Chapter eight, By the River, said Arthur walked through the forest, was
already far from the city, and knew nothing but that one thing, that
there was no going back for him, that this life as he had lived
it for many years until now was over and done away with. And then
he had tasted all of it, sucked everything out of it, until he
was disgusted with it. Dead was the singing bird he had dreamt of.
Dead was the bird in his heart. Deeply he had been entangled in Sansara.
He had sucked up disgust and death from all sides into his body,
like a sponge that sucks up water until it is full and full. He
was full of the feeling of being sick of it, full of misery,
full of death. There was nothing left in this world which could have attracted
him, given him joy, given him comfort. Passionately, he wished to
know nothing about himself anymore, to have rest, to be dead. If
there was only a lightning bolt to strike him dead, if there was only
a tiger to devour him, if there was only a wine, a poison
which could numb his senses, bring him forgetfulness and sleep, and no awakening
from that? Was there still any kind of filth. He had not soiled
himself with a sin or foolish act. He had not committed a dreariness of
the soul. He had not brought upon himself. Was it still at all
possible to be alive? Was it possible to breathe in again and again,
to breathe out, to feel hunger, to eat again, to sleep again,
to sleep with a woman again? Was this cycle not exhausted and brought
to a conclusion for him? Saddartha reached the large river in the forest,
the same river over which, a long time ago, when he had still
been a young man and came from the town of Gautama, the ferryman had
conducted him by this river. He stopped hesitatingly. He stood at the bank.
Tiredness and hunger had weakened him. And whatever he should walk on,
wherever, two to whichever goal. No, there were no more goals.
There was nothing left but the deep, painful yearning to shake off this whole
desolate dream, to spit out this stale wine, to put an end to
this miserable and shameful life. A hang bent over the bank of the river,
a cocoanut tree. Siddartha leaned against its trunk with his shoulder, embraced
the trunk with one and looked down into the green water which ran and ran
under him. Looked down and found himself to be entirely filled with the wish
to go and to drown in these waters. A frightening emptiness was reflected back
at him by the water, answering to the terrible emptiness in his soul.
Yes, he had reached the end. There was nothing left for him except
to annihilate himself, except to smash the failure into which he had shaped his
life, to throw it away before the feet of mockingly laughing gods. This
was the great vomiting he had longed for, death, the smashing to bits
of the form he hated. Let him be food for fishes, this dog,
said Arthur, this lunatic, this depraved and rotten body, this weakened
and abused soul. Let him be food for fishes and crocodiles. Let him
be chopped to bits by the demons. With a distorted face, he stared
into the water, saw the reflection of his face, and spit at it.
In deep tiredness. He took his arm away from the trunk of the
tree and turned a bit in order to let himself fall straight down, in
order to finally drown. With his eyes closed, he slipped towards death.
Then, out of remote areas of his soul, out of past times of
his now weary life, a sound stirred up. It was a word,
a syllable, which he, without thinking, with a slurred voice, spoke
to himself, the old word, which is the beginning and the end of
all prayers of the Brahmans, the Holy Om, which roughly means that what
is perfect or the completion. And in the moment when the sound of Om
touched SidD Arthur's ear, his dormant spirit suddenly woke up and realized the foolishness
of his actions, said Arthur. Was deeply shocked. So this was how
things were with him? So doomed was he, so much? Had he
lost his way and was forsaken by all knowledge? That he had been able
to seek death, That this wish, this wish of a child, had
been able to grow up in him, to find rest by annihilating his body.
What all agony of these recent times, all sobering realizations, all desperation,
had not brought about. This was brought on by this moment, when
the Om entered his consciousness, he became aware of himself, in his misery
and in his error, Olm. He spoke to himself Olm, and again
he knew about Brahman, knew about the indestructibility of life, knew about all
that is divine, which he had forgotten. But this was only a moment
flash. By the foot of the cocoanut tree, Siddarthur collapsed, struck down
by tiredness, mumbling Om placed his head on the roots of the tree and
fell into a deep sleep. Deep was his sleep, and without dreams.
For a long time, he had not known such a sleep any more.
When he woke up after many hours, he felt as if ten years had
passed. He heard the water quietly flowing, did not know where he was
and who had brought him there. Opened his eyes, saw with astonishment that
there were trees and the sky above him, and he remembered where he was
and how he got there. But it took him a long while for this,
and the past seemed to him as if it had been covered by a
veil. Infinitely distant, infinitely far away, infinitely meaningless. He only knew
that his previous life. In the first moment when he thought about it,
this past life seemed to him like a very old previous incarnation, like an
early pre birth of his present self. That this previous life had been abandoned
by him, that full of disgust and wretchedness, he had even intended to
throw his life away. But that by a river under a cocoa nut tree,
he has come to his senses the holy word Om on his lips,
that he had fallen asleep and had now woken up and was looking at the
world as a new man. Quietly he spoke the word Om to himself,
speaking which he had fallen asleep. And it seemed to him as if his
entire long sleep had been nothing but a long meditative recitation of Om, a
thinking of Om, a submergence and complete entering into Olm, into the nameless,
the perfected. What a wonderful sleep? Had this been? Never before?
