Siddhartha
by the hill of the dead, did not want to eat, gave no open look, did
not open his heart, met his fate with resistance and denial.
Siddhartha spared him and let him do as he pleased, he honoured his
mourning. Siddhartha understood that his son did not know him, that he
could not love him like a father. Slowly, he also saw and understood
that the eleven-year-old was a pampered boy, a mother’s boy, and that
he had grown up in the habits of rich people, accustomed to finer food,
to a soft bed, accustomed to giving orders to servants. Siddhartha
understood that the mourning, pampered child could not suddenly and
willingly be content with a life among strangers and in poverty. He did
not force him, he did many a chore for him, always picked the best
piece of the meal for him. Slowly, he hoped to win him over, by
friendly patience.
Rich and happy, he had called himself, when the boy had come to him.
Since time had passed on in the meantime, and the boy remained a
stranger and in a gloomy disposition, since he displayed a proud and
stubbornly disobedient heart, did not want to do any work, did not pay
his respect to the old men, stole from Vasudeva’s fruit-trees, then
Siddhartha began to understand that his son had not brought him
happiness and peace, but suffering and worry. But he loved him, and he
preferred the suffering and worries of love over happiness and joy
without the boy. Since young Siddhartha was in the hut, the old men had
split the work. Vasudeva had again taken on the job of the ferryman all
by himself, and Siddhartha, in order to be with his son, did the work
in the hut and the field.
For a long time, for long months, Siddhartha waited for his son to
understand him, to accept his love, to perhaps reciprocate it. For long
months, Vasudeva waited, watching, waited and said nothing. One day,
when Siddhartha the younger had once again tormented his father very
much with spite and an unsteadiness in his wishes and had broken both
of his rice-bowls, Vasudeva took in the evening his friend aside and
talked to him.
“Pardon me,” he said, “from a friendly heart, I’m talking to you. I’m
seeing that you are tormenting yourself, I’m seeing that you’re in
grief. Your son, my dear, is worrying you, and he is also worrying me.
That young bird is accustomed to a different life, to a different nest.
He has not, like you, run away from riches and the city, being
disgusted and fed up with it; against his will, he had to leave all
this behind. I asked the river, oh friend, many times I have asked it.
But the river laughs, it laughs at me, it laughs at you and me, and is
shaking with laughter at our foolishness. Water wants to join water,
youth wants to join youth, your son is not in the place where he can
prosper. You too should ask the river; you too should listen to it!”
Troubled, Siddhartha looked into his friendly face, in the many
wrinkles of which there was incessant cheerfulness.
“How could I part with him?” he said quietly, ashamed. “Give me some
more time, my dear! See, I’m fighting for him, I’m seeking to win his
heart, with love and with friendly patience I intend to capture it. One
day, the river shall also talk to him, he also is called upon.”
Vasudeva’s smile flourished more warmly. “Oh yes, he too is called
upon, he too is of the eternal life. But do we, you and me, know what
he is called upon to do, what path to take, what actions to perform,
what pain to endure? Not a small one, his pain will be; after all, his
heart is proud and hard, people like this have to suffer a lot, err a
lot, do much injustice, burden themselves with much sin. Tell me, my
dear: you’re not taking control of your son’s upbringing? You don’t
force him? You don’t beat him? You don’t punish him?”
“No, Vasudeva, I don’t do anything of this.”
“I knew it. You don’t force him, don’t beat him, don’t give him orders,
because you know that ‘soft’ is stronger than ‘hard’, water stronger
than rocks, love stronger than force. Very good, I praise you. But
aren’t you mistaken in thinking that you wouldn’t force him, wouldn’t
punish him? Don’t you shackle him with your love? Don’t you make him
feel inferior every day, and don’t you make it even harder on him with
your kindness and patience? Don’t you force him, the arrogant and
pampered boy, to live in a hut with two old banana-eaters, to whom even
rice is a delicacy, whose thoughts can’t be his, whose hearts are old
and quiet and beat in a different pace than his? Isn’t he forced, isn’t
he punished by all this?”
Troubled, Siddhartha looked to the ground. Quietly, he asked: “What do
you think should I do?”
Quoth Vasudeva: “Bring him into the city, bring him into his mother’s
house, there’ll still be servants around, give him to them. And when
there aren’t any around any more, bring him to a teacher, not for the
teachings’ sake, but so that he shall be among other boys, and among
girls, and in the world which is his own. Have you never thought of
this?”
“You’re seeing into my heart,” Siddhartha spoke sadly. “Often, I have
thought of this. But look, how shall I put him, who had no tender heart
anyhow, into this world? Won’t he become exuberant, won’t he lose
himself to pleasure and power, won’t he repeat all of his father’s
mistakes, won’t he perhaps get entirely lost in Sansara?”
