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Chapter nine, the ferryman by this
river, I want to stay, thought

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said Arthur. It is the same
which I have crossed a long time ago

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on my way to the childlike people. A friendly ferryman had guided me.

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Then he is the one I want
to go to. Starting out from his

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heart, my path had led me
at that time into a new life,

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which had now grown old and is
dead. My present path, my present

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new life, shall also take its
start there. Tenderly, he looked into

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the rushing water, into the transparent
green, into the crystal lines of its

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drawing, so rich in secrets,
bright pearls he saw rising from the deep,

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quiet bubbles of air floating on the
reflecting surface, the blue of the

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sky being depicted in it with a
thousand eyes. The river looked at him

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with green ones, with white ones, with crystal ones, with sky blue

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ones. How did he love this
water? How did it delight him?

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How grateful was he to it?
In his heart? He heard the water

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talking, which was newly awakening,
and it told him, love this water,

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stay near it, learn from it. Oh, yes, he wanted

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to learn from it. He wanted
to listen to it. He who would

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understand this water and its secrets,
so it seemed to him, would also

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understand many other things, many secrets, all secrets. But out of all

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secrets of the river he today only
saw one. This one touched his soul.

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He saw this water ran and ran
incessantly, It ran and was nevertheless

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always there was, always, at
all times, the same and yet new

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in every moment. Great be he
who would grasp this, understand this he

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understood and grasped it, not only
felt some idea of its stirring a distant

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memory, divine voices, said Arthur
Rose. The workings of hunger in his

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body became unbearable. In a daze, he walked on up the path by

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the river, up river, listened
to the current, listened to the rumbling

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hunger in his body. When he
reached the ferry, the boat was just

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ready, and the same ferryman who
had once transported the young Samana across the

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river stood in the boat. Siddartha
recognized him. He had also aged very

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much. Would you like to ferry
me over? He asked. The ferryman,

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being astonished to see such an elegant
man walking along and on foot,

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took him into his boat and pushed
it off the bank. It is a

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beautiful life you have chosen for yourself. The passenger spoke, it must be

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beautiful to live by this water every
day, and a cruise on it with

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a smile. The man at the
oar moved from side to side. It

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is beautiful, sir. It is
as you say. But isn't every life?

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Isn't every work beautiful? This may
be true, but I envy you

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yours. Ah, you would soon
stop enjoying it. This is nothing for

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people where her fine clothes, said
Arthur laughed. Once before, I have

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been looked upon today because of my
clothes. I have been looked upon with

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distrust. Wouldn't you, ferryman,
like to accept these clothes, which are

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a nuisance to me from me?
For you must know I have no money

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to pay your fare. You are
joking, sir, the ferryman laughed.

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I'm not joking. Friend. Behold, once before you have ferried me across

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this water in your boat for the
immaterial reward of a good deed. Thus

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do it today as well, and
accept my clothes for it. And do

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you, sir, intend to continue
traveling without clothes? Ah? Most of

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all, I wouldn't want to continue
traveling at all. Most of all,

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I would like you, ferryman,
to give me an old loincloth and keep

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me as your assistant, or rather
as your trainee, for I'll have to

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learn first how to handle the boat. For a long time, the ferryman

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looked at the stranger, searching.
Now I recognize you, he finally said.

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At one time you've slept in my
hut. This was a long time

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ago, possibly more than twenty years
ago, and you've been ferried across the

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river by me and we parted like
good friends. Haven't you been a samana?

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I can't think of your name any
more. My name is said d'Arthur,

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and I was a samana when you
last saw me. So be welcome,

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said Arthur. My name is Vasu
Diva. You will, so,

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I hope, be my guest to
day as well, and sleep in my

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heart and tell me where you're coming
from and why these beautiful clothes those are

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such a nuisance to you. They
had reached the middle of the river,

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and Vasudeva pushed the oar with more
strength in order to overcome the current.

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He worked calmly, his eyes fixed
on the front of the boat. With

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brawny arms. Siddhartha sat and watched
him and remembered how once before, on

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that last day of his time as
a samana, love for this man had

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stirred in his heart. Gratefully,
he accepted Vasudeva's invitation. When they had

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reached the bank, he helped him
to tie the boat to the stakes.

