With the Samanas

In the evening of this day they caught up with the ascetics, the skinny Samanas, and offered them their companionship and—obedience. They were accepted.

That evening, they caught up with the skinny ascetics, the Samanas. They offered to join and obey them. The Samanas accepted them.

Siddhartha gave his garments to a poor Brahman in the street. He wore nothing more than the loincloth and the earth-coloured, unsown cloak. He ate only once a day, and never something cooked. He fasted for fifteen days. He fasted for twenty-eight days. The flesh waned from his thighs and cheeks. Feverish dreams flickered from his enlarged eyes, long nails grew slowly on his parched fingers and a dry, shaggy beard grew on his chin. His glance turned to ice when he encountered women; his mouth twitched with contempt, when he walked through a city of nicely dressed people. He saw merchants trading, princes hunting, mourners wailing for their dead, whores offering themselves, physicians trying to help the sick, priests determining the most suitable day for seeding, lovers loving, mothers nursing their children—and all of this was not worthy of one look from his eye, it all lied, it all stank, it all stank of lies, it all pretended to be meaningful and joyful and beautiful, and it all was just concealed putrefaction. The world tasted bitter. Life was torture.

Siddhartha gave his clothes to a poor Brahman in the street. He wore only a loincloth and an unsewn, earth-colored cloak. He ate only once a day, and never ate cooked food. He fasted for fifteen days. He fasted for twenty-eight days. His thighs and cheeks grew thin. Feverish dreams flickered in his enlarged eyes. Long nails grew slowly on his dry fingers, and a dry, shaggy beard grew on his chin. His gaze turned icy when he saw women. His mouth twitched with contempt as he walked through a city of well-dressed people. He saw merchants trading, princes hunting, and mourners weeping for their dead. He saw prostitutes offering themselves and doctors trying to help the sick. He saw priests choosing the best day for planting, lovers loving, and mothers nursing their children. None of this was worth a glance from him. It was all a lie. It all stank of lies. It all pretended to be meaningful, joyful, and beautiful, but it was all just hidden decay. The world tasted bitter. Life was torture.

A goal stood before Siddhartha, a single goal: to become empty, empty of thirst, empty of wishing, empty of dreams, empty of joy and sorrow. Dead to himself, not to be a self any more, to find tranquility with an emptied heart, to be open to miracles in unselfish thoughts, that was his goal. Once all of my self was overcome and had died, once every desire and every urge was silent in the heart, then the ultimate part of me had to awake, the innermost of my being, which is no longer my self, the great secret.

Siddhartha had one goal: to become empty of thirst, wishes, dreams, joy, and sorrow. He wanted to die to himself and no longer be a self. He wanted to find peace with an empty heart and be open to miracles through selfless thoughts. Once I had overcome all of myself and it had died, once every desire and urge in my heart was silent, the deepest part of me had to awaken. That innermost part of my being is no longer my self. It is the great secret.

Silently, Siddhartha exposed himself to burning rays of the sun directly above, glowing with pain, glowing with thirst, and stood there, until he neither felt any pain nor thirst any more. Silently, he stood there in the rainy season, from his hair the water was dripping over freezing shoulders, over freezing hips and legs, and the penitent stood there, until he could not feel the cold in his shoulders and legs any more, until they were silent, until they were quiet. Silently, he cowered in the thorny bushes, blood dripped from the burning skin, from festering wounds dripped pus, and Siddhartha stayed rigidly, stayed motionless, until no blood flowed any more, until nothing stung any more, until nothing burned any more.

Silently, Siddhartha stood beneath the burning sun directly overhead, aching with pain and thirst. He stood there until he no longer felt either pain or thirst. Silently, he stood there during the rainy season. Water dripped from his hair over his freezing shoulders, hips, and legs. The penitent stood there until he could no longer feel the cold in his shoulders and legs. They became silent and still. Silently, he crouched in thorny bushes. Blood dripped from his burning skin, and pus dripped from his festering wounds. Siddhartha remained rigid and motionless until the blood stopped flowing and nothing stung or burned anymore.

Siddhartha sat upright and learned to breathe sparingly, learned to get along with only few breathes, learned to stop breathing. He learned, beginning with the breath, to calm the beat of his heart, learned to reduce the beats of his heart, until they were only a few and almost none.

