Her eyes became erratic and fell shut. The boy wept, Siddhartha took him on his knee, let him cry, stroked his hair and, as he looked at the child’s face, a brahmanic prayer that he had once learned came to his mind, one that he had learned when he himself was a lad. Slowly, with melodic voice, he began to say it, the words flowed into him from the past, from his childhood. Affected by his sing-song the boy became quiet, sobbed now and then, and then fell asleep. Siddhartha put him down on Vasudeva’s bed. Vasudeva stood at the stove cooking rice. Siddhartha threw him a glance which he returned with a smile.
“She’s dying,” said Siddhartha quietly.
Vasudeva nodded, the light of the fire in the stove ran over his friendly face.
Kamala became conscious once again. Her face was twisted with pain, Siddhartha’s eye could read the pain on her mouth, on her pale cheeks. He read it in silence, watching, waiting, immersed in her suffering. Kamala felt it, her eyes sought his.
Looking at him, she said, “I can see, now, that your eyes have changed. They have become quite different. How is it that I can still see that you are Siddhartha? You are Siddhartha, yet you are not.”
Siddhartha said nothing, his eyes looked into hers in silence.
“Have you achieved it?” she asked. “Have you found peace?”
He smiled, and laid his hand on hers.
“I can see it,” she said, “I can see it. I will find peace too.”
“You have found peace,” said Siddhartha in a whisper.