Siddhartha
two ferrymen, thought they were brothers. Often, they sat in the
evening together by the bank on the log, said nothing and both listened
to the water, which was no water to them, but the voice of life, the
voice of what exists, of what is eternally taking shape. And it
happened from time to time that both, when listening to the river,
thought of the same things, of a conversation from the day before
yesterday, of one of their travellers, the face and fate of whom had
occupied their thoughts, of death, of their childhood, and that they
both in the same moment, when the river had been saying something good
to them, looked at each other, both thinking precisely the same thing,
both delighted about the same answer to the same question.
There was something about this ferry and the two ferrymen which was
transmitted to others, which many of the travellers felt. It happened
occasionally that a traveller, after having looked at the face of one
of the ferrymen, started to tell the story of his life, told about
pains, confessed evil things, asked for comfort and advice. It happened
occasionally that someone asked for permission to stay for a night with
them to listen to the river. It also happened that curious people came,
who had been told that there were two wise men, or sorcerers, or holy
men living by that ferry. The curious people asked many questions, but
they got no answers, and they found neither sorcerers nor wise men,
they only found two friendly little old men, who seemed to be mute and
to have become a bit strange and gaga. And the curious people laughed
and were discussing how foolishly and gullibly the common people were
spreading such empty rumours.
The years passed by, and nobody counted them. Then, at one time, monks
came by on a pilgrimage, followers of Gotama, the Buddha, who were
asking to be ferried across the river, and by them the ferrymen were
told that they were most hurriedly walking back to their great teacher,
for the news had spread the exalted one was deadly sick and would soon
die his last human death, in order to become one with the salvation. It
was not long, until a new flock of monks came along on their
pilgrimage, and another one, and the monks as well as most of the other
travellers and people walking through the land spoke of nothing else
than of Gotama and his impending death. And as people are flocking from
everywhere and from all sides, when they are going to war or to the
coronation of a king, and are gathering like ants in droves, thus they
flocked, like being drawn on by a magic spell, to where the great
Buddha was awaiting his death, where the huge event was to take place
and the great perfected one of an era was to become one with the glory.
Often, Siddhartha thought in those days of the dying wise man, the
great teacher, whose voice had admonished nations and had awoken
hundreds of thousands, whose voice he had also once heard, whose holy
face he had also once seen with respect. Kindly, he thought of him, saw
his path to perfection before his eyes, and remembered with a smile
those words which he had once, as a young man, said to him, the exalted
one. They had been, so it seemed to him, proud and precocious words;
with a smile, he remembered them. For a long time he knew that there
was nothing standing between Gotama and him any more, though he was
still unable to accept his teachings. No, there was no teaching a truly
searching person, someone who truly wanted to find, could accept. But
he who had found, he could approve of any teachings, every path, every
goal, there was nothing standing between him and all the other thousand
any more who lived in that what is eternal, who breathed what is
divine.
On one of these days, when so many went on a pilgrimage to the dying
Buddha, Kamala also went to him, who used to be the most beautiful of
the courtesans. A long time ago, she had retired from her previous
life, had given her garden to the monks of Gotama as a gift, had taken
her refuge in the teachings, was among the friends and benefactors of
the pilgrims. Together with Siddhartha the boy, her son, she had gone
on her way due to the news of the near death of Gotama, in simple
clothes, on foot. With her little son, she was travelling by the river;
but the boy had soon grown tired, desired to go back home, desired to
rest, desired to eat, became disobedient and started whining.
Kamala often had to take a rest with him, he was accustomed to having
his way against her, she had to feed him, had to comfort him, had to
scold him. He did not comprehend why he had to go on this exhausting
and sad pilgrimage with his mother, to an unknown place, to a stranger,
who was holy and about to die. So what if he died, how did this concern
the boy?
The pilgrims were getting close to Vasudeva’s ferry, when little
Siddhartha once again forced his mother to rest. She, Kamala herself,
had also become tired, and while the boy was chewing a banana, she
crouched down on the ground, closed her eyes a bit, and rested. But
suddenly, she uttered a wailing scream, the boy looked at her in fear
and saw her face having grown pale from horror; and from under her
dress, a small, black snake fled, by which Kamala had been bitten.
Hurriedly, they now both ran along the path, in order to reach people,
and got near to the ferry, there Kamala collapsed, and was not able to
go any further. But the boy started crying miserably, only interrupting
it to kiss and hug his mother, and she also joined his loud screams for
help, until the sound reached Vasudeva’s ears, who stood at the ferry.
Quickly, he came walking, took the woman on his arms, carried her into
the boat, the boy ran along, and soon they all reached the hut, where
Siddhartha stood by the stove and was just lighting the fire. He looked
up and first saw the boy’s face, which wondrously reminded him of
something, like a warning to remember something he had forgotten. Then
he saw Kamala, whom he instantly recognised, though she lay unconscious
in the ferryman’s arms, and now he knew that it was his own son, whose
face had been such a warning reminder to him, and the heart stirred in
his chest.
