Sansara

For a long time, Siddhartha had lived the life of the world and of lust, though without being a part of it. His senses, which he had killed off in hot years as a Samana, had awoken again, he had tasted riches, had tasted lust, had tasted power; nevertheless he had still remained in his heart for a long time a Samana; Kamala, being smart, had realized this quite right. It was still the art of thinking, of waiting, of fasting, which guided his life; still the people of the world, the childlike people, had remained alien to him as he was alien to them.

For a long time, Siddhartha had lived a worldly life of desire, though he was not truly part of it. His senses, which he had killed off during his intense years as a Samana, had awakened again. He had tasted wealth, desire, and power. Yet for a long time, he had remained a Samana at heart. Kamala was perceptive, and she had recognized this. The art of thinking, waiting, and fasting still guided his life. The worldly, childlike people still seemed strange to him, just as he seemed strange to them.

Years passed by; surrounded by the good life, Siddhartha hardly felt them fading away. He had become rich, for quite a while he possessed a house of his own and his own servants, and a garden before the city by the river. The people liked him, they came to him, whenever they needed money or advice, but there was nobody close to him, except Kamala.

Years passed, but Siddhartha hardly noticed them slipping away as he enjoyed the good life. He had become rich. For quite some time, he had owned a house, had servants, and had a garden by the river outside the city. People liked him and came to him whenever they needed money or advice. But no one was close to him except Kamala.

That high, bright state of being awake, which he had experienced that one time at the height of his youth, in those days after Gotama’s sermon, after the separation from Govinda, that tense expectation, that proud state of standing alone without teachings and without teachers, that supple willingness to listen to the divine voice in his own heart, had slowly become a memory, had been fleeting; distant and quiet, the holy source murmured, which used to be near, which used to murmur within himself. Nevertheless, many things he had learned from the Samanas, he had learned from Gotama, he had learned from his father the Brahman, had remained within him for a long time afterwards: moderate living, joy of thinking, hours of meditation, secret knowledge of the self, of his eternal entity, which is neither body nor consciousness. Many a part of this he still had, but one part after another had been submerged and had gathered dust. Just as a potter’s wheel, once it has been set in motion, will keep on turning for a long time and only slowly lose its vigour and come to a stop, thus Siddhartha’s soul had kept on turning the wheel of asceticism, the wheel of thinking, the wheel of differentiation for a long time, still turning, but it turned slowly and hesitantly and was close to coming to a standstill. Slowly, like humidity entering the dying stem of a tree, filling it slowly and making it rot, the world and sloth had entered Siddhartha’s soul, slowly it filled his soul, made it heavy, made it tired, put it to sleep. On the other hand, his senses had become alive, there was much they had learned, much they had experienced.

That vivid, heightened state of wakefulness had slowly become a memory. He had experienced it once, at the height of his youth, after Gotama’s sermon and his separation from Govinda. He had felt a tense expectation and the pride of standing alone, without teachings or teachers. He had been ready to listen openly to the divine voice in his own heart. But that state had been fleeting. The holy source, which had once murmured within him, now murmured faintly in the distance. Nevertheless, many things he had learned from the Samanas, Gotama, and his father the Brahman stayed with him for a long time. He lived moderately, enjoyed thinking, and spent hours in meditation. He also retained secret knowledge of the self, of his eternal being, which is neither body nor consciousness. He still had much of this, but one part after another had sunk out of sight and gathered dust. A potter’s wheel, once set in motion, keeps turning for a long time. It loses its momentum slowly before coming to a stop. In the same way, Siddhartha’s soul had long continued to turn the wheel of asceticism, of thinking, and of making distinctions. The wheel was still turning, but slowly and hesitantly, and it was close to stopping. The world and laziness had slowly entered Siddhartha’s soul. They entered like moisture seeping into the dying trunk of a tree, slowly filling it and making it rot. They slowly filled his soul, made it heavy and tired, and put it to sleep. His senses, on the other hand, had come alive. They had learned much and experienced much.

