Practice English Speaking&Listening with: Siddhartha | by Hermann Hesse | Full Audiobook | Free Audiobook | Free Audiobook

Normal
(0)
Difficulty: 0

FIRST PART To Romain Rolland, my dear friend

THE SON OF THE BRAHMAN In the shade of the house, in the sunshine

of the riverbank near the boats, in the shade of the Sal-wood forest, in the shade of the

fig tree is where Siddhartha grew up, the handsome son of the Brahman, the young falcon,

together with his friend Govinda, son of a Brahman.

The sun tanned his light shoulders by the banks of the river when bathing, performing

the sacred ablutions, the sacred offerings.

In the mango grove, shade poured into his black eyes, when playing as a boy, when his

mother sang, when the sacred offerings were made, when his father, the scholar, taught

him, when the wise men talked.

For a long time, Siddhartha had been partaking in the discussions of the wise men, practising

debate with Govinda, practising with Govinda the art of reflection, the service of meditation.

He already knew how to speak the Om silently, the word of words, to speak it silently into

himself while inhaling, to speak it silently out of himself while exhaling, with all the

concentration of his soul, the forehead surrounded by the glow of the clear-thinking spirit.

He already knew to feel Atman in the depths of his being, indestructible, one with the

universe.

Joy leapt in his fathers heart for his son who was quick to learn, thirsty for knowledge;

he saw him growing up to become great wise man and priest, a prince among the Brahmans.

Bliss leapt in his mothers breast when she saw him, when she saw him walking, when

she saw him sit down and get up, Siddhartha, strong, handsome, he who was walking on slender

legs, greeting her with perfect respect.

Love touched the hearts of the Brahmans young daughters when Siddhartha walked through

the lanes of the town with the luminous forehead, with the eye of a king, with his slim hips.

But more than all the others he was loved by Govinda, his friend, the son of a Brahman.

He loved Siddharthas eye and sweet voice, he loved his walk and the perfect decency

of his movements, he loved everything Siddhartha did and said and what he loved most was his

spirit, his transcendent, fiery thoughts, his ardent will, his high calling.

Govinda knew: he would not become a common Brahman, not a lazy official in charge of

offerings; not a greedy merchant with magic spells; not a vain, vacuous speaker; not a

mean, deceitful priest; and also not a decent, stupid sheep in the herd of the many.

No, and he, Govinda, as well did not want to become one of those, not one of those tens

of thousands of Brahmans.

He wanted to follow Siddhartha, the beloved, the splendid.

And in days to come, when Siddhartha would become a god, when he would join the glorious,

then Govinda wanted to follow him as his friend, his companion, his servant, his spear-carrier,

his shadow.

Siddhartha was thus loved by everyone.

He was a source of joy for everybody, he was a delight for them all.

But he, Siddhartha, was not a source of joy for himself, he found no delight in himself.

Walking the rosy paths of the fig tree garden, sitting in the bluish shade of the grove of

contemplation, washing his limbs daily in the bath of repentance, sacrificing in the

dim shade of the mango forest, his gestures of perfect decency, everyones love and

joy, he still lacked all joy in his heart.

Dreams and restless thoughts came into his mind, flowing from the water of the river,

sparkling from the stars of the night, melting from the beams of the sun, dreams came to

him and a restlessness of the soul, fuming from the sacrifices, breathing forth from

the verses of the Rig-Veda, being infused into him, drop by drop, from the teachings

of the old Brahmans.

Siddhartha had started to nurse discontent in himself, he had started to feel that the

love of his father and the love of his mother, and also the love of his friend, Govinda,

would not bring him joy for ever and ever, would not nurse him, feed him, satisfy him.

He had started to suspect that his venerable father and his other teachers, that the wise

Brahmans had already revealed to him the most and best of their wisdom, that they had already

filled his expecting vessel with their richness, and the vessel was not full, the spirit was

not content, the soul was not calm, the heart was not satisfied.

The ablutions were good, but they were water, they did not wash off the sin, they did not

heal the spirits thirst, they did not relieve the fear in his heart.

The sacrifices and the invocation of the gods were excellentbut was that all?

Did the sacrifices give a happy fortune?

And what about the gods?

Was it really Prajapati who had created the world?

Was it not the Atman, He, the only one, the singular one?

Were the gods not creations, created like me and you, subject to time, mortal?

Was it therefore good, was it right, was it meaningful and the highest occupation to make

offerings to the gods?

For whom else were offerings to be made, who else was to be worshipped but Him, the only

one, the Atman?

And where was Atman to be found, where did He reside, where did his eternal heart beat,

where else but in ones own self, in its innermost part, in its indestructible part,

which everyone had in himself?

But where, where was this self, this innermost part, this ultimate part?

It was not flesh and bone, it was neither thought nor consciousness, thus the wisest

ones taught.

So, where, where was it?

To reach this place, the self, myself, the Atman, there was another way, which was worthwhile

looking for?

Alas, and nobody showed this way, nobody knew it, not the father, and not the teachers and

wise men, not the holy sacrificial songs!

They knew everything, the Brahmans and their holy books, they knew everything, they had

taken care of everything and of more than everything, the creation of the world, the

origin of speech, of food, of inhaling, of exhaling, the arrangement of the senses, the

acts of the gods, they knew infinitely muchbut was it valuable to know all of this, not knowing

that one and only thing, the most important thing, the solely important thing?

Surely, many verses of the holy books, particularly in the Upanishades of Samaveda, spoke of this

innermost and ultimate thing, wonderful verses.

Your soul is the whole world, was written there, and it was written that man in his

sleep, in his deep sleep, would meet with his innermost part and would reside in the

Atman.

Marvellous wisdom was in these verses, all knowledge of the wisest ones had been collected

here in magic words, pure as honey collected by bees.

No, not to be looked down upon was the tremendous amount of enlightenment which lay here collected

and preserved by innumerable generations of wise Brahmans. But where were the Brahmans,

where the priests, where the wise men or penitents, who had succeeded in not just knowing this

deepest of all knowledge but also to live it?

Where was the knowledgeable one who wove his spell to bring his familiarity with the Atman

out of the sleep into the state of being awake, into the life, into every step of the way,

into word and deed?

Siddhartha knew many venerable Brahmans, chiefly his father, the pure one, the scholar, the

most venerable one.

His father was to be admired, quiet and noble were his manners, pure his life, wise his

words, delicate and noble thoughts lived behind its brow but even he, who knew so much,

did he live in blissfulness, did he have peace, was he not also just a searching man, a thirsty

man?

Did he not, again and again, have to drink from holy sources, as a thirsty man, from

the offerings, from the books, from the disputes of the Brahmans?

Why did he, the irreproachable one, have to wash off sins every day, strive for a cleansing

every day, over and over every day?

Was not Atman in him, did not the pristine source spring from his heart?

It had to be found, the pristine source in ones own self, it had to be possessed!

Everything else was searching, was a detour, was getting lost.

Thus were Siddharthas thoughts, this was his thirst, this was his suffering.

Often he spoke to himself from a Chandogya-Upanishad the words: Truly, the name of the Brahman

is satyamverily, he who knows such a thing, will enter the heavenly world every day.

Often, it seemed near, the heavenly world, but never he had reached it completely, never

he had quenched the ultimate thirst.

And among all the wise and wisest men, he knew and whose instructions he had received,

among all of them there was no one, who had reached it completely, the heavenly world,

who had quenched it completely, the eternal thirst.

Govinda, Siddhartha spoke to his friend, Govinda, my dear, come with me under the

Banyan tree, lets practise meditation.

They went to the Banyan tree, they sat down, Siddhartha right here, Govinda twenty paces

away.

While putting himself down, ready to speak the Om, Siddhartha repeated murmuring the

verse:

Om is the bow, the arrow is soul, The Brahman is the arrows target, That one should incessantly

hit.

After the usual time of the exercise in meditation had passed, Govinda rose.

The evening had come, it was time to perform the evenings ablution.

He called Siddharthas name.

Siddhartha did not answer.

Siddhartha sat there lost in thought, his eyes were rigidly focused towards a very distant

target, the tip of his tongue was protruding a little between the teeth, he seemed not

to breathe.

Thus sat he, wrapped up in contemplation, thinking Om, his soul sent after the Brahman

as an arrow.

Once, Samanas had travelled through Siddharthas town, ascetics on a pilgrimage, three skinny,

withered men, neither old nor young, with dusty and bloody shoulders, almost naked,

scorched by the sun, surrounded by loneliness, strangers and enemies to the world, strangers

and lank jackals in the realm of humans.

Behind them blew a hot scent of quiet passion, of destructive service, of merciless self-denial.

In the evening, after the hour of contemplation, Siddhartha spoke to Govinda: Early tomorrow

morning, my friend, Siddhartha will go to the Samanas.

He will become a Samana.

Govinda turned pale, when he heard these words and read the decision in the motionless face

of his friend, unstoppable like the arrow shot from the bow.

Soon and with the first glance, Govinda realized: Now it is beginning, now Siddhartha is taking

his own way, now his fate is beginning to sprout, and with his, my own.

And he turned pale like a dry banana-skin.

O Siddhartha, he exclaimed, will your father permit you to do that?

Siddhartha looked over as if he was just waking up.

Arrow-fast he read in Govindas soul, read the fear, read the submission.

O Govinda, he spoke quietly, lets not waste words.

Tomorrow, at daybreak I will begin the life of the Samanas.

Speak no more of it.

Siddhartha entered the chamber, where his father was sitting on a mat of bast, and stepped

behind his father and remained standing there, until his father felt that someone was standing

behind him.

Quoth the Brahman: Is that you, Siddhartha?

Then say what you came to say.

Quoth Siddhartha: With your permission, my father.

I came to tell you that it is my longing to leave your house tomorrow and go to the ascetics.

My desire is to become a Samana.

May my father not oppose this.

