To Romain Rolland, my dear friend
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.
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 icy 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.
"Oh Siddhartha," Govinda spoke one day
to his friend. "Today, I was in the village, and a Brahman invited me
into his house, and in his house, there was the son of a Brahman from
Magadha, who has seen the Buddha with his own eyes and has heard him
teach. Verily, this made my chest ache when I breathed, and thought
to myself: If only I would too, if only we both would too, Siddhartha
and me, live to see the hour when we will hear the teachings from the
mouth of this perfected man! Speak, friend, wouldn't we want to go there
too and listen to the teachings from the Buddha's mouth?"
Quoth Siddhartha: "Always, oh Govinda,
I had thought, Govinda would stay with the Samanas, always I had believed
his goal was to live to be sixty and seventy years of age and to keep
on practising those feats and exercises, which are becoming a Samana.
But behold, I had not known Govinda well enough, I knew little of his
heart. So now you, my faithful friend, want to take a new path and go
there, where the Buddha spreads his teachings."
Quoth Govinda: "You're mocking me. Mock
me if you like, Siddhartha! But have you not also developed a desire,
an eagerness, to hear these teachings? And have you not at one time
said to me, you would not walk the path of the Samanas for much longer?"
At this, Siddhartha laughed in his very
own manner, in which his voice assumed a touch of sadness and a touch
of mockery, and said: "Well, Govinda, you've spoken well, you've remembered
correctly. If you only remembered the other thing as well, you've heard
from me, which is that I have grown distrustful and tired against teachings
and learning, and that my faith in words, which are brought to us by
teachers, is small. But let's do it, my dear, I am willing to listen
to these teachings --though in my heart I believe that we've already
tasted the best fruit of these teachings."
Quoth Govinda: "Your willingness delights
my heart. But tell me, how should this be possible? How should the Gotama's
teachings, even before we have heard them, have already revealed their
best fruit to us?"
Quoth Siddhartha: "Let us eat this fruit
and wait for the rest, oh Govinda! But this fruit, which we already
now received thanks to the Gotama, consisted in him calling us away
from the Samanas! Whether he has also other and better things to give
us, oh friend, let us await with calm hearts."
On this very same day, Siddhartha informed
the oldest one of the Samanas of his decision, that he wanted to leave
him. He informed the oldest one with all the courtesy and modesty becoming
to a younger one and a student. But the Samana became angry, because
the two young men wanted to leave him, and talked loudly and used crude
swearwords.
Govinda was startled and became embarrassed.
But Siddhartha put his mouth close to Govinda's ear and whispered to
him: "Now, I want to show the old man that I've learned something from
him."
Positioning himself closely in front
of the Samana, with a concentrated soul, he captured the old man's glance
with his glances, deprived him of his power, made him mute, took away
his free will, subdued him under his own will, commanded him, to do
silently, whatever he demanded him to do. The old man became mute, his
eyes became motionless, his will was paralysed, his arms were hanging
down; without power, he had fallen victim to Siddhartha's spell. But
Siddhartha's thoughts brought the Samana under their control, he had
to carry out, what they commanded. And thus, the old man made several
bows, performed gestures of blessing, spoke stammeringly a godly wish
for a good journey. And the young men returned the bows with thanks,
returned the wish, went on their way with salutations.
On the way, Govinda said: "Oh Siddhartha,
you have learned more from the Samanas than I knew. It is hard, it is
very hard to cast a spell on an old Samana. Truly, if you had stayed
there, you would soon have learned to walk on water."
"I do not seek to walk on water," said
Siddhartha. "Let old Samanas be content with such feats!"
In the town of Savathi, every
child knew the name of the exalted Buddha, and every house was prepared
to fill the alms-dish of Gotama's disciples, the silently begging ones.
Near the town was Gotama's favourite place to stay, the grove of Jetavana,
which the rich merchant Anathapindika, an obedient worshipper of the
exalted one, had given him and his people for a gift.
All tales and answers, which the two
young ascetics had received in their search for Gotama's abode, had
pointed them towards this area. And arriving at Savathi, in the very
first house, before the door of which they stopped to beg, food has
been offered to them, and they accepted the food, and Siddhartha asked
the woman, who handed them the food:
"We would like to know, oh charitable
one, where the Buddha dwells, the most venerable one, for we are two
Samanas from the forest and have come, to see him, the perfected one,
and to hear the teachings from his mouth."
