Things are going downhill with you! he said to himself, laughing, and as he said this his eyes came to rest upon the river, and he saw the river too going downhill, wandering always downhill and singing gaily all the while. This pleased him greatly, and he gave the river a friendly smile. Was this not the river in which he had wished to drown once, a hundred years before, or had it only been a dream?
Curious indeed this life of mine has been, he thought, it has taken such strange detours. As a boy I was concerned only with gods and sacrifices. As a youth I was concerned only with asceticism, with thinking and samadhi; I went searching for Brahman, revered the eternal in Atman. But as a young man I set off after the penitents, lived in the forest, suffered heat and frost, learned to go without food, taught my body to feel nothing. How glorious it was then when realization came to me in the doctrine of the great Buddha; I felt knowledge of the Oneness of the world coursing through me like my own blood. But even the Buddha and his great knowledge had to be left behind. I went off and learned the pleasures of love from Kamala, learned to conduct business from Kamaswami, accumulated money, squandered money, learned to love my stomach, learned to indulge my senses. I had to spend many years losing my spirit, unlearning how to think, forgetting the great Oneness. Is it not as if I were slowly and circuitously turning from a man into a child, from a thinker into one of the child people? And still this path has been very good, and still the bird in my breast has not died. But what a path it has been! I have had to pass through so much foolishness, so much vice, so much error, so much nausea and disillusionment and wretchedness, merely in order to become a child again and be able to start over. But all of this was just and proper; my heart is saying yes, and my eyes are laughing. I had to experience despair, I had to sink to the most foolish of all thoughts, the thought of suicide, to be able to experience grace, to hear Om again, to be able to sleep well and awaken well. I had to become a fool to find Atman within me once more. I had to sin to be able to live again. Where else may my path be taking me? How stupid it is, this path of mine; it goes in loops. For all I know it's going in a circle. Let it lead where it will, I shall follow it.
He felt joy welling up gloriously within his breast.
Tell me, he asked his heart, what is the source of all this gladness? Might it come from this long, good slumber that has so restored me? Or from the word Om that I uttered? Or because I have escaped, because my flight was successful, because I am finally free again and standing like a child beneath the sky? Oh, how good it is to have fled, to have become free! How pure and beautiful the air is here, how good it is to breathe it! In the place I ran from, everything smelled of lotions, of spices, of wine, of excess, of lethargy. How I hated the world of rich men, of gluttons, of gamblers! How I hated myself for having remained so long in that hideous world! How I hated myself; how I robbed myself, poisoned and tormented myself; how I made myself old and wicked! No, never again will I imagine, as I once enjoyed doing, that Siddhartha was a wise man! But one thing I did do well, one thing pleases me, which I must praise: All my self-hatred has now come to an end, along with that idiotic, desolate existence! I praise you, Siddhartha. After all these years of idiocy, you for once had a good idea; you did something; you heard the bird singing in your breast and followed it!
In this way he praised himself and felt pleased with himself, listening with curiosity to his stomach, which was rumbling with hunger. He had tasted his share of sorrow and misery these past days and times, tasted them and spit them out, eaten of them till he had reached the point of despair, of death. All was well. He might have remained a great while longer at Kamaswami's side, earning money, squandering money, stuffing his belly and letting his soul thirst; he might have gone on living a great while longer in this cozy well-upholstered hell if that moment had not come: that moment of utter despondency and despair, that extreme moment when he was hanging above the flowing water, ready to destroy himself. That he had felt this despair, this deepest nausea, and yet had not succumbed to it, that the bird, the happy fountainhead and voice within him, had remained alive after all--it was because of all these things that he now felt such joy, that he laughed, that his face was beaming beneath his gray hair.
It is good, he thought, to taste for oneself all that it is necessary to know. Already as a child I learned that worldly desires and wealth were not good things. I have known this for a long time but have only now experienced it. And now I do know it, know it not only with my memory but with my eyes, with my heart, and with my stomach. How glad I am to know it!