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After this, the ferryman asked him
to enter the hut, offered him bread

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and water, and Sir Dartha ate
with eager pleasure, and also ate with

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eager pleasure of the mango fruits Vasu
Diva offered him. Afterwards, it was

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almost the time of the sunset.
They sat on a log by the bank,

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and sid Arthur told the fairyman about
where he originally had come from and

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about his life as he had seen
it before his eyes to day, in

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that hour of despair, until late
at night lasted his tale. Vasudeva listened

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with great attention, listened carefully.
He let everything enter his mind, birthplace

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and childhood, all that learning,
all that searching, all joy, all

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distress. This was among the Fairyman's
virtues, one of the greatest. Like

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only a few he knew how to
listen without him having spoken a word,

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The speaker sensed how Vasudeva let his
words enter his mind, quiet open waiting.

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How he did not lose a single
word, awaited, not a single

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one with impatience, did not add
his phrase or rebuke, was just listening.

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Sid Arthur felt, what a happy
fortune it is to confess to such

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a listener, to bury in his
heart his own life, his own search,

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his own suffering. But in the
end of Siddartha's tale, when he

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spoke of the tree by the river, and of his deep fall of the

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holy om, and how he had
felt such a love for the river after

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his slumber, the ferryman listened with
twice the attention, entirely and completely absorbed

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by it, with his eyes closed. And when sid Arthur felt silent,

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and a long silence had occurred,
then Vasudeva said, it is as I

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thought. The river has spoken to
you. It is your friend as well.

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It speaks to you as well.
That is good, That is very

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good. Stay with me, said
Arthur, my friend. I used to

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have a wife. Her bed was
next to mine, but she has died

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a long time ago. For a
long time I have lived alone. Now

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you shall live with me. There
is space and food for both. I

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thank you, said said Arthur,
I thank you and accept and I also

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thank you for this Vasudeva for listening
to me so well. These people are

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rare who know how to listen.
And I did not meet a single one

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who knew it as well as you
did. I will also learn in this

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respect from you. You will learn
it, spoke Vasu Diva, but not

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from me. The river has taught
me to listen. From it, you

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will learn it as well. It
knows everything, the river. Everything can

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be learned from it. See you've
already learned this from the river, to

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that it is good to strive downwards, to sink, to seek depth.

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The rich and elegant, Saidhartha.
Is becoming an osman servant the learned Brahman,

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said Arthur, becomes a fairy man. This has also been told to

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you by the river. You'll learn
that other thing from it as well,

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quoth said Arthur, after a long
pause. What other thing, Vasudva Vasu

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Diva rose, It is late,
he said, let's go to sleep.

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I can't tell you that other thing, O friend. You'll learn it,

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or perhaps you already know it.
See I'm no learned man. I have

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no special skill in speaking. I
also have no special skill in thinking.

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All I'm able to do is to
listen and to be godly. I have

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learned nothing else. If I was
able to say and to teach it,

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I might be a wise man.
But like this, I am only a

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ferryman, and it is my task
to ferry people across the river. I

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have transported many thousands, and to
all of them, my river has been

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nothing but an obstacle on their travels. They traveled to seek money and business,

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and for weddings and on pilgrimages,
and the river was obstructing their path,

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and the ferryman's job was to get
them quickly across that obstacle. But

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for some among the thousand, a
few, four or five, the river

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has stopped being an obstacle. They
have heard its voice, they have listened

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to it, and the river has
become sacred to them, as it has

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become sacred to me. Let's rest
now, said Arthur. Said. Arthur

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stayed with the ferryman and learned to
operate the boat, And when there was

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nothing to do at the ferry,
he worked with Vasudeva in the rice field,

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gathered wood, plucked the fruit off
the banana trees. He learned to

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build an oar and learn to mend
the boat and to weave baskets, and

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was joyful because of everything he learned, And the days and months passed quickly,

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but more than Vasadeva could teach him. He was taught by the river

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incessantly. He learned from it.
Most of all, he learned from it

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to listen, to pay close attention, with a quiet heart, with awaiting,

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opened soul, without passion, without
a wish, without judgment, without

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an opinion, in a friendly manner. He lived side by side with Vasudeva,

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and occasionally they exchanged some words few
and at length thought about words.

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Vasudeva was no friend to words.
Rarely said Arthur, succeeded in persuading him

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to speak. Did you so,
He asked him, what one time did

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you too learn that secret from the
river, that there is no time?

