Siddhartha

  "Yes, I saw you yesterday and greeted you."

  "But did you not have a beard yesterday, and long hair, and dust in your hair?"

  "You certainly observed well, seeing all this. You saw Siddhartha, the Brahmin's son, who left home to become a Samana and was a Samana for three years. But now I have left that path behind me and come to this city, and the first person I saw here, even before entering the city, was you. I have come here to tell you this, O Kamala! You are the first woman to whom Siddhartha has spoken without averting his eyes. Never again shall I avert my eyes when I meet a beautiful woman."

  Kamala smiled and played with her fan of peacock feathers. "And is it only to tell me this that Siddhartha has come?" she asked.

  "To tell you this, and to thank you for being so beautiful. And if it does not displease you, Kamala, I would like to ask you to be my friend and teacher, for I know nothing of the art of which you are a master."

  At this Kamala laughed aloud. "Never before, my friend, has a Samana come out of the forest and asked to learn from me. Never has a Samana with long hair and clad in a torn loincloth paid me a visit. Many young men come to call on me--there are even Brahmins' sons among them--but they come in beautiful clothes, they come in fine shoes, and they have fragrance in their hair and money in their wallets. This, O Samana, is what the young men are like who come to call on me."

  Siddhartha said, "Already I am beginning to learn from you. Even yesterday I learned something. Already I have given up my beard and combed and oiled my hair. Very little is still lacking, most splendid woman: fine clothes, fine shoes, money in my wallet. Know that Siddhartha has undertaken far more difficult tasks than these and has succeeded in them. How could I fail to succeed in yesterday's resolve: to be your friend and learn from you the pleasures of love? You will find me a willing pupil, Kamala; I have learned more difficult things than what you are to teach me. So tell me: Is Siddhartha satisfactory to you as he is now, with oil in his hair but without clothes, shoes, or money?"

  Laughing, Kamala cried out, "No, cherished friend, he is not yet satisfactory. He must have clothes, attractive clothes, and shoes, attractive shoes, and plenty of money in his wallet, and presents for Kamala. Now do you understand, Samana from the forest? Will you remember?"

  "Certainly I shall remember," Siddhartha cried. "How could I fail to remember words that come from such lips? Your mouth is like a fig split in two, Kamala. My mouth, too, is fresh and red; it will fit nicely against yours, you'll see. But tell me, beautiful Kamala, are you not at all afraid of this Samana from the forest who has come to learn the art of love?"

  "Why should I be afraid of a Samana, a foolish Samana from the forest who has been living among the jackals and doesn't even know yet what a woman is?"

  "Oh, but he is strong, this Samana, and he is afraid of nothing. He could force you, beautiful girl. He could carry you off. He could harm you."

  "No, Samana, I have no fear of this. Has a Samana or a Brahmin ever been afraid that someone might come and seize him and rob him of his learnedness, his piousness, and his profound thoughts? No, for these things belong to him, and he gives of them only what and to whom he will. It is precisely the same with Kamala and the pleasures of love. Beautiful and red is Kamala's mouth, but try to kiss it against her will and you will get from it not a single drop of sweetness, though it has much sweetness to offer. You are a willing pupil, Siddhartha, so learn this as well: Love can be begged, bought, or received as a gift, one can find it in the street, but one cannot steal it. This notion of yours is misguided. It would be a shame if a handsome youth like you were to set about things in the wrong way."

  Siddhartha bowed to her, smiling. "A shame it would be, Kamala, how right you are! A terrible shame. No, not a single drop of your mouth's sweetness shall go to waste, and you will taste the full sweetness of mine. Let this be our agreement: Siddhartha will come again when he has what he is presently lacking: clothes, shoes, and money. But tell me, lovely Kamala, can you not give me one more piece of advice?"

  "Advice? Why not? Who would refuse advice to a poor, ignorant Samana who has come from the jackals of the forest?"

  "Advise me then, dear Kamala: Where should I go to find these three things the most swiftly?"

  "Friend, that is something many would like to know. You must do what you have learned to do and in exchange have people give you money and clothes and shoes. There is no other way for a poor man to get money. What do you know how to do?"

