The Brahmin’s Son

In the shade of the house, in the sun of the riverbank by the boats, in the shade of the sal forest, in the shade of the fig tree, Siddhartha grew up, the handsome son of the Brahmin, the young falcon, together with Govinda, his friend, the Brahmin’s son. The sun browned his fair shoulders on the riverbank, at bathing, at the holy ablutions, at the holy sacrifices. Shade flowed into his black eyes in the mango grove, at the boys’ games, at his mother’s singing, at the holy sacrifices, at the teachings of his father, the scholar, at the conversation of the wise. For a long time now Siddhartha had taken part in the conversation of the wise, had practiced debate with Govinda, had practiced with Govinda the art of contemplation, the service of meditation. Already he knew how to speak the Om soundlessly, the word of words, to speak it soundlessly into himself with the in-breath, to speak it soundlessly out of himself with the out-breath, with his soul gathered, his brow surrounded by the radiance of the clear-thinking mind. Already he knew how to be aware of Atman in the depths of his being, indestructible, one with the universe.

Joy leapt in his father’s heart over the son, the quick learner, the one who thirsted for knowledge; he saw a great sage and priest growing up in him, a prince among the Brahmins.

Delight leapt in his mother’s breast when she saw him, when she saw him walk, when she saw him sit down and rise, Siddhartha, the strong, the handsome, who walked on slender legs and greeted her with perfect grace of manner.

Love stirred in the hearts of the young daughters of the Brahmins when Siddhartha walked through the lanes of the town, with his luminous brow, with his kingly eye, with his narrow hips.

But more than all of them Govinda loved him, his friend, the Brahmin’s son. He loved Siddhartha’s eye and his gracious voice, he loved his walk and the perfect grace of his movements, he loved everything Siddhartha did and said, and most of all he loved his mind, his high, fiery thoughts, his ardent will, his high calling. Govinda knew: this one will not become a common Brahmin, not a lazy official of the sacrifice, not a greedy dealer in magic spells, not a vain, empty orator, not a wicked, deceitful priest, and not a good, stupid sheep in the herd of the many either. No, and he too, Govinda, did not want to become one of those, a Brahmin like ten thousand others. He wanted to follow Siddhartha, the beloved, the splendid one. And if Siddhartha ever became a god, if he ever entered among the radiant ones, then Govinda wanted to follow him, as his friend, as his companion, as his servant, as his spear bearer, his shadow.

So everyone loved Siddhartha. To everyone he gave joy, to everyone he was a delight.

But he, Siddhartha, gave himself no joy, he was no delight to himself. Walking the rosy paths of the fig garden, sitting in the bluish shade of the grove of contemplation, washing his limbs in the daily bath of atonement, sacrificing in the deep-shaded mango wood, perfect in the grace of his gestures, loved by all, the joy of all, he still carried no joy in his heart. Dreams came to him, and restless thoughts, flowing from the water of the river, sparkling from the stars of the night, melting from the rays of the sun; dreams came to him and a restlessness of the soul, rising in smoke from the sacrifices, breathed from the verses of the Rig Veda, trickling from the teachings of the old Brahmins.

