Govinda

Together with other monks, Govinda used to spend the time of rest between pilgrimages in the pleasure-grove, which the courtesan Kamala had given to the followers of Gotama for a gift. He heard talk of an old ferryman, who lived one day’s journey away by the river, and who was regarded as a wise man by many. When Govinda went back on his way, he chose the path to the ferry, eager to see the ferryman. Because, though he had lived his entire life by the rules, though he was also looked upon with veneration by the younger monks on account of his age and his modesty, the restlessness and the searching still had not perished from his heart.

Between pilgrimages, Govinda used to rest with other monks in the pleasure grove. The courtesan Kamala had given the grove to Gotama’s followers. He heard about an old ferryman who lived by the river, a day’s journey away. Many people regarded the ferryman as a wise man. When Govinda set out again, he chose the path to the ferry, eager to see him. For although Govinda had spent his entire life following the rules, he was still restless and searching. The younger monks also respected him for his age and modesty, but his restlessness and searching had not left his heart.

He came to the river and asked the old man to ferry him over, and when they got off the boat on the other side, he said to the old man: “You’re very good to us monks and pilgrims, you have already ferried many of us across the river. Aren’t you too, ferryman, a searcher for the right path?”

He came to the river and asked the old man to take him across. When they got out of the boat on the other side, he said to the old man: “You’re very kind to us monks and pilgrims. You’ve already taken many of us across the river. Aren’t you searching for the right path too, ferryman?”

Quoth Siddhartha, smiling from his old eyes: “Do you call yourself a searcher, oh venerable one, though you are already well on in years and are wearing the robe of Gotama’s monks?”

Siddhartha smiled, his old eyes bright. “Do you call yourself a seeker, venerable one, though you are already old and wear the robe of Gotama’s monks?”

“It’s true, I’m old,” spoke Govinda, “but I haven’t stopped searching. Never I’ll stop searching, this seems to be my destiny. You too, so it seems to me, have been searching. Would you like to tell me something, oh honourable one?”

“It’s true, I’m old,” said Govinda, “but I haven’t stopped searching. I’ll never stop searching. That seems to be my destiny. It seems to me that you have been searching too. Would you tell me something, honored one?”

Quoth Siddhartha: “What should I possibly have to tell you, oh venerable one? Perhaps that you’re searching far too much? That in all that searching, you don’t find the time for finding?”

Siddhartha said, “What could I possibly have to tell you, respected one? Perhaps that you’re searching too much? That you spend so much time searching that you don’t have time to find anything?”

“How come?” asked Govinda.

“How come?” asked Govinda.

“When someone is searching,” said Siddhartha, “then it might easily happen that the only thing his eyes still see is that what he searches for, that he is unable to find anything, to let anything enter his mind, because he always thinks of nothing but the object of his search, because he has a goal, because he is obsessed by the goal. Searching means: having a goal. But finding means: being free, being open, having no goal. You, oh venerable one, are perhaps indeed a searcher, because, striving for your goal, there are many things you don’t see, which are directly in front of your eyes.”

“When someone is searching,” said Siddhartha, “it can easily happen that they see only what they are looking for. They may be unable to find anything or let anything into their mind. This is because they think only about the object of their search. They have a goal, and they are obsessed with it. Searching means having a goal. But finding means being free, being open, and having no goal. You, honored one, may indeed be a searcher. Because you are striving for your goal, there are many things right before your eyes that you do not see.”

“I don’t quite understand yet,” asked Govinda, “what do you mean by this?”

“I don’t quite understand yet,” Govinda said. “What do you mean by this?”

Quoth Siddhartha: “A long time ago, oh venerable one, many years ago, you’ve once before been at this river and have found a sleeping man by the river, and have sat down with him to guard his sleep. But, oh Govinda, you did not recognise the sleeping man.”

Siddhartha said, “Many years ago, venerable one, you came to this river before. You found a man sleeping by the river and sat beside him to guard his sleep. But, Govinda, you did not recognize the sleeping man.”

Astonished, as if he had been the object of a magic spell, the monk looked into the ferryman’s eyes.

Amazed, as if a spell had been cast on him, the monk looked into the ferryman’s eyes.