Siddhartha had learned to trade, to use his power over people, to enjoy himself with a woman, he had learned to wear beautiful clothes, to give orders to servants, to bathe in perfumed waters. He had learned to eat tenderly and carefully prepared food, even fish, even meat and poultry, spices and sweets, and to drink wine, which causes sloth and forgetfulness. He had learned to play with dice and on a chess-board, to watch dancing girls, to have himself carried about in a sedan-chair, to sleep on a soft bed. But still he had felt different from and superior to the others; always he had watched them with some mockery, some mocking disdain, with the same disdain which a Samana constantly feels for the people of the world. When Kamaswami was ailing, when he was annoyed, when he felt insulted, when he was vexed by his worries as a merchant, Siddhartha had always watched it with mockery. Just slowly and imperceptibly, as the harvest seasons and rainy seasons passed by, his mockery had become more tired, his superiority had become more quiet. Just slowly, among his growing riches, Siddhartha had assumed something of the childlike people’s ways for himself, something of their childlikeness and of their fearfulness. And yet, he envied them, envied them just the more, the more similar he became to them. He envied them for the one thing that was missing from him and that they had, the importance they were able to attach to their lives, the amount of passion in their joys and fears, the fearful but sweet happiness of being constantly in love. These people were all of the time in love with themselves, with women, with their children, with honours or money, with plans or hopes. But he did not learn this from them, this out of all things, this joy of a child and this foolishness of a child; he learned from them out of all things the unpleasant ones, which he himself despised. It happened more and more often that, in the morning after having had company the night before, he stayed in bed for a long time, felt unable to think and tired. It happened that he became angry and impatient, when Kamaswami bored him with his worries. It happened that he laughed just too loud when he lost a game of dice. His face was still smarter and more spiritual than others, but it rarely laughed, and assumed, one after another, those features which are so often found in the faces of rich people, those features of discontent, of sickliness, of ill-humour, of sloth, of a lack of love. Slowly the disease of the soul, which rich people have, grabbed hold of him.

Siddhartha had learned to trade, to use his power over people, and to enjoy himself with a woman. He had learned to wear beautiful clothes, give orders to servants, and bathe in perfumed water. He had learned to eat delicate, carefully prepared food, even fish, meat, and poultry, as well as spices and sweets. He had learned to drink wine, which makes people lazy and forgetful. He had learned to play dice and chess, watch dancing girls, and be carried around in a sedan chair. He had learned to sleep in a soft bed. But he still felt different from and superior to other people. He always watched them with mockery and disdain, the same disdain a Samana always feels for worldly people. Kamaswami sometimes fell ill, grew annoyed, or felt insulted. His worries as a merchant sometimes upset him. Siddhartha always watched him with mockery. But slowly and almost without his noticing, as harvest seasons and rainy seasons passed, his mockery grew more tired. His sense of superiority grew quieter. Slowly, as Siddhartha grew richer, he adopted some of the ways of these childlike people. He took on some of their childlikeness and their fearfulness. And yet he envied them. The more like them he became, the more he envied them. He envied them for the one thing they had that he lacked. They could attach importance to their lives. Their joys and fears were full of passion. They knew the frightening but sweet happiness of being constantly in love. These people were always in love with themselves, with women, with their children, with honors or money, with plans or hopes. But of all things, he did not learn this from them: the joy and foolishness of a child. Instead, he learned the unpleasant things he himself despised. More and more often, after spending the previous evening in company, he stayed in bed late, tired and unable to think. At times he grew angry and impatient when Kamaswami bored him with his worries. At times he laughed too loudly when he lost a game of dice. His face was still more intelligent and spiritual than other people's faces, but he rarely laughed. One after another, his face took on features so often seen in rich people: discontent, sickliness, bad temper, laziness, and lack of love. Slowly, the disease of the soul that afflicts rich people took hold of him.

