Siddhartha (10 page)

His mood black, Siddhartha betook himself to a pleasure garden that belonged to him, locked the gate, and sat down beneath a mango tree, feeling death in his heart and horror in his breast; sitting there, he felt himself dying inside, withering inside, coming to an end. Eventually he collected his thoughts and in his mind retraced his steps along the entire path of his life, from the first days he could remember. Had he ever experienced happiness, felt true bliss? Oh, yes, he had, several times. He had tasted happiness in the years of his boyhood, when he had succeeded in winning the praise of the Brahmins by excelling, far beyond all others of his age, at reciting the holy verses, debating with the learned men, and assisting at
the sacrifices. He had felt then, in his heart, “A path lies before you to which you are called; the gods are waiting for you.” And again as a young man, when he had been whisked from the horde of his peers and swept aloft in pursuit of the ever-ascending goal of all thought, when he was struggling painfully to grasp the meaning of Brahman, when every shred of knowledge he attained only gave rise to new thirst within him—then too he had felt it, amid all the thirst, amid all the pain: “Strive on! Strive on! You have a calling!” He had heard this voice when he left home and chose the life of a Samana, he had heard it again when he left the Samanas to seek out the Perfect One, and again when he had left Gautama to venture into the Unknown. How long had it been since he had last heard that voice, how long since he had ascended to new heights. How tedious and flat was the path he had been following these many long years, with no lofty goal, no thirst, no exaltation, years of contenting himself with small pleasures and yet never being satisfied! For all these years he had been longing and attempting, without being aware of it, to become like these many people, these children, and all the while his life had been far more miserable and impoverished than theirs, for their goals were not his, nor their worries; this entire world of Kamaswami people had been a mere game to him, a dance he was observing, a comedy. Only Kamala had been dear to him, only she was of value—but was she still? Did he still need her, or she him? Were they not playing a game that had no end? Was it necessary to live for
that
? No, it was not necessary! This game was called Sansara, a game for children, a game to be played sweetly perhaps, once, twice, ten times—but again and again?

Siddhartha realized that the game was over; he could no longer play it. A shudder coursed through his body; within him, he felt, something had died.

That entire day he sat beneath the mango tree thinking of
his father, thinking of Govinda, thinking of Gautama. Had he had to leave them all behind to become a Kamaswami? He was still sitting there when night arrived. Glancing up and seeing the stars, he thought, Here I am sitting beneath my mango tree in my pleasure garden. He smiled a little—was it necessary, was it fitting, was it not rather a foolish game that he owned a mango tree, that he owned a garden?

This too he now brought to a close; this too died within him. He stood up, took leave of the mango tree, took leave of the pleasure garden. As he had eaten no food that day, he felt intense hunger and thought of his house in town, his bedchamber and bed, the table covered with food. With a weary smile, he shook himself and took leave of these things.

The very same hour that night, Siddhartha left his garden, left the city, and never returned. It was a long time before Kamaswami stopped sending out servants to look for him, for he believed Siddhartha had fallen into the hands of robbers. Kamala sent no one. When she learned that Siddhartha had vanished, she felt no surprise. Had she not always been expecting this? Was he not a Samana, a pilgrim, bound to no home? She had felt this more strongly than ever the last time they had been together, and despite the pain of her loss she felt glad that she had pressed him to her breast with such ardor that last time, that she had felt, one last time, so utterly possessed by him, permeated by him.

When she first received word of Siddhartha’s disappearance, she went to the window, where she had been keeping a rare songbird imprisoned in a golden cage. She opened the door of the cage, took the bird out, and let it fly away. For a long time she gazed after it, the flying bird. From that day on she received no more visitors and kept her house closed. Soon afterward it became apparent that her last encounter with Siddhartha had left her pregnant.

Siddhartha wandered through the forest, already quite far from the city, knowing only this: He could never go back again. The life he had been living these many years was now over and done with; he had drunk it to the lees, sucked the last drops, filled himself with nausea. Dead was the songbird from his dream. Dead was the bird within his heart. He was deeply enmeshed in Sansara, had absorbed nausea and death from all sides the way a sponge soaks up water till it is full. He was filled with antipathy, filled with misery, filled with death; there was nothing left in the world that could tempt him, console him, give him pleasure.

