But even he, whowas possessed of suchknowledge, did he dwell inbliss, did he know peace?Wasnothetooonlyaseeker,a man tormented by thirst?Was he not compelled todrink again and again fromthe holy springs, a thirstyman drinking in thesacrifices, the books, thedialogues of the Brahmins?Why must he, who waswithoutblame,washawaysin

day after day, labor daily tocleanse himself, each dayanew?WasnotAtmanwithinhim? Did not the ancientsource of all springs flowwithin his own heart? Thiswaswhatmust be found, thefountainhead within one’sown being; you had tomakeit your own! All else wassearching,detour,confusion.Such was the nature of

Siddhartha’s thoughts; this

washisthirst,thishissorrow.Oftenherecitedtohimself

the words of a ChandogyaUpanishad:“Verily,thenameof the Brahman is Satyam;truly, he who knows thisenters each day into theheavenly world.” It oftenseemed near at hand, thisheavenly world, but neveronce had he succeeded inreaching it, inquenching thatfinal thirst. And of all the

wiseandwisestmenheknewand whose teachings heenjoyed,notasingleonehadsucceeded in reaching it, thisheavenly world; not one hadfully quenched that eternalthirst.“Govinda,”Siddharthasaid

to his friend. “Govinda,beloved one, come under thebanyan tree with me; let uspracticesamadhi.”To the banyan they went

and sat down beneath it,Siddhartha here andGovindaatadistanceoftwentypaces.As he sat down, ready tospeak the Om, Siddharthamurmuredthisverse:

“Omisthebow;thearrowissoul.Brahmanisthearrow’smark;Strikeitwithsteadyaim.”

When the usual time forthe meditation exercise hadpassed, Govinda arose.Evening had come; it was

timetobegintheablutionsofthe eventide. He calledSiddhartha’s name;Siddhartha gave no answer.Siddhartha sat rapt, his eyesfixed unmoving upon a fardistant point; the tip of histongue stuck out frombetweenhis teeth;heseemednot to be breathing. Thus hesat, cloaked in samadhi,thinking Om, his soul anarrowonitswaytoBrahman.

One day, Samanas passedthrough Siddhartha’s town:ascetic pilgrims, three gauntlifeless men, neither old noryoung, with bloody, dust-covered shoulders, all butnaked, singed by the sun,shrouded in isolation, foreigntotheworldandhostile to it,strangersandwizenedjackalsamong men. The hot breathofairthatfollowedthemborethe scent of silent passion, aduty that meant destruction,

the merciless eradication ofego.In the evening, when the

hour of contemplation hadpassed, Siddhartha said toGovinda, “Tomorrowmorning, my friend,Siddhartha will go to theSamanas. He will become aSamana.”Govinda turned pale when

heheardthesewordsandsawinhisfriend’simpassiveface

aresolveasunwaveringasanarrow shot from the bow.Atonce, with a single glance,Govinda realized: Now it isbeginning,nowSiddhartha isonhisway,nowhisdestinyisbeginning to bud and, alongwithit,mineaswell.Andheturned as pale as a dried-outbananapeel.“Oh,Siddhartha,”hecried,

“will your father permitthis?”

Siddhartha glanced over athim like a man awakening.Swift as an arrow he readGovinda’ssoul,readthefear,readthedevotion.“Oh, Govinda,” he said

softly, “let us not squanderwords. Tomorrow atdaybreakIbeginthelifeofaSamana. Speak no more ofit.”Siddhartha went into the

room where his father was

seated upon a mat made ofbastfiber;hecameupbehindhim and remained standingthereuntilhisfatherfelttherewassomeonebehindhim.“Isthat you, Siddhartha?” theBrahmin said. “Then saywhat you have come here tosay.”Said Siddhartha, “With

yourpermission,myfather. Ihavecometotellyouthatitismywish to leaveyourhouse

tomorrow and join theascetics. I must become aSamana. May my father notbeopposedtomywish.”The Brahmin was silent

and remained silent so longthat the stars drifted in thesmall window and changedtheirshapebefore thesilencein the room reached its end.Mute and motionless stoodthesonwithhisarmscrossed,muteandmotionlessuponhis

mat sat the father, and thestars moved across the sky.Thenthefathersaid,“Itisnotfitting for aBrahmin to uttersharp, angry words. But myheart is filled withdispleasure. I do not wish tohear this request from yourlipsasecondtime.”SlowlytheBrahminroseto

his feet. Siddhartha stood insilencewithhisarmscrossed.“Why do you wait here?”

thefatherasked.“You know why I wait,”

Siddharthareplied.Full of displeasure, the

father left the room; full ofdispleasure, he went to hisbedandlaydown.An hour later, as no sleep

would enter his eyes, theBrahmin got up, paced backandforth,andwentoutofthehouse.Helookedthroughthesmall window of the room

and saw Siddhartha standingthere, his arms crossed,unmoving.The light cloth ofhis tunic was shimmeringpale. His heart full ofdisquiet,thefatherwentbacktobed.An hour later, as no sleep

would yet enter his eyes, theBrahmin got up once more,paced back and forth, andwent out of the house. Themoon had risen. He looked

through the window into theroom;therestoodSiddhartha,unmoving, his arms crossed,moonlight gleaming on hisbare shins. His heart full ofapprehension, the fatherreturnedtobed.An hour later, and again

two hours later, he went outand looked through thesmallwindow to see Siddharthastanding there: in themoonlight, in thestarlight, in

the darkness. He went againfromhourtohour,insilence,looked into the room, andsaw his son standing thereunmoving,andhisheartfilledwith anger, with disquiet,withtrepidation,withsorrow.And in the last hour of

night before day began, hegot up once more, went intothe room, and saw the youthstanding there;he looked talltohimandlikeastranger.

“Siddhartha,” he said,“whydoyouwaithere?”“Youknowwhy.”“Will you remain standing

here, waiting, until daycomes, noon comes, eveningcomes?”“I will remain standing

here,waiting.”“You will grow tired,

Siddhartha.”“Iwillgrowtired.”

“You will fall asleep,Siddhartha.”“Iwillnotfallasleep.”“Youwilldie,Siddhartha.”“Iwilldie.”“Andyouwouldratherdie

thanobeyyourfather?”“Siddhartha has always

obeyedhisfather.”“So youwill give up your

plan?”“Siddhartha will do as his

fatherinstructshim.”The first light of day fell

into the room. The Brahminsaw that Siddhartha’s kneeswere trembling quietly. InSiddhartha’s face he saw notrembling;hiseyesgazedintothe distance straight beforehim.The father realized thenthatSiddharthawasnolongerwith him in the place of hisbirth.Hissonhadalreadylefthimbehind.

The father touchedSiddhartha’sshoulder.“You will go,” he said.

“Go to the forest and be aSamana. If you find bliss inthe forest, come and teach itto me. If you finddisappointment, return to meand we will once moresacrifice to the gods side byside. Now go and kiss yourmother;tellherwhereyouaregoing.It is timeformetogo

totheriverandbeginmyfirstablutions.”He took his hand fromhis

son’s shoulder andwent out.Siddhartha lurched to oneside when he tried to walk.Forcing his limbs intosubmission, he bowed beforehisfatherandwenttofindhismothertodoashisfatherhadinstructed.Inthefirstlightofdawn,as

he was slowly leaving the

town on his stiff legs, ashadow rose up beside thelast hut, a shadow that hadbeencrouchingthereandnowjoinedthepilgrim:Govinda.“You came,” said

Siddhartha,andsmiled.“Icame,”Govindasaid.

AMONGTHESAMANAS

In the evening of this daythey caught up with theascetics, the gaunt Samanas,and offered to accompanythem, promising obedience.Theywereaccepted.Siddharthagavehisrobeto

a poor Brahmin on the road.

He now wore only hisloincloth and an earth-huedwrap that had been cut butnotsewn.Heateonlyonceaday, and only food that hadnot been cooked. He fastedforfifteendays.Hefastedfortwenty-eight days. The fleshvanished fromhis thighs andcheeks.Hot tears flickered inhis enlarged eyes, the nailsgrew long on his witheringfingers, and from his chingrewadry,patchybeard.His

gaze was like ice when hecameuponwomen;hismouthtwitchedwithcontemptwhenhewalkedthroughatownfullof elegantly clothed people.Heobservedmerchantsdoingbusiness,princesontheirwayto hunt, the bereavedmourning their dead, whoressoliciting, doctors tending topatients, priests choosing thedaywhentheseedswouldbesown, lovers making love,mothers nursing their infants

—and all these things wereunworthy of being lookeduponbyhim; itwasalla lie,itallstank,stankoflies,itallgave the illusion of meaningand happiness and beauty,and all of it was justputrefaction that no onewould admit to. Bitter wasthe taste of the world. Lifewasatorment.Before him, Siddhartha

sawa singlegoal: tobecome

empty,emptyofthirst,emptyof want, empty of dream,empty of joy and sorrow.Tolettheegoperish,tobe“I”nolonger, to find peacewith anempty heart and await themiraculouswiththoughtsfreeof Self. This was his goal.When all ego had beenovercome, had perished,when every longing andevery drive in his heart hadfallen silent, only then couldtheUtmostawaken, thegreat

secret, that innermostcoreofbeingthatisnolongerSelf.Silent, Siddhartha stood

beneath the sun’s verticalrays, glowing with pain,glowing with thirst—stoodthere until he no longer feltpainorthirst.Silent,hestoodin monsoon season; watertrickled from his hair ontofreezing shoulders, overfreezinghipsandlegs,butthepenitentstooduntil shoulders

andlegsnolongerfroze,untiltheyfellsilentandwerestill.Silent, he crouched amongthornbushes while blooddrippedfromhisburningskinand pus dripped from openwounds;Siddhartharemainedthere unyielding, remainedmotionless until no moreblood flowed, nothingpricked any longer, nothingburned.Siddhartha sat upright and

learned to conserve hisbreath,learnedtogetbywithlittle air, learned to shut offhis breathing. He learned,beginningwith his breath, toslow thebeatingofhisheart,learned to decrease hisheartbeats until there werefew of them, almost none atall.Instructed by the eldest of

the Samanas, Siddharthapracticed the eradication of

ego, practiced samadhiaccording to new Samanarules. A heron flew over thebamboo forest—andSiddharthareceivedtheheroninto his soul, flew overforests and mountains, washeron,ate fish, felt thepangsof heron hunger, spoke inheron squawks, died a herondeath. A dead jackal lay onthe sandy bank—andSiddhartha’ssoulslippedintothe corpse, was dead jackal,

lay on the beach, grewbloated, stank, decayed, wastorn apart by hyenas andflayed by vultures, became askeleton, became dust, blewinto the fields. AndSiddhartha’s soul returned—it had died, had decayed,becomedust,ithadtastedthebleakeuphoriaofthecyclicaljourney, and then, freshlythirsty, it waited, crouchinglikeahunterforthegapinthecycle where escape was

possible, where the end ofcausality began, an eternityfree of sorrow. He killed offhis senses, he killed off hismemory, he slipped fromhisSelf to enter a thousand newshapes—was animal, wascadaver, was stone, waswood, was water—and eachtime he awakened he foundhimself once more. The sunwouldbe shining,or else themoon,andhewasoncemoreaSelfoscillatinginthecycle;

he felt thirst, overcame thethirst,feltnewthirst.Siddhartha learned many

things from the Samanas; helearned to walk many pathsleading away from the Self.He walked the path oferadication of ego throughpain, through the voluntarysuffering and overcoming ofpain, of hunger, of thirst, ofweariness. He walked thepath of eradication of ego

through meditation, usingthoughttoemptythemindofall its notions. These andother paths he learned towalk. A thousand times heleft his Self behind, spenthours and days at a timeliberated from it. But just asallthesepathsledawayfromthe Self, the end of each ofthemreturnedhimtoit.Evenif Siddhartha fled the Self athousand times, lingering innothingness,intheanimal,in

stone, his return wasunavoidable, the hourinescapable when he foundhimself once more, insunlight or moonlight, inshadeor rain,andoncemorehewas Self, was Siddhartha,and once more he felt thetormentsofthecycleimposedonhim.Besidehim livedGovinda,

hisshadow,walkingthesamepaths, subjecting himself to

the same exertions. Rarelydid they speak of anythingbeyond what duty and theirexercises required.Sometimes they walkedtogether through the villagesto beg food for themselvesandtheirteachers.“What say you, Govinda,”

Siddhartha inquired on onesuch excursion, “what sayyou:Arewenowfartherthanwe were? Have we reached

goals?”Govindareplied,“Wehave

learned and we are learning.Youwill be a great Samana,Siddhartha. You havemastered each exerciseswiftly and have often beenadmired by the elderSamanas.Youwill be aholymanoneday,OSiddhartha.”Said Siddhartha, “This is

not how matters appear tome, my friend. Everything I

havelearnedtothisdayfromthe Samanas, O Govinda, Imight have learned morequickly and simply. In somebar inastreetfullofwhores,my friend, among the cartdrivers and dice players, Imight have learned thesethings.”Govinda said, “Siddhartha

isjokingwithme.Howcouldyou have learned samadhi,theholdingof thebreath, the

insensibility to hunger andpain among such miserablecreatures?”But Siddhartha spoke

softly, as if speaking tohimself.“Whatismeditation?What is leaving the body?What is fasting? What isholdingthebreath?ItisallanescapefromSelf, it isabriefrespite from the torment ofbeingSelf,abriefnumbingofthepainandsenselessnessof

life.This is the sameescape,the same numbness the oxdriver finds at the inn whenhedrinksafewbowlsofricewine or fermented coconutmilk.Thenhenolongerfeelshis Self, he no longer feelsthe pain of life; he brieflyfinds numbness. Dozing offoverhisbowlofricewine,hefinds just the same thing thatSiddhartha and Govinda findwhen they manage to fleetheir bodies with the help of

lengthy exercises so as tolinger in that-which-is-not-Self This is how it is,Govinda.”Govinda replied, “So you

say, O friend, and yet youknow that Siddhartha is nodriverofoxenandaSamanais no drunkard. It is surelytrue that a drinker findsnumbness,surely true thathebriefly finds respite andescape, but then he returns

from this delusion and findsall as it was. He has notgrownwiser,hasnotgatheredwisdom, has not ascended toahigherrung.”And Siddhartha, smiling,

replied,“ThisIdonotknow;I have never been a drinker.But that I, Siddhartha, findnumbness only briefly inmyexercises and my samadhiand am just as far removedfrom wisdom, from

redemption, aswhen Iwas achild in my mother’s womb,thisIdoknow,Govinda,andknowitwell.”Onyetanotheroccasion,as

Siddhartha was leaving theforest with Govinda to begsustenance for their brothersandteachersinthevillage,hebegantospeak.“And now, Govinda, do

youthinkweareontherightpath?Arewe drawing closer

to knowledge? Are wedrawing closer toredemption? Or are we notperhaps walking in circles—wewhohadhoped to escapethecycle?”Govindareplied,“Wehave

learned much, Siddhartha,and much remains to belearned. We are not walkinginacircle,weareascending;the circle is a spiral, andwehave already climbed many

ofitssteps.”Now Siddhartha asked,

“Howold,would you say, isthe eldestSamana amongus,ourvenerableteacher?”Govinda replied, “The

eldest among us is perhapssixtyyearsofage.”And Siddhartha said, “So

he has lived for sixty yearsand has not yet reachedNirvana.Hewillturnseventyandeighty,andyouandI,we

too will grow old and willcontinue to perform theexercises, to meditate andfast.ButNirvanawill remainoutofreach,bothforhimandforus.OGovinda,itseemstome that of all the Samanasthatexist,thereisperhapsnotone, not a single one, whowill reach Nirvana. We findconsolations, we findnumbness, we learn skillswith which to deceiveourselves. But the essential,

thePathofPaths, thiswedonotfind.”“Ifonly,”Govindasaid,“if

onlyyouwouldnotuttersuchterrifying words, Siddhartha!Howisitpossiblethatamongsomanylearnedmen,amongsomanyBrahmins,amongsomany rigorous and venerableSamanas, among so manyseekers, somanywho are sodeeplydevoted,somanyholymen, none should find the

PathofPaths?”But Siddhartha, in a voice

that held as much sorrow asderision,asoftvoicethatwasin part sad, in part mocking,said, “Soon, Govinda, yourfriend will leave behind thispath of the Samanas that hehas traveled so long at yourside. I am suffering fromthirst,Govinda,anduponthislong Samana path I havefound nothing to slake it.

Always I have thirsted forknowledge, always beenfilled with questions. Yearafter year I questioned theBrahmins, year after yearquestioned the holy Vedas.Perhaps,OGovinda,itwouldhavebeenjustaswell,justasclever and just as salutary,hadIputmyquestionstotherhinoceros bird or thechimpanzee. It has taken melong to learn this, Govinda,and still I am not quite done

learning it: that nothing canbelearned!Thereisinfact—and this I believe—no suchthing as what we call‘learning.’ There is, myfriend,onlyknowing,andthisiseverywhere; it isAtman, itis in me and in you and inevery creature. And so I ambeginning tobelieve that thisknowinghasnoworseenemythan thedesire toknow, thanlearningitself.”

Govinda stopped short inthemiddleoftheroad,raisedhis hands, and said, “If only,Siddhartha, you would notfrightenyourfriendwithsuchspeeches! Truly, your wordsawaken fear in my heart.Consider:Whatwouldremainof the holiness of prayer,whatofthevenerabilityoftheclass of Brahmins, what ofthe holiness of the Samanas,if things were as you say, iftherewerenolearning?What,

O Siddhartha, would thenbecomeof all that isholyonearth,allthathasvalueandisvenerable?”And Govinda murmured a

verse under his breath, aversefromanUpanishad:

“HewhoimmerseshimselfinAtman,ponderingwithpurespirit—The joy of his heart cannot beexpressedinwords.”

Siddhartha was silent. Hewas thinking of the words

Govindahadspoken,thinkingthem through to theirconclusion.Yes, he thought, standing

withbowedhead,whatwouldremain of all that appearedholy to us? What doesremain? What is proving tohave lasting value? And heshookhishead.

OnedaywhenthetwoyouthshadlivedamongtheSamanas

for nearly three years andshared their exercises, wordreachedtheminaroundaboutway, a rumor, a legend: Amanhadbeendiscovered,bythe name of Gautama, theSublime One, the Buddha,who had overcome thesufferingsoftheworldwithinhimself and brought thewheelofrebirthstoahalt.Hewas journeying through thecountryside as an itinerantteacher, surrounded by

disciples, withoutpossessions,without a home,without womenfolk, dressedin the yellow cloak of anascetic butwith joyful brow,aBlessedOne,andBrahminsand princes bowed downbefore him and became hispupils.This legend, this rumor,

thismyth rippled andwaftedthrough the air; in the townsall the Brahmins were

speaking of it, in the foresttheSamanas.Againandagaintheyouthsheard thenameofGautama,theBuddha,utteredby supporters and detractorsalike, in both praise andvituperation.Just as when, in a land

devastated by plague, wordbegins to spread that in suchand such a place there is aman,awiseman,aholderofknowledge,whoseveryword

andbreathhave thepower tocuretheafflicted—justasthisrumorthencirculatesthroughthecountrysideandeveryonespeaksof it,manybelieve it,many are doubtful, butmanyothers set out at once insearch of thiswiseman, thishelper—in just such a waydid this wafting legend ofGautama, the Buddha, thewisemanfromtheraceoftheSakya, make its way acrossthe land. This man, his

believers insisted, waspossessed of the highestknowledge: He couldremember his past lives; hehad attained Nirvana andwould never again return tothe cycle,would never againhave to dive into the murkystream of new shapes.Manysplendid, incredible thingswere said of him: He hadperformed miracles, hadvanquished the devil, hadspokenwiththegods.Buthis

enemies and those who didnot believe in him said thatthis Gautama was a vainseducer who lived a life ofluxury and scoffed atsacrifices,whowasdevoidoflearning and knew neitherexercisesnorself-castigation.Howsweetitsounded,this

legend of the Buddha;enchantmentwafted from thereports. The world, after all,was diseased, life difficult to

bear,andlo!Herewasanewspring bubbling up, amessenger’s cry ringing out,consoling and mild, full ofnoble promises. Everywherethe rumor of the Buddhacould be heard; everywherein the lands of India youthsprickeduptheirearsandwerefilled with longing, withhope; and among theBrahmins’ sons in thevillages and towns everypilgrim and stranger was

welcome who brought newsofhim, theSublimeOne, theSakyamuni.EventotheSamanasinthe

forest, even to Siddhartha,even to Govinda the legendhadmade itsway, bit bybit,in drops, each drop heavywith hope, each drop heavywith doubt. It was not muchspoken of, for the eldest ofthe Samanas was not welldisposed to it. He had heard

that this alleged Buddha hadonce been an ascetic andlived in the forest but hadthen returned to a life ofluxury and worldly pleasure;hedidnotthinkmuchofthisGautama.“O Siddhartha,” Govinda

said one day to his friend,“today I was in the village,and aBrahmin invitedme toenter his home, and in hishome was a Brahmin’s son

fromMagadhawhohad seentheBuddhawithhisowneyesandheardhisdoctrine.Truly,my chest ached with eachbreath, and I thought tomyself, If only the hourwould come when I as well,when the two of us,Siddhartha and I, might hearthe doctrine from the lips ofthat Perfect One! Speak,friend. Should notwe too goto that place and hear thedoctrine from the lips of the

Buddha?”SaidSiddhartha, “I always

thought, O Govinda, thatGovinda would remainamong the Samanas, alwaysbelieved it was his goal toreach the age of sixty andseventy and still to performtheartsandexercisesthatarethe glory of Samanaexistence. But it appears Iknew Govinda too little,knew too little of his heart.

And so now, dearest friend,you wish to take up a newpath and go to the placewhere the Buddha ispreachinghisdoctrine.”Govinda replied,

“Siddhartha is mocking me.Very well, mock as youplease!Buthasthedesire,thelonging to hear this doctrine,notbeenawakened inyouaswell? And did you not oncesaytomethatyouwouldnot

continue to walk the path oftheSamanasmuchlonger?”At this Siddhartha laughed

after his own fashion, thetone of his voice displayingboth a hint of sorrow and ahint of derision, and said,“Well you have spoken,Govinda, quite well, andremembered well, too. Mayyoualsorememberwhatelseyou have heard from me:namely, that I have become

distrustful and weary ofdoctrines and learning andthat I have little faith inwords that come to us fromteachers. But be that as itmay, dear friend, I amprepared to hear theseteachings,thoughinmyheartI believe we have alreadytastedtheirfinestfruit.”Said Govinda, “Your

willingnessdelightsmyheart.Buttellme,howcanthisbe?

How can it be that theteachings of Gautama havealreadyofferedup tous theirfinest fruit even before wehaveheardthem?”Siddharthareplied,“Letus

enjoythisfruit,Govinda,andwait to see what will followit! As for the fruit thatGautama has already givenus,itisthis:thatheiscallingus away from the Samanas!Whether he has other things

aswelltoofferus,betterones—letuswaittodiscoverthis,my friend,with peace in ourhearts.”That very day, Siddhartha

informed the eldest Samanaofhisdecision,sayingthathewished to leave. He spokewith the courtesy andmodesty befitting a youngerman and pupil. The Samana,however, was filled withangeratthethoughtthatthese

two youths wished to leavehim; he raised his voice andused coarse, abusivelanguage.Govindawas horrified and

filled with embarrassment.Siddhartha, however, put hismouth to Govinda’s ear andwhispered, “Now I’ll showtheoldmanwhatIlearnedashispupil.”Stationing himself

immediately before the

Samana,hissoulcollected,hecaughttheeyeoftheoldmanwith his own eyes andbewitchedhim,madehimfallsilent,madehimlosehiswill,subjectedhimtohisownwill,commanded him to performmutely what was asked ofhim.The oldman fell silent:His eyes were locked inposition, his will wasparalyzed, his arms dangleddown, he was powerless inthe grasp of Siddhartha’s

enchantment. NowSiddhartha’s thoughts tookcontrolof thethoughtsof theSamana, forcing him toperform what theycommanded. And so the oldman bowed several times,made gestures of blessing,and, in a stammer, wishedthemsafetravels.Theyouthsresponded to his bows withthanks,respondedtohisgoodwishes with wishes of theirown, took their leaveofhim,

andsetoff.As they walked, Govinda

said, “O Siddhartha, youlearned more among theSamanas than I knew. It isdifficult, very difficult, toenchant an old Samana.Verily, if you had remainedthereamongthem,youwouldsoon have learned to walkuponwater!”“I do not wish to walk

upon water,” Siddhartha

replied.“LetelderlySamanascontent themselveswith suchtricks.”

