Siddhartha
He also put an end to this, this also died in him. He rose, bid his
farewell to the mango-tree, his farewell to the pleasure-garden. Since
he had been without food this day, he felt strong hunger, and thought
of his house in the city, of his chamber and bed, of the table with the
meals on it. He smiled tiredly, shook himself, and bid his farewell to
these things.
In the same hour of the night, Siddhartha left his garden, left the
city, and never came back. For a long time, Kamaswami had people look
for him, thinking that he had fallen into the hands of robbers. Kamala
had no one look for him. When she was told that Siddhartha had
disappeared, she was not astonished. Did she not always expect it? Was
he not a Samana, a man who was at home nowhere, a pilgrim? And most of
all, she had felt this the last time they had been together, and she
was happy, in spite of all the pain of the loss, that she had pulled
him so affectionately to her heart for this last time, that she had
felt one more time to be so completely possessed and penetrated by him.
When she received the first news of Siddhartha’s disappearance, she
went to the window, where she held a rare singing bird captive in a
golden cage. She opened the door of the cage, took the bird out and let
it fly. For a long time, she gazed after it, the flying bird. From this
day on, she received no more visitors and kept her house locked. But
after some time, she became aware that she was pregnant from the last
time she was together with Siddhartha.
BY THE RIVER
Siddhartha walked through the forest, was already far from the city,
and knew nothing but that one thing, that there was no going back for
him, that this life, as he had lived it for many years until now, was
over and done away with, and that he had tasted all of it, sucked
everything out of it until he was disgusted with it. Dead was the
singing bird he had dreamt of. Dead was the bird in his heart. Deeply,
he had been entangled in Sansara, he had sucked up disgust and death
from all sides into his body, like a sponge sucks up water until it is
full. And full he was, full of the feeling of been sick of it, full of
misery, full of death, there was nothing left in this world which could
have attracted him, given him joy, given him comfort.
Passionately he wished to know nothing about himself anymore, to have
rest, to be dead. If there only was a lightning-bolt to strike him
dead! If there only was a tiger to devour him! If there only was a
wine, a poison which would numb his senses, bring him forgetfulness and
sleep, and no awakening from that! Was there still any kind of filth
he had not soiled himself with, a sin or foolish act he had not
committed, a dreariness of the soul he had not brought upon himself?
Was it still at all possible to be alive? Was it possible to breathe
in again and again, to breathe out, to feel hunger, to eat again, to
sleep again, to sleep with a woman again? Was this cycle not exhausted
and brought to a conclusion for him?
Siddhartha reached the large river in the forest, the same river over
which a long time ago, when he had still been a young man and came from
the town of Gotama, a ferryman had conducted him. By this river he
stopped, hesitantly he stood at the bank. Tiredness and hunger had
weakened him, and whatever for should he walk on, wherever to, to which
goal? No, there were no more goals, there was nothing left but the
deep, painful yearning to shake off this whole desolate dream, to spit
out this stale wine, to put an end to this miserable and shameful life.
A hang bent over the bank of the river, a coconut-tree; Siddhartha
leaned against its trunk with his shoulder, embraced the trunk with one
arm, and looked down into the green water, which ran and ran under him,
looked down and found himself to be entirely filled with the wish to
let go and to drown in these waters. A frightening emptiness was
reflected back at him by the water, answering to the terrible emptiness
in his soul. Yes, he had reached the end. There was nothing left for
him, except to annihilate himself, except to smash the failure into
which he had shaped his life, to throw it away, before the feet of
mockingly laughing gods. This was the great vomiting he had longed for:
death, the smashing to bits of the form he hated! Let him be food for
fishes, this dog Siddhartha, this lunatic, this depraved and rotten
body, this weakened and abused soul! Let him be food for fishes and
crocodiles, let him be chopped to bits by the daemons!
With a distorted face, he stared into the water, saw the reflection of
his face and spit at it. In deep tiredness, he took his arm away from
the trunk of the tree and turned a bit, in order to let himself fall
straight down, in order to finally drown. With his eyes closed, he
slipped towards death.
Then, out of remote areas of his soul, out of past times of his now
weary life, a sound stirred up. It was a word, a syllable, which he,
without thinking, with a slurred voice, spoke to himself, the old word
which is the beginning and the end of all prayers of the Brahmans, the
holy “Om”, which roughly means “that what is perfect” or “the
completion”. And in the moment when the sound of “Om” touched
Siddhartha’s ear, his dormant spirit suddenly woke up and realized the
foolishness of his actions.
Siddhartha was deeply shocked. So this was how things were with him, so
doomed was he, so much he had lost his way and was forsaken by all
knowledge, that he had been able to seek death, that this wish, this
wish of a child, had been able to grow in him: to find rest by
annihilating his body! What all agony of these recent times, all
sobering realizations, all desperation had not brought about, this was
brought on by this moment, when the Om entered his consciousness: he
became aware of himself in his misery and in his error.
Om! he spoke to himself: Om! and again he knew about Brahman, knew
about the indestructibility of life, knew about all that is divine,
which he had forgotten.
But this was only a moment, flash. By the foot of the coconut-tree,
Siddhartha collapsed, struck down by tiredness, mumbling Om, placed his
head on the root of the tree and fell into a deep sleep.
