The Son

Timid and weeping, the boy had attended his mother’s funeral; gloomy and shy, he had listened to Siddhartha, who greeted him as his son and welcomed him at his place in Vasudeva’s hut. Pale, he sat for many days by the hill of the dead, did not want to eat, gave no open look, did not open his heart, met his fate with resistance and denial.

The boy was frightened and wept at his mother’s funeral. Gloomy and shy, he listened as Siddhartha greeted him as his son and welcomed him into Vasudeva’s hut. For many days, he sat pale beside the burial mound. He did not want to eat. He would not look anyone openly in the eye or open his heart. He resisted and denied his fate.

Siddhartha spared him and let him do as he pleased, he honoured his mourning. Siddhartha understood that his son did not know him, that he could not love him like a father. Slowly, he also saw and understood that the eleven-year-old was a pampered boy, a mother’s boy, and that he had grown up in the habits of rich people, accustomed to finer food, to a soft bed, accustomed to giving orders to servants. Siddhartha understood that the mourning, pampered child could not suddenly and willingly be content with a life among strangers and in poverty. He did not force him, he did many a chore for him, always picked the best piece of the meal for him. Slowly, he hoped to win him over, by friendly patience.

Siddhartha was gentle with his son and let him do as he pleased. He respected the boy’s grief. Siddhartha understood that his son did not know him and could not love him as a father. Slowly, he also came to see that the eleven-year-old was a spoiled boy, attached to his mother. He had grown used to the habits of the rich, to fine food and a soft bed. He was used to giving orders to servants. Siddhartha understood that the grieving, spoiled child could not suddenly and willingly accept a poor life among strangers. He did not force the boy. He did many chores for him and always gave him the best part of the meal. He hoped to win him over gradually with kindness and patience.

Rich and happy, he had called himself, when the boy had come to him. Since time had passed on in the meantime, and the boy remained a stranger and in a gloomy disposition, since he displayed a proud and stubbornly disobedient heart, did not want to do any work, did not pay his respect to the old men, stole from Vasudeva’s fruit-trees, then Siddhartha began to understand that his son had not brought him happiness and peace, but suffering and worry. But he loved him, and he preferred the suffering and worries of love over happiness and joy without the boy. Since young Siddhartha was in the hut, the old men had split the work. Vasudeva had again taken on the job of the ferryman all by himself, and Siddhartha, in order to be with his son, did the work in the hut and the field.

When the boy came to him, Siddhartha had called himself rich and happy. But time passed, and the boy remained a stranger, gloomy and proud. He was stubborn and disobedient. He refused to work, showed no respect to the old men, and stole from Vasudeva’s fruit trees. So Siddhartha began to understand that his son had brought him suffering and worry, not happiness and peace. But he loved the boy. He preferred the suffering and worries of love to happiness and joy without him. Since young Siddhartha had come to the hut, the old men had divided the work. Vasudeva had taken on all the ferrying again. Siddhartha worked in the hut and the field so he could be with his son.

For a long time, for long months, Siddhartha waited for his son to understand him, to accept his love, to perhaps reciprocate it. For long months, Vasudeva waited, watching, waited and said nothing. One day, when Siddhartha the younger had once again tormented his father very much with spite and an unsteadiness in his wishes and had broken both of his rice-bowls, Vasudeva took in the evening his friend aside and talked to him.

For many long months, Siddhartha waited for his son to understand him, accept his love, and perhaps return it. For many long months, Vasudeva watched and waited, saying nothing. One day, young Siddhartha again deeply troubled his father with his spite and his constantly changing wishes. He also broke both of his rice bowls. That evening, Vasudeva took his friend aside and spoke to him.

“Pardon me,” he said, “from a friendly heart, I’m talking to you. I’m seeing that you are tormenting yourself, I’m seeing that you’re in grief. Your son, my dear, is worrying you, and he is also worrying me. That young bird is accustomed to a different life, to a different nest. He has not, like you, run away from riches and the city, being disgusted and fed up with it; against his will, he had to leave all this behind. I asked the river, oh friend, many times I have asked it. But the river laughs, it laughs at me, it laughs at you and me, and is shaking with laughter at our foolishness. Water wants to join water, youth wants to join youth, your son is not in the place where he can prosper. You too should ask the river; you too should listen to it!”

