In the shade
of the house, in the sunshine on the river bank by the boats, in the shade
of the swallow wood and the fig tree, Siddhartha, the handsome Brahmin's
son, grew up with his friend Govinda. The sun browned his slender shoulders
on the river bank, while bathing at the holy ablutions, at the holy
sacrifices. Shadows passed across his eyes in the mango grove during play,
while his mother sang, during his father's teachings, when with the learned
men. Siddhartha had already long taken part in the learned men's
conversations, had engaged in debate with Govinda and had practised the art
of contemplation and meditation with him. Already he knew how to pronounce
this word of
words, to say it inwardly with the intake of breath, when breathing out with
all his soul, his brow radiating the glow of pure spirit. Already he knew
how to recognize Atman within the depth of his being, indestructible, at one
with the universe.
was happiness in his father's heart because of his son who was intelligent
and thirsty for knowledge; he saw him growing up to be a great learned man,
a priest, a prince among Brahmins.
was pride in his mother's breast when she saw him walking, sitting down and
strong, handsome, supple-limbed, greeting her with complete grace.
stirred in the hearts of the young Brahmins' daughters when Siddhartha
walked through the streets of the town, with his lofty brow, his king-like
eyes and his slim figure.
Govinda, his friend, the Brahmin's son, loved him more than anybody else. He
loved Siddhartha's eyes and clear voice. He love the way he walked, his
complete grace of movement; he loved everything that Siddhartha did and
said, and above all he loved his intellect, his fine ardent thoughts, his
strong will, his high vocation. Govinda knew that he would not become an
ordinary Brahmin, a lazy sacrificial official, an avaricious dealer in magic
sayings, a conceited worthless orator, a wicked sly priest, or just a good
stupid sheep amongst a large herd. No, and he, Govinda, did not want to
become any of these, not a Brahmin like ten thousand others of their kind.
wanted to follow Siddhartha, the beloved, the magnificent. And if he ever
became a god, if he ever entered the All-Radiant, then Govinda wanted to
follow him as his friend, his companion, his servant, his lance-bearer, his
was how everybody loved Siddhartha. He delighted and made everybody happy/
Siddhartha himself was not happy. Wandering along the rosy paths of the fig
garden, sitting in contemplation in the bluish shade of the grove, washing
his limbs in the daily bath of atonement, offering sacrifices in the depths
of the shady mango wood with complete grace of manner, beloved by all, a joy
to all, there was yet no joy in his own heart. Dreams and restless thoughts
came flowing to him from the river, from the twinkling stars at night, from
the sun's melting rays. Dreams and a restlessness of the soul came to him,
arising from the smoke of the sacrifices, emanating from the verses of the
Rig-veda, trickling through from the teachings of the old Brahmins.
Siddhartha had begun to feel the seeds of discontent within him. He had
begun to feel that the love of his father and mother, and also the love of
his friend Govinda, would not always make him happy, give him peace, satisfy
and suffice him. He had begun to suspect that his worthy father and his
other teachers, the wise Brahmins, had already passed on to him the bulk and
best of their wisdom, that they had already poured the sum total of their
knowledge into his waiting vessel; and the vessel was not full, his
intellect was not satisfied, his soul was not at peace, his heart was not
still. The ablutions were good, but they were water; they did not wash sins
away, they did not relieve the distressed heart. The sacrifices and the
supplication of the gods were excellent
were they everything? Did the sacrifices give happiness? And what about the
gods? Was it really Prajapati who had created the world? Was it not Atman,
he alone, who had created it? Were not the gods forms created like me and
you, mortal, transient? Was it therefore good and right, was it a sensible
and worthy act to offer sacrifices to the gods? To whom else should one
offer sacrifices, to whom else should one pay honour, but to Him, Atman, the
Only One? And where was Atman to be found, where did He dwell, where did His
eternal heart beat, if not within the Self, in the innermost, in the eternal
which each person carried within him? But where was this Self, this
innermost? It was not flesh and bone, it was not though or consciousness.
That was what the wise men taught. Where, then, was it? To press towards the
Self, towards Atman
there another way that was worth seeking? Nobody showed the way, nobody knew
neither his father, nor the teachers and wise men, nor the holy songs. The
Brahmins and their holy books knew everything, everything: they had gone
creation of the world, the origin of speech, food, inhalation, exhalation,
the arrangement of the senses, the acts of the gods. They knew a tremendous
number of things
was it worthwhile knowing all these things if they did not know the one
important thing, the only important thing?
verses of the holy books, above all the Upanishads of Samaveda, spoke of
this innermost thing. It is written: 'Your soul is the whole world.' It says
that when a man is asleep, he penetrates his innermost and dwells in the
Atman. There was wonderful wisdom in these verses; all the knowledge of the
sages was told here in enchanting language, pure as honey collected by the
bees. No, this tremendous amount of knowledge, collected and preserved
by successive generations of wise Brahmins, could not be easily overlooked.
But where were the Brahmins, the priests, the wise men, who were successful
not only in having this most profound knowledge, but in experiencing it?
Where were the initiated who, attaining Atman in sleep, could retain it in
consciousness, in life, everywhere, in speech and in action? Siddhartha knew
many worthy Brahmins, above all his father
holy, learned, of highest
esteem. His father was worthy of admiration; his manner was quiet and noble
thoughts dwelt in his head
even he who knew so much, did he live in bliss, was he at peace? Was he not
also a seeker, insatiable? Did he not go continually to the holy springs
with an insatiable thirst, to the sacrifices, to books, to the Brahmins'
discourses? Why must he, the blameless one, wash away his sins and endeavour
to cleanse himself anew each day? Was Atman then not within him? Was not
then the source within his heart? One must find the source within one's own
Self, one must possess it. Everything else was seeking
a detour, error.
were Siddhartha's thoughts; this was his thirst, his sorrow.
often repeated to himself the words from one of the Chandogya-Upanishads.