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Vasudeva's face was filled with a bright
smile. Yes, said Arthur. He

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spoke, It is this what you
mean, isn't it? That the river

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is everywhere at once, at the
source and at the mouth, at the

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waterfall, at the fairy, at
the rapids, in the sea, in

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the mountains, everywhere at once,
And that there is only the present for

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it not the shadow of the past, not the shadow of the future.

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This it is, said sid Arthur. And when I had learned it,

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I looked at my life, and
it was also a river. And the

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boy, said Arthur, was only
separated from the man, said Arthur,

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and from the old man, said
Arthur, by a shadow, not something

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real. Also said Arthur's previous births
were no past, and his death and

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his return to Brahma was no future. Nothing was, nothing will be.

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Everything is, everything has existence and
is present, said Arthur, spoke with

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ecstasy deeply. This enlightenment had delighted
him. Oh, was not all suffering.

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Time were not all forms of tormenting
oneself and being afraid. Time was

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not everything hard, everything hostile in
the world gone and overcome as soon as

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one had overcome time, as soon
as time would have been put out of

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existence by one's thoughts. In ecstatic
delight, he had spoken, but Vasudeva

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smiled at him brightly and nodded in
confirmation. Silently, he nodded, brushed

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his hand over Sir Arthur's shoulder,
turned back to his work, and once

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again, when the river had just
increased its flow in the rainy season and

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made a powerful noise, then,
said said Arthur, isn't it so,

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oh, friend? The river has
many voices, many many voices. Hasn't

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it the voice of a king,
and of a warrior, and of a

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bull, and of a bird of
the night, and a woman giving birth,

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and of a sighing man, and
a thousand other voices? More so

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it is, Vasudeva nodded, all
voices of the creature are in its voice.

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And do you know, said Arthur, continued, what word it speaks

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when you succeed in hearing all of
its ten thousand voices at once? Happily,

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Vasudeva's face was smiling. He bent
over to sad Arthur and spoke the

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holy om in his ear. And
this had been the very thing which Siddhartha

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had also been hearing. And time
after time his smile became more similar to

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the ferryman's, became almost just as
bright, almost just as thoughtfully glowing with

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bliss, just as shining out of
thousand small wrinkles, just as alike to

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a child's, just as alike to
an old man's. Many travelers seeing the

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two ferrymen, thought they were brothers. Often they sat in the evening together

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by the bank on the log said
nothing, and both listened to the water,

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which was no water to them,
but the voice of life, the

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voice of what exists, of what
is eternally taking shape. And it happened

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from time to time that both,
when listening to the water, thought of

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the same things, of a conversation
from the day before, yesterday, of

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one of their travelers, the face
and fate of whom had occupied their thoughts,

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of death, of their childhood,
And that they both, in the

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same moment, when the wiver had
been saying something good to them, looked

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at each other, both thinking precisely
the same thing, both delighted about the

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same answer to the same question.
There was something about this fairy and the

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two ferrymen which was transmitted to others, which many of the travelers felt.

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It happened occasionally that a traveler,
after having looked at the face of one

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of the ferrymen, started to tell
the story of his life, told about

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pains, confessed evil things, asked
for comfort and advice. It happened occasionally

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that someone asked for permission to stay
for a night with them to listen to

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the river. It also happened that
curious people came who had been told that

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there were two wise men, or
sorcerers or holy men living by that fairy.

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The curious people asked many questions,
but they got no answers, and

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they found neither sorcerers nor wise men. They only found two friendly, little

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old men who seemed to be mute
and to have become a bit strange and

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Gaga, and the curious people laughed
and were discussing how foolishly and gullibly the

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common people were spreading such empty rumors. The years passed by and nobody counted

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them. Then at one time monks
came by on a pilgrimage followers of Gautama

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the Buddha, who were asking to
be ferried across the river, and by

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then the ferrymen were told that they
were most hurriedly walking back to their great

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teacher, for the news had spread
the Exalted One was deadly sick and would

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soon die his last human death in
order to become one with the salvation.