Siddhartha sat upright and learned to breathe less, to get by on only a few breaths, and to stop breathing. Starting with his breath, he learned to calm his heartbeat. He slowed it until his heart beat only a few times, then barely at all.

Instructed by the oldest of the Samanas, Siddhartha practised self-denial, practised meditation, according to a new Samana rules. A heron flew over the bamboo forest—and Siddhartha accepted the heron into his soul, flew over forest and mountains, was a heron, ate fish, felt the pangs of a heron’s hunger, spoke the heron’s croak, died a heron’s death. A dead jackal was lying on the sandy bank, and Siddhartha’s soul slipped inside the body, was the dead jackal, lay on the banks, got bloated, stank, decayed, was dismembered by hyaenas, was skinned by vultures, turned into a skeleton, turned to dust, was blown across the fields. And Siddhartha’s soul returned, had died, had decayed, was scattered as dust, had tasted the gloomy intoxication of the cycle, awaited in new thirst like a hunter in the gap, where he could escape from the cycle, where the end of the causes, where an eternity without suffering began. He killed his senses, he killed his memory, he slipped out of his self into thousands of other forms, was an animal, was carrion, was stone, was wood, was water, and awoke every time to find his old self again, sun shone or moon, was his self again, turned round in the cycle, felt thirst, overcame the thirst, felt new thirst.

Instructed by the oldest of the Samanas, Siddhartha practiced self-denial and meditation according to new Samana rules. A heron flew over the bamboo forest, and Siddhartha accepted the heron into his soul. He flew over forest and mountains. He was a heron. He ate fish, felt the pangs of a heron’s hunger, gave the heron’s croak, and died a heron’s death. A dead jackal lay on the sandy bank, and Siddhartha’s soul slipped inside its body. He was the dead jackal. He lay on the bank, bloated, stank, and decayed. Hyenas tore him apart, and vultures skinned him. He turned into a skeleton, turned to dust, and was blown across the fields. And Siddhartha’s soul returned. It had died, decayed, and been scattered as dust. It had tasted the gloomy intoxication of the cycle. With a new thirst, it waited like a hunter at the gap where he could escape the cycle. There the causes came to an end, and an eternity without suffering began. He killed his senses. He killed his memory. He slipped out of his self into thousands of other forms. He was an animal, carrion, stone, wood, water. Each time he awoke to find his old self again. Whether the sun shone or the moon, he was his self again. He turned round in the cycle, felt thirst, overcame the thirst, and felt a new thirst.

Siddhartha learned a lot when he was with the Samanas, many ways leading away from the self he learned to go. He went the way of self-denial by means of pain, through voluntarily suffering and overcoming pain, hunger, thirst, tiredness. He went the way of self-denial by means of meditation, through imagining the mind to be void of all conceptions. These and other ways he learned to go, a thousand times he left his self, for hours and days he remained in the non-self. But though the ways led away from the self, their end nevertheless always led back to the self. Though Siddhartha fled from the self a thousand times, stayed in nothingness, stayed in the animal, in the stone, the return was inevitable, inescapable was the hour, when he found himself back in the sunshine or in the moonlight, in the shade or in the rain, and was once again his self and Siddhartha, and again felt the agony of the cycle which had been forced upon him.

Siddhartha learned a great deal among the Samanas. He learned many ways to escape the self. He practiced self-denial through pain, willingly suffering and overcoming pain, hunger, thirst, and exhaustion. He also practiced self-denial through meditation, imagining his mind empty of all ideas. He learned these and other ways, and a thousand times he left his self behind. For hours and days, he remained in the non-self. But though these paths led away from the self, they always led back to it in the end. Siddhartha fled from the self a thousand times. He remained in nothingness, in the animal, and in the stone. But he could not escape the return. The hour always came when he found himself back in sunlight or moonlight, in shade or rain. Once again he was himself, Siddhartha, and once again he felt the agony of the cycle forced upon him.

By his side lived Govinda, his shadow, walked the same paths, undertook the same efforts. They rarely spoke to one another, than the service and the exercises required. Occasionally the two of them went through the villages, to beg for food for themselves and their teachers.

Govinda lived beside him like his shadow. He walked the same paths and made the same efforts. They rarely spoke to each other except when their service and exercises required it. Occasionally, they went through the villages, begging for food for themselves and their teachers.

“How do you think, Govinda,” Siddhartha spoke one day while begging this way, “how do you think did we progress? Did we reach any goals?”