Quoth the woman: "Here, you have truly
come to the right place, you Samanas from the forest. You should know,
in Jetavana, in the garden of Anathapindika is where the exalted one
dwells. There you pilgrims shall spent the night, for there is enough
space for the innumerable, who flock here, to hear the teachings from
his mouth."
This made Govinda happy, and full of
joy he exclaimed: "Well so, thus we have reached our destination, and
our path has come to an end! But tell us, oh mother of the pilgrims,
do you know him, the Buddha, have you seen him with your own eyes?"
Quoth the woman: "Many times I have
seen him, the exalted one. On many days, I have seen him, walking through
the alleys in silence, wearing his yellow cloak, presenting his alms-dish
in silence at the doors of the houses, leaving with a filled dish."
Delightedly, Govinda listened and wanted
to ask and hear much more. But Siddhartha urged him to walk on. They
thanked and left and hardly had to ask for directions, for rather many
pilgrims and monks as well from Gotama's community were on their way
to the Jetavana. And since they reached it at night, there were constant
arrivals, shouts, and talk of those who sought shelter and got it. The
two Samanas, accustomed to life in the forest, found quickly and without
making any noise a place to stay and rested there until the morning.
At sunrise, they saw with astonishment
what a large crowd of believers and curious people had spent the night
here. On all paths of the marvellous grove, monks walked in yellow robes,
under the trees they sat here and there, in deep contemplation --or
in a conversation about spiritual matters, the shady gardens looked
like a city, full of people, bustling like bees. The majority of the
monks went out with their alms-dish, to collect food in town for their
lunch, the only meal of the day. The Buddha himself, the enlightened
one, was also in the habit of taking this walk to beg in the morning.
Siddhartha saw him, and he instantly
recognised him, as if a god had pointed him out to him. He saw him,
a simple man in a yellow robe, bearing the alms-dish in his hand, walking
silently.
"Look here!" Siddhartha said quietly
to Govinda. "This one is the Buddha."
Attentively, Govinda looked at the monk
in the yellow robe, who seemed to be in no way different from the hundreds
of other monks. And soon, Govinda also realized: This is the one. And
they followed him and observed him.
The Buddha went on his way, modestly
and deep in his thoughts, his calm face was neither happy nor sad, it
seemed to smile quietly and inwardly. With a hidden smile, quiet, calm,
somewhat resembling a healthy child, the Buddha walked, wore the robe
and placed his feet just as all of his monks did, according to a precise
rule. But his face and his walk, his quietly lowered glance, his quietly
dangling hand and even every finger of his quietly dangling hand expressed
peace, expressed perfection, did not search, did not imitate, breathed
softly in an unwhithering calm, in an unwhithering light, an untouchable
peace.
Thus Gotama walked towards the town,
to collect alms, and the two Samanas recognised him solely by the perfection
of his calm, by the quietness of his appearance, in which there was
no searching, no desire, no imitation, no effort to be seen, only light
and peace.
"Today, we'll hear the teachings from
his mouth." said Govinda.
Siddhartha did not answer. He felt little
curiosity for the teachings, he did not believe that they would teach
him anything new, but he had, just as Govinda had, heard the contents
of this Buddha's teachings again and again, though these reports only
represented second-or third-hand information. But attentively he looked
at Gotama's head, his shoulders, his feet, his quietly dangling hand,
and it seemed to him as if every joint of every finger of this hand
was of these teachings, spoke of, breathed of, exhaled the fragrant
of, glistened of truth. This man, this Buddha was truthful down to the
gesture of his last finger. This man was holy. Never before, Siddhartha
had venerated a person so much, never before he had loved a person as
much as this one.
They both followed the Buddha until
they reached the town and then returned in silence, for they themselves
intended to abstain from on this day. They saw Gotama returning --what
he ate could not even have satisfied a bird's appetite, and they saw
him retiring into the shade of the mango-trees.