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It was not long until a new
flock of monks came along on their pilgrimage,

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and another one, and the monks, as well as most of the

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other travelers and people walking through the
land, spoke of nothing else than of

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Gautama and his impending death. And
as people are flocking from everywhere and from

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all sides, when they are going
to war or to the coronation of a

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king, and are gathering like ants
in droves. Thus they flocked, like

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being drawn on by a magic spell, to where the great Buddha was awaiting

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his death, where the huge event
was to take place, and the great

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perfected one of an era was to
become one with the glory. Often said

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Arthur thought in those days of the
dying wise man, the great teacher,

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whose voice had admonished nations and had
awoken hundreds of thousands, whose voice he

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had also once heard, whose holy
face he had also once seen with respect.

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Kindly he thought of him, saw
his path to perfection before his eyes,

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and remembered with a smile those words
which he had once as a young

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man said to him the exalted one. They had been so it seemed to

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him, proud and precocious words.
With a smile, he remembered them for

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a long time. He knew that
there was nothing standing between Gautama and him

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anymore, though he was still unable
to accept his teachings. No, there

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was no teaching a truly searching person, someone who truly wanted to find could

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accept. But he who had found, he could approve of any teachings,

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every path, every goal. There
was nothing standing between him, meant all

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the other thousand any more, who
lived in that what is eternal, who

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breathed what is divine? On one
of these days when so many went on

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a pilgrimage to the dying Buddha,
Kamala also went to him, who used

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to be one of the most beautiful
of the courtesans. A long time ago,

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she had retired from her previous life, had given her garden to the

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monks of Tarma as a gift,
had taken her refuge in the teachings,

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was among the friends and benefactors of
the pilgrims. Together with Saddartha, the

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boy, her son. She had
gone on her way due to the news

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of the near death of Gautama.
In simple clothes on foot with her little

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son, she was traveling by the
river. But the boy had soon grown

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tired, desired to go back home, desired to rest, desired to eat,

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became disobedient and started whining. Kamala
often had to take a rest with

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him. He was accustomed to having
his way against her. She had to

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feed him, had to comfort him, had to scold him. He did

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not comprehend why he had to go
on this exhausting and sad pilgrimage with his

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mother to an unknown place, to
a stranger who was holly and about to

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die. So what if he died? How did this concern the boy?

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The pilgrims were getting close to Vasudeva's
ferry when little Sadhartha once again forced his

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mother to rest. She Kamala herself
had also become tired, and while the

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boy was chewing a banana, she
crouched down on the ground, closed her

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eyes a bit, and rested,
But suddenly she uttered a wailing scream.

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The boy looked at her in fear
and saw her face having grown pale from

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horror, and from under her dress
a small black snake fled by which Kamala

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had been bitten. Hurriedly, they
now both ran along the path in order

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to reach people, and got near
the ferry. There, Kamala collapsed and

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was not able to go any further, but the boy started crying miserably,

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only interrupting it to kiss and hug
his mother, and she also joined his

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loud screams for help, until the
sound reached Vasudeva's ears, who stood at

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the ferry. Quickly he came walking, took the woman on his arms,

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carried her into the boat. The
boy ran along, and soon they all

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reached the hut, where Siddhartha stood
by the stove and was just lighting the

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fire. He looked up and first
saw the boy's face, which wondrously reminded

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him of something like a warning to
remember something he had forgotten. Then he

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saw Kamala, whom he instantly recognized, though she lay unconscious in the ferryman's

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arms. And now he knew that
it was his own son whose face had

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been such a warning reminder to him, and the heart stirred in his chest.

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Kamala's wound was washed, but had
already turned black, and her body

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was swollen. She was made to
drink a healing potion. Her consciousness returned.

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She lay on Sir d'arthur's bed in
the hut and bent over her stood,

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said Arthur, who used to love
her so much it seemed like a

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dream to her, with a smile. She looked at her friend's face.

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Just slowly she realized her situation remembered
the bite, called timidly for the boy.

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He's with you. Don't worry,
said Sir Arthur. Kamala looked into

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his eyes. She spoke with a
heavy tongue, paralyzed by the poison.

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You've become old, my dear,
she said, You've become gray. But

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you are like the young Samana who
at one time came without clothes with dusty

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feet to me into the garden.
You are much more like him than you

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were like him at the time when
you had left me and come a swami

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in the eyes. You'll like him, said Arthur. Alas I have also

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grown old. Old, could you
still recognize me, said Arthur, smiled

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instantly, I recognized you, Kamala, my dear. Kamala pointed to her

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boy and said, did you recognize
him as well? He is your son.

