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Title: Siddhartha

Author: Herman Hesse

Translator: Gunther Olesch, Anke Dreher, Amy Coulter, Stefan Langer and Semyon Chaichenets

Release Date: April 6, 2008 [EBook #2500]
Last updated: July 2, 2011
Last updated: January 23, 2013

Language: English


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Produced by Michael Pullen, Chandra Yenco, Isaac Jones





SIDDHARTHA

An Indian Tale

by Hermann Hesse





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 father's 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 mother's 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 Siddhartha's 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, everyone's 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
spirit's thirst, they did not relieve the fear in his heart. The
sacrifices and the invocation of the gods were excellent--but 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 one's 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 much--but 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 one's own self, it had to be
possessed! Everything else was searching, was a detour, was getting
lost.

Thus were Siddhartha's 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 satyam--verily, 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, let's 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 arrow's 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 evening's ablution.
He called Siddhartha's 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 Siddhartha's 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 Govinda's soul, read the fear, read the submission.

"O Govinda," he spoke quietly, "let's 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 night's 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 it'll 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 Siddhartha's 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 Siddhartha's shoulder.

"You will," he spoke, "go into the forest and be a Samana. When
you'll have found blissfulness in the forest, then come back and teach
me to be blissful. If you'll 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 pilgrim--Govinda.

"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 and--obedience. 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 children--and 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 heard, 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 if the Samanas, Siddhartha practised
self-denial, practised meditation, according to a new Samana rules.
A heron flew over the bamboo forest--and Siddhartha accepted the heron
into his soul, flew over forest and mountains, was a heron, ate fish,
felt the pangs of a heron's hunger, spoke the heron's croak, died a
heron's death. A dead jackal was lying on the sandy bank, and
Siddhartha's 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 Siddhartha's 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 we'll continue learning.
You'll be a great Samana, Siddhartha. Quickly, you've learned every
exercise, often the old Samanas have admired you. One day, you'll be
a holy man, oh Siddhartha. "

Quoth Siddhartha: "I can't help but feel that it is not like this, my
friend. What I've 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 one's body? What is fasting? What is
holding one's 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 won't feel his self any more, then he won't 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, he'll 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. It's true that
a drinker numbs his senses, it's true that he briefly escapes and rests,
but he'll 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, I've 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 mother's 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?
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 one's own self, it had to be
possessed! Everything else was searching, was a detour, was getting
lost.

Thus were Siddhartha's 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 satyam--verily, 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, let's 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 arrow's 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 evening's ablution.
He called Siddhartha's 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 Siddhartha's 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 Govinda's soul, read the fear, read the submission.

"O Govinda," he spoke quietly, "let's 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 night's 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 it'll 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 Siddhartha's 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 Siddhartha's shoulder.

"You will," he spoke, "go into the forest and be a Samana. When
you'll have found blissfulness in the forest, then come back and teach
me to be blissful. If you'll 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 pilgrim--Govinda.

"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 and--obedience. 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 children--and 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 heard, 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 if the Samanas, Siddhartha practised
self-denial, practised meditation, according to a new Samana rules.
A heron flew over the bamboo forest--and Siddhartha accepted the heron
into his soul, flew over forest and mountains, was a heron, ate fish,
felt the pangs of a heron's hunger, spoke the heron's croak, died a
heron's death. A dead jackal was lying on the sandy bank, and
Siddhartha's 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 Siddhartha's 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 we'll continue learning.
You'll be a great Samana, Siddhartha. Quickly, you've learned every
exercise, often the old Samanas have admired you. One day, you'll be
a holy man, oh Siddhartha. "

Quoth Siddhartha: "I can't help but feel that it is not like this, my
friend. What I've 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 one's body? What is fasting? What is
holding one's 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 won't feel his self any more, then he won't 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, he'll 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. It's true that
a drinker numbs his senses, it's true that he briefly escapes and rests,
but he'll 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, I've 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 mother's 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. He'll 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 won't and we won't. 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, "wouldn't 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. I'm 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 I'm
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 fragrants 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 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 bear--and
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.