The Brahman fell silent, and remained silent for so long that the stars in the small window

wandered and changed their relative positions, ere the silence was broken.

Silent and motionless stood the son with his arms folded, silent and motionless sat the

father on the mat, and the stars traced their paths in the sky.

Then spoke the father: Not proper it is for a Brahman to speak harsh and angry words.

But indignation is in my heart.

I wish not to hear this request for a second time from your mouth.

Slowly, the Brahman rose; Siddhartha stood silently, his arms folded.

What are you waiting for? asked the father.

Quoth Siddhartha: You know what.

Indignant, the father left the chamber; indignant, he went to his bed and lay down.

After an hour, since no sleep had come over his eyes, the Brahman stood up, paced to and

fro, and left the house.

Through the small window of the chamber he looked back inside, and there he saw Siddhartha

standing, his arms folded, not moving from his spot.

Pale shimmered his bright robe.

With anxiety in his heart, the father returned to his bed.

After another hour, since no sleep had come over his eyes, the Brahman stood up again,

paced to and fro, walked out of the house and saw that the moon had risen.

Through the window of the chamber he looked back inside; there stood Siddhartha, not moving

from his spot, his arms folded, moonlight reflecting from his bare shins.

With worry in his heart, the father went back to bed.

And he came back after an hour, he came back after two hours, looked through the small

window, saw Siddhartha standing, in the moon light, by the light of the stars, in the darkness.

And he came back hour after hour, silently, he looked into the chamber, saw him standing

in the same place, filled his heart with anger, filled his heart with unrest, filled his heart

with anguish, filled it with sadness.

And in the nights last hour, before the day began, he returned, stepped into the room,

saw the young man standing there, who seemed tall and like a stranger to him.

Siddhartha, he spoke, what are you waiting for?

You know what.

Will you always stand that way and wait, until itll becomes morning, noon, and evening?

I will stand and wait.

You will become tired, Siddhartha.

I will become tired.

You will fall asleep, Siddhartha.

I will not fall asleep.

You will die, Siddhartha.

I will die.

And would you rather die, than obey your father?

Siddhartha has always obeyed his father.

So will you abandon your plan?

Siddhartha will do what his father will tell him to do.

The first light of day shone into the room.

The Brahman saw that Siddhartha was trembling softly in his knees.

In Siddharthas face he saw no trembling, his eyes were fixed on a distant spot.

Then his father realized that even now Siddhartha no longer dwelt with him in his home, that

he had already left him.

The Father touched Siddharthas shoulder.

You will, he spoke, go into the forest and be a Samana.

When youll have found blissfulness in the forest, then come back and teach me to be

blissful.

If youll find disappointment, then return and let us once again make offerings to the

gods together.

Go now and kiss your mother, tell her where you are going to.

But for me it is time to go to the river and to perform the first ablution.

He took his hand from the shoulder of his son and went outside.

Siddhartha wavered to the side, as he tried to walk.

He put his limbs back under control, bowed to his father, and went to his mother to do

as his father had said.

As he slowly left on stiff legs in the first light of day the still quiet town, a shadow

rose near the last hut, who had crouched there, and joined the pilgrimGovinda.

You have come, said Siddhartha and smiled.

I have come, said Govinda.

WITH THE SAMANAS In the evening of this day they caught up

with the ascetics, the skinny Samanas, and offered them their companionship andobedience.

They were accepted.

Siddhartha gave his garments to a poor Brahman in the street.

He wore nothing more than the loincloth and the earth-coloured, unsown cloak.

He ate only once a day, and never something cooked.

He fasted for fifteen days.

He fasted for twenty-eight days.

The flesh waned from his thighs and cheeks.

Feverish dreams flickered from his enlarged eyes, long nails grew slowly on his parched

fingers and a dry, shaggy beard grew on his chin.

His glance turned to ice when he encountered women; his mouth twitched with contempt, when

he walked through a city of nicely dressed people.

He saw merchants trading, princes hunting, mourners wailing for their dead, whores offering

themselves, physicians trying to help the sick, priests determining the most suitable

day for seeding, lovers loving, mothers nursing their childrenand all of this was not worthy

of one look from his eye, it all lied, it all stank, it all stank of lies, it all pretended

to be meaningful and joyful and beautiful, and it all was just concealed putrefaction.

The world tasted bitter.

Life was torture.

A goal stood before Siddhartha, a single goal: to become empty, empty of thirst, empty of

wishing, empty of dreams, empty of joy and sorrow.

Dead to himself, not to be a self any more, to find tranquility with an emptied heart,

to be open to miracles in unselfish thoughts, that was his goal.

Once all of my self was overcome and had died, once every desire and every urge was silent

in the heart, then the ultimate part of me had to awake, the innermost of my being, which

is no longer my self, the great secret.

Silently, Siddhartha exposed himself to burning rays of the sun directly above, glowing with

pain, glowing with thirst, and stood there, until he neither felt any pain nor thirst

any more.

Silently, he stood there in the rainy season, from his hair the water was dripping over

freezing shoulders, over freezing hips and legs, and the penitent stood there, until

he could not feel the cold in his shoulders and legs any more, until they were silent,

until they were quiet.

Silently, he cowered in the thorny bushes, blood dripped from the burning skin, from

festering wounds dripped pus, and Siddhartha stayed rigidly, stayed motionless, until no

blood flowed any more, until nothing stung any more, until nothing burned any more.

Siddhartha sat upright and learned to breathe sparingly, learned to get along with only

few breathes, learned to stop breathing.

He learned, beginning with the breath, to calm the beat of his heart, leaned to reduce

the beats of his heart, until they were only a few and almost none.

Instructed by the oldest of the Samanas, Siddhartha practised self-denial, practised meditation,

according to a new Samana rules.

A heron flew over the bamboo forestand Siddhartha accepted the heron into his soul,

flew over forest and mountains, was a heron, ate fish, felt the pangs of a herons hunger,

spoke the herons croak, died a herons death.

A dead jackal was lying on the sandy bank, and Siddharthas soul slipped inside the

body, was the dead jackal, lay on the banks, got bloated, stank, decayed, was dismembered

by hyaenas, was skinned by vultures, turned into a skeleton, turned to dust, was blown

across the fields.

And Siddharthas soul returned, had died, had decayed, was scattered as dust, had tasted

the gloomy intoxication of the cycle, awaited in new thirst like a hunter in the gap, where

he could escape from the cycle, where the end of the causes, where an eternity without

suffering began.

He killed his senses, he killed his memory, he slipped out of his self into thousands

of other forms, was an animal, was carrion, was stone, was wood, was water, and awoke

every time to find his old self again, sun shone or moon, was his self again, turned

round in the cycle, felt thirst, overcame the thirst, felt new thirst.

Siddhartha learned a lot when he was with the Samanas, many ways leading away from the

self he learned to go.

He went the way of self-denial by means of pain, through voluntarily suffering and overcoming

pain, hunger, thirst, tiredness.

He went the way of self-denial by means of meditation, through imagining the mind to

be void of all conceptions.

These and other ways he learned to go, a thousand times he left his self, for hours and days

he remained in the non-self.

But though the ways led away from the self, their end nevertheless always led back to

the self.

Though Siddhartha fled from the self a thousand times, stayed in nothingness, stayed in the

animal, in the stone, the return was inevitable, inescapable was the hour, when he found himself

back in the sunshine or in the moonlight, in the shade or in the rain, and was once

again his self and Siddhartha, and again felt the agony of the cycle which had been forced

upon him.

By his side lived Govinda, his shadow, walked the same paths, undertook the same efforts.

They rarely spoke to one another, than the service and the exercises required.

Occasionally the two of them went through the villages, to beg for food for themselves

and their teachers.

How do you think, Govinda, Siddhartha spoke one day while begging this way, how

do you think did we progress?

Did we reach any goals?

Govinda answered: We have learned, and well continue learning.

Youll be a great Samana, Siddhartha.

Quickly, youve learned every exercise, often the old Samanas have admired you.

One day, youll be a holy man, oh Siddhartha.

Quoth Siddhartha: I cant help but feel that it is not like this, my friend.

What Ive learned, being among the Samanas, up to this day, this, oh Govinda, I could

have learned more quickly and by simpler means.

In every tavern of that part of a town where the whorehouses are, my friend, among carters

and gamblers I could have learned it.

Quoth Govinda: Siddhartha is putting me on.

How could you have learned meditation, holding your breath, insensitivity against hunger

and pain there among these wretched people?

And Siddhartha said quietly, as if he was talking to himself: What is meditation?

What is leaving ones body?

What is fasting?

What is holding ones breath?

It is fleeing from the self, it is a short escape of the agony of being a self, it is

a short numbing of the senses against the pain and the pointlessness of life.

The same escape, the same short numbing is what the driver of an ox-cart finds in the

inn, drinking a few bowls of rice-wine or fermented coconut-milk.

Then he wont feel his self any more, then he wont feel the pains of life any more,

then he finds a short numbing of the senses.

When he falls asleep over his bowl of rice-wine, hell find the same what Siddhartha and

Govinda find when they escape their bodies through long exercises, staying in the non-self.

This is how it is, oh Govinda.

Quoth Govinda: You say so, oh friend, and yet you know that Siddhartha is no driver

of an ox-cart and a Samana is no drunkard.

Its true that a drinker numbs his senses, its true that he briefly escapes and rests,

but hell return from the delusion, finds everything to be unchanged, has not become

wiser, has gathered no enlightenment,has not risen several steps.

And Siddhartha spoke with a smile: I do not know, Ive never been a drunkard.

But that I, Siddhartha, find only a short numbing of the senses in my exercises and

meditations and that I am just as far removed from wisdom, from salvation, as a child in

the mothers womb, this I know, oh Govinda, this I know.

And once again, another time, when Siddhartha left the forest together with Govinda, to

beg for some food in the village for their brothers and teachers, Siddhartha began to

speak and said: What now, oh Govinda, might we be on the right path?

