Siddhartha (4 page)

On yet another occasion, as Siddhartha was leaving the forest with Govinda to beg sustenance for their brothers and teachers in the village, he began to speak.

“And now, Govinda, do you think we are on the right path? Are we drawing closer to knowledge? Are we drawing closer to redemption? Or are we not perhaps walking in circles—we who had hoped to escape the cycle?”

Govinda replied, “We have learned much, Siddhartha, and much remains to be learned. We are not walking in a circle, we are ascending; the circle is a spiral, and we have already climbed many of its steps.”

Now Siddhartha asked, “How old, would you say, is the eldest Samana among us, our venerable teacher?”

Govinda replied, “The eldest among us is perhaps sixty years of age.”

And Siddhartha said, “So he has lived for sixty years and has not yet reached Nirvana. He will turn seventy and eighty, and you and I, we too will grow old and will continue to perform the exercises, to meditate and fast. But Nirvana will remain out of reach, both for him and for us. O Govinda, it seems to me that of all the Samanas that exist, there is perhaps not one, not
a single one, who will reach Nirvana. We find consolations, we find numbness, we learn skills with which to deceive ourselves. But the essential, the Path of Paths, this we do not find.”

“If only,” Govinda said, “if only you would not utter such terrifying words, Siddhartha! How is it possible that among so many learned men, among so many Brahmins, among so many rigorous and venerable Samanas, among so many seekers, so many who are so deeply devoted, so many holy men, none should find the Path of Paths?”

But Siddhartha, in a voice that held as much sorrow as derision, a soft voice that was in part sad, in part mocking, said, “Soon, Govinda, your friend will leave behind this path of the Samanas that he has traveled so long at your side. I am suffering from thirst, Govinda, and upon this long Samana path I have found nothing to slake it. Always I have thirsted for knowledge, always been filled with questions. Year after year I questioned the Brahmins, year after year questioned the holy Vedas. Perhaps, O Govinda, it would have been just as well, just as clever and just as salutary, had I put my questions to the rhinoceros bird or the chimpanzee. It has taken me long to learn this, Govinda, and still I am not quite done learning it: that nothing can be learned! There is in fact—and this I believe—no such thing as what we call ‘learning.’ There is, my friend, only knowing, and this is everywhere; it is Atman, it is in me and in you and in every creature. And so I am beginning to believe that this knowing has no worse enemy than the desire to know, than learning itself.”

Govinda stopped short in the middle of the road, raised his hands, and said, “If only, Siddhartha, you would not frighten your friend with such speeches! Truly, your words awaken fear in my heart. Consider: What would remain of the holiness of prayer, what of the venerability of the class of Brahmins, what of the holiness of the Samanas, if things were as
you say, if there were no learning? What, O Siddhartha, would then become of all that is holy on earth, all that has value and is venerable?”

And Govinda murmured a verse under his breath, a verse from an Upanishad:

Siddhartha was silent. He was thinking of the words Govinda had spoken, thinking them through to their conclusion.

Yes, he thought, standing with bowed head, what would remain of all that appeared holy to us? What does remain? What is proving to have lasting value? And he shook his head.

One day when the two youths had lived among the Samanas for nearly three years and shared their exercises, word reached them in a roundabout way, a rumor, a legend: A man had been discovered, by the name of Gautama, the Sublime One, the Buddha, who had overcome the sufferings of the world within himself and brought the wheel of rebirths to a halt. He was journeying through the countryside as an itinerant teacher, surrounded by disciples, without possessions, without a home, without womenfolk, dressed in the yellow cloak of an ascetic but with joyful brow, a Blessed One, and Brahmins and princes bowed down before him and became his pupils.

This legend, this rumor, this myth rippled and wafted through the air; in the towns all the Brahmins were speaking of it, in the forest the Samanas. Again and again the youths heard the name of Gautama, the Buddha, uttered by supporters and detractors alike, in both praise and vituperation.

