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01 - The Son of The Brahman - Siddhartha - Hermann Hesse · Sacred Texts Archive

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  First part to Romayne Rowland, My Dear Friend, Chapter one, The son
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  of the Brahman, in the shade of the house, in the sunshine of
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  the river bank, near the boats, in the shade of the salward forest,
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  in the shade of the fig tree, is where Siddartha grew up,
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  the handsome son of the Brahman, the young Falcon, together with his friend
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  Govinda, son of a Brahman. The sun tanned his light shoulders by the
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  banks of the river when bathing, performing the sacred ablutions, the sacred offerings
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  in the mango grove. Shade poured into his black eyes when playing as a
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  boy, when his mother sang, when the sacred offerings were made, when
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  his father, the scholar, taught him, when the wise men talked.
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  For a long time, Siddartha had been partaking in the discussions of the wise
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  men, practicing debate with Govinda, Practicing with Govinda the art of reflection,
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  the service of meditation. He already knew how to speak the olm silently,
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  the word of words, to speak it silently into himself while inhaling, to
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  speak it silently out of himself, while exhaling with all the concentration of his
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  soul, the forehead surrounded by the glow of the clear thinking spirit. He
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  already knew to feel utman in the depths of his being indestructible, one with
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  the universe. Joy leapt into his father's heart for his son, who was
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  quick to learn, thirsty for knowledge. He saw him growing up to become
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  a great wise man and priest, a priest among the Brahmans. Bliss leapt
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  into his mother's breast when she saw him, when she saw him walking,
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  when she saw him sit down and get up, Siddarthur, strong, handsome,
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  he who was walking on slender legs, greeting her with perfect respect.
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  Love touched the hearts of the Brahman's young daughters when Siddartha walked through the lanes
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  of the town, with the luminous forehead, with the eye of a king,
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  with his slim hips. But more than all the others, he was
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  loved by Govinda, his friend, the son of a Brahman. He loved
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  Siddartha's eye and sweet voice. He loved his walk and the perfect decency of
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  his movements. He loved everything Siddartha did and said, And what he loved
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  most was his spirit, his transcendent, fiery thoughts, his ardent will,
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  his high calling. Govinda knew he would not become a common Brahman, not
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  a lazy official in charge of offerings, not a greedy merchant with magic spells,
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  not a vain, vacuous speaker, not a mean, deceitful priest,
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  and also not a decent, stupid sheep in the herd of the many.
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  No, and he, Govinda as well, did not want to become one
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  of these, not one of those tens of thousands of Brahmans. He wanted
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  to follow sid Arthur, the beloved, the splendid, And in days to
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  come, when sid Arthur would become a god, when he would join the
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  glorious, then Govinda wanted to follow him as his friend, his companion,
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  his servant, his spear carrier, his shadow. Siddarthur was thus loved by
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  everyone. He was a source of joy for everybody. He was a delight
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  for them all. But he, Siddarthur, was not a source of joy
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  for himself. He found no delight in him himself. Walking the rosy paths
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  of the fig tree garden, sitting in the bluish shade of the grove of
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  contemplation, washing his limbs daily in the bath of repentance, sacrificing in the
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  dim shade of the mango forest, his gestures of perfect decency, everyone's love
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  and joy. He still lacked all joy in his heart. Dreams and restless
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  thoughts came into his mind, flowing from the water of the river, sparkling
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  from the stars of the night, melting from the beams of the sun.
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  Dreams came to him, and a restlessness of the soul, fuming from the
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  sacrifices breathing forth from the verses of the Rigvader, being infused into him,
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  drop by drop, from the teachings of the old Brahmans. Siddhartha had started
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  to nurse discontent in himself. He had started to feel that the love of
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  his father and the love of his mother, and also the love of his
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  friend Govinda would not bring him joy forever and ever would not nurse him,
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  feed him, satisfy him. He had started to suspect that his venerable father
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  and his other teachers, that the wise Brahmins had already revealed to him the
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  most and best of their wisdom, that they had already filled his expecting vessel
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  with their richness and the vessel was not full. The spirit was not content,
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  The soul was not calm, the heart was not satisfied. The ablutions
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  were good, but they were water. They did not wash off the sin.
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  They did not heal the spirit's thirst. They did not relieve the fear
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  in his heart. The sacrifices in the invocation of the gods were excellent.
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  But was that all? Did the sacrifice vices give a happy fortune? And
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  what about the gods? Was it really Prajapati who created the world? Was
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  it not the Utman? He the only one, the singular one. Were
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  the gods not creations? Created like me and you? Subject to time mortal?
