Siddhartha: A Poem of India

by Hermann Hesse

Govinda listened with joy and wanted to put many questions and to hear more. But Siddhartha urged that they should go on their way. They said thank you and left, and had hardly any need to ask the way for many pilgrims were on their way to Jetavana, as well as monks from Gotama’s community. They arrived there in the night time, there was a continuous flow of visitors arriving, calling to each other, talking about who was looking for shelter and who had found it. The two samanas, used to life in the woods, found a place to rest quickly and quietly and remained there till morning.

When the sun rose they were astonished to see the size of the crowd, believers or the curious, who had spent the night here. Monks in their yellow robes wandered along all the paths of the beautiful grove, here and there under the trees sat people deep in meditation or engaged in spiritual discussion. The shady garden was like a city, full of people swarming like bees. Most of the monks were leaving with their begging bowls in order to collect food for midday, when they would have their only meal of the day. Even the buddha himself, the enlightened one, made a habit of going out to beg each morning.

Siddhartha saw him, and as quickly as if he had been pointed out by a god, he knew who it was. He saw him, a slight man in a yellow cloak, making his quiet way with his begging bowl in his hand.

“Govinda, look!” whispered Siddhartha. “Just there, that is the buddha.”

Govinda stared at the monk in the yellow robe, indistinguishable from the hundreds of other monks there. And soon Govinda could see it too: it was him. And they followed him and kept him in their sight.

The buddha followed his path with humility and deep in thought, the peaceful expression on his face was neither gay nor sad, it seemed to show a gentle inward contentment. With a hidden smile, quiet, peaceful, not unlike a healthy child, the buddha wandered on, wearing his robes and placing his feet in the same way as all his monks, in the way that was prescribed. But his face, his gait, his quiet lowered eyes, his hands hanging quietly from his arms, and even every finger on his quietly hanging hands spoke of peace, spoke of perfection, sought nothing, copied nothing, breathed gently with a peace that could not fade, in a light that could not fade, a peace that could not be touched.

So, Gotama walked on slowly towards the town where he would gather alms, and the two samanas knew him simply from the perfection of his peace, the stillness of his form where no searching, no desire, no imitation, no striving could be seen, only light and peace.

“Today, we will hear the teachings from his own mouth,” said Govinda.

Siddhartha made no answer. He had less curiosity about the teachings, he did not believe they would teach him anything new, even though, like Govinda, he had heard many times about what the teachings of this buddha contained, albeit from the reports he had heard at second or third hand. But he looked attentively at Gotama’s head, at his shoulders, at his feet, at his hand as it hung there without moving, and it seemed to him that every part of every finger of that hand held a lesson, spoke, breathed, was fragrant and shone with truth. This man, this buddha, was truthful down to every movement of every finger. This man was holy. Siddhartha had never felt such veneration for anyone, he had never loved anyone as much as this man.

The two of them followed the buddha into the town and then they quietly turned back, as they too hoped to obtain food for themselves before the end of day. They saw Gotama as he too came back, saw him surrounded by his followers as they took their meal - what he ate was not enough to feed a bird - and they saw him withdraw into the shade of the mango trees.