“Forgive me,” he said. “I speak to you as a friend. I can see that you are tormenting yourself and grieving. Your son, my dear, worries you, and he worries me too. That young bird is used to a different life, a different nest. Unlike you, he did not run away from wealth and the city because he was disgusted and fed up with them. He was forced to leave them behind against his will. I have asked the river, my friend. I have asked it many times. But the river laughs. It laughs at me, at both of us. It shakes with laughter at our foolishness. Water wants to join water, and youth wants to join youth. Your son is not where he can thrive. You should ask the river too. You should listen to it too!”

Troubled, Siddhartha looked into his friendly face, in the many wrinkles of which there was incessant cheerfulness.

Troubled, Siddhartha looked at his friendly face. His many wrinkles showed constant cheerfulness.

“How could I part with him?” he said quietly, ashamed. “Give me some more time, my dear! See, I’m fighting for him, I’m seeking to win his heart, with love and with friendly patience I intend to capture it. One day, the river shall also talk to him, he also is called upon.”

“How could I leave him?” he said quietly, ashamed. “Give me a little more time, my dear! You see, I’m fighting for him. I’m trying to win his heart with love and patience. One day, the river will speak to him too. He too is called.”

Vasudeva’s smile flourished more warmly. “Oh yes, he too is called upon, he too is of the eternal life. But do we, you and me, know what he is called upon to do, what path to take, what actions to perform, what pain to endure? Not a small one, his pain will be; after all, his heart is proud and hard, people like this have to suffer a lot, err a lot, do much injustice, burden themselves with much sin. Tell me, my dear: you’re not taking control of your son’s upbringing? You don’t force him? You don’t beat him? You don’t punish him?”

Vasudeva’s smile grew warmer. “Oh yes, he too is called. He too belongs to eternal life. But do we, you and I, know what he is called to do, what path to take, what actions to perform, what pain to endure? His pain will not be small. After all, his heart is proud and hard. People like this have to suffer a lot, make many mistakes, do much injustice, and burden themselves with much sin. Tell me, my dear: you’re not taking control of your son’s upbringing? You don’t force him? You don’t beat him? You don’t punish him?”

“No, Vasudeva, I don’t do anything of this.”

“No, Vasudeva, I don’t do any of this.”

“I knew it. You don’t force him, don’t beat him, don’t give him orders, because you know that ‘soft’ is stronger than ‘hard’, water stronger than rocks, love stronger than force. Very good, I praise you. But aren’t you mistaken in thinking that you wouldn’t force him, wouldn’t punish him? Don’t you shackle him with your love? Don’t you make him feel inferior every day, and don’t you make it even harder on him with your kindness and patience? Don’t you force him, the arrogant and pampered boy, to live in a hut with two old banana-eaters, to whom even rice is a delicacy, whose thoughts can’t be his, whose hearts are old and quiet and beat in a different pace than his? Isn’t he forced, isn’t he punished by all this?”

“I knew it. You don’t force him, beat him, or give him orders. You know that ‘soft’ is stronger than ‘hard’, water is stronger than rocks, and love is stronger than force. Very good, I praise you. But aren’t you wrong to think you wouldn’t force or punish him? Don’t you chain him with your love? Don’t you make him feel inferior every day? And don’t you make things even harder for him with your kindness and patience? You force the arrogant, pampered boy to live in a hut with two old banana-eaters, don’t you? Even rice is a treat to them. Their thoughts can’t be his thoughts. Their hearts are old and quiet and beat at a different pace from his. Isn’t he forced and punished by all this?”

Troubled, Siddhartha looked to the ground. Quietly, he asked: “What do you think should I do?”

Troubled, Siddhartha looked down at the ground. He asked quietly, “What do you think I should do?”

