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Chapter seven Sansara. For a long
time Siddartha had lived the life of the

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world and of lust, though without
being a part of it. His senses,

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which he had killed off in hot
years as a samana, had awoken

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again. He had tasted riches,
had tasted lust, had tasted power.

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Nevertheless, he had still remained in
his heart for a long time a samana.

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Kamala, being smart, had realized
this quite right. It was still

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the art of thinking, of waiting, of fasting which guided his life.

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Still, the people of the world, the childlike people, had remained alien

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to him, as he was alien
to them. Years passed, surrounded by

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the good life, Siddartha hardly felt
them fading away. He had become rich

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for quite a while, while he
possessed the house of his own and his

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own servants, and a garden before
the city by the river. The people

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liked him. They came to him
whenever they needed money or advice. But

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there was no one close to him
except Kamala, that high, bright state

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of being awake which he had experienced
that one time at the height of his

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youth. In those days after Gautama's
sermon, after the separation from Govinda,

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that tense expectation, that proud state
of standing alone without teachings and without teachers,

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that supple willingness to listen to the
divine voice in his own heart,

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had slowly become a memory, had
been fleeting, distant and quiet. The

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Holy source murmured, which used to
be near, which used to murmur within

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himself. Nevertheless, many things he
had learned from the samanas he had learned

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from Gautama, he had learned from
his father, the Brahman, had remained

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within him for a long time afterwards, moderate living, joy of thinking,

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hours of meditation, secret knowledge of
the self and of his eternal entity,

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which is neither body nor consciousness.
Many a part of this he still had,

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but one part after another had been
submerged and had gathered dust. Just

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as a potter's wheel, once it
has been set in motion, will keep

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on turning for a long time and
only slowly lose its vigor and come to

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a stop. Thus, Zidarthur's soul
had kept on turning the wheel of asceticism,

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the wheel of thinking, the wheel
of differentiation, for a long time,

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still turning. But it turned slowly
and hesitantly, and was close to

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coming to a standstill, slowly,
like humidity entering the dying stem of a

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tree, filling it slowly and making
it rot. The world and sloth had

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entered Siddartha's soul. Slowly. It
filled his soul, made it heavy,

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made it tired, put it to
sleep. On the other hand, his

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senses had become alive. There was
much they had learned, much they had

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experienced. Siddartha had learned to trade, to use his power over people,

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to enjoy himself with a woman.
He had learned to wear beautiful clothes,

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to give orders to servants, to
bathe in perfumed waters. He had learned

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to eat tenderly and carefully prepared food, even fish, even meat and poultry,

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spices and sweets, and to drink
wine, which causes sloth and forgetfulness.

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He had learned to play with dice
and on a chess board, to

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watch dancing girls, to have himself
carried about in a sedan chair, to

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sleep on a soft bed. But
he still had felt different from and superior

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to the others. All was He
had watched them with some mockery, some

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mocking disdain, with the same disdain
which a samana constantly feels for the people

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of the world, when Camiswami was
ailing, when he was annoyed, when

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he felt insulted, when he was
vexed by his wiries. As a merchant,

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Si d Arthur had always watched it
with mockery, just slowly and imperceptibly,

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as the harvest seasons and rainy seasons
passed by, his mockery had become

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more tired, his superiority had become
more quiet, just slowly. Among his

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growing riches, Siddartha had assumed something
of the childlike people's ways for himself,

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something of their childlikeness and of their
fearfulness. And yet he envied them,

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envied them just the more, the
more similar he became to them. He

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envied them for the one thing that
was missing from him, and that they

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had. The importance they were able
to attach to their lives, the amount

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of passion in their joys and fears, the fearful but sweet happiness of being

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constantly in love. These people were
all of the time in love with themselves,

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with women, with their children,
with honors or money, with plans

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or hopes. But he did not
learn this from them, this out of

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all things, this joy of a
child, and this foolishness of a child,

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he learned from them out of all
things, the unpleasant ones which he

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himself despised. It happened more and
more often that in the morning, after

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having had company the night before,
he stayed in bed for a long time,

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felt unable to think and tired.
It happened that he became angry and

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impatient when Camuswami bored him with his
worries. It happened that he laughed just

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too loud when he lost a game
of dice. His face was still smarter

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and more spiritual than others, but
it rarely laughed, and assumed one after

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another those features which are so often
found in the faces of rich people,

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those features of discontent, of sickliness, of ill humor, of sloth,

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of a lack of love. Slowly, the disease of the soul which rich

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people have grabbed whole of him like
a veil, like a thin mist.