One day, while they were begging this way, Siddhartha said, “What do you think, Govinda? Have we made any progress? Have we reached any goals?”

Govinda answered: “We have learned, and we’ll continue learning. You’ll be a great Samana, Siddhartha. Quickly, you’ve learned every exercise, often the old Samanas have admired you. One day, you’ll be a holy man, oh Siddhartha.”

Govinda answered: “We have learned, and we’ll keep learning. You’ll be a great Samana, Siddhartha. You’ve learned every exercise quickly. The old Samanas have often admired you. One day, you’ll be a holy man, Siddhartha.”

Quoth Siddhartha: “I can’t help but feel that it is not like this, my friend. What I’ve learned, being among the Samanas, up to this day, this, oh Govinda, I could have learned more quickly and by simpler means. In every tavern of that part of a town where the whorehouses are, my friend, among carters and gamblers I could have learned it.”

Siddhartha said, “I can’t help feeling that it isn’t like that, my friend. Govinda, I could have learned what I’ve learned among the Samanas more quickly and easily. I could have learned it in any tavern in the brothel district, my friend, among cart drivers and gamblers.”

Quoth Govinda: “Siddhartha is putting me on. How could you have learned meditation, holding your breath, insensitivity against hunger and pain there among these wretched people?”

Govinda said, “Siddhartha is joking with me. How could you have learned to meditate, hold your breath, and resist hunger and pain among those miserable people?”

And Siddhartha said quietly, as if he was talking to himself: “What is meditation? What is leaving one’s body? What is fasting? What is holding one’s breath? It is fleeing from the self, it is a short escape of the agony of being a self, it is a short numbing of the senses against the pain and the pointlessness of life. The same escape, the same short numbing is what the driver of an ox-cart finds in the inn, drinking a few bowls of rice-wine or fermented coconut-milk. Then he won’t feel his self any more, then he won’t feel the pains of life any more, then he finds a short numbing of the senses. When he falls asleep over his bowl of rice-wine, he’ll find the same what Siddhartha and Govinda find when they escape their bodies through long exercises, staying in the non-self. This is how it is, oh Govinda.”

Siddhartha said quietly, as if speaking to himself: “What is meditation? What is leaving one’s body? What is fasting? What is holding one’s breath? These are ways of fleeing from the self. They offer a brief escape from the agony of being a self. They briefly numb the senses to the pain and pointlessness of life. An ox-cart driver finds the same escape, the same brief numbness, at an inn. He drinks a few bowls of rice wine or fermented coconut milk. Then he no longer feels his self or the pains of life. His senses are numb for a short while. When he falls asleep over his bowl of rice wine, he finds the same thing Siddhartha and Govinda find. They escape their bodies through long exercises and remain in the non-self. That is how it is, Govinda.”

Quoth Govinda: “You say so, oh friend, and yet you know that Siddhartha is no driver of an ox-cart and a Samana is no drunkard. It’s true that a drinker numbs his senses, it’s true that he briefly escapes and rests, but he’ll return from the delusion, finds everything to be unchanged, has not become wiser, has gathered no enlightenment,—has not risen several steps.”

Govinda said: “You say that, my friend, but you know Siddhartha is no ox-cart driver, and a Samana is no drunkard. It’s true that a drinker numbs his senses. He briefly escapes and rests. But when he returns from his delusion, he finds everything unchanged. He has become no wiser and gained no enlightenment. He has not risen several steps.”

And Siddhartha spoke with a smile: “I do not know, I’ve never been a drunkard. But that I, Siddhartha, find only a short numbing of the senses in my exercises and meditations and that I am just as far removed from wisdom, from salvation, as a child in the mother’s womb, this I know, oh Govinda, this I know.”

Siddhartha smiled and said, “I don’t know. I’ve never been a drunkard. But I do know that my exercises and meditations only numb my senses for a short time. And I am still as far from wisdom and salvation as a child in its mother’s womb. I know this, Govinda, I know this.”

And once again, another time, when Siddhartha left the forest together with Govinda, to beg for some food in the village for their brothers and teachers, Siddhartha began to speak and said: “What now, oh Govinda, might we be on the right path? Might we get closer to enlightenment? Might we get closer to salvation? Or do we perhaps live in a circle—we, who have thought we were escaping the cycle?”