Quoth Vasudeva: “Bring him into the city, bring him into his mother’s house, there’ll still be servants around, give him to them. And when there aren’t any around any more, bring him to a teacher, not for the teachings’ sake, but so that he shall be among other boys, and among girls, and in the world which is his own. Have you never thought of this?”

Vasudeva said: “Bring him to the city, to his mother’s house. There will still be servants there. Leave him with them. If there are no servants left, bring him to a teacher. Not for the lessons, but so he can be among other boys and girls, in the world that is his own. Have you never thought of this?”

“You’re seeing into my heart,” Siddhartha spoke sadly. “Often, I have thought of this. But look, how shall I put him, who had no tender heart anyhow, into this world? Won’t he become exuberant, won’t he lose himself to pleasure and power, won’t he repeat all of his father’s mistakes, won’t he perhaps get entirely lost in Sansara?”

“You can see into my heart,” Siddhartha said sadly. “I have often thought about this. But how can I send him into the world when he has never had a tender heart? Won’t he become reckless? Won’t he lose himself in pleasure and power? Won’t he repeat all of his father’s mistakes? Won’t he perhaps become completely lost in Sansara?”

Brightly, the ferryman’s smile lit up; softly, he touched Siddhartha’s arm and said: “Ask the river about it, my friend! Hear it laugh about it! Would you actually believe that you had committed your foolish acts in order to spare your son from committing them too? And could you in any way protect your son from Sansara? How could you? By means of teachings, prayer, admonition? My dear, have you entirely forgotten that story, that story containing so many lessons, that story about Siddhartha, a Brahman’s son, which you once told me here on this very spot? Who has kept the Samana Siddhartha safe from Sansara, from sin, from greed, from foolishness? Were his father’s religious devotion, his teacher’s warnings, his own knowledge, his own search able to keep him safe? Which father, which teacher had been able to protect him from living his life for himself, from soiling himself with life, from burdening himself with guilt, from drinking the bitter drink for himself, from finding his path for himself? Would you think, my dear, anybody might perhaps be spared from taking this path? That perhaps your little son would be spared, because you love him, because you would like to keep him from suffering and pain and disappointment? But even if you would die ten times for him, you would not be able to take the slightest part of his destiny upon yourself.”

The ferryman’s smile lit up his face. He gently touched Siddhartha’s arm and said: “Ask the river about it, my friend! Listen to it laugh! Do you really believe you did those foolish things so your son would not have to do them too? And could you protect your son from Sansara in any way? How could you? Through teachings, prayer, or warnings? My dear, have you completely forgotten the story you once told me here, on this very spot? It was the story of Siddhartha, a Brahman’s son, and it held so many lessons. Who kept Siddhartha the Samana safe from Sansara, from sin, greed, and foolishness? Could his father’s religious devotion or his teacher’s warnings keep him safe? Could his own knowledge or his own search do so? What father or teacher could have stopped him from living his life for himself? Who could have kept him from soiling himself with life, from taking on guilt, from drinking the bitter drink himself? Who could have kept him from finding his own path? Do you think anyone might perhaps be spared from taking this path? Perhaps you think your little son will be spared because you love him. You want to protect him from suffering, pain, and disappointment. But even if you died ten times for him, you could not take the slightest part of his destiny upon yourself.”

Never before, Vasudeva had spoken so many words. Kindly, Siddhartha thanked him, went troubled into the hut, could not sleep for a long time. Vasudeva had told him nothing he had not already thought and known for himself. But this was a knowledge he could not act upon, stronger than the knowledge was his love for the boy, stronger was his tenderness, his fear to lose him. Had he ever lost his heart so much to something, had he ever loved any person thus, thus blindly, thus sufferingly, thus unsuccessfully, and yet thus happily?

Vasudeva had never spoken so much before. Siddhartha thanked him kindly and went into the hut, troubled. He could not sleep for a long time. Vasudeva had told him nothing he had not already thought and known for himself. But Siddhartha could not act on what he knew. His love for the boy was stronger than that knowledge, as were his tenderness and his fear of losing him. Had he ever given his heart so completely to anything? Had he ever loved anyone so blindly, with so much suffering, so unsuccessfully, and yet so happily?

