The Brahman's Son

12 min

In the shade of the house, in the sunshine of the riverbank near the boats, in the shade of the Sal-wood forest, in the shade of the fig tree is where Siddhartha grew up, the handsome son of the Brahman, the young falcon, together with his friend Govinda, son of a Brahman. The sun tanned his light shoulders by the banks of the river when bathing, performing the sacred ablutions, the sacred offerings. In the mango grove, shade poured into his black eyes, when playing as a boy, when his mother sang, when the sacred offerings were made, when his father, the scholar, taught him, when the wise men talked. For a long time, Siddhartha had been partaking in the discussions of the wise men, practising debate with Govinda, practising with Govinda the art of reflection, the service of meditation. He already knew how to speak the Om silently, the word of words, to speak it silently into himself while inhaling, to speak it silently out of himself while exhaling, with all the concentration of his soul, the forehead surrounded by the glow of the clear-thinking spirit. He already knew to feel Atman in the depths of his being, indestructible, one with the universe.

Siddhartha grew up in the shade of the house and in the sunshine by the boats on the riverbank. He grew up in the shade of the Sal-wood forest and the fig tree. He was the handsome son of a Brahman, a young falcon. His friend Govinda, also the son of a Brahman, grew up with him. The sun tanned Siddhartha’s light shoulders as he bathed by the river, performed the sacred washings, and made offerings. In the mango grove, shade fell into his black eyes. It fell there as he played as a boy, as his mother sang, and as the sacred offerings were made. It fell there when his father, a scholar, taught him, and when the wise men talked. For a long time, Siddhartha had joined in the discussions of the wise men. He practiced debate with Govinda, and together they practiced reflection and meditation. Siddhartha already knew how to say Om silently, the word of words. He said it silently within himself as he breathed in and silently out of himself as he breathed out. He did this with all the concentration of his soul, his forehead surrounded by the glow of a clear-thinking spirit. He already knew how to feel Atman deep within himself, indestructible and one with the universe.

Joy leapt in his father’s heart for his son who was quick to learn, thirsty for knowledge; he saw him growing up to become great wise man and priest, a prince among the Brahmans.

His father’s heart filled with joy for his son, who learned quickly and thirsted for knowledge. He saw his son growing up to become a great wise man and priest, a prince among the Brahmans.

Bliss leapt in his mother’s breast when she saw him, when she saw him walking, when she saw him sit down and get up, Siddhartha, strong, handsome, he who was walking on slender legs, greeting her with perfect respect.

His mother’s heart filled with joy whenever she saw him walk, sit down, or get up. Siddhartha was strong and handsome, and he walked on slender legs. He greeted her with perfect respect.

Love touched the hearts of the Brahmans’ young daughters when Siddhartha walked through the lanes of the town with the luminous forehead, with the eye of a king, with his slim hips.

The Brahmans’ young daughters felt love stir in their hearts when Siddhartha walked through the town’s streets. His forehead glowed, his eyes were like a king’s, and his hips were slender.

But more than all the others he was loved by Govinda, his friend, the son of a Brahman. He loved Siddhartha’s eye and sweet voice, he loved his walk and the perfect decency of his movements, he loved everything Siddhartha did and said and what he loved most was his spirit, his transcendent, fiery thoughts, his ardent will, his high calling. Govinda knew: he would not become a common Brahman, not a lazy official in charge of offerings; not a greedy merchant with magic spells; not a vain, vacuous speaker; not a mean, deceitful priest; and also not a decent, stupid sheep in the herd of the many. No, and he, Govinda, as well did not want to become one of those, not one of those tens of thousands of Brahmans. He wanted to follow Siddhartha, the beloved, the splendid. And in days to come, when Siddhartha would become a god, when he would join the glorious, then Govinda wanted to follow him as his friend, his companion, his servant, his spear-carrier, his shadow.