Just as when, in a land devastated by plague, word begins to spread that in such and such a place there is a man, a wise
man, a holder of knowledge, whose very word and breath have the power to cure the afflicted—just as this rumor then circulates through the countryside and everyone speaks of it, many believe it, many are doubtful, but many others set out at once in search of this wise man, this helper—in just such a way did this wafting legend of Gautama, the Buddha, the wise man from the race of the Sakya, make its way across the land. This man, his believers insisted, was possessed of the highest knowledge: He could remember his past lives; he had attained Nirvana and would never again return to the cycle, would never again have to dive into the murky stream of new shapes. Many splendid, incredible things were said of him: He had performed miracles, had vanquished the devil, had spoken with the gods. But his enemies and those who did not believe in him said that this Gautama was a vain seducer who lived a life of luxury and scoffed at sacrifices, who was devoid of learning and knew neither exercises nor self-castigation.

How sweet it sounded, this legend of the Buddha; enchantment wafted from the reports. The world, after all, was diseased, life difficult to bear, and lo! Here was a new spring bubbling up, a messenger’s cry ringing out, consoling and mild, full of noble promises. Everywhere the rumor of the Buddha could be heard; everywhere in the lands of India youths pricked up their ears and were filled with longing, with hope; and among the Brahmins’ sons in the villages and towns every pilgrim and stranger was welcome who brought news of him, the Sublime One, the Sakyamuni.

Even to the Samanas in the forest, even to Siddhartha, even to Govinda the legend had made its way, bit by bit, in drops, each drop heavy with hope, each drop heavy with doubt. It was not much spoken of, for the eldest of the Samanas was not well disposed to it. He had heard that this alleged Buddha had once been an ascetic and lived in the forest
but had then returned to a life of luxury and worldly pleasure; he did not think much of this Gautama.

“O Siddhartha,” Govinda said one day to his friend, “today I was in the village, and a Brahmin invited me to enter his home, and in his home was a Brahmin’s son from Magadha who had seen the Buddha with his own eyes and heard his doctrine. Truly, my chest ached with each breath, and I thought to myself, If only the hour would come when I as well, when the two of us, Siddhartha and I, might hear the doctrine from the lips of that Perfect One! Speak, friend. Should not we too go to that place and hear the doctrine from the lips of the Buddha?”

Said Siddhartha, “I always thought, O Govinda, that Govinda would remain among the Samanas, always believed it was his goal to reach the age of sixty and seventy and still to perform the arts and exercises that are the glory of Samana existence. But it appears I knew Govinda too little, knew too little of his heart. And so now, dearest friend, you wish to take up a new path and go to the place where the Buddha is preaching his doctrine.”

Govinda replied, “Siddhartha is mocking me. Very well, mock as you please! But has the desire, the longing to hear this doctrine, not been awakened in you as well? And did you not once say to me that you would not continue to walk the path of the Samanas much longer?”

At this Siddhartha laughed after his own fashion, the tone of his voice displaying both a hint of sorrow and a hint of derision, and said, “Well you have spoken, Govinda, quite well, and remembered well, too. May you also remember what else you have heard from me: namely, that I have become distrustful and weary of doctrines and learning and that I have little faith in words that come to us from teachers. But be that as it may, dear friend, I am prepared to hear these teachings, though in my heart I believe we have already tasted their finest fruit.”

Said Govinda, “Your willingness delights my heart. But tell me, how can this be? How can it be that the teachings of Gautama have already offered up to us their finest fruit even before we have heard them?”

Siddhartha replied, “Let us enjoy this fruit, Govinda, and wait to see what will follow it! As for the fruit that Gautama has already given us, it is this: that he is calling us away from the Samanas! Whether he has other things as well to offer us, better ones—let us wait to discover this, my friend, with peace in our hearts.”

That very day, Siddhartha informed the eldest Samana of his decision, saying that he wished to leave. He spoke with the courtesy and modesty befitting a younger man and pupil. The Samana, however, was filled with anger at the thought that these two youths wished to leave him; he raised his voice and used coarse, abusive language.

Govinda was horrified and filled with embarrassment. Siddhartha, however, put his mouth to Govinda’s ear and whispered, “Now I’ll show the old man what I learned as his pupil.”

