BESIDE THE RIVER
Siddhartha wandered through the woods, already far from the city, and he knew just one thing, that he could never go back, that this life that he had lived through many years was ended and gone, he had tasted its joys, sucked out its pleasures, till it disgusted him. The songbird he had dreamt of was dead. The songbird in his heart was dead. He had been entangled deep in sansara, he had drawn death and disgust into himself from every side, like a sponge sucking in water till it is saturated. He was full of weariness, full of misery, full of death, there was nothing more in the world that could appeal to him, could give him pleasure, could give him reassurance.
He yearned to know nothing more about himself, to have peace, to be dead. If only a thunderbolt would come and strike him down! If only a tiger would come and eat him! If only he had wine, poison, that would numb his senses, oblivion and sleep, never more to wake! Was there any kind of filth left with which he had not already besmirched himself, was there any kind of sin or folly that he had not committed, anything he had not done that for his soul was entirely fruitless? Was it even possible still to live? Was it possible to draw in breath, let out breath over and over again, to feel hunger, once more to eat, once more to sleep, once more to lay with a woman? Was this circle not, for him, exhausted and closed off?
Siddhartha arrived at the great river that flowed through the wood, the same river that the ferryman had taken him across when he was a young man and had just departed from Gotama’s community. On the bank of this river he stopped and he stood there, uncertain what to do. He was weak from tiredness and hunger, and why should he go on, where to, what for? No, he had no objectives any more, there was nothing but the deep and sorrowful yearning to shake all this barren dream from himself, to pour away this stale wine, to put an end to this pitiful and shameful life.
There was a tree that hung over the river bank, a coconut tree. Siddhartha leant his shoulder against it, put his arms around the trunk and looked down into the green water as it continued to flow beneath him. He looked down into it and found himself possessed with the wish to let go of the tree and to perish in the water. A grisly emptiness was reflected back at him from the water, a reflection that showed the awful emptiness of his soul. Yes, he had come to the end. There was nothing more for him than to extinguish himself, than to strike down the picture of deformity that was his life, to throw it down at the feet of the gods who laugh at him in contempt. This was the great breakthrough that he had longed for: death, the destruction of the form he hated! The fish could come and eat him, Siddhartha the dog, the deluded, the decayed and putrid body and the flaccid and abused soul! The fish and the crocodiles could come and eat him, the demons could dismember him!
His face distorted into a scowl he stared into the water, saw his distorted face mirrored back at him, and he spat at it. Deep in tiredness he loosened his arm from the tree trunk and twisted round slightly so that he would fall vertically and finally go under. With eyes closed he sank down to meet his death.
From some distant place his soul began to twitch, from some time past in his tired life came a sound. It was one word, one syllable which he uttered to himself without a thought and with voice that mumbled, the ancient word that formed the beginning and the end of any brahmanist prayer, the holy word “OM”, meaning “perfection” or “completion.” And at the moment when the sound of “Om” touched Siddhartha’s ear his dormant spirit suddenly awoke and saw the folly of what he was doing.
Siddhartha was deeply shocked. So this was the state he had come to, this was how lost he was, how confused. He was so forsaken by any kind of wisdom that he was able to seek death, that this whim, this childish whim, could have grown within him: to find peace by extinguishing his body! All that he had recently suffered, all the disillusionment, all the doubts, none of these things had the effect on him that Om had at that moment as it entered his consciousness: and he became able to see his misery and his folly.
Om! he said to himself: Om! And he knew of Brahman, knew that life could not be destroyed, knew once more everything about the divine that he had forgotten.
All this, however, lasted for just one moment, just a flash. Siddhartha sank down at the foot of the coconut tree, lay down exhausted, and muttering Om he laid his head on the root of the tree and sank into a deep sleep.
Deep was his sleep and free of dreams, he had not known sleep like this for a long time. Many hours later when he woke it seemed to him that ten years had gone by, he heard the gentle flow of the water, did not know where he was or who had brought him there, abruptly he opened his eyes and was amazed to see trees and the sky above him, and then he remembered where he was and how he had arrived there. This process took a long time, though, and the past seemed to him to have had a veil thrown over it, it was infinitely far, it lay at infinite distance, infinitely meaningless. He knew only that his previous life (at first as he came back to his senses, this previous life seemed like something lying long in the past, an earlier incarnation, an early birth of his present self), that his previous life was something he had left behind, that, full of disgust and misery, he had even wanted to throw his life away, that instead he had regained consciousness at the side of a river under a coconut tree with the holy word Om on his lips, that he had then slept and now had woken and he looked at the world as a new person. Quietly, he spoke the word Om to himself, as he had done while he was falling asleep, and it seemed that all the time that he had been asleep had been nothing but a long immersion into saying Om, into thinking Om, a submersion and envelopment in Om, in the nameless, in the perfect.