  "I can think. I can wait. I can fast."

  "Is that all?"

  "Yes... no. I can also write poetry. Would you give me a kiss for a poem?"

  "If the poem pleases me, then yes. What is it called?"

  Siddhartha reflected for a moment, then spoke these lines:

  "Into her shady grove stepped beautiful Kamala,

  At the entrance to the grove stood the brown Samana.

  Deeply he bowed, having glimpsed the lotus blossom,

  for which he was thanked by smiling Kamala.

  More lovely, thought the youth, than sacrificing to the gods,

  More lovely it is to sacrifice to beautiful Kamala."

  Kamala clapped her hands loudly, making the golden bracelets ring out.

  "How beautiful your poetry is, brown Samana! Truly, I will be losing nothing if I trade you a kiss for it."

  She drew him to her with her eyes; he lowered his face to hers and placed his mouth upon the mouth that was like a fig split in two. For a long time Kamala kissed him, and with deep astonishment Siddhartha felt how she was teaching him, how wise she was, how she mastered him, pushed him away, lured him, and how behind this first kiss stood a long, well-ordered, and well-tried sequence of kisses, each different from the others, still awaiting him. Breathing deeply, he stood there and in this moment was like a child, gaping in astonishment at the wealth of things worth knowing and learning that had opened before his eyes.

  "How very beautiful your poetry is!" Kamala exclaimed. "If I were rich, I would give you pieces of gold for it. But it will be difficult for you to earn as much money as you need with poetry. For you will need a great deal of money if you wish to be Kamala's friend."

  "How you can kiss, Kamala!" Siddhartha stammered.

  "Yes, I kiss well, and therefore I am not lacking in clothes, shoes, bracelets, or any other beautiful things. But what will become of you? Can you do nothing besides think, fast, and write poems?"

  "I know the sacrificial songs," Siddhartha said, "but I don't want to sing them any longer. I know magical incantations, but I don't want to utter them any longer. I have read the writings of--"

  "Stop." Kamala interrupted him. "You can read and write?"

  "Certainly I can. Many can do these things."

  "Most cannot. Even I cannot. It is very good that you can read and write, very good. And the incantations will be of use to you as well."

  At this moment a maidservant ran in to the pavilion and whispered something in her mistress's ear.

  "I must receive a guest," Kamala cried. "Hurry and get out of sight, Siddhartha. No one may see you here, remember that! Tomorrow I will receive you again."

  She instructed the maid to give the pious Brahmin a white cloak. Before he knew what was happening, Siddhartha found himself whisked away by the maid and taken by a circuitous route to a garden house, where he was given a cloak. Then he was led into the bushes and urgently admonished to find his way out of the grove at once and unseen.

  Pleased with himself, he did as he was told. Being accustomed to life in the forest, he was able to find his way out of the grove and over the hedge without a sound. Pleased with himself, he returned to the city, carrying the rolled-up cloak beneath his arm. In a hostel where travelers stopped, he positioned himself at the door, silently asked for food, silently accepted a piece of rice cake. Perhaps as soon as tomorrow, he thought, I will no longer be asking for food.

  Pride suddenly flared up within him. He was no longer a Samana, no longer was it fitting for
him to beg. He gave the rice cake to a dog and went without eating.

  Simple is the life one leads here in the world, Siddhartha thought. There are no difficulties. Everything was difficult, laborious, and in the end hopeless when I was still a Samana. Now everything is easy, easy as the kissing lessons Kamala is giving me. I need clothing and money, that is all. These goals are small and within reach; they will not trouble my sleep.

  He had long since identified Kamala's town house, and the next day he presented himself there.

  "All is well," she cried out when she saw him. "You are expected at the home of Kamaswami; he is the richest merchant in the city. If you please him, he will take you into his service. Be clever, brown Samana. I have had others tell him of you. Be friendly toward him; he is very powerful. But do not be too modest! I do not want you to become his servant. You must become his equal, otherwise I shall not be satisfied with you. Kamaswami is beginning to grow old and lazy. If you please him, he will entrust you with a great deal."