“Are you Siddhartha?” he asked with a timid voice. “I wouldn’t have recognised you this time as well! From my heart, I’m greeting you, Siddhartha; from my heart, I’m happy to see you once again! You’ve changed a lot, my friend.—And so you’ve now become a ferryman?”

“Are you Siddhartha?” he asked timidly. “I wouldn’t have recognized you this time either! I greet you with all my heart, Siddhartha. I’m so happy to see you again! You’ve changed a lot, my friend. So you’ve become a ferryman now?”

In a friendly manner, Siddhartha laughed. “A ferryman, yes. Many people, Govinda, have to change a lot, have to wear many a robe, I am one of those, my dear. Be welcome, Govinda, and spend the night in my hut.”

Siddhartha laughed warmly. “A ferryman, yes. Many people have to change a great deal, Govinda, and wear many robes. I am one of them, my dear. Welcome, Govinda. Spend the night in my hut.”

Govinda stayed the night in the hut and slept on the bed which used to be Vasudeva’s bed. Many questions he posed to the friend of his youth, many things Siddhartha had to tell him from his life.

Govinda spent the night in the hut and slept in the bed that had belonged to Vasudeva. He asked his childhood friend many questions, and Siddhartha had much to tell him about his life.

When in the next morning the time had come to start the day’s journey, Govinda said, not without hesitation, these words: “Before I’ll continue on my path, Siddhartha, permit me to ask one more question. Do you have a teaching? Do you have a faith or a knowledge you follow, which helps you to live and to do right?”

The next morning, when it was time to begin the day’s journey, Govinda spoke with some hesitation. “Before I continue on my path, Siddhartha, let me ask one more question. Do you have a teaching? Do you follow a faith or knowledge that helps you live and do what is right?”

Quoth Siddhartha: “You know, my dear, that I already as a young man, in those days when we lived with the penitents in the forest, started to distrust teachers and teachings and to turn my back to them. I have stuck with this. Nevertheless, I have had many teachers since then. A beautiful courtesan has been my teacher for a long time, and a rich merchant was my teacher, and some gamblers with dice. Once, even a follower of Buddha, travelling on foot, has been my teacher; he sat with me when I had fallen asleep in the forest, on the pilgrimage. I’ve also learned from him, I’m also grateful to him, very grateful. But most of all, I have learned here from this river and from my predecessor, the ferryman Vasudeva. He was a very simple person, Vasudeva, he was no thinker, but he knew what is necessary just as well as Gotama, he was a perfect man, a saint.”

Siddhartha said: “You know, my dear, that I began to distrust teachers and their teachings when I was young. That was when we lived with the penitents in the forest. I turned my back on teachers and their teachings, and I have remained true to that choice. Nevertheless, I have had many teachers since then. A beautiful courtesan was my teacher for a long time. A rich merchant taught me, and so did some dice players. Once, even a follower of Buddha traveling on foot was my teacher. He sat with me when I had fallen asleep in the forest during my pilgrimage. I learned from him too, and I am grateful to him, very grateful. But most of all, I have learned here from this river and from my predecessor, the ferryman Vasudeva. Vasudeva was a very simple person, not a thinker. But he knew what is necessary just as well as Gotama did. He was a perfect man, a saint.”

Govinda said: “Still, oh Siddhartha, you love a bit to mock people, as it seems to me. I believe in you and know that you haven’t followed a teacher. But haven’t you found something by yourself, though you’ve found no teachings, you still found certain thoughts, certain insights, which are your own and which help you to live? If you would like to tell me some of these, you would delight my heart.”

Govinda said: “Still, Siddhartha, it seems to me that you like to mock people a little. I believe you, and I know you haven’t followed a teacher. But haven’t you discovered something on your own? Though you haven’t found any teachings, haven’t you found some thoughts and insights of your own that help you live? If you would share some of them with me, you would delight my heart.”

Quoth Siddhartha: “I’ve had thoughts, yes, and insight, again and again. Sometimes, for an hour or for an entire day, I have felt knowledge in me, as one would feel life in one’s heart. There have been many thoughts, but it would be hard for me to convey them to you. Look, my dear Govinda, this is one of my thoughts, which I have found: wisdom cannot be passed on. Wisdom which a wise man tries to pass on to someone always sounds like foolishness.”