Might we get closer to enlightenment?

Might we get closer to salvation?

Or do we perhaps live in a circle we, who have thought we were escaping the cycle?

Quoth Govinda: We have learned a lot, Siddhartha, there is still much to learn.

We are not going around in circles, we are moving up, the circle is a spiral, we have

already ascended many a level.

Siddhartha answered: How old, would you think, is our oldest Samana, our venerable

teacher?

Quoth Govinda: Our oldest one might be about sixty years of age.

And Siddhartha: He has lived for sixty years and has not reached the nirvana.

Hell turn seventy and eighty, and you and me, we will grow just as old and will do our

exercises, and will fast, and will meditate.

But we will not reach the nirvana, he wont and we wont.

Oh Govinda, I believe out of all the Samanas out there, perhaps not a single one, not a

single one, will reach the nirvana.

We find comfort, we find numbness, we learn feats, to deceive others.

But the most important thing, the path of paths, we will not find.

If you only, spoke Govinda, wouldnt speak such terrible words, Siddhartha!

How could it be that among so many learned men, among so many Brahmans, among so many

austere and venerable Samanas, among so many who are searching, so many who are eagerly

trying, so many holy men, no one will find the path of paths?

But Siddhartha said in a voice which contained just as much sadness as mockery, with a quiet,

a slightly sad, a slightly mocking voice: Soon, Govinda, your friend will leave the

path of the Samanas, he has walked along your side for so long.

Im suffering of thirst, oh Govinda, and on this long path of a Samana, my thirst has

remained as strong as ever.

I always thirsted for knowledge, I have always been full of questions.

I have asked the Brahmans, year after year, and I have asked the holy Vedas, year after

year, and I have asked the devote Samanas, year after year.

Perhaps, oh Govinda, it had been just as well, had been just as smart and just as profitable,

if I had asked the hornbill-bird or the chimpanzee.

It took me a long time and am not finished learning this yet, oh Govinda: that there

is nothing to be learned!

There is indeed no such thing, so I believe, as what we refer to as learning.

There is, oh my friend, just one knowledge, this is everywhere, this is Atman, this is

within me and within you and within every creature.

And so Im starting to believe that this knowledge has no worser enemy than the desire

to know it, than learning.

At this, Govinda stopped on the path, rose his hands, and spoke: If you, Siddhartha,

only would not bother your friend with this kind of talk!

Truly, you words stir up fear in my heart.

And just consider: what would become of the sanctity of prayer, what of the venerability

of the Brahmans caste, what of the holiness of the Samanas, if it was as you say, if there

was no learning?!

What, oh Siddhartha, what would then become of all of this what is holy, what is precious,

what is venerable on earth?!

And Govinda mumbled a verse to himself, a verse from an Upanishad:

He who ponderingly, of a purified spirit, loses himself in the meditation of Atman,

unexpressable by words is his blissfulness of his heart.

But Siddhartha remained silent.

He thought about the words which Govinda had said to him and thought the words through

to their end.

Yes, he thought, standing there with his head low, what would remain of all that which seemed

to us to be holy?

What remains?

What can stand the test?

And he shook his head.

At one time, when the two young men had lived among the Samanas for about three years and

had shared their exercises, some news, a rumour, a myth reached them after being retold many

times: A man had appeared, Gotama by name, the exalted one, the Buddha, he had overcome

the suffering of the world in himself and had halted the cycle of rebirths.

He was said to wander through the land, teaching, surrounded by disciples, without possession,

without home, without a wife, in the yellow cloak of an ascetic, but with a cheerful brow,

a man of bliss, and Brahmans and princes would bow down before him and would become his students.

This myth, this rumour, this legend resounded, its fragrance rose up, here and there; in

the towns, the Brahmans spoke of it and in the forest, the Samanas; again and again,

the name of Gotama, the Buddha reached the ears of the young men, with good and with

bad talk, with praise and with defamation.

It was as if the plague had broken out in a country and news had been spreading around

that in one or another place there was a man, a wise man, a knowledgeable one, whose word

and breath was enough to heal everyone who had been infected with the pestilence, and

as such news would go through the land and everyone would talk about it, many would believe,

many would doubt, but many would get on their way as soon as possible, to seek the wise

man, the helper, just like this myth ran through the land, that fragrant myth of Gotama, the

Buddha, the wise man of the family of Sakya.

He possessed, so the believers said, the highest enlightenment, he remembered his previous

lives, he had reached the nirvana and never returned into the cycle, was never again submerged

in the murky river of physical forms.

Many wonderful and unbelievable things were reported of him, he had performed miracles,

had overcome the devil, had spoken to the gods.

But his enemies and disbelievers said, this Gotama was a vain seducer, he would spent

his days in luxury, scorned the offerings, was without learning, and knew neither exercises

nor self-castigation.

The myth of Buddha sounded sweet.

The scent of magic flowed from these reports.

After all, the world was sick, life was hard to bearand behold, here a source seemed

to spring forth, here a messenger seemed to call out, comforting, mild, full of noble

promises.

Everywhere where the rumour of Buddha was heard, everywhere in the lands of India, the

young men listened up, felt a longing, felt hope, and among the Brahmans sons of the

towns and villages every pilgrim and stranger was welcome, when he brought news of him,

the exalted one, the Sakyamuni.

The myth had also reached the Samanas in the forest, and also Siddhartha, and also Govinda,

slowly, drop by drop, every drop laden with hope, every drop laden with doubt.

They rarely talked about it, because the oldest one of the Samanas did not like this myth.

He had heard that this alleged Buddha used to be an ascetic before and had lived in the

forest, but had then turned back to luxury and worldly pleasures, and he had no high

opinion of this Gotama.

Oh Siddhartha, Govinda spoke one day to his friend.

Today, I was in the village, and a Brahman invited me into his house, and in his house,

there was the son of a Brahman from Magadha, who has seen the Buddha with his own eyes

and has heard him teach.

Verily, this made my chest ache when I breathed, and thought to myself: If only I would too,

if only we both would too, Siddhartha and me, live to see the hour when we will hear

the teachings from the mouth of this perfected man!

Speak, friend, wouldnt we want to go there too and listen to the teachings from the Buddhas

mouth?

Quoth Siddhartha: Always, oh Govinda, I had thought, Govinda would stay with the Samanas,

always I had believed his goal was to live to be sixty and seventy years of age and to

keep on practising those feats and exercises, which are becoming a Samana.

But behold, I had not known Govinda well enough, I knew little of his heart.

So now you, my faithful friend, want to take a new path and go there, where the Buddha

spreads his teachings.

Quoth Govinda: Youre mocking me.

Mock me if you like, Siddhartha!

But have you not also developed a desire, an eagerness, to hear these teachings?

And have you not at one time said to me, you would not walk the path of the Samanas for

much longer?

At this, Siddhartha laughed in his very own manner, in which his voice assumed a touch

of sadness and a touch of mockery, and said: Well, Govinda, youve spoken well, youve

remembered correctly.

If you only remembered the other thing as well, youve heard from me, which is that

I have grown distrustful and tired against teachings and learning, and that my faith

in words, which are brought to us by teachers, is small.

But lets do it, my dear, I am willing to listen to these teachingsthough in my heart

I believe that weve already tasted the best fruit of these teachings.

Quoth Govinda: Your willingness delights my heart.

But tell me, how should this be possible?

How should the Gotamas teachings, even before we have heard them, have already revealed

their best fruit to us?

Quoth Siddhartha: Let us eat this fruit and wait for the rest, oh Govinda!

But this fruit, which we already now received thanks to the Gotama, consisted in him calling

us away from the Samanas!

Whether he has also other and better things to give us, oh friend, let us await with calm

hearts.

On this very same day, Siddhartha informed the oldest one of the Samanas of his decision,

that he wanted to leave him.

He informed the oldest one with all the courtesy and modesty becoming to a younger one and

a student.

But the Samana became angry, because the two young men wanted to leave him, and talked

loudly and used crude swearwords.

Govinda was startled and became embarrassed.

But Siddhartha put his mouth close to Govindas ear and whispered to him: Now, I want to

show the old man that Ive learned something from him.

Positioning himself closely in front of the Samana, with a concentrated soul, he captured

the old mans glance with his glances, deprived him of his power, made him mute, took away

his free will, subdued him under his own will, commanded him, to do silently, whatever he

demanded him to do.

The old man became mute, his eyes became motionless, his will was paralysed, his arms were hanging

down; without power, he had fallen victim to Siddharthas spell.

But Siddharthas thoughts brought the Samana under their control, he had to carry out,

what they commanded.

And thus, the old man made several bows, performed gestures of blessing, spoke stammeringly a

godly wish for a good journey.

And the young men returned the bows with thanks, returned the wish, went on their way with

salutations.

On the way, Govinda said: Oh Siddhartha, you have learned more from the Samanas than

I knew.

It is hard, it is very hard to cast a spell on an old Samana.

Truly, if you had stayed there, you would soon have learned to walk on water.

I do not seek to walk on water, said Siddhartha.

Let old Samanas be content with such feats!

GOTAMA In the town of Savathi, every child knew the

name of the exalted Buddha, and every house was prepared to fill the alms-dish of Gotamas

disciples, the silently begging ones.

Near the town was Gotamas favourite place to stay, the grove of Jetavana, which the

rich merchant Anathapindika, an obedient worshipper of the exalted one, had given him and his

people for a gift.

All tales and answers, which the two young ascetics had received in their search for

Gotamas abode, had pointed them towards this area.

And arriving at Savathi, in the very first house, before the door of which they stopped

to beg, food has been offered to them, and they accepted the food, and Siddhartha asked

the woman, who handed them the food:

We would like to know, oh charitable one, where the Buddha dwells, the most venerable

one, for we are two Samanas from the forest and have come, to see him, the perfected one,

and to hear the teachings from his mouth.

