**Siddhartha's Early Life: A Promising Beginning** Imagine a young man named Siddhartha, living in a prosperous village in ancient India. He's the son of a Brahman, which is a pretty important position – the highest caste in society, associated with priests, scholars, and spiritual learning. Siddhartha grew up in a lovely setting, surrounded by nature – the shade of the house, the riverbank, Sal-wood forests, and fig trees. He was a handsome young fellow, often compared to a "young falcon". Life for a Brahman boy like Siddhartha involved a lot of learning and religious practice. He spent time bathing in the river for sacred purification, performing offerings, and receiving teachings from his father, who was a respected scholar. He learned from wise men, practiced debating with his friend Govinda, and honed his skills in reflection and meditation. He even knew how to silently speak the holy word "Om" within himself, focusing his entire soul. This kind of intensive spiritual training allowed him to feel the Atman – the indestructible, eternal core of his being, which he understood as one with the universe. Siddhartha was, by all accounts, a golden child. His father was filled with joy, seeing him grow into a potentially great wise man and priest. His mother was blissful just watching him. And the young women of the Brahman community? They were smitten when he walked by, noting his "luminous forehead" and "eye of a king". But the person who loved him most was his friend, Govinda. Govinda admired everything about Siddhartha – his appearance, his voice, his movements, but most of all, his spirit. Govinda saw Siddhartha as destined for greatness, someone who would rise far above ordinary Brahmans. He wanted nothing more than to follow Siddhartha, to be his companion and servant, like a shadow. Siddhartha was, in essence, loved by everyone and a source of joy for them. **The Seeds of Discontent: Something Was Missing** Despite all this love, learning, and privilege, Siddhartha wasn't happy. He didn't find joy or delight _within himself_. Restless thoughts and dreams constantly occupied his mind, stirred by everything around him – the river, the stars, the sun, even the very sacrifices and teachings he participated in. He began to feel that the love from his family and Govinda, while real, wouldn't be enough to satisfy him forever. More significantly, he started questioning the core of his upbringing: the wisdom of his venerable father and teachers, the Brahmans. He felt they had given him their best, filled his "expecting vessel" with their knowledge, but it wasn't full; his spirit wasn't content, his soul wasn't calm, and his heart wasn't satisfied. He pondered whether traditional practices like ablutions (washings) truly cleansed sin or healed spiritual thirst. Were offerings to the gods enough? He questioned the very nature of the gods, wondering if they weren't just creations themselves, subject to time, unlike the ultimate Atman. If Atman was the true reality, the one and only, where was it to be found? Not in flesh, bone, thought, or consciousness, the wise taught. So where? And was there a better way to reach this self, this ultimate core? Siddhartha felt nobody, not his father, not his teachers, not even the holy scriptures, could show him this way. The Brahmans knew so much about the world's creation, speech, breath, the senses, the gods' actions – an infinite amount of knowledge. But was all that knowledge _valuable_ if they didn't know the _one_ most important thing: how to truly find and live from the Atman within? He saw his own father, as venerable and pure as he was, still searching, still needing to drink from holy sources, still washing off sins daily. Wasn't the pristine source of Atman _within_? It had to be found and possessed. Everything else felt like searching, detours, or getting lost. This deep questioning, this thirst for a different kind of understanding, was the source of Siddhartha's suffering. He would recite verses from the Upanishads about the Brahman's name being truth and the heavenly world, but he never felt he fully reached it or quenched his deepest thirst. Among all the wise men he knew, none seemed to have fully reached that heavenly world or quenched the eternal thirst. This profound inner lack, despite outward appearances of success and devotion, set the stage for his first major departure. **The Call of the Samanas: Seeking Through Self-Denial** One day, a group of Samanas, ascetic pilgrims, passed through Siddhartha's town. They were thin, withered, almost naked, scorched by the sun, looking like strangers to the world. They embodied a "hot scent of quiet passion, of destructive service, of merciless self-denial". Something about their path resonated with Siddhartha's growing discontent. After contemplation, Siddhartha announced his decision to Govinda: he would join the Samanas the next morning. Despite Govinda's initial surprise, Siddhartha was resolute. He approached his father with folded arms, standing silently until acknowledged. He stated his longing to leave and become a Samana, asking for his father's permission. His father was indignant and retired to bed. But Siddhartha remained standing there, motionless, all night, his resolve unwavering. His father repeatedly checked on him, filled with anxiety and sadness, seeing his son like a stranger. Through this silent vigil, Siddhartha demonstrated his absolute will. He stated he would stand there until morning, noon, and evening, even until he died, if that's what it took. When asked if he'd rather die than obey, he simply stated he had always obeyed his father. Recognizing Siddhartha's unshakeable determination, his father finally conceded. He told Siddhartha to go into the forest, find bliss, and return to teach him, or if he found disappointment, to return and they would resume their traditional life. Siddhartha bowed, kissed his mother goodbye as instructed, and left. As he departed the quiet town at dawn, Govinda emerged from hiding and joined him. Govinda, true to his word, was following his friend. Life with the Samanas was a stark contrast to Siddhartha's comfortable upbringing. They were accepted by the ascetics. Siddhartha gave away his fine clothes, wearing only a loincloth and a rough cloak. He embraced extreme asceticism: eating only once a day (and nothing cooked), fasting for long periods (fifteen or twenty-eight days), causing his body to waste away. His appearance changed dramatically – enlarged eyes, long nails, a dry beard. He cultivated disdain for the ordinary world, seeing people's activities (trading, hunting, loving, etc.) as meaningless and filled with lies and concealed decay. The world tasted bitter; life felt like torture. His goal was