In the shade of the house
in the sunshine of the riverbank
near the boats
in the shade of the Sal-wood forest
in the shade of the fig tree
this is where Siddhartha grew up
he was the handsome son of a Brahman, the young falcon
he grew up with his friend Govinda
Govinda was also the son of a Brahman
by the banks of the river the sun tanned his light shoulders
bathing, performing the sacred ablutions, making sacred offerings
In the mango garden, shade poured into his black eyes
when playing as a boy, when his mother sang
when the sacred offerings were made
when his father, the scholar, taught him
when the wise men talked
For a long time, Siddhartha had been partaking in the discussions of the wise men
he practiced debating with Govinda
he practiced the art of reflection with Govinda
and he practiced meditation
He already knew how to speak the Om silently
he knew the word of words
he spoke it silently into himself while inhaling
he spoke it silently out of himself while exhaling
he did this with all the concentration of his soul
his forehead was surrounded by the glow of the clear-thinking spirit
He already knew how to feel Atman in the depths of his being
he could feel the indestructible
he knew what it was to be at one with the universe
Joy leapt in his father’s heart
because his son was quick to learn
he was thirsty for knowledge
his father could see him growing up to become a great wise man
he could see him becoming a priest
he could see him becoming a prince among the Brahmans
Bliss leapt in his mother’s breast when she saw him walking
Bliss leapt in her heart when she saw him sit down and get up
Siddhartha was strong and handsome
he, who was walking on slender legs
he greeted her with perfect respect
Love touched the hearts of the Brahmans’ young daughters
they were charmed when Siddhartha walked through the lanes of the town
his luminous forehead, his eyes of a king, his slim hips
But most of all he was loved by Govinda
Govinda, his friend, the son of a Brahman
He loved Siddhartha’s eye and sweet voice
he loved the way he walked
and he loved the perfect decency of his movements
he loved everything Siddhartha did and said
but what he loved most was his spirit
he loved his transcendent, fiery thoughts
he loved his ardent will and high calling
Govinda knew he would not become a common Brahman
no, he would not become a lazy official
no, he would not become a greedy merchant
not a vain, vacuous speaker
nor a mean, deceitful priest
and also would not become a decent, stupid sheep
a sheep in the herd of the many
and he did not want to become one of those things
he did not want to be one of those tens of thousands of Brahmans
He wanted to follow Siddhartha, the beloved, the splendid
in days to come, when Siddhartha would become a god, he would be there
when he would join the glorious, he would be there
Govinda wanted to follow him as his friend
he was his companion and his servant
he was his spear-carrier and his shadow
Siddhartha was loved by everyone
He was a source of joy for everybody
he was a delight for them all
But he, Siddhartha, was not a source of joy for himself
he found no delight in himself
he walked the rosy paths of the fig tree garden
he sat in the bluish shade in the garden of contemplation
he washed his limbs daily in the bath of repentance
he made sacrifices in the dim shade of the mango forest
his gestures were of perfect decency
he was everyone’s love and joy
but he still lacked all joy in his heart
Dreams and restless thoughts came into his mind
his dreams flowed from the water of the river
his dreams sparked from the stars of the night
his dreams melted from the beams of the sun
dreams came to him, and a restlessness of the soul came to him
his soul was fuming from the sacrifices
he breathed forth from the verses of the Rig-Veda
the verses were infused into him, drop by drop
the verses from the teachings of the old Brahmans
Siddhartha had started to nurse discontent in himself
he had started to feel doubt about the love of his father
he doubted the love of his mother
and he doubted the love of his friend, Govinda
he doubted if their love could bring him joy for ever and ever
their love could not nurse him
their love could not feed him
their love could not satisfy him
he had started to suspect his father’s teachings
perhaps he had shown him everything he knew
there were his other teachers, the wise Brahmans
perhaps they had already revealed to him the best of their wisdom
he feared that they had already filled his expecting vessel
despite the richness of their teachings, the vessel was not full
the spirit was not content
the soul was not calm
the heart was not satisfied
the ablutions were good, but they were water
the ablutions did not wash off the sin
they did not heal the spirit’s thirst
they did not relieve the fear in his heart
The sacrifices and the invocation of the gods were excellent
but was that all there was?
did the sacrifices give a happy fortune?
and what about the gods?
Was it really Prajapati who had created the world?
Was it not the Atman who had created the world?
Atman, the only one, the singular one
Were the gods not creations?
were they not created like me and you?
were the Gods not subject to time?
were the Gods mortal? Was it good?
was it right? was it meaningful?
was it the highest occupation to make offerings to the gods?
For whom else were offerings to be made?
who else was to be worshipped?
who else was there, but Him?
