THE SON

Timid and weeping, the boy had attended his mother's funeral; gloomy

and shy, he had listened to Siddhartha, who greeted him as his son and

welcomed him at his place in Vasudeva's hut.  Pale, he sat for many

days by the hill of the dead, did not want to eat, gave no open look,

did not open his heart, met his fate with resistance and denial.

Siddhartha spared him and let him do as he pleased, he honoured his

mourning.  Siddhartha understood that his son did not know him, that

he could not love him like a father.  Slowly, he also saw and understood

that the eleven-year-old was a pampered boy, a mother's boy, and that he

had grown up in the habits of rich people, accustomed to finer food, to

a soft bed, accustomed to giving orders to servants.  Siddhartha

understood that the mourning, pampered child could not suddenly and

willingly be content with a life among strangers and in poverty.  He did

not force him, he did many a chore for him, always picked the best piece

of the meal for him.  Slowly, he hoped to win him over, by friendly

patience.

Rich and happy, he had called himself, when the boy had come to him.

Since time had passed on in the meantime, and the boy remained a

stranger and in a gloomy disposition, since he displayed a proud and

stubbornly disobedient heart, did not want to do any work, did not pay

his respect to the old men, stole from Vasudeva's fruit-trees, then

Siddhartha began to understand that his son had not brought him

happiness and peace, but suffering and worry.  But he loved him, and he

preferred the suffering and worries of love over happiness and joy

without the boy.  Since young Siddhartha was in the hut, the old men had

split the work.  Vasudeva had again taken on the job of the ferryman all

by himself, and Siddhartha, in order to be with his son, did the work in

the hut and the field.

For a long time, for long months, Siddhartha waited for his son to

understand him, to accept his love, to perhaps reciprocate it.  For

long months, Vasudeva waited, watching, waited and said nothing.  One

day, when Siddhartha the younger had once again tormented his father

very much with spite and an unsteadiness in his wishes and had broken

both of his rice-bowls, Vasudeva took in the evening his friend aside

and talked to him.

"Pardon me." he said, "from a friendly heart, I'm talking to you.  I'm

seeing that you are tormenting yourself, I'm seeing that you're in grief.

Your son, my dear, is worrying you, and he is also worrying me.  That

young bird is accustomed to a different life, to a different nest.  He

has not, like you, ran away from riches and the city, being disgusted

and fed up with it; against his will, he had to leave all this behind.

I asked the river, oh friend, many times I have asked it.  But the river

laughs, it laughs at me, it laughs at you and me, and is shaking with

laughter at out foolishness.  Water wants to join water, youth wants to

join youth, your son is not in the place where he can prosper.  You too

should ask the river; you too should listen to it!"

Troubled, Siddhartha looked into his friendly face, in the many wrinkles

of which there was incessant cheerfulness.

"How could I part with him?" he said quietly, ashamed.  "Give me some

more time, my dear!  See, I'm fighting for him, I'm seeking to win his

heart, with love and with friendly patience I intent to capture it.

One day, the river shall also talk to him, he also is called upon."

Vasudeva's smile flourished more warmly.  "Oh yes, he too is called

upon, he too is of the eternal life.  But do we, you and me, know what

he is called upon to do, what path to take, what actions to perform,

what pain to endure?  Not a small one, his pain will be; after all, his

heart is proud and hard, people like this have to suffer a lot, err a

lot, do much injustice, burden themselves with much sin.  Tell me, my

dear: you're not taking control of your son's upbringing?  You don't

force him?  You don't beat him?  You don't punish him?"

"No, Vasudeva, I don't do anything of this."

"I knew it.  You don't force him, don't beat him, don't give him orders,

because you know that "soft" is stronger than "hard", Water stronger

than rocks, love stronger than force.  Very good, I praise you.  But

aren't you mistaken in thinking that you wouldn't force him, wouldn't

punish him?  Don't you shackle him with your love?  Don't you make him

feel inferior every day, and don't you make it even harder on him with

your kindness and patience?  Don't you force him, the arrogant and

pampered boy, to live in a hut with two old banana-eaters, to whom even

rice is a delicacy, whose thoughts can't be his, whose hearts are old

and quiet and beats in a different pace than his?  Isn't forced, isn't

he punished by all this?"

Troubled, Siddhartha looked to the ground.  Quietly, he asked:  "What

do you think should I do?"

Quoth Vasudeva:  "Bring him into the city, bring him into his mother's

house, there'll still be servants around, give him to them.  And when

there aren't any around any more, bring him to a teacher, not for the

teachings' sake, but so that he shall be among other boys, and among

girls, and in the world which is his own.  Have you never thought of

this?"

"You're seeing into my heart," Siddhartha spoke sadly.  "Often, I have

thought of this.  But look, how shall I put him, who had no tender heart

anyhow, into this world?  Won't he become exuberant, won't he lose

himself to pleasure and power, won't he repeat all of his father's

mistakes, won't he perhaps get entirely lost in Sansara?"