Siddhartha had begun to nurse discontent in himself. He had begun to feel that the love of his father, and the love of his mother, and the love of his friend Govinda too, would not make him happy always and for all time, would not quiet him, not sate him, not be enough for him. He had begun to suspect that his venerable father and his other teachers, that the wise Brahmins had already shared with him the most and the best of their wisdom, that they had already poured their fullness into his waiting vessel, and the vessel was not full, the mind was not satisfied, the soul was not calm, the heart not stilled. The ablutions were good, but they were water; they did not wash away sin, they did not heal the mind’s thirst, they did not ease the heart’s anguish. Excellent were the sacrifices and the invocation of the gods—but was that everything? Did the sacrifices bring happiness? And what about the gods? Was it really Prajapati who had created the world? Was it not Atman, He, the Only One, the All-One? Were the gods not forms, created like you and me, subject to time, perishable? Was it good, then, was it right, was it a meaningful and supreme act, to sacrifice to the gods? To whom else was one to sacrifice, to whom else was one to offer worship, but to Him, the Only One, Atman? And where was Atman to be found, where did He dwell, where did His eternal heart beat, where else but in one’s own self, in the innermost, in the indestructible, which each person carried within? But where, where was this self, this innermost, this ultimate? It was not flesh and bone, it was not thought nor consciousness, so the wisest taught. Where, where then was it? To press through to that place, to the self, to me, to Atman—was there another way worth seeking? Ah, and no one showed this way, no one knew it, not his father, not the teachers and sages, not the holy songs of sacrifice! They knew everything, the Brahmins and their holy books, they knew everything, they had concerned themselves with everything and with more than everything, the creation of the world, the origin of speech, of food, of breathing in, of breathing out, the ordering of the senses, the deeds of the gods—they knew an endless amount—but was it worth anything to know all this if one did not know the One and Only, the most important thing, the only important thing?

Certainly, many verses of the holy books, especially in the Upanishads of the Sama Veda, spoke of this innermost and ultimate, glorious verses. “Your soul is the whole world,” was written there, and it was written that a man in sleep, in deep sleep, enters into his innermost and dwells in Atman. Wonderful wisdom stood in these verses; all the knowledge of the wisest stood gathered here in magic words, pure as honey gathered by bees. No, the enormous store of insight that lay here, gathered and preserved by countless generations of wise Brahmins, was not to be held in low regard.—But where were the Brahmins, where the priests, where the sages or penitents who had succeeded not merely in knowing this deepest knowledge but in living it? Where was the knowing one who could conjure that being-at-home in Atman out of sleep and into waking, into life, into every step, into word and deed? Siddhartha knew many venerable Brahmins, his father above all, the pure one, the scholar, the most venerable. His father was to be admired, quiet and noble was his bearing, pure his life, wise his word; fine and noble thoughts dwelt behind his brow—but he too, who knew so much, did he live in bliss, did he have peace, was he not also merely a seeker, a thirsting one? Did he not have to drink again and again at holy springs, a thirsting man, at the sacrifice, at the books, at the disputations of the Brahmins? Why did he, the blameless one, have to wash away sin every day, strive every day for purification, every day anew? Was Atman not within him, then, did the primal spring not flow in his own heart? That was what one had to find, the primal spring in one’s own self; that was what one had to make one’s own! Everything else was seeking, was detour, was going astray.

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

Often he recited to himself the words of a Chandogya Upanishad: “Truly, the name of Brahman is Satyam—verily, whoever knows this enters the heavenly world every day.” Often it seemed near, the heavenly world, but never had he reached it entirely, never quenched the final thirst. And of all the wise and wisest men he knew and whose instruction he enjoyed, of all of them there was not one who had reached it entirely, the heavenly world, who had entirely quenched it, the eternal thirst.

“Govinda,” Siddhartha said to his friend, “Govinda, my dear, come with me under the banyan tree; let us give ourselves to meditation.”

They went to the banyan tree, they sat down, Siddhartha here, Govinda twenty paces farther on. As he sat down, ready to speak the Om, Siddhartha murmured the verse over to himself:

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

When the usual time of the meditation exercise had passed, Govinda rose. Evening had come; it was time to perform the ablution of the evening hour. He called Siddhartha’s name. Siddhartha did not answer. Siddhartha sat absorbed, his eyes fixed rigidly on a very distant goal, the tip of his tongue showing a little between his teeth; he seemed not to breathe. So he sat, wrapped in meditation, thinking Om, his soul sent out as an arrow toward Brahman.

Once Samanas had passed through Siddhartha’s town, wandering ascetics, three gaunt, burnt-out men, neither old nor young, with dusty and bloody shoulders, almost naked, scorched by the sun, surrounded by solitude, strangers and enemies to the world, aliens and lean jackals in the kingdom of men. Behind them blew hot a scent of silent passion, of destructive service, of merciless self-emptying.