But in the evening, when the heat cooled
down and everyone in the camp started to bustle about and gathered around,
they heard the Buddha teaching. They heard his voice, and it was also
perfected, was of perfect calmness, was full of peace. Gotama taught
the teachings of suffering, of the origin of suffering, of the way to
relieve suffering. Calmly and clearly his quiet speech flowed on. Suffering
was life, full of suffering was the world, but salvation from suffering
had been found: salvation was obtained by him who would walk the path
of the Buddha. With a soft, yet firm voice the exalted one spoke, taught
the four main doctrines, taught the eightfold path, patiently he went
the usual path of the teachings, of the examples, of the repetitions,
brightly and quietly his voice hovered over the listeners, like a light,
like a starry sky.
When the Buddha --night had already
fallen --ended his speech, many a pilgrim stepped forward and asked
to accepted into the community, sought refuge in the teachings. And
Gotama accepted them by speaking: "You have heard the teachings well,
it has come to you well. Thus join us and walk in holiness, to put an
end to all suffering."
Behold, then Govinda, the shy one, also
stepped forward and spoke: "I also take my refuge in the exalted one
and his teachings," and he asked to accepted into the community of his
disciples and was accepted.
Right afterwards, when the Buddha had
retired for the night, Govinda turned to Siddhartha and spoke eagerly:
"Siddhartha, it is not my place to scold you. We have both heard the
exalted one, be have both perceived the teachings. Govinda has heard
the teachings, he has taken refuge in it. But you, my honoured friend,
don't you also want to walk the path of salvation? Would you want to
hesitate, do you want to wait any longer?"
Siddhartha awakened as if he had been
asleep, when he heard Govinda's words. For a long tome, he looked into
Govinda's face. Then he spoke quietly, in a voice without mockery: "Govinda,
my friend, now you have taken this step, now you have chosen this path.
Always, oh Govinda, you've been my friend, you've always walked one
step behind me. Often I have thought: Won't Govinda for once also take
a step by himself, without me, out of his own soul? Behold, now you've
turned into a man and are choosing your path for yourself. I wish that
you would go it up to its end, oh my friend, that you shall find salvation!"
Govinda, not completely understanding
it yet, repeated his question in an impatient tone: "Speak up, I beg
you, my dear! Tell me, since it could not be any other way, that you
also, my learned friend, will take your refuge with the exalted Buddha!"
Siddhartha placed his hand on Govinda's
shoulder: "You failed to hear my good wish for you, oh Govinda. I'm
repeating it: I wish that you would go this path up to its end, that
you shall find salvation!"
In this moment, Govinda realized that
his friend had left him, and he started to weep.
"Siddhartha!" he exclaimed lamentingly.
Siddhartha kindly spoke to him: "Don't
forget, Govinda, that you are now one of the Samanas of the Buddha!
You have renounced your home and your parents, renounced your birth
and possessions, renounced your free will, renounced all friendship.
This is what the teachings require, this is what the exalted one wants.
This is what you wanted for yourself. Tomorrow, oh Govinda, I'll leave
you."
For a long time, the friends continued
walking in the grove; for a long time, they lay there and found no sleep.
And over and over again, Govinda urged his friend, he should tell him
why he would not want to seek refuge in Gotama's teachings, what fault
he would find in these teachings. But Siddhartha turned him away every
time and said: "Be content, Govinda! Very good are the teachings of
the exalted one, how could I find a fault in them?"
Very early in the morning, a follower
of Buddha, one of his oldest monks, went through the garden and called
all those to him who had as novices taken their refuge in the teachings,
to dress them up in the yellow robe and to instruct them in the first
teachings and duties of their position. Then Govinda broke loose, embraced
once again his childhood friend and left with the novices.
But Siddhartha walked through the grove,
lost in thought.
Then he happened to meet Gotama, the
exalted one, and when he greeted him with respect and the Buddha's glance
was so full of kindness and calm, the young man summoned his courage
and asked the venerable one for the permission to talk to him. Silently
the exalted one nodded his approval.
Quoth Siddhartha: "Yesterday, oh exalted
one, I had been privileged to hear your wondrous teachings. Together
with my friend, I had come from afar, to hear your teachings. And now
my friend is going to stay with your people, he has taken his refuge
with you. But I will again start on my pilgrimage."