Siddhartha said: “Yes, I’ve had thoughts and insights, again and again. Sometimes, for an hour or a whole day, I’ve felt knowledge within me, as one feels life in one’s heart. I’ve had many thoughts, but it would be hard to share them with you. Look, my dear Govinda, here is one thought I’ve discovered: wisdom cannot be passed on. Whenever a wise person tries to pass on wisdom, it always sounds like foolishness.”

“Are you kidding?” asked Govinda.

“Are you kidding?” asked Govinda.

“I’m not kidding. I’m telling you what I’ve found. Knowledge can be conveyed, but not wisdom. It can be found, it can be lived, it is possible to be carried by it, miracles can be performed with it, but it cannot be expressed in words and taught. This was what I, even as a young man, sometimes suspected, what has driven me away from the teachers. I have found a thought, Govinda, which you’ll again regard as a joke or foolishness, but which is my best thought. It says: The opposite of every truth is just as true! That’s like this: any truth can only be expressed and put into words when it is one-sided. Everything is one-sided which can be thought with thoughts and said with words, it’s all one-sided, all just one half, all lacks completeness, roundness, oneness. When the exalted Gotama spoke in his teachings of the world, he had to divide it into Sansara and Nirvana, into deception and truth, into suffering and salvation. It cannot be done differently, there is no other way for him who wants to teach. But the world itself, what exists around us and inside of us, is never one-sided. A person or an act is never entirely Sansara or entirely Nirvana, a person is never entirely holy or entirely sinful. It does really seem like this, because we are subject to deception, as if time was something real. Time is not real, Govinda, I have experienced this often and often again. And if time is not real, then the gap which seems to be between the world and the eternity, between suffering and blissfulness, between evil and good, is also a deception.”

“I’m not kidding. I’m telling you what I’ve discovered. Knowledge can be passed on, but wisdom cannot. Wisdom can be found and lived. It can carry you, and you can perform miracles with it. But wisdom cannot be put into words and taught. Even as a young man, I sometimes suspected this, and it drove me away from the teachers. “I’ve had a thought, Govinda, that you’ll again consider a joke or foolishness. But it is my best thought: The opposite of every truth is just as true! Here is what I mean: any truth can only be put into words when it is one-sided. Everything we can think or say is one-sided. It is all just one half, lacking completeness, wholeness, and unity. “When the revered Gotama taught about the world, he had to divide it into Sansara and Nirvana, illusion and truth, suffering and salvation. He could not do otherwise. There is no other way for someone who wants to teach. But the world itself, everything around us and inside us, is never one-sided. A person or an act is never entirely Sansara or entirely Nirvana. A person is never entirely holy or entirely sinful. “It does seem otherwise because we are subject to illusion, as if time were real. Time is not real, Govinda. I have experienced this again and again. And if time is not real, then the apparent gap between the world and eternity is also an illusion. So is the apparent gap between suffering and bliss, and between evil and good.”

“How come?” asked Govinda timidly.

“Why?” Govinda asked timidly.

“Listen well, my dear, listen well! The sinner, which I am and which you are, is a sinner, but in times to come he will be Brahma again, he will reach the Nirvana, will be Buddha—and now see: these ‘times to come’ are a deception, are only a parable! The sinner is not on his way to become a Buddha, he is not in the process of developing, though our capacity for thinking does not know how else to picture these things. No, within the sinner is now and today already the future Buddha, his future is already all there, you have to worship in him, in you, in everyone the Buddha which is coming into being, the possible, the hidden Buddha. The world, my friend Govinda, is not imperfect, or on a slow path towards perfection: no, it is perfect in every moment, all sin already carries the divine forgiveness in itself, all small children already have the old person in themselves, all infants already have death, all dying people the eternal life. It is not possible for any person to see how far another one has already progressed on his path; in the robber and dice-gambler, the Buddha is waiting; in the Brahman, the robber is waiting. In deep meditation, there is the possibility to put time out of existence, to see all life which was, is, and will be as if it was simultaneous, and there everything is good, everything is perfect, everything is Brahman. Therefore, I see whatever exists as good, death is to me like life, sin like holiness, wisdom like foolishness, everything has to be as it is, everything only requires my consent, only my willingness, my loving agreement, to be good for me, to do nothing but work for my benefit, to be unable to ever harm me. I have experienced on my body and on my soul that I needed sin very much, I needed lust, the desire for possessions, vanity, and needed the most shameful despair, in order to learn how to give up all resistance, in order to learn how to love the world, in order to stop comparing it to some world I wished, I imagined, some kind of perfection I had made up, but to leave it as it is and to love it and to enjoy being a part of it.—These, oh Govinda, are some of the thoughts which have come into my mind.”