Like a veil, like a thin mist, tiredness came over Siddhartha, slowly, getting a bit denser every day, a bit murkier every month, a bit heavier every year. As a new dress becomes old in time, loses its beautiful colour in time, gets stains, gets wrinkles, gets worn off at the seams, and starts to show threadbare spots here and there, thus Siddhartha’s new life, which he had started after his separation from Govinda, had grown old, lost colour and splendour as the years passed by, was gathering wrinkles and stains, and hidden at bottom, already showing its ugliness here and there, disappointment and disgust were waiting. Siddhartha did not notice it. He only noticed that this bright and reliable voice inside of him, which had awoken in him at that time and had ever guided him in his best times, had become silent.

Tiredness came over Siddhartha like a veil, like a thin mist. It grew a little denser each day, a little murkier each month, and a little heavier each year. A new dress grows old over time. It loses its beautiful color, gathers stains and wrinkles, wears out at the seams, and becomes threadbare in places. In the same way, Siddhartha’s new life had grown old in the years since he parted from Govinda. It had lost its color and splendor and was gathering wrinkles and stains. Beneath it all, disappointment and disgust were waiting, already showing their ugliness here and there. Siddhartha did not notice. He noticed only that his clear, reliable inner voice had fallen silent. That voice had awakened when he began his new life and had always guided him through his best times.

He had been captured by the world, by lust, covetousness, sloth, and finally also by that vice which he had used to despise and mock the most as the most foolish one of all vices: greed. Property, possessions, and riches also had finally captured him; they were no longer a game and trifles to him, had become a shackle and a burden. In a strange and devious way, Siddhartha had gotten into this final and most base of all dependencies, by means of the game of dice. It was since that time, when he had stopped being a Samana in his heart, that Siddhartha began to play the game for money and precious things, which he at other times only joined with a smile and casually as a custom of the childlike people, with an increasing rage and passion. He was a feared gambler, few dared to take him on, so high and audacious were his stakes. He played the game due to a pain of his heart, losing and wasting his wretched money in the game brought him an angry joy, in no other way he could demonstrate his disdain for wealth, the merchants’ false god, more clearly and more mockingly. Thus he gambled with high stakes and mercilessly, hating himself, mocking himself, won thousands, threw away thousands, lost money, lost jewelry, lost a house in the country, won again, lost again. That fear, that terrible and petrifying fear, which he felt while he was rolling the dice, while he was worried about losing high stakes, that fear he loved and sought to always renew it, always increase it, always get it to a slightly higher level, for in this feeling alone he still felt something like happiness, something like an intoxication, something like an elevated form of life in the midst of his saturated, lukewarm, dull life.

The world had taken hold of him through lust, covetousness, laziness, and finally greed. Of all vices, greed was the one he had most despised and mocked as the most foolish. Property, possessions, and riches had finally taken hold of him too. They were no longer a game or a trifling matter, but a chain and a burden. In a strange and indirect way, Siddhartha had fallen into this final and lowest of all dependencies through dice. Once Siddhartha had stopped being a Samana at heart, he began to gamble for money and precious things. He had once joined such games casually, with a smile, seeing them as a custom of the childlike people. Now he played with growing rage and passion. He was a feared gambler, and few dared to play against him. His stakes were so high and daring. He played because of a pain in his heart. Losing and wasting his wretched money at the game brought him an angry joy. In no other way could he show his contempt for wealth, the merchants’ false god, more clearly or mockingly. So he gambled mercilessly for high stakes, hating and mocking himself. He won thousands and threw away thousands. He lost money, jewelry, and a house in the country. He won again and lost again. As he rolled the dice, he worried about losing his high stakes and felt a terrible, paralyzing fear. He loved that fear and sought to feel it again and again, always making it a little stronger. For in that feeling alone, he still felt something like happiness, something like intoxication. It was something like a higher form of life amid his sated, lukewarm, dull existence.

