At this time Siddhartha thought a great deal about the wise man as he was dying, about the great teacher whose voice had admonished and who had brought hundreds of thousands to an awakening, whose voice he too had learned from and whose holy face he too had once looked on with veneration. He thought of him with kindness, saw his way to perfection before his eyes and, with a smile, thought of the words which he once, as a young man, had put to him, the noble one. Those words now seemed proud and arrogant to him, and he remembered them with a smile. He had long known that there was nothing that made him different from Gotama, though he was not able to accept his teachings. No, a true seeker would never be able to accept any teachings, not if he truly wanted to find what he sought. But he who has found what he sought would find goodness in any teachings at all, any path, any objective, he would be in no way different from the thousands of others who lived in eternity, who breathed in the breath of the divine.
One of those days, when there were so many making pilgrimage to the dying buddha, Kamala, who had once been the most beautiful of the courtesans, also made pilgrimage to him. She had long since withdrawn from her earlier way of life, had given her garden to Gotama’s monks, had sought refuge in his teachings, was one of the friends and benefactors of pilgrims. Together with her son, Siddhartha, she had heard news of Gotama’s impending death and set out, on foot and in simple clothes, on her way to him. She was on her way with her little son along the river: but the lad soon became tired, he wanted to go back home, he wanted to rest, he wanted something to eat, he became difficult and whining.
Kamala was frequently obliged to rest with him, he was used to imposing his will on her, she had to feed him, had to comfort him, had to discipline him. The boy was unable to understand why he had to go on this sad and arduous pilgrimage with his mother, to go to a place he did not know about, to go to a strange man who was something holy and who lay dying. So let him die! Why should it matter to him?
The pilgrims were not far from Vasudeva’s ferry when young Siddhartha once more insisted he and his mother should stop and rest. Kamala, too, was tired and while the lad munched on a banana she sank to the ground and, with eyes half closed, rested. Suddenly though, she gave out a piercing scream, the boy looked at her in shock and saw her face pale with horror as out from her dress emerged a small black snake which had just bitten her.
The two of them now ran along the path to reach people as soon as they could and were near the ferry crossing when Kamala collapsed, unable to go any further. But the lad raised a pitiful cry as he kissed and embraced his mother, who added her own voice to the boy’s loud calls for help. The sound reached the ears of Vasudeva as he stood by the ferry and he hurried to Kamala and her son. He took the woman by the arm and carried her into the boat, the boy also ran in, and they were all soon in the hut where Siddhartha stood at the stove, lighting the fire. He looked up and saw, first of all, the face of the boy which reminded him, in a way that was both wonderful and reproachful, of something he had forgotten. Then he saw Kamala. He recognised her immediately even though she lay unconscious in the arms of the ferryman, and now he realised that it was the face of his own son that had so reproached him, and his heart moved within his breast.
Kamala’s wound was washed, but was already black and her body was swollen, a healing drink was poured into her. Consciousness returned to her as she lay on Siddhartha’s bed in the hut, Siddhartha leant over her, he who had once had such earnest love for her. She thought she was dreaming, and, with a smile, looked into the face of her friend, slowly began to realise where she was, remembered the snake bite, and called out anxiously for the boy.
“He is with you. You need not worry,” said Siddhartha.
Kamala looked into his eyes. She spoke with a heavy tongue, made clumsy by the venom. “You have grown old, my love,” she said, “you have gone grey. But you are just like the young samana who once came to me in the garden with no clothes and with dusty feet. You are much more like him than you were then for you have gone away from me and Kamaswami. In your eyes you are just like him, Siddhartha. Oh, I too have grown old, old - did you still recognise me?”
Siddhartha smiled. “I recognised you immediately, Kamala, my love.”
Kamala pointed to her boy and said, “Did you recognise him, too? He is your son.”