The Ferryman

By this river I want to stay, thought Siddhartha, it is the same which I have crossed a long time ago on my way to the childlike people, a friendly ferryman had guided me then, he is the one I want to go to, starting out from his hut, my path had led me at that time into a new life, which had now grown old and is dead—my present path, my present new life, shall also take its start there!

I want to stay by this river, Siddhartha thought. It is the same river I crossed long ago on my way to the childlike people. A friendly ferryman guided me across then. He is the one I want to see. My path led from his hut into a new life, which has now grown old and died. My present path, my new life, will also begin there!

Tenderly, he looked into the rushing water, into the transparent green, into the crystal lines of its drawing, so rich in secrets. Bright pearls he saw rising from the deep, quiet bubbles of air floating on the reflecting surface, the blue of the sky being depicted in it. With a thousand eyes, the river looked at him, with green ones, with white ones, with crystal ones, with sky-blue ones. How did he love this water, how did it delight him, how grateful was he to it! In his heart he heard the voice talking, which was newly awaking, and it told him: Love this water! Stay near it! Learn from it! Oh yes, he wanted to learn from it, he wanted to listen to it. He who would understand this water and its secrets, so it seemed to him, would also understand many other things, many secrets, all secrets.

Tenderly, he looked into the rushing water. He gazed at its clear green depths and its crystal patterns, so full of secrets. He saw bright pearls rising from the depths and quiet bubbles floating on the reflective surface. He saw the blue sky reflected there. The river looked at him with a thousand eyes: green, white, crystal, and sky blue. How he loved this water, how it delighted him, and how grateful he was to it! In his heart, he heard a voice that was waking again. It told him: Love this water! Stay near it! Learn from it! Oh yes, he wanted to learn from the water. He wanted to listen to it. It seemed to him that anyone who understood this water and its secrets would understand many other things, many secrets, all secrets.

But out of all secrets of the river, he today only saw one, this one touched his soul. He saw: this water ran and ran, incessantly it ran, and was nevertheless always there, was always at all times the same and yet new in every moment! Great be he who would grasp this, understand this! He understood and grasped it not, only felt some idea of it stirring, a distant memory, divine voices.

But today, of all the river’s secrets, he saw only one. This secret touched his soul. He saw that the water flowed on and on, without stopping, yet it was always there. It was always the same, yet new every moment! How great anyone would be who could grasp and understand this! He did not understand or grasp it. He only felt some idea of it stirring, a distant memory, divine voices.

Siddhartha rose, the workings of hunger in his body became unbearable. In a daze he walked on, up the path by the bank, upriver, listened to the current, listened to the rumbling hunger in his body.

Siddhartha got up. The hunger in his body had become unbearable. In a daze, he walked upriver along the path by the bank. He listened to the current and to the rumbling hunger in his body.

When he reached the ferry, the boat was just ready, and the same ferryman who had once transported the young Samana across the river, stood in the boat, Siddhartha recognised him, he had also aged very much.

When Siddhartha reached the ferry, the boat was just ready to leave. The ferryman standing in it was the same man who had once taken the young Samana across the river. Siddhartha recognized him. The ferryman had also aged a great deal.

“Would you like to ferry me over?” he asked.

“Would you take me across?” he asked.

The ferryman, being astonished to see such an elegant man walking along and on foot, took him into his boat and pushed it off the bank.

The ferryman was surprised to see such an elegant man traveling on foot. He took him into his boat and pushed it away from the bank.

“It’s a beautiful life you have chosen for yourself,” the passenger spoke. “It must be beautiful to live by this water every day and to cruise on it.”

“You’ve chosen a beautiful life,” the passenger said. “It must be beautiful to live by the water every day and travel on it.”

With a smile, the man at the oar moved from side to side: “It is beautiful, sir, it is as you say. But isn’t every life, isn’t every work beautiful?”

The man at the oar swayed from side to side and smiled. “It is beautiful, sir, just as you say. But isn’t every life beautiful? Isn’t every kind of work beautiful?”

“This may be true. But I envy you for yours.”

“That may be true. But I envy you for yours.”

“Ah, you would soon stop enjoying it. This is nothing for people wearing fine clothes.”

“Ah, you’d soon stop enjoying it. This isn’t for people in fine clothes.”

Siddhartha laughed. “Once before, I have been looked upon today because of my clothes, I have been looked upon with distrust. Wouldn’t you, ferryman, like to accept these clothes, which are a nuisance to me, from me? For you must know, I have no money to pay your fare.”

Siddhartha laughed. “Someone already looked at me with distrust today because of my clothes. Ferryman, would you like to take these clothes? They are a nuisance to me. You see, I have no money to pay your fare.”

“You’re joking, sir,” the ferryman laughed.