singular: to become empty. Empty of thirst, wishing, dreams, joy, and sorrow. To become dead to himself, to find tranquility in an emptied heart, to be open to miracles through unselfish thoughts. The idea was that once the self was overcome and desire silenced, the ultimate, innermost part of his being, the great secret, would awake. He practiced severe self-denial. He exposed himself to the burning sun until he felt no pain or thirst. He stood in the rain until he felt no cold. He crouched in thorny bushes, letting himself bleed and fester until the physical sensations ceased. He learned to breathe sparingly, to slow and even stop his heart. Under the oldest Samana's instruction, he practiced meditation, slipping out of his body, identifying with animals, carrion, stone, wood, water, experiencing their forms and deaths. He tasted the "gloomy intoxication of the cycle" of existence. He learned many ways to escape the self through pain, suffering, hunger, thirst, tiredness, and by making the mind void. He left his self a thousand times, remaining in the "non-self" for hours or days. But he found that no matter how far he went from the self, the path _always_ led back. Every time he escaped, he would eventually return to his old self, Siddhartha, and feel the agony of the cycle once more. **Doubts Creep In: Is This Path Enough?** Despite his dedicated practice, Siddhartha began to question the effectiveness of the Samana path. He confided in Govinda that what he had learned could have been learned more quickly and simply, even among the less respectable people in a town. Govinda was astonished, pointing out that meditation and insensitivity to pain couldn't be learned among gamblers and carters. But Siddhartha explained quietly that meditation, fasting, holding breath – these were just ways of fleeing the self, a brief escape from the agony and pointlessness of life. He compared it to an ox-cart driver drinking rice-wine in a tavern to numb his senses and escape life's pains. The drinker, falling asleep, finds the same temporary numbing that Siddhartha and Govinda find through their exercises. Govinda argued that the Samana's escape, unlike the drunkard's, leads to greater wisdom and enlightenment, not just delusion. But Siddhartha, with a sad smile, stated that he knew he was only finding a short numbing and was just as far from wisdom and salvation as a child in the womb. He voiced his doubts more directly to Govinda: Were they on the right path? Were they getting closer to enlightenment or salvation? Or were they just going in circles, believing they were escaping the cycle? Govinda, ever the faithful follower, believed they were ascending, moving up a spiral. But Siddhartha's faith was waning. He couldn't shake the feeling that among all the learned, austere, and holy searchers, no one seemed to have found "the path of paths". He expressed a growing distrust in teachings and learning itself. He had asked the Brahmans, the Vedas, the Samanas, year after year, and now felt it might have been just as effective to ask a bird or a monkey. His growing realization was that there might be "nothing to be learned". He believed there is only one knowledge, Atman, which is everywhere and within everyone. He was starting to believe that the desire _to know_ this knowledge, the act of _learning_, was its greatest enemy. Govinda, clinging to tradition, mumbled a verse about the bliss of meditating on Atman. But Siddhartha remained silent, pondering whether anything they considered holy could truly stand the test. **The Buddha: Encountering Perfection** News of Gotama, the Buddha, began to spread like a plague, a fragrant myth promising healing and enlightenment. Stories varied: he was the enlightened one, remembered past lives, reached Nirvana, performed miracles. Others claimed he was a seducer, lived in luxury, scorned tradition, and lacked learning. This myth reached the Samanas, bringing both hope and doubt. The oldest Samana disliked the stories, believing Gotama had abandoned asceticism for pleasure. Govinda, however, was deeply moved by the accounts. He heard from someone who had seen and heard the Buddha teach and felt a strong desire to go and listen. He expressed this longing to Siddhartha, who gently highlighted Govinda's decision to take a new path, choosing it for himself after always following. Govinda pointed out Siddhartha's own earlier statement about not staying with the Samanas much longer. With his characteristic sad and mocking smile, Siddhartha agreed to go, acknowledging Govinda's correct memory. Yet, he reiterated his distrust of teachings and teachers, stating that his faith in words from teachers was small. He believed they might have already tasted the "best fruit" of the Buddha's teachings simply by being called away from the Samanas. They found the Buddha, Gotama, walking towards a town to collect alms. Siddhartha recognized him instantly, feeling as if a god had pointed him out. Govinda saw him too, despite him appearing like any other monk. They followed him, observing him. The Buddha walked with immense peace, perfection, and calm, his face showing neither happiness nor sadness, but a quiet, inward smile. Everything about him, down to the movement of his fingers, expressed peace and untouchable calm. There was no searching, no desire, no imitation, no effort to be seen in him, only light and peace. Govinda eagerly anticipated hearing the teachings. Siddhartha, however, felt little curiosity for the teachings themselves, not believing they would teach him anything new. He had already heard summaries of them second or third hand. But he observed Gotama with deep veneration and love, more than he had ever felt for anyone. It seemed to him that the truth wasn't just in the Buddha's words, but in his very being, his every gesture. This man was holy, truthful down to his last finger. **The Departure from Teachings: Charting His Own Course** After the Buddha retired, Govinda, having heard the teachings and taken refuge in them, urged Siddhartha to do the same. Siddhartha, as if waking from sleep, looked at Govinda and acknowledged his friend's chosen path. He wished Govinda would go to the end of his chosen path and find salvation. Govinda, not fully understanding, pressed him, asking if he too would take refuge in the Buddha. Siddhartha gently repeated his wish for Govinda's salvation. In that moment, Govinda realized Siddhartha was leaving him. Weeping, Govinda lamented. Siddhartha reminded him that by joining the Buddha's followers, Govinda had renounced everything, including friendship, as the teachings required. Siddhartha stated he would leave the next day. Govinda continued to press Siddhartha, asking why he wouldn't take refuge in Gotama's