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.
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 icy 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.
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 heard, 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.
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.
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, leaned to reduce the beats of his heart,
until they were only a few and almost none.
Instructed by the oldest if 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.
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.
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.
“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?”
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.”
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.”
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?”
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.”
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.”
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.”
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?”
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.”
Siddhartha answered: “How
old, would you think, is our oldest Samana, our venerable
teacher?”
Quoth Govinda: “Our oldest
one might be about sixty years of age.”
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.”
“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 Brahmáns, 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?”
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 Brahmáns, year after year, and
I have asked the holy Védas, 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.”
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
Brahmáns’ 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?!”
And Govinda mumbled a verse to himself,
a verse from an Upanishad:
He who ponderingly, of a purified
spirit, loses himself in the meditation of Atman,
unexpressable by words is his blissfulness of his
heart.
But Siddhartha remained silent.
He thought about the words which Govinda had said
to him and thought the words through to their end.
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.
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 Brahmáns
and princes would bow down before him and would become
his students.
This myth, this rumour, this legend
resounded, its fragrants rose up, here and there;
in the towns, the Brahmáns 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.
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 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,
he would spent his days in luxury, scorned the offerings,
was without learning, and knew neither exercises nor
self-castigation.
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 Brahmáns’ sons
of the towns and villages every pilgrim and stranger
was welcome, when he brought news of him, 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.
“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?”
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.”
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?”
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.”
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?”
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.”
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.
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.”
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.
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.”
“I do not seek to walk on water,”
said Siddhartha. “Let old Samanas be content
with such feats!”