Govinda was horrified and filled with embarrassment. Siddhartha, however, put his mouth to Govinda's ear and whispered, "Now I'll show the old man what I learned as his pupil."
Stationing himself immediately before the Samana, his soul collected, he caught the eye of the old man with his own eyes and bewitched him, made him fall silent, made him lose his will, subjected him to his own will, commanded him to perform mutely what was asked of him. The old man fell silent: His eyes were locked in position, his will was paralyzed, his arms dangled down, he was powerless in the grasp of Siddhartha's enchantment. Now Siddhartha's thoughts took control of the thoughts of the Samana, forcing him to perform what they commanded. And so the old man bowed several times, made gestures of blessing, and, in a stammer, wished them safe travels. The youths responded to his bows with thanks, responded to his good wishes with wishes of their own, took their leave of him, and set off.
As they walked, Govinda said, "O Siddhartha, you learned more among the Samanas than I knew. It is difficult, very difficult, to enchant an old Samana. Verily, if you had remained there among them, you would soon have learned to walk upon water!"
"I do not wish to walk upon water," Siddhartha replied. "Let elderly Samanas content themselves with such tricks."
GAUTAMA
In the town of Savathi, every child knew the name of the Sublime Buddha, and every house was equipped to fill the alms bowls of Gautama's disciples, the silent mendicants. Not far from the town lay Gautama's preferred residence, Jetavana Grove, which the wealthy merchant Anathapindika, a devoted admirer of the Sublime One, had given to him and his followers.
This was the place mentioned in all the tales that had been shared with the two young ascetics in their search to discover Gautama's whereabouts, in all the answers they had received to their queries. And when they arrived in Savathi, they were offered food at the very first house at whose door they stopped to beg, and they accepted it.
Siddhartha asked the woman who gave it to them, "O charitable woman, we very much desire to learn where the Buddha can be found, the Most Venerable One, for we are two Samanas from the forest who have come here to see him, the Perfect One, and to hear his doctrine from his lips."
The woman replied, "Truly you have chosen the right place to stop, O Samanas from the forest. Jetavana, the garden of Anathapindika, is where the Sublime One resides. There, as pilgrims, you will be allowed to pass the night, for there is room in this place for the countless hordes who arrive in streams to hear the doctrine from his lips."
At these words, Govinda was glad and he cried out gaily, "How wonderful! Then our goal has been reached and our journey come to an end! But tell us, O mother of all pilgrims, do you know the Buddha? Have you beheld him with your own eyes?"
Said the woman, "I have seen him many times, the Sublime One. Many days I have seen him walking silently through our streets wearing his yellow coat, silently holding out his alms bowl at the doors of our homes and carrying the filled bowl away with him."
Govinda listened, rapt, and wanted to ask and hear much more. But Siddhartha announced it was time they were on their way. They gave their thanks and walked on, scarcely needing to inquire which way to go, for there were any number of pilgrims and monks from Gautama's fellowship on their way to Jetavana. And as they reached it that night, they beheld a scene of constant arrival, with the cries and conversations of those requesting and finding quarters. The two Samanas, accustomed to life in the forest, quickly and silently found shelter and rested there until morning.
When the sun rose, they were astonished to see what a great crowd of believers and onlookers had spent the night here. On all the paths of the splendid grove, monks were strolling in their yellow robes; they sat here and there beneath the trees, absorbed in contemplation or in spiritual conversation, the shady gardens like a city to behold, full of people swarming like bees. Most of these monks were setting out with their alms bowls to collect food in town for their noonday meal, the one meal of the day. Even the Buddha himself, the Enlightened One, was in the habit of going to beg for food each morning.
Siddhartha saw him and recognized him at once, as if a god had pointed him out: a simple man in a yellow cowl, walking quietly, alms bowl in his hand.
"Look!" Siddhartha said softly to Govinda. "That one there is the Buddha."
Attentively Govinda regarded the monk in the yellow cowl, who at first appeared indistinguishable from the hundreds of others. But Govinda, too, soon saw that this was indeed the Buddha, and they followed behind him, observing him.