'In truth, the name of the Brahman is Satyam. Indeed, he who knows it enters
the heavenly world each day.' It often seemed near
the heavenly world
but never had he quite
reached it, never had he quenched the final thirst. And among the wise men
that he knew and entirely reached it
the heavenly world
not one who had completely
quenched the eternal thirst.
said Siddhartha to his friend, 'Govinda, come with me to the banyan tree. We
will practise meditation.'
went to the banyan tree and sat down, twenty paces apart. As he sat down
ready to pronounce the Om, Siddhartha softly recited the verse:
the bow, the arrow is the soul,
is the arrow's goal
one aims unflinchingly.
the customary time for the practice of meditation had passed, Govinda rose.
It was now evening. It was time to perform the evening ablutions. He called
Siddhartha by his name; he did not reply. Siddhartha sat absorbed, his eyes
staring as if directed at a distant goal, the tip of his tongue showing a
little between his teeth. He did not seem to be breathing. He sat thus, lost
in meditation, thinking Om, his soul as the arrow directed at Brahman.
Samanas once passed through Siddhartha's town. Wandering ascetics, they were
three thin worn-out men, neither old nor young, with dusty and bleeding
shoulders, practically naked, scorched by the sun, solitary, strange and
lean jackals in the world of
men. Around them hovered an atmosphere of still passion, of devastating
service, of unpitying self-denial.
evening, after the hour of contemplation, Siddhartha said to Govinda:
'Tomorrow morning my friend, Siddhartha is going to join the Samanas. He is
going to become a Saman.'
Govinda blanched as he heard these words and read the decision in his
friend's determined face, undeviating as the released arrow from the bow.
Govinda realized from the first glance of his friend's face that now it was
beginning. Siddhartha was going his own way; his destiny was beginning to
unfold itself, and with his destiny, his own. And he became as pale as a
dried banana skin.
Siddhartha,' he cried, 'will your father permit it?'
Siddhartha looked at him like one who had just awakened. As quick as
lightning he read Govinda's soul, read the anxiety, the resignation.
will not waste words, Govinda,' he said softly. 'Tomorrow at daybreak I will
begin the life of the Samanas. Let us not discuss it again.'
Siddhartha went into the room where his father was sitting on a mat made of
bast. He went up behind his father and remained standing there until his
father felt his presence. 'Is it you, Siddhartha?' the Brahmin asked. 'Then
speak what is in your mind.'
Siddhartha said: 'With your permission, Father, I have come to tell you that
I wish to leave your house tomorrow and join the ascetics. I wish to become
a Samana. I trust my father will not object.'
Brahmin was silent so long that the stars passed across the small window and
changed their design before the silence in the room was finally broken. His
son stood silent and motionless with his arms folded. The father, silent and
motionless, sat on the mat, and the stars passed across the sky. Then his
father asked: 'It is not seemly for Brahmins to utter forceful and angry
words, but there is displeasure in my heart. I should not like to hear you
make this request a second time.'
Brahmin rose slowly. Siddhartha remained silent with folded arms.
are you waiting?' asked his father.
know why,' answered Siddhartha.
father left the room displeased and lay down on his bed.
hour passed by and he could not sleep, the Brahmin rose, wandered up and
down and then left the house. He looked through the small window of the room
and saw Siddhartha standing there with his arms folded, unmoving. He could
see his pale robe shimmering. His heart troubled, the father returned to his
another hour passed and the Brahmin could not sleep, he rose again, walked
up and down, left the house and saw the moon had risen. He looked through
the window. Siddhartha stood there unmoving, his arms folded; the moon shone
on his bare shinbones. His heart troubled, the father went to bed.
returned again after an hour and again after two hours, looked through the
window and saw Siddhartha standing there in the moonlight, in the starlight,
in the dark. And he came silently again, hour after hour, looked into the
room, and saw him standing unmoving. His heart filled with anger, with
anxiety, with fear, with sorrow.
the last hour of the night, before daybreak, he returned again, entered the
room and saw the youth standing there. He seemed tall and a stranger to him.
'Siddhartha,' he said, 'why are you waiting?'
you go on standing and waiting until it is day, noon, evening?'
will stand and wait.'
will grow tired, Siddhartha.'
will grow tired.'
will fall asleep, Siddhartha.'
will not fall asleep.'
will die, Siddhartha.'
would you rather die than obey your father?'
'Siddhartha has always obeyed his father.'
you will give up your project?'
'Siddhartha will do what his father tells him.'
first light of the day entered the room. The Brahmin saw that Siddhartha's
knees trembled slightly, but there was no trembling in Siddhartha's face;
his eyes looked far away. Then the father realized that Siddhartha could no
longer remain with him at home
that he had already left him.
father touched Siddhartha's shoulder.
will go into the forest,' he said, 'and become a Samana. If you find bliss
in the forest, come back and teach it to me. If you find disillusionment,
come back, and we shall again offer sacrifices to the gods together. Now go,
kiss your mother and tell her where you are going. For me, however, it is
time to go to the river and perform the first ablution.'
dropped his hand from his son's shoulder and went out. Siddhartha swayed as
he tried to walk. He controlled himself, bowed to his father and went to his
mother to do what had been told to him.
with benumbed legs, he slowly left the still sleeping town at daybreak, a
crouching shadow emerged from the last hut and joined the pilgrim. It was
have come,' said Siddhartha and smiled.
have come,' said Govinda.