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  Was it therefore good? Was it right? Was it meaningful? And
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  the highest occupation? To make offerings to the gods? For whom else were
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  offerings to be made? Who else was to be worshiped but him, the
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  only one, the Utman? And where was Utman to be found? Where
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  did he reside? Where did his eternal heart beat? Where else but in
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  one's own self, in its innermost part, in its indestructible part, which
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  everyone had in himself? And where where was this elf, this innermost part,
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  this ultimate part? It was not flesh? And bone. It was
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  neither thought nor consciousness. Thus the wisest ones taught. So where was it
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  to reach this place? The self, myself, the utman. There was
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  another way, which was worthwhile looking for alas, But nobody showed this way.
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  Nobody knew it, not the Father, and not the teachers, and
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  the wise men, not the holy sacrificial songs. They knew everything, the
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  Brahmans and their holy books. They knew everything. They had taken care of
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  everything, and of more than everything. The creation of the world, the
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  origin of speech, of food, of inhaling, of exhaling, the engagement
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  of the senses, the acts of the gods. They knew infinitely much.
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  But was ivaluable to know all this not knowing that one and only thing,
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  the most important thing, the solely important thing. Surely, many verses of
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  the Holy books, particularly in the Apanishads of samar Vada, spoke of this
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  innermost and ultimate thing. Wonderful verses, Your soul is the whole world was
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  written there, and it was written that man in his sleep, in his
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  deep sleep, would meet with his innermost part and would reside in the atman.
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  Marvelous wisdom was in these verses. All knowledge of the wisest ones had
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  been collected there in magic words, pure as honey collected from bees. No,
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  not to be looked down upon was the tremendous amount of enlightenment which lay
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  here, collected and preserved by innumerable generations of wise Brahmans. But where were
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  the Brahmans, Where the priests? Where the wise men or penitence who had
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  succeeded in not just knowing this deepest of all knowledge, but also to live
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  it? Where was the knowledgeable one who wove his spell to bring his familiarity
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  with the Atman out of the sleep, into the state of being awake,
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  into the life, into every step of the way, into word and deed.
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  SidD Arthur knew many venerable Brahmans, chiefly his father, the pure one,
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  the scholar, the most venerable one. His father was to be admired.
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  Quiet and noble. Were his manners pure, his life wise, his
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  words delicate, and noble thoughts lived behind its brow. But even he who
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  knew so much did he live in blissfulness? Did he have peace? Was
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  he not also just a searching man, a thirsty man? Did he not
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  again and again have to drink from holy sources as a thirsty man, from
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  the offerings, from the books, from the disputes of the Brahmins. Why
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  did he, the irreproachable one, have to wash off sins every day,
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  strive for a cleansing every day, over and over every day. Was not
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  atman in him? Did not the pristine source spring from his heart? It
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  had to be found, the pristine source in one's own self. It had
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  to be possessed. Everything else was searching, was a detour, was getting
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  lost. Thus were said Arthur's thoughts. This was his thirst, this was
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  his suffering. Thus he spoke to himself from a chandogaya, a punishad,
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  the words, truly the name of the Brahman is such a verily. Ye
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  who knows such a thing will enter the heavenly world every day. Often it
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  seemed near the heavenly world. But never he had reached it completely. Never
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  he had quenched the ultimate thirst. And among the wise and wisest men he
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  knew, and whose instructions he had received, among all of them, there
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  was no one who had reached it completely the heavenly world, who had quenched
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  it completely, the eternal thirst, Govinda said. Arthur spoke to his friend
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  Govinda, my dear, come with me under the banyan tree. Let's practice
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  meditation. They went to the banyan tree. They sat down, Sir Darthur
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  right here, Govinda twenty paces away, while putting himself down, ready to
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  speak the olm, Si Darthur repeated, murmuring the verse. Om is the
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  bow, the arrow is soul. The Brahman is the arrow's target that one
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  should incessantly hit. After the usual time of the exercise in meditation had passed,
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  Govinda rose, the evening had come. It was time to perform the
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  evening's ablution. He called Siddarthur's name. Siddarthur did not answer. Sadd Arthur
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  sat there, lost in thought. His eyes were rigidly focussed towards a very
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  distant target. The tip of his tongue was protruding a little between the teeth.
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  He seemed not to breathe. Thus sat he wrapped up in contemplation,
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  thinking, Olm his soul sent after the brahmin as an arrow. Once Samanas
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  had traveled through Siddartha's town Esthetics on a pilgrimage, Three skinny withered men,
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  neither old nor young, with dust, usty and bloody shoulders almost naked,
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  scorched by the sun, surrounded by loneliness, strangers and enemies to the world,
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  strangers and lank jackals in the realm of humans behind them blew a hot
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  scent of quiet passion, of destructive service, of merciless self denial. In
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  the evening, after the hour of contemplation, Siddartha spoke to Govinda early tomorrow
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  morning, my friend Siddarthur will go to the samanas he will become a Samana.