“Listen carefully, my dear, listen carefully! The sinner, which both you and I are, is a sinner. But in times to come, he will be Brahma again, he will reach Nirvana, and he will be Buddha. Now see: these ‘times to come’ are an illusion, only a parable! The sinner is not on his way to becoming a Buddha. He is not developing into one, though our minds cannot imagine these things any other way. No, the future Buddha is already within the sinner, here and now. His future is already entirely there. You must worship the Buddha who is coming into being, the possible, hidden Buddha, in him, in yourself, and in everyone. The world, my friend Govinda, is not imperfect or slowly moving toward perfection. No, it is perfect in every moment. Every sin already carries divine forgiveness within it. Every small child already has the old person within, every infant already has death, and every dying person has eternal life. No one can see how far another person has progressed on his path. The Buddha is waiting in the robber and the dice gambler. The robber is waiting in the Brahman. In deep meditation, it is possible to make time disappear. Then you can see all life that was, is, and will be as if it were happening at once. And there, everything is good, everything is perfect, everything is Brahman. So I see everything that exists as good. To me, death is like life, sin is like holiness, and wisdom is like foolishness. Everything must be as it is. Everything needs only my consent, my willingness, my loving acceptance, to be good for me. Then everything can do nothing but work for my benefit and can never harm me. I have learned through my body and soul that I badly needed sin. I needed lust, the desire for possessions, vanity, and the most shameful despair. I needed them to learn to give up all resistance and to love the world. I needed them to stop comparing the world to one I wished for or imagined, some perfection I had made up. Instead, I needed to leave the world as it is, love it, and enjoy being part of it. These, Govinda, are some of the thoughts that have come to me.”

Siddhartha bent down, picked up a stone from the ground, and weighed it in his hand.

Siddhartha bent down, picked up a stone, and felt its weight in his hand.

“This here,” he said playing with it, “is a stone, and will, after a certain time, perhaps turn into soil, and will turn from soil into a plant or animal or human being. In the past, I would have said: This stone is just a stone, it is worthless, it belongs to the world of the Maya; but because it might be able to become also a human being and a spirit in the cycle of transformations, therefore I also grant it importance. Thus, I would perhaps have thought in the past. But today I think: this stone is a stone, it is also animal, it is also god, it is also Buddha, I do not venerate and love it because it could turn into this or that, but rather because it is already and always everything—and it is this very fact, that it is a stone, that it appears to me now and today as a stone, this is why I love it and see worth and purpose in each of its veins and cavities, in the yellow, in the gray, in the hardness, in the sound it makes when I knock at it, in the dryness or wetness of its surface. There are stones which feel like oil or soap, and others like leaves, others like sand, and every one is special and prays the Om in its own way, each one is Brahman, but simultaneously and just as much it is a stone, is oily or juicy, and this is the very fact which I like and regard as wonderful and worthy of worship.—But let me speak no more of this. The words are not good for the secret meaning, everything always becomes a bit different, as soon as it is put into words, gets distorted a bit, a bit silly—yes, and this is also very good, and I like it a lot, I also very much agree with this, that this what is one man’s treasure and wisdom always sounds like foolishness to another person.”

“This,” he said, playing with it, “is a stone. After some time, it may turn into soil. From soil, it may become a plant, an animal, or a human being. In the past, I would have said: This stone is just a stone. It is worthless, and it belongs to the world of Maya. But it might also become a human being and a spirit in the cycle of transformations. So I consider it important too. Perhaps that is how I would have thought in the past. “But today I think: This stone is a stone. It is also an animal, a god, and Buddha. I do not worship and love it because it could become this or that. I love it because it already is, and always has been, everything. And I love it because it is a stone, because it appears to me now, today, as a stone. That is why I see value and purpose in each of its veins and hollows. I see value and purpose in its yellow and gray, its hardness, and the sound it makes when I tap it. I see them in the dryness or wetness of its surface. Some stones feel like oil or soap, others like leaves, and others like sand. Each one is special and prays Om in its own way. Each one is Brahman, but at the same time it is just as much a stone, oily or juicy. That is what I love and consider wonderful and worthy of worship. “But let me say no more about this. Words are no good for expressing the secret meaning. Everything becomes a little different as soon as it is put into words. It becomes a little distorted, a little silly. Yes, and that is also very good. I like it a lot. I also very much agree that what is treasure and wisdom to one person always sounds like foolishness to another.”