It had been such a wonderful sleep! Sleeping had never before left him so refreshed, so renewed, so rejuvenated! Could it be that he really had died, had gone under and now been reborn in a new form? No, he knew himself, he knew his hand and his feet, knew the play where he lay, knew this self in his breast, this Siddhartha, the headstrong, the odd, this Siddhartha however was transformed, renewed, he had slept remarkably well and now he was remarkably alert, joyful and inquisitive.
Siddhartha sat up straight and saw a man facing him, a strange man, a monk in yellow robes with shaven head and in a position of meditation. He looked at the man, who had hair neither on his head nor his face, and he had not looked at him for long before he saw that this monk was Govinda, his childhood friend, Govinda who had taken refuge with the noble Buddha. Govinda had changed, just as he had, but he still bore the old features in his face that spoke of zeal, of loyalty, of searching, of fastidiousness. Govinda felt now that Siddhartha was watching him, opened his eyes and returned his gaze. Siddhartha saw that Govinda did not recognise him. Govinda was glad to see that he had woken, he had clearly long been sitting here waiting for him to wake even though he did not know him.
“I have been sleeping,” said Siddhartha. “What has brought you here?”
“You have been sleeping,” Govinda answered. “It is not good to sleep in places such as this where there are many snakes and where the beasts of the forest follow their paths. I, sir, am a follower of the noble Gotama, of the buddha, of the Sakyamuni, and when I and a number of members of our movement were travelling along this path in pilgrimage I saw you lying there asleep in a place where to sleep is dangerous. I therefore tried to wake you, sir, and as I saw that your sleep was very deep I remained behind my colleagues and sat beside you. And then, it seems, I fell asleep myself despite my wish to watch over you as you slept. I performed my task badly, tiredness overcame me. But now, now that you are awake, please allow me to leave you and catch up with my brothers.”
“Thank you for watching over my sleep, samana,” said Siddhartha. “You followers of the noble one are helpful. You are free to go.”
“I will go, sir. May you always fare well.”
“Thank you, samana.”
Govinda made the gesture of greeting and said, “Farewell.”
“Farewell, Govinda,” said Siddhartha.
The monk remained where he was.
“Sir, may I ask how you know my name?”
Siddhartha smiled.
“I know you, Govinda, I know you from your father’s hut and from the brahmins’ school, I know you from the sacrifices we performed and from our journey to join the samanas, I know you from that time when, in the grove of Jetavana, you took refuge with the noble one.”
“You are Siddhartha!” exclaimed Govinda out loud. “Now I recognise you, and I cannot understand why I did not recognise immediately. Welcome, Siddhartha, it is a great joy for me to see you again.”
“And it is a great joy for me too to see you. It was you who watched over me as I slept, and I thank you again for it, although I had no need of anyone to do so. Where are you going, my friend?”
“I am not going anywhere. We monks are always travelling, except in the rainy season, we always move from place to place, we live according to our rules, we spread out teachings, accept alms and then we move on. It is always so. But you, Siddhartha, where are you going?”
Siddhartha said, “It is the same with me as with you, my friend. I am not going anywhere. I am simply travelling. I am on a pilgrimage.”
Govinda said, “You say you are on a pilgrimage, and I believe you. But, Siddhartha forgive me, you do not look like a pilgrim. You wear the clothes of a rich man, you wear the shoes of a man of elegance, your hair smells of scented water and it is not the hair of a pilgrim, not the hair of a samana.”
“Yes, my friend, well observed, your sharp eye sees everything. But I did not tell you I am a samana. I said I am on a pilgrimage, and that is what I am, on a pilgrimage.”
“You are on a pilgrimage,” said Govinda. “I have been going on pilgrimage for many years, but I have never come across a pilgrim like this. There are not many who go on pilgrimage in clothes like this, or in shoes like this or with hair like this.”
“I believe you, my friend. But now, today, you have just a pilgrim like this, in shoes like this, with clothes like this. Remember this, my friend: The world of forms is transitory, our clothes are highly transitory, just like the way we have our hair and the hair itself and our bodies themselves. I am wearing the clothes of a rich man, you are quite right about what you have seen. I am wearing them because I was a rich man, and my hair is like the hair of a libertine or men of the world, because I was a libertine and a man of the world.”
