Siddhartha went to Kamaswami the merchant,
he was directed into a rich house, servants led him
between precious carpets into a chamber, where he
awaited the master of the house.
Kamaswami entered, a swiftly, smoothly
moving man with very gray hair, with very intelligent,
cautious eyes, with a greedy mouth. Politely,
the host and the guest greeted one another.
“I have been told,” the
merchant began, “that you were a Brahman, a
learned man, but that you seek to be in the service
of a merchant. Might you have become destitute,
Brahman, so that you seek to serve?”
“No,” said Siddhartha,
“I have not become destitute and have never been
destitute. You should know that I’m coming
from the Samanas, with whom I have lived for a long
time.”
“If you’re coming from
the Samanas, how could you be anything but destitute?
Aren’t the Samanas entirely without possessions?”
“I am without possessions,”
said Siddhartha, “if this is what you mean.
Surely, I am without possessions. But I am so
voluntarily, and therefore I am not destitute.”
“But what are you planning to
live of, being without possessions?”
“I haven’t thought of
this yet, sir. For more than three years, I have
been without possessions, and have never thought about
of what I should live.”
“So you’ve lived of the possessions of
others.”
“Presumable this is how it is.
After all, a merchant also lives of what other people
own.”
“Well said. But he wouldn’t
take anything from another person for nothing; he
would give his merchandise in return.”
“So it seems to be indeed.
Everyone takes, everyone gives, such is life.”
“But if you don’t mind
me asking: being without possessions, what would
you like to give?”
“Everyone gives what he has.
The warrior gives strength, the merchant gives merchandise,
the teacher teachings, the farmer rice, the fisher
fish.”
“Yes indeed. And what
is it now what you’ve got to give? What
is it that you’ve learned, what you’re
able to do?”
“I can think. I can wait. I can
fast.”
“That’s everything?”
“I believe, that’s everything!”
“And what’s the use of
that? For example, the fasting what
is it good for?”
“It is very good, sir.
When a person has nothing to eat, fasting is the
smartest thing he could do. When, for example,
Siddhartha hadn’t learned to fast, he would
have to accept any kind of service before this day
is up, whether it may be with you or wherever, because
hunger would force him to do so. But like this,
Siddhartha can wait calmly, he knows no impatience,
he knows no emergency, for a long time he can allow
hunger to besiege him and can laugh about it.
This, sir, is what fasting is good for.”
“You’re right, Samana. Wait for
a moment.”
Kamaswami left the room and returned
with a scroll, which he handed to his guest while
asking: “Can you read this?”
Siddhartha looked at the scroll, on
which a sales-contract had been written down, and
began to read out its contents.
“Excellent,” said Kamaswami.
“And would you write something for me on this
piece of paper?”
He handed him a piece of paper and
a pen, and Siddhartha wrote and returned the paper.
Kamaswami read: “Writing
is good, thinking is better. Being smart is
good, being patient is better.”
“It is excellent how you’re
able to write,” the merchant praised him.
“Many a thing we will still have to discuss with
one another. For today, I’m asking you
to be my guest and to live in this house.”
Siddhartha thanked and accepted, and
lived in the dealers house from now on. Clothes
were brought to him, and shoes, and every day, a servant
prepared a bath for him. Twice a day, a plentiful
meal was served, but Siddhartha only ate once a day,
and ate neither meat nor did he drink wine.
Kamaswami told him about his trade, showed him the
merchandise and storage-rooms, showed him calculations.
Siddhartha got to know many new things, he heard
a lot and spoke little. And thinking of Kamala’s
words, he was never subservient to the merchant, forced
him to treat him as an equal, yes even more than an
equal. Kamaswami conducted his business with
care and often with passion, but Siddhartha looked
upon all of this as if it was a game, the rules of
which he tried hard to learn precisely, but the contents
of which did not touch his heart.
He was not in Kamaswami’s house
for long, when he already took part in his landlords
business. But daily, at the hour appointed by
her, he visited beautiful Kamala, wearing pretty clothes,
fine shoes, and soon he brought her gifts as well.
Much he learned from her red, smart mouth.
Much he learned from her tender, supple hand.
Him, who was, regarding love, still a boy and had
a tendency to plunge blindly and insatiably into lust
like into a bottomless pit, him she taught, thoroughly
starting with the basics, about that school of thought
which teaches that pleasure cannot be be taken without
giving pleasure, and that every gesture, every caress,
every touch, every look, every spot of the body, however
small it was, had its secret, which would bring happiness
to those who know about it and unleash it. She
taught him, that lovers must not part from one another
after celebrating love, without one admiring the other,
without being just as defeated as they have been victorious,
so that with none of them should start feeling fed
up or bored and get that evil feeling of having abused
or having been abused. Wonderful hours he spent
with the beautiful and smart artist, became her student,
her lover, her friend. Here with Kamala was
the worth and purpose of his present life, nit with
the business of Kamaswami.
