“Yes, I will give you a kiss, if I like the poem. What is the title of this poem then?”
Siddhartha thought about it for a moment, and then he spoke these verses:
The shadowy grove where went the lovely Kamala,
The entrance there, where stood the brown-skin’d samana,
There bowed he deep, he saw the lotus flower,
And Kamala thanked him with smiles and graciousness.
‘Tis lovely, thought he, to offer praise to gods,
‘Tis lovelier still to sacrifice all for her.
The lovely Kamala clapped her bangled hands.
“Your verses are lovely, brown samana, and indeed I have nothing to lose if I let you have a kiss for them.”
With a gesture of her eyes she drew him to herself, he leant his face to hers and put his mouth on her mouth, which was like a fig newly broken open. Kamala’s kiss was long, and Siddhartha felt deep astonishment at how she taught him, at how wise she was, at how she mastered him, pushed him away and drew him back, and at how this first kiss would be followed by many more, a long, well ordered, well-tested series of kisses, each of them different from the last, that awaited him. He remained standing, breathing deeply, and at that moment he was amazed at the fullness of knowledge, the fullness of things worth knowing, that promised themselves to him in front of his eyes.
“Your verses are lovely,” Kamala declared, “if I were rich I would give you a piece of gold for them. Though you will find it very hard to gather as much money as you need by making up verses. You will, after all, need such a lot of money if you want to be the friend of Kamala.”
“Th..the way you kiss, Kamala!” Siddhartha stammered.
“Yes, I am good at that, aren’t I. That is why I am never short of clothes and shoes and jewelry and all those nice things. But what will become of you? Can you think of nothing else but thinking and fasting and making up verses?”
“I know the songs for performing sacrifice, too,” said Siddhartha, “though I no longer wish to sing them. I know magic spells, too, though I no longer wish to cast them. I have read the scriptures ...”
“Stop,” Kamala interrupted him. “You can read? And write?”