As Siddhartha neared the end of his story, though, as he spoke of the tree at the riverside and of the depth of his fall, of the holy Om and of how he felt such love for the river when he woke from his sleep, then the ferryman listened with twice as much attention, totally devoted to it with his eyes shut.
But when Siddhartha became silent and there was a long period of stillness, Vasudeva said, “It is just as I thought. The river spoke to you. He is the friend of you also, he speaks to you also. That is good, that is very good. Stay with me, Siddhartha my friend. I had a wife once, her place was next to mine, but it is long since she died, I have lived long alone. Now you live with me, there is room here and there is food here for both of us.”
“I thank you,” said Siddhartha, “I thank you and I accept. And I also thank you, Vasudeva, for being such a good listener! There are few people who know how to listen. And I have never come across anyone who could do it as well as you. This is something else that I shall be learning from you.”
“You will learn,” said Vasudeva, “but not from me. It is the river that taught me how to listen, and he will teach you too. He knows everything, the river, there is nothing you cannot learn from him. Look, this is something else that you have already learned from the river, that it is good to strive to go down, to sink, to seek out the depths. The rich and courtly Siddhartha will become an apprentice oarsman, the learned brahmin Siddhartha will become a ferryman: this is something else that the river has told you. And there is more that you will learn from him.”
There was a long pause, and Siddhartha said, “What more, Vasudeva?”
Vasudeva stood up. “It is getting late,” he said, “let us go to bed. I cannot tell you what more, my friend. You will learn, perhaps you even know it already. I am not a learned man, you see, I do not know how to give speeches, I do not know how to think. All I know how to do is listening and saying my prayers, there is nothing else I have learned how to do. If I could explain it to you and give lessons then that might mean I am a wise man, but as it is I am just a ferryman and it is my job to take people across this river. It could have been thousands that I have taken across and all that my river has ever been to them is something that has gotten in the way on their journey. They have been travelling for the sake of money or business, going to weddings, going on a pilgrimage, and the river was in their way and the ferryman was there so that they could get past that thing in their way as soon as possible. Some of those thousands though, some of them, though not many, four or five of them, for some of them the river stopped being just something in their way, they heard his voice, they listened to him, and the river became something holy for them, just like he has for me. Now let us go and take our rest, Siddhartha.”
Siddhartha remained with the ferryman and learned how to operate the boat, and when there was no ferry work to do he would work with Vasudeva in the rice field, gathering wood, picking the fruits of the plantain trees. He learned how to make an oar and how to repair the boat, he learned how to weave a basket and he was happy at all that he had learned and the days and the months passed quickly. The river, though, taught him more than Vasudeva was able to. He learned from it without cease. Most of all he learned from the river how to listen, to pay attention with a quiet heart, with a patient and open soul, without passion, without desire, without judgement, without opinion.
He lived in friendly proximity with Vasudeva, and they would now and then exchange a few words, a few words which had long been considered. Vasudeva was not a friend of words, it was rare for Siddhartha to move him to speak.
“Have you,” he once asked him, “have you also learned from the river the secret that there is no time?”|
A bright smile spread over Vasudeva’s face.