“You’re joking, sir,” the ferryman laughed.

“I’m not joking, friend. Behold, once before you have ferried me across this water in your boat for the immaterial reward of a good deed. Thus, do it today as well, and accept my clothes for it.”

“I’m not joking, friend. You once took me across this water in your boat, asking nothing in return but the satisfaction of doing a good deed. So please take me across again today, and accept my clothes as payment.”

“And do you, sir, intent to continue travelling without clothes?”

“And do you plan to keep traveling without clothes, sir?”

“Ah, most of all I wouldn’t want to continue travelling at all. Most of all I would rather you, ferryman, gave me an old loincloth and kept me with you as your assistant, or rather as your trainee, for I’ll have to learn first how to handle the boat.”

“Ah, more than anything, I don’t want to travel any farther. I’d rather you gave me an old loincloth, ferryman, and let me stay with you as your assistant. Or rather, as your apprentice, because I’ll first have to learn how to handle the boat.”

For a long time, the ferryman looked at the stranger, searching.

The ferryman looked at the stranger for a long time, searching.

“Now I recognise you,” he finally said. “At one time, you’ve slept in my hut, this was a long time ago, possibly more than twenty years ago, and you’ve been ferried across the river by me, and we parted like good friends. Haven’t you been a Samana? I can’t think of your name any more.”

“Now I recognize you,” he finally said. “You slept in my hut once, a long time ago, perhaps more than twenty years ago. I ferried you across the river, and we parted as good friends. Weren’t you a Samana? I can’t remember your name.”

“My name is Siddhartha, and I was a Samana, when you’ve last seen me.”

“My name is Siddhartha, and I was a Samana when you last saw me.”

“So be welcome, Siddhartha. My name is Vasudeva. You will, so I hope, be my guest today as well and sleep in my hut, and tell me, where you’re coming from and why these beautiful clothes are such a nuisance to you.”

“Welcome, Siddhartha. My name is Vasudeva. I hope you will be my guest again today and sleep in my hut. Tell me where you’re coming from and why those beautiful clothes are such a nuisance to you.”

They had reached the middle of the river, and Vasudeva pushed the oar with more strength, in order to overcome the current. He worked calmly, his eyes fixed in on the front of the boat, with brawny arms. Siddhartha sat and watched him, and remembered, how once before, on that last day of his time as a Samana, love for this man had stirred in his heart. Gratefully, he accepted Vasudeva’s invitation. When they had reached the bank, he helped him to tie the boat to the stakes; after this, the ferryman asked him to enter the hut, offered him bread and water, and Siddhartha ate with eager pleasure, and also ate with eager pleasure of the mango fruits Vasudeva offered him.

They had reached the middle of the river, and Vasudeva pushed harder on the oar to overcome the current. He rowed calmly with his strong arms, keeping his eyes fixed on the front of the boat. Siddhartha sat and watched him. He remembered how love for this man had once stirred in his heart, on his last day as a Samana. He gratefully accepted Vasudeva’s invitation. When they reached the bank, Siddhartha helped Vasudeva tie the boat to the stakes. Then the ferryman invited him into the hut and offered him bread and water. Siddhartha ate with eager pleasure. He also eagerly enjoyed the mangoes Vasudeva offered him.

Afterwards, it was almost the time of the sunset, they sat on a log by the bank, and Siddhartha told the ferryman about where he originally came from and about his life, as he had seen it before his eyes today, in that hour of despair. Until late at night, lasted his tale.

Later, nearly at sunset, they sat on a log by the riverbank. Siddhartha told the ferryman where he came from and about his life, as he had seen it unfold before his eyes that day, in his hour of despair. His story lasted until late at night.

Vasudeva listened with great attention. Listening carefully, he let everything enter his mind, birthplace and childhood, all that learning, all that searching, all joy, all distress. This was among the ferryman’s virtues one of the greatest: like only a few, he knew how to listen. Without him having spoken a word, the speaker sensed how Vasudeva let his words enter his mind, quiet, open, waiting, how he did not lose a single one, awaited not a single one with impatience, did not add his praise or rebuke, was just listening. Siddhartha felt, what a happy fortune it is, to confess to such a listener, to bury in his heart his own life, his own search, his own suffering.

Vasudeva listened closely. He took everything in: Siddhartha’s birthplace and childhood, all his learning, all his searching, all his joy and all his distress. This was one of the ferryman’s greatest virtues. Few people knew how to listen as he did. Without Vasudeva saying a word, a speaker could sense how he took in every word, quiet, open and waiting. He missed nothing and waited for nothing impatiently. He offered neither praise nor criticism. He simply listened. Siddhartha felt how fortunate he was to confide in such a listener, to bury his life, his search and his suffering in Vasudeva’s heart.