But more than anyone else, Siddhartha was loved by Govinda, his friend, the son of a Brahman. Govinda loved Siddhartha’s eyes and sweet voice. He loved the way Siddhartha walked and the perfect grace of his movements. He loved everything Siddhartha did and said. Most of all, he loved Siddhartha’s spirit, his soaring, fiery thoughts, his passionate will, and his high calling. Govinda knew that Siddhartha would not become an ordinary Brahman or a lazy official in charge of offerings. He would not become a greedy merchant selling magic spells, or a vain, empty speaker. He would not become a mean, deceitful priest, or even a decent, stupid sheep in the great herd. No, and Govinda himself did not want to become any of these things either. He did not want to be one of those tens of thousands of Brahmans. He wanted to follow Siddhartha, whom he loved and admired. And in the days to come, when Siddhartha became a god and joined the glorious ones, Govinda wanted to follow him. He wanted to be his friend, his companion, his servant, his spear-carrier, his shadow.

Siddhartha was thus loved by everyone. He was a source of joy for everybody, he was a delight for them all.

So everyone loved Siddhartha. He brought joy to everyone and delighted them all.

But he, Siddhartha, was not a source of joy for himself, he found no delight in himself. Walking the rosy paths of the fig tree garden, sitting in the bluish shade of the grove of contemplation, washing his limbs daily in the bath of repentance, sacrificing in the dim shade of the mango forest, his gestures of perfect decency, everyone’s love and joy, he still lacked all joy in his heart. Dreams and restless thoughts came into his mind, flowing from the water of the river, sparkling from the stars of the night, melting from the beams of the sun, dreams came to him and a restlessness of the soul, fuming from the sacrifices, breathing forth from the verses of the Rig-Veda, being infused into him, drop by drop, from the teachings of the old Brahmans.

But Siddhartha was not a source of joy to himself. He found no delight in himself. He walked the rosy paths of the fig tree garden and sat in the bluish shade of the grove of contemplation. Each day he washed his limbs in the bath of repentance. He made sacrifices in the dim shade of the mango forest. His conduct was always perfectly proper, and everyone loved and delighted in him. Yet he still had no joy in his heart. Dreams and restless thoughts came to him. They flowed from the river, sparkled from the stars at night, and melted from the sun’s rays. Dreams and a restlessness of the soul came to him. They rose in the smoke of the sacrifices and breathed out from the verses of the Rig-Veda. The teachings of the old Brahmans filled him with them, drop by drop.

Siddhartha had started to nurse discontent in himself, he had started to feel that the love of his father and the love of his mother, and also the love of his friend, Govinda, would not bring him joy for ever and ever, would not nurse him, feed him, satisfy him. He had started to suspect that his venerable father and his other teachers, that the wise Brahmans had already revealed to him the most and best of their wisdom, that they had already filled his expecting vessel with their richness, and the vessel was not full, the spirit was not content, the soul was not calm, the heart was not satisfied. The ablutions were good, but they were water, they did not wash off the sin, they did not heal the spirit’s thirst, they did not relieve the fear in his heart. The sacrifices and the invocation of the gods were excellent—but was that all? Did the sacrifices give a happy fortune? And what about the gods? Was it really Prajapati who had created the world? Was it not the Atman, He, the only one, the singular one? Were the gods not creations, created like me and you, subject to time, mortal? Was it therefore good, was it right, was it meaningful and the highest occupation to make offerings to the gods? For whom else were offerings to be made, who else was to be worshipped but Him, the only one, the Atman? And where was Atman to be found, where did He reside, where did his eternal heart beat, where else but in one’s own self, in its innermost part, in its indestructible part, which everyone had in himself? But where, where was this self, this innermost part, this ultimate part? It was not flesh and bone, it was neither thought nor consciousness, thus the wisest ones taught. So, where, where was it? To reach this place, the self, myself, the Atman, there was another way, which was worthwhile looking for? Alas, and nobody showed this way, nobody knew it, not the father, and not the teachers and wise men, not the holy sacrificial songs! They knew everything, the Brahmans and their holy books, they knew everything, they had taken care of everything and of more than everything, the creation of the world, the origin of speech, of food, of inhaling, of exhaling, the arrangement of the senses, the acts of the gods, they knew infinitely much—but was it valuable to know all of this, not knowing that one and only thing, the most important thing, the solely important thing?