GAUTAMA

InthetownofSavathi,everychild knew the name of theSublime Buddha, and everyhousewasequippedtofillthealms bowls of Gautama’sdisciples, the silentmendicants.Not far from thetownlayGautama’spreferred

residence, Jetavana Grove,which the wealthy merchantAnathapindika, a devotedadmirer of the SublimeOne,had given to him and hisfollowers.This was the place

mentionedinallthetalesthathadbeensharedwiththetwoyoungasceticsintheirsearchto discover Gautama’swhereabouts, in all theanswers they had received to

their queries.Andwhen theyarrived in Savathi, theywereoffered food at the very firsthouse at whose door theystopped to beg, and theyacceptedit.Siddhartha asked the

womanwho gave it to them,“O charitable woman, wevery much desire to learnwhere the Buddha can befound, the Most VenerableOne,forwearetwoSamanas

from the forest who havecome here to see him, thePerfect One, and to hear hisdoctrinefromhislips.”Thewomanreplied,“Truly

you have chosen the rightplace to stop, O Samanasfrom the forest. Jetavana, thegarden of Anathapindika, iswhere the Sublime Oneresides. There, as pilgrims,you will be allowed to passthenight,forthereisroomin

this place for the countlesshordeswho arrive in streamsto hear the doctrine from hislips.”At these words, Govinda

was glad and he cried outgaily,“Howwonderful!Thenourgoalhasbeenreachedandour journey come to an end!But tell us, O mother of allpilgrims, do you know theBuddha? Have you beheldhimwithyourowneyes?”

Said the woman, “I haveseen him many times, theSublime One. Many days Ihave seen him walkingsilently through our streetswearing his yellow coat,silently holding out his almsbowl at the doors of ourhomesandcarryingthefilledbowlawaywithhim.”Govinda listened, rapt,and

wantedtoaskandhearmuchmore. But Siddhartha

announced it was time theywereontheirway.Theygavetheir thanks and walked on,scarcely needing to inquirewhich way to go, for therewereanynumberofpilgrimsand monks from Gautama’sfellowship on their way toJetavana.Andastheyreachedit that night, they beheld asceneofconstantarrival,withthecriesandconversationsofthose requesting and findingquarters. The two Samanas,

accustomed to life in theforest, quickly and silentlyfoundshelterandrestedthereuntilmorning.When the sun rose, they

wereastonishedtoseewhatagreat crowd of believers andonlookershadspentthenighthere. On all the paths of thesplendid grove, monks werestrolling in their yellowrobes;theysathereandtherebeneaththetrees,absorbedin

contemplation or in spiritualconversation, the shadygardens likeacity tobehold,full of people swarming likebees. Most of these monkswere setting out with theiralmsbowls tocollect food intown for theirnoondaymeal,theonemealoftheday.Eventhe Buddha himself, theEnlightened One, was in thehabitofgoingtobegforfoodeachmorning.

Siddhartha saw him andrecognizedhimatonce, as ifagodhadpointedhimout:asimplemaninayellowcowl,walkingquietly,almsbowlinhishand.“Look!” Siddhartha said

softly toGovinda. “That onethereistheBuddha.”Attentively Govinda

regarded the monk in theyellow cowl, who at firstappeared indistinguishable

from the hundreds of others.But Govinda, too, soon sawthat this was indeed theBuddha, and they followedbehindhim,observinghim.The Buddha was walking

along modestly, absorbed inthought. His still face wasneither gay nor sad; heappeared to be smilinginwardly. Quietly, calmly,with a hidden smile, lookingratherlikeahealthychild,the

Buddha strolled down thepath, wearing his robe andplacing his foot upon theearth exactly like all hismonks,justaswasdictatedtothem. But his face and gait,his quietly lowered gaze, hisquietly dangling hand—andindeed each individual fingeron his quietly dangling hand—spoke of peace, spokeperfection, sought nothing,imitated nothing, was gentlybreathing an imperishable

calm, an imperishable light,aninviolatepeace.Thus did Gautama stroll

toward the town to collectalms, and the two Samanasrecognized him solely by hisperfect calm, the stillness ofhisfigure,inwhichtherewasno searching, no desire, noimitation, no effort to bediscerned, only light andpeace.“Today we shall hear the

doctrine from his lips,”Govindasaid.Siddhartha gave no reply.

He felt no great curiosity tohearthisdoctrine.Hedidnotthink it would teach himanything new; after all, he,like Govinda, had alreadyheard the substance of theBuddha’s teachings over andover again, if only fromsecond- and thirdhandreports. Nonetheless he

scrutinized Gautama’s head,his shoulders, his feet, hisquietly dangling hand, and itseemed to him that everyjoint of every finger on thishand was doctrine; it spoke,breathed,wafted, and glintedTruth.Thisman,thisBuddha,was genuine down to thegestures of his littlest finger.This man was holy. NeverhadSiddharthareveredamanlikethis,neverhadhelovedamanashelovedthisone.

The two of them followedthe Buddha into town andthen returned in silence, fortheyintendedtoabstainfromfood that day. They sawGautamareturn,sawhimtakehis meal in the circle of hisdisciples—whatheatewouldnothavesatisfiedabird—andsaw him withdraw into theshadeofthemangotrees.And in the evening, when

theday’sheathadabatedand

everyone around the campcame to life and gatheredtogether, they heard theBuddhateach.Theyheardhisvoice,andittoowasflawless,flawlessly calm and full ofpeace.Gautamapreached thedoctrine of suffering, of theorigins of suffering, of thepath to the cessation ofsuffering. His words flowedquietandclear.Sufferingwaslife, the world was full ofsorrow, but redemption from

sorrow had been found: Hewho trod the path of theBuddha would findredemption.Witha softyet firmvoice,

the Sublime One spoke,preaching the four basicprinciples, preaching theeightfold path. Patiently hetrod the familiar path of hisdoctrine,oftheexamples,therepetitions, his high clearvoice floating above his

listeners like a light, like astarrysky.When the Buddha—night

had already fallen—completed his speech, anumber of pilgrims steppedforward and asked to beaccepted into his fellowship;theywished to takerefuge inhis doctrine. And Gautamatook them in, saying, “Youhaveheardthedoctrine;ithasbeen preached to you. Join

ournumber,then,andwalkinholiness, that an endmay beputtoallsorrow.”And lo! Govinda too

stepped forward, shyGovinda,andsaid,“Itootakerefuge in the Sublime Oneand his doctrine,” and askedthat he be taken in as adisciple,andhewastakenin.Directly afterward, when

theBuddhahadretiredforthenight, Govinda turned to

Siddhartha and spokeearnestly. “Siddhartha, it isnotfittingformetoreproachyou. Both of us heard theSublime One; both of usheard his teachings.Govindaheard the doctrine and hastaken refuge in it. But you,my revered friend, will younot also tread the path ofredemption? Must youhesitate, must you persist inwaiting?”

Siddhartha awoke as iffrom slumberwhen he heardGovinda’swords. For a longtimehegazedintoGovinda’sface.Thenhesaidsoftly,inavoice free of mockery,“Govinda, my friend, nowyouhavetakenthestep,nowyou have chosen the path.Always, O Govinda, youhave been my friend, andalways you havewalked onestepbehindme.Often Ihavethought, Will not Govinda

one day take a step on hisown without me, as his ownsoulcommands?Andbehold,nowyouhavebecomeamanand are choosing your ownpath.Mayyoufollowittoitsend, O my friend! May youfindredemption!”Govinda, who did not yet

fully comprehend, repeatedhis question with a touch ofimpatience. “Tell me, I begyou,myfriend!Tellme,asit

cannotbeotherwise, thatyoutoo, my learned companion,will take your refuge in thesublimeBuddha!”Siddharthaplacedhishand

onGovinda’sshoulder.“Youdid not hear my blessing,Govinda. I shall repeat it:May you follow this path toits end! May you findredemption!”At this moment Govinda

realized that his friend had

left him, and he began toweep. “Siddhartha!” he criedoutmournfully.Siddharthasaidtohimina

kind voice, “Do not forget,Govinda, that you nowbelong to theSamanasof theBuddha!Youhaverenouncedyour birthplace and parents,renounced your origins andproperty, renounced yourown will, renouncedfriendship. This is what the

doctrine instructs; this is thewill of the SublimeOne andit is what you yourself havechosen. Tomorrow, Govinda,Ishalltakeleaveofyou.”Thefriendscontinuedtheir

stroll through thecoppicefora long time; for a long timethey lay and could not findsleep. Again and againGovindapressedhisfriendtotell him why he would nottake refuge in Gautama’s

teachings,whaterrorshesawin his doctrine. ButSiddhartha turned him awayeach time, saying, “Besatisfied, Govinda! TheteachingsoftheSublimeOneare excellent; how could Ifindanerrorinthem?”Very early the next

morning, a follower of theBuddha, one of his oldestmonks, walked through thegarden summoning all the

new arrivals who had takenrefuge in the doctrine of theBuddha, so as to give themtheir yellow robes andinstruct them in the firstlessons and duties of theirstate. Govinda broke awayfrom them, embraced thefriend of his youth one lasttime, then joined theprocessionofnovices.Siddhartha wandered

through the grove, deep in

thought.There he came upon

Gautama, the Sublime One,and as he greeted him withreverenceandfoundthegazeof the Buddha so full ofkindnessandpeace,theyouthpluckedupthecouragetoasktheVenerableOne’s leave toaddress him. Silently theSublime One nodded hisconsent.Said Siddhartha,

“Yesterday,OSublimeOne,Ihad the privilege of hearingyour marvelous teachings.Together with my friend Icame from far away to hearthis doctrine. And now myfriend will remain amongyour followers; he has takenrefuge in you, while I amoncemore embarking onmypilgrimage.”“As you please,” the

Sublime One said

courteously.“My words are all too

bold,” Siddhartha went on,“but I wish not to leave theSublime One without havingsharedmythoughtswithhimfrankly.WouldtheVenerableOne honor me with hisaudienceamomentlonger?”Silently the Buddha

noddedhisconsent.Said Siddhartha, “There is

one thing in particular, O

Most Venerable One, that Ihave admired in yourteachings.Everythinginyourdoctrine is utterly clear, isproven; you show the worldas a perfect chain, a chainnever and nowhereinterrupted, an eternal chainforged of causes and effects.Neverhasthisbeensoclearlybeheld, never so irrefutablypresented. In truth, it mustmake the heart of anyBrahmin beat faster when,

throughyour teachings, he isabletoglimpsetheworldasaperfect continuum, free ofgaps, clear as a crystal, notdependent on chance, notdependent on gods. Whetherthis world be good or evil,and life in it sorrowor joy—let us set this question aside,for it is quite possibly notessential. But the oneness ofthe world, the continuum ofalloccurrences,theenfoldingof all things great and small

within a single stream, asingle law of causes, ofbecoming and of death, thisshines brightly forth fromyour sublime doctrine, OPerfect One. But now,according to your very samedoctrine, this oneness andlogical consistency of allthings is neverthelessinterruptedatonepoint;thereis a tiny hole through whichsomething strange is flowinginto this world of oneness,

something new, somethingthat wasn’t there before andthat cannot be shown andcannot be proven: This isyour doctrine of theovercoming of the world, ofredemption. With this tinyhole, this tiny gap, the entireeternal unified law of theworld is smashed to pieces,rendered invalid. May youforgivemeforgivingvoicetothisobjection.”

Silently, Gautama hadheard him out, unmoved. Inhiskind,courteous,andclearvoice, the Perfect One nowspoke. “You have heard myteachings, O Brahmin’s son,anditiswellforyouthatyouhavethoughtsodeeplyaboutthem.You have found a gapin them, an error. May youcontinue to contemplate it.Butallowmetowarnyou,Oinquisitive one, about thethicket of opinions and

quibbling over words.Opinionsareoflittleaccount;betheylovelyordispleasing,clever or foolish, anyone cansubscribe toordismiss them.But the doctrine you heardfrom me is not my opinion,and its goal is not to explaintheworldtotheinquisitive.Ithasadifferentgoal;itsgoalisredemption fromsuffering. Itis this redemption Gautamateaches,nothingelse.”

“May you not be angrywith me, O Sublime One,”theyouthreplied.“Itisnottoquarrel, to quibble overwords, that I spoke to youthus. Truly you are right;opinionsareof littleaccount.But let me say this as well:Never for a moment have Idoubtedyou.IneverdoubtedforamomentthatyouaretheBuddha, that you havereached the goal, the highestgoal, toward which so many

thousands of Brahmins andBrahmins’ sons are striving.You have found redemptionfromdeath.Itcametoyouasyouwereengagedinasearchof your own, upon a path ofyour own; it came to youthrough thinking, throughmeditation, throughknowledge, throughenlightenment. Not throughdoctrine did it come to you.And this is my thought, OSublime One: No one will

ever attain redemptionthrough doctrine! Never, OVenerable One, will you beable to convey in words andshow and say through yourteachings what happened toyou in the hour of yourenlightenment. Much iscontained in the doctrine ofthe enlightened Buddha;many are taught by it to livein an upright way, to shunevil. But there is one thingthis so clear and venerable

doctrine does not contain: Itdoesnotcontainthesecretofwhat the Sublime Onehimselfexperienced,healoneamong the hundreds ofthousands. This is what Ithought and realized when Iheard the doctrine. This iswhy I am continuing myjourney—notinordertoseekadifferent,betterdoctrine,forI know there is none, but toleavebehindmeallteachingsand all teachers and to reach

mygoal alone or perish.Butoften will I remember thisday,OSublimeOne,andthishourwhenmy eyes beheld aholyman.”The eyes of the Buddha

gazed in stillness at theground; his unfathomableface shone in stillness andperfectequanimity.“May your thoughts,” the

Venerable One said slowly,“not be in error! May you

reachyourgoal!But tellme:Have you seen the horde ofSamanas, mymany brothers,whohave takenrefuge in thedoctrine?Anddoyoubelieve,unknown Samana, do youbelieve they would all bebetter off if they abandonedthe doctrine and returned tothe life of the world and itspleasures?”“Far be it from me to

entertain such a thought!”

Siddhartha cried. “May theyall remain faithful to thedoctrine,maytheyreachtheirgoal!Itisnotfittingformetopass judgment on another’slife! Only for myself, formyself alone, must I judge,must I choose,must I reject.RedemptionfromSelfiswhatweSamanasseek,OSublimeOne. If I were one of yourdisciples, O Venerable One,what I fear might happen isthat my Self would only

apparently, deceptively findpeace and be redeemed, butthat in truth itwould live onandbecomehuge,forIwouldhave made the doctrine andmy adherence to it and mylove for you and thefellowship of the monks mySelf!”With a half smile, with

imperturbable brightness andamicability, Gautama lookeddirectly into the face of the

stranger and bade himfarewell with a scarcelyvisiblegesture.“You are clever, O

Samana,” said the VenerableOne. “You speak cleverly,my friend.Be on your guardagainsttoomuchcleverness!”TheBuddhawanderedoff,

but his gaze and his halfsmile remained foreverengraved in Siddhartha’smemory.

Never have I seen a mangaze and smile like this, sitand walk like this, hethought; I myself would liketobeable togazeand smile,sit and walk in just such away, so freely, so venerably,so secretly, so openly, sochildishly and mysteriously.Truly, only a man who haspenetratedtheinnermostcoreof his being can gaze andwalk like that. Very well, Itoowill seek topenetrate the

innermostcoreofmybeing.I have seen one man,

thought Siddhartha, just asingle man before whom Ihave had to cast down myeyes.Idonotwishtocastmyeyes down before anotherever again. Never will I betempted by any otherdoctrine, for the doctrine ofthismandidnottemptme.The Buddha has robbed

me, Siddhartha thought, he

hasrobbedme,andyethehasgivenme somuchmore. Hehas robbedme ofmy friend,thefriendwhobelievedinmeandnowbelievesinhim,whowas my shadow and is nowGautama’s shadow. But hehas given me Siddhartha,givenmemyself.

AWAKENING

When Siddhartha left thegrove in which the Buddha,the Perfect One, remainedbehind, in which Govindaremained behind, he felt thathis former life, too, wasremaining behind him in thisgrove. Immersed in deep

contemplationof this feeling,whichhad takenholdofhimcompletely,hewalkedslowlyaway, allowing himself tosink to the bottom of thisfeeling as if through deepwater, down to where thecauses lay. Recognizing thecauses,itseemedtohim,wasjustwhat thoughtwas; itwasonly in thisway that feelingsgave rise to insights and,ratherthanbeinglost,tookonsubstance and began to

radiatewhatwaswithinthem.Walking slowly away,

Siddhartha realized he was ayouth no longer; he hadbecome a man. He realizedthat something had left him,the way a snake’s old skinleaves it. Something that hadaccompanied him throughouthis youth and been a part ofhim was no longer present:the desire to have teachersandheardoctrine.Hehadleft

behind the last teacher toappeartohimonhispath,thishighest and wisest ofteachers, the holiest one,Buddha;he’dhadtopartevenfrom him, unable to accepthisdoctrine.Thinking, he walked ever

more slowly and askedhimself, What is it now thatyou were hoping to learnfrom doctrines and teachers,andwhatisitthatthey—who

taught you so much—wereunabletoteachyou?And,hedecided, It was the Selfwhose meaning and nature Iwished to learn. It was theSelfIwishedtoescapefrom,wished to overcome. But Iwas unable to overcome it, Icouldonlytrickit,couldonlyrun away from it and hide.Truly,notasinglethinginalltheworldhassooccupiedmythoughtsasthisSelfofmine,thisriddle:thatIamaliveand

that I am One, am differentand separate from all others,that I am Siddhartha! Andthere is not a thing in theworld about which I knowless thanaboutmyself, aboutSiddhartha!Gripped by this thought,

the slowly walking thinkerstopped short, and at once afurther thought sprang fromthe first one, a thought thatwasnewtohim.

That I know nothing ofmyself, that Siddhartha hasremained such a stranger tome,suchanunknown,comesfromonecause,fromasinglecause:Iwasafraidofmyself,was running away frommyself! I was searching forAtman, searching forBrahman; I was prepared tochopmyegointolittlepiecesandpeeloffitslayerssoastofind, in its unknowninnermost core, the kernel

that lies at theheartof everyhusk: Atman, Life, theDivine, that final utmostthing.ButImyselfgotlostintheprocess.Siddhartha raised his eyes

and looked about. A smilefilledhisface,andaprofoundsense of awakening from along dream coursed throughhimdowntohistoes.Atoncehe began towalk again, nowtaking hurried steps like a

man who knows what hemustdo.Oh,hethought,breathinga

deepsighofrelief,Iwon’tletSiddharthaslipawayfrommeagain.Iwon’tletmylifeandmythoughtbeginwithAtmanand the world’s sorrows. Nomorekillingmyself,nomorechopping myself into bits inthe hope of finding somesecret hidden among thedebris.Iwillnolongerfollow

Yoga-Veda, or Atharva-Veda, or the ascetics, or anyotherdoctrine.I’llbemyownteacher, my own pupil. I’llstudymyself, learn thesecretthatisSiddhartha.He looked around as if

seeing theworld for the firsttime. How beautiful it was,how colorful, how strangeand mysterious! Here wasblue, here was yellow, herewasgreen;skyandriverwere

flowing; forests andmountains stood fixed:Everything was beautiful,everything mysterious andmagical, and in the midst ofallthiswashe,Siddhartha,inthemomentofhisawakening,on the path to himself. Allthese things, all this yellowand blue, river and forest,passed through Siddhartha’seye and entered him for thefirst time; they were nolonger the illusion of Mara,

no longer the veil of Maya,no longer the meaninglessrandom multiplicity of theworld of appearances,contemptible to any deepthinkeramongBrahmins,anythinker who scoffed atmultiplicity and soughtoneness.Bluewasblue,riverwas river, and even if theOne,theDivine,layhiddeninthe blue and the river withinSiddhartha, it was still thenature and intention of the

Divine to be yellow here,blue here, sky over there,forest there, and hereSiddhartha. Meaning andbeing did not lie somewherebehindthings;theylaywithinthem,withineverything.HowdeafIhavebeen,how

unfeeling! he thought,walking ever more swiftly.When a person readssomething and wishes tograsp its meaning, he does

not scorn the characters andlettersandcall them illusory,random,andworthlesshusks;he reads them, studies them,and loves them, letter forletter.ButI—Iwhosetouttoread the book of the worldand the book of my ownbeing—I scorned thecharacters and letters indeference to a meaning Iassumed in advance, I calledthe world of appearancesillusory, called my own eye

and my own tongue randomand worthless illusions.Enough of all this. I haveawoken, have truly awoken,andthisdayisthedayofmybirth.AsSiddharthawasthinking

thisthought,hestoppedshortoncemore,asthoughasnakewerelyingonthepathbeforehim.Forallatoncethistoohad

dawned on him: He, who

trulywaslikeapersonfreshlyawakened or like a newborn,would have to begin his lifeanew, starting from nothing.When he had departed fromJetavanaGrove thismorning,thegroveoftheSublimeOne,already awakening, alreadyon thepath tohimself, ithadbeen his intention and hadappearedtohimonlynatural,a matter of course, to returnto the place of his birth andhis father now that his years

as an ascetic had ended. Butjust at the moment when hestopped short, as though asnake were lying across hispath, he awoke also to thisinsight:IamnolongerwhoIwas; I am no longer anascetic, I am no longer apriest, I am no longer aBrahmin.WhatwouldIdoathomewithmy father, study?Sacrifice? Practice samadhi?Allthesethingsarenowover;they no longer lie along my

path.Motionless, Siddhartha

remained standing there, andforamoment,forthespaceofa singlebreath,hisheartwasfreezingcold;hecouldfeelitfreezing in his breast like asmall animal, a bird or arabbit, when he saw howalone he was. For years hehadbeenwithoutahomeandhadnotfeltit.Nowhefeltit.Always, even in the most

distantdepthsofsamadhi,hehad been his father’s son, aBrahmin, a person of highbirth, a thinker.Now hewasno longer anything butSiddhartha; he was the onewhohadawokenandnothingmore. He drew in a deepbreath and for a moment heshivered, freezing. No onewasasaloneashewas.Everynobleman had his placeamong noblemen, everycraftsman had his place

among craftsmen and foundrefuge with them, sharingtheirlifeandspeakingintheirtongue. Every Brahminbelonged among Brahminsand lived with them. Everyascetic could find refugeamongtheSamanas.Eventhemost obscure hermit in theforest was not utterly alone;he too was enfolded inbelonging,hetoobelongedtoa class that was his home.Govindahadbecomeamonk,

and a thousand monks werehis brothers, wore his habit,believedhisbeliefs,spokehistongue. But he, Siddhartha:Wheredidhebelong?Whoselife would he share? Whosetonguewouldhespeak?From this moment when

theworldaroundhimmeltedawayand lefthimas solitaryasastarinthesky,fromthismoment of cold anddespondency, Siddhartha

emerged, more firmly Selfthan before, solidified. This,he felt, had been the finalshiverofawakening,thefinalpangsofbirth.Andatoncehebegan towalk again, stridingquickly and impatiently, nolonger in the direction ofhome, no longer toward hisfather,nolongerback.

