“I am not joking, my friend. Listen, you have once before carried me across the water in your boat and you did it for the love of God. Do the same today, and accept my clothes in return.”
“Does the gentleman mean to continue his journey without clothes?”
“Oh, most of all I would like not to continue my journey at all. Most of all, ferryman, I would like you to give me an old loincloth and take me on as your assistant, or rather as your apprentice, for I would need first to learn how to handle the boat.”
The ferryman stared long and quizzically at the stranger.
“Now I recognise you,” he said at last. “You slept in my hut once, that was long ago, it must be more than twenty years, you were taken over the river by me and we took leave of each other as good friends. Were you not a samana? I can’t think what your name is any more.”
“My name is Siddhartha, and I was a samana the last time you saw me.”
“Welcome, Siddhartha. My name is Vasudeva. I hope you will again be my guest today and sleep in my hut and tell me all about where you have come from and why your fine clothes are such a burden to you.”
They had reached the middle of the river and Vasudeva pulled harder on the oars in order to overcome the current. He worked quietly with his powerful arms and with his eye on the bow. Siddhartha sat and watched him and remembered how, once before, in the last days of his time as a samana, love for this man had arisen in his heart. He accepted Vasudeva’s invitation with gratitude. When they reached the bank Siddhartha helped him to tether the boat and the ferryman invited him into the hut where he offered him bread and water, and Siddhartha ate hungrily, and he ate hungrily of the mangoes that Vasudeva offered him.
The sun had begun to set, and they went to sit on a tree trunk at the side of the river where Siddhartha told the ferryman about where he was from and what his life had been, about how he had seen it before his eyes that day in his moment of doubt. His story continued late into the night.
Vasudeva listened with great attention. He took in all that he heard, his origin and childhood, all that learning, all that seeking, all that joy, all that suffering. This was one of the ferryman’s greatest virtues: few knew how to listen as well as he. Vasudeva would not say a word, but the speaker would sense how he allowed the words to enter into him, quiet, open, patient, never losing a word, never waiting impatiently for a word, never offering praise nor censure, simply listening. Siddhartha was aware of what good fortune it was to have the company of a listener such as this, one into whose heart he could sink his own life, his own searchings, his own sorrows.