  Siddhartha thanked her and laughed, and when she learned that he had eaten nothing this day or the one before, she ordered bread and fruit to be brought and served him herself.

  "You've been lucky," she said, as he was taking leave of her. "One door after the other is opening before you. How is that? Do you have magical powers?"

  Siddhartha said, "Yesterday I told you that I knew how to think, to wait, and to fast, but you declared these things to have no value. But they have great value, Kamala, as you will see. You will see that the foolish Samanas in the forest learn and are able to do many fine things that you cannot. The day before yesterday I was still an unkempt beggar, but already yesterday I kissed Kamala, and soon I shall be a merchant and have money and all these things you consider important."

  "Well, yes," she conceded, "but where would you be without me? What would you be if Kamala did not help you?"

  "Dear Kamala," said Siddhartha, straightening up to his full height, "when I came into your grove to you, I was taking my first step. It was my resolve to learn love from this most beautiful of women. From the moment I resolved to do this, I knew I would succeed. I knew you would help me; from the first glance you gave me at the entrance to the grove I knew this."

  "And if I hadn't been willing?"

  "You were willing. You see, Kamala, when you throw a stone into the water, it hurries by the swiftest possible path to the bottom. It is like this when Siddhartha has a goal, a resolve. Siddhartha does nothing--he waits, he thinks, he fasts--but he passes through the things of this world like a stone through water, without doing anything, without moving; he is drawn and lets himself fall. His goal draws him to it, for he allows nothing into his soul that might conflict with this goal. This is what Siddhartha learned among the Samanas. It is what fools call magic and think is performed by demons. Nothing is performed by demons; there are no demons. Anyone can perform magic. Anyone can reach his goals if he can think, if he can wait, if he can fast."

  Kamala listened to him. She loved his voice, she loved the way his eyes flashed. "Perhaps it is just as you say, friend," she said softly. "But perhaps it is also that Siddhartha is a handsome man, his appearance is pleasing to women, and for this reason good luck comes to him."

  With a kiss, Siddhartha took leave of her. "May it be so, my teacher. May my appearance always please you; may good luck always come from you to me!"

  AMONG THE CHILD PEOPLE

  Siddhartha went to see the merchant Kamaswami and was shown into a mansion; servants led him between precious tapestries to a chamber, where he waited for the master of the house to appear.

  Kamaswami entered, a quick, agile man with heavily graying hair, very clever, cautious eyes, and a covetous mouth. Master and guest exchanged a friendly greeting.

  "They tell me," the merchant began, "that you are a Brahmin, a learned man, but that you wish to enter the service of a merchant. Has hardship befallen you, Brahmin, to make you seek such a post?"

  "No," Siddhartha said, "hardship has not befallen me. Indeed, I have never suffered hardship. Know that I have come to you from the Samanas, among whom I lived for a long time."

  "If you come from the Samanas, how could you not be suffering hardship? Are not the Samanas utterly without possessions?"

  "Possessions I have none," Siddhartha said, "if this is what you mean. Certainly I have no possessions. But I lack possessions of my own free will, so this is not a hardship."

  "But what will you live on if you have nothing?"

  "Never before, sir, have I occupied myself with this question. I have been without possessions for a good three years now and never found myself wondering what to live on."

  "Then you lived off the possessions of others."

  "No doubt this is so. A merchant too lives off the wealth of others."

  "Well put. But he does not take from others without giving in return; he gives his goods in exchange."

  "This would indeed appear to be true. Each person gives; each person takes. Such is life."

  "But with your permission: If you have no possessions, what can you give?"

  "Each person gives what he has. The warrior gives strength, the merchant gives his goods, the teacher his doctrine, the farmer rice, the fisherman fish."

  "Most certainly. And so what is it you have to give? What have you learned? What are your abilities?"

  "I can think. I can wait. I can fast."

  "Is that all?"

  "I believe it is."

  "And what use are these things? Fasting, for instance--what purpose does it serve?"

