For suddenly there was something else that had become clear to him: He, who had in fact become like one awoken or newly born, he would have to start his life anew and from its very beginning. That very morning, as he left the grove of Jetavana, the grove of the noble one, already awaking, already on the way to himself, it was his intention, an intention that seemed to be natural and a matter of course, that he would bring his years of living as an ascetic to an end and return home to his father. But now, only now at this moment when he stopped walking as if a snake lay on the path in front of him, he awoke also to this insight: I am no longer the person I once was, I am no longer an ascetic, I am no longer a priest, I am no longer a brahmin. So what should I do if I go back home to my father? Study? Perform sacrifices? Cultivate meditation? These things are all in the past, these things no longer lie before me on my way.
Siddhartha stood there motionless, and for one moment, for one intake of breath, his heart remained frozen, he felt it freezing in his breast inside him like a small animal, a bird or a hare, as he saw how alone he was. For many years he had been without a home and had not felt it. Now he did feel it. Until now, even when immersed in the deepest meditation, he had been his father’s son, a brahmin, a man of high status, a spiritual man. Now he was merely Siddhartha, the awoken one, nothing more. He drew in a deep breath, and for a moment he froze and shuddered. No-one was as alone as he was. No nobleman who did not belong among noblemen, no handworker who did not belong among handworkers but found refuge among them, sharing his life with theirs and speaking their language. No brahmin who did not count as a brahmin and lived among them, no ascetic who found no refuge in his status as a samana, and not even the hermit lost deepest in the woods was single or alone, even he was surrounded by the things he belonged to, even he belonged to a certain condition that made that place his home. Govinda had become a monk and had a thousand monks as his brothers, he wore his robes, believed his beliefs and spoke his language. But he, Siddhartha, where did he belong? Whose life would he share? Whose language would he speak?
From this moment on, when the world around him was melting away, when he stood alone like a star in the sky, from this moment of coldness and despair, Siddhartha always rose up more his self than he had been, more concentrated than he had been. He felt: This was the final spasm of awakening, the last cramp of his birth. And he immediately stepped out again, began to walk quickly and impatiently, no longer going home, no longer going to his father, no longer going back.
PART TWO
Dedicated to Wilhem Gundert, my cousin in Japan.
KAMALA
As Siddhartha went on his way the world was transformed and his heart was enchanted, and with every step he learnt something new. He saw the sun rise above the trees on the mountains and saw it set behind distant palmy beaches. At night he saw the stars ranged across the sky and the crescent moon like a boat swimming in a sea of blue. He saw trees, stars, animals, clouds, rainbows, crags, herbs, flowers, streams and rivers as they flowed, morning dew that glistened in the bushes, lofty mountains blue and pale in the distance, birds and bees both gave their song, the wind blew, soughing in the silver fields of rice. All of this, bright with colour everywhere, had always been there, the sun and moon had always shone, rivers rushed and bees did buzz, but for Siddhartha until then all of this had been nothing but a fleeting and delusory veil before his eyes, something to be mistrusted, something to be pierced and destroyed by the intellect, for it was something that did not exist, for existence lay beyond that which could be seen. But now his eye was free, it lingered on this side of what could be seen, it looked and it acknowledged what could be seen, it sought its home in this world, no longer sought the essence, did not strive for the beyond. Seen in this way, without searching, so simple, so child-like, the world was beautiful. The moon and stars were beautiful, rivers and shores were beautiful, woods and crags, goats and beetles, flowers and butterflies. Beautiful and lovely it was, so to go through the world, so child-like, so awake, so open to the things around him, so without mistrust. The sun burnt on his head differently, the shade of the woods cooled him differently, the streams and ponds tasted differently, marrow and banana tasted differently. The days were short, the nights were short, every hour flew swift away like a sailboat on the water, the sailboat full of treasure, full of joy. Siddhartha saw a troop of monkeys travelling in the branches of the forest canopy, he heard their wild and greedy song. Siddhartha saw a ram pursue the ewe and mating with her. In a lake of reeds he saw the pike pursue his prey to still his evening hunger, the school of young fish who, in fear, rushed anxiously, flapping and flashing above the water, strength and passion forced their scent from the rapid-swirling water, from the fierce tumult worked up by their pursuer.
All these things had always been, and he had not seen them; he had not been with them. Now he was with them, he belonged to them. Light and shade ran through his eyes, through his heart ran star and moon.
On his way Siddhartha also thought about all the things he had experienced in the garden of Jetavana, the teachings he had heard there, the divine buddha, the farewell from Govinda, his conversation with the noble one. He thought again about the words that he had himself said to the noble one, remembered every word, and was astonished to suddenly realise that he had said things he had not known till then. What he had said to Gotama: his own, the buddha’s, treasures and secrets, these were not the teachings, the ineffable was the teaching, something that could not be taught, what he experienced at the moment of his enlightenment - yes, this was the thing that he was now striving for, what he was only now beginning to experience. The thing that he had to experience now for himself. He had probably long known that he was his own Atman, the same eternal essence as Brahman. But it was something he had never really found for himself because he had tried to capture it with the web of thought. The body too, could certainly not be the thing he sought, nor playing games with thinking, not thought, not understanding, not the wisdom that has been learned, not the art that has been learned that allows you to draw conclusions and spin new thoughts from the ones already spun. No, even this world of thoughts was still on this side and it led nowhere to kill the random self of the senses, only to cram the random self full of thoughts and doctrines. Both of them, thoughts and senses, were very beautiful but both of them hid the ultimate sense, both of them were worth listening to, worth playing with, neither should be either despised or over-valued, both of them offered to let you hear the secret voice of the innermost. There was nothing he strove for other than what the voice told him to strive for, nothing he would dwell on other than where the voice told him to dwell. Why had Gotama sat under the bo tree at that moment of moments where enlightenment came upon him? He had heard a voice, a voice in his own heart which told him to seek rest under this tree, he had not chosen rather to mortify his flesh, to perform sacrifice, ablution nor prayer, he had not sought food nor drink nor sleep nor dreams, he had done as the voice told him. This obedience was the one thing needed, not any command from outside himself, just the voice, to be ready, that was good, that was needed, nothing else was needed.
In the night, while he slept by the river in the ferry man’s straw hut, Siddhartha had a dream: Govinda stood before him in the yellow robes of the ascetic. Govinda looked sad, and sadly he asked, “Why have you abandoned me?” At this Siddhartha embraced Govinda, threw his arms around him, and as he drew him to his breast and kissed him it was Govinda no longer, it was a woman, and from the woman’s robe welled out her full breast at which Siddhartha put his mouth and drank, sweet and strong was the taste of the milk from this breast. It tasted of woman and man, of sunshine and forest, of beast and flower, of every fruit, of every joy. It made him drunk and unaware of himself. When Siddhartha woke, the pale river shimmered with light that came in through the door of the hut, and from the forest came the deep, dark, distinct call of an owl.