The Buddha was walking along modestly, absorbed in thought. His still face was neither gay nor sad; he appeared to be smiling inwardly. Quietly, calmly, with a hidden smile, looking rather like a healthy child, the Buddha strolled down the path, wearing his robe and placing his foot upon the earth exactly like all his monks, just as was dictated to them. But his face and gait, his quietly lowered gaze, his quietly dangling hand--and indeed each individual finger on his quietly dangling hand--spoke of peace, spoke perfection, sought nothing, imitated nothing, was gently breathing an imperishable calm, an imperishable light, an inviolate peace.
Thus did Gautama stroll toward the town to collect alms, and the two Samanas recognized him solely by his perfect calm, the stillness of his figure, in which there was no searching, no desire, no imitation, no effort to be discerned, only light and peace.
"Today we shall hear the doctrine from his lips," Govinda said.
Siddhartha gave no reply. He felt no great curiosity to hear this doctrine. He did not think it would teach him anything new; after all, he, like Govinda, had already heard the substance of the Buddha's teachings over and over again, if only from second-and thirdhand reports. Nonetheless he scrutinized Gautama's head, his shoulders, his feet, his quietly dangling hand, and it seemed to him that every joint of every finger on this hand was doctrine; it spoke, breathed, wafted, and glinted Truth. This man, this Buddha, was genuine down to the gestures of his littlest finger. This man was holy. Never had Siddhartha revered a man like this, never had he loved a man as he loved this one.
The two of them followed the Buddha into town and then returned in silence, for they intended to abstain from food that day. They saw Gautama return, saw him take his meal in the circle of his disciples--what he ate would not have satisfied a bird--and saw him withdraw into the shade of the mango trees.
And in the evening, when the day's heat had abated and everyone around the camp came to life and gathered together, they heard the Buddha teach. They heard his voice, and it too was flawless, flawlessly calm and full of peace. Gautama preached the doctrine of suffering, of the origins of suffering, of the path to the cessation of suffering. His words flowed quiet and clear. Suffering was life, the world was full of sorrow, but redemption from sorrow had been found: He who trod the path of the Buddha would find redemption.
With a soft yet firm voice, the Sublime One spoke, preaching the four basic principles, preaching the eightfold path. Patiently he trod the familiar path of his doctrine, of the examples, the repetitions, his high clear voice floating above his listeners like a light, like a starry sky.
When the Buddha--night had already fallen--completed his speech, a number of pilgrims stepped forward and asked to be accepted into his fellowship; they wished to take refuge in his doctrine. And Gautama took them in, saying, "You have heard the doctrine; it has been preached to you. Join our number, then, and walk in holiness, that an end may be put to all sorrow."
And lo! Govinda too stepped forward, shy Govinda, and said, "I too take refuge in the Sublime One and his doctrine," and asked that he be taken in as a disciple, and he was taken in.
Directly afterward, when the Buddha had retired for the night, Govinda turned to Siddhartha and spoke earnestly. "Siddhartha, it is not fitting for me to reproach you. Both of us heard the Sublime One; both of us heard his teachings. Govinda heard the doctrine and has taken refuge in it. But you, my revered friend, will you not also tread the path of red
emption? Must you hesitate, must you persist in waiting?"
Siddhartha awoke as if from slumber when he heard Govinda's words. For a long time he gazed into Govinda's face. Then he said softly, in a voice free of mockery, "Govinda, my friend, now you have taken the step, now you have chosen the path. Always, O Govinda, you have been my friend, and always you have walked one step behind me. Often I have thought, Will not Govinda one day take a step on his own without me, as his own soul commands? And behold, now you have become a man and are choosing your own path. May you follow it to its end, O my friend! May you find redemption!"
Govinda, who did not yet fully comprehend, repeated his question with a touch of impatience. "Tell me, I beg you, my friend! Tell me, as it cannot be otherwise, that you too, my learned companion, will take your refuge in the sublime Buddha!"
Siddhartha placed his hand on Govinda's shoulder. "You did not hear my blessing, Govinda. I shall repeat it: May you follow this path to its end! May you find redemption!"