Govinda listened silently.

Govinda listened silently.

“Why have you told me this about the stone?” he asked hesitantly after a pause.

“Why did you tell me this about the stone?” he asked hesitantly after a pause.

“I did it without any specific intention. Or perhaps what I meant was, that I love this very stone, and the river, and all these things we are looking at and from which we can learn. I can love a stone, Govinda, and also a tree or a piece of bark. These are things, and things can be loved. But I cannot love words. Therefore, teachings are no good for me, they have no hardness, no softness, no colours, no edges, no smell, no taste, they have nothing but words. Perhaps it is these which keep you from finding peace, perhaps it is the many words. Because salvation and virtue as well, Sansara and Nirvana as well, are mere words, Govinda. There is no thing which would be Nirvana; there is just the word Nirvana.”

“I did it without any particular intention. Or perhaps I meant that I love this very stone, the river, and everything else we are looking at. We can learn from all these things. I can love a stone, Govinda, and also a tree or a piece of bark. These are things, and things can be loved. But I cannot love words. So teachings are no good for me. They have no hardness, no softness, no colors, no edges, no smell, and no taste. They have nothing but words. Perhaps it is these that keep you from finding peace. Perhaps it is the many words. Because salvation and virtue, Sansara and Nirvana, are just words, Govinda. There is no thing called Nirvana. There is only the word Nirvana.”

Quoth Govinda: “Not just a word, my friend, is Nirvana. It is a thought.”

Govinda said, “Nirvana is not just a word, my friend. It is a thought.”

Siddhartha continued: “A thought, it might be so. I must confess to you, my dear: I don’t differentiate much between thoughts and words. To be honest, I also have no high opinion of thoughts. I have a better opinion of things. Here on this ferry-boat, for instance, a man has been my predecessor and teacher, a holy man, who has for many years simply believed in the river, nothing else. He had noticed that the river spoke to him, he learned from it, it educated and taught him, the river seemed to be a god to him, for many years he did not know that every wind, every cloud, every bird, every beetle was just as divine and knows just as much and can teach just as much as the worshipped river. But when this holy man went into the forests, he knew everything, knew more than you and me, without teachers, without books, only because he had believed in the river.”

Siddhartha continued: “A thought, perhaps. I must confess, my dear, I don’t see much difference between thoughts and words. To be honest, I don’t think much of thoughts either. I think more highly of things. Here on this ferryboat, for example, a holy man came before me and taught me. For many years, he believed only in the river. He had noticed that the river spoke to him, and he learned from it. The river educated and taught him. It seemed to him like a god. For many years, he did not know that every wind, cloud, bird, and beetle was just as divine. Each knew just as much and could teach just as much as the river he worshipped. But when this holy man went into the forests, he knew everything. He knew more than you and I, without teachers or books, simply because he had believed in the river.”

Govinda said: “But is that what you call ‘things’, actually something real, something which has existence? Isn’t it just a deception of the Maya, just an image and illusion? Your stone, your tree, your river—are they actually a reality?”

Govinda said: “But are what you call ‘things’ actually real? Do they really exist? Aren’t they just a deception of Maya, just images and illusions? Are your stone, your tree, and your river actually real?”

“This too,” spoke Siddhartha, “I do not care very much about. Let the things be illusions or not, after all I would then also be an illusion, and thus they are always like me. This is what makes them so dear and worthy of veneration for me: they are like me. Therefore, I can love them. And this is now a teaching you will laugh about: love, oh Govinda, seems to me to be the most important thing of all. To thoroughly understand the world, to explain it, to despise it, may be the thing great thinkers do. But I’m only interested in being able to love the world, not to despise it, not to hate it and me, to be able to look upon it and me and all beings with love and admiration and great respect.”

