THE SON
At his mother’s funeral the boy was shy and tearful, Siddhartha greeted him as his son and told him he was welcome in Vasudeva’s hut and he was shy and gloomy as he listened. With pale face he sat all day on the hill of the dead, refused to eat, refused to look, refused to open his heart, struggled to defend himself against fate.
Siddhartha had respect for his grief and did nothing to change his behaviour. He understood that his son did not know him and could not love him as a father. Slowly, he also saw and understood that the eleven year old was spoilt, a mummy’s boy, as he grew he had become used to riches and fancy food, to a soft bed and to giving orders to servants. Siddhartha understood that, spoilt and grieving as the boy was, he would not become content with poverty in a strange place either quickly or with good grace. He did not force him, he did many jobs for him, always found the daintiest food for him. He hoped he could slowly win him over by friendliness and patience.
He had counted himself rich and happy when the lad came to him. But time flowed by and the boy continued to be alien and gloomy, he showed a heart that was proud and truculent, wanted to do no work, showed no respect for his elders, robbed Vasudeva of the fruit on his trees, and so Siddhartha began to understand that it was not peace and happiness that the boy had brought with him but sorrow and worries. But Siddhartha loved him, and he preferred the sorrow and worries of love over the happiness he had enjoyed without the boy. Since the young Siddhartha had been in the hut the two old men had taken on separate tasks. Vasudeva had once more taken on the office of ferryman by himself and, in order to be with his son, it was Siddhartha who did the work in the hut and the fields.
Siddhartha waited long, through many months, for his son to understand him, for him to accept his love, for him perhaps to return it. Vasudeva waited long, while he watched and waited and said nothing. One day though, when the lad had again made his father suffer with his disobedience and bad humour and had broken both rice dishes, Vasudeva took his friend aside when evening had come and spoke to him.
“Please forgive me,” he said, “if I say something to you, as I do so with a friendly heart. I see that you are suffering, I see that you are worrying. Your son, my friend, is causing you worries and he is causing me worries too.”
“He is used to a different life, he is a young bird used to a different nest. He did not run away from wealth and the city in weary disgust as you did, he was made to leave all this behind him against his will. I have asked the river, my friend, I have asked him many times. But the river laughs at me, he laughs at both of us and shakes his head at our folly. Water will be water, boys will be boys, your son is not in a place where he can flourish. You too should ask the river, you too should listen to what he says!”
Siddhartha looked anxiously at the friendly face which showed, in the many wrinkles it bore, that it was the home of constant cheerfulness.
“Do you think, then, that I would be able to separate myself from him?” he said gently, with some shame. “Allow me some time, my friend! Look, I am struggling for him, I am trying to win his heart, I am trying to gain it with love and with friendly patience. And one day the river will speak also to him, he also has a calling.”
Vasudeva’s smile became warmer. “Oh yes, he also has a calling, he also is part of the eternal life. But do we know, you and I, what it is that he is called to, what path, what acts, what sufferings? His sufferings will not be light, he has a heart that is proud and hard, such as he must suffer greatly, make many mistakes, commit many injustices, burden themselves with many sins. Tell me, my friend; are you not bringing your son up? Do you not compel him to do what he does not want to do? Do you not strike him? Do you not punish him?”