Siddhartha had begun to feel discontented. He had begun to feel that the love of his father, his mother, and his friend Govinda would not bring him joy forever. Their love would not sustain him, nourish him, or satisfy him. He had begun to suspect that his revered father and his other teachers, the wise Brahmans, had already shared most of their wisdom and the best of it with him. They had poured their riches into his waiting vessel, but the vessel was not full. His spirit was not content, his soul was not calm, and his heart was not satisfied. The ritual washings were good, but they were only water. They did not wash away sin, quench his spirit’s thirst, or ease the fear in his heart. The sacrifices and prayers to the gods were excellent, but was that all? Did the sacrifices bring good fortune? And what about the gods? Had Prajapati really created the world? Was it not the Atman, the one and only one? Were the gods not created beings, like him and everyone else, subject to time and death? Was it good, right, meaningful, or the highest calling to make offerings to the gods? Who else deserved offerings and worship but the Atman, the only one? And where could the Atman be found? Where did he dwell? Where did his eternal heart beat, if not in one’s own self, in its deepest, indestructible part? Everyone had this part within. But where was this self, this deepest, ultimate part? It was not flesh and bone, nor was it thought or consciousness. So the wisest teachers said. Then where, where was it? Was there another way to reach this place, the self, myself, the Atman? Was there a way worth seeking? Alas, no one showed the way. No one knew it, not his father, not the teachers and wise men, not even the holy sacrificial songs! The Brahmans and their holy books knew everything. They had accounted for everything and more than everything: the creation of the world, the origin of speech and food, breathing in and breathing out, the arrangement of the senses, and the acts of the gods. They knew an infinite amount. But was all this knowledge valuable if they did not know the one thing, the most important thing, the only important thing?

Surely, many verses of the holy books, particularly in the Upanishades of Samaveda, spoke of this innermost and ultimate thing, wonderful verses. “Your soul is the whole world”, was written there, and it was written that man in his sleep, in his deep sleep, would meet with his innermost part and would reside in the Atman. Marvellous wisdom was in these verses, all knowledge of the wisest ones had been collected here in magic words, pure as honey collected by bees. No, not to be looked down upon was the tremendous amount of enlightenment which lay here collected and preserved by innumerable generations of wise Brahmans.—But where were the Brahmans, where the priests, where the wise men or penitents, who had succeeded in not just knowing this deepest of all knowledge but also to live it? Where was the knowledgeable one who wove his spell to bring his familiarity with the Atman out of the sleep into the state of being awake, into the life, into every step of the way, into word and deed? Siddhartha knew many venerable Brahmans, chiefly his father, the pure one, the scholar, the most venerable one. His father was to be admired, quiet and noble were his manners, pure his life, wise his words, delicate and noble thoughts lived behind its brow —but even he, who knew so much, did he live in blissfulness, did he have peace, was he not also just a searching man, a thirsty man? Did he not, again and again, have to drink from holy sources, as a thirsty man, from the offerings, from the books, from the disputes of the Brahmans? Why did he, the irreproachable one, have to wash off sins every day, strive for a cleansing every day, over and over every day? Was not Atman in him, did not the pristine source spring from his heart? It had to be found, the pristine source in one’s own self, it had to be possessed! Everything else was searching, was a detour, was getting lost.

Surely, many verses of the holy books spoke of this innermost and ultimate thing, especially in the Upanishades of Samaveda. They were wonderful verses. It was written there: “Your soul is the whole world”. It was also written that in sleep, in deep sleep, a man would meet his innermost part and dwell in the Atman. Marvelous wisdom was in these verses. All the knowledge of the wisest ones had been gathered here in magic words, pure as honey gathered by bees. No, the tremendous amount of enlightenment that lay here was not to be looked down on. Countless generations of wise Brahmans had gathered and preserved it. But where were the Brahmans, the priests, the wise men or penitents who had succeeded not just in knowing this deepest of all knowledge, but also in living it? Where was the knowledgeable one who could cast this spell? Who could bring his familiarity with the Atman out of sleep and into waking, into life, into every step of the way, into word and deed? Siddhartha knew many venerable Brahmans, chiefly his father, the pure one, the scholar, the most venerable one. His father was to be admired. His manners were quiet and noble, his life pure, his words wise. Delicate and noble thoughts lived behind his brow. But even he, who knew so much, did he live in bliss? Did he have peace? Was he not also just a searching man, a thirsty man? Did he not have to drink from holy sources again and again, like a thirsty man? From the offerings, from the books, from the debates of the Brahmans? Why did he, the blameless one, have to wash away sins every day? Why did he have to strive for cleansing every day, over and over, every day? Was the Atman not in him? Did the pristine source not spring from his heart? That pristine source had to be found in one’s own self. It had to be possessed! Everything else was searching, a detour, getting lost.