KAMALA

Siddhartha learned newthings with every step alonghis path, for the world wastransformedandhisheartwasenchanted. He watched thesun rise above woodedmountains and set above thedistant palm-lined shore. At

night he saw the starsarranged in formation on thesky and the crescent moondriftinglikeaboatonaseaofblue. He saw trees, stars,animals, clouds, rainbows,cliffs, herbs and flowers,streamand river, the flashofdew in morning bushes,distant high mountains blueand pale; birdswere singing,sowerebees, andwindblewsilvery through the ricepaddies. All these things,

various and many-hued, hadalways been there—the sunandmoon had always shone,rivershadalwaysrushed,andbeeshadalwaysbuzzed—butall of it had formerly beennothing for Siddhartha but afleeting,deceptiveveilbeforehis eyes, to be regardedwithdistrust, penetrated bythought, and destroyed, sinceit was not true Being: Beinglay beyond the visible. Butnowhisliberatedeyedwelled

in this realm, saw andrecognized the visible, andwas searching for a home inthisworld;nolongerwasitinsearch of Being, no longerwere its efforts directedtoward the Beyond. Howbeautifultheworldwaswhenone looked at it withoutsearching,justlooked,simplyand innocently. How lovelythemoonandstarswere,howlovely the stream and itsbank, forest and cliff, nanny

goat and jewel beetle, flowerand butterfly.How beautiful,how lovely it was to walkthrough the world like this,like a child, so awake, soopen to what was near athand, so freeofdistrust.Thesun burned differently uponhis head, the shade of theforest cooledhimdifferently,stream and cistern tasteddifferent, different were theflavors of pumpkin andbanana.Thedayswerebrief;

the nights were brief. Eachhour flewquickly past like asailuponthesea,andbeneaththissail layashipfilledwithtreasures, filled with joys.Siddhartha saw a band ofmonkeys traveling in thehigh-upvaultoftheforest,inthe uppermost branches, andheard a wild, lustful singing.Siddhartha saw a ram pursueaeweandmatewithher.Inalakethickwithreedshesawapike hunting to still his

evening hunger. Entireschools of young fish shotanxiously out of the waterbefore him, flickering andflashing;strengthandpassionscented the air above theurgent whirlpools thisindefatigablehunterleftinhiswake.Allthesethingshadalways

beenthere,andyethehadnotseen them; he had not beenpresent.Nowhewaspresent,

hebelonged.Lightandshadepassed through his eyes, starandmoonpassed throughhisheart.As he walked, Siddhartha

also thought back oneverything he hadexperienced in the garden ofJetavana: thedoctrinehehadheard there, the divineBuddha, bidding farewell toGovinda, his conversationwith the Sublime One. He

thoughtbackonthewordshehad spoken to the SublimeOne, on each of them, andwithastonishmentherealizedhehadsaidthingsthathehadnot yet really known. WhathehadsaidtoGautama—thathis, the Buddha’s, treasureand secret was not hisdoctrine but rather theinexpressible, unteachablethings he had experienced inthehourofhisenlightenment—was precisely what he,

Siddhartha, was now settingoff to experience, was nowbeginning to experience. Itwashehimselfhenowhadtoexperience. To be sure, hehad known for a long timethat his Self was Atman, ofthe same eternal essence asBrahman. But never had hetruly found this Self, for hehad been trying to capture itwith a net made of thought.WhilecertainlybodywasnotSelf—nor was it the play of

thesenses—thisSelfwasalsonot thought, was not mind,wasnot thewisdomamassedthrough learning, not thelearned art of drawingconclusionsandspinningnewthoughtsoutofold.No,eventhought was still in thisworld; no goal could bereached by killing off thehappenstance Self of thesenses while continuing tofatten the happenstance Selfof thought and learnedness.

Thought and senses wereboth fine things. Ultimatemeaning lay hidden behindthem;bothshouldbelistenedto, played with, neitherscornednorovervalued,forineachof themthesecretvoiceof the innermost core mightbediscerned.Hewouldaspiretonothingbutwhatthisvoicecommanded him, occupyhimselfwithnothingbutwhatthe voice advised. Why hadGautamaonce,inthehourof

hours, sat down beneath thebo tree where enlightenmentstruck him? He had heard avoice, a voice in his ownheart, commanding him torest beneath this tree, and hehad not chosen to devotehimself instead to self-castigation, sacrifice,ablution, or prayer, nor toeating or drinking, nor tosleepingordreaming;hehadobeyed the voice. To obeylike this, to obey not a

command from the outsidebut only the voice, to be inreadiness—this was good,this was necessary. Nothingelsewasnecessary.Duringthenightasheslept

inthestrawhutofaferrymanbeside the river, Siddharthahad a dream. Govinda wasstanding before him clad intheyellowrobeofanascetic.He looked sad, and sadly heasked, Why have you

forsaken me? Siddharthaembraced Govinda, he flunghisarmsabouthim,butwhenhedrewhimtohisbreastandkissed him, it was no longerGovinda he held but awoman, and beneath thewoman’s robe a full breastwas swelling. Siddhartha layatthisbreastanddrank;sweetand strong was the taste ofthis breast milk. It tasted ofwoman andman, of sun andforest, of animal and flower,

of every fruit and everypleasure. Itmade him drunk,robbed him of his senses….When Siddhartha awoke, thepale river was shimmeringthrough the doorway of thehut,andfromtheforestcamethedarkhootofanowl,deepandmelodious.At daybreak, Siddhartha

asked his host, the ferryman,to take him across the river.Theferrymantookhimacross

the river on his bamboo raft;the broad expanse of watershimmered red in the dawnlight.“Theriverisbeautiful,”he

saidtohiscompanion.“Yes,” the ferryman said,

“it isaverybeautiful river. Iloveitaboveallelse.OftenIhave listened to it, oftengazed into its eyes, andalwaysIhavelearnedfromit.You can learn a great deal

fromariver.”“I thank you, my

benefactor,” Siddhartha said,stepping onto the oppositebank. “I have no gift to giveyou,dearfriend,nowagestopay. I am a man without ahome, a Brahmin’s son andSamana.”“This I saw myself,” said

theferryman,“andIexpectedneitherpaymentnorgiftfromyou.Youwill giveme a gift

someothertime.”“Do you think so?”

Siddharthaasked,amused.“Certainly.This tooIhave

learned from the river:Everything comes backagain!Youtoo,Samana,willcome back again. And nowfarewell!Mayyourfriendshipbe my wages. May youremember me when you aresacrificingtothegods.”Smiling, they parted.

Smiling, Siddhartha felthappiness at the friendshipand friendliness of theferryman.HeislikeGovinda,he thought, smiling. All thepeople I meet upon my wayarelikeGovinda.Allofthemare grateful, though theythemselves have cause toexpect gratitude.All of themare deferential, all are eagerto be a friend, to obey andthink little. People arechildren.

Around noon he passedthrough a village. In front ofthe mud huts, children wererolling about in the street,playing with pumpkin seedsand shells, shouting andscrapping,butallofthemranaway, shy before theunknownSamana.Attheendof the village the path ledthrough a stream, and at theedge of the stream a youngwoman knelt, washingclothes. When Siddhartha

greeted her, she raised herhead and looked up at himwith a smile that made thewhites of her eyes flash. Hecalledoutablessingtoher,asiscustomaryamongtravelers,and asked how much fartherit was to the city. She stoodupandcameovertohim,hermoist lips shimmering andbeautiful in her young face.She engaged him in banter,askingifhehadeatenyetandifitwastruethattheSamanas

slept alone in the forest atnightandwerenotallowedtohave women with them. Asshespoke,sheplacedherleftfootuponhis rightandmadethe gesture a woman makeswhensheisinvitingamantoindulge in the sort of lovepleasure the instructionalbooks call “climbing thetree.” Siddhartha felt hisbloodgrowwarm,andashisdreamreturned tohimat thismoment,hebentdownbefore

the woman and kissed thebrown tip of her breast.Lookingup,he sawdesire inhersmilingface,andherhalf-closed eyes beseeched himlongingly.Siddhartha too was filled

with longing and felt thesource of his sex stir, but ashehadneverbeforetouchedawoman, he hesitated for amomentwhilehishandswerealreadypreparingtoreachout

for her. And in this momentheheardsomethingthatmadehim tremble: Itwashis innervoice, and the voice said no.At once the charm vanishedfrom the smiling face of theyoung woman; all he sawnowwas the dewygaze of abeast inheat.Withafriendlygesturehe strokedhercheek,turned away from her, andwith a light step disappearedinto the bamboo thicket,leaving the disappointed

womanbehind.Beforeeveninghecameto

a large city and was happy,for he felt the desire to beamong people. He’d lived along time in the forest, andthestrawhutof theferrymaninwhichhe’dspent thenightwas the first roof he’d hadoverhisheadinquiteawhile.Justoutsidethecity,neara

lovely fenced-in grove, thewandererencounteredasmall

company of maids andmenservants laden withbaskets. In their midst, anornate sedan chair with fourbearers held awoman seatedupon red cushions beneath abrightlycoloredcanopy:theirmistress.Siddhartharemainedstandingattheentrancetothepleasuregardenandobservedthis procession; saw theservants, the maids, thebaskets, the sedan chair, andthe ladyseated in it.Beneath

blackhairpiledhighuponherhead,hesawaveryfair,verydelicate, very clever face, abright red mouth like a figsplit in two, eyebrowsgroomed and painted in higharches, dark eyes clever andwatchful, a long pale throatrisingoutofagreenandgoldouter garment, fair hands inrepose,longandnarrow,withthick golden bracelets aboutthewrists.

Siddhartha saw howbeautiful she was, and hisheart rejoiced. Deeply hebowedbeforeherasthesedanchair approached, and as hestraightened up again helooked into her pale, lovelyface, read for a moment herclevereyesbeneaththeirhigharches, caught a whiff of aperfume he did not know.Smiling,thebeautifulwomannodded, just for an instant;then shedisappeared into the

grove with her servantsbehindher.Siddharthathought,Whata

fine omen marks my arrivalinthiscity!Hefeltanurgetohurry into the grovestraightawaybutthenthoughtbetter of it; only now did itoccurtohimhowtheservantsand maids standing at itsentrance had looked at him,with what contempt, whatsuspicion,whatdispleasure.

Evennow,IamaSamana,he thought, an ascetic andmendicant. Iwill not be abletoremainasIam,willnotbeabletoenterthegroveinthisguise.Hegavealaugh.Heaskedthenextpersonto

come along what this grovewas and the name of thewoman, and learned that thiswasthegroveofKamala,thefamouscourtesan,andthat inaddition to the grove she

ownedahouseintown.Then he entered the city.

Henowhadagoal.In pursuit of this goal, he

allowed the city to suck himin, drifted with the currentdownitsstreets,pausedinitssquares,resteduponthestonestepsalong theriver.Towardevening he made theacquaintance of a barber’sassistant he had observedworking in the shadowof an

archway and encounteredagain praying in a temple ofVishnu; he regaled him withtalesofVishnuandLakshmi.Heslept thatnightbesidetheriver where the boats weremoored, and early the nextmorning, before the firstcustomersarrivedattheshop,he had the barber’s assistantshave off his beard, cut andcomb his hair, and anoint itwith precious oil. Then hewenttotherivertobathe.

When, late in theafternoon, the beautifulKamalaapproachedhergroveinhersedanchair,Siddharthawas standing at the entrance;he bowed and received thecourtesan’sgreeting.Thenhesignaled to the last of theservantsfollowinginhertrainand asked him to tell hismistress a young Brahminwished to speak with her.After a while the servantreturned and instructed the

waiting youth to follow him;without anotherword, he ledSiddhartha to a pavilionwhere Kamala was recliningupon a daybed and left himalonewithher.“Was it not you standing

thereyesterdaygreetingme?”Kamalaasked.“Yes, I saw you yesterday

andgreetedyou.”“But did you not have a

beard yesterday, and long

hair,anddustinyourhair?”“You certainly observed

well,seeingallthis.YousawSiddhartha, the Brahmin’sson,wholefthometobecomeaSamanaandwas aSamanafor three years. But now Ihaveleft thatpathbehindmeandcometothiscity,andthefirst person I saw here, evenbefore entering the city, wasyou. Ihavecomehere to tellyou this,OKamala!Youare

the first woman to whomSiddhartha has spokenwithout averting his eyes.Never again shall I avertmyeyeswhen Imeet abeautifulwoman.”Kamala smiled and played

with her fan of peacockfeathers. “And is it only totell me this that Siddharthahascome?”sheasked.“To tell you this, and to

thank you for being so

beautiful. And if it does notdisplease you, Kamala, Iwould like to ask you to bemy friend and teacher, for Iknow nothing of the art ofwhichyouareamaster.”At this Kamala laughed

aloud. “Never before, myfriend, has a Samana comeoutoftheforestandaskedtolearn from me. Never has aSamana with long hair andclad in a torn loincloth paid

mea visit.Manyyoungmencometocallonme—thereareeven Brahmins’ sons amongthem—but they come inbeautiful clothes, they comein fine shoes, and they havefragrance in their hair andmoney in their wallets. This,OSamana,iswhattheyoungmenarelikewhocometocallonme.”Siddharthasaid,“AlreadyI

am beginning to learn from

you.EvenyesterdayIlearnedsomething. Already I havegiven up my beard andcombed and oiled my hair.Very little is still lacking,most splendid woman: fineclothes, fine shoes,money inmy wallet. Know thatSiddharthahasundertakenfarmoredifficulttasksthantheseand has succeeded in them.HowcouldIfailtosucceedinyesterday’s resolve: to beyour friend and learn from

you the pleasures of love?You will find me a willingpupil,Kamala;Ihavelearnedmore difficult things thanwhatyouaretoteachme.Sotell me: Is Siddharthasatisfactory to you as he isnow, with oil in his hair butwithout clothes, shoes, ormoney?”Laughing, Kamala cried

out,“No,cherishedfriend,heis not yet satisfactory. He

must have clothes, attractiveclothes, and shoes, attractiveshoes,andplentyofmoneyinhis wallet, and presents forKamala. Now do youunderstand,Samana from theforest?Willyouremember?”“Certainly I shall

remember,”Siddhartha cried.“How could I fail toremember words that comefrom such lips? Your mouthis like a fig split in two,

Kamala. My mouth, too, isfreshandred;itwillfitnicelyagainstyours,you’llsee.Buttellme,beautifulKamala,areyou not at all afraid of thisSamana from the forest whohas come to learn the art oflove?”“WhyshouldIbeafraidof

a Samana, a foolish Samanafromtheforestwhohasbeenliving among the jackals anddoesn’tevenknowyetwhata

womanis?”“Oh, but he is strong, this

Samana, and he is afraid ofnothing.He could force you,beautifulgirl.Hecouldcarryyouoff.Hecouldharmyou.”“No, Samana, I have no

fearofthis.HasaSamanaora Brahmin ever been afraidthatsomeonemightcomeandseizehimand robhimofhislearnedness, his piousness,and his profound thoughts?

No,forthesethingsbelongtohim, and he gives of themonly what and to whom hewill. It is precisely the samewith Kamala and thepleasures of love. Beautifuland red is Kamala’s mouth,but try to kiss it against herwill and youwill get from itnot a single drop ofsweetness, though it hasmuchsweetnesstooffer.Youare a willing pupil,Siddhartha, so learn this as

well: Love can be begged,bought, or received as a gift,one can find it in the street,but one cannot steal it. Thisnotionofyours ismisguided.It would be a shame if ahandsome youth like youweretosetaboutthingsinthewrongway.”Siddhartha bowed to her,

smiling. “A shame it wouldbe, Kamala, how right youare!Aterribleshame.No,not

asingledropofyourmouth’ssweetness shall go to waste,and you will taste the fullsweetnessofmine.Letthisbeour agreement: Siddharthawillcomeagainwhenhehaswhat he is presently lacking:clothes, shoes, and money.But tell me, lovely Kamala,can you not give me onemorepieceofadvice?”“Advice? Why not? Who

would refuse advice to a

poor, ignorant Samana whohascome from the jackalsoftheforest?”“Advise me then, dear

Kamala:WhereshouldIgotofind these three things themostswiftly?”“Friend, that is something

many would like to know.Youmust do what you havelearnedtodoandinexchangehave people give youmoneyand clothes and shoes. There

is no other way for a poorman to get money. What doyouknowhowtodo?”“I can think. I can wait. I

canfast.”“Isthatall?”“Yes…no.Icanalsowrite

poetry.Wouldyougivemeakissforapoem?”“If the poem pleases me,

thenyes.Whatisitcalled?”Siddhartha reflected for a

moment, then spoke theselines:

“Into her shady grove steppedbeautifulKamala,AttheentrancetothegrovestoodthebrownSamana.Deeply he bowed, having glimpsedthelotusblossom,forwhich hewas thankedby smilingKamala.More lovely, thought the youth, thansacrificingtothegods,More lovely it is to sacrifice tobeautifulKamala.”

Kamala clapped her handsloudly, making the golden

braceletsringout.“Howbeautifulyourpoetry

is, brown Samana! Truly, Iwill be losing nothing if Itradeyouakissforit.”She drew him to her with

hereyes;he loweredhis facetohers andplacedhismouthupon themouth thatwas likea fig split in two.For a longtimeKamalakissedhim,andwith deep astonishmentSiddhartha felt how she was

teaching him, how wise shewas, how she mastered him,pushedhimaway, luredhim,andhowbehindthisfirstkissstood a long, well-ordered,and well-tried sequence ofkisses,eachdifferentfromtheothers, still awaiting him.Breathing deeply, he stoodthereandinthismomentwaslike a child, gaping inastonishmentat thewealthofthings worth knowing andlearning that had opened

beforehiseyes.“How very beautiful your

poetry is!” Kamalaexclaimed. “If I were rich, Iwouldgiveyoupiecesofgoldfor it. But it will be difficultfor you to earn as muchmoney as you need withpoetry. For you will need agreat deal of money if youwishtobeKamala’sfriend.”“How you can kiss,

Kamala!” Siddhartha

stammered.“Yes, I kiss well, and

therefore I amnot lacking inclothes, shoes, bracelets, orany other beautiful things.Butwhatwillbecomeofyou?Can you do nothing besidesthink,fast,andwritepoems?”“I know the sacrificial

songs,” Siddhartha said, “butIdon’twanttosingthemanylonger. I know magicalincantations,butIdon’twant

to utter them any longer. Ihavereadthewritingsof—”“Stop.”Kamalainterrupted

him. “You can read andwrite?”“CertainlyIcan.Manycan

dothesethings.”“Most cannot. Even I

cannot. It is very good thatyou can read andwrite, verygood. And the incantationswillbeofusetoyouaswell.”

At this moment amaidservant ran in to thepavilion and whisperedsomething in her mistress’sear.“I must receive a guest,”

Kamalacried.“Hurryandgetout of sight, Siddhartha. Noone may see you here,remember that! Tomorrow Iwillreceiveyouagain.”She instructed themaid to

give the pious Brahmin a

white cloak. Before he knewwhat was happening,Siddhartha found himselfwhisked away by the maidand taken by a circuitousroute to a garden house,where he was given a cloak.Then he was led into thebushes and urgentlyadmonished to find his wayout of the grove at once andunseen.Pleased with himself, he

did as he was told. Beingaccustomed to life in theforest,hewasabletofindhiswayoutofthegroveandoverthe hedge without a sound.Pleased with himself, hereturned to the city, carryingthe rolled-up cloak beneathhis arm. In a hostel wheretravelers stopped, hepositioned himself at thedoor, silently asked for food,silently accepted a piece ofricecake.Perhapsas soonas

tomorrow, he thought, I willnolongerbeaskingforfood.Pride suddenly flared up

withinhim.Hewasnolongera Samana, no longer was itfitting for him to beg. Hegave the rice cake to a dogandwentwithouteating.Simpleisthelifeoneleads

here in theworld,Siddharthathought. There are nodifficulties. Everything wasdifficult,laborious,andinthe

endhopelesswhenIwasstillaSamana.Noweverythingiseasy, easy as the kissinglessonsKamala isgivingme.I need clothing and money,that is all. These goals aresmall and within reach; theywillnottroublemysleep.He had long since

identified Kamala’s townhouse, and the next day hepresentedhimselfthere.“Alliswell,”shecriedout

when she sawhim. “Youareexpected at the home ofKamaswami;heistherichestmerchant in the city. If youplease him, he will take youinto his service. Be clever,brown Samana. I have hadothers tell him of you. Befriendly toward him; he isverypowerful.Butdonotbetoomodest!Idonotwantyouto become his servant. Youmust become his equal,otherwise I shall not be

satisfied with you.Kamaswami is beginning togrow old and lazy. If youplease him, he will entrustyouwithagreatdeal.”Siddharthathankedherand

laughed, and when shelearned that he had eatennothing this day or the onebefore,sheorderedbreadandfruittobebroughtandservedhimherself.“You’ve been lucky,” she

said, as he was taking leaveof her. “One door after theother is opening before you.How is that? Do you havemagicalpowers?”Siddhartha said,

“Yesterday I told you that Iknew how to think, to wait,and to fast, but you declaredthesethingstohavenovalue.But they have great value,Kamala,asyouwillsee.Youwill see that the foolish

Samanas in the forest learnandare able todomany finethings that you cannot. Theday before yesterday I wasstill an unkempt beggar, butalready yesterday I kissedKamala,andsoonIshallbeamerchant and have moneyand all these things youconsiderimportant.”“Well,yes,”sheconceded,

“but where would you bewithoutme?Whatwouldyou

be if Kamala did not helpyou?”“Dear Kamala,” said

Siddhartha, straightening upto his full height, “when Icame intoyourgrove toyou,Iwas takingmy first step. Itwasmy resolve to learn lovefrom this most beautiful ofwomen. From the moment Iresolved to do this, I knew Iwould succeed. I knew youwouldhelpme;fromthefirst

glance you gave me at theentrance to the grove I knewthis.”“And if I hadn’t been

willing?”“You were willing. You

see,Kamala,whenyouthrowa stone into the water, ithurries by the swiftestpossiblepathtothebottom.Itis like this when Siddharthahas a goal, a resolve.Siddhartha does nothing—he

waits,hethinks,hefasts—buthe passes through the thingsof this world like a stonethroughwater,without doinganything,withoutmoving;heisdrawnandletshimselffall.His goal draws him to it, forhe allows nothing into hissoul that might conflict withthis goal. This is whatSiddharthalearnedamongtheSamanas.Itiswhatfoolscallmagicandthinkisperformedby demons. Nothing is

performed by demons; thereare no demons. Anyone canperform magic. Anyone canreach his goals if he canthink,ifhecanwait,ifhecanfast.”Kamala listened to him.

She loved his voice, sheloved the way his eyesflashed. “Perhaps it is just asyou say, friend,” she saidsoftly.“Butperhapsit isalsothatSiddharthaisahandsome

man, his appearance ispleasing to women, and forthis reason good luck comestohim.”With a kiss, Siddhartha

tookleaveofher.“Mayitbeso, my teacher. May myappearance always pleaseyou; may good luck alwayscomefromyoutome!”

AMONGTHECHILDPEOPLE

Siddhartha went to see themerchant Kamaswami andwas shown into a mansion;servants led him betweenprecious tapestries to achamber,wherehewaitedforthe master of the house toappear.

Kamaswami entered, aquick,agilemanwithheavilygraying hair, very clever,cautiouseyes,andacovetousmouth. Master and guestexchanged a friendlygreeting.“They tell me,” the

merchantbegan,“thatyouareaBrahmin,alearnedman,butthat you wish to enter theservice of a merchant. Hashardship befallen you,

Brahmin, to make you seeksuchapost?”“No,” Siddhartha said,

“hardship has not befallenme. Indeed, I have neversuffered hardship.Know thatI have come to you from theSamanas, among whom Ilivedforalongtime.”“If you come from the

Samanas, how could you notbe suffering hardship? Arenot the Samanas utterly

withoutpossessions?”“PossessionsIhavenone,”

Siddhartha said, “if this iswhat you mean. Certainly Ihave no possessions. But Ilack possessions of my ownfree will, so this is not ahardship.”“Butwhatwillyouliveon

ifyouhavenothing?”“Never before, sir, have I

occupied myself with thisquestion.Ihavebeenwithout

possessions for a good threeyears now and never foundmyself wondering what toliveon.”“Then you lived off the

possessionsofothers.”“No doubt this is so. A

merchant too lives off thewealthofothers.”“Wellput.Buthedoesnot

take from others withoutgiving in return;hegiveshisgoodsinexchange.”

“Thiswould indeedappeartobetrue.Eachpersongives;each person takes. Such islife.”“Butwithyourpermission:

If you have no possessions,whatcanyougive?”“Each person gives what

he has. The warrior givesstrength, the merchant giveshis goods, the teacher hisdoctrine, the farmer rice, thefishermanfish.”

“Most certainly. And sowhat is it you have to give?What have you learned?Whatareyourabilities?”“I can think. I can wait. I

canfast.”“Isthatall?”“Ibelieveitis.”“And what use are these

things? Fasting, for instance—what purpose does itserve?”

“Itismostexcellent,sir.Ifa person has nothing to eat,then fasting is the mostsensible thing he can do. If,for example, Siddhartha hadnot learned to fast, hewouldbecompelledtotakeupsomeserviceorotherstraightaway,be it with you or whereverelse, for his hunger wouldforce him to do so. ButSiddhartha can wait calmly.He knows no impatience, nourgent hardship; hunger can

besiege him for a long timeand just make him laugh.This, sir, is the usefulness offasting.”“You are right, Samana.