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Tiredness came over, said Arthur,
slowly, getting a bit denser every day,

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a bit murkier every month, a
bit heavier every year. As a

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new dress becomes old in time,
loses its beautiful color in time, gets

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stains, gets wrinkles, gets worn
off at the seams and starts to show

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threadbare spots here and there, said
Arthur's new life, which he had started

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after his separation from Govinda, had
grown old, lost color and splendor as

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the years passed by, was gathering
wrinkles and stains, and hidden at bottom,

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already showing its ugliness here and there, disappointment and disgust were waiting,

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and hidden at bottom, already showing
its ugliness here and there, pointment and

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disgust were waiting. Siddartha did not
notice it. He only noticed that this

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bright and reliable voice inside of him, which had awoken in him at that

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time and had ever guided him in
his best times, had become silent.

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He had been captured by the world
by lust, covetousness, sloth, and

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finally also by that vice which he
had used to despise and mock them most

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as the most foolish one of all
vices. Greed, property, possessions and

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riches also had finally captured him.
They were no longer a game and trifles

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to him had become a shackle and
a burden. In a strange and devious

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way, Siddartha had gotten into this
final and most base of all dependencies by

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means of the game of dice.
It was since that time, when he

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had stopped being a samana in his
heart, that Siddartha began to play the

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game for money and precious things,
which he at other times only joined with

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a smile and casually as a custom
of the childlike people. With an increasing

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rage and passion, he was a
feared gambler. Few dared to take him

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on, so high and audacious were
his stakes. He played the game due

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to a pain of his heart,
losing and wasting his wretched money in the

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game that brought him an angry joy. In no other way could he demonstrate

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his disdain for wealth, the merchant's
false god more clearly and more mockingly.

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Thus he gambled with high stakes and
mercilessly, hating himself, mocking himself.

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One thousands threw away, thousands,
lost money, lost jewelry, lost a

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house in the country, one again
lost again. That fear, that terrible

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and petrifying fear which he had felt
while he was rolling the dice, while

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he was worried about losing high stakes, that fear he loved and sought to

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always renew it, always increase it
always get it to a slightly higher level.

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For in this feeling alone, he
still felt something like happiness, something

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like an intoxication, something like an
elevated form of life in the midst of

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his saturated, lukewarm, dull life. And after each big loss, his

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mind was set on new riches,
pursued the trade more zealously, forced his

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debtors more strictly to pay, because
he wanted to continue gambling, he wanted

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to continue squandering, continued demonstrating his
disdain of wealth. Siddartha lost his calmness

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when losses occurred, lost his patience
when he was not paid on time,

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lost his kindness towards beggars, lost
his disposition for giving away and loaning money

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to those who petitioned him. He
who gamboled away tens of thousands at one

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roll of the dice and laughed at
it, became more strict and more petty

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in his business, occasionally dreaming at
night about money, and whenever he woke

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up from this ugly spell, whenever
he found his face in the mirror at

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the bedroom's wall to have aged and
become more ugly, whenever embarrassment and disgust

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came over him, he continued fleeing, fleeing into a new game, fleeing

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into a numbing of his mind brought
on by sex, by wine, and

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from there he fled back into the
urge to pile up and obtain possessions.