"As you please," the venerable one spoke
politely.
"Too bold is my speech," Siddhartha
continued, "but I do not want to leave the exalted one without having
honestly told him my thoughts. Does it please the venerable one to listen
to me for one moment longer?"
Silently, the Buddha nodded his approval.
Quoth Siddhartha: "One thing, oh most
venerable one, I have admired in your teachings most of all. Everything
in your teachings is perfectly clear, is proven; you are presenting
the world as a perfect chain, a chain which is never and nowhere broken,
an eternal chain the links of which are causes and effects. Never before,
this has been seen so clearly; never before, this has been presented
so irrefutably; truly, the heart of every Brahman has to beat stronger
with love, once he has seen the world through your teachings perfectly
connected, without gaps, clear as a crystal, not depending on chance,
not depending on gods. Whether it may be good or bad, whether living
according to it would be suffering or joy, I do not wish to discuss,
possibly this is not essential --but the uniformity of the world, that
everything which happens is connected, that the great and the small
things are all encompassed by the same forces of time, by the same law
of causes, of coming into being and of dying, this is what shines brightly
out of your exalted teachings, oh perfected one. But according to your
very own teachings, this unity and necessary sequence of all things
is nevertheless broken in one place, through a small gap, this world
of unity is invaded by something alien, something new, something which
had not been there before, and which cannot be demonstrated and cannot
be proven: these are your teachings of overcoming the world, of salvation.
But with this small gap, with this small breach, the entire eternal
and uniform law of the world is breaking apart again and becomes void.
Please forgive me for expressing this objection."
Quietly, Gotama had listened to him,
unmoved. Now he spoke, the perfected one, with his kind, with his polite
and clear voice: "You've heard the teachings, oh son of a Brahman, and
good for you that you've thought about it thus deeply. You've found
a gap in it, an error. You should think about this further. But be warned,
oh seeker of knowledge, of the thicket of opinions and of arguing about
words. There is nothing to opinions, they may be beautiful or ugly,
smart or foolish, everyone can support them or discard them. But the
teachings, you've heard from me, are no opinion, and their goal is not
to explain the world to those who seek knowledge. They have a different
goal; their goal is salvation from suffering. This is what Gotama teaches,
nothing else."
"I wish that you, oh exalted one, would
not be angry with me," said the young man. "I have not spoken to you
like this to argue with you, to argue about words. You are truly right,
there is little to opinions. But let me say this one more thing: I have
not doubted in you for a single moment. I have not doubted for a single
moment that you are Buddha, that you have reached the goal, the highest
goal towards which so many thousands of Brahmans and sons of Brahmans
are on their way. You have found salvation from death. It has come to
you in the course of your own search, on your own path, through thoughts,
through meditation, through realizations, through enlightenment. It
has not come to you by means of teachings! And --thus is my thought,
oh exalted one, --nobody will obtain salvation by means of teachings!
You will not be able to convey and say to anybody, oh venerable one,
in words and through teachings what has happened to you in the hour
of enlightenment! The teachings of the enlightened Buddha contain much,
it teaches many to live righteously, to avoid evil. But there is one
thing which these so clear, these so venerable teachings do not contain:
they do not contain the mystery of what the exalted one has experienced
for himself, he alone among hundreds of thousands. This is what I have
thought and realized, when I have heard the teachings. This is why I
am continuing my travels --not to seek other, better teachings, for
I know there are none, but to depart from all teachings and all teachers
and to reach my goal by myself or to die. But often, I'll think of this
day, oh exalted one, and of this hour, when my eyes beheld a holy man."
The Buddha's eyes quietly looked to
the ground; quietly, in perfect equanimity his inscrutable face was
smiling.
"I wish," the venerable one spoke slowly,
"that your thoughts shall not be in error, that you shall reach the
goal! But tell me: Have you seen the multitude of my Samanas, my many
brothers, who have taken refuge in the teachings? And do you believe,
oh stranger, oh Samana, do you believe that it would be better for them
all the abandon the teachings and to return into the life the world
and of desires?"