Waitforamoment.”Kamaswami went out and

returnedwith a scroll, whichhe handed to his guest. “Canyoureadthis?”Siddhartha looked at the

scroll,onwhichabillofsalewas written, and began to

readitscontentsaloud.“Splendid,” Kamaswami

said. “And would you mindwriting something on thispaperforme?”He gave him paper and a

stylus, and Siddhartha wroteand gave the paper back tohim. Kamaswami read:“Writing is good, thinking isbetter. Cleverness is good,patienceisbetter.”“Youwriteadmirably,”the

merchant said in praise. “Westill have many things todiscuss together. For today Iwould ask that you be myguestandtakeupresidenceinmyhome.”Siddhartha thanked him

and accepted, and now hewaslivinginthehomeofthetradesman. Clothing wasbrought to him, and shoes,andaservantpreparedabathforhimdaily.Twiceadayan

opulentmealwas served,butSiddhartha ate only once aday, and he neither ate meatnor drank wine. Kamaswamitold him of his trading,showed him goods andstorerooms, showed him hisaccounts, and Siddharthalearnedmanynewthings.Helistenedmuchandspokelittleand, mindful of Kamala’swords, he never behavedsubserviently toward themerchant. Instead, he

compelledhimtotreathimasan equal: indeed, as morethan an equal. Kamaswamipursued his business withsolicitousness, even withpassion,butSiddharthasawitall as agamewhose ruleshewas striving to learn butwhose substance did nottouchhisheart.Not long after arriving in

Kamaswami’s house,Siddharthabegantotakepart

in his business dealings.Daily, however, at the hourchosen by her, he visitedbeautiful Kamala dressed inattractive clothes and fineshoes, and soon he was alsobringing her presents. Herclever red mouth taught himmany things. Her delicate,nimblehandtaughthimmanythings. He—who in mattersof love was still a boy andtendedtohurlhimselfblindlyandinsatiablyintopleasureas

into an abyss—was nowbeing instructedmethodicallyin this doctrine: that onecannot receive pleasurewithout giving pleasure; thatevery gesture, every caress,every touch, every glance,everyinchofthebodyhaditssecret; and that awakeningthis secret brought happinessto the one who held thisknowledge. She taught himthat loversmaynotpartaftercelebrating their love until

each has admired the other,each been as much victor asvanquished, so that neithermight be beset by surfeit ortediumoranuneasysenseofhaving taken advantage orbeen taken advantage of. Hepassed glorious hours in thecompany of this beautiful,intelligent artist; he becameher pupil, her lover, herfriend. The value andmeaning of the life he nowwas leading lay here with

Kamala, not in the businessdealingsofKamaswami.The merchant entrusted

him with the composition ofimportant letters andcontracts and graduallybecame accustomed todiscussing all matters ofimportance with him. Hesoon saw that whileSiddhartha knew little aboutrice and wool, shipping andtrade, he had good instincts

and surpassed him, themerchant, in coolheadednessand composure, in the art oflistening toandsoundingoutother people. “ThisBrahmin,”hesaidtoafriend,“isnotapropermerchantandwillneverbeone;neverishisheartpassionatelyengaged inour transactions. But he hasthe secret of those to whomsuccess comes of its ownaccord,beitthathewasbornunder a lucky star, be it

magic, be it something helearned among the Samanas.He seems only to be playingat doing business. Never dothetransactionshaveanyrealeffectonhim;neverare theyhismaster;neverdoeshefearfailureorworryoveraloss.”The friend advised the

tradesman,“Givehima thirdof the profits in thetransactions he arranges foryou,butlethimalsobearthe

sameshareofthelosseswhenthereisaloss.Thiswillmakehimmoreassiduous.”Kamaswami took this

advice. Siddhartha, however,seemed not to take muchnotice. When there was aprofit, he accepted his thirdwith composure; when therewas a loss, he laughed andsaid, “Oh, look, this time itwentbadly!”It really did seem as if

these business matters wereofnointeresttohim.Oncehetraveled to a village topurchasea large riceharvest,but when he arrived the ricehad already been sold toanother tradesman.Nevertheless, Siddhartharemained in this village forseveral days; he arranged afeast for the peasants,distributed copper coinsamong their children, helpedcelebrate a marriage, and

returned from his trip in thebestofspirits.Kamaswami reproached

him for not having returnedhome at once, saying he hadwastedmoneyandtime.Siddhartha answered, “Do

not scold me, dear friend!Never has anything beenachievedbyscolding.Iftherearelosses,letmebearthem.Iam very pleased with thisjourney I made the

acquaintance of manydifferent people, a Brahminbefriended me, children rodeon my knees, peasantsshowed me their fields, andno one took me for atradesman.”“How very lovely!”

Kamaswami cried outindignantly. “But in fact atradesman is just what youare!Ordidyouundertakethisjourney solely for your own

pleasure?”“Certainly.” Siddhartha

laughed. “Certainly Iundertookthejourneyformypleasure.Why else? I got toknow new people andregions,enjoyedkindnessandtrust, found friendship. Yousee, dear friend, had I beenKamaswami,I’dhavehurriedhome in bad spirits themoment I saw my purchasefoiled,andindeedmoneyand

time would have been lost.But by staying on as I did, Ihad some agreeable days,learned things, and enjoyedpleasures, harming neithermyself nor others with hasteandbadspirits.And ifever Ishould return to this place,perhaps to buy some futureharvestor forwhateverotherpurpose, I shall be greetedhappily and in friendship byfriendly people and I shallpraise myself for not having

displayed haste anddispleasure on my first visit.Sobecontent, friend,anddonot harm yourself byscolding! When the dayarriveswhenyouseethatthisSiddhartha is bringing youharm, just say the word andSiddhartha will be on hisway.Butuntilthatday,letusbesatisfiedwitheachother.”In vain did the merchant

attempt to convince

Siddhartha that he was, afterall,eatinghis,Kamaswami’s,bread.Siddharthaatehisownbread,or ratherbothof themate the bread of others,communal bread. Never didSiddharthahaveawillingearfor Kamaswami’s worries,and Kamaswami’s worriesweremany.Ifatransactioninprogress appeared threatenedwith failure, if a shipment ofgoods seemed to have goneastray,orifadebtorappeared

unable to repay his debt,Kamaswami was never abletopersuadeSiddharthathat itwasuseful tospeakwordsofworry or of anger, to have awrinkled brow, or to sleeppoorly. When Kamaswamionce reproached him, sayinghe had, after all, learnedeverything he knew fromhim, Siddhartha replied,“Please don’t make suchjokes at my expense! Fromyou I learned how much a

basketof fishcosts,andhowmuch interestonecanchargefor borrowed money. Theseare your spheres ofknowledge. I did not learnhow to think fromyou,mostesteemed Kamaswami; itwould be better if you triedlearningthisfromme!”In fact, his heartwasn’t in

his trading. Conductingbusinesswasgoodbecause itbrought him money for

Kamala—indeed,muchmorethan he needed. As for therest,Siddhartha’sinterestandcuriositywerepiquedonlybythose whose trades, crafts,worries, amusements, andfollies had once been asforeign and distant to him asthemoon.Easy as itwas forhim to converse witheveryone,livewitheveryone,learn from everyone, he wasnonetheless quite aware thatthere was something

separating him from them,and this thing that set himapart was his life as aSamana.He observed peopleliving inachildishoranimalway that he simultaneouslyloved and deplored. He sawtheirstruggles,watched themsuffer and turn gray overthings that seemed to himutterly unworthy of such aprice—things like money,petty pleasures, petty honors.He saw people scold and

insult one another, saw themwailing over aches and painsthat would just make aSamana smile, suffering onaccount of deprivations aSamanawouldnotnotice.Hewasopentoeverything

thesepeoplebroughthim.Hewelcomedthetradesmanwithcanvasforsale,welcomedthedebtor seeking a loan,welcomed the beggar whoreeled off the hour-long saga

ofhispovertyandyetwasnothalf so poor as any Samana.Thewealthyforeignmerchantreceived the same treatmentfromhim as the servantwhoshaved him and the streetpeddler whom he allowed tocheat him of small changewhen he bought bananas.When Kamaswami came tohimtobemoanhisworriesorreproach him on account ofsome business matter, helistened cheerfully and with

interest, found him curious,tried to understand him,conceded one or anotherpoint,justasmuchasseemednecessary, then turned togreet the next person whodesired his attention. Andthereweremanywhocametosee him. Many came to dobusiness,many to cheat him,many to sound him outsurreptitiously, many toappeal to his pity, many tohearhisadvice.Hedispensed

advice, he pitied, he gavepresents, he allowed himselftobecheatedalittle,andthiswhole game—along with thepassionwithwhich everyoneelse was pursuing it—occupied his thoughts just asfully as they had once beenoccupied by the gods andBrahman.Attimeshefelt,deepdown

in his breast, a faint, dyingvoice faintly warning him,

faintly lamenting, so faint hecould scarcely hear it. Atonce he would becomeconsciousforanhour thathewas livinga strange life, thatall the things he was doinghere were but a game, andthat, while he was in goodspirits and at times felt joy,life itself was nonethelessrushing by without touchinghim. Like a juggler with hisballs, he was just playing inhisbusinessdealingswiththe

people around him,watchingthem, taking his pleasure inthem; his heart, thefountainhead of his being,was not in it. Thisfountainhead was flowingsomewhere else, as if fardistant from him, invisiblyflowing and flowing, nolonger part of his life. Nowandagainhewasseizedwithhorror at these thoughts andwished that he too might bepermitted to join in all these

childish goings-on withpassion, with all his heart—that he might be permittedtrulytolive,trulytoact,trulyto enjoy and live rather thanjust standing there as aspectator.But again and again he

returned tobeautifulKamala,learned the art of love,practiced the cult of pleasurein which, more than in anyother sphere, giving and

taking become one. Heconversed with her, learnedfrom her, gave her counsel,received counsel. Sheunderstood him better thanGovindahadonceunderstoodhim;sheresembledhimmoreclosely.Once he said to her, “You

arelikeme;youaredifferentfrom most people. You areKamala, nothing else, andwithinyouthereisastillness

and a refuge into which youcanwithdrawat anymomentand be at home withinyourself, just as I can. Fewpeople have this, and yet allpeoplecouldhaveit.”“Notallpeopleareclever,”

Kamalasaid.“No,” Siddhartha said,

“that isn’t the reason.Kamaswami is just as cleverasIam,buthehasnorefugewithinhimself.Andthereare

people who have one whoseminds are like those of littlechildren. Most people,Kamala,arelikeafallingleafas it twists and turns itswaythrough the air, lurches andtumbles to the ground.Others, though—a very few—arelikestarssetonafixedcourse; no wind can reachthem,andtheycarrytheirlawand their path within them.Among all the many learnedmen and Samanas I have

known, there was just onewho was like this, a perfectman.NeverwillIforgethim:Gautama, the Sublime One,who preached this doctrine.Thousands of disciples hearhisdoctrineeverydayanddoasheinstructs,butallofthemarejustfallingleaves.Withinthemselves they have nodoctrineandnolaw.”Kamalalookedathimwith

a smile. “Again you are

speaking of him,” she said.“Again you are havingSamanathoughts.”Siddhartha fell silent, and

they played a game of love,one of the thirty or fortydifferent games Kamalaknew. Her body was lithe,likethatofajaguarandlikeahunter’s bow; he who hadlearned love from her wasadept at many pleasures,manysecrets.Foralongtime

she played with Siddhartha,coaxing him, pushing himaway, forcing him, claspinghimtoher,takingpleasureinhis mastery, until he wasvanquishedandlayexhaustedatherside.Thehetaerabentoverhim,

gazinglongintohisface,intohiswearyeyes.“In the art of love,” she

said thoughtfully, “you arethe best I’ve ever seen. You

arestrongerthanothers,moreagile, more willing. Wellhave you learned my art,Siddhartha.Someday,whenIamolder,Iwishtobearyourchild. And yet all this time,beloved,youhaveremainedaSamana. Even now you donotloveme;youlovenoone.Isitnotso?”“Itmaybe so,”Siddhartha

saidwearily. “I am like you.You, too, do not love—how

else could you practice loveas an art? Perhaps people ofoursortareincapableoflove.The child people can love;thatistheirsecret.”

SANSARA

For a long time Siddharthahad been living the worldlylifewithitspleasuresbutwasnot part of it. His senses,which he had suffocatedduring parched years ofSamana existence, had oncemore awoken—he had tasted

great riches, voluptuousness,power—yet in his heart hehadremainedaSamanaforalong time. Kamala, thatcleverwoman,hadbeenrightaboutthis.Alwaystheartsofthinking,waiting, and fastinghad guided him in his life,andthosewholivedaworldlyexistence—the child people—had remained foreign tohim,ashewastothem.The years flew by, and

Siddhartha,swaddledinwell-being, scarcely felt theirpassing. He had grown rich,he had long since acquired ahouseofhisown,servantsofhisown,andagardenbesidethe river outside of town.People liked him, they cameto him when they neededmoneyorcounsel,butnoonewas close to him exceptKamala.That noble, bright

awakeness he hadexperienced once, at theheight of his youth, in thedays following Gautama’ssermon,afterhispartingfromGovinda—that eagerexpectancy, that proudstanding alone withoutteachers or doctrines, thatsupple readiness to hear thedivine voice within his ownheart—had gradually fadedinto memory; it had beentransitory. Distant and faint

was the sound of the holyfountainhead that had oncebeen near, that had oncemurmured inside him. To besure, much of what he hadlearned—from the Samanas,from Gautama, from hisfather the Brahmin—hadremainedwithhimforalongtime: moderate living,enjoyment of thought, hoursdevoted to samadhi, secretknowledge of the Self, thateternal being that is neither

body nor consciousness.Much of this had remainedwith him, but one thing afteranother had settled to thebottom and been coveredwith dust. Just as a potter’swheel, once set in motion,will continue to spin for along time, only slowlywearyingandcoming to rest,so had the wheel ofasceticism, the wheel ofthought, and the wheel ofdifferentiation gone on

spinning for a long time inSiddhartha’s soul, and theywere spinning still, but thisspin was growing slow andhesitant; it was coming to astandstill.Slowly,asmoistureseeps into the dying treetrunk,slowlyfillingitupandmakingitrot,worldlinessandlethargy had crept intoSiddhartha’s soul, filling itslowly, making it heavy,makingitweary,puttingittosleep. At the same time,

however,hissenseshadcometolife;theyhadlearnedmanythings, experienced manythings.Siddhartha had learned to

conduct business, to wieldpower over people, to takepleasure with a woman; hehad learned to wear niceclothes, give orders toservants, and bathe in sweet-smelling water. He hadlearnedtoeatdishesprepared

with delicacy and care, evenfish, even flesh and fowl,spices and sweets, and todrink wine, which bringslethargy and forgetfulness.Hehad learned to throwdiceand play chess, to beentertained by dancing girls,havehimselfcarriedabout ina sedan chair, sleep in a softbed. But still he had felthimself to be different fromthe others, superior to them,still he had watched them

with a certain disdain, acertain contempt, that verycontempt a Samana alwaysfeels for the worldly. WhenKamaswami was indisposed,when hewas cross,when hefelt slighted, when he wastortured by his mercantilewoes, Siddhartha had alwaysobserved this disdainfullyOnly slowly andimperceptibly, with thecoming and going of theharvests and monsoons, had

his disdain grownweary, hissuperiority waned. Onlyslowly, among his growingriches, had Siddharthahimself takenonsomeof thecharacteristics of the childpeople, something of theirchildlike manner andfearfulness. And yet heenvied them, envying themmore the more he came toresemble them. He enviedthem the one thing theypossessed that he was

lacking: the importance theywere capable of attaching totheir lives, their passionatejoysandfears, thehappiness,uneasy but sweet, of theireternal infatuations. Forinfatuated they were—withthemselves, with women,with their children, withhonor or money, with plansorhopes.Butthischildishjoyand childish folly he had notlearned from them, this onething remainedunlearned; all

he was learning from themwere unpleasant things thathe himself despised. Ithappened more and moreoften now that he remainedlying in bed for a long timethe day after an evening ofconviviality, feeling stupidand weary. It would happenthat he became cross andimpatient when Kamaswamiboredhimwithhisworries.Itwouldhappenthathelaughedtoo loudly when he lost at

dice.His facewas stillmoreclever and spiritual thanothers, but it seldom smiled,andoneaftertheotheritwastaking on the traits one sooftenobservesinthefacesofthe wealthy: that look ofdissatisfaction, infirmity,displeasure, lethargy,unkindness. Slowly he wasbeing stricken with themaladies that afflict richpeople’ssouls.

Like a veil or a thin fog,weariness descended uponSiddhartha, slowly, a bitthicker eachday, abit haziereach month, a bit heaviereach year. Just as a newgarment gets old with time,loses its attractive colors,becomes stained, wrinkled,and worn at the seams, andhere and there begins todisplay unfortunatethreadbarepatches,sotoohadthe new life that Siddhartha

began after parting fromGovinda gotten old andwiththepassingoftheyearsbegunto lose its color and sheen;wrinkles and stains werecollecting on it, and—hiddenbeneath the surface butalreadypeekingouthideouslynow and again—disillusionment and nausealay waiting. This Siddharthadid not notice. He noticedonly that the bright andcertain inner voice that once

had awoken within him andaccompanied himunceasingly in his days ofgloryhadfallensilent.The world had captured

him: voluptuousness, lust,lethargy,and in theendevengreed, the vice he’d alwaysthought themost foolish andhad despised and scornedabove all others. Property,ownership, and riches hadcaptured him in the end. No

longer were they just gamesto him, trifles; they hadbecome chains and burdens.A curious and slippery pathhad led Siddhartha to hislatest and vilest form ofdependency: dice playing.Ever since he had ceased tobe a Samana in his heart,Siddhartha had begun topursuethesegameswiththeirstakesofmoneyandpreciousgoods—games he had onceparticipated in offhandedly,

dismissing them as a child-people custom—withgrowing frenzy and passion.He was feared as a player.Few dared to challenge him,for his bets were fierce andreckless.Heplayedthisgameout of his heart’s distress.Losing and squandering thewretched money was anangry pleasure; in no otherwaycouldhehaveshownhiscontempt forwealth, the idolof the merchants, more

clearly and with morepronouncedscorn.Andsohebet high and mercilessly.Despising himself, mockinghimself, he won thousandsand threw thousands away,gambled away money,gambled away jewelry,gambled away a countryhouse,won again, lost again.That fear—that terrible andoppressive fear he felt whilerolling the dice, whileworrying over his own high

stakes—he loved it. Againandagainhesoughttorenewit, toincreaseit, togoadit toahigherlevelofintensity,foronly in the grasp of this feardid he still feel somethinglike happiness, somethinglike intoxication, somethinglike exalted life in the midstof his jaded, dull, insipidexistence. And after eachmajorlosshedreamedofnewwealth, pursued his tradingwith increasedvigor, andput

morepressureonhisdebtors,for he wanted to go ongambling,hewantedtogoonsquanderingallhecouldsoasto continue to show hiscontempt for wealth.Siddhartha lost thecomposurewithwhichhehadonce greeted losses, he losthispatiencewhenothersweretardy with their payments,lost his good-naturednesswhen beggars came to call,lostalldesiretogivegiftsand

loan money to supplicants.The one who laughed as hegambled away ten thousandon a single toss of the diceturned intolerantandpetty inhis business dealings, and atnight he sometimes dreamedof money. Whenever heawokefromthishatefulspell,whenever he saw his facegrownolderanduglier in themirror on his bedroom wall,whenever hewas assailed byshame and nausea, he fled

further, seeking to escape inmore gambling, seeking tonumbhimselfwithsensualityand wine, and then hurledhimselfbackintothegrindofhoarding and acquisition. Inthis senseless cycle he ranhimself ragged, ran himselfold,ranhimselfsick.Then one day a dream

came to warn him. He hadspent the evening hourswithKamala in her beautiful

pleasuregarden.Theyhadsatbeneath the trees, deep inconversation, and Kamalahad spoken sober words,wordsbehindwhichgriefandwearinesslayhidden.Shehadasked him to tell her aboutGautama and couldn’t getenough of hearing how purehis eyes were, how still andbeautifulhismouth,howkindhis smile, how peaceful hisgait.Havingmadehimgoontelling stories of the sublime

Buddha for a long time,Kamala had sighed and said,“Oneday,perhapssoon,Itoowill follow this Buddha. Iwill give him my pleasuregardenand takerefuge inhisdoctrine.” But then shearoused him and bound himto her in love play with ananguishedpassion,bitinghimandwettinghimwithtears,asif trying to squeeze the lastsweet drop from this vain,transitory pleasure. Never

before had it seemed sostrangely clear to Siddharthahow closely sensuality waslinkedtodeath.HehadlainatKamala’s side with her faceclosebesidehis, andbeneathher eyes and beside thecorners of hermouth hewasable to read clearly as neverbefore an anxious script, awriting made of tiny lines,quiet furrows, writing thatcalled to mind autumn andage, just as Siddhartha

himself,whowasonly inhisforties, had already noticedgray hairs here and thereamong the black. Wearinesswas inscribed in Kamala’sbeautiful face, wearinessfromwalkingalongpaththathadnohappygoal,wearinessand the first signs ofwithering, and a secretanxiety, not yet uttered,perhaps not yet evenrecognized: fear of old age,fearofautumn,fearofhaving

to die. Sighing, he had takenleave of her, his soul full ofreluctance and secretapprehension.Siddhartha had spent the

night in his home withdancing girls and wine, hadmade a show of superioritybeforeothersofhis standing,though he was no longersuperior, had drunk a greatdealofwine,andhadgonetobed long after midnight,

weary andyet agitated, closeto tears and despair. For along time he sought sleep invain,hisheartfullofamiseryhe felt he could no longerendure, full of a nausea thatcoursed through him like thevile,insipidtasteofthewine,like the dreary all-too-sweetmusic, the all-too-soft smilesof the dancers, the all-too-sweet perfume of their hairand breasts. But nothingmade the nausea well up in

himmorebitterlythandidhehimselfHe felt nausea at hisperfumed hair, the smell ofwineonhisbreath,thewearyslackness and reluctance ofhisskin.Justassomeonewhohas eaten or drunk toomuchvomits it up again in agonyand yet is glad for the relief,sleepless Siddhartha yearnedfor a monstrous wave ofnausea thatwould ridhimofthese pleasures, these habits,this whole meaningless

existence and himself alongwith it. Only with the firstraysofmorningandwith thefirst stirrings in the streetoutsidehistownhousehadhesunk into slumber and founda few moments of halfnumbness, a suggestion ofsleep.During thesemomentshehadadream.Kamala kept a rare little

songbirdinagoldencage;hedreamed about this bird. He

dreamed the bird, whichalways used to sing at dawn,had fallen silent, and sincethe silence struck him, hewent over to the cage andlooked inside; the little birdlay dead and still on thebottom. He took it out,weighed it for a moment inhis hand, and then tossed itaside, into the street, and atthe same moment he wasseized with fear and horrorand his heart hurt, as ifwith

this dead bird he had thrustaside everything that hadworthandvalue.Waking from this dream

with a start, he felt himselfsurrounded by deep sadness.Devoidofvalue,itseemedtohim, devoid of value andmeaning was this life he’dbeen living;nothing thatwasalive, nothing in any wayprecious or worthy ofkeeping, had remained in his

hands. Alone he stood, andempty, like a shipwreckedmanupontheshore.His mood black,

Siddhartha betook himself toa pleasure garden thatbelonged to him, locked thegate, and satdownbeneath amango tree, feeling death inhis heart and horror in hisbreast; sitting there, he felthimself dying inside,withering inside, coming to

an end. Eventually hecollected his thoughts and inhis mind retraced his stepsalong the entire path of hislife, from the first days hecouldremember.Hadheeverexperienced happiness, felttrue bliss? Oh, yes, he had,several times. He had tastedhappiness in the years of hisboyhood, when he hadsucceeded in winning thepraise of the Brahmins byexcelling, far beyond all

others of his age, at recitingtheholyverses,debatingwiththelearnedmen,andassistingat the sacrifices. He had feltthen,inhisheart,“Apathliesbefore you to which you arecalled; the gods are waitingfor you.” And again as ayoung man, when he hadbeenwhiskedfromthehordeofhispeersandsweptaloftinpursuit of the ever-ascendinggoal of all thought, when hewas struggling painfully to

grasp the meaning ofBrahman, when every shredof knowledge he attainedonly gave rise to new thirstwithin him—then too he hadfelt it, amid all the thirst,amidall thepain:“Striveon!Strive on! You have acalling!” He had heard thisvoicewhenhe lefthomeandchosethelifeofaSamana,hehad heard it again when heleft the Samanas to seek outthe Perfect One, and again

whenhehad leftGautama toventure into the Unknown.How long had it been sincehe had last heard that voice,how long since he hadascended to new heights.Howtediousandflatwasthepath he had been followingthese many long years, withno lofty goal, no thirst, noexaltation, years ofcontentinghimselfwithsmallpleasuresandyetneverbeingsatisfied! For all these years

he had been longing andattempting, without beingaware of it, to become likethese many people, thesechildren,andallthewhilehislife had been far moremiserable and impoverishedthan theirs, for their goalswere not his, nor theirworries; this entire world ofKamaswamipeoplehadbeenameregame tohim,adancehewas observing, a comedy.Only Kamala had been dear

tohim,onlyshewasofvalue—but was she still? Did hestill need her, or she him?Weretheynotplayingagamethat had no end? Was itnecessarytoliveforthat?No,it was not necessary! Thisgame was called Sansara, agame for children, agame tobe played sweetly perhaps,once, twice, ten times—butagainandagain?Siddhartharealizedthatthe

game was over; he could nolonger play it. A shuddercoursed through his body;withinhim,hefelt,somethinghaddied.That entire day he sat

beneath the mango treethinking of his father,thinkingofGovinda,thinkingof Gautama. Had he had toleave them all behind tobecome a Kamaswami? Hewas still sitting there when

night arrived. Glancing upand seeing the stars, hethought, Here I am sittingbeneathmymangotreeinmypleasuregarden.He smiled alittle—was it necessary, wasit fitting, was it not rather afoolishgamethatheownedamango tree, that he owned agarden?Thistoohenowbroughtto

a close; this too died withinhim.Hestoodup, took leave

ofthemangotree,tookleaveofthepleasuregarden.Ashehadeatennofoodthatday,hefelt intense hunger andthoughtofhishouseintown,his bedchamber and bed, thetablecoveredwithfood.Witha weary smile, he shookhimself and took leave ofthesethings.The very same hour that

night, Siddhartha left hisgarden, left the city, and

never returned. Itwas a longtime before Kamaswamistopped sending out servantsto look for him, for hebelieved Siddhartha hadfallen into the hands ofrobbers.Kamalasentnoone.When she learned thatSiddhartha had vanished, shefelt no surprise. Had she notalways been expecting this?Was he not a Samana, apilgrim, bound to no home?She had felt this more

strongly than ever the lasttime they had been together,and despite the pain of herlossshefeltgladthatshehadpressedhimtoherbreastwithsuchardorthat last time, thatshehadfelt,onelasttime,soutterly possessed by him,permeatedbyhim.When she first received

word of Siddhartha’sdisappearance, she went tothe window, where she had

been keeping a rare songbirdimprisoned in a golden cage.She opened the door of thecage, took the bird out, andlet it fly away. For a longtime she gazed after it, theflyingbird.Fromthatdayonshereceivednomorevisitorsand kept her house closed.Soon afterward it becameapparent that her lastencounter with Siddharthahadleftherpregnant.