And after each big loss, his mind was set on new riches, pursued the trade more zealously, forced his debtors more strictly to pay, because he wanted to continue gambling, he wanted to continue squandering, continue demonstrating his disdain of wealth. Siddhartha lost his calmness when losses occurred, lost his patience when he was not paid on time, lost his kindness towards beggars, lost his disposition for giving away and loaning money to those who petitioned him. He, who gambled away tens of thousands at one roll of the dice and laughed at it, became more strict and more petty in his business, occasionally dreaming at night about money! And whenever he woke up from this ugly spell, whenever he found his face in the mirror at the bedroom’s wall to have aged and become more ugly, whenever embarrassment and disgust came over him, he continued fleeing, fleeing into a new game, fleeing into a numbing of his mind brought on by sex, by wine, and from there he fled back into the urge to pile up and obtain possessions. In this pointless cycle he ran, growing tired, growing old, growing ill.

After each big loss, he set his mind on making more money. He worked harder at his business and pressed his debtors more strictly for payment. He wanted to keep gambling, keep squandering money, and keep showing his contempt for wealth. Siddhartha lost his calm when he lost money and his patience when people did not pay him on time. He lost his kindness toward beggars and his willingness to give or lend money to those who asked him. He could gamble away tens of thousands on a single roll of the dice and laugh about it. Yet he became stricter and pettier in business. He even sometimes dreamed about money at night! At times he woke from this ugly spell. He would see his face in the bedroom mirror, looking older and uglier. Shame and disgust would come over him. But then he would flee again, into another game or into the numbness brought on by sex and wine. From there, he fled back into his urge to acquire and pile up possessions. He ran in this pointless cycle, growing tired, growing old, and growing ill.

Then the time came when a dream warned him. He had spent the hours of the evening with Kamala, in her beautiful pleasure-garden. They had been sitting under the trees, talking, and Kamala had said thoughtful words, words behind which a sadness and tiredness lay hidden. She had asked him to tell her about Gotama, and could not hear enough of him, how clear his eyes, how still and beautiful his mouth, how kind his smile, how peaceful his walk had been. For a long time, he had to tell her about the exalted Buddha, and Kamala had sighed and had said: “One day, perhaps soon, I’ll also follow that Buddha. I’ll give him my pleasure-garden for a gift and take my refuge in his teachings.” But after this, she had aroused him, and had tied him to her in the act of making love with painful fervour, biting and in tears, as if, once more, she wanted to squeeze the last sweet drop out of this vain, fleeting pleasure. Never before, it had become so strangely clear to Siddhartha, how closely lust was akin to death. Then he had lain by her side, and Kamala’s face had been close to him, and under her eyes and next to the corners of her mouth he had, as clearly as never before, read a fearful inscription, an inscription of small lines, of slight grooves, an inscription reminiscent of autumn and old age, just as Siddhartha himself, who was only in his forties, had already noticed, here and there, gray hairs among his black ones. Tiredness was written on Kamala’s beautiful face, tiredness from walking a long path, which has no happy destination, tiredness and the beginning of withering, and concealed, still unsaid, perhaps not even conscious anxiety: fear of old age, fear of the autumn, fear of having to die. With a sigh, he had bid his farewell to her, the soul full of reluctance, and full of concealed anxiety.