The only one, the Atman
And where was Atman to be found?
where did He reside?
where did His eternal heart beat?
where else but in one’s own self?
in its innermost indestructible part
could he be that which everyone had in himself?
But where was this self?
where was this innermost part?
where was this ultimate part?
It was not flesh and bone
it was neither thought nor consciousness
this is what the wisest ones taught
So where was it?
the self, myself, the Atman
To reach this place, there was another way
was this other way worth looking for?
Alas, nobody showed him this way
nobody knew this other way
his father did not know it
and the teachers and wise men did not know it
They knew everything, the Brahmans
and their holy books knew everything
they had taken care of everything
they took care of the creation of the world
they described origin of speech, food, inhaling, exhaling
they described the arrangement of the senses
they described the acts of the gods
their books knew infinitely much
but was it valuable to know all of this?
was there not only one thing to be known?
was there still not the most important thing to know?
many verses of the holy books spoke of this innermost, ultimate thing
it was spoken of particularly in the Upanishades of Samaveda
they were wonderful verses
“Your soul is the whole world”, this was written there
and it was written that man in deep sleep would meet with his innermost part
and he would reside in the Atman
Marvellous wisdom was in these verses
all knowledge of the wisest ones had been collected here in magic words
it was as pure as honey collected by bees
No, the verses were not to be looked down upon
they contained tremendous amounts of enlightenment
they contained wisdom which lay collected and preserved
wisdom collected by innumerable generations of wise Brahmans
But where were the Brahmans?
where were the priests?
where the wise men or penitents?
where were those that had succeeded?
where were those who knew more than deepest of all knowledge?
where were those that also lived out the enlightened wisdom?
Where was the knowledgeable one who brought Atman out of his sleep?
who had brought it into the day?
who had taken it into their life?
who carried it with every step they took?
who had married their words with their deeds?
Siddhartha knew many venerable Brahmans
his father, the pure one
the scholar, the most venerable one
His father was worthy of admiration
quiet and noble were his manners
pure was his life, wise were his words
delicate and noble thoughts lived behind his brow
but even though he knew so much, did he live in blissfulness?
despite all his knowledge, did he have peace?
was he not also just a searching man?
was he still not a thirsty man?
Did he not have to drink from holy sources again and again?
did he not drink from the offerings?
did he not drink from the books?
did he not drink from the disputes of the Brahmans?
Why did he have to wash off sins every day?
must he strive for a cleansing every day?
over and over again, every day
Was Atman not in him?
did not the pristine source spring from his heart?
the pristine source had to be found in one’s own self
the pristine source had to be possessed!
doing anything else else was searching
taking any other pass is a detour
going any other way leads to getting lost
These were Siddhartha’s thoughts
this was his thirst, and this was his suffering
Often he spoke to himself from a Chandogya-Upanishad:
“Truly, the name of the Brahman is Satyam”
“he who knows such a thing, will enter the heavenly world every day”
Often the heavenly world seemed near
but he had never reached the heavenly world completely
he had never quenched the ultimate thirst
And among all the wise and wisest men, none had reached it
he received instructions from them
but they hadn’t completely reached the heavenly world
they hadn’t completely quenched their thirst
because it is an eternal thirst

“Govinda” Siddhartha spoke to his friend
“Govinda, my dear, come with me under the Banyan tree”
“let’s practise meditation”
They went to the Banyan tree
under the Banyan tree they sat down
Siddhartha was right here
Govinda was twenty paces away
Siddhartha seated himself and he repeated murmuring the verse
Om is the bow, the arrow is the soul
The Brahman is the arrow’s target
the target that one should incessantly hit
the usual time of the exercise in meditation had passed
Govinda got up, the evening had come
it was time to perform the evening’s ablution
He called Siddhartha’s name, but Siddhartha did not answer
Siddhartha sat there, lost in thought
his eyes were rigidly focused towards a very distant target
the tip of his tongue was protruding a little between the teeth
he seemed not to breathe
Thus sat he, wrapped up in contemplation
he was deep in thought of the Om
his soul sent after the Brahman like an arrow
Once, Samanas had travelled through Siddhartha’s town
they were ascetics on a pilgrimage
three skinny, withered men, neither old nor young
dusty and bloody were their shoulders
almost naked, scorched by the sun, surrounded by loneliness
strangers and enemies to the world
strangers and jackals in the realm of humans
Behind them blew a hot scent of quiet passion
a scent of destructive service
a scent of merciless self-denial
the evening had come
after the hour of contemplation, Siddhartha spoke to Govinda
“Early tomorrow morning, my friend, Siddhartha will go to the Samanas”
“He will become a Samana”
Govinda turned pale when he heard these words
and he read the decision in the motionless face of his friend
it was unstoppable, like the arrow shot from the bow
Govinda realized at first glance; now it is beginning
now Siddhartha is taking his own way
now his fate is beginning to sprout
and because of Siddhartha, Govinda’s fate is sprouting too
he turned pale like a dry banana-skin
“Oh Siddhartha,” he exclaimed
“will your father permit you to do that?”
