Siddhartha | Page 3

every day, strive
for a cleansing every day, over and over every day? Was not Atman in him, did not the
pristine source spring from his heart? It had to be found, the pristine source in one's own
self, it had to be possessed! Everything else was searching, was a detour, was getting lost.
Thus were Siddhartha's thoughts, this was his thirst, this was his suffering.
Often he spoke to himself from a Chandogya-Upanishad the words: "Truly, the name of
the Brahman is satyam--verily, he who knows such a thing, will enter the heavenly world
every day." Often, it seemed near, the heavenly world, but never he had reached it
completely, never he had quenched the ultimate thirst. And among all the wise and wisest
men, he knew and whose instructions he had received, among all of them there was no
one, who had reached it completely, the heavenly world, who had quenched it completely,
the 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, they sat down, Siddhartha right here, Govinda twenty
paces away. While putting himself down, ready to speak the Om, Siddhartha repeated
murmuring the verse:
Om is the bow, the arrow is soul, The Brahman is the arrow's target, That one should
incessantly hit.
After the usual time of the exercise in meditation had passed, Govinda rose. The evening
had come, it was time to perform the evening's ablution. He called Siddhartha's name.
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, thinking
Om, his soul sent after the Brahman as an arrow.
Once, Samanas had travelled through Siddhartha's town, ascetics on a pilgrimage, three
skinny, withered men, neither old nor young, with dusty and bloody shoulders, almost
naked, scorched by the sun, surrounded by loneliness, strangers and enemies to the world,
strangers and lank jackals in the realm of humans. Behind them blew a hot scent of quiet
passion, of destructive service, of merciless self-denial.
In the evening, 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 read the decision in the motionless
face of his friend, unstoppable like the arrow shot from the bow. Soon and with the first
glance, Govinda realized: Now it is beginning, now Siddhartha is taking his own way,
now his fate is beginning to sprout, and with his, my own. And he turned pale like a dry
banana-skin.
"O Siddhartha," he exclaimed, "will your father permit you to do that?"
Siddhartha looked over as if he was just waking up. Arrow-fast he read in Govinda´s soul,
read the fear, read the submission.
"O Govinda," he spoke quietly, "let's not waste words. Tomorrow, at daybreak I will
begin the life of the Samanas. Speak no more of it."
Siddhartha entered the chamber, where his father was sitting on a mat of bast, and
stepped behind his father and remained standing there, until his father felt that someone
was standing behind him. Quoth the Brahman: "Is that you, Siddhartha? Then say what
you came to say."
Quoth Siddhartha: "With your permission, my father. I came to tell you that it is my
longing to leave your house tomorrow and go to the ascetics. My desire is to become a
Samana. May my father not oppose this."
The Brahman fell silent, and remained silent for so long that the stars in the small

window wandered and changed their relative positions, 'ere the silence was broken. 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 from your mouth."
Slowly, the Brahman rose; Siddhartha stood silently, his arms folded.
"What are you waiting for?" asked the father.
Quoth Siddhartha: "You know what."
Indignant, the father left the chamber; indignant, he went to his bed and lay down.
After an hour, since no sleep had come over his eyes, the Brahman stood up, paced to and
fro, and left the house. Through the small window of the chamber he looked back inside,
and there he saw Siddhartha standing, his arms folded, not moving from his spot. Pale
shimmered his bright robe. With anxiety in his heart,