Then the time came when a dream warned him. He had spent the evening with Kamala in her beautiful pleasure garden. They had sat under the trees and talked. Kamala had spoken thoughtful words that hid sadness and weariness. She had asked him to tell her about Gotama and could not hear enough about him. She wanted to know how clear his eyes were, how still and beautiful his mouth, how kind his smile, and how peaceful his walk. For a long time, he had told her about the revered Buddha. Kamala had sighed and said, “One day, perhaps soon, I’ll follow that Buddha too. I’ll give him my pleasure garden and take refuge in his teachings.” But afterward, she had aroused him and drawn him close as they made love. Her passion was almost painful. She bit him and wept, as if she wanted to squeeze one last sweet drop from this empty, fleeting pleasure. Never before had Siddhartha seen so clearly and strangely how close lust was to death. Then he had lain beside her, with Kamala’s face close to his. More clearly than ever, he had seen a frightening message beneath her eyes and beside her mouth. It was written in small lines and faint grooves, a reminder of autumn and old age. Siddhartha himself, though only in his forties, had already noticed gray hairs here and there among his black ones. Weariness was written on Kamala’s beautiful face. It was the weariness of walking a long road with no happy destination. He saw weariness and the first signs of fading. He also saw a hidden fear, still unspoken and perhaps not even conscious: fear of old age, of autumn, of having to die. With a sigh, he had said goodbye to her, his soul full of reluctance and hidden fear.

Then, Siddhartha had spent the night in his house with dancing girls and wine, had acted as if he was superior to them, towards the fellow-members of his caste, though this was no longer true, had drunk much wine and gone to bed a long time after midnight, being tired and yet excited, close to weeping and despair, and had for a long time sought to sleep in vain, his heart full of misery which he thought he could not bear any longer, full of a disgust which he felt penetrating his entire body like the lukewarm, repulsive taste of the wine, the just too sweet, dull music, the just too soft smile of the dancing girls, the just too sweet scent of their hair and breasts. But more than by anything else, he was disgusted by himself, by his perfumed hair, by the smell of wine from his mouth, by the flabby tiredness and listlessness of his skin. Like when someone, who has eaten and drunk far too much, vomits it back up again with agonising pain and is nevertheless glad about the relief, thus this sleepless man wished to free himself of these pleasures, these habits and all of this pointless life and himself, in an immense burst of disgust. Not until the light of the morning and the beginning of the first activities in the street before his city-house, he had slightly fallen asleep, had found for a few moments a half unconsciousness, a hint of sleep. In those moments, he had a dream:

Then Siddhartha spent the night at home with dancing girls and wine. He acted as if he were superior to his fellow caste members, though this was no longer true. He drank a great deal of wine and went to bed long after midnight. He was tired but still excited, close to tears and despair. For a long time he tried in vain to sleep. His heart was full of misery that he thought he could no longer bear. He felt disgust spreading through his whole body, like the lukewarm, repulsive taste of the wine. He felt it in the music, just too sweet and dull, and the dancing girls’ smiles, just too soft. He felt it in the scent of their hair and breasts, just too sweet. But more than anything else, he was disgusted with himself. He hated his perfumed hair, the smell of wine on his breath, and the flabby weariness and listlessness of his skin. Someone who has eaten and drunk far too much may vomit it all up in agonizing pain, yet feel glad for the relief. In the same way, the sleepless man wanted to rid himself of these pleasures, these habits, this whole pointless life, and himself, in one immense burst of disgust. Only when morning light came and the first activity began in the street outside his city house did he doze off. For a few moments, he was half unconscious, barely asleep. In those moments, he had a dream:

Kamala owned a small, rare singing bird in a golden cage. Of this bird, he dreamt. He dreamt: this bird had become mute, who at other times always used to sing in the morning, and since this arose his attention, he stepped in front of the cage and looked inside; there the small bird was dead and lay stiff on the ground. He took it out, weighed it for a moment in his hand, and then threw it away, out in the street, and in the same moment, he felt terribly shocked, and his heart hurt, as if he had thrown away from himself all value and everything good by throwing out this dead bird.

Kamala owned a small, rare songbird in a golden cage. He dreamed about the bird. In his dream, the bird had fallen silent, though it usually sang every morning. This caught his attention, so he stepped up to the cage and looked inside. The little bird was dead, lying stiff on the floor of the cage. He took it out, weighed it in his hand for a moment, and then threw it into the street. At that same moment, he felt terribly shocked, and his heart ached. It was as if, by throwing away the dead bird, he had thrown away all value and everything good in himself.