At this moment Govinda realized that his friend had left him, and he began to weep. "Siddhartha!" he cried out mournfully.
Siddhartha said to him in a kind voice, "Do not forget, Govinda, that you now belong to the Samanas of the Buddha! You have renounced your birthplace and parents, renounced your origins and property, renounced your own will, renounced friendship. This is what the doctrine instructs; this is the will of the Sublime One and it is what you yourself have chosen. Tomorrow, Govinda, I shall take leave of you."
The friends continued their stroll through the coppice for a long time; for a long time they lay and could not find sleep. Again and again Govinda pressed his friend to tell him why he would not take refuge in Gautama's teachings, what errors he saw in his doctrine. But Siddhartha turned him away each time, saying, "Be satisfied, Govinda! The teachings of the Sublime One are excellent; how could I find an error in them?"
Very early the next morning, a follower of the Buddha, one of his oldest monks, walked through the garden summoning all the new arrivals who had taken refuge in the doctrine of the Buddha, so as to give them their yellow robes and instruct them in the first lessons and duties of their state. Govinda broke away from them, embraced the friend of his youth one last time, then joined the procession of novices.
Siddhartha wandered through the grove, deep in thought.
There he came upon Gautama, the Sublime One, and as he greeted him with reverence and found the gaze of the Buddha so full of kindness and peace, the youth plucked up the courage to ask the Venerable One's leave to address him. Silently the Sublime One nodded his consent.
Said Siddhartha, "Yesterday, O Sublime One, I had the privilege of hearing your marvelous teachings. Together with my friend I came from far away to hear this doctrine. And now my friend will remain among your followers; he has taken refuge in you, while I am once more embarking on my pilgrimage."
"As you please," the Sublime One said courteously.
"My words are all too bold," Siddhartha went on, "but I wish not to leave the Sublime One without having shared my thoughts with him frankly. Would the Venerable One honor me with his audience a moment longer?"
Silently the Buddha nodded his consent.
Said Siddhartha, "There is one thing in particular, O Most Venerable One, that I have admired in your teachings. Everything in your doctrine is utterly clear, is proven; you show the world as a perfect chain, a chain never and nowhere interrupted, an eternal chain forged of causes and effects. Never has this been so clearly beheld, never so irrefutably presented. In truth, it must make the heart of any Brahmin beat faster when, through your teachings, he is able to glimpse the world as a perfect continuum, free of gaps, clear as a crystal, not dependent on chance, not dependent on gods. Whether this world be good or evil, and life in it sorrow or joy--let us set this question aside, for it is quite possibly not essential. But the oneness of the world, the continuum of all occurrences, the enfolding of all things great and small within a single stream, a single law of causes, of becoming and of death, this shines brightly forth from your sublime doctrine, O Perfect One. But now, according to your very same doctrine, this oneness and logical consistency of all things is nevertheless interrupted at one point; there is a tiny hole through which something strange is flowing into this world of oneness, something new, something that wasn't there before and that cannot be shown and cannot be proven: This is your doctrine of the overcoming of the world, of redemption. With this tiny hole, this tiny gap, the entire eternal unified law of the world is smashed to pieces, rendered invalid. May you forgive me for giving voice to this objection."
Silently, Gautama had heard him out, unmoved. In his kind, courteous, and clear voice, the Perfect One now spoke. "You have heard my teachings, O Brahmin's son, and it is well for you that you have thought so deeply about them. You have found a gap in them, an error. May you continue to contemplate it. But allow me to warn you, O inquisitive one, about the thicket of opinions and quibbling over words. Opinions are of little account; be they lovely or displeasing, clever or foolish, anyone can subscribe to or dismiss them. But the doctrine you heard from me is not my opinion, and its goal is not to explain the world to the inquisitive. It has a different goal; its goal is redemption from suffering. It is this redemption Gautama teaches, nothing else."