Brightly, the ferryman's smile lit up; softly, he touched Siddhartha's

arm and said:  "Ask the river about it, my friend!  Hear it laugh about

it!  Would you actually believe that you had committed your foolish acts

in order to spare your son from committing them too?  And could you in

any way protect your son from Sansara?  How could you?  By means of

teachings, prayer, admonition?  My dear, have you entirely forgotten

that story, that story containing so many lessons, that story about

Siddhartha, a Brahman's son, which you once told me here on this very

spot?  Who has kept the Samana Siddhartha safe from Sansara, from sin,

from greed, from foolishness?  Were his father's religious devotion, his

teachers warnings, his own knowledge, his own search able to keep him

safe?  Which father, which teacher had been able to protect him from

living his life for himself, from soiling himself with life, from

burdening himself with guilt, from drinking the bitter drink for

himself, from finding his path for himself?  Would you think, my dear,

anybody might perhaps be spared from taking this path?  That perhaps

your little son would be spared, because you love him, because you would

like to keep him from suffering and pain and disappointment?  But even

if you would die ten times for him, you would not be able to take the

slightest part of his destiny upon yourself."

Never before, Vasudeva had spoken so many words.  Kindly, Siddhartha

thanked him, went troubled into the hut, could not sleep for a long

time.  Vasudeva had told him nothing, he had not already thought and

known for himself.  But this was a knowledge he could not act upon,

stronger than the knowledge was his love for the boy, stronger was his

tenderness, his fear to lose him.  Had he ever lost his heart so much

to something, had he ever loved any person thus, thus blindly, thus

sufferingly, thus unsuccessfully, and yet thus happily?

Siddhartha could not heed his friend's advice, he could not give up the

boy.  He let the boy give him orders, he let him disregard him.  He

said nothing and waited; daily, he began the mute struggle of

friendliness, the silent war of patience.  Vasudeva also said nothing

and waited, friendly, knowing, patient.  They were both masters of

patience.

At one time, when the boy's face reminded him very much of Kamala,

Siddhartha suddenly had to think of a line which Kamala a long time

ago, in the days of their youth, had once said to him.  "You cannot

love," she had said to him, and he had agreed with her and had compared

himself with a star, while comparing the childlike people with falling

leaves, and nevertheless he had also sensed an accusation in that line.

Indeed, he had never been able to lose or devote himself completely to

another person, to forget himself, to commit foolish acts for the love

of another person; never he had been able to do this, and this was, as

it had seemed to him at that time, the great distinction which set him

apart from the childlike people.  But now, since his son was here, now

he, Siddhartha, had also become completely a childlike person, suffering

for the sake of another person, loving another person, lost to a love,

having become a fool on account of love.  Now he too felt, late, once

in his lifetime, this strongest and strangest of all passions, suffered

from it, suffered miserably, and was nevertheless in bliss, was

nevertheless renewed in one respect, enriched by one thing.

He did sense very well that this love, this blind love for his son, was

a passion, something very human, that it was Sansara, a murky source,

dark waters.  Nevertheless, he felt at the same time, it was not

worthless, it was necessary, came from the essence of his own being.

This pleasure also had to be atoned for, this pain also had to be

endured, these foolish acts also had to be committed.

Through all this, the son let him commit his foolish acts, let him

court for his affection, let him humiliate himself every day by giving

in to his moods.  This father had nothing which would have delighted

him and nothing which he would have feared.  He was a good man, this

father, a good, kind, soft man, perhaps a very devout man, perhaps a

saint, all these there no attributes which could win the boy over.  He

was bored by this father, who kept him prisoner here in this miserable

hut of his, he was bored by him, and for him to answer every naughtiness

with a smile, every insult with friendliness, every viciousness with

kindness, this very thing was the hated trick of this old sneak.  Much

more the boy would have liked it if he had been threatened by him, if he

had been abused by him.

A day came, when what young Siddhartha had on his mind came bursting

forth, and he openly turned against his father.  The latter had given

him a task, he had told him to gather brushwood.  But the boy did not

leave the hut, in stubborn disobedience and rage he stayed where he was,

thumped on the ground with his feet, clenched his fists, and screamed in

a powerful outburst his hatred and contempt into his father's face.

"Get the brushwood for yourself!" he shouted foaming at the mouth, "I'm

not your servant.  I do know, that you won't hit me, you don't dare; I

do know, that you constantly want to punish me and put me down with

your religious devotion and your indulgence.  You want me to become like

you, just as devout, just as soft, just as wise!  But I, listen up, just

to make you suffer, I rather want to become a highway-robber and

murderer, and go to hell, than to become like you!  I hate you, you're

not my father, and if you've ten times been my mother's fornicator!"

Rage and grief boiled over in him, foamed at the father in a hundred

savage and evil words.  Then the boy ran away and only returned late at

night.

But the next morning, he had disappeared.  What had also disappeared was

a small basket, woven out of bast of two colours, in which the ferrymen

kept those copper and silver coins which they received as a fare.

The boat had also disappeared, Siddhartha saw it lying by the opposite

bank.  The boy had ran away.

"I must follow him," said Siddhartha, who had been shivering with grief

since those ranting speeches, the boy had made yesterday.  "A child

can't go through the forest all alone.  He'll perish.  We must build a

raft, Vasudeva, to get over the water."