By sleep? He had been thus refreshed, thus renewed, thus rejuvenated.
Perhaps he had really died, had drowned, and was reborn in a
new body. But no, he knew himself. He knew his hand at
his feet, knew the place where he lay, knew this self in his
chest. This Siddhartha, the eccentric, the weird one. But this Siddartha
was nevertheless transformed, warmed, was renewed, was strangely well rested, strangely
awake, joyful, and curious. SidD Arthur straightened up. Then he saw
a person sitting opposite to him, an unknown man, a monk in a
yellow robe with a shaven head, sitting in the position of pondering. He
observed the man who had neither hair on his head nor a beard, and
he had not observed him for long when he recognized this monk as Govinda,
the friend of his youth, Govinda, who had taken his refuge with the
exalted Buddha. Govinda had aged he too, but still his face bore the
same features expressed zeal, faithfulness, searching, timidness. But when Govinda,
now sensing his gaze, opened his eyes and looked at him, SidD Arthur
saw that Govinda did not recogniz eyes him. Govinda was happy to find him
awake. Apparently he had been sitting here for a long time and had been
waiting for him to wake up, though he did not know him. I
have been sleeping, said said Arthur. However did you get here You have
been sleeping, answered Govinda. It is not good to be sleeping in such
places where snakes often are and the animals of the forest have their paths.
I, oh, sir, am a follower of the Exalted Gautama, the
Buddha, the Sakya Mundi, and have been on a pilgrimage together with several
of us on this path. When I saw you lying and sleeping in a
place where it is dangerous to sleep. Therefore, I sought to wake you
up, oh sir, And since I saw that your sleep was very deep,
I strayed behind from my group and sat with you. And then so
it seems I have fallen asleep myself, I who wanted to guard your sleep
badly, I have served you. Tiredness has overwhelmed me. And now that
you are awake, let me go catch up with my brothers. I thank
you Samana for watching out over my sleep, spoke sid Arthur. You're friendly,
you followers of the Exalted One. Now you may go. Then I
am going, sir. May you, sir, always be in good health.
I thank you Samana. Govinda made the gesture of a salutation and said
farewell. Farewell, Govinda, said Sir Arthur. The monk stopped. Permit
me to ask, Sir, from where do you know my name? Now?
Said Arthur smiled. I know you, oh Govinda, from your father's
heart, and from the school of the Brahmans, and from the offerings,
and from our walk to the samanas, and from that hour when you took
your refuge with the Exalted One in the grove Jetavana, your Sidartha, Govinda
exclaimed loudly. Now I'm recognizing you, and don't comprehend any more how I
couldn't recognize you right away. Be welcome, said Arthur. My joy is
great to see you again. It also gives me joy to see you again.
You've been the guard of my sleep again. I thank you for this,
though I wouldn't have required any guard. Where are you going to,
oh friend, I am going nowhere. We monks are always traveling, whenever
it is not the rainy season. We always move from one place to another,
live according to the rules of the teachings passed on to us, except
alms move on. It is always like this, But you said Arthur,
where are you going to? Quoth said Arthur. It is as it is
with you. I am going nowhere. I'm just traveling. I'm on a
pilgrimage, Govinda spoke. You're saying you're on a pilgrimage, and I believe
in you. But forgive me, oh, said Arthur, you do not
look like a pilgrim. You're wearing a rich man's garments. You're wearing the
shoes of a distinguished gentleman. And your hair and the fragrance of perfume is
not a pilgrim's hair, nor the hair of a samana. Right, So,
my dear, you have observed, well, your keen eyes see everything.
But I haven't said to you that I was a samana. I said,
I'm on a pilgrimage, and so it is. I'm on a pilgrimage.
You're on a pilgrimage, said Govinda. But few would go on a
pilgrimage in such clothes, few in such shoes, few with such hair.
Never I have met such a pilgrim, being a pilgrim myself for many years.