Quoth the woman: Here, you have truly come to the right place, you Samanas from the forest.

You should know, in Jetavana, in the garden of Anathapindika is where the exalted one

dwells.

There you pilgrims shall spent the night, for there is enough space for the innumerable,

who flock here, to hear the teachings from his mouth.

This made Govinda happy, and full of joy he exclaimed: Well so, thus we have reached

our destination, and our path has come to an end!

But tell us, oh mother of the pilgrims, do you know him, the Buddha, have you seen him

with your own eyes?

Quoth the woman: Many times I have seen him, the exalted one.

On many days, I have seen him, walking through the alleys in silence, wearing his yellow

cloak, presenting his alms-dish in silence at the doors of the houses, leaving with a

filled dish.

Delightedly, Govinda listened and wanted to ask and hear much more.

But Siddhartha urged him to walk on.

They thanked and left and hardly had to ask for directions, for rather many pilgrims and

monks as well from Gotamas community were on their way to the Jetavana.

And since they reached it at night, there were constant arrivals, shouts, and talk of

those who sought shelter and got it.

The two Samanas, accustomed to life in the forest, found quickly and without making any

noise a place to stay and rested there until the morning.

At sunrise, they saw with astonishment what a large crowd of believers and curious people

had spent the night here.

On all paths of the marvellous grove, monks walked in yellow robes, under the trees they

sat here and there, in deep contemplationor in a conversation about spiritual matters,

the shady gardens looked like a city, full of people, bustling like bees.

The majority of the monks went out with their alms-dish, to collect food in town for their

lunch, the only meal of the day.

The Buddha himself, the enlightened one, was also in the habit of taking this walk to beg

in the morning.

Siddhartha saw him, and he instantly recognised him, as if a god had pointed him out to him.

He saw him, a simple man in a yellow robe, bearing the alms-dish in his hand, walking

silently.

Look here!

Siddhartha said quietly to Govinda.

This one is the Buddha.

Attentively, Govinda looked at the monk in the yellow robe, who seemed to be in no way

different from the hundreds of other monks.

And soon, Govinda also realized: This is the one.

And they followed him and observed him.

The Buddha went on his way, modestly and deep in his thoughts, his calm face was neither

happy nor sad, it seemed to smile quietly and inwardly.

With a hidden smile, quiet, calm, somewhat resembling a healthy child, the Buddha walked,

wore the robe and placed his feet just as all of his monks did, according to a precise

rule.

But his face and his walk, his quietly lowered glance, his quietly dangling hand and even

every finger of his quietly dangling hand expressed peace, expressed perfection, did

not search, did not imitate, breathed softly in an unwhithering calm, in an unwhithering

light, an untouchable peace.

Thus Gotama walked towards the town, to collect alms, and the two Samanas recognised him solely

by the perfection of his calm, by the quietness of his appearance, in which there was no searching,

no desire, no imitation, no effort to be seen, only light and peace.

Today, well hear the teachings from his mouth, said Govinda.

Siddhartha did not answer.

He felt little curiosity for the teachings, he did not believe that they would teach him

anything new, but he had, just as Govinda had, heard the contents of this Buddhas

teachings again and again, though these reports only represented second- or third-hand information.

But attentively he looked at Gotamas head, his shoulders, his feet, his quietly dangling

hand, and it seemed to him as if every joint of every finger of this hand was of these

teachings, spoke of, breathed of, exhaled the fragrant of, glistened of truth.

This man, this Buddha was truthful down to the gesture of his last finger.

This man was holy.

Never before, Siddhartha had venerated a person so much, never before he had loved a person

as much as this one.

They both followed the Buddha until they reached the town and then returned in silence, for

they themselves intended to abstain from on this day.

They saw Gotama returningwhat he ate could not even have satisfied a birds appetite,

and they saw him retiring into the shade of the mango-trees.

But in the evening, when the heat cooled down and everyone in the camp started to bustle

about and gathered around, they heard the Buddha teaching.

They heard his voice, and it was also perfected, was of perfect calmness, was full of peace.

Gotama taught the teachings of suffering, of the origin of suffering, of the way to

relieve suffering.

Calmly and clearly his quiet speech flowed on.

Suffering was life, full of suffering was the world, but salvation from suffering had

been found: salvation was obtained by him who would walk the path of the Buddha.

With a soft, yet firm voice the exalted one spoke, taught the four main doctrines, taught

the eightfold path, patiently he went the usual path of the teachings, of the examples,

of the repetitions, brightly and quietly his voice hovered over the listeners, like a light,

like a starry sky.

When the Buddhanight had already fallenended his speech, many a pilgrim stepped forward

and asked to accepted into the community, sought refuge in the teachings.

And Gotama accepted them by speaking: You have heard the teachings well, it has come

to you well.

Thus join us and walk in holiness, to put an end to all suffering.

Behold, then Govinda, the shy one, also stepped forward and spoke: I also take my refuge

in the exalted one and his teachings, and he asked to accepted into the community of

his disciples and was accepted.

Right afterwards, when the Buddha had retired for the night, Govinda turned to Siddhartha

and spoke eagerly: Siddhartha, it is not my place to scold you.

We have both heard the exalted one, we have both perceived the teachings.

Govinda has heard the teachings, he has taken refuge in it.

But you, my honoured friend, dont you also want to walk the path of salvation?

Would you want to hesitate, do you want to wait any longer?

Siddhartha awakened as if he had been asleep, when he heard Govindas words.

For a long time, he looked into Govindas face.

Then he spoke quietly, in a voice without mockery: Govinda, my friend, now you have

taken this step, now you have chosen this path.

Always, oh Govinda, youve been my friend, youve always walked one step behind me.

Often I have thought: Wont Govinda for once also take a step by himself, without

me, out of his own soul?

Behold, now youve turned into a man and are choosing your path for yourself.

I wish that you would go it up to its end, oh my friend, that you shall find salvation!

Govinda, not completely understanding it yet, repeated his question in an impatient tone:

Speak up, I beg you, my dear!

Tell me, since it could not be any other way, that you also, my learned friend, will take

your refuge with the exalted Buddha!

Siddhartha placed his hand on Govindas shoulder: You failed to hear my good wish

for you, oh Govinda.

Im repeating it: I wish that you would go this path up to its end, that you shall

find salvation!

In this moment, Govinda realized that his friend had left him, and he started to weep.

Siddhartha! he exclaimed lamentingly.

Siddhartha kindly spoke to him: Dont forget, Govinda, that you are now one of the

Samanas of the Buddha!

You have renounced your home and your parents, renounced your birth and possessions, renounced

your free will, renounced all friendship.

This is what the teachings require, this is what the exalted one wants.

This is what you wanted for yourself.

Tomorrow, oh Govinda, Ill leave you.

For a long time, the friends continued walking in the grove; for a long time, they lay there

and found no sleep.

And over and over again, Govinda urged his friend, he should tell him why he would not

want to seek refuge in Gotamas teachings, what fault he would find in these teachings.

But Siddhartha turned him away every time and said: Be content, Govinda!

Very good are the teachings of the exalted one, how could I find a fault in them?

Very early in the morning, a follower of Buddha, one of his oldest monks, went through the

garden and called all those to him who had as novices taken their refuge in the teachings,

to dress them up in the yellow robe and to instruct them in the first teachings and duties

of their position.

Then Govinda broke loose, embraced once again his childhood friend and left with the novices.

But Siddhartha walked through the grove, lost in thought.

Then he happened to meet Gotama, the exalted one, and when he greeted him with respect

and the Buddhas glance was so full of kindness and calm, the young man summoned his courage

and asked the venerable one for the permission to talk to him.

Silently the exalted one nodded his approval.

Quoth Siddhartha: Yesterday, oh exalted one, I had been privileged to hear your wondrous

teachings.

Together with my friend, I had come from afar, to hear your teachings.

And now my friend is going to stay with your people, he has taken his refuge with you.

But I will again start on my pilgrimage.

As you please, the venerable one spoke politely.

Too bold is my speech, Siddhartha continued, but I do not want to leave the exalted

one without having honestly told him my thoughts.

Does it please the venerable one to listen to me for one moment longer?

Silently, the Buddha nodded his approval.

Quoth Siddhartha: One thing, oh most venerable one, I have admired in your teachings most

of all.

Everything in your teachings is perfectly clear, is proven; you are presenting the world

as a perfect chain, a chain which is never and nowhere broken, an eternal chain the links

of which are causes and effects.

Never before, this has been seen so clearly; never before, this has been presented so irrefutably;

truly, the heart of every Brahman has to beat stronger with love, once he has seen the world

through your teachings perfectly connected, without gaps, clear as a crystal, not depending

on chance, not depending on gods.

Whether it may be good or bad, whether living according to it would be suffering or joy,

I do not wish to discuss, possibly this is not essentialbut the uniformity of the

world, that everything which happens is connected, that the great and the small things are all

encompassed by the same forces of time, by the same law of causes, of coming into being

and of dying, this is what shines brightly out of your exalted teachings, oh perfected

one.

But according to your very own teachings, this unity and necessary sequence of all things

is nevertheless broken in one place, through a small gap, this world of unity is invaded

by something alien, something new, something which had not been there before, and which

cannot be demonstrated and cannot be proven: these are your teachings of overcoming the

world, of salvation.

But with this small gap, with this small breach, the entire eternal and uniform law of the

world is breaking apart again and becomes void.

Please forgive me for expressing this objection.

Quietly, Gotama had listened to him, unmoved.

Now he spoke, the perfected one, with his kind, with his polite and clear voice: Youve

heard the teachings, oh son of a Brahman, and good for you that youve thought about

it thus deeply.

Youve found a gap in it, an error.

You should think about this further.

But be warned, oh seeker of knowledge, of the thicket of opinions and of arguing about

words.