"May you not be angry with me, O Sublime One," the youth replied. "It is not to quarrel, to quibble over words, that I spoke to you thus. Truly you are right; opinions are of little account. But let me say this as well: Never for a moment have I doubted you. I never doubted for a moment that you are the Buddha, that you have reached the goal, the highest goal, toward which so many thousands of Brahmins and Brahmins' sons are striving. You have found redemption from death. It came to you as you were engaged in a search of your own, upon a path of your own; it came to you through thinking, through meditation, through knowledge, through enlightenment. Not through doctrine did it come to you. And this is my thought, O Sublime One: No one will ever attain redemption through doctrine! Never, O Venerable One, will you be able to convey in words and show and say through your teachings what happened to you in the hour of your enlightenment. Much is contained in the doctrine of the enlightened Buddha; many are taught by it to live in an upright way, to shun evil. But there is one thing this so clear and venerable doctrine does not contain: It does not contain the secret of what the Sublime One himself experienced, he alone among the hundreds of thousands. This is what I thought and realized when I heard the doctrine. This is why I am continuing my journey--not in order to seek a different, better doctrine, for I know there is none, but to leave behind me all teachings and all teachers and to reach my goal alone or perish. But often will I remember this day, O Sublime One, and this hour when my eyes beheld a holy man."
The eyes of the Buddha gazed in stillness at the ground; his unfathomable face shone in stillness and perfect equanimity.
"May your thoughts," the Venerable One said slowly, "not be in error! May you reach your goal! But tell me: Have you seen the horde of Samanas, my many brothers, who have taken refuge in the doctrine? And do you believe, unknown Samana, do you believe they would all be better off if they abandoned the doctrine and returned to the life of the world and its pleasures?"
"Far be it from me to entertain such a thought!" Siddhartha cried. "May they all remain faithful to the doctrine, may they reach their goal! It is not fitting for me to pass judgment on another's life! Only for myself, for myself alone, must I judge, must I choose, must I reject. Redemption from Self is what we Samanas seek, O Sublime One. If I were one of your disciples, O Venerable One, what I fear might happen is that my Self would only apparently, deceptively find peace and be redeemed, but that in truth it would live on and become huge, for I would have made the doctrine and my adherence to it and my love for you and the fellowship of the monks my Self!"
With a half smile, with imperturbable brightness and amicability, Gautama looked directly into the face of the stranger and bade him farewell with a scarcel
y visible gesture.
"You are clever, O Samana," said the Venerable One. "You speak cleverly, my friend. Be on your guard against too much cleverness!"
The Buddha wandered off, but his gaze and his half smile remained forever engraved in Siddhartha's memory.
Never have I seen a man gaze and smile like this, sit and walk like this, he thought; I myself would like to be able to gaze and smile, sit and walk in just such a way, so freely, so venerably, so secretly, so openly, so childishly and mysteriously. Truly, only a man who has penetrated the innermost core of his being can gaze and walk like that. Very well, I too will seek to penetrate the innermost core of my being.
I have seen one man, thought Siddhartha, just a single man before whom I have had to cast down my eyes. I do not wish to cast my eyes down before another ever again. Never will I be tempted by any other doctrine, for the doctrine of this man did not tempt me.
The Buddha has robbed me, Siddhartha thought, he has robbed me, and yet he has given me so much more. He has robbed me of my friend, the friend who believed in me and now believes in him, who was my shadow and is now Gautama's shadow. But he has given me Siddhartha, given me myself.
AWAKENING
When Siddhartha left the grove in which the Buddha, the Perfect One, remained behind, in which Govinda remained behind, he felt that his former life, too, was remaining behind him in this grove. Immersed in deep contemplation of this feeling, which had taken hold of him completely, he walked slowly away, allowing himself to sink to the bottom of this feeling as if through deep water, down to where the causes lay. Recognizing the causes, it seemed to him, was just what thought was; it was only in this way that feelings gave rise to insights and, rather than being lost, took on substance and began to radiate what was within them.
Walking slowly away, Siddhartha realized he was a youth no longer; he had become a man. He realized that something had left him, the way a snake's old skin leaves it. Something that had accompanied him throughout his youth and been a part of him was no longer present: the desire to have teachers and hear doctrine. He had left behind the last teacher to appear to him on his path, this highest and wisest of teachers, the holiest one, Buddha; he'd had to part even from him, unable to accept his doctrine.