teachings and what fault he found in them. Siddhartha consistently replied that the Buddha's teachings were very good and he found no fault in them. The next day, Siddhartha sought an audience with the Buddha. He explained he had heard the teachings, his friend had taken refuge, but he would continue his pilgrimage. Gotama politely acknowledged this. Siddhartha, emboldened, asked permission to share his thoughts honestly. He told Gotama he didn't doubt for a moment that he was the Buddha, the one who had reached the highest goal. But he believed Gotama's salvation didn't come through teachings, but through his _own_ search, path, meditation, and enlightenment. His core thought was that _nobody_ would obtain salvation by means of teachings. He argued that the Buddha could not convey the mystery of his enlightenment experience in words or teachings, as he alone had experienced it. While the teachings were excellent for teaching righteous living and avoiding evil, they lacked this fundamental mystery. This was why Siddhartha was continuing his journey – not to seek other teachings, but to depart from _all_ teachings and teachers and reach his goal by himself, or die trying. He promised to remember Gotama, the holy man. Gotama responded by acknowledging Siddhartha's wisdom but cautioning him about "too much wisdom". He then bid him leave with a gesture. Gotama's glance and smile remained etched in Siddhartha's memory; he wished he could attain such freedom and peace. He felt Gotama was the only person before whom he would have to lower his glance and resolved not to lower it before any other. Siddhartha realized that while the Buddha had deprived him of his friend Govinda (who now followed Gotama), he had also given him something even greater: Siddhartha himself. **Awakening: The Path Within** Leaving the grove felt like leaving his past life behind. Siddhartha deeply pondered this sensation, diving into it like deep water to find its cause. He realized he was no longer a youth but a man, and something fundamental had left him, like a snake shedding its skin: the wish for teachers and teachings. He had left even the highest teacher, the Buddha, unable to accept his teachings. He asked himself what he had sought from teachers that they couldn't give. He found the answer: it was the _self_, its purpose and essence. He had tried to free himself from the self, to overcome it, but had only managed to deceive, flee, or hide from it. Nothing in the world had occupied his thoughts as much as his own self, this mystery of being alive, separate, and isolated. Yet, there was nothing he knew _less_ about than himself. Stopping on his walk, Siddhartha realized the reason for his ignorance about himself: fear and flight from himself. He had searched for Atman and Brahman, trying to dissect his self to find the core, but had lost himself in the process. In a moment of profound awakening, a smile filled his face, and a feeling of emergence from a long dream flowed through him. He took a deep breath and resolved never to let Siddhartha escape him again. He no longer wanted to start his thoughts with Atman or the world's suffering, or to dissect himself. He declared he would learn from _himself_, be his _own_ student, and get to know the secret of Siddhartha. He looked at the world as if for the first time, finding it beautiful, colorful, strange, and mysterious. The blue sky, the yellow earth, the green forest, the river – all entered him through his eyes, no longer seen as mere illusion (Mara's spell, Maya's veil) or a diversity to be scorned by the seeker of unity. He saw that the purpose and essence weren't hidden _behind_ things but were _in_ them, in everything. The divinity's purpose was to be here as yellow, there as blue, as sky, as forest, and as Siddhartha. As he walked, another realization struck him: he was like someone newly woken or a newborn baby, needing to start life completely anew. He had initially assumed he would return home to his father after years as an ascetic. But now he understood he was no longer an ascetic, a priest, or a Brahman. He was nothing but Siddhartha, the awoken one. He felt a coldness in his chest, the sudden awareness of how utterly alone he was. For years, he had been without a home but hadn't felt it; now he did. Previously, even in meditation, he had been his father's son, a Brahman, part of a caste. Now, he belonged nowhere. Unlike nobles, workers, Brahmans, or even hermits who belonged to their groups or places, Siddhartha was just Siddhartha. Govinda had found belonging among the Buddha's monks, with thousands of brothers. But Siddhartha was alone. Emerging from this moment of cold and despair, Siddhartha felt more himself, more firmly concentrated than ever. This was the last tremor of his awakening, the final struggle of his birth. He began walking again, swiftly and impatiently, heading nowhere known – not home, not to his father, not back. **Entering the World (Sansara): Learning from Experience** Now, Siddhartha was ready to engage with the world he had previously disdained. He felt a need to be among people. Passing by a beautiful pleasure-garden before a large city, he saw a woman, Kamala, being carried in an ornate sedan-chair. She was beautiful and elegant, with a fair, intelligent face, a red mouth like a fig, and smart, watchful eyes. The next day, he sought her out. He told her he was Siddhartha, a Brahman's son and former Samana, who had left that path and came to the city. He declared she was the first woman he had addressed directly, without looking down, and he never wanted to turn his eyes away from beauty again. He thanked her for her beauty and asked her to be his friend and teacher in the art she had mastered. Kamala found it amusing that a Samana, still dusty and without fine clothes or money, would come to her asking to learn. Siddhartha, however, insisted he was already learning from her. He had already begun changing his appearance. He declared that he had achieved much harder goals than obtaining clothes, shoes, and money and was sure he could achieve his goal of being her friend and learning the joys of love from her. He asked if she would be satisfied with him as he was, lacking worldly possessions. Kamala playfully tested him, asking why she shouldn't fear a "stupid Samana" from the forest. Siddhartha replied that he was strong and fearless, could force her, kidnap her, or hurt her. But Kamala countered, explaining that just as one cannot steal a Brahman's learning or devotion, one cannot steal love or the sweetness of her kiss against her will. One must obtain love by begging, buying, receiving it as a gift, or finding it. She advised him that seeking love through force was the wrong path. Siddhartha accepted