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  Govinda turned pale when he heard these words and read the decision in the
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  motionless face of his friend, unstoppable, like the arrow shot from the bow.
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  Soon and with the first glance, Govinda realized, now it is beginning.
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  Now Siddarthur is taking his own way. Now his fate is beginning to
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  sprout, and with his my own. And he turned pale like a dry
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  banana skin. Oh, sir Darthur, he exclaimed, Will your father permit
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  you to do that? Siddartha looked over as if he was just waking up
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  arrow fast he read in Govinda's soul, read the fear, Read the submission,
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  Oh Govinda, he spoke quietly. Let's not waste words tomorrow at daybreak,
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  I will begin the life of the samanas. Speak no more of it.
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  Siddartha entered the chamber where his father was sitting on a mat of bast
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  and stepped behind his father and remained standing there until his father felt that someone
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  was standing behind him. Quoth the Brahmin, is that you said, Arthur?
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  Then say what you came to say, quoth Siddartha, with your permission,
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  my father, I came to tell you that it is my longing to
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  leave your house tomorrow and go to the esthetics. My desire is to become
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  a Samana. May my father not oppose this. The brahmin fell silent,
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  and remained silent for so long that the stars in the small window wandered and
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  changed their relative positions. Ere the silence was broken, silent and motionless,
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  stood the son, with his arms folded, silent and motionless. Sat the
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  father on the mat, and the stars traced their paths in the sky.
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  Then spoke the father, not proper is it for a brahmin to speak harsh
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  and angry words. But indignation is in my heart. I wish not to
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  hear this request for a second time from your mouth. Slowly, the Brahmin
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  rose. Sid Arthur stood silently, his arms folded. What are you waiting
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  for, asked the father. Quoth Siddartha, you know what? Indignant,
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  the father left the chamber indignant. He went to his bed and lay down.
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  After an hour, since no sleep had come over his eyes, the
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  Brahman stood up, paced to and fro, and left the house through the
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  small window of the chamber, he looked back inside, and there he saw
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  Siddhartha standing, his arms folded, not moving from his spot. Pale shimmered
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  his bright robe. With anxiety in his heart, the father returned to his
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  bed after another hour, since no sleep had come over his eyes, the
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  Brahman stood up again, paced to and fro, walked out of the house
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  and saw that the moon had risen. Through the window of the chamber,
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  he looked back inside. There stood said Arthur, not moving from his spot,
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  his arms folded, moonlight reflecting from his bare shins. With worry in
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  his heart, the father went back to bed, and he came back after
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  an hour. He came back after two hours, looked through the small window
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  saw Siddarthur standing in the moonlight. By the light of the stars in the
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  darkness, and he came back hour after hour. Silently, he looked into
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  the chamber, saw him standing in the same place, filled his heart with
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  anger, filled his heart with unrest, filled his heart with anguish, filled
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  it with sadness. And in the night's last hour before the day began,
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  he returned, stepped into the room, saw the young man standing there,
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  who seemed tall and like a stranger to him, sid d Arthur. He
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  spoke, what are you waiting for? You know what? Will you always
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  stand that way and wait until it becomes morning, noon and evening. I
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  will stand and wait. You will become tired, said Arthur. I will
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  become tired. You will fall asleep, said Arthur. I will not fall
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  asleep. You will die, said Arthur. I will die. And would
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  you rather die than obey your father? Said d Arthur has always obeyed his
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  father, So will you abandon your plan? Sid d Arthur will do what
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  his father will tell him to do. The first light of day shone into
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  the room. The Brahmans saw that Siddartha was trembling softly in his knees.
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  In Si d Arthur's face, he saw no trembling. His eyes were fixed
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  on a distant spot. Then his father realized that he even now, said
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  Arthur no longer dwelt with him in his home, that he had already left
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  him. The father touched said d Arthur's shoulder. You will, he spoke,
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  go into the forest and be a samana. When you'll have found blissfulness
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  in the forest, then come back and teach me to be blissful. If
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  you'll find disappointment, then return and let us once again make offerings to the
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  gods together. Go now and kiss your mother, tell her where you are
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  going. But for me, it is time to go to the river and
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  to perform the first ablution. He took his hand from the shoulder of his
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  son and went outside. SidD Arthur wavered to the side as he tried to
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  walk. He put his limbs back under control, bowed to his father,
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  and went to his mother to do as his father had said. As he
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  slowly left on stiff legs, in the first light of day the still quiet
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  town, a shadow rose near the last hut who had crouched there and joined
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  the pilgrim. Govinda, you have come, said said Arthur, and smiled.
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  I have come, said Govinda. End of Chapter one