The merchant passed to duties of writing
important letters and contracts on to him and got
into the habit of discussing all important affairs
with him. He soon saw that Siddhartha knew little
about rice and wool, shipping and trade, but that
he acted in a fortunate manner, and that Siddhartha
surpassed him, the merchant, in calmness and equanimity,
and in the art of listening and deeply understanding
previously unknown people. “This Brahman,”
he said to a friend, “is no proper merchant and
will never be one, there is never any passion in his
soul when he conducts our business. But he has
that mysterious quality of those people to whom success
comes all by itself, whether this may be a good star
of his birth, magic, or something he has learned among
Samanas. He always seems to be merely playing
with out business-affairs, they never fully become
a part of him, they never rule over him, he is never
afraid of failure, he is never upset by a loss.”
The friend advised the merchant:
“Give him from the business he conducts for
you a third of the profits, but let him also be liable
for the same amount of the losses, when there is a
loss. Then, he’ll become more zealous.”
Kamaswami followed the advice.
But Siddhartha cared little about this. When
he made a profit, he accepted it with equanimity; when
he made losses, he laughed and said: “Well,
look at this, so this one turned out badly!”
It seemed indeed, as if he did not
care about the business. At one time, he travelled
to a village to buy a large harvest of rice there.
But when he got there, the rice had already been sold
to another merchant. Nevertheless, Siddhartha
stayed for several days in that village, treated the
farmers for a drink, gave copper-coins to their children,
joined in the celebration of a wedding, and returned
extremely satisfied from his trip. Kamaswami
held against him that he had not turned back right
away, that he had wasted time and money. Siddhartha
answered: “Stop scolding, dear friend!
Nothing was ever achieved by scolding. If a
loss has occurred, let me bear that loss. I am
very satisfied with this trip. I have gotten
to know many kinds of people, a Brahman has become
my friend, children have sat on my knees, farmers
have shown me their fields, nobody knew that I was
a merchant.”
“That’s all very nice,”
exclaimed Kamaswami indignantly, “but in fact,
you are a merchant after all, one ought to think!
Or might you have only travelled for your amusement?”
“Surely,” Siddhartha laughed,
“surely I have travelled for my amusement.
For what else? I have gotten to know people and
places, I have received kindness and trust, I have
found friendship. Look, my dear, if I had been
Kamaswami, I would have travelled back, being annoyed
and in a hurry, as soon as I had seen that my purchase
had been rendered impossible, and time and money would
indeed have been lost. But like this, I’ve
had a few good days, I’ve learned, had joy, I’ve
neither harmed myself nor others by annoyance and
hastiness. And if I’ll ever return there
again, perhaps to buy an upcoming harvest, or for whatever
purpose it might be, friendly people will receive me
in a friendly and happy manner, and I will praise
myself for not showing any hurry and displeasure at
that time. So, leave it as it is, my friend,
and don’t harm yourself by scolding! If
the day will come, when you will see: this Siddhartha
is harming me, then speak a word and Siddhartha will
go on his own path. But until then, let’s
be satisfied with one another.”
Futile were also the merchant’s
attempts, to convince Siddhartha that he should eat
his bread. Siddhartha ate his own bread, or rather
they both ate other people’s bread, all people’s
bread. Siddhartha never listened to Kamaswami’s
worries and Kamaswami had many worries. Whether
there was a business-deal going on which was in danger
of failing, or whether a shipment of merchandise seemed
to have been lost, or a debtor seemed to be unable
to pay, Kamaswami could never convince his partner
that it would be useful to utter a few words of worry
or anger, to have wrinkles on the forehead, to sleep
badly. When, one day, Kamaswami held against
him that he had learned everything he knew from him,
he replied: “Would you please not kid
me with such jokes! What I’ve learned from
you is how much a basket of fish costs and how much
interests may be charged on loaned money. These
are your areas of expertise. I haven’t
learned to think from you, my dear Kamaswami, you
ought to be the one seeking to learn from me.”
Indeed his soul was not with the trade.
The business was good enough to provide him with
the money for Kamala, and it earned him much more
than he needed. Besides from this, Siddhartha’s
interest and curiosity was only concerned with the
people, whose businesses, crafts, worries, pleasures,
and acts of foolishness used to be as alien and distant
to him as the moon. However easily he succeeded
in talking to all of them, in living with all of them,
in learning from all of them, he was still aware that
there was something which separated him from them and
this separating factor was him being a Samana.