There is nothing to opinions, they may be beautiful or ugly, smart or foolish, everyone

can support them or discard them.

But the teachings, youve heard from me, are no opinion, and their goal is not to explain

the world to those who seek knowledge.

They have a different goal; their goal is salvation from suffering.

This is what Gotama teaches, nothing else.

I wish that you, oh exalted one, would not be angry with me, said the young man.

I have not spoken to you like this to argue with you, to argue about words.

You are truly right, there is little to opinions.

But let me say this one more thing: I have not doubted in you for a single moment.

I have not doubted for a single moment that you are Buddha, that you have reached the

goal, the highest goal towards which so many thousands of Brahmans and sons of Brahmans

are on their way.

You have found salvation from death.

It has come to you in the course of your own search, on your own path, through thoughts,

through meditation, through realizations, through enlightenment.

It has not come to you by means of teachings!

Andthus is my thought, oh exalted one,nobody will obtain salvation by means of teachings!

You will not be able to convey and say to anybody, oh venerable one, in words and through

teachings what has happened to you in the hour of enlightenment!

The teachings of the enlightened Buddha contain much, it teaches many to live righteously,

to avoid evil.

But there is one thing which these so clear, these so venerable teachings do not contain:

they do not contain the mystery of what the exalted one has experienced for himself, he

alone among hundreds of thousands.

This is what I have thought and realized, when I have heard the teachings.

This is why I am continuing my travelsnot to seek other, better teachings, for I know

there are none, but to depart from all teachings and all teachers and to reach my goal by myself

or to die.

But often, Ill think of this day, oh exalted one, and of this hour, when my eyes beheld

a holy man.

The Buddhas eyes quietly looked to the ground; quietly, in perfect equanimity his

inscrutable face was smiling.

I wish, the venerable one spoke slowly, that your thoughts shall not be in error,

that you shall reach the goal!

But tell me: Have you seen the multitude of my Samanas, my many brothers, who have taken

refuge in the teachings?

And do you believe, oh stranger, oh Samana, do you believe that it would be better for

them all the abandon the teachings and to return into the life the world and of desires?

Far is such a thought from my mind, exclaimed Siddhartha.

I wish that they shall all stay with the teachings, that they shall reach their goal!

It is not my place to judge another persons life.

Only for myself, for myself alone, I must decide, I must chose, I must refuse.

Salvation from the self is what we Samanas search for, oh exalted one.

If I merely were one of your disciples, oh venerable one, Id fear that it might happen

to me that only seemingly, only deceptively my self would be calm and be redeemed, but

that in truth it would live on and grow, for then I had replaced my self with the teachings,

my duty to follow you, my love for you, and the community of the monks!

With half of a smile, with an unwavering openness and kindness, Gotama looked into the strangers

eyes and bid him to leave with a hardly noticeable gesture.

You are wise, oh Samana., the venerable one spoke.

You know how to talk wisely, my friend.

Be aware of too much wisdom!

The Buddha turned away, and his glance and half of a smile remained forever etched in

Siddharthas memory.

I have never before seen a person glance and smile, sit and walk this way, he thought;

truly, I wish to be able to glance and smile, sit and walk this way, too, thus free, thus

venerable, thus concealed, thus open, thus childlike and mysterious.

Truly, only a person who has succeeded in reaching the innermost part of his self would

glance and walk this way.

Well so, I also will seek to reach the innermost part of my self.

I saw a man, Siddhartha thought, a single man, before whom I would have to lower my

glance.

I do not want to lower my glance before any other, not before any other.

No teachings will entice me any more, since this mans teachings have not enticed me.

I am deprived by the Buddha, thought Siddhartha, I am deprived, and even more he has given

to me.

He has deprived me of my friend, the one who had believed in me and now believes in him,

who had been my shadow and is now Gotamas shadow.

But he has given me Siddhartha, myself.

AWAKENING When Siddhartha left the grove, where the

Buddha, the perfected one, stayed behind, where Govinda stayed behind, then he felt

that in this grove his past life also stayed behind and parted from him.

He pondered about this sensation, which filled him completely, as he was slowly walking along.

He pondered deeply, like diving into a deep water he let himself sink down to the ground

of the sensation, down to the place where the causes lie, because to identify the causes,

so it seemed to him, is the very essence of thinking, and by this alone sensations turn

into realizations and are not lost, but become entities and start to emit like rays of light

what is inside of them.

Slowly walking along, Siddhartha pondered.

He realized that he was no youth any more, but had turned into a man.

He realized that one thing had left him, as a snake is left by its old skin, that one

thing no longer existed in him, which had accompanied him throughout his youth and used

to be a part of him: the wish to have teachers and to listen to teachings.

He had also left the last teacher who had appeared on his path, even him, the highest

and wisest teacher, the most holy one, Buddha, he had left him, had to part with him, was

not able to accept his teachings.

Slower, he walked along in his thoughts and asked himself: But what is this, what you

have sought to learn from teachings and from teachers, and what they, who have taught you

much, were still unable to teach you?

And he found: It was the self, the purpose and essence of which I sought to learn.

It was the self, I wanted to free myself from, which I sought to overcome.

But I was not able to overcome it, could only deceive it, could only flee from it, only

hide from it.

Truly, no thing in this world has kept my thoughts thus busy, as this my very own self,

this mystery of me being alive, of me being one and being separated and isolated from

all others, of me being Siddhartha!

And there is no thing in this world I know less about than about me, about Siddhartha!

Having been pondering while slowly walking along, he now stopped as these thoughts caught

hold of him, and right away another thought sprang forth from these, a new thought, which

was: That I know nothing about myself, that Siddhartha has remained thus alien and

unknown to me, stems from one cause, a single cause: I was afraid of myself, I was fleeing

from myself!

I searched Atman, I searched Brahman, I was willing to dissect my self and peel off all

of its layers, to find the core of all peels in its unknown interior, the Atman, life,

the divine part, the ultimate part.

But I have lost myself in the process.

Siddhartha opened his eyes and looked around, a smile filled his face and a feeling of awakening

from long dreams flowed through him from his head down to his toes.

And it was not long before he walked again, walked quickly like a man who knows what he

has got to do.

Oh, he thought, taking a deep breath, now I would not let Siddhartha escape from

me again!

No longer, I want to begin my thoughts and my life with Atman and with the suffering

of the world.

I do not want to kill and dissect myself any longer, to find a secret behind the ruins.

Neither Yoga-Veda shall teach me any more, nor Atharva-Veda, nor the ascetics, nor any

kind of teachings.

I want to learn from myself, want to be my student, want to get to know myself, the secret

of Siddhartha.

He looked around, as if he was seeing the world for the first time.

Beautiful was the world, colourful was the world, strange and mysterious was the world!

Here was blue, here was yellow, here was green, the sky and the river flowed, the forest and

the mountains were rigid, all of it was beautiful, all of it was mysterious and magical, and

in its midst was he, Siddhartha, the awakening one, on the path to himself.

All of this, all this yellow and blue, river and forest, entered Siddhartha for the first

time through the eyes, was no longer a spell of Mara, was no longer the veil of Maya, was

no longer a pointless and coincidental diversity of mere appearances, despicable to the deeply

thinking Brahman, who scorns diversity, who seeks unity.

Blue was blue, river was river, and if also in the blue and the river, in Siddhartha,

the singular and divine lived hidden, so it was still that very divinitys way and purpose,

to be here yellow, here blue, there sky, there forest, and here Siddhartha.

The purpose and the essential properties were not somewhere behind the things, they were

in them, in everything.

How deaf and stupid have I been! he thought, walking swiftly along.

When someone reads a text, wants to discover its meaning, he will not scorn the symbols

and letters and call them deceptions, coincidence, and worthless hull, but he will read them,

he will study and love them, letter by letter.

But I, who wanted to read the book of the world and the book of my own being, I have,

for the sake of a meaning I had anticipated before I read, scorned the symbols and letters,

I called the visible world a deception, called my eyes and my tongue coincidental and worthless

forms without substance.

No, this is over, I have awakened, I have indeed awakened and have not been born before

this very day.

In thinking these thoughts, Siddhartha stopped once again, suddenly, as if there was a snake

lying in front of him on the path.

Because suddenly, he had also become aware of this: He, who was indeed like someone who

had just woken up or like a new-born baby, he had to start his life anew and start again

at the very beginning.

When he had left in this very morning from the grove Jetavana, the grove of that exalted

one, already awakening, already on the path towards himself, he had every intention, regarded

as natural and took for granted, that he, after years as an ascetic, would return to

his home and his father.

But now, only in this moment, when he stopped as if a snake was lying on his path, he also

awoke to this realization: But I am no longer the one I was, I am no ascetic any

more, I am not a priest any more, I am no Brahman any more.

Whatever should I do at home and at my fathers place?

Study?

Make offerings?

Practise meditation?

But all this is over, all of this is no longer alongside my path.

Motionless, Siddhartha remained standing there, and for the time of one moment and breath,

his heart felt cold, he felt a cold in his chest, as a small animal, a bird or a rabbit,

would when seeing how alone he was.

For many years, he had been without home and had felt nothing.

Now, he felt it.

Still, even in the deepest meditation, he had been his fathers son, had been a Brahman,

of a high caste, a cleric.

Now, he was nothing but Siddhartha, the awoken one, nothing else was left.

Deeply, he inhaled, and for a moment, he felt cold and shivered.

Nobody was thus alone as he was.

There was no nobleman who did not belong to the noblemen, no worker that did not belong

to the workers, and found refuge with them, shared their life, spoke their language.

No Brahman, who would not be regarded as Brahmans and lived with them, no ascetic who would

not find his refuge in the caste of the Samanas, and even the most forlorn hermit in the forest

was not just one and alone, he was also surrounded by a place he belonged to, he also belonged

to a caste, in which he was at home.

Govinda had become a monk, and a thousand monks were his brothers, wore the same robe

as he, believed in his faith, spoke his language.