BESIDETHERIVER

Siddharthawandered throughthe forest, already quite farfrom the city, knowing onlythis:Hecouldnevergobackagain. The life he had beenliving these many years wasnow over and done with; hehad drunk it to the lees,

sucked the last drops, filledhimself with nausea. Deadwas the songbird from hisdream. Dead was the birdwithin his heart. He wasdeeply enmeshed in Sansara,had absorbed nausea anddeathfromallsidesthewayasponge soaks up water till itis full. He was filled withantipathy, filled with misery,filled with death; there wasnothing left in theworld thatcould tempt him, console

him,givehimpleasure.He longed to be rid of

himself, to find peace, to bedead. If only a bolt oflightning would strike himdown! If only a tiger woulddevour him! If only therewere a wine, a poison, thatwould numb him, bring himoblivion and sleep, and nomore awakenings!Was thereany sort of filth with whichhe had not yet defiled

himself, any sin or folly hehad not committed, anybarrennessofsoulhehadnotbroughtuponhimself?Wasitstill possible to live? Was itpossibletocontinue,overandoveragain,todrawbreath,toexhale, to feel hunger, to eatagain, to sleep again, to lieagain beside a woman? Hadnotthiscyclebeenexhaustedforhim,concluded?Siddhartha came to the

great river that ran throughthe forest, the same riveracrosswhich a ferryman hadonce transported him in thedays of his youth, when hewas just leaving Gautama’stown. Beside this river henow stopped and remainedstanding hesitantly upon itsbank. Weariness and hungerhad made him weak. Whatreason did he have tocontinue walking—walkingwhere, and with what goal?

No, there were no moregoals; all thatwas leftwas adeeppainfullongingtoshakeoff thiswholemaddream, tospitoutthisstalewine,toputan end to this pitiful,shamefulexistence.Abovetheriverbank,atree

grew aslant, a coconut palm,and against its trunkSiddhartha rested hisshoulder, placing his armaround the tree and gazing

down into the green waterthatflowedonandonbeneathhim, gazed down and foundhimself utterly overwhelmedby the desire to let go andsink beneath its surface. Aterrible emptiness wasreflected back at him frombeneath the water, whichfound its reply in the awfulemptinesswithinhissoul.Hehad reached an impasse. Allthat was left for him to dowasannihilatehimself,smash

to pieces the botchedstructure of his life, throw itaway,hurlitatthefeetofthemocking gods. This was thegreat purging he had longedfor: death, the smashing ofthe form he so despised! Letthe fishdevourhim, thisdogSiddhartha,thismadman,thisspoiled and rotten body, thissaggingandabusedsoul!Letthe fish and the crocodilesdevour him, let demons tearhimtopieces!

With a grimace, he peeredinto the water, saw his facemirrored there, and spit at it.Feeling profound weariness,he released his arm fromaround the tree trunk androtatedhisbodya little soasto let himself fall vertically,sink at last into the depths.With closed eyes, he sanktowarddeath.Then, fromdistant reaches

of his soul, from bygone

realms of his weary life, asound fluttered. It was aword, a syllable that he nowspoke aloud, mindlessly, hisvoice a babble, the first andfinal word of every Brahminprayer, the holy Om thatmeant the perfect oxperfection. And the momentthe sound Om touchedSiddhartha’s ear, hisslumbering spirit suddenlyawoke and recognized thefoolishnessofhisactions.

Siddhartha was deeplyshaken. This, then, was howthings stood with him. Hewassolost,sobefuddledandbereft of knowledge as tohavebeencapableofwantingto die, of letting this wish,thischildishwish,growlargeinside him: the wish to findpeace by annihilating hisbody!All thetormentsof thelast months, all thedisillusionment, all thedespair had been unable to

achieve this thing that hadbeen accomplished in thesinglemomentwhen theOmpiercedhisconsciousness:hisrecognizing himself in hismiseryandfolly.“Om,”he said aloud.

“Om!” And he hadknowledge of Brahman, hadknowledge of theindestructibility of life, hadknowledge of all thingsdivinethathehadforgotten.

But all this was only amoment, a flash. Siddharthasank down at the foot of thecoconut palm, laid his headupontherootofthetree,andfellintoadeepslumber.Deep was his sleep and

freeofdreams; it hadbeenalongtimesincehehadknownsuch sleep. When he awokesomehourslater,itseemedtohim as if ten years hadpassed. He heard the water

quietly flowing, didn’t knowwhere he was or who hadbroughthim,openedhiseyes,was astonished to see treesandskyabovehim—andthenremembered where he wasand how he had come here.But it tookhimquiteawhileto do this, and the pastappeared to him as ifconcealed behind a veil,infinitely distant, infinitelyremoved fromhim, infinitelyindifferent.Heknewonlythat

his former life—in his firstmoment of new awareness,this former life appeared tohim like a previousincarnation from the distantpast, anearlyembodimentofhis present Self—his formerlifehadbeenleftbehind,thathehadevenwanted to throwaway his life in his nauseaand misery, but that he hadregained consciousnessbeneath a coconut palmwiththe holy word Om upon his

lips; he had then fallenasleep, and now, havingawoken, he beheld theworldasanewman.Murmuring tohimself the word Om, overwhichhehadfallenasleep,hefeltas if thisentiresleephadbeen nothing but a longdeeply engrossed chanting ofOm, an Om-thinking, aplunging into and completeimmersion in Om, in theNameless,thePerfect.

What a wonderful sleep ithad been! Never had a sleepsorefreshedhim,sorenewedhim, so rejuvenated him!Coulditbethathehadreallydied, perished, and beenreborn in a new shape? Butno, he recognized himself,recognized his hand and hisfeet, recognized the placewherehe lay, recognized thisego within his breast, thisobstinate, strange creatureSiddhartha; but this

Siddhartha was nonethelesstransformed, was renewed,was oddlywell rested, oddlyawake,joyful,andfilledwithcuriosity.WhenSiddharthasatup,he

sawamanseatedacrossfromhim, a stranger, a monkdressedinayellowrobewitha shaved head, sitting in thepose used for contemplation.He regarded this man, whohad neither hair on his head

nor a beard, and he had notlookedathimforlongbeforehe recognized this monk asGovinda, the friend of hisyouth, Govinda who hadtaken his refuge with thesublimeBuddha.Govindatoohad aged, but still his facedisplayed the same featuresas before: They spoke ofeagerness, of fidelity, ofsearching, of apprehension.But when Govinda, feelinghis gaze, raised his eyes to

look at him, Siddhartha sawthat Govinda did notrecognize him. Govinda waspleased to find him awake;apparentlyhehadbeensittinghere a long time waiting forhim to awaken although hedidnotknowhim.“Iwas asleep,” Siddhartha

said. “How did you gethere?”“You were asleep,”

Govinda replied. “It is not

good to sleep in such placeswhere there are often snakesandthecreaturesoftheforesthavetheirpaths.I,master,ama disciple of the sublimeGautama, the Buddha, theSakyamuni, and was on apilgrimage along this pathwithothersofourorderwhenI saw you lying asleep in aplacewhereitisdangeroustosleep. For this reason Iattempted to rouse you,master, and when I saw that

your sleepwas very sound, Iremained behind to sit withyou. And then, it appears, Imyselffellasleep—Iwhohadintendedtowatchoveryou.Ihave performed my dutiespoorly; weariness overcameme. But now that you areawake,letmego,thatImightcatchupwithmybrothers.”“I thank you, Samana, for

guarding my sleep,”Siddhartha said. “You

disciples of the SublimeOnearemostkind.Nowyoumaygo.”“Iwillgo,master.Mayyou

alwaysfindyourselfwell.”“Ithankyou,Samana.”Govinda made the gesture

of leave-taking and said,“Farewell.”“Farewell, Govinda,” said

Siddhartha.Themonkstoppedshort.

“Forgiveme,master.Howdoyouknowmyname?”Siddharthasmiled.“Iknow

you, Govinda, from yourfather’s hut, and from theBrahminschool,andfromthesacrifices, and from ourjourney to the Samanas, andfromthathourinthegroveofJetavanawhenyoutookyourrefuge with the SublimeOne.”“You are Siddhartha!”

Govinda cried out. “Now Irecognize you; I cannotunderstand how I could havefailed to recognize youbefore.Welcome,Siddhartha.Greatismyjoyatseeingyouoncemore.”“I too am joyful at seeing

you. You were the guardianof my sleep; again I thankyouforthis,althoughIwasinnoneedofaguardian.Whereareyougoing,myfriend?”

“I am going nowhere.Wemonksare always journeyingso long as it is notmonsoonseason; constantly we travelfrom one place to another,living according to the rules;we preach the doctrine,accept alms, and go on.Always it is so. But you,Siddhartha, where are yougoing?”Siddhartha said, “It is just

the same with me as with

you, my friend. I am goingnowhere. I am merelyjourneying, I am on apilgrimage.”Govinda said, “You say

you are a pilgrim, and Ibelieve you. But forgiveme,Siddhartha; a pilgrim doesnotlookasyoudo.Youweartheclothesofarichman,youwear the shoes of an elegantgentleman, and your hairsmells of scentedwater; it is

not the hair of a pilgrim, notthehairofaSamana.”“Indeed, dear friend, you

have observed all this well;yourkeeneyemissesnothing.ButIdidnotsaytoyouthatIwasaSamana.IsaidIamona pilgrimage—and, indeed, Iamapilgrim.”“You are a pilgrim,”

Govinda said. “But fewmenembark on pilgrimageswearing such clothes, with

such shoes, with such hair.Never, in all my years ofpilgrimage, have Iencounteredsuchapilgrimasyou.”“I believe you, my

Govinda.Butnow,today,youhavemet just suchapilgrim,in such shoes, with suchgarments. Remember, myfriend:Theworldofshapesistransitory, and transitory—highly transitory—are our

clothes,thewaywewearourhair, and our hair and bodiesthemselves. I wear thegarments of a rich man; youdiscernedthisquitecorrectly.I wear them because I wasrich, and Iwearmyhair likeone of theworldly creatures,the lechers, for I was one ofthem.”“And now, Siddhartha,

whatareyounow?”“ThisIdonotknow.Ihave

as little an idea as you do. Iamona journeyIwasa richman and am rich no longer,andwhatIwillbetomorrowIdonotknow.”“You have lost your

riches?”“I have lost them, or they

have lost me. They are nolongermine.Swiftlydoesthewheel of shapes turn,Govinda. Where is theBrahmin Siddhartha? Where

is the Samana Siddhartha?Where is the rich manSiddhartha? The transitorychanges swiftly, Govinda, asyouknow.”Govinda gazed at the

friendofhisyouthfora longtime, his eyes full of doubt.Thenhetookleaveofhimintheway one takes leave of adistinguished gentleman andwentonhisway.With a smiling face,

Siddharthawatchedhimwalkoff; he still loved him, thisfaithful friend, thisapprehensive one. How, atthismoment, in this glorioushour after his wonderfulsleep, suffused with Om,could he have failed to loveanyoneoranything?Thiswasprecisely the form of theenchantmentthattheOmhadwrought within him as heslept: He loved everythingand was filled with joyous

love for all he saw, and herealized that what had soailed him before was that hehadbeenabletolovenothingandnoone.With a smiling face,

Siddhartha gazed after thedeparting monk. His sleephad restoredhim,buthewasstill tormentedbyhunger,forhehadeatennothing for twodays and the time when hehad been impervious to

hunger was now long past.With sorrow, yet also withlaughter, he thought of thistime. Back then, he recalled,hehadboastedofthreethingsbefore Kamala, the threenobleandunassailableartshehad mastered: fasting—waiting—thinking.Thesehadbeen his possessions, hispowerandstrength,hissturdystaff; it was these three artshe had studied in theassiduous, laborious years of

hisyouth, totheexclusionofall else. And now they hadabandoned him; not one ofthem remained, not fasting,notwaiting, not thinking.Hehad sacrificed them for themostmiserable of things, themost transitory: for sensualpleasure, for luxury, forwealth!Howstrangely thingshadgonewithhim.Andnow,it appeared, he had trulybecome one of the childpeople.

Siddhartha considered hiscircumstances. Thinking didnot come easily to him. Hedidn’t really feel like it, butheforcedhimself.Now that all these utterly

transitory thingshaveslippedaway fromme, he thought, IamleftunderthesunjustasIstood here once as a smallchild; I own nothing, knownothing,candonothing,havelearnednothing.Howcurious

this is! Now that I am nolonger young, now that myhair is already half gray andmy strength is beginning towane, I am starting overagain from the beginning,from childhood! Again hehadtosmile.Yes,itcertainlywas strange, this fate of his!Things were going downhillwith him, and now he wasonce more standing in theworld, empty and naked andfoolish. But he could not

quite bring himself to feelsorrowful on this account.Indeed, he felt a tremendousurge to burst out laughing:laughter at himself, laughteratthisstrange,foolishworld.Things are going downhill

with you! he said to himself,laughing, and as he said thishiseyescametorestupontheriver,andhesawtherivertoogoing downhill, wanderingalways downhill and singing

gaily all the while. Thispleased him greatly, and hegave the river a friendlysmile.Was this not the riverin which he had wished todrown once, a hundred yearsbefore, or had it only been adream?Curious indeed this life of

minehasbeen,he thought, ithas taken such strangedetours. As a boy I wasconcernedonlywithgodsand

sacrifices. As a youth I wasconcerned only withasceticism,with thinkingandsamadhi;IwentsearchingforBrahman, revered the eternalin Atman. But as a youngman I set off after thepenitents, lived in the forest,suffered heat and frost,learned to go without food,taught my body to feelnothing.Howglorious itwasthenwhenrealizationcametomeinthedoctrineofthegreat

Buddha; I felt knowledge ofthe Oneness of the worldcoursing throughme likemyown blood. But even theBuddha and his greatknowledge had to be leftbehind.Iwentoffandlearnedthe pleasures of love fromKamala, learned to conductbusiness from Kamaswami,accumulated money,squanderedmoney,learnedtolove my stomach, learned toindulge my senses. I had to

spend many years losing myspirit, unlearning how tothink, forgetting the greatOneness.IsitnotasifIwereslowly and circuitouslyturning from a man into achild,fromathinkerintooneofthechildpeople?Andstillthispathhasbeenverygood,andstillthebirdinmybreasthasnotdied.Butwhatapathithasbeen!Ihavehadtopassthrough somuch foolishness,somuchvice,somucherror,

so much nausea anddisillusionment andwretchedness,merelyinorderto become a child again andbe able to start over. But allof this was just and proper;my heart is saying yes, andmyeyesarelaughing.Ihadtoexperience despair, I had tosinktothemostfoolishofallthoughts, the thought ofsuicide, to be able toexperiencegrace, tohearOmagain,tobeabletosleepwell

and awaken well. I had tobecomea fool to findAtmanwithinmeoncemore.Ihadtosin to be able to live again.Where else may my path betakingme?How stupid it is,this path of mine; it goes inloops. For all I know it’sgoing in a circle. Let it leadwhereitwill,Ishallfollowit.He felt joy welling up

gloriouslywithinhisbreast.Tellme,heaskedhisheart,

what is the source of all thisgladness?Mightitcomefromthis long, good slumber thathas so restoredme?Or fromthe wordOm that I uttered?Or because I have escaped,because my flight wassuccessful, because I amfinally free again andstanding like a child beneaththesky?Oh,howgooditistohave fled, to have becomefree!Howpureandbeautifultheairishere,howgooditis

to breathe it! In the place Iran from, everything smelledoflotions,ofspices,ofwine,ofexcess,of lethargy.HowIhated theworld of richmen,ofgluttons,ofgamblers!HowI hated myself for havingremained so long in thathideous world! How I hatedmyself;howIrobbedmyself,poisoned and tormentedmyself; how I made myselfold and wicked! No, neveragainwillIimagine,asIonce

enjoyed doing, thatSiddhartha was a wise man!But one thing I did do well,onethingpleasesme,whichImust praise: All my self-hatred has now come to anend, along with that idiotic,desolate existence! I praiseyou, Siddhartha. After alltheseyearsofidiocy,youforoncehadagoodidea;youdidsomething;youheardthebirdsinging in your breast andfollowedit!

In this way he praisedhimself and felt pleasedwithhimself, listening withcuriosity to his stomach,which was rumbling withhunger. He had tasted hisshare of sorrow and miserythese past days and times,tastedthemandspitthemout,eaten of them till he hadreached the point of despair,of death. All was well. Hemight have remained a greatwhilelongeratKamaswami’s

side, earning money,squandering money, stuffinghis belly and letting his soulthirst;hemighthavegoneonlivingagreatwhile longer inthis cozy well-upholsteredhell if that moment had notcome: that moment of utterdespondencyanddespair,thatextreme moment when hewas hanging above theflowing water, ready todestroy himself. That he hadfelt this despair, this deepest

nausea, and yet had notsuccumbedtoit,thatthebird,the happy fountainhead andvoice within him, hadremained alive after all—itwas because of all thesethings that he now felt suchjoy, that he laughed, that hisfacewasbeamingbeneathhisgrayhair.It is good, he thought, to

taste for oneself all that it isnecessary to know. Already

as a child I learned thatworldly desires and wealthwere not good things. I haveknown this for a long timebut have only nowexperiencedit.AndnowIdoknow it, know it not onlywithmymemorybutwithmyeyes,withmyheart,andwithmy stomach.How glad I amtoknowit!For a long time he

contemplated his

transformation, listening asthe bird sang with joy Hadthisbirdnotdiedwithinhim,hadhenotfelt itsdeath?No,something else had diedwithin him, something thathad desired death for a longtime. Was it not the verythingthathehadonce, inhisardent years as a penitent,wantedtokill?WasitnothisSelf,hisnervous,proud littleego that he had done battlewith for so many years, that

had bested him again andagain, that was always backagain each time he killed itoff, forbidding joy andfeeling fear? Was it not thisthat had finallymet its deathtoday, here in the forestbeside this lovely river?Wasit not because of this deaththathewasnow likeachild,so full of trust, so devoid offear,sofullofjoy?And now it dawned on

Siddharthawhy,asaBrahminand as a penitent, he hadstruggled in vain to subduethis ego. A surfeit ofknowledgehadhinderedhim,too many holy verses, toomany rules for the sacrifices,toomuchself-castigation,toomuch activity and striving!He had been full of pride—always the cleverest, alwaysthemosteager,alwaysastepahead of all the others,always the knowledgeable

spiritual one, always thepriest or wise man. His Selfhadcreptintothispriesthood,this pride, this spirituality,andmadeitselfathomethere,growingplump, all thewhilehe thought he was killing itoff with his fasting andpenitence.Now he could seeit, and he saw that the secretvoice had been right: Noteacherwouldeverhavebeenable to deliver him. This iswhy he’d had to go out into

theworldandlosehimself inpleasure and power, inwomenandmoney,whyhe’dhadtobecomeatradesman,agambler, a drinker, anavaricious creature, until thepriest and theSamanawithinhim were dead. This is whyhe’d had to go on enduringthese hateful years, enduringthenausea,theemptiness,thesenselessness of a desolate,lostexistence,enduringtotheend, to the point of bitter

despair, until even the lecherSiddhartha, the greedySiddhartha,coulddie.Hehaddied, and a new Siddharthahad awoken from sleep. Hetoo would grow old; he toowould have to die someday.Siddhartha was transitory,every shape was transitory.Today, though, he wasyoung; he was a child, thenewSiddhartha, andwas fullofjoy.

Thinking these thoughts,helistenedwithasmiletohisstomach, listened withgratitude to a buzzing bee.Gaily he looked into theflowing river: Never had abodyofwatersopleasedhim,never had he perceived thevoice and the allegory of themoving water so powerfullyand beautifully. It seemed tohim that the river hadsomething special to say tohim,somethinghedidnotyet

know, something stillawaiting him. In this riverSiddhartha had wished todrown, and in it the old,weary, despairing Siddharthadid indeed drown this day.The new Siddhartha,however, felt adeep love forthis flowing water andresolvednot to leave it againsosoon.

THEFERRYMAN

Ishallremainherebesidethisriver,Siddharthathought;itisthe river I once crossed onmywaytothechildpeople.Akind ferryman took meacross; I shallgo to seehim.Fromhishutheoncesentmeonmypathtoanewlifethat

hasnowgrownoldanddied.LetthepathandthelifeIamembarkingonnowhavetheirstarthereaswell!Lovinglyhegazedintothe

flowing water, into thetransparent green, into thecrystal linesofitsmysteriouspatterning. He saw brightpearls rising from its depths,silent bubbles floating on itssurface, the blue of the skyreproduced in it. With a

thousandeyestherivergazedathim:withgreeneyes,whiteeyes, crystal eyes, sky-blueeyes. How he loved thiswater,how it enchantedhim,howgrateful hewas to it! Inhis heart he heard the voicethat was awakening oncemore,anditsaidtohim,Lovethiswater!Remain beside it!Learn from it! Oh, yes, hewanted to learn from it; hewanted to listen to it. Onewho understood this water

and its secrets, it seemed tohim,would understandmanyother things as well, manysecrets,allsecrets.But of all the water’s

secrets, he saw today only asingle one—one that struckhis soul. He saw that thiswater flowed and flowed, itwas constantly flowing, andyetitwasalwaysthere;itwasalwayseternallythesameandyet new at every moment!

Oh,tobeabletograspthis,tounderstand it! He did notunderstandit,didnotgraspit;hefeltonlyaninklingstirringwithin him, distant memory,divinevoices.Siddhartha got to his feet;

the gnawing hunger in hismid-section was becomingunbearable. Lost in thought,hewanderedfartheralongtheriverbank, walking upstream,listeningtothecurrentandto

the growling hunger in hisbelly.Whenhereachedtheferry,

theboatwaslyingready,andthe very same ferrymanwhohad once transported theyoung Samana across theriverwasstandingintheboat.Siddhartha recognized him;hetoohadgreatlyaged.“Will you ferry me across

theriver?”Siddharthaasked.The ferryman, astonished

toseesoelegantagentlemanaloneandjourneyingonfoot,took him into the boat andpushedofffromshore.“What a beautiful life you

have chosen,” the passengersaid.“Itmustbelovelytoliveeach day beside this waterandplyyouroaruponit.”Smiling, the ferryman

rocked with the boat as herowed. “It is lovely, master,as you say. But is not every

life,everywork,lovely?”“That may be. But I envy

youyours.”“Oh, you might quickly

lose your taste for it. It isnothing for peoplewhowearfineclothes.”Siddhartha laughed. “This

is not the first time I havebeen scrutinized this day onaccount of my clothing,scrutinized with distrust.Ferryman, would you accept

these clothes, which are aburdentome?Foryoushouldknow that I have no moneywithwhichtopayyourfare.”“Thegentlemanisjesting.”