this wisdom with a smile, agreeing it would be a pity to lose any sweetness. He promised to return once he had what he lacked: clothes, shoes, and money. He asked for one small piece of advice. Kamala discovered he could read and write, which she found very good and useful, even suggesting his old magic spells might still be helpful. Siddhartha found worldly life, at least initially, "simple" and presenting "no difficulties," unlike his toilsome and often hopeless life as a Samana. Getting clothes and money seemed like small, attainable goals. Kamala, true to her word, helped him find a position with Kamaswami, the city's richest merchant. She advised him to be smart, polite but not too modest, aiming to become Kamaswami's equal, not just a servant. She suggested Kamaswami, being old and lazy, might entrust him with a lot. Siddhartha, still without food or money, was given bread and fruit by Kamala. He thanked her, noting his luck. He reminded her of his skills learned as a Samana: thinking, waiting, and fasting, insisting they _were_ useful. He confidently stated that he had gone from a "shaggy beggar" to kissing Kamala yesterday and would soon be a merchant with money. He explained his approach to Kamala: like a rock thrown into water goes directly to the bottom, Siddhartha, with a goal, moves through the world without striving, drawn by his goal because he lets nothing oppose it. He attributed this skill to his time with the Samanas. He called this ability to think, wait, and fast a kind of "magic" that anyone can perform to reach their goals. Siddhartha met Kamaswami, a man with intelligent, cautious eyes and a greedy mouth. Kamaswami, hearing Siddhartha was a learned Brahman seeking service, assumed he was destitute. Siddhartha clarified he came from the Samanas and was without possessions voluntarily, not out of destitution. When asked what he had to give, what he had learned or could do, Siddhartha replied: "I can think. I can wait. I can fast." Kamaswami questioned the use of fasting, and Siddhartha explained it allowed him to wait calmly, without impatience or emergency, laughing at hunger, unlike someone forced by hunger to take any service. Kamaswami was impressed. Siddhartha's ability to read and write, and his insightful response written down ("Writing is good, thinking is better. Being smart is good, being patient is better."), secured him a place in the merchant's house. He received clothes, shoes, and servants, though he maintained some ascetic habits like eating only once a day and avoiding meat and wine. He learned the merchant's business but treated it like a game, never subservient, always pushing to be treated as an equal. Kamaswami observed that Siddhartha knew little about the specifics of trade but was fortunate, surpassing him in calmness, equanimity, listening, and understanding people. He saw that business never fully possessed Siddhartha; he wasn't afraid of failure or upset by loss. Even when Kamaswami gave him a share of profits and losses to make him more zealous, Siddhartha remained detached, accepting profits calmly and laughing at losses. He would even make apparently unprofitable trips but gain valuable experience meeting people, feeling satisfied with getting to know others rather than just doing business. Siddhartha recognized that he and Kamala were different from most people; they had an inner refuge, a peace within themselves. He compared most people to falling leaves blown by the wind, while a few, like stars, follow a fixed course determined by their inner law. He saw Gotama, the Buddha, as such a star, but noted that his followers, despite adhering to his teachings, were like falling leaves, lacking that inner law. **The Weariness of Sansara: Lost in the World** For a long time, Siddhartha lived fully in the world of pleasure and wealth, or _Sansara_. He experienced riches, lust, and power. Yet, in his heart, he remained a Samana for a long time, something Kamala rightly perceived. His skills of thinking, waiting, and fasting still guided him; the worldly "childlike people" remained alien to him. Years passed, almost unnoticed amidst the good life. He became wealthy, owned a house, servants, and a garden. People came to him for money or advice, but only Kamala was close. The bright state of inner awakening he had felt after leaving the Buddha slowly faded, becoming a distant memory. The "holy source" within him, which used to be near, now murmured quietly in the distance. While some of his Samana learnings remained (moderate living, joy of thinking, meditation), they were submerged and gathering dust. His soul's ascetic and thinking practices slowed, like a potter's wheel losing momentum. Slowly, like moisture rotting a tree, the world and "sloth" entered his soul, making it heavy, tired, and putting it to sleep. Conversely, his senses had become alive, experiencing much. His initial disdain for worldly people persisted for a while. He watched Kamaswami's worries and annoyances with mockery. But slowly, imperceptibly, his mockery tired, his superiority quieted. As his riches grew, he adopted some of the childlike people's ways, their childishness and fearfulness. Yet, he envied them for something he lacked: the importance they placed on their lives, the passion in their joys and fears, the sweet happiness of being constantly in love. They were in love with themselves, women, children, money, plans. He didn't learn this childlike joy or foolishness; instead, he learned the unpleasant aspects he despised. He became tired, impatient with Kamaswami, laughed too loud, and his face, though still intelligent, rarely laughed and began to show features of discontent, illness, ill-humour, sloth, and lack of love – the "disease of the soul, which rich people have". He had become captured by the world, lust, covetousness, sloth, and finally, greed – the vice he had most despised. Possessions became shackles, not trifles. He fell into a deep dependency through gambling, playing with increasing rage and passion. He gambled out of heart-pain, finding angry joy in wasting money, a mocking display of disdain for wealth. He played high stakes, hating and mocking himself, winning and losing fortunes. **Despair and the Return of Om: A Moment of Grace** A warning came in a dream after spending time with Kamala. She had spoken thoughtfully, revealing hidden sadness and tiredness. She asked about the Buddha and expressed a desire to follow him one day, perhaps giving him her garden. After, she had made love with him with "painful fervour, biting and in tears," as if squeezing the last drop from fleeting pleasure. It became strangely clear to Siddhartha how close lust was to death. Looking at Kamala's face afterwards, he saw signs of