But he, Siddhartha, where did he belong to?

With whom would he share his life?

Whose language would he speak?

Out of this moment, when the world melted away all around him, when he stood alone like

a star in the sky, out of this moment of a cold and despair, Siddhartha emerged, more

a self than before, more firmly concentrated.

He felt: This had been the last tremor of the awakening, the last struggle of this birth.

And it was not long until he walked again in long strides, started to proceed swiftly

and impatiently, heading no longer for home, no longer to his father, no longer back.

SECOND PART Dedicated to Wilhelm Gundert, my cousin in

Japan KAMALA

Siddhartha learned something new on every step of his path, for the world was transformed,

and his heart was enchanted.

He saw the sun rising over the mountains with their forests and setting over the distant

beach with its palm-trees.

At night, he saw the stars in the sky in their fixed positions and the crescent of the moon

floating like a boat in the blue.

He saw trees, stars, animals, clouds, rainbows, rocks, herbs, flowers, stream and river, the

glistening dew in the bushes in the morning, distant high mountains which were blue and

pale, birds sang and bees, wind silverishly blew through the rice-field.

All of this, a thousand-fold and colourful, had always been there, always the sun and

the moon had shone, always rivers had roared and bees had buzzed, but in former times all

of this had been nothing more to Siddhartha than a fleeting, deceptive veil before his

eyes, looked upon in distrust, destined to be penetrated and destroyed by thought, since

it was not the essential existence, since this essence lay beyond, on the other side

of, the visible.

But now, his liberated eyes stayed on this side, he saw and became aware of the visible,

sought to be at home in this world, did not search for the true essence, did not aim at

a world beyond.

Beautiful was this world, looking at it thus, without searching, thus simply, thus childlike.

Beautiful were the moon and the stars, beautiful was the stream and the banks, the forest and

the rocks, the goat and the gold-beetle, the flower and the butterfly.

Beautiful and lovely it was, thus to walk through the world, thus childlike, thus awoken,

thus open to what is near, thus without distrust.

Differently the sun burnt the head, differently the shade of the forest cooled him down, differently

the stream and the cistern, the pumpkin and the banana tasted.

Short were the days, short the nights, every hour sped swiftly away like a sail on the

sea, and under the sail was a ship full of treasures, full of joy.

Siddhartha saw a group of apes moving through the high canopy of the forest, high in the

branches, and heard their savage, greedy song.

Siddhartha saw a male sheep following a female one and mating with her.

In a lake of reeds, he saw the pike hungrily hunting for its dinner; propelling themselves

away from it, in fear, wiggling and sparkling, the young fish jumped in droves out of the

water; the scent of strength and passion came forcefully out of the hasty eddies of the

water, which the pike stirred up, impetuously hunting.

All of this had always existed, and he had not seen it; he had not been with it.

Now he was with it, he was part of it.

Light and shadow ran through his eyes, stars and moon ran through his heart.

On the way, Siddhartha also remembered everything he had experienced in the Garden Jetavana,

the teaching he had heard there, the divine Buddha, the farewell from Govinda, the conversation

with the exalted one.

Again he remembered his own words, he had spoken to the exalted one, every word, and

with astonishment he became aware of the fact that there he had said things which he had

not really known yet at this time.

What he had said to Gotama: his, the Buddhas, treasure and secret was not the teachings,

but the unexpressable and not teachable, which he had experienced in the hour of his enlightenmentit

was nothing but this very thing which he had now gone to experience, what he now began

to experience.

Now, he had to experience his self.

It is true that he had already known for a long time that his self was Atman, in its

essence bearing the same eternal characteristics as Brahman.

But never, he had really found this self, because he had wanted to capture it in the

net of thought.

With the body definitely not being the self, and not the spectacle of the senses, so it

also was not the thought, not the rational mind, not the learned wisdom, not the learned

ability to draw conclusions and to develop previous thoughts in to new ones.

No, this world of thought was also still on this side, and nothing could be achieved by

killing the random self of the senses, if the random self of thoughts and learned knowledge

was fattened on the other hand.

Both, the thoughts as well as the senses, were pretty things, the ultimate meaning was

hidden behind both of them, both had to be listened to, both had to be played with, both

neither had to be scorned nor overestimated, from both the secret voices of the innermost

truth had to be attentively perceived.

He wanted to strive for nothing, except for what the voice commanded him to strive for,

dwell on nothing, except where the voice would advise him to do so.

Why had Gotama, at that time, in the hour of all hours, sat down under the bo-tree,

where the enlightenment hit him?

He had heard a voice, a voice in his own heart, which had commanded him to seek rest under

this tree, and he had neither preferred self-castigation, offerings, ablutions, nor prayer, neither

food nor drink, neither sleep nor dream, he had obeyed the voice.

To obey like this, not to an external command, only to the voice, to be ready like this,

this was good, this was necessary, nothing else was necessary.

In the night when he slept in the straw hut of a ferryman by the river, Siddhartha had

a dream: Govinda was standing in front of him, dressed in the yellow robe of an ascetic.

Sad was how Govinda looked like, sadly he asked: Why have you forsaken me?

At this, he embraced Govinda, wrapped his arms around him, and as he was pulling him

close to his chest and kissed him, it was not Govinda any more, but a woman, and a full

breast popped out of the womans dress, at which Siddhartha lay and drank, sweetly

and strongly tasted the milk from this breast.

It tasted of woman and man, of sun and forest, of animal and flower, of every fruit, of every

joyful desire.

It intoxicated him and rendered him unconscious.When Siddhartha woke up, the pale river shimmered

through the door of the hut, and in the forest, a dark call of an owl resounded deeply and

pleasantly.

When the day began, Siddhartha asked his host, the ferryman, to get him across the river.

The ferryman got him across the river on his bamboo-raft, the wide water shimmered reddishly

in the light of the morning.

This is a beautiful river, he said to his companion.

Yes, said the ferryman, a very beautiful river, I love it more than anything.

Often I have listened to it, often I have looked into its eyes, and always I have learned

from it.

Much can be learned from a river.

I thank you, my benefactor, spoke Siddhartha, disembarking on the other side of the river.

I have no gift I could give you for your hospitality, my dear, and also no payment

for your work.

I am a man without a home, a son of a Brahman and a Samana.

I did see it, spoke the ferryman, and I havent expected any payment from you

and no gift which would be the custom for guests to bear.

You will give me the gift another time.

Do you think so? asked Siddhartha amusedly.

Surely.

This too, I have learned from the river: everything is coming back!

You too, Samana, will come back.

Now farewell!

Let your friendship be my reward.

Commemorate me, when youll make offerings to the gods.

Smiling, they parted.

Smiling, Siddhartha was happy about the friendship and the kindness of the ferryman.

He is like Govinda, he thought with a smile, all I meet on my path are like

Govinda.

All are thankful, though they are the ones who would have a right to receive thanks.

All are submissive, all would like to be friends, like to obey, think little.

Like children are all people.

At about noon, he came through a village.

In front of the mud cottages, children were rolling about in the street, were playing

with pumpkin-seeds and sea-shells, screamed and wrestled, but they all timidly fled from

the unknown Samana.

In the end of the village, the path led through a stream, and by the side of the stream, a

young woman was kneeling and washing clothes.

When Siddhartha greeted her, she lifted her head and looked up to him with a smile, so

that he saw the white in her eyes glistening.

He called out a blessing to her, as it is the custom among travellers, and asked how

far he still had to go to reach the large city.

Then she got up and came to him, beautifully her wet mouth was shimmering in her young

face.

She exchanged humorous banter with him, asked whether he had eaten already, and whether

it was true that the Samanas slept alone in the forest at night and were not allowed to

have any women with them.

While talking, she put her left foot on his right one and made a movement as a woman does

who would want to initiate that kind of sexual pleasure with a man, which the textbooks call

climbing a tree.

Siddhartha felt his blood heating up, and since in this moment he had to think of his

dream again, he bend slightly down to the woman and kissed with his lips the brown nipple

of her breast.

Looking up, he saw her face smiling full of lust and her eyes, with contracted pupils,

begging with desire.

Siddhartha also felt desire and felt the source of his sexuality moving; but since he had

never touched a woman before, he hesitated for a moment, while his hands were already

prepared to reach out for her.

And in this moment he heard, shuddering with awe, the voice of his innermost self, and

this voice said No.

Then, all charms disappeared from the young womans smiling face, he no longer saw anything

else but the damp glance of a female animal in heat.

Politely, he petted her cheek, turned away from her and disappeared away from the disappointed

woman with light steps into the bamboo-wood.

On this day, he reached the large city before the evening, and was happy, for he felt the

need to be among people.

For a long time, he had lived in the forests, and the straw hut of the ferryman, in which

he had slept that night, had been the first roof for a long time he has had over his head.

Before the city, in a beautifully fenced grove, the traveller came across a small group of

servants, both male and female, carrying baskets.

In their midst, carried by four servants in an ornamental sedan-chair, sat a woman, the

mistress, on red pillows under a colourful canopy.

Siddhartha stopped at the entrance to the pleasure-garden and watched the parade, saw

the servants, the maids, the baskets, saw the sedan-chair and saw the lady in it.

Under black hair, which made to tower high on her head, he saw a very fair, very delicate,

very smart face, a brightly red mouth, like a freshly cracked fig, eyebrows which were

well tended and painted in a high arch, smart and watchful dark eyes, a clear, tall neck

rising from a green and golden garment, resting fair hands, long and thin, with wide golden

bracelets over the wrists.

Siddhartha saw how beautiful she was, and his heart rejoiced.

He bowed deeply, when the sedan-chair came closer, and straightening up again, he looked

at the fair, charming face, read for a moment in the smart eyes with the high arcs above,

breathed in a slight fragrant, he did not know.

With a smile, the beautiful woman nodded for a moment and disappeared into the grove, and

then the servants as well.