“This doesn’t matter much to me either,” said Siddhartha. “Whether things are illusions or not, I would also be an illusion. So they are like me either way. That is why they are so dear to me and worthy of respect: they are like me. And that is why I can love them. Now, here is a teaching you will laugh at: love, Govinda, seems to me the most important thing of all. Great thinkers may seek to understand the world completely, explain it, and despise it. But I only want to love the world, not despise it or hate it or myself. I want to look at the world, myself, and all beings with love, admiration, and great respect.”

“This I understand,” spoke Govinda. “But this very thing was discovered by the exalted one to be a deception. He commands benevolence, clemency, sympathy, tolerance, but not love; he forbade us to tie our heart in love to earthly things.”

“I understand,” said Govinda. “But the exalted one found this very thing to be a deception. He teaches kindness, mercy, compassion, and tolerance, but not love. He forbade us to give our hearts in love to earthly things.”

“I know it,” said Siddhartha; his smile shone golden. “I know it, Govinda. And behold, with this we are right in the middle of the thicket of opinions, in the dispute about words. For I cannot deny, my words of love are in a contradiction, a seeming contradiction with Gotama’s words. For this very reason, I distrust in words so much, for I know, this contradiction is a deception. I know that I am in agreement with Gotama. How should he not know love, he, who has discovered all elements of human existence in their transitoriness, in their meaninglessness, and yet loved people thus much, to use a long, laborious life only to help them, to teach them! Even with him, even with your great teacher, I prefer the thing over the words, place more importance on his acts and life than on his speeches, more on the gestures of his hand than his opinions. Not in his speech, not in his thoughts, I see his greatness, only in his actions, in his life.”

“I know,” said Siddhartha, his smile glowing gold. “I know, Govinda. And look, now we are caught in a thicket of opinions, arguing over words. I cannot deny that my words about love seem to contradict Gotama’s words. That is exactly why I distrust words so much. I know this contradiction is an illusion. I know that I agree with Gotama. How could he not know love? He discovered how temporary and meaningless all elements of human existence are. Yet he loved people so much that he spent a long, difficult life helping and teaching them! Even with him, even with your great teacher, I value the reality more than the words. I place more importance on his actions and his life than on his speeches. I value the gestures of his hand more than his opinions. I see his greatness not in his speech or his thoughts, but only in his actions and his life.”

For a long time, the two old men said nothing. Then spoke Govinda, while bowing for a farewell: “I thank you, Siddhartha, for telling me some of your thoughts. They are partially strange thoughts, not all have been instantly understandable to me. This being as it may, I thank you, and I wish you to have calm days.”

For a long time, the two old men said nothing. Then Govinda bowed to say goodbye and spoke. “Thank you, Siddhartha, for sharing some of your thoughts with me. Some of them are strange, and I did not understand all of them right away. Even so, I thank you, and I wish you peaceful days.”

(But secretly he thought to himself: This Siddhartha is a bizarre person, he expresses bizarre thoughts, his teachings sound foolish. So differently sound the exalted one’s pure teachings, clearer, purer, more comprehensible, nothing strange, foolish, or silly is contained in them. But different from his thoughts seemed to me Siddhartha’s hands and feet, his eyes, his forehead, his breath, his smile, his greeting, his walk. Never again, after our exalted Gotama has become one with the Nirvana, never since then have I met a person of whom I felt: this is a holy man! Only him, this Siddhartha, I have found to be like this. May his teachings be strange, may his words sound foolish; out of his gaze and his hand, his skin and his hair, out of every part of him shines a purity, shines a calmness, shines a cheerfulness and mildness and holiness, which I have seen in no other person since the final death of our exalted teacher.)

(But secretly he thought to himself: This Siddhartha is a strange person. He expresses strange thoughts, and his teachings sound foolish. The exalted one’s pure teachings sound so different. They are clearer, purer, and easier to understand. There is nothing strange, foolish, or silly in them. But Siddhartha’s hands and feet seemed different from his thoughts. So did his eyes, forehead, breath, smile, greeting, and walk. Since our exalted Gotama became one with Nirvana, I have never met anyone I felt was a holy man. Siddhartha alone has seemed holy to me. His teachings may be strange, and his words may sound foolish. Yet purity, calm, cheerfulness, gentleness, and holiness shine from his gaze and his hand, his skin and his hair. They shine from every part of him. I have seen these qualities in no one else since the final death of our exalted teacher.)