Kamala’s wound was washed, but had already turned black and her body
was swollen, she was made to drink a healing potion. Her consciousness
returned, she lay on Siddhartha’s bed in the hut and bent over her
stood Siddhartha, who used to love her so much. It seemed like a dream
to her; with a smile, she looked at her friend’s face; just slowly she,
realized her situation, remembered the bite, called timidly for the
boy.
“He’s with you, don’t worry,” said Siddhartha.
Kamala looked into his eyes. She spoke with a heavy tongue, paralysed
by the poison. “You’ve become old, my dear,” she said, “you’ve become
gray. But you are like the young Samana, who at one time came without
clothes, with dusty feet, to me into the garden. You are much more like
him than you were like him at that time when you had left me and
Kamaswami. In the eyes, you’re like him, Siddhartha. Alas, I have also
grown old, old—could you still recognise me?”
Siddhartha smiled: “Instantly, I recognised you, Kamala, my dear.”
Kamala pointed to her boy and said: “Did you recognise him as well? He
is your son.”
Her eyes became confused and fell shut. The boy wept, Siddhartha took
him on his knees, let him weep, petted his hair, and at the sight of
the child’s face, a Brahman prayer came to his mind, which he had
learned a long time ago, when he had been a little boy himself. Slowly,
with a singing voice, he started to speak; from his past and childhood,
the words came flowing to him. And with that singsong, the boy became
calm, was only now and then uttering a sob and fell asleep. Siddhartha
placed him on Vasudeva’s bed. Vasudeva stood by the stove and cooked
rice. Siddhartha gave him a look, which he returned with a smile.
“She’ll die,” Siddhartha said quietly.
Vasudeva nodded; over his friendly face ran the light of the stove’s
fire.
Once again, Kamala returned to consciousness. Pain distorted her face,
Siddhartha’s eyes read the suffering on her mouth, on her pale cheeks.
Quietly, he read it, attentively, waiting, his mind becoming one with
her suffering. Kamala felt it, her gaze sought his eyes.
Looking at him, she said: “Now I see that your eyes have changed as
well. They’ve become completely different. By what do I still recognise
that you’re Siddhartha? It’s you, and it’s not you.”
Siddhartha said nothing, quietly his eyes looked at hers.
“You have achieved it?” she asked. “You have found peace?”
He smiled and placed his hand on hers.
“I’m seeing it,” she said, “I’m seeing it. I too will find peace.”
“You have found it,” Siddhartha spoke in a whisper.
Kamala never stopped looking into his eyes. She thought about her
pilgrimage to Gotama, which she wanted to take, in order to see the
face of the perfected one, to breathe his peace, and she thought that
she had now found him in his place, and that it was good, just as good,
as if she had seen the other one. She wanted to tell this to him, but
the tongue no longer obeyed her will. Without speaking, she looked at
him, and he saw the life fading from her eyes. When the final pain
filled her eyes and made them grow dim, when the final shiver ran
through her limbs, his finger closed her eyelids.
For a long time, he sat and looked at her peacefully dead face. For a
long time, he observed her mouth, her old, tired mouth, with those
lips, which had become thin, and he remembered, that he used to, in the
spring of his years, compare this mouth with a freshly cracked fig. For
a long time, he sat, read in the pale face, in the tired wrinkles,
filled himself with this sight, saw his own face lying in the same
manner, just as white, just as quenched out, and saw at the same time
his face and hers being young, with red lips, with fiery eyes, and the
feeling of this both being present and at the same time real, the
feeling of eternity, completely filled every aspect of his being.
Deeply he felt, more deeply than ever before, in this hour, the
indestructibility of every life, the eternity of every moment.
When he rose, Vasudeva had prepared rice for him. But Siddhartha did
not eat. In the stable, where their goat stood, the two old men
prepared beds of straw for themselves, and Vasudeva lay himself down to
sleep. But Siddhartha went outside and sat this night before the hut,
listening to the river, surrounded by the past, touched and encircled
by all times of his life at the same time. But occasionally, he rose,
stepped to the door of the hut and listened, whether the boy was
sleeping.
Early in the morning, even before the sun could be seen, Vasudeva came
out of the stable and walked over to his friend.
“You haven’t slept,” he said.
“No, Vasudeva. I sat here, I was listening to the river. A lot it has
told me, deeply it has filled me with the healing thought, with the
thought of oneness.”
“You’ve experienced suffering, Siddhartha, but I see: no sadness has
entered your heart.”
“No, my dear, how should I be sad? I, who have been rich and happy,
have become even richer and happier now. My son has been given to me.”
“Your son shall be welcome to me as well. But now, Siddhartha, let’s
get to work, there is much to be done. Kamala has died on the same bed
on which my wife had died a long time ago. Let us also build Kamala’s
funeral pile on the same hill on which I had then built my wife’s
funeral pile.”
While the boy was still asleep, they built the funeral pile.
THE SON
Timid and weeping, the boy had attended his mother’s funeral; gloomy
and shy, he had listened to Siddhartha, who greeted him as his son and
welcomed him at his place in Vasudeva’s hut. Pale, he sat for many days