Another time, Siddhartha and Govinda left the forest to beg for food in the village for their brothers and teachers. Siddhartha began to speak: “Tell me, Govinda, could we be on the right path? Could we be getting closer to enlightenment? Could we be getting closer to salvation? Or perhaps we are going in circles, though we thought we were escaping the cycle?”

Quoth Govinda: “We have learned a lot, Siddhartha, there is still much to learn. We are not going around in circles, we are moving up, the circle is a spiral, we have already ascended many a level.”

Govinda said: “We have learned a lot, Siddhartha, but there is still much to learn. We are not going around in circles. We are moving upward. The circle is a spiral, and we have already climbed many levels.”

Siddhartha answered: “How old, would you think, is our oldest Samana, our venerable teacher?”

Siddhartha replied: “How old do you think our oldest Samana, our respected teacher, is?”

Quoth Govinda: “Our oldest one might be about sixty years of age.”

Govinda said: “The oldest among us might be about sixty years old.”

And Siddhartha: “He has lived for sixty years and has not reached the nirvana. He’ll turn seventy and eighty, and you and me, we will grow just as old and will do our exercises, and will fast, and will meditate. But we will not reach the nirvana, he won’t and we won’t. Oh Govinda, I believe out of all the Samanas out there, perhaps not a single one, not a single one, will reach the nirvana. We find comfort, we find numbness, we learn feats, to deceive others. But the most important thing, the path of paths, we will not find.”

And Siddhartha said: “He has lived for sixty years and has not reached nirvana. He’ll turn seventy and eighty, and you and I will grow just as old. We’ll do our exercises, fast, and meditate. But we won’t reach nirvana. He won’t, and we won’t. Oh, Govinda, I believe that perhaps not a single one of all the Samanas out there will reach nirvana. Not a single one. We find comfort, we become numb, and we learn feats to deceive others. But we won’t find the most important thing, the path of paths.”

“If you only,” spoke Govinda, “wouldn’t speak such terrible words, Siddhartha! How could it be that among so many learned men, among so many Brahmans, among so many austere and venerable Samanas, among so many who are searching, so many who are eagerly trying, so many holy men, no one will find the path of paths?”

“If only you wouldn’t say such terrible things, Siddhartha!” said Govinda. “How could none of them find the path of paths? There are so many learned men, so many Brahmans, and so many strict and revered Samanas. There are so many who are searching, so many who are trying eagerly, and so many holy men.”

But Siddhartha said in a voice which contained just as much sadness as mockery, with a quiet, a slightly sad, a slightly mocking voice: “Soon, Govinda, your friend will leave the path of the Samanas, he has walked along your side for so long. I’m suffering of thirst, oh Govinda, and on this long path of a Samana, my thirst has remained as strong as ever. I always thirsted for knowledge, I have always been full of questions. I have asked the Brahmans, year after year, and I have asked the holy Vedas, year after year, and I have asked the devote Samanas, year after year. Perhaps, oh Govinda, it had been just as well, had been just as smart and just as profitable, if I had asked the hornbill-bird or the chimpanzee. It took me a long time and am not finished learning this yet, oh Govinda: that there is nothing to be learned! There is indeed no such thing, so I believe, as what we refer to as ‘learning’. There is, oh my friend, just one knowledge, this is everywhere, this is Atman, this is within me and within you and within every creature. And so I’m starting to believe that this knowledge has no worser enemy than the desire to know it, than learning.”

But Siddhartha spoke quietly, his voice as sad as it was mocking. “Soon, Govinda, your friend will leave the path of the Samanas. He has walked it beside you for so long. I am thirsty, Govinda. On this long path of a Samana, my thirst has remained as strong as ever. I have always thirsted for knowledge. I have always been full of questions. Year after year, I have asked the Brahmans, the holy Vedas, and the devoted Samanas. Perhaps it would have been just as wise and useful to ask the hornbill or the chimpanzee. “It has taken me a long time to learn this, Govinda, and I am not finished yet: there is nothing to learn! I believe there is no such thing as what we call ‘learning’. There is only one knowledge, my friend. It is everywhere. It is Atman, and it is within me, within you, and within every creature. And so I am beginning to believe that this knowledge has no worse enemy than the desire to know it, than learning.”