Starting up from this dream, he felt encompassed by a deep sadness. Worthless, so it seemed to him, worthless and pointless was the way he had been going through life; nothing which was alive, nothing which was in some way delicious or worth keeping he had left in his hands. Alone he stood there and empty like a castaway on the shore.

He woke from the dream feeling deeply sad. The way he had been living seemed worthless and pointless to him. He had nothing left in his hands that was alive, delightful, or worth keeping. He stood there alone and empty, like a castaway on the shore.

With a gloomy mind, Siddhartha went to the pleasure-garden he owned, locked the gate, sat down under a mango-tree, felt death in his heart and horror in his chest, sat and sensed how everything died in him, withered in him, came to an end in him. By and by, he gathered his thoughts, and in his mind, he once again went the entire path of his life, starting with the first days he could remember. When was there ever a time when he had experienced happiness, felt a true bliss? Oh yes, several times he had experienced such a thing. In his years as a boy, he had had a taste of it, when he had obtained praise from the Brahmans, he had felt it in his heart: “There is a path in front of the one who has distinguished himself in the recitation of the holy verses, in the dispute with the learned ones, as an assistant in the offerings.” Then, he had felt it in his heart: “There is a path in front of you, you are destined for, the gods are awaiting you.” And again, as a young man, when the ever rising, upward fleeing, goal of all thinking had ripped him out of and up from the multitude of those seeking the same goal, when he wrestled in pain for the purpose of Brahman, when every obtained knowledge only kindled new thirst in him, then again he had, in the midst of the thirst, in the midst of the pain felt this very same thing: “Go on! Go on! You are called upon!” He had heard this voice when he had left his home and had chosen the life of a Samana, and again when he had gone away from the Samanas to that perfected one, and also when he had gone away from him to the uncertain. For how long had he not heard this voice any more, for how long had he reached no height any more, how even and dull was the manner in which his path had passed through life, for many long years, without a high goal, without thirst, without elevation, content with small lustful pleasures and yet never satisfied! For all of these many years, without knowing it himself, he had tried hard and longed to become a man like those many, like those children, and in all this, his life had been much more miserable and poorer than theirs, and their goals were not his, nor their worries; after all, that entire world of the Kamaswami-people had only been a game to him, a dance he would watch, a comedy. Only Kamala had been dear, had been valuable to him—but was she still thus? Did he still need her, or she him? Did they not play a game without an ending? Was it necessary to live for this? No, it was not necessary! The name of this game was Sansara, a game for children, a game which was perhaps enjoyable to play once, twice, ten times—but for ever and ever over again?

Siddhartha went to the pleasure garden he owned, his mind full of gloom. He locked the gate and sat down under a mango tree. He felt death in his heart and horror in his chest. As he sat there, he felt everything inside him dying, withering, coming to an end. Gradually, he gathered his thoughts and retraced the whole path of his life, starting with his earliest memories. When had he ever been happy, truly blissful? Oh yes, he had felt that way several times. As a boy, he had tasted bliss when the Brahmans praised him. He had felt in his heart: “A path lies ahead for someone who has excelled at reciting the holy verses, debating with learned men, and assisting with offerings.” Then he had felt in his heart: “A path lies ahead of you. You have a destiny, and the gods are waiting for you.” And again, as a young man, he had felt the same thing. The goal of all his thinking kept rising, fleeing upward, drawing him away from the many others seeking it. He struggled painfully to understand the purpose of Brahman, and every piece of knowledge he gained only stirred a new thirst. Yet even in that thirst and pain, he had felt the same thing: “Go on! Go on! You are called upon!” He had heard this voice when he left home and chose the life of a Samana. He had heard it again when he left the Samanas for the perfected one, and when he left him for the unknown. How long had it been since he last heard that voice? How long since he had reached any height? For many long years, his path through life had been so level and dull. He had no high goal, no thirst, no elevation. He was content with small sensual pleasures, yet never satisfied! For all those years, without knowing it, he had tried hard and longed to become a man like those many others, like those children. Yet his life had been much more miserable and poorer than theirs. Their goals were not his, nor were their worries. After all, that whole world of the Kamaswami-people had been only a game to him, a dance to watch, a comedy. Only Kamala had been dear and valuable to him. But was she still? Did he still need her, or she him? Were they not playing a game that had no end? Was it necessary to live for this? No, it was not necessary! The name of this game was Sansara, a game for children. Perhaps it was enjoyable to play once, twice, ten times, but forever and ever?