"Far is such a thought from my mind,"
exclaimed Siddhartha. "I wish that they shall all stay with the teachings,
that they shall reach their goal! It is not my place to judge another
person's life. Only for myself, for myself alone, I must decide, I must
chose, I must refuse. Salvation from the self is what we Samanas search
for, oh exalted one. If I merely were one of your disciples, oh venerable
one, I'd fear that it might happen to me that only seemingly, only deceptively
my self would be calm and be redeemed, but that in truth it would live
on and grow, for then I had replaced my self with the teachings, my
duty to follow you, my love for you, and the community of the monks!"
With half of a smile, with an unwavering
openness and kindness, Gotama looked into the stranger's eyes and bid
him to leave with a hardly noticeable gesture.
"You are wise, oh Samana.", the venerable
one spoke.
"You know how to talk wisely, my friend.
Be aware of too much wisdom!"
The Buddha turned away, and his glance
and half of a smile remained forever etched in Siddhartha's memory.
I have never before seen a person glance
and smile, sit and walk this way, he thought; truly, I wish to be able
to glance and smile, sit and walk this way, too, thus free, thus venerable,
thus concealed, thus open, thus child-like and mysterious. Truly, only
a person who has succeeded in reaching the innermost part of his self
would glance and walk this way. Well so, I also will seek to reach the
innermost part of my self.
I saw a man, Siddhartha thought, a single
man, before whom I would have to lower my glance. I do not want to lower
my glance before any other, not before any other. No teachings will
entice me any more, since this man's teachings have not enticed me.
I am deprived by the Buddha, thought
Siddhartha, I am deprived, and even more he has given to me. He has
deprived me of my friend, the one who had believed in me and now believes
in him, who had been my shadow and is now Gotama's shadow. But he has
given me Siddhartha, myself.
When Siddhartha left the grove,
where the Buddha, the perfected one, stayed behind, where Govinda stayed
behind, then he felt that in this grove his past life also stayed behind
and parted from him. He pondered about this sensation, which filled
him completely, as he was slowly walking along. He pondered deeply,
like diving into a deep water he let himself sink down to the ground
of the sensation, down to the place where the causes lie, because to
identify the causes, so it seemed to him, is the very essence of thinking,
and by this alone sensations turn into realizations and are not lost,
but become entities and start to emit like rays of light what is inside
of them.
Slowly walking along, Siddhartha pondered.
He realized that he was no youth any more, but had turned into a man.
He realized that one thing had left him, as a snake is left by its old
skin, that one thing no longer existed in him, which had accompanied
him throughout his youth and used to be a part of him: the wish to have
teachers and to listen to teachings. He had also left the last teacher
who had appeared on his path, even him, the highest and wisest teacher,
the most holy one, Buddha, he had left him, had to part with him, was
not able to accept his teachings.
Slower, he walked along in his thoughts
and asked himself: "But what is this, what you have sought to learn
from teachings and from teachers, and what they, who have taught you
much, were still unable to teach you?" And he found: "It was the self,
the purpose and essence of which I sought to learn. It was the self,
I wanted to free myself from, which I sought to overcome. But I was
not able to overcome it, could only deceive it, could only flee from
it, only hide from it. Truly, no thing in this world has kept my thoughts
thus busy, as this my very own self, this mystery of me being alive,
of me being one and being separated and isolated from all others, of
me being Siddhartha! And there is no thing in this world I know less
about than about me, about Siddhartha!"
Having been pondering while slowly walking
along, he now stopped as these thoughts caught hold of him, and right
away another thought sprang forth from these, a new thought, which was:
"That I know nothing about myself, that Siddhartha has remained thus
alien and unknown to me, stems from one cause, a single cause: I was
afraid of myself, I was fleeing from myself! I searched Atman, I searched
Brahman, I was willing to to dissect my self and peel off all of its
layers, to find the core of all peels in its unknown interior, the Atman,
life, the divine part, the ultimate part. But I have lost myself in
the process."
Siddhartha opened his eyes and looked
around, a smile filled his face and a feeling of awakening from long
dreams flowed through him from his head down to his toes. And it was
not long before he walked again, walked quickly like a man who knows
what he has got to do.