Thus were Siddhartha’s thoughts, this was his thirst, this was his suffering.

These were Siddhartha’s thoughts, his thirst, and his suffering.

Often he spoke to himself from a Chandogya-Upanishad the words: “Truly, the name of the Brahman is satyam—verily, he who knows such a thing, will enter the heavenly world every day.” Often, it seemed near, the heavenly world, but never he had reached it completely, never he had quenched the ultimate thirst. And among all the wise and wisest men, he knew and whose instructions he had received, among all of them there was no one, who had reached it completely, the heavenly world, who had quenched it completely, the eternal thirst.

He often repeated to himself these words from the Chandogya-Upanishad: “Truly, the name of the Brahman is satyam. Anyone who knows this will enter the heavenly world every day.” Often, the heavenly world seemed close. But he had never fully reached it or quenched his deepest thirst. He knew many wise men, even the wisest, and had learned from them. But none of them had fully reached the heavenly world or completely quenched the eternal thirst.

“Govinda,” Siddhartha spoke to his friend, “Govinda, my dear, come with me under the Banyan tree, let’s practise meditation.”

“Govinda,” Siddhartha said to his friend, “my dear Govinda, come with me under the Banyan tree. Let’s meditate.”

They went to the Banyan tree, they sat down, Siddhartha right here, Govinda twenty paces away. While putting himself down, ready to speak the Om, Siddhartha repeated murmuring the verse:

They went to the Banyan tree and sat down. Siddhartha sat here, and Govinda sat twenty paces away. As Siddhartha sat down, ready to speak the Om, he murmured the verse again:

Om is the bow, the arrow is soul, The Brahman is the arrow’s target, That one should incessantly hit.

Om is the bow, the soul is the arrow, and The Brahman is the target the arrow should hit without pause.

After the usual time of the exercise in meditation had passed, Govinda rose. The evening had come, it was time to perform the evening’s ablution. He called Siddhartha’s name. Siddhartha did not answer. Siddhartha sat there lost in thought, his eyes were rigidly focused towards a very distant target, the tip of his tongue was protruding a little between the teeth, he seemed not to breathe. Thus sat he, wrapped up in contemplation, thinking Om, his soul sent after the Brahman as an arrow.

When the usual time for meditation had passed, Govinda rose. Evening had come, and it was time for the evening washing. He called Siddhartha’s name. Siddhartha did not answer. He sat lost in thought, his eyes fixed on a distant point. The tip of his tongue protruded slightly between his teeth, and he seemed not to breathe. He sat absorbed in contemplation, thinking Om. His soul was sent toward the Brahman like an arrow.

Once, Samanas had travelled through Siddhartha’s town, ascetics on a pilgrimage, three skinny, withered men, neither old nor young, with dusty and bloody shoulders, almost naked, scorched by the sun, surrounded by loneliness, strangers and enemies to the world, strangers and lank jackals in the realm of humans. Behind them blew a hot scent of quiet passion, of destructive service, of merciless self-denial.

Once, Samanas had traveled through Siddhartha’s town. They were ascetics on a pilgrimage, three thin, wasted men, neither old nor young. Their shoulders were dusty and bloody. Almost naked and scorched by the sun, they were surrounded by loneliness. They were strangers and enemies to the world, strangers and lean jackals in the realm of humans. A hot scent followed them, a scent of quiet passion, destructive service, and merciless self-denial.

In the evening, after the hour of contemplation, Siddhartha spoke to Govinda: “Early tomorrow morning, my friend, Siddhartha will go to the Samanas. He will become a Samana.”