Theferrymanlaughed.“It is no jest, friend. You

see, this is not the first timeyou have ferried me acrossthesewaters inyourboatoutofcharity.Showmethesamekindness today, and acceptmy clothing for your

troubles.”“Does thegentlemanmean

to continue on withoutclothes?”“Oh”—Siddhartha sighed

—“what I would like bestwould be not to continue onatall.WhatIwouldlikebest,ferryman, is if you were togive me an old loincloth towearandkeepmeonasyourassistant, or rather yourapprentice, for I would first

have to learn how to handletheboat.”For a long time the

ferrymangazedsearchinglyatthestranger.“NowIrecognizeyou,”he

said at last. “You spent thenight inmy hut once, a longtime ago, surely it’s beenmore than twenty years, andthen I ferried you across theriverandwepartedfromeachotherlikegoodfriends.Were

you not a Samana? I can nolongerrecallyourname.”“My name is Siddhartha,

and I was a Samana whenyousawmelast.”“Then welcome,

Siddhartha. My name isVasudeva. You will, I hope,be my guest tonight as welland sleep in my hut and tellme from where you havecome and why your clothesaresuchaburdentoyou.”

They had reached themiddle of the river, andVasudeva leaned his weightmore heavily upon the oar,pressing against the current.Peacefully he worked, hiseyes fixed on the boat’s tip,his arms strong. Siddharthasat watching him. Heremembered how, overtwenty years ago, on thatfinal day he’d spent as aSamana, love for this manhad stirred in his heart.

Gratefully he now acceptedVasudeva’soffer.When theyreached shore, he helped tiethe boat to the stakes, andthentheferrymaninvitedhimtoenter thehutandsetbreadand water before him.Siddhartha ate with relish,andalsoatewithrelishofthemangofruitVasudevaofferedhim.After their meal—it was

nearly twilight now—they

foundseatsupona tree trunkon the riverbank, andSiddhartha told the ferrymanofhisoriginsandhislife,justas it had passed before hiseyestoday,inthehourofhisdespair.Hisstorylasteddeepintothenight.Vasudeva listened with

great attentiveness. He tookin everything as he listened,originsandchildhood,all thelearning,allthesearching,all

thejoy,allthesuffering.Thiswas one of the greatestamongtheferryman’svirtues:He had mastered the art oflistening.AlthoughVasudevahimself did not utter aword,it was clear to the onespeaking that each of hiswords was being allowed toenterintohislistener,whosattherequietly,openly,waiting;not a single word wasdisregarded or met withimpatience; Vasudeva

attached neither praise norblame to what he heard butmerely listened. Siddharthafelt what a joy it was to beable to confide in such alistener,toentrusthislife,hissearching, his sorrow, to thiswelcomingheart.Near the end of

Siddhartha’s tale, when hebegan to speak of the treebeside the river and his deepfall,oftheholyOm,andhow

after his slumber he had feltsuch love for the river, theferryman listened twice asattentively as before, utterlyand completely absorbed, hiseyesclosed.Then, after Siddhartha had

fallen silent and some timehad passed, Vasudeva said,“It is just as I thought. Theriverspoketoyou.Toyouaswell it is a friend; to you aswell it speaks. That is good,

that is very good. Stay herewith me, Siddhartha myfriend.OnceIhadawife,herbed lay besidemine, but shedied a long time ago; for along time I have lived alone.Now you will live with me.There is plenty of room andfoodenoughforbothofus.”“I thank you,” Siddhartha

said.“Ithankyouandaccept.I thankyoualso for listeningsowelltome!Rarearethose

who know how to listen;never before have I metanyonewhowasasskilledinlisteningasyouare.This tooIshalllearnfromyou.”“You will learn this,”

Vasudevasaid,“butnotfromme. It was the river thattaughtmetolisten,anditwillteach you as well. It knowseverything,theriver,andonecan learn anything from it.You too, after all, have

alreadylearnedfromtheriverthat it is good to strive fordownwardmotion,tosink,toseekthedepths.Thewealthy,elegant Siddhartha will rowasothersbidhim;thelearnedBrahmin Siddhartha willbecome a ferryman. In thistoo you were instructed bythe river. You will learn therestfromitaswell.”Siddhartha responded after

a long pause. “What is the

rest,Vasudeva?”Vasudeva got up. “It has

grown late,” he said. “Let usgo to bed. I cannot tell youwhat the rest is, my friend.Youwilllearnit;perhapsyoualready know it. You see, Iam not a learned man. I donotknowhow to speak, Idonotevenknowhowtothink.Iknow only how to listen andtobepious;thesearetheonlythings I have learned. If I

could say and teach thesethings, perhaps I would be awise man, but as it is I amonlyaferryman,andit ismytask to transport peopleacross this river. I haveferried a great many peopleacrossit,thousands,andtoallofthemmyriverwasnothingmorethanahindranceintheirtravels. They were travelingfor money and for business,to weddings and onpilgrimages,andtheriverwas

in their way; the purpose ofthe ferryman was to carrythem past this obstacle asquicklyaspossible.Buttherewere a few among thesethousands,justafewofthem,four or five, for whom theriverceasedtobeanobstacle.They heard its voice, theylistened to it, and the riverbecameholytothemasithasbecome holy to me. Let usretirenow,Siddhartha.”

Siddhartha stayed with theferryman and learned tohandle the boat, and whentherewasnothingtodoattheferry he worked withVasudeva in the rice paddy,gathered wood, and pickedthe fruit of the pisang trees.He learned to hammertogether an oar and to repairthe boat and to weavebaskets; he was joyful overall he learned, and the daysandmonthswentswiftlypast.

ButevenmorethanVasudevacould teach him, he learnedfrom the river, which taughthimunceasingly.Aboveall,ittaught him how to listen—how to listen with a quietheart and a waiting, opensoul,withoutpassion,withoutdesire, without judgment,withoutopinion.He lived beside Vasudeva

as one friend beside another,and from time to time they

exchanged words, a fewcarefully considered words.Vasudeva was no friend ofwords, so Siddhartha rarelysucceeded in moving him tospeech.“Have you too,” he asked

him once, “have you toolearned this secret from theriver: that time does notexist?”Vasudeva’sfacebrokeinto

a radiant smile. “Yes,

Siddhartha,” he said. “Is thiswhatyoumean:thattheriveris in all places at once, at itssourceandwhereitflowsintothesea,atthewaterfall,attheferry, at the rapids, in theocean, in the mountains,everywhereatonce,sofortheriverthereisonlythepresentmoment and not the shadowofafuture?”“It is,” Siddhartha said.

“And once I learned this I

consideredmylife,andittoowas a river, and the boySiddhartha was separatedfromthemanSiddharthaandthegraybeardSiddharthaonlyby shadows, not by realthings. Siddhartha’s previouslives were also not the past,andhisdeathandhisreturntoBrahman not the future.Nothingwas,nothingwillbe;everything is, everything hasbeingandpresence.”

Siddhartha spoke withrapture; this enlightenmenthad made him profoundlyhappy. Oh, was not then allsuffering time, was not allself-torment and fear time,did not everything difficult,everything hostile in theworld vanish, was it notovercomeassoonasonehadovercome time, as soon asone could think it out ofexistence? He had spoken inrapture,butVasudeva smiled

athim,beaming,andnoddedin affirmation; he noddedsilently, ran his hand acrossSiddhartha’s shoulder, andturnedbacktohiswork.On yet another occasion,

whentheriverhadswolleninmonsoon season and wasraging,Siddharthasaid,“Isn’tit true, my friend, that theriver has many voices, verymany voices? Does it nothavethevoiceofaking,and

of a warrior, and of a bull,and of a nocturnal bird, andofawomangivingbirth,andofamanheavingasigh,andathousandvoicesmore?”“It is so.” Vasudeva

nodded.“Allthevoicesofthecreaturesareinitsvoice.”“And do you know,”

Siddhartha went on, “whatword it is the river isspeaking when you succeedinhearingallitstenthousand

voicesatonce?”Vasudeva smiled happily;

he leaned toward Siddharthaand spoke the holyOm intohis ear. And this was justwhatSiddharthahadheard.And each time Siddhartha

smiled,hisfacebecamemoreand more like that of theferryman,almostasbeaming,almost as suffused withhappiness, almost as shiningfrom a thousand tiny

wrinkles,aschildish,asaged.Many travelers, seeing thetwo ferrymen together, tookthemforbrothers.Often theysat together in the eveningsbeside the riverbank on thetreetrunk,satinsilence,bothlistening to the water, whichfor them was not water butrather the voice of Life, thevoice of Being, of theeternally Becoming. Andfrom time to time it wouldhappen that both of them,

listening to the river, thoughtof the same things—of aconversation from the daybefore yesterday, of one oftheirtravelerswhosefaceanddestiny occupied them, ofdeath, of their childhoods—and both of them wouldglance at each other at justthe same moment when theriver had said somethinggood to them, and bothwerethinking precisely the samething; both men were glad

about the same answer theyhad received to the samequestion.Therewassomethingabout

the ferry and the twoferrymen that some travelerscouldfeel.Fromtimetotimeit would happen that apassenger,havinglookedintothe face of one of theferrymen, began to tell thestory of his life, told of hissorrow, confessed to wicked

deeds, asked for consolationorcounsel.Fromtimetotimeitwouldhappenthatsomeoneaskedforpermissiontospendaneveningwiththemsoastolisten to the river. Ithappened, too, that thecurious came, people whohad heard it said that thisferry was home to two wisemen or magicians or saints.The curious asked manyquestions, but they receivedno answers, and they found

neither magicians nor wisemen; they found only twoold, friendly little men whoappeared to be mute andsomewhatoddandbenighted.And the curious laughed andconversed with one anotherabout how foolishly andcredulously people spreadsuchemptyrumors.

The years passed withoutanyone counting them. Then

one day monks arrived on apilgrimage, disciples ofGautama, theBuddha,askingtobe ferried across the river,and from them the ferrymenlearned that they werejourneying back to see theirgreat teacher as swiftly aspossible because the newshad reached them that theSublime One was gravely illand would soon die his lasthuman death and attainsalvation. Not long after,

anothergroupofmonkscameto the ferry on theirpilgrimage, and thenanother,and not only the monks butmost of the other travelersandwanderers as well spokeof nothing but Gautama andhisimpendingdeath.Andjustas people come streamingthrough the countryside fromall directions to witness amilitary campaign or thecoronation of a king—gathering here and there in

littlegroupslikeants—thisishow they came streamingnow, as if drawnby amagicspell, to where the greatBuddha was awaiting hisdeath, where this colossalevent would take place andthe great man of the epoch,thePerfectOne,wouldgo tohisglory.Siddharthathoughtoftenin

thesedaysofthewisemanonhis deathbed, the great

teacher whose voice hadprevailed on entire peoplesand roused hundreds ofthousands, whose voice hetoo had once heard, whoseholy countenance he too hadonce gazed upon with awe.He thought of him withaffection, saw thepathofhisperfection in hismind’s eye,andwith a smile recalled thewords with which he hadonce, as a young man,addressed the Sublime One.

Thesewords,itnowappearedto him, had been proud andprecocious; he smiled as heremembered them. A longtimeagohehadrealizedtherewas no longer anythingseparating him fromGautama, whose doctrine hehad been unable to accept.No, a true seeker could notaccept doctrine, not a seekerwhotrulywishedtofind.Butthe onewho had foundwhathewasseekingcouldgivehis

approvaltoanyteaching,anydiscipline at all, to any path,any goal—there was nolonger anything separatinghimfromthethousandotherswho were living in theEternal and breathing theDivine.Ononeofthesedayswhen

so many were makingpilgrimages to see the dyingBuddha, Kamala was amongthe pilgrims: Kamala, once

the most beautiful ofcourtesans. She had longsince withdrawn from herformerwayoflife,hadgivenher garden to Gautama’smonks, had taken refuge inhisteachings,andwasoneofthose women who providedforandgavefriendshiptothepilgrims. Together with theboy Siddhartha, her son, shehadsetoutassoonaswordofGautama’s impending deathreached her, set out wearing

simple clothes and on foot.Shehadbeenwalkingbesidethe river with her little son,but the boy soon grew tiredand wanted to go home,wantedtorest,wantedtoeat,became stubborn and tearful.Frequently Kamala had tostop with him; he wasaccustomed to having hisway,andshehadtofeedhim,console him, and scold him.Hedidn’tunderstandwhyhewas having to go on this

exhausting, gloomypilgrimage with his mother,having to go to a strangeplacetoseeamanhedidnotknowwhowasholyandnowlay dying. Let him die;whatwasittotheboy?The pilgrims were

approachingVasudeva’sferrywhen little Siddhartha againforcedhismothertostopandrest. Even Kamala wasexhausted, andwhile theboy

waschewingonabanana,shesquatteddownontheground,closed her eyes for a little,and rested. But suddenly shegaveapiteouswail.Theboylooked at her, terrified, andsaw her face ashen withhorror; beneath her dress asmall black snake darted outthathadjustbittenher.Quickly the two of them

raceddownthepathtogettowhere people were; not far

from the ferry, Kamalacollapsed, unable to go on.But the boy began wailingwith misery, kissing andembracing his motherbetweenhiscries,andshetoojoined in his loud cries forhelp until the noise reachedthe ears of Vasudeva, whowasstandingbesidetheferry.Heranup,tookthewomaninhis arms, and carried her tothe boat, the boy runningalongside, and soon they all

reached the hut whereSiddhartha stood at thehearth, making a fire. Heglanced up and saw first theface of the boy, which hefound strangely evocative,reminiscent of things longforgotten. Then he sawKamala,whomherecognizedat once, though she layunconscious in the arms ofthe ferryman, and now heknew it was his own sonwhosefacehadsostruckhim,

and his heart stirred in hisbreast.They washed Kamala’s

wound, but it was alreadyblack and her body swollen;theypouredamedicinaldrinkbetweenherlips.Shecametoagain as she lay onSiddhartha’s bed in the hut,and bending over her stoodSiddhartha, who had onceloved her. Thinking it all adream, she gazed, smiling,

into the face of her friend;onlyslowly,astheawarenessofhercircumstancesreturnedto her, did she remember thebiteandcalloutanxiouslyfortheboy.“He is here with you, do

notworry,”Siddharthasaid.Kamala looked into his

eyes. Her tongue was heavyas she spoke, numbedby thepoison.“Youhavegrownold,my love,” she said. “You

have turned gray. But youresemble the young Samanawho once came into mygardenwithnoclothesonandwith dust on his feet. Youresemble him far morecloselynow thanyoudid theday you left me, leftKamaswami. In your eyesyou resemble him,Siddhartha. Oh, I too havegrown old. Were younonetheless able to recognizeme?”

Siddhartha smiled. “Irecognized you at once,Kamala,mylove.”Kamalapointed toherboy

andsaid, “Didyou recognizehimaswell?Heisyourson.”She glanced about wildly,

then her eyes fell shut. Theboy began to cry. Siddharthatook him on his lap, let himcry, caressed his hair, andwhen he looked into thechildish face he was

reminded of a Brahminprayer he had once learnedwhenhehimselfwasa smallboy. Slowly, in a singsongvoice, he began to recite it;thewordscamefloodingbackto him from the past, fromchildhood. And his chantingmade the boy growquiet; henowgaveonlytheoccasionalsob, and then he fell asleep.Siddhartha laid him uponVasudeva’s bed. Vasudevastood at the hearth, cooking

rice. Siddhartha threw him aglance that he returned,smiling.“She is going to die,”

Siddharthasaidquietly.Vasudeva nodded, the

glowofthefireonthehearthflickering across his kindface.Kamala regained

consciousness one last time.Her face was contorted withpain; Siddhartha’s eyes read

the suffering on her lips, onher pallid cheeks. In silencehe read it, attentively,waiting, immersed in hersuffering. Kamala could feelthis; her gaze sought his.Looking at him, she said,“Now I see that even youreyes have changed. Theyhave become completelydifferent.HowamIstillableto recognize that you areSiddhartha?Youbothareandarenot.”

Siddhartha did not speak;insilencehiseyesmethers.“Haveyoureachedit?”she

asked. “Have you foundpeace?”He smiled and laid his

handuponhers.“I can see you have,” she

said, “I can see it. I toowillfindpeace.”“You have found it,”

Siddharthasaidinawhisper.

Kamalagazed intently intohis eyes. She thought abouthowshehadwanted tomakea pilgrimage to see Gautamainordertobeholdthefaceofa Perfect One, to breathe inhis peace, and now she hadfound not Gautama but thisman, and thiswas good, justasgoodasifshehadseentheother one. Shewanted to tellhim this, but her tonguewould no longer obey herwill. Silently she gazed at

him, and he watched as thelife ebbed from her eyes.When the final agony hadfilled them and left themlifeless, when the finalshudderhadtrembledthroughher body, he ran his fingersdown her eyelids to closethem.For a long time he sat

there,gazingatherfaceinitsrepose. For a long time heregarded her mouth, her old,

wearymouth whose lips hadgrown narrow, andrememberedthathehadonce,in the spring of his years,compared thismouth toa figsplit in two. For a long timehe sat there, reading thispallid face, these wearywrinkles, filling himselfwiththesight,andhesawhisownface lying there in just thesameway, just aswhite, justas lifeless, and at the sametime saw his face and hers

young again, with red lipsand burning eyes, and thefeeling of presence andsimultaneity flooded throughhim, the feeling of eternity.He felt deeply in this hour,moredeeplythaneverbefore,the indestructibility of everylife, the eternity of everymoment.When he stood up,

Vasudeva had prepared ricefor him, but Siddhartha did

not eat. In the lean-to wherethey kept their goat, the twooldmen spreadout straw forthemselves,andVasudevalaydowntosleep.ButSiddharthawent out and sat before thehut, listening to the river,with thepast eddyingaroundhim,touchedandenfoldedbyalltheagesofhislifeatonce.Onlyonce,afteralittlewhile,didhegetup,go to thedoorofthehut,andlistentomakesuretheboywasasleep.

Early the next morning,even before the sun hadshown itself, Vasudevaemergedfromthelean-toandjoinedhisfriend.“You did not sleep,” he

said.“No, Vasudeva. I sat here

and listened to the river. Ittold me many things, filledme deeply with salutarythought, with the thought ofOneness.”

“You have experiencedsorrow, Siddhartha, yet I cansee that no sadness hasenteredyourheart.”“No, dear friend, how

could I be sad? I, who wasalready rich and happy, havebeen made even richer andhappier. My son has beengiventome.”“I too welcome your son.

But now, Siddhartha, let usset towork; there ismuch to

do.Kamala died on the verybed where my wife diedbefore her. Let us buildKamala’s funeralpyreon thevery same hill where I oncebuiltthepyreformywife.”While the boy was still

sleeping,theybuiltthepyre.

THESON

The boy had been shy andweeping as he attended hismother’sfuneral;hehadbeensullen and shy as he listenedto Siddhartha, who greetedhimas his son andbadehimwelcome in Vasudeva’s hut.Pallid, he sat for days beside

the dead woman’s hillock,refused to eat, shut his eyes,and shut his heart, strugglingagainstFate,resistingit.Siddharthawasgentlewith

him and let him do as hewished;hehonoredhisgrief.Siddhartha understood thathis son did not know him,thathecouldnot lovehimasa father. Slowly, too, hebegan to realize that thiseleven-year-old was spoiled,

a mama’s boy; he had beenraised among all theamenities of wealth and wasusedtofinemeals,asoftbed,andgivingorderstoservants.Siddhartha understood thatthis spoiled, grief-strickenboy was utterly incapable ofresigning himself suddenlyand obligingly to anunfamiliar life of poverty, sohe did not force him. Heperformed various chores forhim, always saving him the

choicest morsels. Slowly, hehoped, he would be able towin him over with kindnessandpatience.Rich and happy is what

he’d called himselfwhen theboy had come to him. Butwhenwiththepassingoftimethe boy remained a sullenstranger,whenhedisplayedaproud and stubborn heart,refused to work, showed noreverence for his elders, and

plundered Vasudeva’s fruittrees, Siddhartha began tounderstand that it was nothappinessandpeace thathadcometohimwithhissonbut,rather,sorrowandworry.Buthe loved him and preferredthesorrowandworryof lovetothehappinessandpeacehehadknownwithouttheboy.Since young Siddhartha’s

arrivalinthehut,thetwooldmen had split up their work.

Vasudeva had once morebegun to perform the dutiesof ferryman on his own,while Siddhartha, wanting tokeep his son near him, tookover thework in the hut andthefield.For a long time, for long

months, Siddhartha waitedforhissontounderstandhim,toaccepthisloveandperhapseven return it. For longmonths Vasudeva waited,

observing this: waited andkept his peace. One day,when theboySiddharthahadyetagaintormentedhisfatherwith his defiance andmoodsand had broken both ricebowls, Vasudeva took hisfriend aside in the eveningandspokewithhim.“Forgive me,” he said. “I

am speaking to you with afriend’s heart. I can see youare suffering, I can see you

are troubled. Your son, myfriend, is making youworry,and I also worry on hisaccount. This young bird isaccustomedtoadifferentlife,a different nest. Unlike you,he did not flee from wealth,from the city, out of nauseaand surfeit; hewas forced toleavethembehindagainsthiswill. I have asked the river,myfriend;manytimesIhaveasked it. But the river onlylaughs—itlaughsatme,both

atmeandatyou,shakeswithlaughter at our foolishness.Waterseeksoutwater;youthseeks out youth.Your son isnot in a place where he canflourish. Ask the river andhearitscounselforyourself!”Distressed, Siddhartha

gazed into Vasudeva’s kindface, inwhosemany furrowsaconstantgaietyresided.“Could I bring myself to

part with him?” he asked

quietly, ashamed. “Give memore time, my friend! I amfighting for him, you see,trying to win his heart andhoping to capture it withloving-kindnessandpatience.To him too the river mustspeak someday; he too has acalling.”Vasudeva’s smile

blossomed more warmly.“Indeed,hetoohasacalling;he toowill enjoyeternal life.

But dowe know, you and I,towhathehasbeencalled:towhat path, to what deeds, towhat sufferings?His sorrowswillnotbeslight,forhisheartis proud and hard; those likehimmust suffer a great deal,commitmanyerrors,domuchwrong, pile much sin uponthemselves. Tell me, myfriend,areyoueducatingyourson? Do you force him? Doyou strike him? Do youpunishhim?”

“No, Vasudeva, I do noneofthesethings.”“This I knew. You do not

force him, do not strike him,donotcommandhimbecauseyouknowthatsoftisstrongerthanhard,waterstrongerthanrock, love stronger thanviolence.Verygood, Ipraiseyou.Butis itnotanerrorforyou to think that you are notforcing him, not punishinghim? Do you not bind him

with the bands of your love?Do you not shame him dailyand make things moredifficult for him with yourkindness and patience? Areyou not forcing him, thearrogant and spoiled boy, tolive in a hut with two oldbananaeatersforwhomevenrice is a delicacy, whosethoughtscannotbehis,whosehearts are old and still andbeatdifferently fromhis?Doallthesethingsnotforcehim,

punishhim?”In dismay, Siddhartha cast

his eyes down. Softly heasked, “What do you think Ishoulddo?”Vasudeva said, “Take him

to the city, to his mother’shouse. There will still beservants there; give him tothem.And if there is no oneleft,takehimtoateacher,notbecauseofwhathewilllearnbut because he will then be

among other boys and girls,in the world where hebelongs. Have you neverthoughtofthis?”“You have seen into my

heart,”Siddhartha said sadly.“OftenIhavethoughtofthis.Buttellme,howcanIreleasehim into thisworldwhenhisheart is so ungentle to beginwith? Will he not become ahedonist, will he not losehimself in pleasure and

power, will he not repeat allhisfather’serrors,willhenotbecome perhaps forever lostinSansara?”The ferryman’s smile

radiated brightness; hetouched Siddhartha’s armgently and said, “Ask theriver,myfriend!Listento itslaughter! Or do you reallybelieve that you committedyour own follies so as tospare your son from

committing them? And willyoubeable to saveyour sonfrom Sansara? How, withdoctrine, with prayer, withadmonitions?Myfriend,haveyou entirely forgotten thatinstructive story aboutSiddhartha, the Brahmin’sson, that you once related tome here in this very spot?Who saved the SamanaSiddhartha from Sansara,from sin, from greed, fromfolly?Werehisfather’spiety,

histeachers’admonitions,hisownknowledge,andhisownsearchingabletoprotecthim?What father, what teacher,wasable toprotecthimfromliving life himself, soilinghimself with life,accumulating guilt, drinkingthe bitter drink, finding hisownpath?Doyouthinkthen,my friend, that this pathmight be spared anyone atall? Perhaps your little son,because you love him and

would like to spare himsorrow and pain anddisillusionment? But even ifyou died ten times for him,you would not succeed inrelieving him of even thesmallest fraction of hisdestiny.”Never before had

Vasudeva spoken so manywords at once. Siddharthathanked him warmly, wentintothehutwithhisheartfull

ofworry,andforalongtimecould not find sleep.Vasudeva had told himnothing that he himself hadnot already thought andknown. But it was aknowledge he could not acton; stronger than thisknowledge was his love forthe boy, his tenderness, hisfear of losing him. Had heever given his heart socompletely to anything, hadhe ever loved another person

sodeeply,soblindly,withsomuch suffering,with so littlesuccessandyetsohappily?Siddhartha was unable to

followhisfriend’sadvice;hecouldnotgiveuphisson.Heallowed theboy toorderhimabout and treat him withcontempt. He kept his peaceand waited, each dayrecommencing the silentbattle of kindness, thesoundless war of patience.