But in the end of Siddhartha’s tale, when he spoke of the tree by the river, and of his deep fall, of the holy Om, and how he had felt such a love for the river after his slumber, the ferryman listened with twice the attention, entirely and completely absorbed by it, with his eyes closed.

But as Siddhartha finished his story, the ferryman listened with twice the attention, his eyes closed. He was completely absorbed as Siddhartha spoke of the tree by the river, his deep fall, and the holy Om. Siddhartha also spoke of how much he had loved the river after he woke.

But when Siddhartha fell silent, and a long silence had occurred, then Vasudeva said: “It is as I thought. The river has spoken to you. It is your friend as well, it speaks to you as well. That is good, that is very good. Stay with me, Siddhartha, my friend. I used to have a wife, her bed was next to mine, but she has died a long time ago, for a long time, I have lived alone. Now, you shall live with me, there is space and food for both.”

But after Siddhartha fell silent, a long silence followed. Then Vasudeva said: “It is as I thought. The river has spoken to you. It is your friend too, and it speaks to you too. That is good, very good. Stay with me, Siddhartha, my friend. I used to have a wife, and her bed was next to mine. But she died a long time ago, and I have lived alone for many years. Now you can live with me. There is room and food for both of us.”

“I thank you,” said Siddhartha, “I thank you and accept. And I also thank you for this, Vasudeva, for listening to me so well! These people are rare who know how to listen. And I did not meet a single one who knew it as well as you did. I will also learn in this respect from you.”

“Thank you,” said Siddhartha. “I thank you and accept. And thank you, Vasudeva, for listening to me so well! People who know how to listen are rare. I have never met anyone who listens as well as you do. I will learn from you in this way, too.”

“You will learn it,” spoke Vasudeva, “but not from me. The river has taught me to listen, from it you will learn it as well. It knows everything, the river, everything can be learned from it. See, you’ve already learned this from the water too, that it is good to strive downwards, to sink, to seek depth. The rich and elegant Siddhartha is becoming an oarsman’s servant, the learned Brahman Siddhartha becomes a ferryman: this has also been told to you by the river. You’ll learn that other thing from it as well.”

“You will learn it,” said Vasudeva, “but not from me. The river taught me to listen, and it will teach you too. The river knows everything. You can learn everything from it. You have already learned from the water that it is good to move downward, to sink, to seek depth. The rich and elegant Siddhartha is becoming an oarsman’s servant. The learned Brahman Siddhartha is becoming a ferryman. The river has told you this too. You will learn the other thing from it as well.”

Quoth Siddhartha after a long pause: “What other thing, Vasudeva?”

After a long pause, Siddhartha said, “What else, Vasudeva?”

Vasudeva rose. “It is late,” he said, “let’s go to sleep. I can’t tell you that other thing, oh friend. You’ll learn it, or perhaps you know it already. See, I’m no learned man, I have no special skill in speaking, I also have no special skill in thinking. All I’m able to do is to listen and to be godly, I have learned nothing else. If I was able to say and teach it, I might be a wise man, but like this I am only a ferryman, and it is my task to ferry people across the river. I have transported many, thousands; and to all of them, my river has been nothing but an obstacle on their travels. They travelled to seek money and business, and for weddings, and on pilgrimages, and the river was obstructing their path, and the ferryman’s job was to get them quickly across that obstacle. But for some among thousands, a few, four or five, the river has stopped being an obstacle, they have heard its voice, they have listened to it, and the river has become sacred to them, as it has become sacred to me. Let’s rest now, Siddhartha.”

Vasudeva stood up. “It’s late,” he said. “Let’s go to sleep. I can’t tell you that other thing, my friend. You’ll learn it, or perhaps you already know it. You see, I’m not a learned man. I have no special skill with words, and no special skill for thinking. All I can do is listen and be godly. I’ve learned nothing else. If I could explain and teach it, I might be a wise man. But as it is, I’m only a ferryman. My job is to take people across the river. I’ve taken many, thousands of them. To all of them, my river was nothing but an obstacle on their journey. They traveled to seek money and business, to attend weddings, and to go on pilgrimages. The river stood in their way, and the ferryman’s job was to get them across it quickly. But for a few among those thousands, four or five, the river stopped being an obstacle. They heard its voice and listened to it. The river became sacred to them, just as it has become sacred to me. Let’s rest now, Siddhartha.”

Siddhartha stayed with the ferryman and learned to operate the boat, and when there was nothing to do at the ferry, he worked with Vasudeva in the rice-field, gathered wood, plucked the fruit off the banana-trees. He learned to build an oar, and learned to mend the boat, and to weave baskets, and was joyful because of everything he learned, and the days and months passed quickly. But more than Vasudeva could teach him, he was taught by the river. Incessantly, he learned from it. Most of all, he learned from it to listen, to pay close attention with a quiet heart, with a waiting, opened soul, without passion, without a wish, without judgement, without an opinion.