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

Govinda turned pale when he heard the words and read the decision in his friend’s unmoving face, undeflectable as the arrow shot from the bow. At once, at the first glance, Govinda knew: now it begins, now Siddhartha goes his own way, now his destiny begins to sprout, and with his, mine. And he turned as pale as a dry banana skin.

“O Siddhartha,” he cried, “will your father allow it?”

Siddhartha looked over like someone waking. Swift as an arrow he read Govinda’s soul, read the fear, read the resignation.

“O Govinda,” he said softly, “let us not waste words. Tomorrow at daybreak I will begin the life of the Samanas. Speak of it no more.”

Siddhartha entered the room where his father sat on a mat of bast, and stepped behind his father and stood there until his father felt that someone was standing behind him. The Brahmin spoke: “Is that you, Siddhartha? Then say what you have come to say.”

Siddhartha spoke: “With your permission, my father. I have come to tell you that I long to leave your house tomorrow and go to the ascetics. To become a Samana is my longing. May my father not oppose it.”

The Brahmin was silent, and was silent so long that the stars in the small window wandered and changed their figure before the silence in the room came to an end. Mute and motionless, his arms crossed, stood the son; mute and motionless on the mat sat the father, and the stars moved across the sky. Then the father spoke: “It does not befit a Brahmin to speak violent and angry words. But displeasure stirs my heart. I do not wish to hear this request from your mouth a second time.”

Slowly the Brahmin rose; Siddhartha stood mute with his arms crossed.

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

Siddhartha spoke: “You know.”

Displeased, the father left the room; displeased, he sought his bed and lay down.

After an hour, since no sleep came to his eyes, the Brahmin got up, paced back and forth, went out of the house. Through the small window of the room he looked in, and there he saw Siddhartha standing, his arms crossed, unmoved from his place. His light-colored upper garment shimmered pale. With unrest in his heart, the father returned to his bed.

After an hour, since no sleep came to his eyes, the Brahmin got up again, paced back and forth, went out in front of the house, saw that the moon had risen. Through the window of the room he looked in; there stood Siddhartha, unmoved from his place, his arms crossed, the moonlight gleaming on his bare shins. With worry in his heart, the father sought his bed.

And he came again after an hour, and came again after two hours, looked through the small window, saw Siddhartha standing, in the moonlight, in the starlight, in the darkness. And came again from hour to hour, silently, looked into the room, saw him standing unmoved, filled his heart with anger, filled his heart with unrest, filled his heart with dread, filled it with sorrow.

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

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

“You know.”

“Will you always stand like this and wait, until it is day, until it is noon, until it is evening?”

“I will stand and wait.”

“You will grow tired, Siddhartha.”

“I will grow tired.”

“You will fall asleep, Siddhartha.”

“I will not fall asleep.”

“You will die, Siddhartha.”

“I will die.”

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

“Siddhartha has always obeyed his father.”

“So you will give up your plan?”

“Siddhartha will do what his father tells him.”

The first glimmer of day fell into the room. The Brahmin saw that Siddhartha’s knees were trembling slightly. In Siddhartha’s face he saw no trembling; the eyes looked far away. Then the father knew that Siddhartha was already no longer with him, no longer at home, that he had already left him.

The father touched Siddhartha’s shoulder.

“You will,” he said, “go into the forest and be a Samana. If you have found bliss in the forest, then come and teach me bliss. If you find disappointment, then come back and let us once more sacrifice to the gods together. Now go and kiss your mother, tell her where you are going. But for me it is time to go to the river and perform the first ablution.”

He took his hand from his son’s shoulder and went out. Siddhartha swayed to one side when he tried to walk. He mastered his limbs, bowed to his father, and went to his mother to do as his father had said.

As he slowly left the still silent town in the first light of day on stiffened legs, a shadow that had been crouching there rose by the last hut and joined the pilgrim—Govinda.

“You have come,” said Siddhartha, and smiled.

“I have come,” said Govinda.