Siddhartha

SR No.: 011131
Original Sutra Author: N/A
Author: Hermann Hesse, Hilda Rosner
Publisher: Macmillan India
Total Pages: 64
Language: English
Classification: Book_English
File Size: 7 MB

Page 48

A bright smile spread over Vasudeva's face. 'Yes, Siddhartha,' he said. 'Is this what you mean? That the river is everywhere at the same time, at the source and at the mouth, at the waterfall, at the ferry, at the current, in the ocean and in the mountains, everywhere, and that the present only exists for it, not the shadow of the past, nor the shadow of the future?'
That is it,' said Siddhartha, and when I learned that, I reviewed my life and it was also a river, and Siddhartha the boy, Siddhartha the mature man and Siddhartha the old man were only separated by shadows, not through reality. Siddhartha's previous lives were also not in the past, and his death and his return to Brahma are not in the future. Nothing was, nothing will be, everything has reality and presence.'
Siddhartha spoke with delight. This discovery had made him very happy. Was then not all sorrow in time, all selftorment and fear in time? Were not all difficulties and evil in the world conquered as soon as one conquered time, as soon as one dispelled time! He had spoken with delight, but Vasudeva just smiled radiantly at him and nodded his agreement. He stroked Siddhartha's shoulder and returned to his work.
And once again when the river swelled during the rainy season and roared loudly, Siddhartha said: 'Is it not true, my friend, that the river has very many voices? Has it not the voice of a king, of a warrior, of a bull, of a nightbird, of a pregnant woman and a sighing man, and a thousand other voices?
"It is so,' nodded Vasudeva, 'the voices of all living creatures are in its voice.
And do you know,' continued Siddhartha, 'what word it pronounces when one is successful in hearing all its ten thousand voices at the same time?
Vasudeva laughed joyously; he bent towards Siddhartha
and whispered the holy Om in his ear. And this was just what Siddhartha had heard.
As time went on his smile began to resemble the ferryman's, was almost equally radiant, almost equally full of happiness, equally lighting up through a thousand little wrinkles, equally childish, equally senile. Many travellers, when seeing both ferrymen together, took them for brothers. Often they sat together in the evening on the tree trunk by the river. They both listened silently to the water, which to them was not just water, but the voice of life, the voice of Being, of perpetual Becoming. And it sometimes happened that while listening to the river, they both thought the same thoughts, perhaps of a conversation of the previous day, or about one of the travellers whose fate and circumstances occupied their minds, or death, or their childhood; and when the river told them something good at the same moment, they looked at each other, both thinking the same thought, both happy at the same answer to the same question.
Something emanated from the ferry and from both ferrymen that many of the travellers felt. It sometimes happened that a traveller, after looking at the face of one of the ferrymen, began to talk about his life and troubles, confessed sins, asked for comfort and advice. It sometimes happened that someone would ask permission to spend an evening with them in order to listen to the river. It also happened that curious people came along, who had been told that two wise men, magicians or holy men lived at the ferry. The curious ones asked many questions but they received no replies, and they found neither magicians nor wise men. They only found two friendly old men, who appeared to be mute, rather odd and stupid. And the curious ones laughed and said how foolish and credible people were to spread such wild rumours.
The years passed and nobody counted them. Then one day, some monks came along, followers of Gotama, the
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