Siddhartha stayed with the ferryman and learned to operate the boat. When there was nothing to do at the ferry, he worked with Vasudeva in the rice field. He also gathered wood and picked fruit from the banana trees. He learned to make an oar, mend the boat, and weave baskets. Everything he learned brought him joy, and the days and months passed quickly. But the river taught him more than Vasudeva could. He learned from the river constantly. Above all, the river taught him to listen. He learned to pay close attention with a quiet heart and a patient, open soul, without passion, wishes, judgments, or opinions.

In a friendly manner, he lived side by side with Vasudeva, and occasionally they exchanged some words, few and at length thought about words. Vasudeva was no friend of words; rarely, Siddhartha succeeded in persuading him to speak.

He lived alongside Vasudeva in friendship. Occasionally, they exchanged a few words, each carefully considered. Vasudeva was not fond of talking. Siddhartha rarely managed to persuade him to speak.

“Did you,” so he asked him at one time, “did you too learn that secret from the river: that there is no time?”

“Did you,” he once asked him, “also learn that secret from the river, that there is no time?”

Vasudeva’s face was filled with a bright smile.

Vasudeva smiled brightly.

“Yes, Siddhartha,” he spoke. “It is this what you mean, isn’t it: that the river is everywhere at once, at the source and at the mouth, at the waterfall, at the ferry, at the rapids, in the sea, in the mountains, everywhere at once, and that there is only the present time for it, not the shadow of the past, not the shadow of the future?”

“Yes, Siddhartha,” he said. “Is this what you mean? The river is everywhere at once: at its source and mouth, at the waterfall, the ferry, and the rapids. It is in the sea and in the mountains, everywhere at once. And for the river, there is only the present, not the shadow of the past or the shadow of the future?”

“This it is,” said Siddhartha. “And when I had learned it, I looked at my life, and it was also a river, and the boy Siddhartha was only separated from the man Siddhartha and from the old man Siddhartha by a shadow, not by something real. Also, Siddhartha’s previous births were no past, and his death and his return to Brahma was no future. Nothing was, nothing will be; everything is, everything has existence and is present.”

“That is it,” said Siddhartha. “When I learned it, I looked at my life and saw that it, too, was a river. The boy Siddhartha was separated from the man Siddhartha and the old man Siddhartha only by a shadow, not by anything real. Siddhartha’s previous births were not in the past. His death and his return to Brahma were not in the future. Nothing was, nothing will be. Everything is, everything exists and is present.”

Siddhartha spoke with ecstasy; deeply, this enlightenment had delighted him. Oh, was not all suffering time, were not all forms of tormenting oneself and being afraid time, was not everything hard, everything hostile in the world gone and overcome as soon as one had overcome time, as soon as time would have been put out of existence by one’s thoughts? In ecstatic delight, he had spoken, but Vasudeva smiled at him brightly and nodded in confirmation; silently he nodded, brushed his hand over Siddhartha’s shoulder, turned back to his work.

Siddhartha spoke with ecstasy. This insight had delighted him deeply. Oh, wasn’t all suffering time? Weren’t all forms of tormenting oneself and being afraid time? Wasn’t everything hard, everything hostile in the world gone and overcome as soon as one had overcome time? As soon as one’s thoughts had put time out of existence? He had spoken in ecstatic delight, but Vasudeva smiled at him brightly and nodded in agreement. He nodded silently, brushed his hand over Siddhartha’s shoulder, and turned back to his work.

And once again, when the river had just increased its flow in the rainy season and made a powerful noise, then said Siddhartha: “Isn’t it so, oh friend, the river has many voices, very many voices? Hasn’t it the voice of a king, and of a warrior, and of a bull, and of a bird of the night, and of a woman giving birth, and of a sighing man, and a thousand other voices more?”

Once again, the river had just risen with the rainy season and was roaring loudly. Siddhartha said, “Isn’t it true, my friend, that the river has many voices, so many voices? Doesn’t it have the voice of a king, a warrior, a bull, and a bird of the night? Doesn’t it have the voice of a woman giving birth, a man sighing, and a thousand more?”

“So it is,” Vasudeva nodded, “all voices of the creatures are in its voice.”

“That’s right,” Vasudeva said with a nod. “All the voices of the creatures are in its voice.”

“And do you know,” Siddhartha continued, “what word it speaks, when you succeed in hearing all of its ten thousand voices at once?”

“And do you know,” Siddhartha continued, “what word it speaks when you can hear all ten thousand of its voices at once?”

Happily, Vasudeva’s face was smiling, he bent over to Siddhartha and spoke the holy Om into his ear. And this had been the very thing which Siddhartha had also been hearing.