For a long time he contemplated his transformation, listening as the bird sang with joy Had this bird not died within him, had he not felt its death? No, something else had died within him, something that had desired death for a long time. Was it not the very thing that he had once, in his ardent years as a penitent, wanted to kill? Was it not his Self, his nervous, proud little ego that he had done battle with for so many years, that had bested him again and again, that was always back again each time he killed it off, forbidding joy and feeling fear? Was it not this that had finally met its death today, here in the forest beside this lovely river? Was it not because of this death that he was now like a child, so full of trust, so devoid of fear, so full of joy?
And now it dawned on Siddhartha why, as a Brahmin and as a penitent, he had struggled in vain to subdue this ego. A surfeit of knowledge had hindered him, too many holy verses, too many rules for the sacrifices, too much self-castigation, too much activity and striving! He had been full of pride--always the cleverest, always the most eager, always a step ahead of all the others, always the knowledgeable spiritual one, always the priest or wise man. His Self had crept into this priesthood, this pride, this spirituality, and made itself at home there, growing plump, all the while he thought he was killing it off with his fasting and penitence. Now he could see it, and he saw that the secret voice had been right: No teacher would ever have been able to deliver him. This is why he'd had to go out into the world and lose himself in pleasure and power, in women and money, why he'd had to become a tradesman, a gambler, a drinker, an avaricious creature, until the priest and the Samana within him were dead. This is why he'd had to go on enduring these hateful years, enduring the nausea, the emptiness, the senselessness of a desolate, lost existence, enduring to the end, to the point of bitter despair, until even the lecher Siddhartha, the greedy Siddhartha, could die. He had died, and a new Siddhartha had awoken from sleep. He too would grow old; he too would have to die someday. Siddhartha was transitory, every shape was transitory. Today, though, he was young; he was a child, the new Siddhartha, and was full of joy.
Thinking these thoughts, he listened with a smile to his stomach, listened with gratitude to a buzzing bee. Gaily he looked into the flowing river: Never had a body of water so pleased him, never had he perceived the voice and the allegory of the moving water so powerfully and beautifully. It seemed to him that the river had something special to say to him, something he did not yet know, something still awaiting him. In this river Siddhartha had wished to drown, and in it the old, weary, despairing Siddhartha did indeed drown this day. The new Siddhartha, however, felt a deep love for this flowing water and resolved not to leave it again so soon.
THE FERRYMAN
I shall remain here beside this river, Siddhartha thought; it is the river I once crossed on my way to the child people. A kind ferryman took me across; I shall go to see him. From his hut he once sent me on my path to a new life that has now grown old and died. Let the path and the life I am embarking on now have their start here as well!
Lovingly he gazed into the flowing water, into the transparent green, into the crystal lines of its mysterious patterning. He saw bright pearls rising from its depths, silent bubbles floating on its surface, the blue of the sky reproduced in it. With a thousand eyes the river gazed at him: with green eyes, white eyes, crystal eyes, sky-blue eyes. How he loved this water, how it enchanted him, how grateful he was to it! In his heart he heard the voice
that was awakening once more, and it said to him, Love this water! Remain beside it! Learn from it! Oh, yes, he wanted to learn from it; he wanted to listen to it. One who understood this water and its secrets, it seemed to him, would understand many other things as well, many secrets, all secrets.
But of all the water's secrets, he saw today only a single one--one that struck his soul. He saw that this water flowed and flowed, it was constantly flowing, and yet it was always there; it was always eternally the same and yet new at every moment! Oh, to be able to grasp this, to understand it! He did not understand it, did not grasp it; he felt only an inkling stirring within him, distant memory, divine voices.
Siddhartha got to his feet; the gnawing hunger in his mid-section was becoming unbearable. Lost in thought, he wandered farther along the riverbank, walking upstream, listening to the current and to the growling hunger in his belly.