Thus I am entering this city, Siddhartha thought, with a charming omen.

He instantly felt drawn into the grove, but he thought about it, and only now he became

aware of how the servants and maids had looked at him at the entrance, how despicable, how

distrustful, how rejecting.

I am still a Samana, he thought, I am still an ascetic and beggar.

I must not remain like this, I will not be able to enter the grove like this.

And he laughed.

The next person who came along this path he asked about the grove and for the name of

the woman, and was told that this was the grove of Kamala, the famous courtesan, and

that, aside from the grove, she owned a house in the city.

Then, he entered the city.

Now he had a goal.

Pursuing his goal, he allowed the city to suck him in, drifted through the flow of the

streets, stood still on the squares, rested on the stairs of stone by the river.

When the evening came, he made friends with barbers assistant, whom he had seen working

in the shade of an arch in a building, whom he found again praying in a temple of Vishnu,

whom he told about stories of Vishnu and the Lakshmi.

Among the boats by the river, he slept this night, and early in the morning, before the

first customers came into his shop, he had the barbers assistant shave his beard and

cut his hair, comb his hair and anoint it with fine oil.

Then he went to take his bath in the river.

When late in the afternoon, beautiful Kamala approached her grove in her sedan-chair, Siddhartha

was standing at the entrance, made a bow and received the courtesans greeting.

But that servant who walked at the very end of her train he motioned to him and asked

him to inform his mistress that a young Brahman would wish to talk to her.

After a while, the servant returned, asked him, who had been waiting, to follow him conducted

him, who was following him, without a word into a pavilion, where Kamala was lying on

a couch, and left him alone with her.

Werent you already standing out there yesterday, greeting me? asked Kamala.

Its true that Ive already seen and greeted you yesterday.

But didnt you yesterday wear a beard, and long hair, and dust in your hair?

You have observed well, you have seen everything.

You have seen Siddhartha, the son of a Brahman, who has left his home to become a Samana,

and who has been a Samana for three years.

But now, I have left that path and came into this city, and the first one I met, even before

I had entered the city, was you.

To say this, I have come to you, oh Kamala!

You are the first woman whom Siddhartha is not addressing with his eyes turned to the

ground.

Never again I want to turn my eyes to the ground, when Im coming across a beautiful

woman.

Kamala smiled and played with her fan of peacocks feathers.

And asked: And only to tell me this, Siddhartha has come to me?

To tell you this and to thank you for being so beautiful.

And if it doesnt displease you, Kamala, I would like to ask you to be my friend and

teacher, for I know nothing yet of that art which you have mastered in the highest degree.

At this, Kamala laughed aloud.

Never before this has happened to me, my friend, that a Samana from the forest came

to me and wanted to learn from me!

Never before this has happened to me, that a Samana came to me with long hair and an

old, torn loincloth!

Many young men come to me, and there are also sons of Brahmans among them, but they come

in beautiful clothes, they come in fine shoes, they have perfume in their hair and money

in their pouches.

This is, oh Samana, how the young men are like who come to me.

Quoth Siddhartha: Already I am starting to learn from you.

Even yesterday, I was already learning.

I have already taken off my beard, have combed the hair, have oil in my hair.

There is little which is still missing in me, oh excellent one: fine clothes, fine shoes,

money in my pouch.

You shall know, Siddhartha has set harder goals for himself than such trifles, and he

has reached them.

How shouldnt I reach that goal, which I have set for myself yesterday: to be your

friend and to learn the joys of love from you!

Youll see that Ill learn quickly, Kamala, I have already learned harder things than

what youre supposed to teach me.

And now lets get to it: You arent satisfied with Siddhartha as he is, with oil in his

hair, but without clothes, without shoes, without money?

Laughing, Kamala exclaimed: No, my dear, he doesnt satisfy me yet.

Clothes are what he must have, pretty clothes, and shoes, pretty shoes, and lots of money

in his pouch, and gifts for Kamala.

Do you know it now, Samana from the forest?

Did you mark my words?

Yes, I have marked your words, Siddhartha exclaimed.

How should I not mark words which are coming from such a mouth!

Your mouth is like a freshly cracked fig, Kamala.

My mouth is red and fresh as well, it will be a suitable match for yours, youll see.But

tell me, beautiful Kamala, arent you at all afraid of the Samana from the forest,

who has come to learn how to make love?

Whatever for should I be afraid of a Samana, a stupid Samana from the forest, who is coming

from the jackals and doesnt even know yet what women are?

Oh, hes strong, the Samana, and he isnt afraid of anything.

He could force you, beautiful girl.

He could kidnap you.

He could hurt you.

No, Samana, I am not afraid of this.

Did any Samana or Brahman ever fear, someone might come and grab him and steal his learning,

and his religious devotion, and his depth of thought?

No, for they are his very own, and he would only give away from those whatever he is willing

to give and to whomever he is willing to give.

Like this it is, precisely like this it is also with Kamala and with the pleasures of

love.

Beautiful and red is Kamalas mouth, but just try to kiss it against Kamalas will,

and you will not obtain a single drop of sweetness from it, which knows how to give so many sweet

things!

You are learning easily, Siddhartha, thus you should also learn this: love can be obtained

by begging, buying, receiving it as a gift, finding it in the street, but it cannot be

stolen.

In this, you have come up with the wrong path.

No, it would be a pity, if a pretty young man like you would want to tackle it in such

a wrong manner.

Siddhartha bowed with a smile.

It would be a pity, Kamala, you are so right!

It would be such a great pity.

No, I shall not lose a single drop of sweetness from your mouth, nor you from mine!

So it is settled: Siddhartha will return, once hell have what he still lacks: clothes,

shoes, money.

But speak, lovely Kamala, couldnt you still give me one small advice?

An advice?

Why not?

Who wouldnt like to give an advice to a poor, ignorant Samana, who is coming from

the jackals of the forest?

Dear Kamala, thus advise me where I should go to, that Ill find these three things

most quickly?

Friend, many would like to know this.

You must do what youve learned and ask for money, clothes, and shoes in return.

There is no other way for a poor man to obtain money.

What might you be able to do?

I can think.

I can wait.

I can fast.

Nothing else?

Nothing.

But yes, I can also write poetry.

Would you like to give me a kiss for a poem?

I would like to, if Ill like your poem.

What would be its title?

Siddhartha spoke, after he had thought about it for a moment, these verses:

Into her shady grove stepped the pretty Kamala, At the groves entrance stood the brown

Samana.

Deeply, seeing the lotuss blossom, Bowed that man, and smiling Kamala thanked.

More lovely, thought the young man, than offerings for gods, More lovely is offering to pretty

Kamala.

Kamala loudly clapped her hands, so that the golden bracelets clanged.

Beautiful are your verses, oh brown Samana, and truly, Im losing nothing when Im

giving you a kiss for them.

She beckoned him with her eyes, he tilted his head so that his face touched hers and

placed his mouth on that mouth which was like a freshly cracked fig.

For a long time, Kamala kissed him, and with a deep astonishment Siddhartha felt how she

taught him, how wise she was, how she controlled him, rejected him, lured him, and how after

this first one there was to be a long, a well ordered, well tested sequence of kisses, every

one different from the others, he was still to receive.

Breathing deeply, he remained standing where he was, and was in this moment astonished

like a child about the cornucopia of knowledge and things worth learning, which revealed

itself before his eyes.

Very beautiful are your verses, exclaimed Kamala, if I was rich, I would give you

pieces of gold for them.

But it will be difficult for you to earn thus much money with verses as you need.

For you need a lot of money, if you want to be Kamalas friend.

The way youre able to kiss, Kamala! stammered Siddhartha.

Yes, this I am able to do, therefore I do not lack clothes, shoes, bracelets, and

all beautiful things.

But what will become of you?

Arent you able to do anything else but thinking, fasting, making poetry?

I also know the sacrificial songs, said Siddhartha, but I do not want to sing them

any more.

I also know magic spells, but I do not want to speak them any more.

I have read the scriptures

Stop, Kamala interrupted him.

Youre able to read?

And write?

Certainly, I can do this.

Many people can do this.

Most people cant.

I also cant do it.

It is very good that youre able to read and write, very good.

You will also still find use for the magic spells.

In this moment, a maid came running in and whispered a message into her mistresss

ear.

Theres a visitor for me, exclaimed Kamala.

Hurry and get yourself away, Siddhartha, nobody may see you in here, remember this!

Tomorrow, Ill see you again.

But to the maid she gave the order to give the pious Brahman white upper garments.

Without fully understanding what was happening to him, Siddhartha found himself being dragged

away by the maid, brought into a garden-house avoiding the direct path, being given upper

garments as a gift, led into the bushes, and urgently admonished to get himself out of

the grove as soon as possible without being seen.

Contently, he did as he had been told.

Being accustomed to the forest, he managed to get out of the grove and over the hedge

without making a sound.

Contently, he returned to the city, carrying the rolled up garments under his arm.

At the inn, where travellers stay, he positioned himself by the door, without words he asked

for food, without a word he accepted a piece of rice-cake.

Perhaps as soon as tomorrow, he thought, I will ask no one for food any more.

Suddenly, pride flared up in him.

He was no Samana any more, it was no longer becoming to him to beg.

He gave the rice-cake to a dog and remained without food.

Simple is the life which people lead in this world here, thought Siddhartha.

It presents no difficulties.

Everything was difficult, toilsome, and ultimately hopeless, when I was still a Samana.

Now, everything is easy, easy like those lessons in kissing, which Kamala is giving me.

I need clothes and money, nothing else; these are small, near goals, they wont make a

person lose any sleep.

He had already discovered Kamalas house in the city long before, there he turned up

the following day.

Things are working out well, she called out to him.

They are expecting you at Kamaswamis, he is the richest merchant of the city.

If hell like you, hell accept you into his service.