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In this pointless cycle, he ran, growing tired, growing old, growing

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ill. Then the time came when
a dream warned him. He had spent

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the hours of the evening with Kamala
in her beautiful pleasure garden. They had

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been sitting under the trees, talking, and Kamala had said thoughtful words,

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words behind which a sadness and a
tiredness lay hidden. She had asked him

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to tell her about Gautama, and
could not hear enough of him, How

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clear his eyes, how still and
beautiful his mouth, how kind his smile,

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how peaceful his walk had been.
For a long time, he had

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to tell her about the exalted Buddha, and Kamala had sighed and had said,

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one day, perhaps soon I'll also
follow that Buddha. I'll give him

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my pleasure garden for a gift and
take my refuge in his teachings. But

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after this she had aroused him and
had tied him to her in the act

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of making love with painful fervor,
biting and in tears, as if once

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more she wanted to squeeze the last
sweet drop out of this vain, fleeting

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pleasure. Never before it had become
so strangely clear to Siddhartha how closely lust

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was akin to death. Then he
had lain by her side, and Kamala's

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face had been close to him,
and under her eyes, and next to

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the corners of her mouth. He
had, as clearly as never before,

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read a fearful inscription, an inscription
of small lines, of slight grooves,

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an inscription reminiscent of autumn and old
age. Just as Siddhartha himself, who

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was only in his forties, had
already noticed here and there gray hairs among

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his black ones. Tiredness was written
on Carmala's beautiful face. Tiredness from walking

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a long path which has no happy
destination. Tiredness and the beginning of withering

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and concealed, still unsaid, perhaps
not even conscious, anxiety, fear of

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old age, fear of the autumn, fear of having to die with a

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sigh. He had bid his farewell
to her, the soul full of reluctance

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and full of concealed anxiety. Then
said Arthur had spent the night in his

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house with dancing girls and wine,
had acted as if he were superior to

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them towards the fellow members of his
caste, though this was no longer true,

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had drunk much wine and gone to
bed a long time after midnight,

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being tired and yet excited, close
to weeping and despair, and had for

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a long time sought to sleep in
vain, his heart full of misery which

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he thought he could not bear any
longer, full of a disgust which he

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felt penetrating his entire body, like
the lukewarm, repulsive taste of the wine,

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the just too sweet, dull music, the just too soft smile of

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the dancing girls, the just too
sweet scents of their hair and breasts.

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But more than by anything else,
he was disgusted by himself, by his

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perfumed hair, by the smell of
wine from his mouth, by the flabby,

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tiredness and listlessness of his skin,
Like when someone who was eaten and

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drunk far too much vomits it back
up again with agonizing pain, and is

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nevertheless glad about the relief. Thus, this sleepless man wished to free himself

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of these pleasures, these habits,
and all of this pointless life, found

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himself in an immense burst of disgust. Not until the light of the morning

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and the beginning of the first activities
in the street before his city house,

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he had slightly fallen asleep, had
found for a few moments a half consciousness,

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a hint of sleep. In these
moments he had a dream. Kamala

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owned a small, rare singing bird
in a golden cage. Of this bird,

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he dreamt. He dreamt this bird
had become mute, who at other

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times always used to sing in the
morning. And since this arose his attention,

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he stepped in front of the cage
and looked inside. There the small

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bird was dead and lay stiff on
the ground. He took it out,

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weighed it for a moment in his
hand, and then threw it away out

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in the street. And in the
same moment he felt terribly shocked and his

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heart hurt, as if he had
thrown away from himself all value and everything

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good by throwing out this dead bird. Starting up from this dream, he

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felt encompassed by a deep sadness worthless. So it seemed to him worthless and

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pointless was the way he had been
going through life. Nothing which was alive,

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nothing which was in some way delicious
or worth keeping, he had left

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in his hands alone. He stood
there and empty, like a cast away

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on the shore, with a gloomy
mind, said Arthur. Went to the

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pleasure garden he owned, locked the
gate, sat down under a mango tree,

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felt death in his heart and horror
in his chest. Sat and sensed

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how everything died in him, withered
in him, came to an end in

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him. By and by he gathered
his thoughts and in his mind. He