weariness, autumn, old age, and hidden anxiety – fear of decay and death, just as he noticed gray hairs in his own. He left her full of reluctance and concealed anxiety. Starting from this dream, deep sadness encompassed him. His life felt worthless and pointless; nothing living or worthwhile remained in his hands. He felt alone and empty. Going to his pleasure-garden, he sat under a tree, feeling death and horror in his heart, sensing everything in him dying and ending. He reviewed his life, searching for moments of true bliss. He recalled the joy of his youth, the feeling of being on a destined path. He recalled the intensity of his search as a young man, the voice telling him to "Go on!". He had heard this voice leaving home, leaving the Samanas, leaving the Buddha. How long had it been since he heard it? How long since he sought a high goal? His life had been dull, content with small pleasures yet never satisfied. He had tried to become like the "childlike people," but his life was poorer than theirs, their goals and worries not his. He reached the great river, the same one where the ferryman had taken him across years ago after leaving the Buddha. He stopped at the bank, weary, hungry, with nowhere to go. There were no more goals, only a deep yearning to end his life, to destroy the failure it had become. He wanted to drown, seeing a "frightening emptiness" reflected in the water, matching the emptiness in his soul. Death felt like the "great vomiting" he longed for, smashing the form he hated, becoming food for fishes. In that moment of despair, as he leaned against a coconut tree, the holy word "Om" entered his consciousness. He spoke it to himself, and with that single word, he was deeply shocked. He saw the depth of his fall, his error in seeking death, a childish wish. This moment of the Om's return brought the awareness of his misery and error, something all his recent agony hadn't achieved. Muttering "Om," Siddhartha collapsed and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep he hadn't known for a long time. When he awoke, it felt like ten years had passed. He didn't know where he was, but seeing the trees and sky, he gradually remembered. His past life felt infinitely distant, like a previous incarnation. He knew that life was abandoned, that he had wanted to throw it away, but had come to his senses by the river with the Om on his lips. He felt reborn, looking at the world as a new man. Quietly speaking "Om," he felt his sleep had been a long meditation on the word, a submersion into the nameless, the perfected. He felt completely refreshed and renewed, wondering if he had died and been reborn. But he knew it was still him, Siddhartha, transformed, strangely rested, awake, joyful, and curious. **The Ferryman's Wisdom: Learning from the River** Upon waking, he saw a man sitting opposite him, a monk in a yellow robe. He recognized the monk as Govinda, his childhood friend. Govinda had aged but retained his features of zeal and searching. Govinda, however, did not recognize Siddhartha. Siddhartha, wearing the clothes of his wealthy past, thanked the monk for watching over him and bid him farewell, still unrecognized. It was only when Siddhartha called him by name, "Farewell, Govinda," that the monk stopped, astonished. Siddhartha revealed he knew him from their shared past – his father's hut, school, the Samanas, and the hour Govinda took refuge with the Buddha. Govinda was amazed by how much Siddhartha had changed and revealed he was still searching. Siddhartha, with a smile from his old eyes, asked if Govinda called himself a searcher despite being old and wearing the Buddha's robe. He suggested that by searching too much, Govinda didn't find time _for finding_. Siddhartha explained that searching means having a goal, being obsessed by it, which makes one blind to what is right before their eyes. Finding, however, means being free, open, having no goal. Siddhartha reminded Govinda of the time he guarded his sleep by this very river years ago but didn't recognize him. Govinda, realizing it was indeed Siddhartha, was filled with love and astonishment, noting his friend had changed a lot and was now a ferryman. Siddhartha laughed, accepting the title, saying he was one of those who had to change a lot and wear many robes. He invited Govinda to stay. Govinda stayed and learned about Siddhartha's life since they parted. Before leaving the next morning, Govinda asked if Siddhartha had a teaching, a faith, or knowledge that helped him live. Siddhartha reiterated his distrust of teachers and teachings since youth. He said he had many teachers since then – a courtesan, a merchant, gamblers, even the travelling Buddha's follower who guarded his sleep. But most of all, he had learned from the river and the previous ferryman, Vasudeva, a simple man, no thinker, but who knew what was necessary just as well as Gotama, a perfect man, a saint. Govinda felt Siddhartha was still mocking him a bit. He pressed him again, asking if he had found insights of his own, even without following a teacher. Siddhartha agreed he had had thoughts and insights, moments of feeling knowledge like life in his heart, but they were hard to convey. He shared one: wisdom cannot be passed on. Wisdom, when a wise man tries to teach it, always sounds like foolishness. He demonstrated this by picking up a stone. He explained that in the past, he would have valued the stone only for its potential to become something else (soil, plant, human) in the cycle. But now, he loves and venerates it because it _already is_ everything – stone, animal, god, Buddha – simultaneously and always. He loves it for being exactly what it is now, a stone, with all its particular qualities – veins, cavities, color, hardness, sound, texture. He found each one special, praying "Om" in its own way. He concluded by saying words are not good for secret meanings; things get distorted or silly when put into words, but he finds even this okay. He likes that one man's treasure and wisdom often sound like foolishness to another. Govinda argued that Nirvana wasn't just a word but a thought. Siddhartha confessed he didn't differentiate much between thoughts and words and had a low opinion of thoughts. He had a better opinion of _things_. He spoke of Vasudeva, his predecessor, a holy man who simply believed in the river, learned from it, and it seemed like a god to him. Vasudeva didn't realize at first that every wind, cloud, bird, and beetle was just as divine and could teach just as much. But when Vasudeva went into the forests (implying his departure into ultimate oneness), he knew everything, more than Siddhartha and Govinda, without teachers or books, simply by believing in the river. Govinda questioned if these "things" were real or just illusions of Maya. Siddhartha replied he didn't care, because if things were illusions, he was too, making them like him, and that's why he could love them. He then stated something Govinda might laugh about: love, to him, was the most important thing of all. Great thinkers might understand, explain, or despise the world, but he was only interested in loving it, not hating it or himself, and looking upon everything with love, admiration, and respect. Govinda pointed out that the Buddha saw attachment to earthly things as a deception and commanded benevolence, sympathy, and tolerance, but not love in the sense of tying one's heart to things. Siddhartha, with a golden smile, acknowledged this seeming contradiction with Gotama's words but said it was a deception of words. He knew he was in agreement with Gotama. He felt Gotama, who saw the transience of existence, still loved people enough to spend his life helping them. Siddhartha preferred Gotama's actions and life over his speeches and opinions; his greatness was in his actions and life, not just his words. Govinda stared at Siddhartha's face, seeing the eternal search and not-finding. Siddhartha, smiling, asked Govinda to bend down and kiss his forehead. As Govinda obeyed, something miraculous happened. While struggling with Siddhartha's words about time, Nirvana, and Sansara being one, and feeling conflicting contempt and veneration for his friend's ideas, Govinda experienced a vision. The faces of countless beings – people, animals, gods – appeared and merged into Siddhartha's face. He saw thousands of faces, which yet were Siddhartha, who yet were Gotama, a hundred thousand forms merging into one. He saw faces of men, women, animals, all simultaneously Siddhartha and the Buddha, and as he saw this, the great Om sounded, meaning "perfection". At that moment, Govinda could no longer distinguish Siddhartha's smile from Gotama's, from the smiles of thousands of others, from the smiles of various forms, from the smile of the river, from the smile of oneness. This smile of oneness, covering all forms and faces, was the Om, was perfection. Govinda bowed low, tears flowing from his face, which could not ask any more questions. This experience seemed to bring Govinda his own form of enlightenment. **The Journey Continues: Oneness and the Flow of Life** Let's rewind slightly to Siddhartha's time with Vasudeva, because there are some beautiful things to explore there, particularly how he learned to integrate different aspects of life. Siddhartha learned to operate the ferry and work with Vasudeva in the fields. He was joyful learning practical skills. But he learned most from the river itself. The river taught him to listen – "to pay close attention with a quiet heart, with a waiting, opened soul, without passion, without a wish, without judgement, without an opinion". He and Vasudeva rarely spoke, and when they did, it was few words, deeply thought. Vasudeva wasn't a friend of words. Siddhartha once asked if Vasudeva learned the secret that there is no time from the river. Vasudeva's face filled with a bright smile, confirming that he meant the river is everywhere at once – source, mouth, waterfall, sea – and for it, there is only the present, no past or future. Siddhartha agreed, stating that when he learned this, he saw his own life as a river, where the boy, man, and old man Siddhartha were separated only by a shadow, not reality. His past births, death, and return to Brahma were not past or future; everything simply _is_, _has_ existence, and is present. He spoke of this insight with ecstasy, feeling that all suffering, fear, hostility in the world disappeared as soon as one overcame time. Vasudeva simply smiled, nodded, and returned to his work. Siddhartha often thought kindly of the Buddha during this time. He saw Gotama's path to perfection and remembered his own "proud and precocious" words to him with a smile. He knew there was nothing _between_ them anymore, even though he couldn't accept his teachings. He realized a truly searching person couldn't accept teachings, but one who _had found_ could approve of any teachings, any path, any goal, because there was nothing separating them from others living in the eternal. An important chapter in Siddhartha's life with Vasudeva involved the arrival of his son. Kamala, ill and journeying to see the Buddha, collapsed near the ferry with her son, who was also Siddhartha's. Siddhartha and Vasudeva found them. Kamala recognized Siddhartha, noting his changed eyes. She told him the boy was his son before she died. The eleven-year-old boy, pampered and accustomed to a rich life, was timid and weeping at his mother's funeral. He met Siddhartha, his father, as a stranger. He was resistant, stubborn, and disobedient, unused to manual labor or respecting the old men. He stole from Vasudeva's fruit trees. Siddhartha understood the boy couldn't easily adapt to poverty and life with strangers. He loved him and patiently tried to win him over, doing chores for him and giving him the best food. Siddhartha quickly realized his son brought him not happiness, but suffering and worry. Yet, he preferred the suffering of love to joy without the boy. To be with his son, Siddhartha took over more of the work in the hut and field, while Vasudeva resumed the ferryman duties. For months, Siddhartha waited for his son to accept his love, but the boy remained distant. Vasudeva watched silently, knowing and patient. One day, after the boy's spite had tormented Siddhartha, Vasudeva gently suggested bringing the boy back to the city, to his mother's house or a teacher, where he could be among his own kind. Siddhartha admitted he had thought of this but feared his son would get lost in Sansara, repeat his father's mistakes, and lose himself to pleasure and power. Vasudeva smiled brightly, touching Siddhartha's arm, and said: "Ask the river about it, my friend! Hear it laugh about it!" He questioned whether Siddhartha believed his own foolishness could spare his son from his path. Could Siddhartha protect his son from Sansara with teachings, prayer, or admonition? He reminded Siddhartha of his own story: his father's devotion, teachers' warnings, his own knowledge and search couldn't save him from living his life for himself, soiling himself with life, bearing guilt, drinking the bitter drink, and finding his own path. Could anyone be spared this path? Could Siddhartha's love protect his son from suffering, pain, and disappointment? Vasudeva concluded that even dying ten times for the boy wouldn't take away the slightest part of his destiny. Vasudeva had never spoken so many words. Siddhartha thanked him, troubled, knowing Vasudeva had spoken truth he already knew but