Be smart, brown Samana.

I had others tell him about you.

Be polite towards him, he is very powerful.

But dont be too modest!

I do not want you to become his servant, you shall become his equal, or else I wont

be satisfied with you.

Kamaswami is starting to get old and lazy.

If hell like you, hell entrust you with a lot.

Siddhartha thanked her and laughed, and when she found out that he had not eaten anything

yesterday and today, she sent for bread and fruits and treated him to it.

Youve been lucky, she said when they parted, Im opening one door after another

for you.

How come?

Do you have a spell?

Siddhartha said: Yesterday, I told you I knew how to think, to wait, and to fast,

but you thought this was of no use.

But it is useful for many things, Kamala, youll see.

Youll see that the stupid Samanas are learning and able to do many pretty things in the forest,

which the likes of you arent capable of.

The day before yesterday, I was still a shaggy beggar, as soon as yesterday I have kissed

Kamala, and soon Ill be a merchant and have money and all those things you insist

upon.

Well yes, she admitted.

But where would you be without me?

What would you be, if Kamala wasnt helping you?

Dear Kamala, said Siddhartha and straightened up to his full height, when I came to you

into your grove, I did the first step.

It was my resolution to learn love from this most beautiful woman.

From that moment on when I had made this resolution, I also knew that I would carry it out.

I knew that you would help me, at your first glance at the entrance of the grove I already

knew it.

But what if I hadnt been willing?

You were willing.

Look, Kamala: When you throw a rock into the water, it will speed on the fastest course

to the bottom of the water.

This is how it is when Siddhartha has a goal, a resolution.

Siddhartha does nothing, he waits, he thinks, he fasts, but he passes through the things

of the world like a rock through water, without doing anything, without stirring; he is drawn,

he lets himself fall.

His goal attracts him, because he doesnt let anything enter his soul which might oppose

the goal.

This is what Siddhartha has learned among the Samanas.

This is what fools call magic and of which they think it would be effected by means of

the daemons.

Nothing is effected by daemons, there are no daemons.

Everyone can perform magic, everyone can reach his goals, if he is able to think, if he is

able to wait, if he is able to fast.

Kamala listened to him.

She loved his voice, she loved the look from his eyes.

Perhaps it is so, she said quietly, as you say, friend.

But perhaps it is also like this: that Siddhartha is a handsome man, that his glance pleases

the women, that therefore good fortune is coming towards him.

With one kiss, Siddhartha bid his farewell.

I wish that it should be this way, my teacher; that my glance shall please you, that always

good fortune shall come to me out of your direction!

WITH THE CHILDLIKE PEOPLE Siddhartha went to Kamaswami the merchant,

he was directed into a rich house, servants led him between precious carpets into a chamber,

where he awaited the master of the house.

Kamaswami entered, a swiftly, smoothly moving man with very gray hair, with very intelligent,

cautious eyes, with a greedy mouth.

Politely, the host and the guest greeted one another.

I have been told, the merchant began, that you were a Brahman, a learned man,

but that you seek to be in the service of a merchant.

Might you have become destitute, Brahman, so that you seek to serve?

No, said Siddhartha, I have not become destitute and have never been destitute.

You should know that Im coming from the Samanas, with whom I have lived for a long

time.

If youre coming from the Samanas, how could you be anything but destitute?

Arent the Samanas entirely without possessions?

I am without possessions, said Siddhartha, if this is what you mean.

Surely, I am without possessions.

But I am so voluntarily, and therefore I am not destitute.

But what are you planning to live of, being without possessions?

I havent thought of this yet, sir.

For more than three years, I have been without possessions, and have never thought about

of what I should live.

So youve lived of the possessions of others.

Presumable this is how it is.

After all, a merchant also lives of what other people own.

Well said.

But he wouldnt take anything from another person for nothing; he would give his merchandise

in return.

So it seems to be indeed.

Everyone takes, everyone gives, such is life.

But if you dont mind me asking: being without possessions, what would you like to

give?

Everyone gives what he has.

The warrior gives strength, the merchant gives merchandise, the teacher teachings, the farmer

rice, the fisher fish.

Yes indeed.

And what is it now what youve got to give?

What is it that youve learned, what youre able to do?

I can think.

I can wait.

I can fast.

Thats everything?

I believe, thats everything!

And whats the use of that?

For example, the fastingwhat is it good for?

It is very good, sir.

When a person has nothing to eat, fasting is the smartest thing he could do.

When, for example, Siddhartha hadnt learned to fast, he would have to accept any kind

of service before this day is up, whether it may be with you or wherever, because hunger

would force him to do so.

But like this, Siddhartha can wait calmly, he knows no impatience, he knows no emergency,

for a long time he can allow hunger to besiege him and can laugh about it.

This, sir, is what fasting is good for.

Youre right, Samana.

Wait for a moment.

Kamaswami left the room and returned with a scroll, which he handed to his guest while

asking: Can you read this?

Siddhartha looked at the scroll, on which a sales-contract had been written down, and

began to read out its contents.

Excellent, said Kamaswami.

And would you write something for me on this piece of paper?

He handed him a piece of paper and a pen, and Siddhartha wrote and returned the paper.

Kamaswami read: Writing is good, thinking is better.

Being smart is good, being patient is better.

It is excellent how youre able to write, the merchant praised him.

Many a thing we will still have to discuss with one another.

For today, Im asking you to be my guest and to live in this house.

Siddhartha thanked and accepted, and lived in the dealers house from now on.

Clothes were brought to him, and shoes, and every day, a servant prepared a bath for him.

Twice a day, a plentiful meal was served, but Siddhartha only ate once a day, and ate

neither meat nor did he drink wine.

Kamaswami told him about his trade, showed him the merchandise and storage-rooms, showed

him calculations.

Siddhartha got to know many new things, he heard a lot and spoke little.

And thinking of Kamalas words, he was never subservient to the merchant, forced him to

treat him as an equal, yes even more than an equal.

Kamaswami conducted his business with care and often with passion, but Siddhartha looked

upon all of this as if it was a game, the rules of which he tried hard to learn precisely,

but the contents of which did not touch his heart.

He was not in Kamaswamis house for long, when he already took part in his landlords

business.

But daily, at the hour appointed by her, he visited beautiful Kamala, wearing pretty clothes,

fine shoes, and soon he brought her gifts as well.

Much he learned from her red, smart mouth.

Much he learned from her tender, supple hand.

Him, who was, regarding love, still a boy and had a tendency to plunge blindly and insatiably

into lust like into a bottomless pit, him she taught, thoroughly starting with the basics,

about that school of thought which teaches that pleasure cannot be taken without giving

pleasure, and that every gesture, every caress, every touch, every look, every spot of the

body, however small it was, had its secret, which would bring happiness to those who know

about it and unleash it.

She taught him, that lovers must not part from one another after celebrating love, without

one admiring the other, without being just as defeated as they have been victorious,

so that none of them should start feeling fed up or bored and get that evil feeling

of having abused or having been abused.

Wonderful hours he spent with the beautiful and smart artist, became her student, her

lover, her friend.

Here with Kamala was the worth and purpose of his present life, not with the business

of Kamaswami.

The merchant passed duties of writing important letters and contracts on to him and got into

the habit of discussing all important affairs with him.

He soon saw that Siddhartha knew little about rice and wool, shipping and trade, but that

he acted in a fortunate manner, and that Siddhartha surpassed him, the merchant, in calmness and

equanimity, and in the art of listening and deeply understanding previously unknown people.

This Brahman, he said to a friend, is no proper merchant and will never be one,

there is never any passion in his soul when he conducts our business.

But he has that mysterious quality of those people to whom success comes all by itself,

whether this may be a good star of his birth, magic, or something he has learned among Samanas.

He always seems to be merely playing with our business-affairs, they never fully become

a part of him, they never rule over him, he is never afraid of failure, he is never upset

by a loss.

The friend advised the merchant: Give him from the business he conducts for you a third

of the profits, but let him also be liable for the same amount of the losses, when there

is a loss.

Then, hell become more zealous.

Kamaswami followed the advice.

But Siddhartha cared little about this.

When he made a profit, he accepted it with equanimity; when he made losses, he laughed

and said: Well, look at this, so this one turned out badly!

It seemed indeed, as if he did not care about the business.

At one time, he travelled to a village to buy a large harvest of rice there.

But when he got there, the rice had already been sold to another merchant.

Nevertheless, Siddhartha stayed for several days in that village, treated the farmers

for a drink, gave copper-coins to their children, joined in the celebration of a wedding, and

returned extremely satisfied from his trip.

Kamaswami held against him that he had not turned back right away, that he had wasted

time and money.

Siddhartha answered: Stop scolding, dear friend!

Nothing was ever achieved by scolding.

If a loss has occurred, let me bear that loss.

I am very satisfied with this trip.

I have gotten to know many kinds of people, a Brahman has become my friend, children have

sat on my knees, farmers have shown me their fields, nobody knew that I was a merchant.

Thats all very nice, exclaimed Kamaswami indignantly, but in fact, you are a merchant

after all, one ought to think!

Or might you have only travelled for your amusement?

Surely, Siddhartha laughed, surely I have travelled for my amusement.

For what else?

I have gotten to know people and places, I have received kindness and trust, I have found

friendship.

Look, my dear, if I had been Kamaswami, I would have travelled back, being annoyed and

in a hurry, as soon as I had seen that my purchase had been rendered impossible, and

time and money would indeed have been lost.

But like this, Ive had a few good days, Ive learned, had joy, Ive neither harmed

myself nor others by annoyance and hastiness.

And if Ill ever return there again, perhaps to buy an upcoming harvest, or for whatever

purpose it might be, friendly people will receive me in a friendly and happy manner,

and I will praise myself for not showing any hurry and displeasure at that time.

So, leave it as it is, my friend, and dont harm yourself by scolding!

If the day will come, when you will see: this