Siddhartha | Page 7

say, if there was no learning?! What, oh Siddhartha, what would then become of all of
this what is holy, what is precious, what is venerable on earth?!"
And Govinda mumbled a verse to himself, a verse from an Upanishad:
He who ponderingly, of a purified spirit, loses himself in the meditation of Atman,
unexpressable by words is his blissfulness of his heart.
But Siddhartha remained silent. He thought about the words which Govinda had said to
him and thought the words through to their end.
Yes, he thought, standing there with his head low, what would remain of all that which
seemed to us to be holy? What remains? What can stand the test? And he shook his head.
At one time, when the two young men had lived among the Samanas for about three
years and had shared their exercises, some news, a rumour, a myth reached them after
being retold many times: A man had appeared, Gotama by name, the exalted one, the
Buddha, he had overcome the suffering of the world in himself and had halted the cycle
of rebirths. He was said to wander through the land, teaching, surrounded by disciples,
without possession, without home, without a wife, in the yellow cloak of an ascetic, but
with a cheerful brow, a man of bliss, and Brahmans and princes would bow down before
him and would become his students.
This myth, this rumour, this legend resounded, its fragrants rose up, here and there; in the
towns, the Brahmans spoke of it and in the forest, the Samanas; again and again, the
name of Gotama, the Buddha reached the ears of the young men, with good and with bad
talk, with praise and with defamation.
It was as if the plague had broken out in a country and news had been spreading around
that in one or another place there was a man, a wise man, a knowledgeable one, whose
word and breath was enough to heal everyone who had been infected with the pestilence,
and as such news would go through the land and everyone would talk about it, many
would believe, many would doubt, but many would get on their way as soon as possible,
to seek the wise man, the helper, just like this this myth ran through the land, that fragrant
myth of Gotama, the Buddha, the wise man of the family of Sakya. He possessed, so the
believers said, the highest enlightenment, he remembered his previous lives, he had
reached the nirvana and never returned into the cycle, was never again submerged in the
murky river of physical forms. Many wonderful and unbelievable things were reported of
him, he had performed miracles, had overcome the devil, had spoken to the gods. But his
enemies and disbelievers said, this Gotama was a vain seducer, he would spent his days
in luxury, scorned the offerings, was without learning, and knew neither exercises nor
self-castigation.

The myth of Buddha sounded sweet. The scent of magic flowed from these reports. After
all, the world was sick, life was hard to bear--and behold, here a source seemed to spring
forth, here a messenger seemed to call out, comforting, mild, full of noble promises.
Everywhere where the rumour of Buddha was heard, everywhere in the lands of India,
the young men listened up, felt a longing, felt hope, and among the Brahmans' sons of the
towns and villages every pilgrim and stranger was welcome, when he brought news of
him, the exalted one, the Sakyamuni.
The myth had also reached the Samanas in the forest, and also Siddhartha, and also
Govinda, slowly, drop by drop, every drop laden with hope, every drop laden with doubt.
They rarely talked about it, because the oldest one of the Samanas did not like this myth.
He had heard that this alleged Buddha used to be an ascetic before and had lived in the
forest, but had then turned back to luxury and worldly pleasures, and he had no high
opinion of this Gotama.
"Oh Siddhartha," Govinda spoke one day to his friend. "Today, I was in the village, and a
Brahman invited me into his house, and in his house, there was the son of a Brahman
from Magadha, who has seen the Buddha with his own eyes and has heard him teach.
Verily, this made my chest ache when I breathed, and thought to myself: If only I would
too, if only we both would too, Siddhartha and me, live to see the hour when we will hear
the teachings from the mouth of this perfected man! Speak, friend, wouldn't we want to
go there too and listen to the teachings from the Buddha's mouth?"
Quoth Siddhartha: "Always, oh Govinda, I had thought, Govinda would stay with the
Samanas, always I