Siddhartha continued, “A thought, maybe it is. I have to admit, my friend, I do not make any great distinction between thoughts and words. To put it simply, I do not have much respect for thoughts. I have more respect for things. There was a man here on this ferryboat, for example, who was my predecessor and my teacher, a holy man who, for many years, believed simply in the river, and nothing else. He had noticed that the river’s voice spoke to him and he learned from it, it brought him up, it helped him to develop, it taught him. The river seemed to him like a god, for many years he did not know that every wind, every cloud, every bird, every beetle is just as god-like as the river he venerated so much, and knew just as much, and had just as much to teach him. By the time this holy man went off into the woods he knew everything, he knew more than you and I, without a teacher, without books, and only because he believed in the river.”
Govinda said, “And is that what you mean by ‘things,’ something real, something that exists? Is that not just the delusion of maya, just a picture, just an appearance? This stone of yours, this tree, this river, are they then reality?”
“Even this question,” said Siddhartha, “no longer gives me much bother. Perhaps these things are delusory and perhaps they are not, but then I too am an illusion and so they continue to be the same as me. That is what makes them so dear and so venerable for me: they are the same as me. That is why I can love them. And now, here is a teaching that will make you laugh: it seems to me, Govinda, that love is the most important thing of all. Perhaps seeing through the world, explaining the world, despising the world, is an important matter for the great thinkers, but only one thing is important for me, the ability to love the world, not to despise it, not to hate it or myself, but the ability to see it and myself and all that exists with love and admiration and honour.”
“I can understand that,” said Govinda. “But this, too, is something that the noble one has recognised as delusion. He instructs us to show benevolence, mercy, compassion, patience, but not love; he has forbidden us to tether our hearts to the world with love.”
“I know it well,” said Siddhartha, and his face shone with smile of gold. “I know it well, Govinda. But now look; we find ourselves now in the middle of a thicket of meanings, we’re quibbling about words. I cannot deny that my words about love contradict - or seem to contradict - the words of Gotama. And that is the very reason I mistrust words so much, I know that this contradiction is delusory. I know that I agree with Gotama. For how could it be that he knew nothing of love, even he who acknowledged the transitoriness of all human existence, acknowledged it in all its nothingness, but nonetheless loved mankind so much that he devoted his long and strenuous life to one thing, to help them and to teach them! And even the things about him, about your great teacher are more important for me than his words, his actions and his life are more important than what he said, the movements of his hand are more important than his beliefs. I don’t see his greatness in what he said or what he thought, I see it only in his actions, in his life.”
For a long while the two old men remained silent. Then Govinda began to take his leave of Siddhartha, saying, “Thank you for showing me something of your thoughts, Siddhartha. Some of them are odd, and I am not able to understand them all straight away. Be that as it may, I give you my thanks and wish you peaceful days.”
(Privately, though, Govinda thought to himself, “This Siddhartha is a wonderful man, these are wonderful thoughts he expresses, his teaching sounds foolish. The pure teachings of the noble one are different, they are clearer, purer, easier to understand, and contain nothing odd or foolish or ridiculous. But Siddhartha’s hands and feet seem different from his thoughts. His eyes, his brow, his breath, his smile, his greeting, his walk, they all seem different. Since our noble one, Gotama, went into Nirvana I have never met any one about whom I have felt, ‘This is a holy man.’ He alone, this Siddhartha, is the only one I have found. His teachings may sound odd, his words may sound foolish, but his look and his hands, his skin and his hair, everything about him is radiant with purity, radiant with peace, radiant with gaiety and gentleness and holiness. Not since the recent death of our noble teacher have I seen this on anyone.”)
As Govinda was thinking these things, things which his heart strongly resisted, he bowed to Siddhartha once again, drawn by love. He bowed deeply as Siddhartha sat peacefully.
“Siddhartha,” he said, “we have grown into old men. It seems hardly likely that either of us will see the other in his present form ever again. I see, my dear friend, that you have found peace. I admit that I have not. Give me another word, venerated one, give me something that I can grasp, something I can understand! Give me something to take as I go on my way. My way is often difficult, often dark, Siddhartha.”
Siddhartha remained silent and continued to look at him with the same quiet smile. Govinda stared into his face, with anxiety, with yearning. Sorrow and a never ending search could be read in his expression, a never ending search without finding.