couldn't act upon. His love, tenderness, and fear of losing the boy were stronger than this knowledge. He wondered if he had ever lost his heart so completely, loved someone so blindly, sufferingly, unsuccessfully, yet happily. Siddhartha couldn't follow Vasudeva's advice. He couldn't give up the boy. He let the boy order him around and disrespect him. He waited, engaging in a "mute struggle of friendliness, the silent war of patience". Vasudeva also waited, knowing and patient. They were masters of patience. Seeing the boy's face, Siddhartha remembered Kamala's old words: "You cannot love". He had agreed then, feeling his inability to completely lose or devote himself to another, to forget himself or do foolish things for love, set him apart from the "childlike people". But now, with his son, Siddhartha _had_ become like them. He was suffering for another, loving blindly, foolishly, miserably, yet finding bliss and renewal in this new experience of passion. The inevitable happened: the boy's anger exploded. He refused to gather brushwood, screaming hatred and contempt at Siddhartha, calling him not his father, but his mother's "fornicator," wishing to become a highway-robber rather than be like him. The boy ran away and, the next morning, was gone, taking a small basket of coins and the boat. Siddhartha, shivering with grief, knew he had to follow. A child couldn't survive alone. He told Vasudeva they must build a raft. Following the boy's path towards the city, Siddhartha reached the road near Kamala's old pleasure-garden. Standing by the gate, seeing monks walking among the trees (Kamala had given the garden to the Buddha's followers), his past flooded back. He saw himself as the young Samana, meeting Kamala, beginning his worldly life, Kamaswami, the parties, the gambling, the bird in the cage. He relived it all, breathed Sansara, felt old, tired, disgusted, wanted to end himself, and was healed by the holy Om. After a long time at the gate, Siddhartha realized his desire to follow his son was foolish; he couldn't help him or cling to him. The love for his son felt like a wound, but he knew it shouldn't fester; it had to "become a blossom and had to shine". It wasn't blossoming yet; sadness and emptiness filled him. He sat down, waiting, having learned this from the river. A hand on his shoulder woke him from this state. It was Vasudeva, who had followed him. Looking at Vasudeva's friendly, smiling face, Siddhartha smiled too. Silently, they returned home. Neither spoke of the boy or the wound. Living by the river, Siddhartha looked at people differently. Less smart, less proud, but warmer, more curious, involved. The "childlike people" no longer seemed alien. He understood and shared their lives, guided by urges and wishes, not thoughts or insight. Even near perfection and bearing his wound, he felt they were his brothers. Their vanities and desires were no longer ridiculous but understandable, lovable, even worthy of veneration. He saw the blind love, pride, desire for wealth, all those simple, foolish, strong urges. He saw people living for them, achieving much, suffering and enduring infinitely. He could love them for it, seeing life, the indestructible Brahman, in their passions and actions. They were worthy of love and admiration in their blind loyalty and strength. They lacked nothing; the knowledgeable one had nothing essential to teach them. Slowly, the realization of what wisdom truly was blossomed in Siddhartha. It wasn't knowledge or teaching, but a "readiness of the soul," an ability to feel and inhale the thought of _oneness_ in every moment. This blossomed, shining back from Vasudeva's old, childlike face – harmony, knowledge of the world's eternal perfection, smiling, oneness. But the wound of his love for his son still burned. He thought of him longingly, nurturing his tenderness and pain, committing the "foolish acts of love". This flame wouldn't go out on its own. One day, driven by yearning, the wound burning violently, Siddhartha decided to ferry himself across the river and go to the city to find his son. The river flowed softly, quietly, but its voice sounded strange – it _laughed_. The river laughed clearly at the old ferryman. Siddhartha stopped, bent over the water, and saw his reflection. In his reflected face, he saw something that reminded him of his father, the Brahman. He remembered how he, as a young man, had forced his father to let him go, left him, and never returned. Had his father not suffered the same pain he now felt for his son? Had his father died alone? Wasn't this repetition a strange, stupid comedy, running in a fateful circle? The river's laughter confirmed it. Everything came back if it hadn't been fully suffered and solved. The same pain returned. Siddhartha returned to the boat, laughing at himself and the world, yet still at odds, tending towards despair. The wound wasn't blossoming yet; his heart still fought fate. But he felt hope, and an urge to confess everything to Vasudeva, the master of listening. He found Vasudeva weaving a basket, his eyes weak, no longer using the ferry. But his joy and benevolence were unchanged. Siddhartha sat and told him everything – his journey to the city, the burning wound, his envy of fathers, his knowledge of his foolishness, his futile fight against it, his attempt to flee to the city today, and the river's laughter. He spoke for a long time, confessing even the most embarrassing parts. As he spoke, Vasudeva's listening felt stronger than ever. Siddhartha felt his pain and fears flow into Vasudeva, and his secret hope flow back. Confessing to this listener was like bathing his wound in the river until it cooled and became one with the river. As he continued speaking, he felt Vasudeva was no longer just a human, but the river itself, God himself, the eternal. This realization became natural and clear; Vasudeva had always been like this. He felt he was seeing Vasudeva as people see gods and knew this heightened state couldn't last. He began bidding farewell to Vasudeva in his heart. All the while, he talked incessantly. When he finished, Vasudeva looked at him with his gentle eyes, saying nothing, letting his love, cheerfulness, understanding, and knowledge shine. He took Siddhartha's hand, led him to the riverbank, and sat down with him, smiling at the river. "You've heard it laugh," Vasudeva said. "But you haven't heard everything. Let's listen, you'll hear more." They listened to the river singing in many voices. Siddhartha saw images in the water – his lonely father mourning, himself bound by yearning for his son, his lonely son rushing after his desires. The river sang with suffering, yearning. Vasudeva's gaze asked if he heard, and Siddhartha nodded. "Listen