I believe you, my dear Govinda. But now today you've met a
pilgrim just like this, wearing such shoes, such a garment. Remember,
my dear, not eternal is the world of appearances, not eternal anything but
eternal our garments and the style of our hair, and our hair and our
bodies themselves. I'm wearing a rich man's clothes. You've seen this, quite
right. I'm wearing them because I have been a rich man. And I'm
wearing my hair like the worldly and lustful people, because I have been one
of them. And now, said Arthur, what are you now? I
don't know it. I don't know it, just like you, I'm traveling.
I was a rich man and am no rich man anymore. And what
i'll be tomorrow, I don't. You've lost your riches. I've lost them,
or they me, They somehow happened to slip away from me. The
wheel of physical manifestations is turning quickly, Govinda. Where is Siddhartha the Brahman?
Where is Siddatha the Samana? Where is Sadatha the rich man? Non
eternal? Things changed quickly, Govinda, you know it. Govinda looked at
the friend of his youth for a long time with doubt in his eyes.
After that, he gave him the salutation which one would use on a gentleman,
and went on his way with a smiling face. Siddhartha watched him leave.
He loved him still, this faithful man, this fearful man, And
how could he not have loved everybody and everything in this moment, in the
glorious hour, after his wonderful sleep, filled with om, the enchantment which
had happened inside of him in his sleep, and by means of the om
was this very thing that he loved everything, that he was full of joyful
love for everything he saw. And it was this very thing, so it
seemed to him now, which had been his sickness before, that he was
not able to love anybody or anything. With a smiling face, said Arthur
watched the leaving monk. The sleep had strengthened him much, but hunger gave
him much pain. For now he had not eaten for two days, and
the times were long past when he had been tough against hunger. With sadness,
and yet also with a smile, he thought of that time in those
days, so he remembered. He had boasted of three things to Kamala,
had been able to do three noble and undefeatable feats, fasting waiting, thinking
these had been his possession, his power and strength, his solid staff in
the busy, laborious years of his youth, he had learned these three feats
nothing else, and now they had abandoned him. None of them was his
any more, neither fasting nor waiting nor thinking for the most wretched things.
He had given them up for what fades most quickly, for sensual lust,
for the good life, for riches. His life had indeed been strange,
and now so it seemed, now he had really become a childlike person.
Sir Arthur thought about his situation. Thinking was hard on him. He did
not really feel like it, but he forced himself. Now, he thought,
since all these most easily perishing things have slipped from me again. Now
I'm standing here under the sun again, just as I have been standing here
a little child. Nothing is mine. I have no abilities, there is
nothing I could bring about. I have learned nothing. How wondrous is this
now that I am no longer young, that my hair is already half gray,
that my strength is fading. Now I'm starting again at the beginning,
and as a child again. He had to smile. Yes, his fate
had been strange. Things were going downhill with him, and now he was
again facing the world, void and naked, and stupid. But he could
not feel sad about this. No, he even felt a great urge to
laugh, to laugh about himself, to laugh about this strange, foolish world.
Things going downhill with you, he said to himself, and laughed about
it. And as he was saying it, he happened to glance at the
river, and he also saw the river was going downhill. All was moving
on downhill, and singing and being happy through it all. He liked this
well. Kindly, he smiled at the river. Was this not the river
in which he had intended to drown himself in past times a hundred years ago?
Or had he dreamed? This? Wondrous? Indeed was my life,
so he thought, wondrous detours as it taken. As a boy, I
had only to do with gods and offerings. As a youth I had only
to do with asceticism, with thinking a meditation, was searching for Brahman,
worshiped the eternal in the atman. But as a young man I followed the
penitents, lived in the forest, suffered of heat and frost, learned to
hunger, taught my body to become dead. Wonderfully, Soon afterwards insight came
towards me in the form of the great Buddhist teachings. I felt the knowledge
of the oneness of the world circling in me like my own blood. But
I also had to leave Buddha and the great knowledge. I went and learned
the art of love with Kamala, learned trading with Kamaswami, piled up money,
wasted money, Learned to love my stomach, learned to please my senses.
I had to spend many years losing my spirit to unlearned thinking again,
to forget the oneness. Isn't it just as if I had turned slowly and
on a long detour from a man into a child, from a thinker into
a childlike person. And yet this path has been very good, and yet
the bird in my chest has not died. But what a path has this
been? I had to pass through so much stupidity, through so much vices,
through so many errors, through so much disgust and disappointments and woe,
just to become a child again, and to be able to start over that
it was right. So my heart says yes to it, my eyes smile
to it. I've had to experience despair, I've had to sink down to
the most foolish one of all thoughts, to the thought of suicide. In
order to be able to experience divine grace, to hear olm again, to
be able to sleep properly and to awake properly again, I had to become
a fool to find utman in me again. I had to sin to be
able to live again. Where else might my path lead me to? It
is foolish, this path. It moves in loops. Perhaps it is going
around in a circle. Let it go as it likes. I want to
take it wonderfully. He felt joy rolling like waves in his chest. Where
ever, from, he asked his heart, Where did you get this happiness?