Then, Siddhartha knew that the game was over, that he could not play it any more. Shivers ran over his body, inside of him, so he felt, something had died.

Then Siddhartha knew the game was over. He could not play it anymore. Shivers ran through his body. He felt that something inside him had died.

That entire day, he sat under the mango-tree, thinking of his father, thinking of Govinda, thinking of Gotama. Did he have to leave them to become a Kamaswami? He still sat there, when the night had fallen. When, looking up, he caught sight of the stars, he thought: “Here I’m sitting under my mango-tree, in my pleasure-garden.” He smiled a little—was it really necessary, was it right, was it not as foolish game, that he owned a mango-tree, that he owned a garden?

He sat under the mango tree all day, thinking of his father, Govinda, and Gotama. Did he have to leave them to become a Kamaswami? He was still sitting there when night fell. He looked up, saw the stars, and thought: “Here I am, sitting under my mango tree, in my pleasure garden.” He smiled a little. Was it really necessary or right for him to own a mango tree and a garden? Wasn’t it a foolish game?

He also put an end to this, this also died in him. He rose, bid his farewell to the mango-tree, his farewell to the pleasure-garden. Since he had been without food this day, he felt strong hunger, and thought of his house in the city, of his chamber and bed, of the table with the meals on it. He smiled tiredly, shook himself, and bid his farewell to these things.

He put an end to this too. This too died within him. He stood up and said goodbye to the mango tree and the pleasure garden. He had eaten nothing that day, so he felt very hungry. He thought of his house in the city, his room and bed, and the table set with food. He smiled wearily, shook himself, and said goodbye to these things.

In the same hour of the night, Siddhartha left his garden, left the city, and never came back. For a long time, Kamaswami had people look for him, thinking that he had fallen into the hands of robbers. Kamala had no one look for him. When she was told that Siddhartha had disappeared, she was not astonished. Did she not always expect it? Was he not a Samana, a man who was at home nowhere, a pilgrim? And most of all, she had felt this the last time they had been together, and she was happy, in spite of all the pain of the loss, that she had pulled him so affectionately to her heart for this last time, that she had felt one more time to be so completely possessed and penetrated by him.

At that same hour of the night, Siddhartha left his garden and the city, and never returned. For a long time, Kamaswami had people search for him, thinking that robbers had captured him. Kamala sent no one to look for him. When she heard that Siddhartha had disappeared, she was not surprised. Hadn’t she always expected it? Wasn’t he a Samana, a man at home nowhere, a pilgrim? Above all, she had sensed it the last time they were together. Despite all the pain of losing him, she was glad she had drawn him so lovingly to her heart that last time. She was glad, too, that she had felt so completely possessed and penetrated by him once more.

When she received the first news of Siddhartha’s disappearance, she went to the window, where she held a rare singing bird captive in a golden cage. She opened the door of the cage, took the bird out and let it fly. For a long time, she gazed after it, the flying bird. From this day on, she received no more visitors and kept her house locked. But after some time, she became aware that she was pregnant from the last time she was together with Siddhartha.

When she first heard that Siddhartha had disappeared, she went to the window. There she kept a rare songbird in a golden cage. She opened the cage, took the bird out, and let it fly. For a long time, she watched the bird fly away. From that day on, she received no more visitors and kept her house locked. But after some time, she realized she was pregnant from the last time she had been with Siddhartha.