As Govinda thought like this, and there was a conflict in his heart, he once again bowed to Siddhartha, drawn by love. Deeply he bowed to him who was calmly sitting.

As Govinda thought about this, he felt conflicted. Drawn by love, he bowed to Siddhartha once again. He bowed deeply to Siddhartha, who sat calmly before him.

“Siddhartha,” he spoke, “we have become old men. It is unlikely for one of us to see the other again in this incarnation. I see, beloved, that you have found peace. I confess that I haven’t found it. Tell me, oh honourable one, one more word, give me something on my way which I can grasp, which I can understand! Give me something to be with me on my path. It is often hard, my path, often dark, Siddhartha.”

“Siddhartha,” he said, “we have grown old. It is unlikely that we will see each other again in this life. I see, my dear friend, that you have found peace. I confess that I have not found peace. Please, honored friend, tell me one more thing. Give me something I can grasp and understand! Give me something to take with me on my path. My path is often hard and often dark, Siddhartha.”

Siddhartha said nothing and looked at him with the ever unchanged, quiet smile. Govinda stared at his face, with fear, with yearning, suffering, and the eternal search was visible in his look, eternal not-finding.

Siddhartha said nothing and looked at him with the same quiet smile. Govinda stared at his face. His eyes showed fear, longing, and suffering. They showed the endless search, the endless failure to find.

Siddhartha saw it and smiled.

Siddhartha saw it and smiled.

“Bend down to me!” he whispered quietly in Govinda’s ear. “Bend down to me! Like this, even closer! Very close! Kiss my forehead, Govinda!”

“Lean down to me!” he whispered in Govinda’s ear. “Lean down to me! Like that, even closer! Very close! Kiss my forehead, Govinda!”

But while Govinda with astonishment, and yet drawn by great love and expectation, obeyed his words, bent down closely to him and touched his forehead with his lips, something miraculous happened to him. While his thoughts were still dwelling on Siddhartha’s wondrous words, while he was still struggling in vain and with reluctance to think away time, to imagine Nirvana and Sansara as one, while even a certain contempt for the words of his friend was fighting in him against an immense love and veneration, this happened to him:

Govinda was astonished, but great love and expectation drew him to obey Siddhartha’s words. He bent close and kissed Siddhartha’s forehead. As he did, something miraculous happened to him. He was still thinking about Siddhartha’s wondrous words. He was still struggling, reluctantly and in vain, to think of time as unreal and imagine Nirvana and Sansara as one. Even a certain contempt for his friend’s words was struggling within him against immense love and reverence. As all this went on, the miraculous thing happened:

He no longer saw the face of his friend Siddhartha, instead he saw other faces, many, a long sequence, a flowing river of faces, of hundreds, of thousands, which all came and disappeared, and yet all seemed to be there simultaneously, which all constantly changed and renewed themselves, and which were still all Siddhartha. He saw the face of a fish, a carp, with an infinitely painfully opened mouth, the face of a dying fish, with fading eyes—he saw the face of a new-born child, red and full of wrinkles, distorted from crying—he saw the face of a murderer, he saw him plunging a knife into the body of another person—he saw, in the same second, this criminal in bondage, kneeling and his head being chopped off by the executioner with one blow of his sword—he saw the bodies of men and women, naked in positions and cramps of frenzied love—he saw corpses stretched out, motionless, cold, void—he saw the heads of animals, of boars, of crocodiles, of elephants, of bulls, of birds—he saw gods, saw Krishna, saw Agni—he saw all of these figures and faces in a thousand relationships with one another, each one helping the other, loving it, hating it, destroying it, giving re-birth to it, each one was a will to die, a passionately painful confession of transitoriness, and yet none of them died, each one only transformed, was always reborn, received evermore a new face, without any time having passed between the one and the other face—and all of these figures and faces rested, flowed, generated themselves, floated along and merged with each other, and they were all constantly covered by something thin, without individuality of its own, but yet existing, like a thin glass or ice, like a transparent skin, a shell or mold or mask of water, and this mask was smiling, and this mask was Siddhartha’s smiling face, which he, Govinda, in this very same moment touched with his lips. And, Govinda saw it like this, this smile of the mask, this smile of oneness above the flowing forms, this smile of simultaneousness above the thousand births and deaths, this smile of Siddhartha was precisely the same, was precisely of the same kind as the quiet, delicate, impenetrable, perhaps benevolent, perhaps mocking, wise, thousand-fold smile of Gotama, the Buddha, as he had seen it himself with great respect a hundred times. Like this, Govinda knew, the perfected ones are smiling.