  "It is most excellent, sir. If a person has nothing to eat, then fasting is the most sensible thing he can do. If, for example, Siddhartha had not learned to fast, he would be compelled to take up some service or other straightaway, be it with you or wherever else, for his hunger would force him to do so. But Siddhartha can wait calmly. He knows no impatience, no urgent hardship; hunger can besiege him for a long time and just make him laugh. This, sir, is the usefulness of fasting."

  "You are right, Samana. Wait for a moment."

  Kamaswami went out and returned with a scroll, which he handed to his guest. "Can you read this?"

  Siddhartha looked at the scroll, on which a bill of sale was written, and began to read its contents aloud.

  "Splendid," Kamaswami said. "And would you mind writing something on this paper for me?"

  He gave him paper and a stylus, and Siddhartha wrote and gave the paper back to him. Kamaswami read: "Writing is good, thinking is better. Cleverness is good, patience is better."

  "You write admirably," the merchant said in praise. "We still have many things to discuss together. For today I would ask that you be my guest and take up residence in my home."

  Siddhartha thanked him and accepted, and now he was living in the home of the tradesman. Clothing was brought to him, and shoes, and a servant prepared a bath for him daily. Twice a day an opulent meal was served, but Siddhartha ate only once a day, and he neither ate meat nor drank wine. Kamaswami told him of his trading, showed him goods and storerooms, showed him his accounts, and Siddhartha learned many new things. He listened much and spoke little and, mindful of Kamala's words, he never behaved subserviently toward the merchant. Instead, he compelled him to treat him as an equal: indeed, as more than an equal. Kamaswami pursued his business with solicitousness, even with passion, but Siddhartha saw it all as a game whose rules he was striving to learn but whose substance did not touch his heart.

  Not long after arriving in Kamaswami's house, Siddhartha began to take part in his business dealings. Daily, however, at the hour chosen by her, he visited beautiful Kamala dressed in attractive clothes and fine shoes, and soon he was also bringing her presents. Her clever red mouth taught him many things. Her delicate, nimble hand taught him many things. He--who in matters of love was still a boy and tended to hurl himself blindly and insatiably into pleasure as into an abyss--was now being instructed methodically in this doctrine: that one cannot receive pleasure wi
thout giving pleasure; that every gesture, every caress, every touch, every glance, every inch of the body had its secret; and that awakening this secret brought happiness to the one who held this knowledge. She taught him that lovers may not part after celebrating their love until each has admired the other, each been as much victor as vanquished, so that neither might be beset by surfeit or tedium or an uneasy sense of having taken advantage or been taken advantage of. He passed glorious hours in the company of this beautiful, intelligent artist; he became her pupil, her lover, her friend. The value and meaning of the life he now was leading lay here with Kamala, not in the business dealings of Kamaswami.

  The merchant entrusted him with the composition of important letters and contracts and gradually became accustomed to discussing all matters of importance with him. He soon saw that while Siddhartha knew little about rice and wool, shipping and trade, he had good instincts and surpassed him, the merchant, in coolheadedness and composure, in the art of listening to and sounding out other people. "This Brahmin," he said to a friend, "is not a proper merchant and will never be one; never is his heart passionately engaged in our transactions. But he has the secret of those to whom success comes of its own accord, be it that he was born under a lucky star, be it magic, be it something he learned among the Samanas. He seems only to be playing at doing business. Never do the transactions have any real effect on him; never are they his master; never does he fear failure or worry over a loss."

  The friend advised the tradesman, "Give him a third of the profits in the transactions he arranges for you, but let him also bear the same share of the losses when there is a loss. This will make him more assiduous."

  Kamaswami took this advice. Siddhartha, however, seemed not to take much notice. When there was a profit, he accepted his third with composure; when there was a loss, he laughed and said, "Oh, look, this time it went badly!"

  It really did seem as if these business matters were of no interest to him. Once he traveled to a village to purchase a large rice harvest, but when he arrived the rice had already been sold to another tradesman. Nevertheless, Siddhartha remained in this village for several days; he arranged a feast for the peasants, distributed copper coins among their children, helped celebrate a marriage, and returned from his trip in the best of spirits.