“No, Vasudeva, I do not do any of those things.”
“I knew it. You do not compel him, you do not strike him, you give him no orders, because you know that softness is stronger than hardness, water stronger than stone, love stronger than violence. That is very good, and I praise you for it. But are you not mistaken in thinking you should not compel him, should not punish him? Do you not bind him in the bondage of your love? Do you not shame him every day, making it more difficult for him with your goodness and patience? Do you not compel this arrogant and spoilt child to live in a hut with a pair of aged banana eaters for whom even rice is a luxury, whose thoughts cannot ever be his thoughts, whose heart is old and quiet and who are following a different path from his? Is all of this not a compulsion on him, not a punishment?”
Siddhartha saw that Vasudeva was right and looked down at the ground. Gently he asked him, “What is it you think I should do?”
Vasudeva said, “Take him to the city, take him to his mother’s house, the servants will still be there, give him over to them. And if there are no servants still there then take him to a teacher, not for the sake of being taught but so that he can have the company of other boys, and of girls, take him into the world which is his world. Have you never thought of that?”
“You have seen into my heart,” said Siddhartha sadly. “I have often thought of doing that. But listen, how should I put him into this world when he does not have a gentle heart as it is? Will he not become extravagant, will he not lose himself in the pursuit of fun and of power, will he not repeat all the errors of his father, might he not become totally lost in sansara?”
The ferryman’s smile shone brightly; he gently touched Siddhartha’s arm and said, “Ask the river about it, my friend! Listen to him laughing about it! Do you really think that you have gone through these follies of yours so that your son would not have to? And can you protect your son from sansara? How? By teaching, by prayer, by admonishment? Dear friend, have you entirely forgotten that story, that story of the well educated brahmin’s son, Siddhartha, that you once told me once on this very spot? Who was it who held Siddhartha the samana back from sansara, from sin, from greed, from folly? The piety of his father, his teachings and his warnings, his own wisdom and his own seekings, were these things able to keep Siddhartha safe? What father, what teacher has been able to protect him from living his own life, from soiling himself with the dirt of life, from taking guilt onto himself, from taking the bitter drink himself, from having to find his path for himself?
“Do you really think, my friend, that there is anyone who is spared this path? Do you think your young son might be spared sorrow and pain and disappointed because you love him and you want to save him from those things? You could die for him ten times over, but you still would not take even the tiniest part of his destiny onto yourself.”
Vasudeva had never spoken so many words before. Siddhartha gave him his friendly thanks, then, feeling anxious, he went into the hut, but was long unable to sleep. Vasudeva had said nothing to him that he had not already thought and known. But it was knowledge that he could not implement, his love for the lad was stronger than that knowledge, his affection was stronger, the fear of losing him was stronger. Had he ever before lost his heart for anything so completely, had he ever loved anyone this much, so blindly, so passionately, so hopelessly and yet so happily?
Siddhartha was not able to follow his friend’s advice, his was not able to give his son up. He allowed the boy to give him orders, he allowed him to show him contempt. He remained silent and waited, every day he would begin the wordless struggle for friendliness, the soundless war of patience. Vasudeva, too, remained silent and waited, with friendship, with understanding, with forbearance. Both of them were masters of patience.
One time, when the boy’s face reminded him especially of Kamala, Siddhartha suddenly remembered something that Kamala, long before had said to him when he was young; she had once said to him, “you are not capable of love,” and he had conceded that she was right. He had been comparing himself with a star, while comparing the childlike people with falling leaves, but he had nonetheless felt an accusation in every word. It was true that he had never been able to entirely lose himself in another person and devote himself to them till he forgot himself, had never undergone the folly of love for another; he had never been capable of it, and it had seemed to him then that that was the great difference that divided him from the childlike people. But now, since his son had been there, even he, Siddhartha, had become entirely childlike, feeling sorrow for someone, feeling love for someone, losing himself in love, becoming a fool for love. It was late, but now even he felt for once in his life this strongest and oddest of passions, suffered for it, suffered grievously but was nonetheless blessed, nonetheless somewhat rejuvenated, somewhat wealthier.