He no longer saw the face of his friend Siddhartha. Instead, he saw other faces, many faces, in a long sequence, a flowing river of hundreds, of thousands. They all appeared and disappeared, yet all seemed to be there at once. They were constantly changing and renewing themselves, and yet they were all still Siddhartha. He saw the face of a fish, a carp, its mouth open in endless pain. It was the face of a dying fish, with fading eyes. He saw the face of a newborn child, red and wrinkled, distorted by crying. He saw the face of a murderer and saw him plunge a knife into another person’s body. In the same second, he saw the criminal bound and kneeling. An executioner cut off his head with one blow of his sword. He saw the naked bodies of men and women, caught in the poses and spasms of frenzied love. He saw corpses stretched out, motionless, cold, empty. He saw the heads of animals, boars, crocodiles, elephants, bulls, and birds. He saw gods, saw Krishna, saw Agni. He saw all these figures and faces in a thousand relationships with one another. Each helped, loved, hated, destroyed, and gave new birth to another. Each was a will to die, a passionately painful confession that nothing lasts. Yet none of them died. Each only changed, was always reborn, and received a new face. No time passed between one face and the next. All these figures and faces rested, flowed, created themselves, floated along, and merged with one another. And they were all constantly covered by something thin. It had no identity of its own, yet it existed, like thin glass or ice. It was like a transparent skin, a shell or mold or mask of water. And this mask was smiling. The mask was Siddhartha’s smiling face, which Govinda was touching with his lips at that very moment. Govinda saw the smile of the mask, the smile of oneness above the flowing forms. He saw the smile of all things happening at once, above the thousand births and deaths. Siddhartha’s smile was exactly the same kind of smile as Gotama, the Buddha’s. It was quiet, delicate, impossible to read, perhaps kind, perhaps mocking, wise, and full of countless meanings. Govinda himself had seen that smile a hundred times with great respect. Govinda knew that this was how the perfected ones smiled.

Not knowing any more whether time existed, whether the vision had lasted a second or a hundred years, not knowing any more whether there existed a Siddhartha, a Gotama, a me and a you, feeling in his innermost self as if he had been wounded by a divine arrow, the injury of which tasted sweet, being enchanted and dissolved in his innermost self, Govinda still stood for a little while bent over Siddhartha’s quiet face, which he had just kissed, which had just been the scene of all manifestations, all transformations, all existence. The face was unchanged, after under its surface the depth of the thousand-foldness had closed up again, he smiled silently, smiled quietly and softly, perhaps very benevolently, perhaps very mockingly, precisely as he used to smile, the exalted one.

Govinda no longer knew whether time existed, or whether the vision had lasted a second or a hundred years. He no longer knew whether there was a Siddhartha, a Gotama, a me or a you. Deep within, he felt as if a divine arrow had wounded him, leaving a wound that tasted sweet. Enchanted and dissolved deep within himself, Govinda stood a little longer, bent over Siddhartha’s peaceful face. He had just kissed that face, where all manifestations, all transformations, and all existence had just appeared. Now the depths of its thousandfold forms had closed up again beneath the surface. The face was unchanged. Siddhartha smiled silently, quietly and gently, perhaps very kindly, perhaps very mockingly, just as the exalted one used to smile.

Deeply, Govinda bowed; tears he knew nothing of, ran down his old face; like a fire burned the feeling of the most intimate love, the humblest veneration in his heart. Deeply, he bowed, touching the ground, before him who was sitting motionlessly, whose smile reminded him of everything he had ever loved in his life, what had ever been valuable and holy to him in his life.

Govinda bowed deeply. Tears he did not know were there ran down his old face. A feeling of deepest love and humblest reverence burned like a fire in his heart. He bowed deeply, touching the ground before the man who sat motionless. The man’s smile reminded him of everything he had ever loved, everything that had been precious and sacred to him.