At this, Govinda stopped on the path, rose his hands, and spoke: “If you, Siddhartha, only would not bother your friend with this kind of talk! Truly, you words stir up fear in my heart. And just consider: what would become of the sanctity of prayer, what of the venerability of the Brahmans’ caste, what of the holiness of the Samanas, if it was as you say, if there was no learning?! What, oh Siddhartha, what would then become of all of this what is holy, what is precious, what is venerable on earth?!”

At this, Govinda stopped on the path, raised his hands, and said: “Siddhartha, please do not trouble your friend with this kind of talk! Truly, your words fill my heart with fear. And just think: what would become of the sanctity of prayer? What would become of the revered Brahman caste and the holiness of the Samanas? What if you are right and there is no learning? Oh, Siddhartha, what would then become of all that is holy, precious, and worthy of reverence on earth?!”

And Govinda mumbled a verse to himself, a verse from an Upanishad:

And Govinda mumbled a verse from an Upanishad to himself:

He who ponderingly, of a purified spirit, loses himself in the meditation of Atman, unexpressable by words is his blissfulness of his heart.

Whoever loses himself in thoughtful meditation on Atman, with a purified spirit, feels a joy beyond words.

But Siddhartha remained silent. He thought about the words which Govinda had said to him and thought the words through to their end.

But Siddhartha remained silent. He thought carefully about what Govinda had said, following his words to their conclusion.

Yes, he thought, standing there with his head low, what would remain of all that which seemed to us to be holy? What remains? What can stand the test? And he shook his head.

Yes, he thought, standing there with his head bowed, what would remain of everything that seemed holy to us? What remains? What can stand the test? And he shook his head.

At one time, when the two young men had lived among the Samanas for about three years and had shared their exercises, some news, a rumour, a myth reached them after being retold many times: A man had appeared, Gotama by name, the exalted one, the Buddha, he had overcome the suffering of the world in himself and had halted the cycle of rebirths. He was said to wander through the land, teaching, surrounded by disciples, without possession, without home, without a wife, in the yellow cloak of an ascetic, but with a cheerful brow, a man of bliss, and Brahmans and princes would bow down before him and would become his students.

The two young men had lived among the Samanas for about three years, sharing their practices. Then some news reached them, a rumor, a myth that had been retold many times. A man named Gotama had appeared, the exalted one, the Buddha. He had overcome the suffering of the world within himself and halted the cycle of rebirths. He was said to travel through the land, teaching and surrounded by disciples. He had no possessions, no home, and no wife. He wore the yellow cloak of an ascetic, but his face was cheerful. He was a man of bliss, and Brahmans and princes would bow before him and become his students.

This myth, this rumour, this legend resounded, its fragrance rose up, here and there; in the towns, the Brahmans spoke of it and in the forest, the Samanas; again and again, the name of Gotama, the Buddha reached the ears of the young men, with good and with bad talk, with praise and with defamation.

This myth, this rumor, this legend echoed everywhere, and its fragrance rose here and there. In the towns, the Brahmans spoke of it, and in the forest, the Samanas did too. Again and again, the young men heard the name of Gotama, the Buddha. Some spoke well of him, others badly, with praise and with slander.

It was as if the plague had broken out in a country and news had been spreading around that in one or another place there was a man, a wise man, a knowledgeable one, whose word and breath was enough to heal everyone who had been infected with the pestilence, and as such news would go through the land and everyone would talk about it, many would believe, many would doubt, but many would get on their way as soon as possible, to seek the wise man, the helper, just like this myth ran through the land, that fragrant myth of Gotama, the Buddha, the wise man of the family of Sakya. He possessed, so the believers said, the highest enlightenment, he remembered his previous lives, he had reached the nirvana and never returned into the cycle, was never again submerged in the murky river of physical forms. Many wonderful and unbelievable things were reported of him, he had performed miracles, had overcome the devil, had spoken to the gods. But his enemies and disbelievers said, this Gotama was a vain seducer, who spent his days in luxury, scorned the offerings, was without learning, and knew neither exercises nor self-castigation.