Siddhartha could not heed his friend’s advice, he could not give up the boy. He let the boy give him orders, he let him disregard him. He said nothing and waited; daily, he began the mute struggle of friendliness, the silent war of patience. Vasudeva also said nothing and waited, friendly, knowing, patient. They were both masters of patience.

Siddhartha could not follow his friend’s advice. He could not give up the boy. He let the boy give him orders and ignore him. He said nothing and waited. Each day, he began the wordless struggle of kindness, the silent war of patience. Vasudeva also said nothing and waited, kind, understanding, and patient. Both men were masters of patience.

At one time, when the boy’s face reminded him very much of Kamala, Siddhartha suddenly had to think of a line which Kamala a long time ago, in the days of their youth, had once said to him. “You cannot love,” she had said to him, and he had agreed with her and had compared himself with a star, while comparing the childlike people with falling leaves, and nevertheless he had also sensed an accusation in that line. Indeed, he had never been able to lose or devote himself completely to another person, to forget himself, to commit foolish acts for the love of another person; never he had been able to do this, and this was, as it had seemed to him at that time, the great distinction which set him apart from the childlike people. But now, since his son was here, now he, Siddhartha, had also become completely a childlike person, suffering for the sake of another person, loving another person, lost to a love, having become a fool on account of love. Now he too felt, late, once in his lifetime, this strongest and strangest of all passions, suffered from it, suffered miserably, and was nevertheless in bliss, was nevertheless renewed in one respect, enriched by one thing.

Once, when the boy’s face strongly reminded him of Kamala, Siddhartha suddenly remembered something she had said long ago, when they were young. “You cannot love,” she had told him. He had agreed and compared himself to a star and the childlike people to falling leaves. Even so, he had sensed an accusation in her words. He had never been able to lose himself or devote himself completely to another person. He had never been able to forget himself or do foolish things for love. At the time, this had seemed to him the great difference that set him apart from the childlike people. But now that his son was here, Siddhartha too had become completely like the childlike people. He suffered for another person, loved another person, lost himself in love, and became a fool because of love. Now he too felt this strongest and strangest of all passions, late in his life, for the first time. He suffered miserably from it, yet he was also blissful. In one respect, he was renewed, enriched by this one thing.

He did sense very well that this love, this blind love for his son, was a passion, something very human, that it was Sansara, a murky source, dark waters. Nevertheless, he felt at the same time, it was not worthless, it was necessary, came from the essence of his own being. This pleasure also had to be atoned for, this pain also had to be endured, these foolish acts also had to be committed.

He knew very well that his blind love for his son was a passion, something deeply human. It was Sansara, a murky source, dark waters. Nevertheless, he also felt that his love was not worthless. It was necessary and came from the essence of his being. This pleasure, too, had to be atoned for. This pain, too, had to be endured. These foolish acts, too, had to be committed.

Through all this, the son let him commit his foolish acts, let him court for his affection, let him humiliate himself every day by giving in to his moods. This father had nothing which would have delighted him and nothing which he would have feared. He was a good man, this father, a good, kind, soft man, perhaps a very devout man, perhaps a saint, all these were no attributes which could win the boy over. He was bored by this father, who kept him prisoner here in this miserable hut of his, he was bored by him, and for him to answer every naughtiness with a smile, every insult with friendliness, every viciousness with kindness, this very thing was the hated trick of this old sneak. Much more the boy would have liked it if he had been threatened by him, if he had been abused by him.

Through all this, the son let his father act foolishly and try to win his affection. Every day, he let his father humiliate himself by giving in to his moods. His father had nothing to delight him and nothing to make him afraid. His father was a good man, a good, kind, gentle man. Perhaps he was very devout, perhaps even a saint. None of these qualities could win the boy over. He was bored by his father, who kept him prisoner in this miserable hut. His father answered every naughty act with a smile, every insult with friendliness, and every cruel act with kindness. The boy hated this trick of the sneaky old man. He would much rather his father had threatened or abused him.