Brightly, the ferryman’s smile lit up; softly, he touched Siddhartha’s
arm and said: “Ask the river about it, my friend! Hear it laugh about
it! Would you actually believe that you had committed your foolish acts
in order to spare your son from committing them too? And could you in
any way protect your son from Sansara? How could you? By means of
teachings, prayer, admonition? My dear, have you entirely forgotten
that story, that story containing so many lessons, that story about
Siddhartha, a Brahman’s son, which you once told me here on this very
spot? Who has kept the Samana Siddhartha safe from Sansara, from sin,
from greed, from foolishness? Were his father’s religious devotion, his
teacher’s warnings, his own knowledge, his own search able to keep him
safe? Which father, which teacher had been able to protect him from
living his life for himself, from soiling himself with life, from
burdening himself with guilt, from drinking the bitter drink for
himself, from finding his path for himself? Would you think, my dear,
anybody might perhaps be spared from taking this path? That perhaps
your little son would be spared, because you love him, because you
would like to keep him from suffering and pain and disappointment? But
even if you would die ten times for him, you would not be able to take
the slightest part of his destiny upon yourself.”
Never before, Vasudeva had spoken so many words. Kindly, Siddhartha
thanked him, went troubled into the hut, could not sleep for a long
time. Vasudeva had told him nothing he had not already thought and
known for himself. But this was a knowledge he could not act upon,
stronger than the knowledge was his love for the boy, stronger was his
tenderness, his fear to lose him. Had he ever lost his heart so much to
something, had he ever loved any person thus, thus blindly, thus
sufferingly, thus unsuccessfully, and yet thus happily?
Siddhartha could not heed his friend’s advice, he could not give up the
boy. He let the boy give him orders, he let him disregard him. He said
nothing and waited; daily, he began the mute struggle of friendliness,
the silent war of patience. Vasudeva also said nothing and waited,
friendly, knowing, patient. They were both masters of patience.
At one time, when the boy’s face reminded him very much of Kamala,
Siddhartha suddenly had to think of a line which Kamala a long time
ago, in the days of their youth, had once said to him. “You cannot
love,” she had said to him, and he had agreed with her and had compared
himself with a star, while comparing the childlike people with falling
leaves, and nevertheless he had also sensed an accusation in that line.
Indeed, he had never been able to lose or devote himself completely to
another person, to forget himself, to commit foolish acts for the love
of another person; never he had been able to do this, and this was, as
it had seemed to him at that time, the great distinction which set him
apart from the childlike people. But now, since his son was here, now
he, Siddhartha, had also become completely a childlike person,
suffering for the sake of another person, loving another person, lost
to a love, having become a fool on account of love. Now he too felt,
late, once in his lifetime, this strongest and strangest of all
passions, suffered from it, suffered miserably, and was nevertheless in
bliss, was nevertheless renewed in one respect, enriched by one thing.
He did sense very well that this love, this blind love for his son, was
a passion, something very human, that it was Sansara, a murky source,
dark waters. Nevertheless, he felt at the same time, it was not
worthless, it was necessary, came from the essence of his own being.
This pleasure also had to be atoned for, this pain also had to be
endured, these foolish acts also had to be committed.
Through all this, the son let him commit his foolish acts, let him
court for his affection, let him humiliate himself every day by giving
in to his moods. This father had nothing which would have delighted him
and nothing which he would have feared. He was a good man, this father,
a good, kind, soft man, perhaps a very devout man, perhaps a saint, all
these were no attributes which could win the boy over. He was bored by
this father, who kept him prisoner here in this miserable hut of his,
he was bored by him, and for him to answer every naughtiness with a
smile, every insult with friendliness, every viciousness with kindness,
this very thing was the hated trick of this old sneak. Much more the
boy would have liked it if he had been threatened by him, if he had
been abused by him.
A day came when what young Siddhartha had on his mind came bursting
forth, and he openly turned against his father. The latter had given
him a task, he had told him to gather brushwood. But the boy did not
leave the hut, in stubborn disobedience and rage he stayed where he
was, thumped on the ground with his feet, clenched his fists, and
screamed in a powerful outburst his hatred and contempt into his
father’s face.
“Get the brushwood for yourself!” he shouted, foaming at the mouth, “I’m
not your servant. I do know that you won’t hit me, you don’t dare; I
do know that you constantly want to punish me and put me down with
your religious devotion and your indulgence. You want me to become like
you, just as devout, just as soft, just as wise! But I, listen up, just
to make you suffer, I rather want to become a highway-robber and
murderer, and go to hell, than to become like you! I hate you, you’re
not my father, and if you’ve ten times been my mother’s fornicator!”
Rage and grief boiled over in him, foamed at the father in a hundred
savage and evil words. Then the boy ran away and only returned late at
night.
But the next morning, he had disappeared. What had also disappeared was
a small basket, woven out of bast of two colours, in which the ferrymen
kept those copper and silver coins which they received as a fare. The
boat had also disappeared, Siddhartha saw it lying by the opposite
bank. The boy had run away.
“I must follow him,” said Siddhartha, who had been shivering with grief
since those ranting speeches the boy had made yesterday. “A child
can’t go through the forest all alone. He’ll perish. We must build a
raft, Vasudeva, to get over the water.”
“We will build a raft,” said Vasudeva, “to get our boat back, which the
boy has taken away. But him, you shall let run along, my friend, he is