He longed to be rid of himself, to find peace, to be dead. If only a bolt of lightning would strike him down! If only a tiger would devour him! If only there were a wine, a poison, that would numb him, bring him oblivion and sleep, and no more awakenings! Was there any sort of filth with which he had not yet defiled himself, any sin or folly he had not committed, any barrenness of soul he had not brought upon himself? Was it still possible to live? Was it possible to continue, over and over again, to draw breath, to exhale, to feel hunger, to eat again, to
sleep again, to lie again beside a woman? Had not this cycle been exhausted for him, concluded?

Siddhartha came to the great river that ran through the forest, the same river across which a ferryman had once transported him in the days of his youth, when he was just leaving Gautama’s town. Beside this river he now stopped and remained standing hesitantly upon its bank. Weariness and hunger had made him weak. What reason did he have to continue walking—walking where, and with what goal? No, there were no more goals; all that was left was a deep painful longing to shake off this whole mad dream, to spit out this stale wine, to put an end to this pitiful, shameful existence.

Above the riverbank, a tree grew aslant, a coconut palm, and against its trunk Siddhartha rested his shoulder, placing his arm around the tree and gazing down into the green water that flowed on and on beneath him, gazed down and found himself utterly overwhelmed by the desire to let go and sink beneath its surface. A terrible emptiness was reflected back at him from beneath the water, which found its reply in the awful emptiness within his soul. He had reached an impasse. All that was left for him to do was annihilate himself, smash to pieces the botched structure of his life, throw it away, hurl it at the feet of the mocking gods. This was the great purging he had longed for: death, the smashing of the form he so despised! Let the fish devour him, this dog Siddhartha, this madman, this spoiled and rotten body, this sagging and abused soul! Let the fish and the crocodiles devour him, let demons tear him to pieces!

With a grimace, he peered into the water, saw his face mirrored there, and spit at it. Feeling profound weariness, he released his arm from around the tree trunk and rotated his body a little so as to let himself fall vertically, sink at last into the depths. With closed eyes, he sank toward death.

Then, from distant reaches of his soul, from bygone realms
of his weary life, a sound fluttered. It was a word, a syllable that he now spoke aloud, mindlessly, his voice a babble, the first and final word of every Brahmin prayer, the holy
Om
that meant
the perfect ox perfection
. And the moment the sound
Om
touched Siddhartha’s ear, his slumbering spirit suddenly awoke and recognized the foolishness of his actions.

Siddhartha was deeply shaken. This, then, was how things stood with him. He was so lost, so befuddled and bereft of knowledge as to have been capable of wanting to die, of letting this wish, this childish wish, grow large inside him: the wish to find peace by annihilating his body! All the torments of the last months, all the disillusionment, all the despair had been unable to achieve this thing that had been accomplished in the single moment when the
Om
pierced his consciousness: his recognizing himself in his misery and folly.

“Om,”he
said aloud.
“Om!” And
he had knowledge of Brahman, had knowledge of the indestructibility of life, had knowledge of all things divine that he had forgotten.

But all this was only a moment, a flash. Siddhartha sank down at the foot of the coconut palm, laid his head upon the root of the tree, and fell into a deep slumber.

Deep was his sleep and free of dreams; it had been a long time since he had known such sleep. When he awoke some hours later, it seemed to him as if ten years had passed. He heard the water quietly flowing, didn’t know where he was or who had brought him, opened his eyes, was astonished to see trees and sky above him—and then remembered where he was and how he had come here. But it took him quite a while to do this, and the past appeared to him as if concealed behind a veil, infinitely distant, infinitely removed from him, infinitely indifferent. He knew only that his former life—in his first moment of new awareness, this former life appeared to him like a previous incarnation from the distant past, an early embodiment of his present Self—his former life had been left
behind, that he had even wanted to throw away his life in his nausea and misery, but that he had regained consciousness beneath a coconut palm with the holy word
Om
upon his lips; he had then fallen asleep, and now, having awoken, he beheld the world as a new man. Murmuring to himself the word
Om
, over which he had fallen asleep, he felt as if this entire sleep had been nothing but a long deeply engrossed chanting of
Om
, an
Om
-thinking, a plunging into and complete immersion in
Om
, in the Nameless, the Perfect.