“And now, Siddhartha, what are you now?”
“I do not know, I do not know it any more than you do. I am on a journey. I was a rich man and now I am not; and nor do I know what I will be tomorrow.”
“Did you lose all your riches?”
“I lost them, or they lost me. I no longer have them. The wheel of forms spins fast, Govinda. Where is Siddhartha the brahmin? Where is Siddhartha the samana. Where is the wealth of Siddhartha? Things that are transitory change fast, Govinda, you know that.”
Govinda stared long at his childhood friend, his eyes full of doubt. Then, using words that were very polite, he said goodbye and went on his way.
With a smile on his face, Siddhartha watched him as he went, he loved him still, faithful Govinda, conscientious Govinda. And how, at that moment, at that magnificent time after such a wonderful sleep permeated with Om, how could he not have loved someone and something? This was the very magic that had taken place in him by the power of Om while he was sleeping, he loved everything, he was filled with joyful love for everything he saw. It was also the reason, it seemed to him now, why he had earlier been very ill and unable to love anything or anyone.
With a smile on his face, Siddhartha watched the monk as he went. He felt much stronger after his sleep, but he was nonetheless painfully hungry as he had not eaten for two days and the time was long past when he had been hardened against hunger. With some sorrow, but also with laughter, he thought about that time. In those days, he remembered, he had boasted of three things to Kamala, three noble and invincible arts that he had mastered: fasting, waiting, thinking. These were his possessions, his power and his skill, his firm and trusty staff, these three arts were what he had learned in the hard-working and arduous years of his youth, these and no others. And now he had abandoned them, not one of them was in his possession any longer, not fasting, not waiting, not thinking. He had thrown them away for the most miserable of desires, for the most short-lived, for sensual pleasure, for affluence, for riches! They had rarely done him any good. And now, it seemed, he really had become one of the childlike people.
Siddhartha thought about his position. Thinking came hard to him, there was nothing in him that wanted to do it, but he forced himself.
Now, he thought, as all these transitory things have slipped away from me, now I stand here under the sun again as I did before when I was a small child, there is nothing that belongs to me, there is nothing I can do, nothing I am capable of doing, there is nothing I have learnt. This is wonderful! Now, when I am no longer young, when my hair is already half-grey, when my strength is beginning to fade, now is the time for me to start again from the beginning and be a child again! His fortunes had indeed been odd! He had been on a downward path and now he stood in the world once again penniless and naked and stupid. But he was unable to feel any concern about this, no, he even felt a strong urge to laugh, to laugh at himself, to laugh at this bizarre, ridiculous world.
“You’re on a downward path!” he said to himself, and laughed about it, and as he spoke his glance fell on the river, and he saw that the river was on a downward path too, always migrating downwards and, as it did so, it sang and was gay. He found that very pleasing, and he gave the river a friendly smile. Was this not the river in which he had wanted to drown himself, some time in the past, a hundred years ago, or had he dreamt it?
My life truly has been wonderful, he thought, wonderful are the varied courses it has taken. As a boy I had nothing to do with anything but the gods and making sacrifices to them. As an adolescent I had nothing to do with anything but asceticism, with thinking and meditation, I sought to find Brahman, venerated the eternal in Atman. As a young man, though, I followed the path of penitence, lived in the forest, suffered heat and frost, learnt to hunger, taught my body to die away. It was wonderful when, at that time, knowledge came to me through the teachings of the great buddha, I felt knowledge of the unity of the world, felt it flow within me like my own blood. But I had to go on my way even from the buddha and that great knowledge. I went on and learnt the joy of love from Kamala, learned business skills from Kamaswami, accumulated money, wasted money, learned to love my stomach, learned to flatter my senses. It took me many years to lose my spirit, to lose the ability to think, to forget unity. Is it not so, that I went slowly and by circuitous routes from being a man to being a child, from a thinking being to a childlike being? This was a very good way, though, and the bird within my breast did not die. But what a way it was! There was so much stupidity, so much vice, so much folly, so much disgust and disappointment and misery that I had to go through before simply becoming a child again and to be able to start anew. But it was the right way, my heart tells me yes, my eyes laugh about it. I had to experience doubt, I had to sink down to that most foolish of thoughts, the thought of suicide, before I could experience mercy, before I could hear Om again, before I could sleep properly again and before I could wake properly again. I had to become a fool before I could find Atman within myself again. I had to commit sin before I could live again. Where will my path lead me from here? This is a foolish path, it goes round in loops, perhaps it goes round in circles. Whichever way it chooses to go, I will follow it.