better!" Vasudeva whispered. Siddhartha concentrated. The images of his father, himself, his son, Kamala, Govinda, and others merged into the river. All these waves and waters were hurrying, suffering, towards goals – waterfall, lake, rapids, sea. All goals were reached, only for new ones to appear; the water turned to vapor, rain, source, and flowed again. But the longing voice changed; other voices joined it – joy, suffering, good, bad, laughing, sad, a hundred, a thousand voices. Siddhartha perceived the river's song now as a thousand voices, but all together they formed the single word "Om". The river's flow represented the cycle of Sansara, the countless forms and events. But the voice of the river also included the sacred word "Om," the sound of perfection, simultaneous with the suffering and striving. "Do you hear?" Vasudeva's gaze asked again. Siddhartha's wound blossomed; his suffering shone. His self flowed into the oneness. In this hour, Siddhartha stopped fighting his fate, stopped suffering. His face showed the cheerfulness of knowledge without opposing will. He knew perfection, was in agreement with the flow of life, full of sympathy for others' pain and pleasure, devoted to the flow, belonging to the oneness. Vasudeva's smile shone brightly, floating over his face like the Om over the river's voices. The same smile began to shine on Siddhartha's face. Vasudeva, knowing Siddhartha had reached this understanding, quietly stated he would go into the forests, into the oneness. With a bright smile, he left, and Siddhartha watched him go, filled with deep joy and solemnity, seeing his steps full of peace, his head full of lustre, his body full of light. **A Final Meeting: Wisdom Beyond Words** Years later, Govinda, still searching despite his age and position as a respected monk, heard about a wise old ferryman and sought him out. This, of course, led him back to Siddhartha. Their final conversation, touched on earlier, beautifully encapsulates Siddhartha's ultimate understanding. Siddhartha, now the old ferryman, reiterates his view on searching versus finding. He tells Govinda that wisdom cannot be taught in words, demonstrating it with the stone. He values _things_ and experience over thoughts and words. He extols the importance of _love_ for the world and all beings, seeing them as they are, like himself. He argues this is not contradictory to the Buddha, whose greatness lies in his actions and life of compassion. The climax of this meeting is Govinda's vision upon kissing Siddhartha's forehead. He sees the interconnectedness of all things, the merging of forms, and the presence of the divine "Om" within it all. This direct experience, facilitated by Siddhartha's being, transcends the need for further searching or teachings for Govinda. **So, What Can We Take Away from Siddhartha's Journey?** This detailed look at Siddhartha's path, as shown in these excerpts, gives us a rich picture of a soul's quest for meaning. He starts with the pinnacle of traditional religious education, rejects it for asceticism, finds _that_ wanting, samples the worldly life, hits rock bottom, finds a profound connection with nature (the river) and a simple, wise man (Vasudeva), and eventually integrates all these experiences into a state of inner peace and oneness. His journey suggests that true understanding isn't found solely in teachings, intellectual knowledge, or even strict self-denial alone. It seems to come from living fully, experiencing the world's diverse phenomena (Sansara) without being _ruled_ by them, learning to listen deeply (both inwardly and to the world), embracing contradictions, suffering the pains of human connection (like love for his son), and ultimately realizing the unity and presence of the divine (Atman/Brahman/Om) in _everything_, just as it is. The river becomes a powerful symbol of this flow, the constant change that is eternally present and unified. Vasudeva is presented as someone who has already reached this state of oneness through simple presence and listening, becoming a vessel for Siddhartha's own final understanding. Siddhartha's journey highlights the idea that each person's path is unique and must be experienced individually, even if the ultimate truth is universal. **Ideas and Questions for Further Exploration:** Wow, there's so much here! If you wanted to delve deeper, here are a few fascinating avenues to explore, based on these excerpts: 1. **The Nature of Searching vs. Finding:** Siddhartha tells Govinda that searching (having a goal) prevents finding (being open, having no goal). How does Siddhartha's own journey illustrate this? When does he stop searching and start finding? What is the difference? 2. **The Role of Experience vs. Teachings:** Siddhartha explicitly rejects teachings as the path to salvation. Yet, he learns from many "teachers" and experiences (Brahmanism, Samanas, Buddha, Kamala, Kamaswami, the river, Vasudeva, his son). How does he reconcile his rejection of formal teachings with the vast amount he learns from experience and his interactions? 3. **The Symbolism of the River:** The river is a central image in the second half of the excerpts. What different things does Siddhartha learn from it? How does its constant flow represent both the impermanence of Sansara and the eternal presence of oneness? How does Vasudeva embody the river? 4. **The Integration of Sansara and Nirvana:** Siddhartha seeks to escape the cycle (Sansara) as a Samana, sees it as suffering and illusion. But later, he finds love and value in the "childlike people" and their worldly lives, seeing the divine in their passions. How does his understanding evolve? How does he ultimately find "oneness" not _apart_ from the world, but _within_ it? 5. **The Meaning of Love and Suffering:** Siddhartha initially felt he couldn't love like the childlike people. His love for his son brings him immense suffering. How does this experience transform him? How does the "wound" of his love become a "blossom" and "shine"? How does it help him achieve oneness? 6. **Comparing Siddhartha and Govinda:** They start together, but their paths diverge significantly. Govinda seeks salvation through following teachings. Siddhartha seeks it independently. How does the end of the excerpts show the validity of both their paths, or perhaps critique one in favor of the other? Does Govinda's final vision validate Siddhartha's unconventional approach? 7. **The Nature of Wisdom:** Siddhartha tells Govinda that wisdom cannot be passed on and sounds like foolishness when articulated. Yet, his own wisdom is conveyed to Govinda, seemingly leading to Govinda's enlightenment. How can we understand this paradox? Is the "transmission" achieved through words, or through Siddhartha's _being_?