A day came when what young Siddhartha had on his mind came bursting forth, and he openly turned against his father. The latter had given him a task, he had told him to gather brushwood. But the boy did not leave the hut, in stubborn disobedience and rage he stayed where he was, thumped on the ground with his feet, clenched his fists, and screamed in a powerful outburst his hatred and contempt into his father’s face.

One day, everything on young Siddhartha’s mind burst out, and he openly defied his father. His father had given him a task, telling him to gather brushwood. But the boy refused to leave the hut. Stubborn and furious, he stayed where he was, stamped his feet, and clenched his fists. In a powerful outburst, he screamed his hatred and contempt in his father’s face.

“Get the brushwood for yourself!” he shouted, foaming at the mouth, “I’m not your servant. I do know that you won’t hit me, you don’t dare; I do know that you constantly want to punish me and put me down with your religious devotion and your indulgence. You want me to become like you, just as devout, just as soft, just as wise! But I, listen up, just to make you suffer, I rather want to become a highway-robber and murderer, and go to hell, than to become like you! I hate you, you’re not my father, and if you’ve ten times been my mother’s fornicator!”

“Get the brushwood yourself!” he shouted, foaming at the mouth. “I’m not your servant. I do know that you won’t hit me. You don’t dare. I do know that you’re always trying to punish me and put me down with your religious devotion and your leniency. You want me to become like you, just as devout, just as soft, just as wise! But listen up. Just to make you suffer, I’d rather become a highway robber and murderer and go to hell than become like you! I hate you. You’re not my father, even if you’ve been my mother’s fornicator ten times over!”

Rage and grief boiled over in him, foamed at the father in a hundred savage and evil words. Then the boy ran away and only returned late at night.

Rage and grief boiled over inside him. He hurled a hundred savage, hateful words at his father. Then the boy ran away and did not return until late that night.

But the next morning, he had disappeared. What had also disappeared was a small basket, woven out of bast of two colours, in which the ferrymen kept those copper and silver coins which they received as a fare. The boat had also disappeared, Siddhartha saw it lying by the opposite bank. The boy had run away.

But the next morning, he was gone. A small basket woven from two colors of plant fiber was gone too. The ferrymen kept the copper and silver coins they received as fares in it. The boat was gone as well. Siddhartha saw it lying on the opposite bank. The boy had run away.

“I must follow him,” said Siddhartha, who had been shivering with grief since those ranting speeches the boy had made yesterday. “A child can’t go through the forest all alone. He’ll perish. We must build a raft, Vasudeva, to get over the water.”

“I must follow him,” said Siddhartha. He had been trembling with grief since the boy’s angry outbursts yesterday. “A child can’t go through the forest all alone. He’ll die. Vasudeva, we must build a raft to cross the water.”

“We will build a raft,” said Vasudeva, “to get our boat back, which the boy has taken away. But him, you shall let run along, my friend, he is no child any more, he knows how to get around. He’s looking for the path to the city, and he is right, don’t forget that. He’s doing what you’ve failed to do yourself. He’s taking care of himself, he’s taking his course. Alas, Siddhartha, I see you suffering, but you’re suffering a pain at which one would like to laugh, at which you’ll soon laugh for yourself.”

“We’ll build a raft,” said Vasudeva, “so we can get our boat back. The boy took it away. But let him go, my friend. He’s no longer a child, and he knows how to find his way. He’s looking for the road to the city, and he’s right to do so. Don’t forget that. He’s doing what you failed to do yourself. He’s taking care of himself and following his own path. Oh, Siddhartha, I can see that you’re suffering. But your pain is the kind that makes one want to laugh, and soon you’ll laugh at it yourself.”

Siddhartha did not answer. He already held the axe in his hands and began to make a raft of bamboo, and Vasudeva helped him to tie the canes together with ropes of grass. Then they crossed over, drifted far off their course, pulled the raft upriver on the opposite bank.

