Siddhartha

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.