"We will build a raft," said Vasudeva, "to get our boat back, which the

boy has taken away.  But him, you shall let run along, my friend, he is

no child any more, he knows how to get around.  He's looking for the

path to the city, and he is right, don't forget that.  He's doing what

you've failed to do yourself.  He's taking care of himself, he's taking

his course.  Alas, Siddhartha, I see you suffering, but you're suffering

a pain at which one would like to laugh, at which you'll soon laugh for

yourself."

Siddhartha did not answer.  He already held the axe in his hands and

began to make a raft of bamboo, and Vasudeva helped him to tied the

canes together with ropes of grass.  Then they crossed over, drifted

far off their course, pulled the raft upriver on the opposite bank.

"Why did you take the axe along?" asked Siddhartha.

Vasudeva said:  "It might have been possible that the oar of our boat

got lost."

But Siddhartha knew what his friend was thinking.  He thought, the boy

would have thrown away or broken the oar in order to get even and in

order to keep them from following him.  And in fact, there was no oar

left in the boat.  Vasudeva pointed to the bottom of the boat and looked

at his friend with a smile, as if he wanted to say:  "Don't you see what

your son is trying to tell you?  Don't you see that he doesn't want to

be followed?"  But he did not say this in words.  He started making a

new oar.  But Siddhartha bid his farewell, to look for the run-away.

Vasudeva did not stop him.

When Siddhartha had already been walking through the forest for a long

time, the thought occurred to him that his search was useless.  Either,

so he thought, the boy was far ahead and had already reached the city,

or, if he should still be on his way, he would conceal himself from him,

the pursuer.  As he continued thinking, he also found that he, on his

part, was not worried for his son, that he knew deep inside that he had

neither perished nor was in any danger in the forest.  Nevertheless, he

ran without stopping, no longer to save him, just to satisfy his desire,

just to perhaps see him one more time.  And he ran up to just outside of

the city.

When, near the city, he reached a wide road, he stopped, by the entrance

of the beautiful pleasure-garden, which used to belong to Kamala, where

he had seen her for the first time in her sedan-chair.  The past rose

up in his soul, again he saw himself standing there, young, a bearded,

naked Samana, the hair full of dust.  For a long time, Siddhartha stood

there and looked through the open gate into the garden, seeing monks in

yellow robes walking among the beautiful trees.

For a long time, he stood there, pondering, seeing images, listening to

the story of his life.  For a long time, he stood there, looked at the

monks, saw young Siddhartha in their place, saw young Kamala walking

among the high trees.  Clearly, he saw himself being served food and

drink by Kamala, receiving his first kiss from her, looking proudly and

disdainfully back on his Brahmanism, beginning proudly and full of

desire his worldly life.  He saw Kamaswami, saw the servants, the

orgies, the gamblers with the dice, the musicians, saw Kamala's

song-bird in the cage, lived through all this once again, breathed

Sansara, was once again old and tired, felt once again disgust, felt

once again the wish to annihilate himself, was once again healed by the

holy Om.

After having been standing by the gate of the garden for a long time,

Siddhartha realised that his desire was foolish, which had made him go

up to this place, that he could not help his son, that he was not

allowed to cling him.  Deeply, he felt the love for the run-away in his

heart, like a wound, and he felt at the same time that this wound had

not been given to him in order to turn the knife in it, that it had to

become a blossom and had to shine.

That this wound did not blossom yet, did not shine yet, at this hour,

made him sad.  Instead of the desired goal, which had drawn him here

following the runaway son, there was now emptiness.  Sadly, he sat down,

felt something dying in his heart, experienced emptiness, saw no joy any

more, no goal.  He sat lost in thought and waited.  This he had learned

by the river, this one thing: waiting, having patience, listening

attentively.  And he sat and listened, in the dust of the road, listened

to his heart, beating tiredly and sadly, waited for a voice.  Many an

hour he crouched, listening, saw no images any more, fell into

emptiness, let himself fall, without seeing a path.  And when he felt

the wound burning, he silently spoke the Om, filled himself with Om.

The monks in the garden saw him, and since he crouched for many hours,

and dust was gathering on his gray hair, one of them came to him and

placed two bananas in front of him.  The old man did not see him.

From this petrified state, he was awoken by a hand touching his

shoulder.  Instantly, he recognised this touch, this tender, bashful

touch, and regained his senses.  He rose and greeted Vasudeva, who had

followed him.  And when he looked into Vasudeva's friendly face, into

the small wrinkles, which were as if they were filled with nothing but

his smile, into the happy eyes, then he smiled too.  Now he saw the

bananas lying in front of him, picked them up, gave one to the ferryman,

ate the other one himself.  After this, he silently went back into the

forest with Vasudeva, returned home to the ferry.  Neither one talked

about what had happened today, neither one mentioned the boy's name,

neither one spoke about him running away, neither one spoke about the

wound.  In the hut, Siddhartha lay down on his bed, and when after a

while Vasudeva came to him, to offer him a bowl of coconut-milk, he

already found him asleep.