Vasudeva also waited andheld his peace, in kindness,wisdom, and forbearance. Inpatience, both of them weremasters.Once when the boy’s face

reminded him very much ofKamala, Siddhartha suddenlyremembered somethingKamalahadoncesaidtohima long time before, in thedays of their youth. “Youcannot love,” she had said,

and he had agreed that shewas right, comparinghimselftoastarand thechildpeopletofallingleaves;nonetheless,hehadfeltareproachinwhatshe’dsaid.Itwastruethathehad never been able to losehimself entirely in anotherperson, give himself toanother, forget himself,committhefolliesofloveforthesakeofanother;neverhadhe been able to do this—andthis, it had seemed to him at

the time, was the greatdifference separating himfrom the child people. Butnow, ever since his son hadcome, he, Siddhartha, hadbecome a child person in hisown right, suffering becauseof another person, lovinganother person, lost, a fool,because of love.Now he toofeltforonceinhislife,lateasit was, this strongest andstrangest of passions, wassuffering because of it,

suffering terribly, and yet hewasblissful;hefeltsomehowrenewed,somehowricher.He could sense quite

distinctly that this blind lovefor his son was a passion,somethingveryhuman,thatitwasSansara,amuddyspring,dark water. Yet at the sametime he felt that it was notwithout value—it wasnecessary, it came out of hisown being. This too was

pleasurethathadtobeatonedfor; this too, pain to beexperienced;thesetoo,folliestobecommitted.Meanwhile,hissonlethim

go on committing thesefollies,lethimgoontryingtowinhimover,lethimhumblehimself daily before hismoods. There was nothingabout this father to delighthim, nothing he might havefeared. He was a good man,

this father, a good, kind,gentle man, very piousperhaps, perhaps a saint—noneof thesewere traits thatmighthaveserved towin theboy’sheart.Whatabore thisfather was, keeping himtrapped in thismiserablehut,aborewho receivedall sortsofbadbehaviorwithasmile,responded to insults withamicability and to wickeddeeds with kindness. Thiswas the old hypocrite’smost

contemptible trick. The boywouldhavemuchpreferredtobethreatenedandmistreated.The day arrived when

young Siddhartha’s volitionreached the bursting pointand he turned openly againsthis father. Siddhartha hadgiven theboya task.Hewastogo collect brushwood.Buttheboydidnotleavethehut;he remained standing there,defiant and furious, stamping

the floor and balling up hisfists,andinaviolentoutbursthe shouted his hatred andcontempt into his father’sface.“Go fetch your brushwood

yourself!” he cried, seething.“I am not your servant! Iknowyouwill not strikeme,you wouldn’t dare; I knowyou are constantly trying topunish me and belittle mewith your piousness and

forbearance.Youwantme tobecome just like you, just aspious, just as gentle, just aswise! I, on the other hand—mark my words!—wouldrather, just to spite you,become a highwayman andmurderer and go to hell thanbe likeyou! I hate you!Youarenotmyfather,evenifyouwere my mother’s lover tentimesover!”Anger and grief

overflowed in him, bubblingup in a hundred harsh andwickedwords directed at hisfather. Then the boy ran offanddidnotreturnuntillateintheevening.The next morning,

however, hewas gone.Gonetoo was a small basket,woven of two shades of bastfiber, in which the ferrymenkept the copper and silvercoins they received for their

services. Gone too was theboat; Siddhartha saw it lyingon the opposite shore. Theboyhadrunaway.“I have to follow him,”

said Siddhartha, who hadbeen trembling with miserysince the boy’s outburst theday before. “A child cannotwalk through the forest allalone. He will perish. Wehave to build a raft,Vasudeva, to get across the

water.”“We will build a raft,”

Vasudeva said, “in order toretrieve our boat, which theboyhas taken.Butas for theboy himself, you should lethim go, my friend. He is nolonger a child; he can lookafter himself. He is trying tomake his way back to thecity,andhe is right todoso,remember this. He is doingwhat you yourself failed to

do. He is providing forhimself, choosing his ownpath. Oh, Siddhartha, I canseethatyouaresuffering,butthis is pain of a sort that istempting to laugh about—even you will soon belaughingatit!”Siddharthadidnotrespond.

Healreadyheld theax inhishand and was beginning tomake a raft out of bamboo,and Vasudeva helped him

bind the trunks togetherwithgrassrope.Thentheycrossedto the other side, drifting fardownstream, and pulled theraft back up along theoppositeshore.“Whydidyoubringtheax

withyou?”Siddharthaasked.Vasudeva said, “It is

possible that our boat’s oarmightbelost.”Siddhartha knew what his

friend was thinking. He

thought the boy would havethrown away or broken theoar to avenge himself andkeep them from followinghim.Andindeedtherewasnolonger an oar in the boat.Vasudeva pointed to thebottomoftheboatandlookedat his friendwith a smile, asiftosay,Seewhatyoursonistryingtotellyou?Seethathewishes not to be followed?But he did not say this inwords. He set about

constructing a new oar.Siddhartha, however, tookleave of him in order tosearch for the runaway.Vasudevadidnotstophim.Siddhartha had been

hurrying through the forestfor a long time when itoccurred to him that hissearchwasinvain.Eithertheboywasfaraheadofhimandhad already reached the city,he thought,or, ifhewasstill

on his way, he would hidefrom his pursuer. As hecontinued to think, herealized that he was not intruthworriedabouthisson;inhisheartheknewthattheboyneither had perished norwasthreatened by dangers in theforest. Nonetheless, hecontinued to run withoutstopping, no longer becausehe wished to rescue the boybut merely out of desire, inthe hope of perhaps seeing

him once more. And he ranallthewaytotheoutskirtsofthecity.Whenhereached themain

road just outside town, heremained standing at theentrance to the beautifulpleasure garden that hadbelonged to Kamala, wherehe had seen her for the firsttime, sitting in her sedanchair. What once had beennowstirredagain inhis soul.

Once more he saw himselfstanding there, young, abearded naked Samana, hishair full of dust. For a longtime Siddhartha stood theregazing through theopengateintothegarden,wheremonksin yellow robes walkedbeneaththebeautifultrees.For a long time he stood

there reflecting, seeingimages,hearingthetaleofhisown life. For a long time he

stood there gazing at themonks, seeing instead ofthem the young manSiddhartha, seeing youngKamala strolling beneath thelofty trees.Distinctly he sawhimself being served foodand drink by Kamala,receiving her first kiss,looking back with pride andscorn upon his life as aBrahmin, and filled withpride and desire as he beganhis worldly life. He saw

Kamaswami, saw theservants, saw the banquets,the dice players, themusicians, saw Kamala’ssongbird in itscage, livedallthese things over again,breathed Sansara, was oncemore old and weary, oncemore felt the nausea, felt thedesire to extinguish himself,and once more recoveredthankstotheholyOm.After he had stood for a

long time beside the gate tothe garden, Siddhartharealized ithadbeena foolishdesire that haddrivenhim tothis place.He could not helphis son and he should notcling to him. Deeply he felthis love for the runawayboyin his heart—it was like awound—yetat thesametimehe felt that this wound hadnot been given him that hemight wallow in it: Thiswound was to be a radiant

blossom.Thathiswoundwasnotyet

blossoming, not yet radiant,madehimsad.Inplaceofhisgoal,theobjectofthedesiresthat had drawn him here,drawn him to follow hisrunaway son, he found onlyemptiness.Sadlyhesatdown,felt something dying in hisheart, felt emptiness, nolonger saw any joy beforehim, any goal. Immersed in

these thoughts, he sat andwaited. This he had learnedbeside the river, this onething:towait,tobepatient,tolisten. And he sat therelistening in the dust of theroad, listening to his heartbeating wearily and sadly,waitingforavoice.Forhourshesquattedtherelistening,nolonger seeing any images,sinking into the emptiness,letting himself sink with nopath before his eyes. And

when he felt his woundstinging, he soundlesslypronounced the word Om,filled himself with Om. Themonksinthegardensawhim,andashe remainedsquattingthereformanyhours,thedustcollecting in his gray hair,one of them came up andplaced two pisang fruitsbeside him.The oldmandidnotnotice.Fromthisparalysishewas

awakenedbyahandtouchinghis shoulder. Instantlyrecognizingthistouch,gentleandmodest,hecametoagain.He stood up and greetedVasudeva, who had comeafterhim.Andwhenhegazedinto Vasudeva’s kind face,gazed at the little wrinklesthat looked as if they wereburstingwith laughter, gazedintohismerryeyes,hesmiledas well. Now he saw thepisang fruits lying before

him;hepickedthemup,gaveone to the ferryman, and atethe other himself. Then,without a word, heaccompanied Vasudeva backinto the woods and returnedhome to the ferry. Neitherspokeofwhathadtakenplacethat day, neither spoke thename of the boy, neitherspoke of his flight, neitherspoke of the wound. In thehut, Siddhartha lay down onhisbedandwhen,sometime

later, Vasudeva came to hisbedside to offer him a bowlof coconut milk, he foundhimalreadysleeping.

OM

For a long time his woundcontinuedtosmart.Anumberof the travelers Siddharthaferried across the river had ason or daughter with them,andhewasneverabletolookat themwithoutfeelingenvy,without thinking, So many,

many thousands enjoy thismost precious sort ofhappiness;whycan’tI?Evenwicked people, even thievesandrobbershavechildrenandlove them and are loved bythem; I alone do not. Howsimple his thoughts had nowbecome, how lacking inunderstanding. That’s howgreatly he had come toresemblethechildpeople.He now saw people

differently than he hadbefore, less cleverly, lessproudly, but more warmly,with more curiosity andempathy. When he ferriedordinary sorts of peopleacrosstheriver,childpeople,tradespeople, warriors,womenfolk, they did notappear so strange to him asoncetheyhad;heunderstoodthem. He shared their life,which was governed not bythoughts and insights but by

drivesanddesires;hefeltlikeoneofthem.Althoughhehadnearlyreachedperfectionandstill felt the pangs of hisrecent wound, it seemed tohim as if these child peoplewere his brothers. Theirvanities, desires, andridiculous habits were losingtheir ridiculousness for him;they were becomingcomprehensible, lovable,even worthy of respect. Amother’s blind love for her

child, a self-satisfied father’sblind pride in his one littleson, a vain young woman’sblind, furious urge to bedeckherselfwithjewelsandattractmen’s admiring glances—allthesedrives,allthesechildishmatters, all these simple,foolish, but enormouslystrong, strongly alive,strongly asserted drives anddesires were no longer merechild’splaytoSiddhartha;hesaw people living for their

sake, saw them performingendless feats for their sake—making journeys, wagingwars, suffering endlesssufferings, enduring endlessburdens—and hewas able tolove them for this; he sawlife, the living, theindestructible, the Brahmanineachoftheirpassions,eachof their deeds. Lovable andadmirable these people werein their blind fidelity, theirblind strength and tenacity.

They were lacking in almostnothing; the one thingpossessed by the thinker, theman of knowledge, that theylackedwas only a trifle, onesmall thing: consciousness,conscious thought of theOnenessofall things.Andattimes Siddhartha evendoubted whether thisknowledge, this thinking,should be so highly valued,wonderedwhether it toowasnot perhaps the child’s play

ofthoughtpeople,whomightbe the child people ofthought. In all other matters,the worldly were the wiseman’sequals,wereinfactfarsuperior to him in manyways,justasanimals,intheirtenacious, unerringperformance of what isnecessary, can appearsuperior to people at certainmoments.Slowlyblossoming,slowly

ripening within Siddhartha,was the realization andknowledge of what wisdomand the goal of his longsearch really was. It wasnothingbutareadinessofthesoul,acapacity,thesecretartof being able at everymoment, without ceasing tolive, to think the thought ofOneness, tofeelOnenessandbreatheit in.Slowlythiswasblossoming within him,shining out at him from

Vasudeva’s aged childishface:harmony,knowledgeofthe eternal perfection of theworld,smiling,Oneness.His wound, however,

continued to smart. Withlonging and bitternessSiddharthathoughtofhisson,nurtured the love andtenderness in his heart,allowed the pain to gnaw athim,committedallthefolliesoflove.Thiswasaflamethat

would not go out of its ownaccord.

Onedaywhenthewoundwasviolently burning, Siddharthacrossed the river, driven bylonging, got out of the boat,and was of a mind to go tothecityagainandlookforhisson. The river was flowinggently and softly; it was thedry season, but its voicesoundedodd;itwaslaughing!

It was distinctly laughing.The river was laughing,brightly and clearly laughingat the old ferryman.Siddhartha stopped. Heleanedover thewater tohearbetter and saw his facereflected in the calmstreaming water, and in thismirrored face there wassomething that stirred hismemory, somethingforgotten, and when heconsidered further, he

realized what it was: Thisface resembled another facehehadonceknownandlovedand also feared. It resembledthe face of his father, theBrahmin. And herememberedhow,averylongtime ago, he, a mere youth,had forced his father to lethim go to join the penitents,how he had taken leave ofhim, and then he had goneandhadneveragainreturned.Had not his father suffered

thesamepainhehimselfwasnow suffering on account ofhis son? Had not his fatherdied long ago, without everhaving seen his son again?Must not he himself expectthe same fate? Was not thisrepetitionacomedy,astrangeand foolish thing, thisconstant circulation in apreordainedcourse?The river laughed. Yes, it

was true, everything returned

again that had not been fullysuffered and resolved; it wasalways the same sorrowsbeingsufferedoverandover.Siddhartha,however,climbedinto the boat again andcrossed back over to wherethe hut was with the riverlaughing at him, thinking ofhisfather,thinkingofhisson,locked inbattlewithhimself,feelinginclinedtoplungeintodespair but equally inclinedto join in this laughter at

himselfandalltheworld.Oh,his wound had not yetblossomed;hisheartwasstillstruggling against fate;merrimentandvictorydidnotyet shine from his sorrow.But he did feel hope, andwhen he had returned to thehut,he felt anunconquerabledesire to reveal himself toVasudeva, to show himeverything, tell everything tohim,themasterlistener.

Vasudevawassittinginthehutweaving a basket.He nolongeroperatedtheferry.Hiseyeswere beginning to growweak, and not only his eyesbut his arms and hands aswell. Alone unchanged andblossomingwere the joy andthe gay benevolence of hisface.Siddharthasatdownbeside

theoldmanandslowlybeganto speak. Things they had

neversaidbefore,ofthesehenow spoke, telling of thejourney he had made to thecity,ofhisstingingwound,ofhis envy when he beheldhappy fathers, of hisknowledge of the foolishnessof suchdesires, of strugglingin vain to resist them. Allthese things he nowrecounted; he was able tospeakofallofthem,eventhemost embarrassing things.Everything could be told,

everything displayed; hecouldsayallofit.HeshowedVasudevahiswoundandalsotoldthestoryofhisflightthatday,ofhiscrossingtheriver,a childish refugee intendingtojourneyonto thecity,andhowtheriverhadlaughed.He spoke for a long time,

and as Vasudeva listenedwithhisstill face,Siddharthafelt Vasudeva’s listeningmore strongly than ever

before. He could sense howhis pain and his anxietieswereflowingawayfromhim,felt his secret hopes flowaway and then come backtoward him from the otherside.Showingthislistenerhiswound was just the same asbathing it in the river until itbecamecoolandonewiththewater. As he continued tospeak, continued to confessand recount, Siddhartha feltmore and more strongly that

it was no longer Vasudevalistening to him, no longer ahuman being, that thismotionless listener wasdrinking in his confession asa treedrinks in rain, that thismotionlessonewas theriver,God, the Eternal itself. AndasSiddharthaceased to thinkofhimselfandhiswound,hisrecognition of the changedessence of Vasudeva tookpossession of him; the moredeeply he felt it and entered

into it, the less strange itbecame and the more herealizedthatall thiswasas itshould be and natural, thatVasudevahadbeenthiswayalong time, nearly always; itwas just that he himself hadnot quite recognized it, andthat in fact he himself wasscarcely different fromVasudeva any longer. Hebecame aware that he wasnowseeingoldVasudevathewaypeopleseethegods,and

that this could not go onindefinitely; in his heart hebegan to take leave ofVasudeva. All this time hewascontinuingtospeak.When he had finished,

Vasudeva fixed his kind andnow somewhat feeble gazeupon him without speaking,silently radiating love andgaiety in his direction,understanding andknowledge. He took

Siddhartha’shand,ledhimtotheirseatontheriverbank,satdown there with him, andsmiledattheriver.“You have heard the river

laugh,”hesaid,“butyouhavenot heard everything. Let uslisten;youwillhearmore.”They listened. Gently, the

many-voicedsongoftheriverrang out. Siddhartha gazedinto the streamingwater, andin thewater imagesappeared

to him—his father appeared,lonely,mourning forhis son;he himself appeared, lonely,and also bound to his distantson with the bands oflonging; his son appeared,himself lonely, the boyeagerly storming down theflaming path of his youngdesires—each one with hissights set on his own goal,each one possessed by hisgoal,eachonesuffering.Theriver sang with a voice of

sorrow;itsanglongingly,andlonginglyitflowedontowarditsgoal,itsvoicealament.Do you hear? Vasudeva’s

mute gaze asked. Siddharthanodded. “Listen better!”Vasudevawhispered.Siddhartha made an effort

to listenbetter.The imageofhisfather,hisownimage,andthe image of his son allflowed together; Kamala’simage also appeared and

dissolved, and the image ofGovinda, and other images;they all flowed together. Allbecame the river, all of themstrivingasrivertoreachtheirgoal, longingly, eagerly,suffering, and the river’svoicerangoutfulloflonging,fullofburningsorrow,fullofunquenchable desire. Theriver strove to its goal;Siddhartha saw it hurryingalong,theriverthatwasmadeofhimselfandthoseheloved

andallthepeoplehehadeverseen;allthewavesandwaterswere hurrying, suffering,toward goals, many goals—the waterfall, the lake, therapids, thesea—andall thesegoalswerereached,andeachof them was followed by anew goal, and the waterturned tosteamandrose intothe sky; it became rain andplunged down from theheavens; it became a spring,became a brook, became a

river, striving anew, flowinganew. But the longing voicehadchanged.Itstillrangout,sorrowfully, searchingly, butother voices now joined it,voices of joy and of sorrow,good and wicked voices,laughing and mourning, ahundredvoices,athousand.Siddhartha listened. He

was now completely andutterly immersed in hislistening, utterly empty,

utterly receptive; he felt hehad now succeeded inlearninghowtolisten.Hehadheard all these things oftennow,thesemanyvoicesintheriver; today it sounded new.Already he could no longerdistinguish the many voices,couldnot distinguish thegayfrom the weeping, thechildish from the virile; theyall belonged together, theyearning laments and thewise man’s laughter, the cry

ofangerandthemoansofthedying; they were all one, allof them interlinked andinterwoven,boundtogetherina thousand ways. And all ofthis together—all the voices,all the goals, all the longing,all the suffering, all thepleasure,everythinggoodandeverything bad—all of ittogetherwastheworld.Allofit together was the river ofoccurrences,themusicoflife.AndwhenSiddharthalistened

attentivelytothisriver,tothisthousand-voiced song, whenhe listened neither for thesorrow nor for the laughter,when he did not attach hissoul to any one voice andenter into itwith his ego butrather heard all of them,heard thewhole, the oneness—then the great song of thethousand voices consistedonly of a single word: Om,perfection.

Do you hear? Vasudeva’sgazeaskedoncemore.Vasudeva’s smile gleamed

brightly; over the furrows ofhis aged countenance floateda luminous radiance, just astheOm floated radiant aboveallthevoicesoftheriver.Hissmilegleamedasheregardedhis friend, and nowSiddhartha’s face toogleamed brightly with thesame smile. His wound

blossomed;hissorrowshone;his Self had flowed into theOneness.In this hour Siddhartha

ceased to do battlewith fate,ceased to suffer. Upon hisface blossomed the gaiety ofknowledge that is no longeropposed by any will, thatknows perfection, that is inagreement with the river ofoccurrences,with the currentoflife,fullofempathy,fullof

fellow feeling, given over tothe current, part of theOneness.When Vasudeva arose

from his seat on theriverbank, when he lookedinto Siddhartha’s eyes andsaw the gaiety of knowledgegleaminginthem,hetouchedhis friend’s shoulder quietlywith his hand in his carefuland tender way and said, “Ihave waited for this hour,

dearestfriend.Nowthatithascome, let me go. For a longtimeIhavewaited,foralongtimeIhavebeentheferrymanVasudeva.Now it is enough.Farewell, hut; farewell, river;farewell,Siddhartha!”Siddhartha bowed deeply

before the one taking hisleave.“I knew this,” he said

softly. “Youwill go into theforest?” “I amgoing into the

forest; I am going intoOneness,” said Vasudeva,radiant.Radiant, he departed;

Siddhartha watched him go.With deep joy, with deepsolemnityhewatchedhimgo:saw each of his steps full ofpeace, saw his head full ofsplendor, saw his figure fulloflight.

GOVINDA

In the company of othermonks, Govinda once restedononeofhis journeys in thepleasure grove that thecourtesan Kamala had givento the disciples of Gautama.Thereheheard tell of anoldferryman who lived a day’s

journeyawaybesidetheriverandwas considered bymanyto be a wise man. When itwas time for Govinda tocontinueonhisway,hechosethepathtotheferry,eagertosee this ferryman. Foralthough he had lived all hislifeaccordingtotherulesandwas regarded with reverenceby the younger monks onaccount of his age and hismodesty, the restlessness andsearching had not yet been

extinguishedinhisheart.He went to the river and

askedtheoldmantotakehimacross,andwhentheygotoutof the boat on the oppositeshore, he said, “You haveshownusmonksandpilgrimsmuch kindness; many of ushave been ferried across theriver by you. Are you notalso, ferryman, a seeker insearchoftherightpath?”Siddhartha, his old eyes

smiling, said, “You callyourself a seeker, OVenerable One, and yet areadvanced in years and wearthe robe of the monks ofGautama?”“Indeed, I am old,”

Govindasaid,“butIhavenotstopped searchingNeverwillI cease to search; this seemstobemydestiny.You too, itseemstome,havedonesomesearching. Will you speak a

wordtome,ReveredOne?”Siddhartha said, “What

could I have to say to you,VenerableOne?Perhapsthis,that you are seeking all toomuch? That all your seekingis making you unable tofind?”“How is this?” Govinda

asked.“When a person seeks,”

Siddharthasaid,“itcaneasilyhappenthathiseyeseesonly

the thinghe is seeking; he isincapableoffindinganything,ofallowinganything toenterinto him, because he isalways thinkingonlyofwhathe is looking for, because hehas a goal, because he ispossessed by his goal.Seekingmeanshavingagoal.Finding means being free,being open, having no goal.You, Venerable One, areperhaps indeed a seeker, for,striving to reach your goal,

you overlook many thingsthat lie close before youreyes.”“I don’t quite understand

yet,”Govinda said. “Howdoyoumeanthis?”Siddhartha replied, “Once,

OVenerableOne,manyyearsago, you came to this river,and beside the river found asleeping man, and you satdown beside him to watchover his sleep. But you did

not,OGovinda,recognizethesleeper.”Astonished, like a man

bewitched, the monk lookedintotheferryman’seyes.“Are you Siddhartha?” he

asked,hisvoiceshy.“Iwouldnot have recognized you thistime, either! With all myheart Igreetyou,Siddhartha,and am delighted to see youonce more! You havechanged a great deal, my

friend.Andsonowyouhavebecomeaferryman?”Siddhartha gave a friendly

laugh. “A ferryman, yes.Some people, Govinda, haveto change a great deal, havetowearallsortsofgarments,and I am one of these, mydear friend. I welcome you,Govinda; come spend thenightinmyhut.”Govinda spent thenight in

thehutandsleptuponthebed

that had once belonged toVasudeva. He had manyquestionsforthefriendofhisyouth; Siddhartha had to tellhimmanythings.When,thenextmorning,it

was time for Govinda to setoff again on his day’sjourney,he said thesewords,not without hesitation:“Before I set off onmywayagain, Siddhartha, allow meone last question. Do you

have a doctrine? Is there abelief or some knowledgethat guides you, that helpsyou to live and do what isright?”Said Siddhartha, “As you

know,mydearfriend,Ibeganto distrust doctrines andteachers already as a youngman, in the days when wewere living among thepenitents in the forest, and Iturned my back on them. I

have stuck to this.NonethelessIhavehadmanyteachers since then. Abeautiful courtesan was myteacherforalongtime,andawealthy merchant was myteacher, and a few diceplayers. Once, even anitinerant disciple of theBuddha was my teacher; hesat beside me when I hadfallenasleepintheforestonapilgrimage.FromhimaswellIlearned;tohimaswellIam

grateful, very grateful. Mostof all, however, I learnedhere, from this river, andfrom my predecessor, theferrymanVasudeva.Hewasavery simple man, Vasudeva.Hewas not a thinker, but heknew what is necessary toknow; just as much asGautama he was a PerfectOne,asaint.”Govinda said, “Even now,

Siddhartha, you retain some

fondness for mockery, itseems to me. I believe youand know that you neverfollowed a teacher. But haveyounotyourselffound,ifnota doctrine, then at leastcertain thoughts, certaininsights that belong to youand help you to live? If youwere able to tell mesomething of them, youwouldfillmyheartwithjoy”Said Siddhartha, “I have

had thoughts, yes, andinsights, now and again.Sometimes, for an hour or aday, I have felt knowledgewithin me, just as one feelslifewithinone’sheart.Therewere several thoughts, but itwould be difficult for me tohand them on to you. Yousee,myGovinda,here isoneof the thoughts Ihavefound:Wisdomcannotbepassedon.Wisdom that a wise manattempts to pass on always

soundslikefoolishness.”“Do you speak in jest?”