Stationing himself immediately before the Samana, his soul collected, he caught the eye of the old man with his own eyes and bewitched him, made him fall silent, made him lose his will, subjected him to his own will, commanded him to perform mutely what was asked of him. The old man fell silent: His eyes were locked in position, his will was paralyzed, his arms dangled down, he was powerless in the grasp of Siddhartha’s enchantment. Now Siddhartha’s thoughts took control of the thoughts of the Samana, forcing him to perform what they commanded. And so the old man bowed several times, made gestures of blessing, and, in a stammer, wished them safe travels. The youths responded to his bows with thanks, responded to his good wishes with wishes of their own, took their leave of him, and set off.

As they walked, Govinda said, “O Siddhartha, you learned more among the Samanas than I knew. It is difficult, very difficult, to enchant an old Samana. Verily, if you had remained there among them, you would soon have learned to walk upon water!”

“I do not wish to walk upon water,” Siddhartha replied. “Let elderly Samanas content themselves with such tricks.”

In the town of Savathi, every child knew the name of the Sublime Buddha, and every house was equipped to fill the alms bowls of Gautama’s disciples, the silent mendicants. Not far from the town lay Gautama’s preferred residence, Jetavana Grove, which the wealthy merchant Anathapindika, a devoted admirer of the Sublime One, had given to him and his followers.

This was the place mentioned in all the tales that had been shared with the two young ascetics in their search to discover Gautama’s whereabouts, in all the answers they had received to their queries. And when they arrived in Savathi, they were offered food at the very first house at whose door they stopped to beg, and they accepted it.

Siddhartha asked the woman who gave it to them, “O charitable woman, we very much desire to learn where the Buddha can be found, the Most Venerable One, for we are two Samanas from the forest who have come here to see him, the Perfect One, and to hear his doctrine from his lips.”

The woman replied, “Truly you have chosen the right place to stop, O Samanas from the forest. Jetavana, the garden
of Anathapindika, is where the Sublime One resides. There, as pilgrims, you will be allowed to pass the night, for there is room in this place for the countless hordes who arrive in streams to hear the doctrine from his lips.”

At these words, Govinda was glad and he cried out gaily, “How wonderful! Then our goal has been reached and our journey come to an end! But tell us, O mother of all pilgrims, do you know the Buddha? Have you beheld him with your own eyes?”

Said the woman, “I have seen him many times, the Sublime One. Many days I have seen him walking silently through our streets wearing his yellow coat, silently holding out his alms bowl at the doors of our homes and carrying the filled bowl away with him.”

Govinda listened, rapt, and wanted to ask and hear much more. But Siddhartha announced it was time they were on their way. They gave their thanks and walked on, scarcely needing to inquire which way to go, for there were any number of pilgrims and monks from Gautama’s fellowship on their way to Jetavana. And as they reached it that night, they beheld a scene of constant arrival, with the cries and conversations of those requesting and finding quarters. The two Samanas, accustomed to life in the forest, quickly and silently found shelter and rested there until morning.

When the sun rose, they were astonished to see what a great crowd of believers and onlookers had spent the night here. On all the paths of the splendid grove, monks were strolling in their yellow robes; they sat here and there beneath the trees, absorbed in contemplation or in spiritual conversation, the shady gardens like a city to behold, full of people swarming like bees. Most of these monks were setting out with their alms bowls to collect food in town for their noonday meal, the one meal of the day. Even the Buddha himself, the Enlightened One, was in the habit of going to beg for food each morning.

Siddhartha saw him and recognized him at once, as if a god had pointed him out: a simple man in a yellow cowl, walking quietly, alms bowl in his hand.

“Look!” Siddhartha said softly to Govinda. “That one there is the Buddha.”

Attentively Govinda regarded the monk in the yellow cowl, who at first appeared indistinguishable from the hundreds of others. But Govinda, too, soon saw that this was indeed the Buddha, and they followed behind him, observing him.

The Buddha was walking along modestly, absorbed in thought. His still face was neither gay nor sad; he appeared to be smiling inwardly. Quietly, calmly, with a hidden smile, looking rather like a healthy child, the Buddha strolled down the path, wearing his robe and placing his foot upon the earth exactly like all his monks, just as was dictated to them. But his face and gait, his quietly lowered gaze, his quietly dangling hand—and indeed each individual finger on his quietly dangling hand—spoke of peace, spoke perfection, sought nothing, imitated nothing, was gently breathing an imperishable calm, an imperishable light, an inviolate peace.