Vasudeva smiled happily. He leaned over to Siddhartha and spoke the holy Om into his ear. Siddhartha had been hearing that very sound.

And time after time, his smile became more similar to the ferryman’s, became almost just as bright, almost just as thoroughly glowing with bliss, just as shining out of thousand small wrinkles, just as alike to a child’s, just as alike to an old man’s. Many travellers, seeing the two ferrymen, thought they were brothers. Often, they sat in the evening together by the bank on the log, said nothing and both listened to the water, which was no water to them, but the voice of life, the voice of what exists, of what is eternally taking shape. And it happened from time to time that both, when listening to the river, thought of the same things, of a conversation from the day before yesterday, of one of their travellers, the face and fate of whom had occupied their thoughts, of death, of their childhood, and that they both in the same moment, when the river had been saying something good to them, looked at each other, both thinking precisely the same thing, both delighted about the same answer to the same question.

Over time, his smile grew more and more like the ferryman’s. It became almost as bright and almost as full of bliss, shining through a thousand little wrinkles. It was as much like a child’s smile as an old man’s. Many travelers who saw the two ferrymen thought they were brothers. In the evenings, they often sat together on a log by the riverbank. They said nothing and both listened to the water. To them, it was not water, but the voice of life, of all that exists and all that is eternally taking shape. From time to time, as they listened to the river, they thought about the same things. They might think of a conversation from two days earlier, or a traveler whose face and fate had occupied their thoughts. They might think of death or their childhood. When the river had told them something good, they would look at each other at the same moment. Both were thinking exactly the same thing, delighted by the same answer to the same question.

There was something about this ferry and the two ferrymen which was transmitted to others, which many of the travellers felt. It happened occasionally that a traveller, after having looked at the face of one of the ferrymen, started to tell the story of his life, told about pains, confessed evil things, asked for comfort and advice. It happened occasionally that someone asked for permission to stay for a night with them to listen to the river. It also happened that curious people came, who had been told that there were two wise men, or sorcerers, or holy men living by that ferry. The curious people asked many questions, but they got no answers, and they found neither sorcerers nor wise men, they only found two friendly little old men, who seemed to be mute and to have become a bit strange and gaga. And the curious people laughed and were discussing how foolishly and gullibly the common people were spreading such empty rumours.

There was something about the ferry and the two ferrymen that many travelers felt. Sometimes a traveler would look at one of the ferrymen and begin telling his life story. He would speak of his pain, confess the evil things he had done, and ask for comfort and advice. Sometimes someone asked to spend a night with them and listen to the river. Curious people also came because they had heard that two wise men, sorcerers, or holy men lived by the ferry. They asked many questions, but got no answers. They found neither sorcerers nor wise men, only two friendly little old men. The two men seemed to be mute and to have grown a little strange and senile. The curious visitors laughed and talked about how foolishly and gullibly ordinary people spread such empty rumors.

The years passed by, and nobody counted them. Then, at one time, monks came by on a pilgrimage, followers of Gotama, the Buddha, who were asking to be ferried across the river, and by them the ferrymen were told that they were most hurriedly walking back to their great teacher, for the news had spread the exalted one was deadly sick and would soon die his last human death, in order to become one with the salvation. It was not long, until a new flock of monks came along on their pilgrimage, and another one, and the monks as well as most of the other travellers and people walking through the land spoke of nothing else than of Gotama and his impending death. And as people are flocking from everywhere and from all sides, when they are going to war or to the coronation of a king, and are gathering like ants in droves, thus they flocked, like being drawn on by a magic spell, to where the great Buddha was awaiting his death, where the huge event was to take place and the great perfected one of an era was to become one with the glory.

The years passed, and no one counted them. Then some monks came on a pilgrimage, asking the ferrymen to take them across the river. They were followers of Gotama, the Buddha. They told the ferrymen that they were hurrying back to their great teacher. Word had spread that the exalted one was gravely ill. He would soon die his last human death and become one with salvation. Before long, another group of monks came on their pilgrimage, and then another. The monks, along with most other travelers and people passing through the land, spoke of nothing but Gotama and his approaching death. People flocked from everywhere, as they do when going to war or to a king’s coronation. They gathered in crowds like ants. As if drawn by a magic spell, they flocked to the place where the great Buddha awaited death. There, the great event would take place, and the great perfected one of an era would become one with glory.