Govindaasked.“It is no jest. I am saying

what I have found. One canpass on knowledge but notwisdom. One can findwisdom, one can live it, onecan be supported by it, onecanworkwonderswithit,butone cannot speak it or teachit.Isometimessuspectedthiseven as a youth; it is what

drovemefrommyteachers.Ihave found a thought,Govinda, that you will thinkneitherajokenorfoolishness;it ismybest thought.Itsays:Theoppositeofeverytruthisjust as true!For this is so:Atruth can always only beuttered and cloaked inwordswhen it is one-sided.Everything is one-sided thatcan be thought in thoughtsand said with words,everything one-sided,

everythinghalf,everything islacking wholeness,roundness,oneness.Whenthesublime Gautama spoke ofthe world in his doctrine, hehad to divide it into SansaraandNirvana,intoillusionandtruth, into suffering andredemption. This is the onlywaytogoaboutit;thereisnoother way for a person whowouldteach.Theworlditself,however,theBeingallaroundus and within us, is never

one-sided.Never is aperson,or a deed, purely Sansara orpurely Nirvana, never is aperson utterly holy or utterlysinful. It only seems sobecausewearesubject to theillusion that time exists assomething real. Time is notreal, Govinda. I haveexperienced this again andagain.Andiftimeisnotreal,thenthedistancethatappearsto lie between world andeternity, between suffering

and bliss, between evil andgood,isalsoanillusion.”“How can this be?”

Govindaaskedanxiously.“Listen well, my dear

friend,listenwell!ThesinnerwhoIamandwhoyouareisa sinner, but one day hewillagain be Brahman, he willone day reach Nirvana, willbe a Buddha—and nowbehold: This one day is anillusion,itisonlyanallegory!

The sinner is not on hiswayto the state of Buddhahood,he is not caught up in aprocess of developing,although our thought cannotimagine things in any otherway. No, in this sinner thefuture Buddha already exists—now, today—all his futureis already there. In him, inyourself, in everyone youmust worship the futureBuddha, the potentialBuddha, the hidden Buddha.

Theworld,friendGovinda,isnot imperfect,nor is it in themiddle of a long path toperfection.No,itisperfectinevery moment; every sinalready carries forgivenesswithin it, all little childrenalreadycarrytheiragedformswithinthem,allinfantsdeath,alldyingmeneternallife.Itisnotpossibleforanyonetoseehowfaranyotherpersonhascomealonghispath.Buddhawaits within the robber and

the dice player, and therobberwaits in theBrahmin.In the deepestmeditationwehave the possibility ofnegating time, of seeing alllife, all having-been, being,and becoming, assimultaneous, and theneverything is good,everything is perfect,everything is Brahman.Therefore everything that isappears good to me. Deathappears to me like life, sin

like holiness, cleverness likefolly;everythingmustbejustas it is, everything requiresonly my assent, only mywillingness, my lovingapproval, and for me it isgoodandcanneverharmme.I experienced by observingmy own body and my ownsoul that I sorely needed sin,sorelyneededconcupiscence,neededgreed,vanity,andthemost shameful despair tolearn to stop resisting, to

learn to love the world andstop comparing it to someworld I only wished for andimagined, some sort ofperfection I myself haddreamedup,butinsteadtoletit be as itwas and to love itandbehappytobelongtoit.“These, O Govinda, are a

fewofthethoughts thathavecomeintomymind.”Siddhartha bent down,

picked up a stone from the

ground,andweigheditinhishand.“This here,” he said,

playing with it, “is a stone,and in a certain amount oftime it will perhaps be earthandfromearthitwillbecomea plant or an animal orman.Earlier I would have said,‘This stone is just a stone, itisworthless,itbelongstotheworld of Maya; but since inthecycleoftransformationsit

might even become humanand spirit, Imust give it dueconsideration.’ This is how Imight have thought once.Today,however,Ithink,Thisstone is a stone; it is alsoanimal, it is also God, it isalsoBuddha.Idonothonoritand love it because it mightone day become this or that,but because it already andalways is all things—andprecisely this—that it is astone, that it appears to me

now and today as a stone—precisely this is the reason Ilove it and see value andmeaning in each of its veinsandhollows,intheyellow,inthe gray, in the hardness, inthesound itgivesoffwhen Iknockonit,inthedrynessormoistness of its surface.Therearestonesthatfeellikeoil or soap, others that feellike leaves, others like sand,and each one is special andprays Om in its own way,

each is Brahman, but at thesametimeandtojustasgreatanextent,eachoneisastone,isoilyorsoapy,andpreciselythispleasesmeand seems tome wondrous and deservingofworship.“Butletmespeaknomore

of this. Words are not goodfor the secret meaning;everythingalwaysbecomesalittlebitdifferentthemomentone speaks it aloud, a bit

falsified, a bit foolish—yes,andthistooisalsoverygoodand pleases me greatly: thatone person’s treasure andwisdom always sounds likefoolishnesstoothers.”Without a word, Govinda

listened. “Why did you tellme all that about the stone?”he asked hesitantly, after apause.“This happened

unintentionally. Or perhaps

whatwasmeantwasthis:Forthestoneandtheriver,forallthese things that wecontemplate and from whichwecanlearn,Ifeellove.Icanlove a stone, Govinda, andalsoatreeorapieceofbark.These are things and thingscan be loved. Words,however, I cannot love. Thisis why doctrines are not forme. They have no hardness,no softness, no colors, noedges,nosmell,notaste;they

have nothing but words.Perhaps it is this that hashindered you in findingpeace; perhaps it is all thesewords. For even redemptionand virtue, even Sansara andNirvana, are just words,Govinda. There is no thingthatcouldbeNirvana;thereisonlythewordNirvana.”Govinda said, “Nirvana is

notonlyaword,friend.Itisathought.”

Siddhartha continued. “Athought—this may be true. Ihave to confess to you, mydearfriend,Idonotseemuchdifference between thoughtsandwords. To speak plainly,I do not have such a highregard for thoughts, either. Ihaveamuchhigherregardforthings.Hereonthisferryboat,for example, my predecessorandteacherwasaman,aholyman, who for many yearsbelieved only in the river,

nothing else.He noticed thatthe river’s voice wasspeaking to him, and fromthisvoicehelearned;ittaughtand educated him. The riverseemedtohimagod,andformany years he did not knowthateverywind,everycloud,everybird,everybeetleisjustas divine and knows just asmuch and can teach just asmuch as the river he sorevered. But when this holyman went into the forest, he

knew everything, knewmorethan you or I, withoutteachers,withoutbooks,onlybecause he had believed intheriver.”Govindasaid,“Butwhatis

ityouarecallingthingsifnotreal things, things that havebeing? Is this not merely anillusion of Maya, merelyimage and semblance? Yourstone,your tree,your river—aretheyrealities?”

“This too,” Siddharthasaid, “concernsme little. Letthe things be semblances ornot; then I too am onlysemblance, and so they willalways be like me. This iswhat makes them so dear tome, makes me so admirethem:Theyare likeme.Thisiswhy I can love them.Andhere now is a bit of doctrinethat will make you laugh:Love,OGovinda, appears tome more important than all

othermatters.Toseethroughthe world, to explain it, toscorn it—this may be thebusiness of great thinkers.Butwhatinterestsmeisbeingable to love the world, notscorn it, not to hate it andhatemyself, but to look at itand myself and all beingswithloveandadmirationandreverence.”“This I understand,”

Govinda said. “But it is

precisely this that he, theSublime One, recognized asillusion. He commandsbenevolence,gentleness,pity,tolerance, but not love; heforbade us to bind our heartwithloveforearthlythings.”“I know,”Siddhartha said;

hissmilewasradiant,golden.“I know, Govinda. Andbehold: Here we are in themiddle of the thicket ofopinions, in a battle over

words.ForIcannotdenythatmywordsaboutlovestandinopposition, in apparentopposition to Gautama’swords.ThisispreciselywhyIdistrustwords somuch, for Iknow this opposition is anillusion. I know I am inagreement with Gautama.Howcouldhenotknowlove,he who recognized allhumanityinitstransitoriness,its insignificance, andnonetheless loved human

beings so much that hedevoteda long, laborious lifetothesolepurposeofhelpingthem, teaching them? Evenwithregardtohim,yourgreatteacher, things are dearer tome than words, his actionsand lifemore important thanhis speeches, the gestures ofhishandmoreimportantthanhis opinions. It is not in hisspeaking or in his thinkingthat I see his greatness, onlyinhisactions,hislife.”

For a long time, the twoold men were silent. ThenGovinda said, bowing as hepreparedtotakeleaveofhim,“Thank you, Siddhartha, fortellingmesomethingofyourthoughts. They are in partstrange thoughts; not all ofthem were immediatelycomprehensible to me. Maythisbeas itwill. I thankyouandwishyoupeacefuldays.”Secretly, however, he was

thinking,Whatanoddpersonthis Siddhartha is! Thesethoughts he is uttering areodd, and his doctrine soundssilly.ThepuredoctrineoftheSublime One is so differentfrom this, so much clearer,purer, more comprehensible,withnothingstrange,silly,orridiculous about it. ButSiddhartha’s hands and feet,his eyes, his brow, hisbreathing, his smiling, hisway of greeting me, his gait

seem to me quite differentfrom his thoughts. Neversince our sublime Gautamaentered Nirvana, never sincehave I met a person whomademefeel:Thisisasaint!Healone,thisSiddhartha,hasseemed a saint to me. Hisdoctrine may be strange, hiswords may sound silly, buthis gaze and his hand, hisskin and his hair, everythingabout him radiates a purity,radiates a calm, radiates a

gaiety and kindness andholinessthatIhavebeheldinnootherpersonsincethefinaldeathofoursublimeteacher.As Govinda was thinking

these things, his heart filledwith conflict. He bent overonce more to Siddhartha,drawn by love, and boweddeeply before the one sittingquietlybesidehim.“Siddhartha,” he said, “we

have become old men. It is

unlikely thateitherofuswillever see the other again inthisshape.Icansee,belovedfriend, that you have foundpeace.IconfessthatImyselfhave not done so. Grant mejust one word more, ORevered One; give mesomething that I can grasp,that I can comprehend! Givemesomethingtotakewithmewhen we part. My path isoften difficult, Siddhartha,oftendark.”

Siddhartha remained silentandcontinued togazeathimwith the same still smile.Govinda stared into his facewith fear, with longing.Suffering and eternalsearchingstoodwritteninhisgaze,eternalnot-finding.Siddhartha saw this and

smiled.“Bend down to me,” he

whisperedsoftlyinGovinda’sear. “Benddownhere tome!

Yes, like that, closer! Evencloser! Kiss me on theforehead,Govinda!”When Govinda, perplexed

and yet drawn by great loveand foreboding, obeyed hiswords, bent down close tohim,andtouchedhisforeheadwith his lips, somethingwondrous happened to him.While his thoughtswere stilllingering over Siddhartha’soddwords,whilehewasstill

fruitlessly and reluctantlyattempting to think awaytime, to imagineNirvanaandSansara as one, while acertain contempt for hisfriend’swordswaseventhenbattling inside him withtremendous love andreverence,thishappened:Heno longer saw the face

of his friend Siddhartha;instead he saw other faces,manyofthem,alongseries,a

flowingriveroffaces,bythehundreds, by the thousands,allofthemcomingandfadingaway, and yet all of themappearingtobethereatonce,all of them constantlychanging,beingrenewed,andall of them at the same timeSiddhartha. He saw the faceof a fish, a carp, its mouthwrenched open in infinitepain, adying fishwithdyingeyes—he saw the face of anewbornchild,redandfullof

wrinkles,alltwisteduptocry—he saw the face of amurderer, saw him stick aknife into a person’s body,and saw, at the same instant,this criminal kneeling downinchainsandhavinghisheadchopped off by anexecutioner with one strokeof the sword—he saw thebodies of men and womennaked in the positions andstruggles of furious love—hesaw corpses laid out, still,

cold, empty—he saw theheadsofanimals:wildboars,crocodiles, elephants, bulls,birds—he saw gods, sawKrishna, saw Agni—he sawall these figures and faces intheir thousandfoldinterrelations, each helpingthe others, loving them,hatingthem,destroyingthem,giving birth to them anew;each one was a wanting-to-die, a passionately painfulconfession of transitoriness,

and yet none of them died;each of them was onlytransformed, constantly bornanew, constantly being givena new face, without timehaving passed between oneface and the next—and allthesefiguresandfacesrested,flowed, engendered oneanother, floated off andstreamed into and throughone another, and constantlystretchedoverallofthemwassomething thin, an

insubstantial but nonethelessexisting thing like thin glassorice,likeatransparentskin,a bowl or shape or maskmadeofwater,andthismaskwas smiling, and this maskwas Siddhartha’s smilingface, which he, Govinda, atjust this moment wastouching with his lips. AndGovindasawthatthissmilingof the mask, this smile ofOneness over all the flowingfigures, this smile of

simultaneousness over thethousand births and deaths,this smile of Siddhartha wasprecisely the same, wasprecisely the same still,delicate, impenetrable,perhaps kind, perhapsmocking, wise, thousandfoldsmile of Gautama, theBuddha, as he himself hadseen it a hundred times withawe. This, Govinda knew, ishowthePerfectOnessmiled.

No longer knowingwhethertimeexisted,whetherthis looking had lasted asecondorahundredyears,nolongerknowingwhethertherewas a Siddhartha, whether aGautama,whetheraSelf,anIand You, wounded in hisinnermost core as if by adivine arrow whose woundtastes sweet, entranced andbewildered in his innermostcore, Govinda remainedstanding there a short while

longer, bending overSiddhartha’sstill face thathehad just kissed, that had justbeenthesiteofallshapes,allBecoming, all Being. Thiscountenance appearedunchangedoncethedepthsofthe thousandfold immensityhad closed again beneath itssurface; he was silentlysmiling, smiling quietly andgently, very kindly perhaps,perhaps mockingly, preciselyashehadsmiled,theSublime

One.Deeply Govinda bowed,

tears of which he knewnothingcourseddownhisoldface, and like a fire thefeeling of the most ardentlove, the most humblereverencewas burning in hisheart. Deeply he bowed,bowed to the very earth,before the one sitting theremotionless, whose smilereminded him of everything

he had ever loved in all hislife,everythingthathadever,in all his life, been dear tohimandholy.

GLOSSARYOFSANSKRIT

TERMS,DEITIES,PERSONS,PLACES,ANDTHINGS*

Agni · Hindu fire deity,the divinepersonification of thefireofsacrifice.

Atharva-Veda · see

Vedas.

Atman·TheRealitythatis the substrate of theindividual and identicalwith the Absolute(Brahman); the ultimateessence of the universe;thevitalbreathinhumanbeings.

banyan·EastIndiantree(Ficusbenghalensis),thebranches of which sendoutnumeroustrunksthat

growdowntothesoilsothat a single tree coversalargearea.

bo tree · According toBuddhist tradition, thepipal (Ficus religiosa)underwhichtheBuddhasat when he attainedEnlightenment.

Brahman · Impersonalspirit, the Absolute, theEternal; the Universalessence from which all

createdthingsemanate.

Brahmin · Member ofthe highest rankingsocial class, a class ofpriests.

Buddha ·“Onewhohasawakened” or “the onewhohasunderstood;”anepithet or title ratherthanapropername.

ChandogyaUpanishad·seeUpanishads.

eightfold path · Thispath to ending desireinvolves:(1)rightviews,(2) right thoughts, (3)right speech, (4) rightconduct, (5) rightlivelihood, (6) righteffort, (7) rightmindfulness, (8) rightmeditation.

four basic principles ·TheBuddha’sfournobletruths are: (1)All life is

suffering, (2) Sufferingleads to desires, (3) Anend to desire brings anendtosuffering,(4)Thepath to ending desire iseightfold.

Gundert,Wilhelm·ThiscousinofHesse’swas astudent of Japanesereligion and philologyand later published anumberofworkson thereligious history of

Japan and translated theBi Yän Lu, the centralwork of Zen Buddhism,intoGerman.

Krishna · A widelyrevered and popularIndian deity, son ofVasudeva. One of hisaspects is GovindaKrishna, lord ofcowherds.

Lakshmi · Hindugoddess of wealth and

good fortune, consort ofVishnu. In one of herincarnations, she bearsthenameKamala.

Magadha · An ancientkingdom of India,situated in what is nowwest-central Bihar statein northeastern India.Many sites in Magadhawere sacred toBuddhism.

Mara · “Lord of the

Senses,” a tempter bentondistractingmonksandbuddhas-to-be duringmeditation.

Maya · Principle ofappearance; displays theunreal as real; bringsabout the illusorymanifestation of theuniverse.

Nirvana · Liberationfrom passion, suffering,and rebirth; an

overcomingofthewheelof birth and death(Sansara).

Om · In theUpanishadsand elsewhere, amystical word thatfrequently is made theobject of religiousmeditation. Prayers andchants often begin andendwithit.

pisangfruit·Plantains.

Prajapati· “Lord ofCreatures,” creator oftheUniverse.

Rig-Veda·seeVedas.Rolland, Romain ·Hesse greatly admiredthis French novelist anddramatist who, being apacifist, donated theproceeds from his 1915Nobel Prize to the RedCross and later wrote abiography of Mahatma

Gandhi.

Sakyamuni · “Sage ofthe Sakya clan,” adesignation for thehistorical BuddhaSiddharthaGautama.

sal · an East Indiantimber tree (Shorearobusta).

Samadhi · Perfect one-pointedness of mind;absorption; the serene,

unifying concentrationachievedinmeditation.

Samana·Oneofaclassof wandering mendicantasceticsofancientIndia.

Sama-Veda·seeVedas.

Sansara · The wheel ofbirthanddeath,cycleofrebirths; empiricalexistence.

Satyam · The real, thetrue; that which abides

andexistsbeyondMaya.

Savathi · Once thecapital of Kosala, thepresent-day province ofOudh.

Upanishads · Theconcluding portion ofthe Vedas, containingthe teachings of theancient sages; theUpanishads teach thatthe Self of a humanbeing is the same as

Brahman. There are tenmain Upanishads,including theChandogya.

Vedas · Sacredscriptures of the Hindutradition, consisting offour books: Rig-Veda,Yajur-Veda, Sama-Veda, and Atharva-Veda.

Vishnu · One of theprincipal Hindu deities,

protector and preserverof theworld.Krishna isoneofhisincarnations.

Yoga-Veda ·“Knowledge about thepractices of yoga;” notone of the texts thatmakeuptheVedas.

*Many of these entries have theirsourceinoneorbothofthefollowingtwoworks:Luis O. Gómez, The Land of Bliss:The Paradise of the Buddha of

Measureless Light (Honolulu:UniversityofHawai’iPress,1996).JohnGrimes,AConciseDictionaryofIndian Philosophy, 2nd ed. (Albany:State University of New York Press,1996).

READINGGROUPGUIDE

1. InhisIntroduction,TomRobbinssaysthat Siddhartha demonstrates “ahunger for spiritual illumination.”What are some examples of otherpieces of literature, both classic andcontemporary,thatsharethispurpose?In which ways are they similar toSiddhartha?Howaretheydifferent?

2. WhydoesSiddharthasometimesreferto himself in the third person andsometimes in the first person? What

does this say about how he viewshimself? Consider in particular hisconversationwithhisfatheronpage9.

3. The spiritual leader who came to beknown as Buddhawas bornwith thename of Siddhartha Gautama. Whydoes Hesse choose to give hischaracter the same name, especiallygiventhatHesse’sSiddharthadoesnotdecide to become one of Gautama’sdisciples? Similarly, why doesHesserefer to theBuddhaonlyasGautama,andnotasSiddharthaGautama?

4. What is the significance ofSiddhartha’sdreaminwhichGovindabecomes a woman? What does itsuggestabouttheirrelationship?Doesit foreshadow Siddhartha’srelationship with Kamala? How are

Siddhartha’s relationships withGovindaandKamaladifferent?

5. SiddharthatellsKamalathat“Perhapspeople of our sort are incapable oflove.Thechildpeoplecanlove;thatistheir secret” (p. 63). What does hemeanby“peopleofoursort”?Islovewhy Siddhartha both loathes andenvies the child people? Over thecourse of the novel, Siddharthaexplores many kinds of love—platonic, romantic,andparental.Howdoeseachaffecthimdifferently?

6. In his memoir, Memories, Dreams,Reflections,C.G.Jungwritesthat“Acareer, producing of children, are allmaya (illusion) compared to that onething, that your life is meaningful.”For much of the novel, Siddhartha

seems to embody this philosophy,sacrificing various occupations andrelationshipsinordertoseekhisownspiritual purpose. But his behaviorseems to changeprofoundlywhenhediscovers that he has a son. Do youthinkthatproducingachildis,asJungclaims, an illusion in the face ofSiddhartha’sgreaterconquest?

7. Siddhartha looks to many people forguidance along his journey—theBrahmins, the Samanas, Gautama,Kamala, and Vasudeva. But in theend, the source that becomes mostfruitfulistheriver.Whatdoyouthinkthe river represents? What doesSiddharthameanwhenhesaysthathislifewasariver?WhatdoesVasudevamean when he tells Siddhartha thatthere are two kinds of people, one

whosees the riverasanobstacleandonewhodoesnot?

8. Though it is Siddharthawho sets outinitially on a quest for spiritualenlightenment, several othercharacters—Govinda, Kamala, andVasudeva—find their own respectivefulfillment as a result of his journey.How, if at all, does this affectSiddhartha’sownquest?

9. Examine the role that Govinda playsin thenovel.Whyis it important thathe periodically revisits Siddhartha’slife?

10. Siddhartha oscillates throughout thenovel about his feelings toward histeachers and guides. At the end, hetells Govinda, “One can pass on

knowledge but not wisdom. One canfindwisdom,onecan live it,onecanbe supported by it, one can workwonderswithit,butonecannotspeakitor teach it” (p.119).Doyouagreewith Siddhartha? What is thedifference between wisdom andknowledge?

ABOUTTHETRANSLATOR

SUSAN BERNOFSKY is anacclaimed translator of contemporaryandmodernGerman literature.She isa recent recipient of the Helen andKurtWolffTranslator’sPrize,aPENTranslation Fund grant, andfellowships from the AmericanCouncil of Learned Societies and theNational Endowment for theHumanities. Currently she is at workon a biography of the great Swiss-German modernist author RobertWalser.

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Introductioncopyright©2006byTomRobbins

Translation,translator’spreface,glossary,andbiographicalnotecopyright©2006by

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