Siddhartha did not answer. He already had the axe in his hands and began making a bamboo raft. Vasudeva helped him tie the canes together with grass ropes. Then they crossed the river, drifting far off course. On the opposite bank, they pulled the raft upriver.

“Why did you take the axe along?” asked Siddhartha.

“Why did you bring the axe?” asked Siddhartha.

Vasudeva said: “It might have been possible that the oar of our boat got lost.”

Vasudeva said: “Our boat’s oar might have been lost.”

But Siddhartha knew what his friend was thinking. He thought, the boy would have thrown away or broken the oar in order to get even and in order to keep them from following him. And in fact, there was no oar left in the boat. Vasudeva pointed to the bottom of the boat and looked at his friend with a smile, as if he wanted to say: “Don’t you see what your son is trying to tell you? Don’t you see that he doesn’t want to be followed?” But he did not say this in words. He started making a new oar. But Siddhartha bid his farewell, to look for the run-away. Vasudeva did not stop him.

But Siddhartha knew what his friend was thinking. The boy must have thrown away or broken the oar to get even and keep them from following him. And indeed, there was no oar left in the boat. Vasudeva pointed to the bottom of the boat and smiled at his friend, as if to say: “Don’t you see what your son is trying to tell you? Don’t you see that he doesn’t want to be followed?” But he said nothing. He began making a new oar. But Siddhartha said goodbye and went to look for the runaway. Vasudeva did not stop him.

When Siddhartha had already been walking through the forest for a long time, the thought occurred to him that his search was useless. Either, so he thought, the boy was far ahead and had already reached the city, or, if he should still be on his way, he would conceal himself from him, the pursuer. As he continued thinking, he also found that he, on his part, was not worried for his son, that he knew deep inside that he had neither perished nor was in any danger in the forest. Nevertheless, he ran without stopping, no longer to save him, just to satisfy his desire, just to perhaps see him one more time. And he ran up to just outside of the city.

After Siddhartha had walked through the forest for a long time, he realized that his search was useless. Either the boy was far ahead and had already reached the city, or he was still on his way. If he was still on his way, he would hide from Siddhartha, who was pursuing him. As Siddhartha thought about it, he also realized that he was not worried about his son. Deep down, he knew the boy had neither died nor faced any danger in the forest. Nevertheless, he ran without stopping, no longer to save his son, but to satisfy his own desire. He hoped he might see him one more time. And he ran to just outside the city.

When, near the city, he reached a wide road, he stopped, by the entrance of the beautiful pleasure-garden, which used to belong to Kamala, where he had seen her for the first time in her sedan-chair. The past rose up in his soul, again he saw himself standing there, young, a bearded, naked Samana, the hair full of dust. For a long time, Siddhartha stood there and looked through the open gate into the garden, seeing monks in yellow robes walking among the beautiful trees.

Near the city, he came to a wide road and stopped at the entrance to a beautiful pleasure garden. It had once belonged to Kamala. There, he had first seen her in her sedan chair. The past came back to him. He saw himself standing there again, young, bearded and naked, a Samana with dust in his hair. Siddhartha stood there for a long time, looking through the open gate into the garden. He saw monks in yellow robes walking among the beautiful trees.

For a long time, he stood there, pondering, seeing images, listening to the story of his life. For a long time, he stood there, looked at the monks, saw young Siddhartha in their place, saw young Kamala walking among the high trees. Clearly, he saw himself being served food and drink by Kamala, receiving his first kiss from her, looking proudly and disdainfully back on his Brahmanism, beginning proudly and full of desire his worldly life. He saw Kamaswami, saw the servants, the orgies, the gamblers with the dice, the musicians, saw Kamala’s song-bird in the cage, lived through all this once again, breathed Sansara, was once again old and tired, felt once again disgust, felt once again the wish to annihilate himself, was once again healed by the holy Om.

