Siddhartha: A Poem of India

by Hermann Hesse

Vasudeva answered, “It could be that the rudder of our boat will be missing.”

But Siddhartha knew what his friend was thinking. He was thinking that the boy will have thrown the rudder away or smashed it in order to take his revenge and to make it harder to follow him. And the rudder was indeed no longer in the boat. Vasudeva pointed to the floor of the boat and looked at his friend with a smile, as if he meant to say, “Do you not see what it is that your son wants to tell you? Do you not see that he does not want to be pursued?” He did not, however, say this in words. He set about making a new rudder, but Siddhartha took his leave and went to search for the fugitive. Vasudeva did nothing to stop him.

Siddhartha had long been making his way through the forest before it occurred to him that his search was pointless. On the one hand, he thought, the boy might be a long way ahead of him and had already reached the city or, on the other, if he was still on his journey he would hide himself from his pursuer. He continued to think about this, and he found that he was not himself worried about his son for, deep within himself, he knew he had neither been killed nor faced any danger in the woods. Siddhartha nonetheless hurried on without rest, no longer in order to save his son but just because there was something he wanted, just in order to have the chance of seeing him again. He continued to hurry forward until he was at the outskirts of the city.

Near by the city, on the broad highway, he reached the entrance to the beautiful pleasure garden which had once belonged to Kamala, where he had seen her for the first time carried on her litter, and there he stopped. The memory rose up in his soul and he once more saw himself standing there, a young and naked samana, bearded and with hair full of dust. Siddhartha stood there long, looking in through the open gate into the garden where monks in yellow robes walked about under the beautiful trees.

He stood there long, thinking, seeing pictures, listening to the story of his life. He stood there long, watching the monks, and instead of seeing them he saw the young Siddhartha, saw the young Kamala as she moved about under the lofty trees. He saw himself clearly, how Kamala made him her guest, how he accepted her first kiss, the pride and contempt he felt as he looked back on his life as a brahmin, the pride and greed with which he began his secular life. He saw Kamaswami, saw the servants, saw the wild parties, the gamblers with their dice, the musicians, he saw Kamala’s songbird in its cage, he lived through all this once again, he breathed sansara, he was once again old and tired, felt once again the wish to extinguish himself, was healed once again by the holy Om.

He stood long at the gateway into the garden until he saw that it was a foolish wish that had driven him to this place, that he was unable to help his son, that he should not stay too attached to him. He felt his love for the fugitive deep in his heart, like a wound, and at the same time he saw that the wound had not been given to him for him to dig at it, but that it would blossom and had to shine.

It made him sad that by this time the wound still had not blossomed, still did not shine. Instead of having an objective for his wishes, the objective that had drawn him to this place in pursuit of his runaway son, he now had nothing. Disheartened, he sat down, felt something die within his heart, felt the emptiness, saw nothing to bring him joy, nothing to be his objective. He sat there deep in thought and waited. This was what he had learned at the riverside, just this: to wait, to be patient, to listen. And he sat and listened, in the dust of the road, he listened to his sad and tired heart, he waited for a voice. He remained there for many hours, crouched and listening, he saw no more pictures, he sank into emptiness, allowed himself to sink, and saw no path to follow. And when he felt the wound burning he would silently utter Om, would fill himself with Om. The monks in the garden saw him, for he crouched there for many hours, and on his grey hair the dust accumulated, one of them came to him and put two bananas down in front of him. The old man did not see him.

He was woken from this stupor by a hand shaking his shoulder. He recognised this gentle and tentative movement straight away, and came out of his state. He stood up and greeted Vasudeva who had come after him. And as he looked into Vasudeva’s friendly face, into those cheerful little eyes surrounded by many laughter wrinkles, he smiled too. Now he saw the bananas lying in front of him, lifted them up, gave one to the ferryman and ate the other one himself. Then he and Vasudeva went in silence back into the wood and back to their home at the ferry point. Neither spoke of what had happened that day, neither spoke the name of the lad, neither spoke of his flight, neither spoke of the wound. In the hut Siddhartha lay down on his bed and a little while later, when Vasudeva came to him to offer him a cup of coconut milk, he found he was already asleep.

OM

The wound continued to cause pain. Siddhartha had to take many travellers across the river who had a son or a daughter with them, and there was not one of them whom Siddhartha did not look on with envy, and he would think, “There are so many, so many thousands, who have this noblest of happiness - why do I not? Even evil people, even thieves and robbers have children whom they love and who are loved by them, and I alone do not have.” This was the simplicity of his thoughts at that time, so lacking in understanding, so similar had he become to the child-like people.