Often, Siddhartha thought in those days of the dying wise man, the great teacher, whose voice had admonished nations and had awoken hundreds of thousands, whose voice he had also once heard, whose holy face he had also once seen with respect. Kindly, he thought of him, saw his path to perfection before his eyes, and remembered with a smile those words which he had once, as a young man, said to him, the exalted one. They had been, so it seemed to him, proud and precocious words; with a smile, he remembered them. For a long time he knew that there was nothing standing between Gotama and him any more, though he was still unable to accept his teachings. No, there was no teaching a truly searching person, someone who truly wanted to find, could accept. But he who had found, he could approve of any teachings, every path, every goal, there was nothing standing between him and all the other thousand any more who lived in that what is eternal, who breathed what is divine.

In those days, Siddhartha often thought of the dying wise man, the great teacher. Gotama’s voice had warned nations and awakened hundreds of thousands. Siddhartha too had once heard that voice and seen that holy face with respect. He thought of Gotama with affection and pictured his path to perfection. With a smile, he remembered what he had said to the exalted teacher as a young man. Those words now seemed proud and unusually bold for his age, and he smiled as he remembered them. He had long known that nothing stood between Gotama and him anymore, though he still could not accept Gotama’s teachings. No, a person who was truly searching, who truly wanted to find, could accept no teaching. But someone who had found could approve of any teaching, every path, and every goal. Nothing stood between him and all the other thousands who lived in what is eternal and breathed what is divine.

On one of these days, when so many went on a pilgrimage to the dying Buddha, Kamala also went to him, who used to be the most beautiful of the courtesans. A long time ago, she had retired from her previous life, had given her garden to the monks of Gotama as a gift, had taken her refuge in the teachings, was among the friends and benefactors of the pilgrims. Together with Siddhartha the boy, her son, she had gone on her way due to the news of the near death of Gotama, in simple clothes, on foot. With her little son, she was travelling by the river; but the boy had soon grown tired, desired to go back home, desired to rest, desired to eat, became disobedient and started whining.

On one of those days, many people made a pilgrimage to the dying Buddha. Kamala, who had once been the most beautiful of the courtesans, also went to him. Long ago, she had left her former life and given her garden to Gotama’s monks. She had taken refuge in his teachings and become a friend and benefactor of the pilgrims. When she heard that Gotama was near death, she set out with her son, the boy Siddhartha. They traveled on foot, wearing simple clothes. She and her little son were traveling along the river, but the boy soon grew tired. He wanted to go home, rest, and eat. He became disobedient and began to whine.

Kamala often had to take a rest with him, he was accustomed to having his way against her, she had to feed him, had to comfort him, had to scold him. He did not comprehend why he had to go on this exhausting and sad pilgrimage with his mother, to an unknown place, to a stranger, who was holy and about to die. So what if he died, how did this concern the boy?

Kamala often had to stop and rest with him. He was used to getting his way with her. She had to feed him, comfort him, and scold him. He did not understand why he had to make this exhausting, sad pilgrimage with his mother. They were going to an unknown place to see a stranger who was holy and about to die. So what if the stranger died? What did that have to do with the boy?

The pilgrims were getting close to Vasudeva’s ferry, when little Siddhartha once again forced his mother to rest. She, Kamala herself, had also become tired, and while the boy was chewing a banana, she crouched down on the ground, closed her eyes a bit, and rested. But suddenly, she uttered a wailing scream, the boy looked at her in fear and saw her face having grown pale from horror; and from under her dress, a small, black snake fled, by which Kamala had been bitten.

The pilgrims were nearing Vasudeva’s ferry when little Siddhartha made his mother stop and rest again. Kamala was tired too. While the boy chewed a banana, she crouched on the ground, closed her eyes for a while, and rested. But suddenly she let out a wailing scream. The boy looked at her in fear and saw that her face had gone pale with horror. A small black snake slipped out from under her dress. It had bitten Kamala.

Hurriedly, they now both ran along the path, in order to reach people, and got near to the ferry, there Kamala collapsed, and was not able to go any further. But the boy started crying miserably, only interrupting it to kiss and hug his mother, and she also joined his loud screams for help, until the sound reached Vasudeva’s ears, who stood at the ferry. Quickly, he came walking, took the woman on his arms, carried her into the boat, the boy ran along, and soon they all reached the hut, where Siddhartha stood by the stove and was just lighting the fire. He looked up and first saw the boy’s face, which wondrously reminded him of something, like a warning to remember something he had forgotten. Then he saw Kamala, whom he instantly recognised, though she lay unconscious in the ferryman’s arms, and now he knew that it was his own son, whose face had been such a warning reminder to him, and the heart stirred in his chest.

They both hurried along the path to reach other people. Near the ferry, Kamala collapsed and could go no farther. The boy began crying miserably, stopping only to kiss and hug his mother. She joined him in screaming for help until Vasudeva heard them from the ferry. He came quickly, took Kamala in his arms, and carried her into the boat. The boy ran along with him. Soon they all reached the hut, where Siddhartha stood by the stove, lighting the fire. He looked up and saw the boy’s face first. It reminded him of something in a strange way, like a warning to remember something he had forgotten. Then he saw Kamala and recognized her at once, though she lay unconscious in the ferryman’s arms. Now he knew that the boy whose face had been such a warning reminder was his own son. His heart stirred in his chest.