For a long time, he stood there thinking, seeing images, and listening to the story of his life. He looked at the monks and saw young Siddhartha in their place. He saw young Kamala walking among the tall trees. Clearly, he saw himself being served food and drink by Kamala and receiving his first kiss from her. He saw himself looking back on his Brahmanism with pride and disdain. He saw himself beginning his worldly life, proud and full of desire. He saw Kamaswami, the servants, the orgies, the gamblers with their dice, and the musicians. He saw Kamala’s songbird in its cage. He lived through it all again and breathed Sansara. Once again, he was old and tired. Once again, he felt disgust and wished to destroy himself. Once again, he was healed by the holy Om.

After having been standing by the gate of the garden for a long time, Siddhartha realised that his desire was foolish, which had made him go up to this place, that he could not help his son, that he was not allowed to cling to him. Deeply, he felt the love for the run-away in his heart, like a wound, and he felt at the same time that this wound had not been given to him in order to turn the knife in it, that it had to become a blossom and had to shine.

After standing by the garden gate for a long time, Siddhartha realized that the desire that had brought him there was foolish. He could not help his son, and he was not allowed to cling to him. He felt his love for his runaway son deep in his heart, like a wound. At the same time, he felt that the wound had not been given to him so he could turn the knife in it. The wound had to become a blossom and shine.

That this wound did not blossom yet, did not shine yet, at this hour, made him sad. Instead of the desired goal, which had drawn him here following the run-away son, there was now emptiness. Sadly, he sat down, felt something dying in his heart, experienced emptiness, saw no joy any more, no goal. He sat lost in thought and waited. This he had learned by the river, this one thing: waiting, having patience, listening attentively. And he sat and listened, in the dust of the road, listened to his heart, beating tiredly and sadly, waited for a voice. Many an hour he crouched, listening, saw no images any more, fell into emptiness, let himself fall, without seeing a path. And when he felt the wound burning, he silently spoke the Om, filled himself with Om. The monks in the garden saw him, and since he crouched for many hours, and dust was gathering on his gray hair, one of them came to him and placed two bananas in front of him. The old man did not see him.

He was sad that the wound had not yet blossomed or begun to shine. He had followed his runaway son here, hoping to reach a goal. Instead, he found emptiness. He sat down sadly and felt something dying in his heart. He felt empty and could no longer see any joy or purpose. Lost in thought, he sat and waited. By the river, he had learned one thing: to wait, to be patient, and to listen carefully. He sat in the dust of the road and listened to his heart beating, tired and sad. He waited for a voice. For many hours he crouched there, listening. He saw no more images and fell into emptiness. He let himself fall, unable to see a path. When he felt the wound burning, he silently said Om and filled himself with Om. The monks in the garden saw him crouching there for hours, dust gathering on his gray hair. One of them came over and placed two bananas in front of him. The old man did not see him.

From this petrified state, he was awoken by a hand touching his shoulder. Instantly, he recognised this touch, this tender, bashful touch, and regained his senses. He rose and greeted Vasudeva, who had followed him. And when he looked into Vasudeva’s friendly face, into the small wrinkles, which were as if they were filled with nothing but his smile, into the happy eyes, then he smiled too. Now he saw the bananas lying in front of him, picked them up, gave one to the ferryman, ate the other one himself. After this, he silently went back into the forest with Vasudeva, returned home to the ferry. Neither one talked about what had happened today, neither one mentioned the boy’s name, neither one spoke about him running away, neither one spoke about the wound. In the hut, Siddhartha lay down on his bed, and when after a while Vasudeva came to him, to offer him a bowl of coconut-milk, he already found him asleep.

A hand touching his shoulder woke him from his frozen state. He instantly recognized the touch, tender and shy, and came to his senses. He stood and greeted Vasudeva, who had followed him. He looked into Vasudeva’s friendly face and happy eyes. The little wrinkles on his face seemed filled with nothing but his smile. Siddhartha smiled too. Then he saw the bananas lying in front of him and picked them up. He gave one to the ferryman and ate the other himself. Afterward, he walked silently back through the forest with Vasudeva, returning home to the ferry. Neither of them spoke about what had happened that day. Neither mentioned the boy’s name, his running away, or the wound. In the hut, Siddhartha lay down on his bed. A little later, Vasudeva came to offer him a bowl of coconut milk, but found him already asleep.