What a wonderful sleep it had been! Never had a sleep so refreshed him, so renewed him, so rejuvenated him! Could it be that he had really died, perished, and been reborn in a new shape? But no, he recognized himself, recognized his hand and his feet, recognized the place where he lay, recognized this ego within his breast, this obstinate, strange creature Siddhartha; but this Siddhartha was nonetheless transformed, was renewed, was oddly well rested, oddly awake, joyful, and filled with curiosity.

When Siddhartha sat up, he saw a man seated across from him, a stranger, a monk dressed in a yellow robe with a shaved head, sitting in the pose used for contemplation. He regarded this man, who had neither hair on his head nor a beard, and he had not looked at him for long before he recognized this monk as Govinda, the friend of his youth, Govinda who had taken his refuge with the sublime Buddha. Govinda too had aged, but still his face displayed the same features as before: They spoke of eagerness, of fidelity, of searching, of apprehension. But when Govinda, feeling his gaze, raised his eyes to look at him, Siddhartha saw that Govinda did not recognize him. Govinda was pleased to find him awake; apparently he had been sitting here a long time waiting for him to awaken although he did not know him.

“I was asleep,” Siddhartha said. “How did you get here?”

“You were asleep,” Govinda replied. “It is not good to sleep
in such places where there are often snakes and the creatures of the forest have their paths. I, master, am a disciple of the sublime Gautama, the Buddha, the Sakyamuni, and was on a pilgrimage along this path with others of our order when I saw you lying asleep in a place where it is dangerous to sleep. For this reason I attempted to rouse you, master, and when I saw that your sleep was very sound, I remained behind to sit with you. And then, it appears, I myself fell asleep—I who had intended to watch over you. I have performed my duties poorly; weariness overcame me. But now that you are awake, let me go, that I might catch up with my brothers.”

“I thank you, Samana, for guarding my sleep,” Siddhartha said. “You disciples of the Sublime One are most kind. Now you may go.”

“I will go, master. May you always find yourself well.”

“I thank you, Samana.”

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

“Farewell, Govinda,” said Siddhartha.

The monk stopped short.

“Forgive me, master. How do you know my name?”

Siddhartha smiled. “I know you, Govinda, from your father’s hut, and from the Brahmin school, and from the sacrifices, and from our journey to the Samanas, and from that hour in the grove of Jetavana when you took your refuge with the Sublime One.”

“You are Siddhartha!” Govinda cried out. “Now I recognize you; I cannot understand how I could have failed to recognize you before. Welcome, Siddhartha. Great is my joy at seeing you once more.”

“I too am joyful at seeing you. You were the guardian of my sleep; again I thank you for this, although I was in no need of a guardian. Where are you going, my friend?”

“I am going nowhere. We monks are always journeying so
long as it is not monsoon season; constantly we travel from one place to another, living according to the rules; we preach the doctrine, accept alms, and go on. Always it is so. But you, Siddhartha, where are you going?”

Siddhartha said, “It is just the same with me as with you, my friend. I am going nowhere. I am merely journeying, I am on a pilgrimage.”

Govinda said, “You say you are a pilgrim, and I believe you. But forgive me, Siddhartha; a pilgrim does not look as you do. You wear the clothes of a rich man, you wear the shoes of an elegant gentleman, and your hair smells of scented water; it is not the hair of a pilgrim, not the hair of a Samana.”

“Indeed, dear friend, you have observed all this well; your keen eye misses nothing. But I did not say to you that I was a Samana. I said I am on a pilgrimage—and, indeed, I am a pilgrim.”

“You are a pilgrim,” Govinda said. “But few men embark on pilgrimages wearing such clothes, with such shoes, with such hair. Never, in all my years of pilgrimage, have I encountered such a pilgrim as you.”