That evening, after the hour of contemplation, Siddhartha spoke to Govinda: “Early tomorrow morning, my friend, Siddhartha will go to the Samanas. He will become a Samana.”

Govinda turned pale, when he heard these words and read the decision in the motionless face of his friend, unstoppable like the arrow shot from the bow. Soon and with the first glance, Govinda realized: Now it is beginning, now Siddhartha is taking his own way, now his fate is beginning to sprout, and with his, my own. And he turned pale like a dry banana-skin.

Govinda turned pale when he heard these words and saw the decision in his friend’s still face. Siddhartha’s decision was as unstoppable as an arrow shot from a bow. At once, Govinda understood: Now it is beginning. Siddhartha is taking his own path. His fate is beginning to unfold, and so is mine. And he turned pale like a dry banana skin.

“O Siddhartha,” he exclaimed, “will your father permit you to do that?”

“Oh, Siddhartha,” he exclaimed, “will your father let you do that?”

Siddhartha looked over as if he was just waking up. Arrow-fast he read in Govinda’s soul, read the fear, read the submission.

Siddhartha looked over as if he were just waking up. In an instant, he read Govinda’s soul and saw his fear and submission.

“O Govinda,” he spoke quietly, “let’s not waste words. Tomorrow, at daybreak I will begin the life of the Samanas. Speak no more of it.”

“Govinda,” he said quietly, “let’s not waste words. Tomorrow at daybreak, I will begin living as a Samana. Say no more about it.”

Siddhartha entered the chamber, where his father was sitting on a mat of bast, and stepped behind his father and remained standing there, until his father felt that someone was standing behind him. Quoth the Brahman: “Is that you, Siddhartha? Then say what you came to say.”

Siddhartha entered the room, where his father was sitting on a mat woven from plant fibers. He stepped behind his father and stood there until his father noticed someone was behind him. The Brahman said, “Is that you, Siddhartha? Then tell me what you came to say.”

Quoth Siddhartha: “With your permission, my father. I came to tell you that it is my longing to leave your house tomorrow and go to the ascetics. My desire is to become a Samana. May my father not oppose this.”

Siddhartha said: “With your permission, Father. I came to tell you that I long to leave your house tomorrow and join the ascetics. I want to become a Samana. I hope you will not oppose my decision.”

The Brahman fell silent, and remained silent for so long that the stars in the small window wandered and changed their relative positions, ’ere the silence was broken. Silent and motionless stood the son with his arms folded, silent and motionless sat the father on the mat, and the stars traced their paths in the sky. Then spoke the father: “Not proper it is for a Brahman to speak harsh and angry words. But indignation is in my heart. I wish not to hear this request for a second time from your mouth.”

The Brahman fell silent. He remained silent for so long that the stars in the small window shifted position before the silence was broken. The son stood silent and motionless with his arms folded. The father sat silent and motionless on the mat, and the stars traced their paths across the sky. Then the father spoke: “It is not proper for a Brahman to speak harshly or in anger. But I am filled with indignation. I do not wish to hear you make this request again.”

Slowly, the Brahman rose; Siddhartha stood silently, his arms folded.

The Brahman slowly stood up. Siddhartha stood silently with his arms folded.

“What are you waiting for?” asked the father.

“What are you waiting for?” the father asked.

Quoth Siddhartha: “You know what.”

Siddhartha said: “You know what.”

Indignant, the father left the chamber; indignant, he went to his bed and lay down.

The father left the room in anger. Still angry, he went to bed and lay down.

After an hour, since no sleep had come over his eyes, the Brahman stood up, paced to and fro, and left the house. Through the small window of the chamber he looked back inside, and there he saw Siddhartha standing, his arms folded, not moving from his spot. Pale shimmered his bright robe. With anxiety in his heart, the father returned to his bed.

After an hour, the Brahman still could not sleep, so he got up, paced back and forth, and left the house. He looked back inside through the small window of the room. There he saw Siddhartha standing with his arms folded, still in the same spot. His bright robe shimmered palely. The father returned to bed with anxiety in his heart.