It was as if a plague had broken out in a country. Then news began to spread that somewhere there was a wise, knowledgeable man. His words and breath alone could heal everyone infected with the plague. As the news spread, everyone would talk about it. Many would believe it, and many would doubt it. But many would set out as soon as they could to find the wise man, the healer. In just this way, the fragrant legend of Gotama, the Buddha, the wise man of the Sakya family, spread through the land. His followers said he had attained the highest enlightenment. He remembered his previous lives and had reached nirvana, never to return to the cycle. He would never again be plunged into the murky river of physical forms. Many wonderful and unbelievable things were said about him. He had performed miracles, defeated the devil, and spoken to the gods. But his enemies and those who did not believe in him said that Gotama was a vain seducer. They said he spent his days in luxury, scorned offerings, and had no learning. They also said he knew nothing of spiritual exercises or self-punishment.

The myth of Buddha sounded sweet. The scent of magic flowed from these reports. After all, the world was sick, life was hard to bear—and behold, here a source seemed to spring forth, here a messenger seemed to call out, comforting, mild, full of noble promises. Everywhere where the rumour of Buddha was heard, everywhere in the lands of India, the young men listened up, felt a longing, felt hope, and among the Brahmans’ sons of the towns and villages every pilgrim and stranger was welcome, when he brought news of him, the exalted one, the Sakyamuni.

The stories of Buddha sounded sweet. These reports carried a scent of magic. After all, the world was sick, and life was hard to bear. And here, a source seemed to spring up. A messenger seemed to call out, comforting and gentle, full of noble promises. Wherever rumors of Buddha were heard throughout India, young men listened, feeling longing and hope. Among the Brahmans’ sons in towns and villages, every pilgrim and stranger was welcome if he brought news of the exalted one, the Sakyamuni.

The myth had also reached the Samanas in the forest, and also Siddhartha, and also Govinda, slowly, drop by drop, every drop laden with hope, every drop laden with doubt. They rarely talked about it, because the oldest one of the Samanas did not like this myth. He had heard that this alleged Buddha used to be an ascetic before and had lived in the forest, but had then turned back to luxury and worldly pleasures, and he had no high opinion of this Gotama.

The story had also reached the Samanas in the forest, including Siddhartha and Govinda. It came slowly, drop by drop, each drop filled with hope and doubt. They rarely talked about the story because the oldest of the Samanas did not like it. He had heard that this supposed Buddha had once been an ascetic and lived in the forest. But he had also heard that the Buddha had returned to luxury and worldly pleasures. The oldest Samana had a low opinion of this Gotama.

“Oh Siddhartha,” Govinda spoke one day to his friend. “Today, I was in the village, and a Brahman invited me into his house, and in his house, there was the son of a Brahman from Magadha, who has seen the Buddha with his own eyes and has heard him teach. Verily, this made my chest ache when I breathed, and thought to myself: If only I would too, if only we both would too, Siddhartha and me, live to see the hour when we will hear the teachings from the mouth of this perfected man! Speak, friend, wouldn’t we want to go there too and listen to the teachings from the Buddha’s mouth?”

“Oh, Siddhartha,” Govinda said to his friend one day. “Today I was in the village, and a Brahman invited me into his house. There I met the son of a Brahman from Magadha. He has seen the Buddha with his own eyes and heard him teach. Truly, my chest ached as I breathed, and I thought to myself: If only Siddhartha and I could live to hear this perfected man teach us himself! Tell me, friend, wouldn’t we want to go there too and hear the Buddha teach?”

Quoth Siddhartha: “Always, oh Govinda, I had thought, Govinda would stay with the Samanas, always I had believed his goal was to live to be sixty and seventy years of age and to keep on practising those feats and exercises, which are becoming a Samana. But behold, I had not known Govinda well enough, I knew little of his heart. So now you, my faithful friend, want to take a new path and go there, where the Buddha spreads his teachings.”

Siddhartha said: “Govinda, I always thought you would stay with the Samanas. I always believed your goal was to live to be sixty or seventy and keep practicing the feats and exercises of a Samana. But I did not know you well enough. I knew little of your heart. So now, my faithful friend, you want to take a new path and go where the Buddha spreads his teachings.”

Quoth Govinda: “You’re mocking me. Mock me if you like, Siddhartha! But have you not also developed a desire, an eagerness, to hear these teachings? And have you not at one time said to me, you would not walk the path of the Samanas for much longer?”

Govinda said, “You’re mocking me. Mock me if you like, Siddhartha! But haven’t you also become eager to hear these teachings? And didn’t you once tell me you wouldn’t follow the path of the Samanas much longer?”

