In low spirits, Siddhartha betook himself to one of the pleasure gardens he owned, he locked the gate, sat down under a mango tree, felt the death in his heart and bleakness in his heart, he sat and felt how something in him was dying, wilting, coming to its end. Gradually he gathered his thoughts together and, in his mind, walked once more along the whole of his life’s path, beginning at the first day when he was able to think. When was it that he had ever been happy, felt any real joy? Oh yes, he had experienced these things many times. He had tasted that joy when, as a boy, he had been praised by the brahmins and he felt it in his heart, “There is a path that follows from recitation of holy scripture, from argument with the learned ones, from excelling when assisting in the performance of sacrifice,” Then, what he felt in his heart was, “There is a path for you to follow, the path to which you are called, the gods are expecting you.” And again when he was a young man because his thoughts rose ever higher, they tore out and away from the commonplace many who had the same objectives, because he was in accord with the sufferings and the meanings of Brahman, because when he attained new wisdom it would only arouse thirst for more knowledge, because, held in this thirst, held in the pain of this self, he had always again felt, “Forward! Forward! You have received the call!” He had accepted this call when he left home and chose the life of a samana, and again when he left the samanas and sought the path of perfection, although that was also a path into the unknown. How long was it, now, that he had not heard that voice, how long was it since he had attained any new heights, how level and barren had his path become? It had been many years, years without any higher objective, no thirsting, no rising, content with petty pleasures and nonetheless never satisfied! Throughout all these years, without knowing it himself, he had striven to be a person like these masses, he had longed for it, to be like these children and in the process had made a life for himself that was much more poor and miserable than theirs, for their objectives were not his objectives, nor were their worries his worries, all this world of people like Kamaswami had been just a game for him, a dance to be looked at, a comedy. Kamala alone was dear to him, was something he valued - but was she still? Did he still need him, or he her? Were they not playing a game without end? Was it necessary to live a life for that? No, it was not necessary? The name of this game was sansara, a children’s game, a game that it was good to play one, twice, ten times - but over and over again?
Then Siddhartha came to see that the game was at its end, that he was no longer able to play it. A shudder ran down his body, in his innermost parts, as he felt that something had died.
All that day he sat under the mango tree thinking of his father, thinking of Govinda, thinking of Gotama. Had he really had to leave these people and become a Kamaswami? He still sat there as night began to fall. When looked up and saw the stars he thought, “Here I am, sitting under my own mango tree, in my own pleasure garden.” A faint smile came to his face - was it necessary, then, was it proper, was it not a foolish game to be the owner of a mango tree, to be the owner of a garden?
He put an end to this too, this too died within him. He rose, took his leave of the mango tree, took his leave of the pleasure garden. He had not eaten all day and so felt very hungry, he thought of his house in the city, of his chambers there and his bed, he thought of the table laden with food. With a weary smile he shook his head and took his leave of these things.
There and then, at that hour of the night, Siddhartha left his garden, left the city and never returned to them. Kamaswami had his servants search long for him, he thought he had fallen into the hands of bandits. Kamala did not send anyone to search for him. She was not surprised when she heard of Siddhartha’s disappearance. Was it not something she had always expected? Was he not a samana, a pilgrim without a home? And she had felt it most of all when she was last with him, and deep within her pain at losing him she was glad, glad that she had drawn him so deep into her heart that last time she saw him, glad that she had once more felt so entirely possessed and pervaded by him.
When she first received the news of Siddhartha’s disappearance she crossed to the window, where she kept a rare songbird captive in a golden cage. She opened the door of the cage, took the bird out and let him fly away. She looked long after him as he flew. From that day on she received no more visitors and kept her house closed. But some while later she became aware that her last meeting with Siddhartha had left her pregnant.
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.