After another hour, since no sleep had come over his eyes, the Brahman stood up again, paced to and fro, walked out of the house and saw that the moon had risen. Through the window of the chamber he looked back inside; there stood Siddhartha, not moving from his spot, his arms folded, moonlight reflecting from his bare shins. With worry in his heart, the father went back to bed.

After another hour, the Brahman still could not sleep, so he got up again. He paced back and forth, then went outside and saw that the moon had risen. He looked back through the window of the room. Siddhartha stood in the same spot, his arms folded, moonlight reflecting off his bare shins. Worried, the father went back to bed.

And he came back after an hour, he came back after two hours, looked through the small window, saw Siddhartha standing, in the moon light, by the light of the stars, in the darkness. And he came back hour after hour, silently, he looked into the chamber, saw him standing in the same place, filled his heart with anger, filled his heart with unrest, filled his heart with anguish, filled it with sadness.

He came back after an hour, and again after two hours. He looked through the small window and saw Siddhartha standing in the darkness, in the moonlight and starlight. Hour after hour, he came back and silently looked into the room. He saw Siddhartha standing in the same place. His heart filled with anger, unease, anguish, and sadness.

And in the night’s last hour, before the day began, he returned, stepped into the room, saw the young man standing there, who seemed tall and like a stranger to him.

In the last hour of the night, before daybreak, he returned and entered the room. He saw the young man standing there. The young man seemed tall and like a stranger to him.

“Siddhartha,” he spoke, “what are you waiting for?”

“Siddhartha,” he said, “what are you waiting for?”

“You know what.”

“Will you always stand that way and wait, until it’ll becomes morning, noon, and evening?”

“Will you always stand there and wait, through morning, noon, and evening?”

“I will stand and wait.”

“You will become tired, Siddhartha.”

“You will get tired, Siddhartha.”

“I will become tired.”

“I will get tired.”

“You will fall asleep, Siddhartha.”

“I will not fall asleep.”

“You will die, Siddhartha.”

“I will die.”

“And would you rather die, than obey your father?”

“And would you rather die than obey your father?”

“Siddhartha has always obeyed his father.”

“So will you abandon your plan?”

“So will you give up your plan?”

“Siddhartha will do what his father will tell him to do.”

“Siddhartha will do what his father tells him to do.”

The first light of day shone into the room. The Brahman saw that Siddhartha was trembling softly in his knees. In Siddhartha’s face he saw no trembling, his eyes were fixed on a distant spot. Then his father realized that even now Siddhartha no longer dwelt with him in his home, that he had already left him.

The first light of day shone into the room. The Brahman saw that Siddhartha’s knees were trembling softly. In Siddhartha’s face he saw no trembling. His eyes were fixed on a distant spot. Then his father realized that even now, Siddhartha no longer lived with him in his home. He had already left him.

The Father touched Siddhartha’s shoulder.

“You will,” he spoke, “go into the forest and be a Samana. When you’ll have found blissfulness in the forest, then come back and teach me to be blissful. If you’ll find disappointment, then return and let us once again make offerings to the gods together. Go now and kiss your mother, tell her where you are going to. But for me it is time to go to the river and to perform the first ablution.”

“You will go into the forest and become a Samana,” he said. “If you find bliss in the forest, come back and teach me how to find it. If you find disappointment, return and let us make offerings to the gods together again. Go now and kiss your mother. Tell her where you are going. But it is time for me to go to the river and perform the first ritual washing.”

He took his hand from the shoulder of his son and went outside. Siddhartha wavered to the side, as he tried to walk. He put his limbs back under control, bowed to his father, and went to his mother to do as his father had said.

He took his hand off his son's shoulder and went outside. Siddhartha swayed to one side as he tried to walk. He regained control of his limbs, bowed to his father, and went to his mother to do as his father had said.

As he slowly left on stiff legs in the first light of day the still quiet town, a shadow rose near the last hut, who had crouched there, and joined the pilgrim—Govinda.

At first light, he slowly left the still quiet town, his legs stiff. Near the last hut, a shadow rose from where it had been crouching and joined the pilgrim. It was Govinda.

“You have come,” said Siddhartha and smiled.

“You’ve come,” Siddhartha said with a smile.

“I have come,” said Govinda.

“I’m here,” said Govinda.