Kamala’s wound was washed, but had already turned black and her body was swollen, she was made to drink a healing potion. Her consciousness returned, she lay on Siddhartha’s bed in the hut and bent over her stood Siddhartha, who used to love her so much. It seemed like a dream to her; with a smile, she looked at her friend’s face; just slowly she, realized her situation, remembered the bite, called timidly for the boy.

Kamala’s wound was washed, but it had already turned black, and her body was swollen. She was given a healing potion to drink. When she regained consciousness, she was lying on Siddhartha’s bed in the hut. Siddhartha, who had once loved her so much, was leaning over her. It all seemed like a dream. She smiled at her friend’s face. Slowly, she realized what had happened, remembered the bite, and timidly called for the boy.

“He’s with you, don’t worry,” said Siddhartha.

“He’s with you. Don’t worry,” said Siddhartha.

Kamala looked into his eyes. She spoke with a heavy tongue, paralysed by the poison. “You’ve become old, my dear,” she said, “you’ve become gray. But you are like the young Samana, who at one time came without clothes, with dusty feet, to me into the garden. You are much more like him than you were like him at that time when you had left me and Kamaswami. In the eyes, you’re like him, Siddhartha. Alas, I have also grown old, old—could you still recognise me?”

Kamala looked into his eyes. Her tongue was heavy, paralyzed by the poison. “You’ve grown old, my dear,” she said. “Your hair has turned gray. But you are like the young Samana who once came into my garden naked, with dusty feet. You are much more like him than you were when you left me and Kamaswami. Your eyes are like his, Siddhartha. Alas, I have grown old too, so old. Can you still recognize me?”

Siddhartha smiled: “Instantly, I recognised you, Kamala, my dear.”

Siddhartha smiled: “I recognized you right away, my dear Kamala.”

Kamala pointed to her boy and said: “Did you recognise him as well? He is your son.”

Kamala pointed to her boy and said: “Did you recognize him too? He is your son.”

Her eyes became confused and fell shut. The boy wept, Siddhartha took him on his knees, let him weep, petted his hair, and at the sight of the child’s face, a Brahman prayer came to his mind, which he had learned a long time ago, when he had been a little boy himself. Slowly, with a singing voice, he started to speak; from his past and childhood, the words came flowing to him. And with that singsong, the boy became calm, was only now and then uttering a sob and fell asleep. Siddhartha placed him on Vasudeva’s bed. Vasudeva stood by the stove and cooked rice. Siddhartha gave him a look, which he returned with a smile.

Her eyes grew confused and closed. The boy wept. Siddhartha took him onto his lap, let him cry, and stroked his hair. Looking at the boy’s face, Siddhartha remembered a Brahman prayer he had learned long ago, when he was a little boy himself. He began to recite it slowly, in a singing voice. The words flowed back to him from his childhood. As Siddhartha sang the prayer, the boy grew calm. He sobbed only now and then, and fell asleep. Siddhartha laid him on Vasudeva’s bed. Vasudeva stood by the stove, cooking rice. Siddhartha looked at him, and Vasudeva smiled back.

“She’ll die,” Siddhartha said quietly.

“She’ll die,” Siddhartha said quietly.

Vasudeva nodded; over his friendly face ran the light of the stove’s fire.

Vasudeva nodded. The light from the stove’s fire flickered across his friendly face.

Once again, Kamala returned to consciousness. Pain distorted her face, Siddhartha’s eyes read the suffering on her mouth, on her pale cheeks. Quietly, he read it, attentively, waiting, his mind becoming one with her suffering. Kamala felt it, her gaze sought his eyes.

Once again, Kamala regained consciousness. Pain twisted her face. Siddhartha could see her suffering in her mouth and pale cheeks. He watched quietly and attentively, waiting, his mind becoming one with her suffering. Kamala felt this and looked into his eyes.

Looking at him, she said: “Now I see that your eyes have changed as well. They’ve become completely different. By what do I still recognise that you’re Siddhartha? It’s you, and it’s not you.”

Looking at him, she said: “Now I see that your eyes have changed too. They look completely different. How can I still recognize you as Siddhartha? It’s you, and it’s not you.”

Siddhartha said nothing, quietly his eyes looked at hers.

Siddhartha said nothing. He looked quietly into her eyes.

“You have achieved it?” she asked. “You have found peace?”

“Have you achieved it?” she asked. “Have you found peace?”

He smiled and placed his hand on hers.

He smiled and put his hand on hers.