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Her eyes became confused and fell shut. The boy wept, said Arthur.

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Took him on his knees, let
him weep, petted his hair,

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and at the sight of the child's
face, a Brahman prayer came to his

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mind, which he had learned a
long time ago when he had been a

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little boy himself. Slowly, with
a singing voice, he started to speak

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from his past and childhood. The
words came flowing to him, and with

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that sing song, the boy became
calm, was only now and then uttering

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a sob and fell asleep. Sadartha
placed him on Vasadeva's bed. Vasudeva stood

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by the stove and cooked rice.
Sidartha gave him a look, which he

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returned with a smile. She'll die, Sadartha said quietly. Thasudiva nodded over

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his friendly face ran the light of
the stove's fire. Once again, Kamala

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returned to consciousness. Pain distorted her
face. Siddartha's eyes read the suffering on

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her mouth, on her pale cheeks. Quietly, he read it attentively,

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waiting, his mind, becoming one
with her suffering. Kamala felt it.

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Her gaze sought his eyes, looking
at him, She said, now I

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see that your eyes have changed as
well. They've become completely different. But

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what do I still recognize that you're
Siddartha. It's you and it's not you.

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Sidartha said nothing. Quietly, his
eyes looked at hers. You have

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achieved it, she asked, You
have found peace. He smiled and placed

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his hand on hers I'm seeing it, she said, I'm seeing it.

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I too will find peace. You
have found it, said Arthur, spoke

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in a whisper. Kamala never stopped
looking into his eyes. She thought about

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her pilgrimage to Gautama, which wanted
to take in order to see the face

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of the perfected One, to breathe
his peace. And she thought that she

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had now found him in his place, and that it was good, just

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as good as if she had seen
the other one. She wanted to tell

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this to him, but the tongue
no longer obeyed her will. Without speaking,

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she looked at him, and he
saw the life fading from her eyes

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when the final pain filled her eyes
and made them grow dim, when the

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final shiver ran through her limbs,
his finger closed her eyelids. For a

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long time, he sat and looked
at her peacefully dead face. For a

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long time, he observed her mouth, her old tired mouth, with those

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lips which had become thin, and
he remembered that he used to, in

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the spring of his years, compare
this mouth with a freshly cracked fig.

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For a long time, he sat
red in the pale face, in the

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tired wrinkles, filled himself with this
sight saw his own face lying in the

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same manner, just as white,
just as quenched out, and saw at

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the same time his face and hers
being young, with red lips, with

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fiery eyes, and the feeling of
this both being present and at the time

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real. The feeling of eternity completely
filled every aspect of his being deeply.

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He felt, more deeply than ever
before, in this hour, the indestructibility

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of every life, the eternity of
every moment. When he rose, Vasudva

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had prepared rice for him, but
Siddartha did not eat. In the stable

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where their goats stood, the two
old men prepared beds of straw for themselves,

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and Vasudeva lay himself down to sleep. But Sidartha went outside and sat

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this night before the hut, listening
to the river, surrounded by the past,

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touched and encircled by all times of
his life at the same time.

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But occasionally he rose, stepped to
the door of the hut and listened whether

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the boy was leaping. Early in
the morning, even before the sun could

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00:33:05.000 --> 00:33:09.960
be seen, Vasudeva came out of
the stable and walked over to his friend.

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You haven't slept, he said,
no, Vasadiva, I sat here

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00:33:19.039 --> 00:33:23.599
I was listening to the river a
lot. It has told me deeply.

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It has filled me with the healing
thought, with the thought of oneness.

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You've experienced suffering, said Arthur.
But I see no sadness has entered your

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heart. No, my dear,
how should I be sad? I who

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have been rich and happy, have
become even richer and happier. Now my

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son has been given to me.
Your son shall be welcome to me as

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00:33:54.279 --> 00:34:00.279
well. But now, said Arthur, let's get to work. There is

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00:34:00.440 --> 00:34:05.640
much to be done. Kamala has
died on the same bed on which my

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00:34:05.759 --> 00:34:13.039
wife had died a long time ago. Let us also build Kamala's funeral pile

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00:34:13.639 --> 00:34:19.119
on the same hill on which I
had then built my wife's funeral pile.

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While the boy was still asleep,
they built the funeral pile. End of

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Chapter nine.