"Oh," he thought, taking a deep breath,
"now I would not let Siddhartha escape from me again! No longer, I want
to begin my thoughts and my life with Atman and with the suffering of
the world. I do not want to kill and dissect myself any longer, to find
a secret behind the ruins. Neither Yoga-Veda shall teach me any more,
nor Atharva-Veda, nor the ascetics, nor any kind of teachings. I want
to learn from myself, want to be my student, want to get to know myself,
the secret of Siddhartha."
He looked around, as if he was seeing
the world for the first time. Beautiful was the world, colourful was
the world, strange and mysterious was the world! Here was blue, here
was yellow, here was green, the sky and the river flowed, the forest
and the mountains were rigid, all of it was beautiful, all of it was
mysterious and magical, and in its midst was he, Siddhartha, the awakening
one, on the path to himself. All of this, all this yellow and blue,
river and forest, entered Siddhartha for the first time through the
eyes, was no longer a spell of Mara, was no longer the veil of Maya,
was no longer a pointless and coincidental diversity of mere appearances,
despicable to the deeply thinking Brahman, who scorns diversity, who
seeks unity. Blue was blue, river was river, and if also in the blue
and the river, in Siddhartha, the singular and divine lived hidden,
so it was still that very divinity's way and purpose, to be here yellow,
here blue, there sky, there forest, and here Siddhartha. The purpose
and the essential properties were not somewhere behind the things, they
were in them, in everything.
"How deaf and stupid have I been!" he
thought, walking swiftly along. "When someone reads a text, wants to
discover its meaning, he will not scorn the symbols and letters and
call them deceptions, coincidence, and worthless hull, but he will read
them, he will study and love them, letter by letter. But I, who wanted
to read the book of the world and the book of my own being, I have,
for the sake of a meaning I had anticipated before I read, scorned the
symbols and letters, I called the visible world a deception, called
my eyes and my tongue coincidental and worthless forms without substance.
No, this is over, I have awakened, I have indeed awakened and have not
been born before this very day."
In thinking this thoughts, Siddhartha
stopped once again, suddenly, as if there was a snake lying in front
of him on the path.
Because suddenly, he had also become
aware of this: He, who was indeed like someone who had just woken up
or like a new-born baby, he had to start his life anew and start again
at the very beginning. When he had left in this very morning from the
grove Jetavana, the grove of that exalted one, already awakening, already
on the path towards himself, he he had every intention, regarded as
natural and took for granted, that he, after years as an ascetic, would
return to his home and his father. But now, only in this moment, when
he stopped as if a snake was lying on his path, he also awoke to this
realization: "But I am no longer the one I was, I am no ascetic any
more, I am not a priest any more, I am no Brahman any more. Whatever
should I do at home and at my father's place? Study? Make offerings?
Practise meditation? But all this is over, all of this is no longer
alongside my path."
Motionless, Siddhartha remained standing
there, and for the time of one moment and breath, his heart felt cold,
he felt a cold in his chest, as a small animal, a bird or a rabbit,
would when seeing how alone he was. For many years, he had been without
home and had felt nothing. Now, he felt it. Still, even in the deepest
meditation, he had been his father's son, had been a Brahman, of a high
caste, a cleric. Now, he was nothing but Siddhartha, the awoken one,
nothing else was left. Deeply, he inhaled, and for a moment, he felt
cold and shivered. Nobody was thus alone as he was. There was no nobleman
who did not belong to the noblemen, no worker that did not belong to
the workers, and found refuge with them, shared their life, spoke their
language. No Brahman, who would not be regarded as Brahmans and lived
with them, no ascetic who would not find his refuge in the caste of
the Samanas, and even the most forlorn hermit in the forest was not
just one and alone, he was also surrounded by a place he belonged to,
he also belonged to a caste, in which he was at home. Govinda had become
a monk, and a thousand monks were his brothers, wore the same robe as
he, believed in his faith, spoke his language. But he, Siddhartha, where
did he belong to? With whom would he share his life? Whose language
would he speak?
Out of this moment, when the world melted
away all around him, when he stood alone like a star in the sky, out
of this moment of a cold and despair, Siddhartha emerged, more a self
than before, more firmly concentrated. He felt: This had been the last
tremor of the awakening, the last struggle of this birth. And it was
not long until he walked again in long strides, started to proceed swiftly
and impatiently, heading no longer for home, no longer to his father,
no longer back.
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