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once again went the entire path of
his life, starting with the first days

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he could remember. When was there
ever a time when he had experienced happiness,

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felt a true bliss? Oh,
yes, several times he had experienced

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such a thing in his years as
a boy. He has had a taste

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of it. When he had obtained
praise from the Brahmans. He had felt

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it in his heart. There is
a path in front of the one who

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has distinguished himself in the recitation of
the Holy verses in the dispute with the

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learned ones as an assistant in the
offerings. Then he had felt it in

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his heart. There is a path
in front of you, you are destined

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for the gods are awaiting you.
And again as a young man, when

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the ever rising upward, fleeing goal
of all thinking had ripped him out of

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and up from the multitude of those
seeking the same goal, when he wrestled

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in pain for the purpose of Brahman, when every obtained knowledge only kindled new

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thirst in him. Then again he
had, in the midst of the thirst,

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in the midst of the pain,
felt this very same thing, go

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on, go on, you are
called upon. He had heard this voice

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when he had left his home and
had chosen the life of a samana,

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and again when he had gone away
from the samanas to that perfected one,

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And also when he had gone away
from him to the uncertain. For how

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long had he not heard this voice
anymore? For how long had he reached

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no height anymore? How even and
dull was the manner in which his path

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had passed through life for many long
years, without a high goal, without

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thirst, without elevation, content with
small, lustful pleasures, and yet never

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satisfied. For all of these many
years, without knowing it himself, he

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had tried hard and long to become
a man like those many like those children.

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And in all this his life had
been much more miserable and poorer than

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theirs, and their goals were not
his nor their worries. After all,

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that entire world of the Kamaswami people
had only been a game to him,

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a dance he would watch, a
comedy. Only Kamala had been dear,

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had been valuable to him. But
was she still thus? Did he still

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need her? Or she him?
Did they not play a game without ending?

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Was it necessary to live for this? No? It was not necessary.

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The name of this game was Sansara, a game for children, a

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game which was perhaps enjoyable to play
once, twice, ten times, but

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forever and ever over again. Then
Saddhartha knew that the game was over,

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that he could not play it anymore. Shivers ran over his body, inside

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of him, so he felt something
had died. That entire day, he

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sat under the mango tree, thinking
of his father, thinking of Govinda,

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thinking of Gautama. Did he have
to leave them to become a Kamaswami.

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He still sat there when the knight
had fallen. When looking up he caught

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sight of the stars, He thought, here, I'm sitting under my mango

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tree, in my pleasure garden.
He smiled a little. Was it really

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necessary? Was it right? Was
it not a foolish game that he owned

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a mango tree, that he owned
a garden? He also put an end

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to this. This also died in
him. He rose, bid his farewell

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to the mango tree, his farewell
to the pleasure garden. Since he had

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been without food this day, he
felt strong hunger, and thought of his

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house in the city, of his
chamber and bed, of the table with

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the meals on it. He smiled
tiredly, shook himself and bid his farewell

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to these things. In the same
hour of the night, Siddartha left his

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garden, left the city, and
never came back. For a long time,

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Kamaswami had people looked for him,
thinking that he had fallen into the

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hands of robbers. Kamala had no
one look for him. When she was

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told that Siddartha had disappeared, she
was not astonished. Did she not always

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expect it? Was he not a
samana, a man who was at home

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nowhere, a pilgrim, And most
of all, she had felt this the

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last time they had been together,
and she was happy in spite of all

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the pain of the loss that she
had pulled him so affectionately to her heart

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for this last time, that she
had felt one more time to be so

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completely possessed and penetrated by him.
When she received the first news of Siddartha's

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disappearance, she went to the window
where she held a rare singing bird captive

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in a golden cage. She opened
the door of the cage, took the

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bird out, and let it fly. For a long time, she gazed

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after it the flying bird. From
this day on she received no more visitors

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and kept her house locked. But
after some time she became aware that she

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was pregnant. From the last time
she was together with sid Arthur end of chapter seven