When he reached the ferry, the boat was lying ready, and the very same ferryman who had once transported the young Samana across the river was standing in the boat. Siddhartha recognized him; he too had greatly aged.
"Will you ferry me across the river?" Siddhartha asked.
The ferryman, astonished to see so elegant a gentleman alone and journeying on foot, took him into the boat and pushed off from shore.
"What a beautiful life you have chosen," the passenger said. "It must be lovely to live each day beside this water and ply your oar upon it."
Smiling, the ferryman rocked with the boat as he rowed. "It is lovely, master, as you say. But is not every life, every work, lovely?"
"That may be. But I envy you yours."
"Oh, you might quickly lose your taste for it. It is nothing for people who wear fine clothes."
Siddhartha laughed. "This is not the first time I have been scrutinized this day on account of my clothing, scrutinized with distrust. Ferryman, would you accept these clothes, which are a burden to me? For you should know that I have no money with which to pay your fare."
"The gentleman is jesting." The ferryman laughed.
"It is no jest, friend. You see, this is not the first time you have ferried me across these waters in your boat out of charity. Show me the same kindness today, and accept my clothing for your troubles."
"Does the gentleman mean to continue on without clothes?"
"Oh"--Siddhartha sighed--"what I would like best would be not to continue on at all. What I would like best, ferryman, is if you were to give me an old loincloth to wear and keep me on as your assistant, or rather your apprentice, for I would first have to learn how to handle the boat."
For a long time the ferryman gazed searchingly at the stranger.
"Now I recognize you," he said at last. "You spent the night in my hut once, a long time ago, surely it's been more than twenty years, and then I ferried you across the river and we parted from each other like good friends. Were you not a Samana? I can no longer recall your name."
"My name is Siddhartha, and I was a Samana when you saw me last."
"Then welcome, Siddhartha. My name is Vasudeva. You will, I hope, be my guest tonight as well and sleep in my hut and tell me from where you have come and why your clothes are such a burden to you."
They had reached the middle of the river, and Vasudeva leaned his weight more heavily upon the oar, pressing against the current. Peacefully he worked, his eyes fixed on the boat's tip, his arms strong. Siddhartha sat watching him. He remembered how, over twenty years ago, on that final day he'd spent as a Samana, love for this man had stirred in his heart. Gratefully he now accepted Vasudeva's offer. When they reached shore, he helped tie the boat to the stakes, and then the ferryman invited him to enter the hut and set bread and water before him. Siddhartha ate with relish, and also ate with relish of the mango fruit Vasudeva offered him.
After their meal--it was nearly twilight now--they found seats upon a tree trunk on the riverbank, and Siddhartha told the ferryman of his origins and his life, just as it had passed before his eyes today, in the hour of his despair. His story lasted deep into the night.
Vasudeva listened with great attentiveness. He took in everything as he listened, origins and childhood, all the learning, all the searching, all the joy, all the suffering. This was one of the greatest among the ferryman's virtues: He had mastered the art of listening. Although Vasudeva himself did not utter a word, it was clear to the one speaking that each of his words was being allowed to enter into his listener, who sat there quietly, openly, waiting; not a single word was disregarded or met with impatience; Vasudeva attached neither praise nor blame to what he heard but merely listened. Siddhartha felt what a joy it was to be able to confide in such a listener, to entrust his life, his searching, his sorrow, to this welcoming heart.
Near the end of Siddhartha's tale, when he began to speak of the tree beside the river and his deep fall, of the holy Om, and how after his slumber he had felt such love for the river, the ferryman listened twice as attentively as before, utterly and completely absorbed, his eyes closed.
Then, after Siddhartha had fallen silent and some time had passed, Vasudeva said, "It is just as I thought. The river spoke to you. To you as well it is a friend; to you as well it speaks. That is good, that is very good. Stay here with me, Siddhartha my friend. Once I had a wife, her bed lay beside mine, but she died a long time ago; for a long time I have lived alone. Now you will live with me. There is plenty of room and food enough for both of us."