In his breast he felt a surge of wonderful joy.
Where from then, he asked his heart, where from do you have this gaiety? Could it be that it comes from that long and wholesome sleep that did me so much good? Or from the word Om that I spoke? Or could it be because I have escaped, that my flight is completed, that I am at last free again and stand once more under the sky as a child? I have escaped, I have become free, and it is so good! How pure and lovely the air is here, how good to breathe it! There, the place whence I escaped, everything smelt of ointment, of spices, of wine, of excess, of lethargy. How I hated this world of the rich, of the world of luxury, the world of gamblers! How I hated myself for staying so long in this dreadful world! How I hated myself, robbed myself, poisoned and tortured myself, how I made myself old and bad tempered! No, I will never again delude myself, as I so much used to like doing, never again think that Siddhartha is a wise man! But this is something it was right to do, this is something that pleases me, this is something for which I should praise myself, that I have put an end to this self-hatred, to this life of folly and barrenness! I praise you, Siddhartha, after so many years of folly you have once again had an idea, you have done something, you have heard the bird singing in your breast and you have followed him!
Thus he praised himself, had pleasure in himself, listened with curiosity to his stomach, which was rumbling with hunger. In the last few days, he felt, he had tasted pain, he had tasted sorrow, he had tasted them completely and thoroughly, he had eaten them totally to the point of doubt and of death and then he had spat them out. It was good, so. He could have remained much longer with Kamaswami, making money, wasting money, filling his belly and letting his soul go thirsty, he could have lived much longer in this soft, well-cushioned Hell if this had not happened: that moment of perfect doubt and despair, that moment when he was at such an extreme that he hung over the flowing water and was ready to destroy himself. He had felt doubts and the deepest disgust but had not succumbed to them, the bird within him that was his voice and his source of gaiety was still living, and this filled him with joy, this brought him to laughter, this made his face, under his grey hair, beam.
“It is good,” he thought, “to experience everything you need to know yourself. I learned as a child that wealth and worldly pleasures are not good. It is something that I have long known but only now experienced. And now I know it, I know it not only in my thoughts but with my eyes, with my heart, with my stomach. It is good for me that I know it!”
He thought long about his transformation, he listened to the bird as it sang for joy. Had this bird within him not died, had he not felt its death? No, it was something else within him that had died, something that had long been yearning for death. Was it not this that in his earlier years of fervent penitence he had wanted to kill off? Was it not his Self, his petty, anxious and proud Self, that he had struggled against for so many years that found victory over him again and again, that reappeared each time he killed it off, each time he forbade himself pleasure, each time he was afraid? Was it not this that today had finally found its death, here in the woods by this lovely river? Was it not because of this death that he was now like a child, so full of trust, so without fear, so full of joy?
Siddhartha now also began to understand why his efforts against this Self were in vain when he was a brahmin, when he was a penitent. He had been hindered by too much knowledge, too much of the holy verses, too many rules of sacrifice, too much castigation, too much doing and too much striving! He had been full of pride, he had been always the cleverest, always the keenest, always one step ahead of the others, always the one who knew, the one who was spiritual, always the priest or the wise man. His Self had crept into this priesthood, into this pride, into this spirituality, it sat firmly there and grew while Siddhartha thought he was destroying it with fasting and penitence. Now he could see it, and he saw that the secret voice had been right, that no teacher could ever have removed this Self. That is why he had had to go out into the world, to lose himself in fun and power and women and money, had had to be a businessman, a gambler, a drinker and to be greedy, till the priest and the samana within him were dead. That is why he had had to continue to endure these years of loathsomeness, to bear the disgust, the emptiness, the meaninglessness, of a life that was lost and barren, right till the end, till the bitter doubt, till Siddhartha the sybarite, Siddhartha the greedy, was even ready to die. He did die, a new Siddhartha awoke from that sleep. Even he would grow old, even he would have to die one day, Siddhartha was impermanent, every form was impermanent. But today he was young, he was a child, and the new Siddhartha was full of joy.
These were his thoughts, he listened with a smile to his stomach, listened with gratitude to a buzzing bee. He looked happily into the river as it flowed, water had never been to pleasing to him as this water, he had never been so strongly aware of the beauty of water, of its voice, of what it represents. The river seemed to have something special to say to him, something he still did not know, something still waiting for him. This was the river where Siddhartha had wanted to drown himself, this was the river where the old, tired, doubting Siddhartha today had drowned. But the new Siddhartha felt profound love for this rushing water and he promised himself never again to be so rash in leaving it.