Siddhartha looked over as if he was just waking up
like an Arrow he read Govinda’s soul
he could read the fear and the submission in him
“Oh Govinda,” he spoke quietly, “let’s not waste words”
“Tomorrow at daybreak I will begin the life of the Samanas”
“let us speak no more of it”

Siddhartha entered the chamber where his father was sitting
his father was was on a mat of bast
Siddhartha stepped behind his father
and he remained standing behind him
he stood until his father felt that someone was standing behind him
Spoke the Brahman: “Is that you, Siddhartha?”
“Then say what you came to say”
Spoke Siddhartha: “With your permission, my father”
“I came to tell you that it is my longing to leave your house tomorrow”
“I wish to go to the ascetics”
“My desire is to become a Samana”
“May my father not oppose this”
The Brahman fell silent, and he remained so for long
the stars in the small window wandered
and they changed their relative positions
Silent and motionless stood the son with his arms folded
silent and motionless sat the father on the mat
and the stars traced their paths in the sky
Then spoke the father
“Not proper it is for a Brahman to speak harsh and angry words”
“But indignation is in my heart”
“I wish not to hear this request for a second time”
Slowly, the Brahman rose
Siddhartha stood silently, his arms folded
“What are you waiting for?” asked the father
Spoke Siddhartha, “You know what I’m waiting for”
Indignant, the father left the chamber
indignant, he went to his bed and lay down
an hour passed, but no sleep had come over his eyes
the Brahman stood up and he paced to and fro
and he left the house in the night
Through the small window of the chamber he looked back inside
and there he saw Siddhartha standing
his arms were folded and he had not moved from his spot
Pale shimmered his bright robe
With anxiety in his heart, the father returned to his bed
another sleepless hour passed
since no sleep had come over his eyes, the Brahman stood up again
he paced to and fro, and he walked out of the house
and he saw that the moon had risen
Through the window of the chamber he looked back inside
there stood Siddhartha, unmoved from his spot
his arms were folded, as they had been
moonlight was reflecting from his bare shins
With worry in his heart, the father went back to bed
he came back after an hour
and he came back again after two hours
he looked through the small window
he saw Siddhartha standing in the moon light
he stood by the light of the stars in the darkness
And he came back hour after hour
silently, he looked into the chamber
he saw him standing in the same place
it filled his heart with anger
it filled his heart with unrest
it filled his heart with anguish
it filled his heart with sadness
the night’s last hour had come
his father returned and stepped into the room
he saw the young man standing there
he seemed tall and like a stranger to him
“Siddhartha,” he spoke, “what are you waiting for?”
“You know what I’m waiting for”
“Will you always stand that way and wait?
“I will always stand and wait”
“will you wait until it becomes morning, noon, and evening?”
“I will wait until it become morning, noon, and evening”
“You will become tired, Siddhartha”
“I will become tired”
“You will fall asleep, Siddhartha”
“I will not fall asleep”
“You will die, Siddhartha”
“I will die,” answered Siddhartha
“And would you rather die, than obey your father?”
“Siddhartha has always obeyed his father”
“So will you abandon your plan?”
“Siddhartha will do what his father will tell him to do”
The first light of day shone into the room
The Brahman saw that Siddhartha knees were softly trembling
In Siddhartha’s face he saw no trembling
his eyes were fixed on a distant spot
This was when his father realized
even now Siddhartha no longer dwelt with him in his home
he saw that he had already left him
The Father touched Siddhartha’s shoulder
“You will,” he spoke, “go into the forest and be a Samana”
“When you find blissfulness in the forest, come back”
“come back and teach me to be blissful”
“If you find disappointment, then return”
“return and let us make offerings to the gods together, again”
“Go now and kiss your mother”
“tell her where you are going”
“But for me it is time to go to the river”
“it is my time to perform the first ablution”
He took his hand from the shoulder of his son, and went outside
Siddhartha wavered to the side as he tried to walk
He put his limbs back under control and bowed to his father
he went to his mother to do as his father had said
As he slowly left on stiff legs a shadow rose near the last hut
who had crouched there, and joined the pilgrim?
“Govinda, you have come” said Siddhartha and smiled
“I have come,” said Govinda