He saw mankind going trough life in a childlike or
animallike manner, which he loved and also despised
at the same time. He saw them toiling, saw them
suffering, and becoming gray for the sake of things
which seemed to him to entirely unworthy of this price,
for money, for little pleasures, for being slightly
honoured, he saw them scolding and insulting each other,
he saw them complaining about pain at which a Samana
would only smile, and suffering because of deprivations
which a Samana would not feel.
He was open to everything, these people
brought his way. Welcome was the merchant who
offered him linen for sale, welcome was the debtor
who sought another loan, welcome was the beggar who
told him for one hour the story of his poverty and
who was not half as poor as any given Samana.
He did not treat the rich foreign merchant any different
than the servant who shaved him and the street-vendor
whom he let cheat him out of some small change when
buying bananas. When Kamaswami came to him,
to complain about his worries or to reproach him concerning
his business, he listened curiously and happily, was
puzzled by him, tried to understand him, consented
that he was a little bit right, only as much as he
considered indispensable, and turned away from him,
towards the next person who would ask for him.
And there were many who came to him, many to do business
with him, many to cheat him, many to draw some secret
out of him, many to appeal to his sympathy, many to
get his advice. He gave advice, he pitied, he
made gifts, he let them cheat him a bit, and this
entire game and the passion with which all people played
this game occupied his thoughts just as much as the
gods and Brahmáns used to occupy them.
At times he felt, deep in his chest,
a dying, quiet voice, which admonished him quietly,
lamented quietly; he hardly perceived it. And
then, for an hour, he became aware of the strange life
he was leading, of him doing lots of things which
were only a game, of, though being happy and feeling
joy at times, real life still passing him by and not
touching him. As a ball-player plays with his
balls, he played with his business-deals, with the
people around him, watched them, found amusement in
them; with his heart, with the source of his being,
he was not with them. The source ran somewhere,
far away from him, ran and ran invisibly, had nothing
to do with his life any more. And at several
times he suddenly became scared on account of such
thoughts and wished that he would also be gifted with
the ability to participate in all of this childlike-naïve
occupations of the daytime with passion and with his
heart, really to live, really to act, really to enjoy
and to live instead of just standing by as a spectator.
But again and again, he came back to beautiful Kamala,
learned the art of love, practised the cult of lust,
in which more than in anything else giving and taking
becomes one, chatted with her, learned from her, gave
her advice, received advice. She understood
him better than Govinda used to understand him, she
was more similar to him.
Once, he said to her: “You
are like me, you are different from most people.
You are Kamala, nothing else, and inside of you, there
is a peace and refuge, to which you can go at every
hour of the day and be at home at yourself, as I can
also do. Few people have this, and yet all could
have it.”
“Not all people are smart,” said Kamala.
“No,” said Siddhartha,
“that’s not the reason why. Kamaswami
is just as smart as I, and still has no refuge in
himself. Others have it, who are small children
with respect to their mind. Most people, Kamala,
are like a falling leaf, which is blown and is turning
around through the air, and wavers, and tumbles to
the ground. But others, a few, are like stars,
they go on a fixed course, no wind reaches them, in
themselves they have their law and their course.
Among all the learned men and Samanas, of which I
knew many, there was one of this kind, a perfected
one, I’ll never be able to forget him.
It is that Gotama, the exalted one, who is spreading
that teachings. Thousands of followers are listening
to his teachings every day, follow his instructions
every hour, but they are all falling leaves, not in
themselves they have teachings and a law.”
Kamala looked at him with a smile.
“Again, you’re talking about him,”
she said, “again, you’re having a Samana’s
thoughts.”
Siddhartha said nothing, and they
played the game of love, one of the thirty or forty
different games Kamala knew. Her body was flexible
like that of a jaguar and like the bow of a hunter;
he who had learned from her how to make love, was
knowledgeable of many forms of lust, many secrets.
For a long time, she played with Siddhartha, enticed
him, rejected him, forced him, embraced him:
enjoyed his masterful skills, until he was defeated
and rested exhausted by her side.
The courtesan bent over him, took
a long look at his face, at his eyes, which had grown
tired.
“You are the best lover,”
she said thoughtfully, “I ever saw. You’re
stronger than others, more supple, more willing.
You’ve learned my art well, Siddhartha.
At some time, when I’ll be older, I’d
want to bear your child. And yet, my dear, you’ve
remained a Samana, and yet you do not love me, you
love nobody. Isn’t it so?”
“It might very well be so,”
Siddhartha said tiredly. “I am like you.
You also do not love how else could you
practise love as a craft? Perhaps, people of
our kind can’t love. The childlike people
can; that’s their secret.”