At this, Siddhartha laughed in his very own manner, in which his voice assumed a touch of sadness and a touch of mockery, and said: “Well, Govinda, you’ve spoken well, you’ve remembered correctly. If you only remembered the other thing as well, you’ve heard from me, which is that I have grown distrustful and tired against teachings and learning, and that my faith in words, which are brought to us by teachers, is small. But let’s do it, my dear, I am willing to listen to these teachings—though in my heart I believe that we’ve already tasted the best fruit of these teachings.”

At this, Siddhartha laughed in his own way, his voice tinged with sadness and mockery, and said: “Well, Govinda, you’ve spoken well and remembered correctly. If only you also remembered what else I told you. I’ve grown tired and distrustful of teachings and learning. I have little faith in the words teachers bring us. But let’s go, my dear. I’m willing to listen to these teachings, though in my heart I believe we’ve already tasted their best fruit.”

Quoth Govinda: “Your willingness delights my heart. But tell me, how should this be possible? How should the Gotama’s teachings, even before we have heard them, have already revealed their best fruit to us?”

Govinda said, “Your willingness makes me happy. But tell me, how could that be possible? How could Gotama’s teachings have already revealed their best fruit to us before we have even heard them?”

Quoth Siddhartha: “Let us eat this fruit and wait for the rest, oh Govinda! But this fruit, which we already now received thanks to the Gotama, consisted in him calling us away from the Samanas! Whether he has also other and better things to give us, oh friend, let us await with calm hearts.”

Siddhartha said: “Let us eat this fruit and wait for the rest, Govinda! The fruit we have already received thanks to Gotama is that he called us away from the Samanas. Let us wait calmly, my friend, to see whether he has other and better things to give us.”

On this very same day, Siddhartha informed the oldest one of the Samanas of his decision, that he wanted to leave him. He informed the oldest one with all the courtesy and modesty becoming to a younger one and a student. But the Samana became angry, because the two young men wanted to leave him, and talked loudly and used crude swearwords.

That same day, Siddhartha told the oldest Samana that he had decided to leave him. He told him with all the courtesy and modesty expected of a younger man and student. But the Samana grew angry because the two young men wanted to leave him. He spoke loudly and used crude swearwords.

Govinda was startled and became embarrassed. But Siddhartha put his mouth close to Govinda’s ear and whispered to him: “Now, I want to show the old man that I’ve learned something from him.”

Govinda was startled and embarrassed. But Siddhartha leaned close to his ear and whispered, “Now I want to show the old man that I’ve learned something from him.”

Positioning himself closely in front of the Samana, with a concentrated soul, he captured the old man’s glance with his glances, deprived him of his power, made him mute, took away his free will, subdued him under his own will, commanded him, to do silently, whatever he demanded him to do. The old man became mute, his eyes became motionless, his will was paralysed, his arms were hanging down; without power, he had fallen victim to Siddhartha’s spell. But Siddhartha’s thoughts brought the Samana under their control, he had to carry out, what they commanded. And thus, the old man made several bows, performed gestures of blessing, spoke stammeringly a godly wish for a good journey. And the young men returned the bows with thanks, returned the wish, went on their way with salutations.

Standing close in front of the Samana, Siddhartha focused his mind and held the old man’s gaze. He stripped the old man of his power, silenced him, and took away his free will. He made the Samana submit to his will and silently commanded him to do whatever he demanded. The old man fell silent. His eyes became still, his will was paralyzed, and his arms hung at his sides. Powerless, he had fallen under Siddhartha’s spell. But Siddhartha’s thoughts controlled the Samana, and he had to do whatever they commanded. So the old man bowed several times, made gestures of blessing, and stammered a prayer for a good journey. The young men bowed in thanks, wished him well in return, and went on their way with farewells.

On the way, Govinda said: “Oh Siddhartha, you have learned more from the Samanas than I knew. It is hard, it is very hard to cast a spell on an old Samana. Truly, if you had stayed there, you would soon have learned to walk on water.”

On the way, Govinda said: “Oh Siddhartha, you learned more from the Samanas than I realized. It is hard, very hard, to cast a spell on an old Samana. Truly, if you had stayed there, you would soon have learned to walk on water.”

“I do not seek to walk on water,” said Siddhartha. “Let old Samanas be content with such feats!”

“I don’t want to walk on water,” said Siddhartha. “Let the old Samanas be satisfied with such feats!”