Deep was his sleep and without dreams, for a long time he had not known
such a sleep any more. When he woke up after many hours, he felt as if
ten years had passed, he heard the water quietly flowing, did not know
where he was and who had brought him here, opened his eyes, saw with
astonishment that there were trees and the sky above him, and he
remembered where he was and how he got here. But it took him a long
while for this, and the past seemed to him as if it had been covered by
a veil, infinitely distant, infinitely far away, infinitely
meaningless. He only knew that his previous life (in the first moment
when he thought about it, this past life seemed to him like a very old,
previous incarnation, like an early pre-birth of his present self)—that
his previous life had been abandoned by him, that, full of disgust and
wretchedness, he had even intended to throw his life away, but that by
a river, under a coconut-tree, he had come to his senses, the holy word
Om on his lips, that then he had fallen asleep and had now woken up and
was looking at the world as a new man. Quietly, he spoke the word Om to
himself, speaking which he had fallen asleep, and it seemed to him as
if his entire long sleep had been nothing but a long meditative
recitation of Om, a thinking of Om, a submergence and complete entering
into Om, into the nameless, the perfected.
What a wonderful sleep had this been! Never before by sleep, he had
been thus refreshed, thus renewed, thus rejuvenated! Perhaps, he had
really died, had drowned and was reborn in a new body? But no, he knew
himself, he knew his hands and his feet, knew the place where he lay,
knew this self in his chest, this Siddhartha, the eccentric, the weird
one, but this Siddhartha was nevertheless transformed, was renewed, was
strangely well rested, strangely awake, joyful and curious.
Siddhartha straightened up, then he saw a person sitting opposite to
him, an unknown man, a monk in a yellow robe with a shaven head,
sitting in the position of pondering. He observed the man, who had
neither hair on his head nor a beard, and he had not observed him for
long when he recognised this monk as Govinda, the friend of his youth,
Govinda who had taken his refuge with the exalted Buddha. Govinda had
aged, he too, but still his face bore the same features, expressed
zeal, faithfulness, searching, timidness. But when Govinda now, sensing
his gaze, opened his eyes and looked at him, Siddhartha saw that
Govinda did not recognise him. Govinda was happy to find him awake;
apparently, he had been sitting here for a long time and been waiting
for him to wake up, though he did not know him.
“I have been sleeping,” said Siddhartha. “However did you get here?”
“You have been sleeping,” answered Govinda. “It is not good to be
sleeping in such places, where snakes often are and the animals of the
forest have their paths. I, oh sir, am a follower of the exalted
Gotama, the Buddha, the Sakyamuni, and have been on a pilgrimage
together with several of us on this path, when I saw you lying and
sleeping in a place where it is dangerous to sleep. Therefore, I sought
to wake you up, oh sir, and since I saw that your sleep was very deep,
I stayed behind from my group and sat with you. And then, so it seems,
I have fallen asleep myself, I who wanted to guard your sleep. Badly, I
have served you, tiredness has overwhelmed me. But now that you’re
awake, let me go to catch up with my brothers.”
“I thank you, Samana, for watching out over my sleep,” spoke
Siddhartha. “You’re friendly, you followers of the exalted one. Now you
may go then.”
“I’m going, sir. May you, sir, always be in good health.”
“I thank you, Samana.”
Govinda made the gesture of a salutation and said: “Farewell.”
“Farewell, Govinda,” said Siddhartha.
The monk stopped.
“Permit me to ask, sir, from where do you know my name?”
Now, Siddhartha smiled.
“I know you, oh Govinda, from your father’s hut, and from the school of
the Brahmans, and from the offerings, and from our walk to the Samanas,
and from that hour when you took your refuge with the exalted one in
the grove Jetavana.”
“You’re Siddhartha,” Govinda exclaimed loudly. “Now, I’m recognising
you, and don’t comprehend any more how I couldn’t recognise you right
away. Be welcome, Siddhartha, my joy is great, to see you again.”
“It also gives me joy, to see you again. You’ve been the guard of my
sleep, again I thank you for this, though I wouldn’t have required any
guard. Where are you going to, oh friend?”
“I’m going nowhere. We monks are always travelling, whenever it is not
the rainy season, we always move from one place to another, live
according to the rules of the teachings passed on to us, accept alms,
move on. It is always like this. But you, Siddhartha, where are you
going to?”
Quoth Siddhartha: “With me too, friend, it is as it is with you. I’m
going nowhere. I’m just travelling. I’m on a pilgrimage.”
Govinda spoke: “You’re saying: you’re on a pilgrimage, and I believe
you. But, forgive me, oh Siddhartha, you do not look like a pilgrim.
You’re wearing a rich man’s garments, you’re wearing the shoes of a
distinguished gentleman, and your hair, with the fragrance of perfume,
is not a pilgrim’s hair, not the hair of a Samana.”
“Right so, my dear, you have observed well, your keen eyes see
everything. But I haven’t said to you that I was a Samana. I said: I’m
on a pilgrimage. And so it is: I’m on a pilgrimage.”
“You’re on a pilgrimage,” said Govinda. “But few would go on a