Might it come from that long good sleep which has done me so good?
Or from the word om which I said, Or from the fact that
I have escaped, that I have completely fled, that I am finally free
again, and am standing like a child under the sky. Oh, how
good it is to have fled, to have become free. How clean and
beautiful is the air here? How good to breathe there? Where I ran
away from there, everything smelled of ointment, of spices, of wine,
of excess of sloth. How did I hate this world of the rich,
of those who revel in fine food, of the gamblers. How did I
hate myself for staying in this terrible world for so long? How did I
hate myself? Have deprived, poisoned, tortured myself, have made myself old
and evil? No, never again I will, as I used to like,
doing so much, delude myself into thinking that Siddhartha was wise. But
this one thing I have done well. This I like. This, I
must praise. But there is now an end to that hatred against myself,
to that foolish and dreary life. I praise you, Siddartha, after so
many years of foolishness, you have once again had an idea, have done
something, have heard the bird in your chest singing, and have followed it.
Thus he praised himself, found joy in himself, listened curiously to his
stomach, which was rumbling with hunger. He had now so he felt,
in those recent times and days, completely tasted and spit out, devoured up
to the point of desperation and death. A piece of suffering, a piece
of misery like this, It was good for much longer he could have stayed
with Kamaswami, made money, wasted money filled his stomach and let his soul
die of thirst for much longer he could have lived in this soft, well
upholstered hell if this had not happened, the moment of complete hopelessness and despair,
that most extreme moment, when he hung over the rushing waters and was
ready to destroy himself. That he had felt this despair, this deep disgust,
that he had not succumbed to it. That the bird, the joyful
source and voice in him, was still alive. After all, This was
why he felt joy, This was why he laughed, This was why his
face was smiling brightly under his hair, which had turned gray. It is
good, he thought, to get a taste of everything for oneself, which
one needs to know. That lust for the world and riches do not belong
to the good things I have already learned as a child. I have known
it for a long time, but I have experienced only now, And now
I know it. Don't just know it in my memory, but in my
eyes, in my art, in my stomach. Good from me to know
this. For a long time, he pondered his transformation, listened to the
bird as it sang for joy. Had not this bird died in him.
Had he not felt his death? No, something else from within him had
died, something which already for a long time had yearned to die. Was
it not this what he intended to kill in his ardent years as a penitent.
Was it not his self, his small, frightened and proud self he
had wrestled with for so many years, which had defeated him again and again,
which was back again after every killing, prohibited joy felt fear. Was
it not this which to day had finally come to its death here in the
forest, by this lovely river. Was not due to this death that he
was now like a child, so full of trust, so without fear,
so full of joy. Now Siddartha also got some idea of why he had
fought this self in vain as a Brahman, as a penitent. Too much
knowledge had held him back, too many holy verses, too many sacrificial rules,
too much self castigation, so much doing and striving for that goal.
Full of arrogance, he had been. All was the smartest, always working
the most, always one step ahead of all others. All was the knowing
and spiritual one. All was the priest or wise one into being a priest
into this arrogance into this spirituality his self had retreated. There it sat firmly
and grew. While he thought he would kill it by fasting and penance.
Now he saw it, and saw the secret voice had been right, that
no teacher would ever have been able to bring about his salvation. Therefore he
had to go out into the world, lose himself to lust and power to
women and money. Had to become a merchant, a dice gambler, a
drinker, and a greedy person until the priest and Sir Maana in him was
dead. Therefore he had to continue bearing these ugly years, bearing the disgust,
the teachings, the pointlessness of a dreary and wasted life up to the
end, up to bitter despair, until Siddartha the lustful, Siddartha the greedy,
could also die. He had died, and knew Siddartha had woken up
from the sleep. He would also grow old. He would also eventually have
to die. Mortal, was said Arthur. Mortal was every physical form.
But today he was young, was a child the new, said Arthur,
and was full of joy. He thought these thoughts, listened with a smile
to his stomach, listened gratefully to a buzzing bee. Cheerfully, he looked
into the rushing river. Never before he had liked a water so well as
this one. Never before he had perceived the voice and the parable of the
moving water thus strongly and beautifully. It seemed to him as if the river
had something special to tell him, something he did not know yet, which
was still awaiting him. In this river, said Arthur had intended to drown
himself in it. The old, tired, desperate, said Arthur, had
sound to day. But the new, said Arthur, felt a deep love
for this rushing water, and decided for himself not to leave it very soon
end of chapter eight