“I’m seeing it,” she said, “I’m seeing it. I too will find peace.”

“I see it,” she said. “I see it. I’ll find peace too.”

“You have found it,” Siddhartha spoke in a whisper.

“You have found it,” Siddhartha whispered.

Kamala never stopped looking into his eyes. She thought about her pilgrimage to Gotama, which she wanted to take, in order to see the face of the perfected one, to breathe his peace, and she thought that she had now found him in his place, and that it was good, just as good, as if she had seen the other one. She wanted to tell this to him, but the tongue no longer obeyed her will. Without speaking, she looked at him, and he saw the life fading from her eyes. When the final pain filled her eyes and made them grow dim, when the final shiver ran through her limbs, his finger closed her eyelids.

Kamala never stopped looking into his eyes. She thought about the pilgrimage she had wanted to make to Gotama. She had wanted to see the face of the perfected one and breathe in his peace. Now she felt she had found him here instead. It was good, just as good as if she had seen the other one. She wanted to tell him this, but she could no longer make her tongue obey her. She looked at him without speaking, and he saw the life fading from her eyes. The final pain filled her eyes and dimmed them. When a final shiver passed through her limbs, he closed her eyelids with his finger.

For a long time, he sat and looked at her peacefully dead face. For a long time, he observed her mouth, her old, tired mouth, with those lips, which had become thin, and he remembered, that he used to, in the spring of his years, compare this mouth with a freshly cracked fig. For a long time, he sat, read in the pale face, in the tired wrinkles, filled himself with this sight, saw his own face lying in the same manner, just as white, just as quenched out, and saw at the same time his face and hers being young, with red lips, with fiery eyes, and the feeling of this both being present and at the same time real, the feeling of eternity, completely filled every aspect of his being. Deeply he felt, more deeply than ever before, in this hour, the indestructibility of every life, the eternity of every moment.

For a long time, he sat looking at her peaceful face in death. For a long time, he studied her old, tired mouth and its thin lips. He remembered how, in his youth, he had compared her mouth to a freshly split fig. For a long time, he sat reading her pale face and tired wrinkles, absorbing the sight. He saw his own face lying there in the same way, just as pale and lifeless. At the same time, he saw both their faces as they had been when young, with red lips and fiery eyes. He felt that both visions were present and real at the same time. This feeling of eternity filled his whole being. In that hour, he felt more deeply than ever that every life is indestructible and every moment eternal.

When he rose, Vasudeva had prepared rice for him. But Siddhartha did not eat. In the stable, where their goat stood, the two old men prepared beds of straw for themselves, and Vasudeva lay himself down to sleep. But Siddhartha went outside and sat this night before the hut, listening to the river, surrounded by the past, touched and encircled by all times of his life at the same time. But occasionally, he rose, stepped to the door of the hut and listened, whether the boy was sleeping.

When Siddhartha got up, Vasudeva had prepared rice for him. But Siddhartha did not eat. The two old men made beds of straw in the stable, where their goat stood. Vasudeva lay down to sleep. But Siddhartha went outside and sat in front of the hut that night, listening to the river. He was surrounded by the past, touched and encircled by every time of his life at once. But from time to time, he got up and went to the hut’s door to listen for the sleeping boy.

Early in the morning, even before the sun could be seen, Vasudeva came out of the stable and walked over to his friend.

Early in the morning, before the sun was visible, Vasudeva came out of the stable and walked over to his friend.

“You haven’t slept,” he said.

“You haven’t slept,” he said.

“No, Vasudeva. I sat here, I was listening to the river. A lot it has told me, deeply it has filled me with the healing thought, with the thought of oneness.”

“No, Vasudeva. I sat here, listening to the river. It told me a lot. It filled me deeply with the healing thought of oneness.”

“You’ve experienced suffering, Siddhartha, but I see: no sadness has entered your heart.”

“You’ve suffered, Siddhartha, but I can see that no sadness has entered your heart.”

“No, my dear, how should I be sad? I, who have been rich and happy, have become even richer and happier now. My son has been given to me.”

“No, my dear, why would I be sad? I was rich and happy before, and now I’m even richer and happier. My son has been given to me.”

“Your son shall be welcome to me as well. But now, Siddhartha, let’s get to work, there is much to be done. Kamala has died on the same bed on which my wife had died a long time ago. Let us also build Kamala’s funeral pile on the same hill on which I had then built my wife’s funeral pile.”

“Your son is welcome to stay with me too. But now, Siddhartha, let’s get to work. There’s much to do. Kamala died in the same bed where my wife died long ago. Let’s build Kamala’s funeral pyre on the same hill where I built my wife’s.”

While the boy was still asleep, they built the funeral pile.

While the boy was still asleep, they built the funeral pyre.