"I thank you," Siddhartha said. "I thank you and accept. I thank you also for listening so well to me! Rare are those who know how to listen; never before have I met anyone who was as skilled in listening as you are. This too I shall learn from you."
"You will learn this," Vasudeva said, "but not from me. It was the river that taught me to listen, and it will teach you as well. It knows everything, the river, and one can learn anything from it. You too, after all, have already learned from the river that it is good to strive for downward motion, to sink, to seek the depths. The wealthy, elegant Siddhartha will row as others bid him; the learned Brahmin Siddhartha will become a ferryman. In this too you were instructed by the river. You will learn the rest from it as well."
Siddhartha responded after a long pause. "What is the rest, Vasudeva?"
Vasudeva got up. "It has grown late," he said. "Let us go to bed. I cannot tell you what the rest is, my friend. You will learn it; perhaps you already know it. You see, I am not a learned man. I do not know how to speak, I do not even know how to think. I know only how to listen and to be pious; these are the only things I have learned. If I could say and teach these things, perhaps I would be a wise man, but as it is I am only a ferryman, and it is my task to transport people across this river. I have ferried a great many people across it, thousands, and to all of them my river was nothing more than a hindrance in their travels. They were traveling for money and for business, to weddings and on pilgrimages, and the river was in their way; the purpose of the ferryman was to carry them past this obstacle as quickly as possible. But there were a few among these thousands, just a few of them, four or five, for whom the river ceased to be an obstacle. They heard its voice, they listened to it, and the river became holy to them as it has become holy to me. Let us retire now, Siddhartha."
Siddhartha stayed with the ferryman and learned to handle the boat, and when there was nothing to do at the ferry he worked with Vasudeva in the rice paddy, gathered wood, and picked the fruit of the pisang trees. He learned to hammer together an oar and to repair the boat and to weave baskets; he was joyful over all he learned, and the days and months went swiftly past. But even more than Vasudeva could teach him, he learned from the river, which taught him unceasingly. Above all, it taught him how to listen--how to listen with a quiet heart and a waiting, open soul, without passion, without desire, without judgment, without opinion.
He lived beside Vasudeva as one friend beside another, and from time to time they exchanged words, a few carefully considered words. Vasudeva was no friend of words, so Siddhartha
rarely succeeded in moving him to speech.
"Have you too," he asked him once, "have you too learned this secret from the river: that time does not exist?"
Vasudeva's face broke into a radiant smile. "Yes, Siddhartha," he said. "Is this what you mean: that the river is in all places at once, at its source and where it flows into the sea, at the waterfall, at the ferry, at the rapids, in the ocean, in the mountains, everywhere at once, so for the river there is only the present moment and not the shadow of a future?"
"It is," Siddhartha said. "And once I learned this I considered my life, and it too was a river, and the boy Siddhartha was separated from the man Siddhartha and the graybeard Siddhartha only by shadows, not by real things. Siddhartha's previous lives were also not the past, and his death and his return to Brahman not the future. Nothing was, nothing will be; everything is, everything has being and presence."
Siddhartha spoke with rapture; this enlightenment had made him profoundly happy. Oh, was not then all suffering time, was not all self-torment and fear time, did not everything difficult, everything hostile in the world vanish, was it not overcome as soon as one had overcome time, as soon as one could think it out of existence? He had spoken in rapture, but Vasudeva smiled at him, beaming, and nodded in affirmation; he nodded silently, ran his hand across Siddhartha's shoulder, and turned back to his work.
On yet another occasion, when the river had swollen in monsoon season and was raging, Siddhartha said, "Isn't it true, my friend, that the river has many voices, very many voices? Does it not have the voice of a king, and of a warrior, and of a bull, and of a nocturnal bird, and of a woman giving birth, and of a man heaving a sigh, and a thousand voices more?"