Siddhartha

Author(s): Hermann Hesse, Hilda Rosner
Publisher: Macmillan India

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long time, repulsed him, overwhelmed him, conquered him, rejoiced at her mastery, until he was overcome and lay exhausted at her side.
The courtesan bent over him and looked long at his face, into his eyes that had grown tired.
'You are the best lover that I have had,' she said thoughtfully. 'You are stronger than others, more supple, more willing. You have learned my art well. Siddhartha. Some day, when I am older, I will have a child by you. And yet, my dear, you have remained a Samana. You do not really love me - you love nobody. Is that not true?
Maybe,' said Siddhartha wearily. 'I am like you. You cannot love either, otherwise how could you practise love as an art? Perhaps people like us cannot love. Ordinary people can - that is their secret.'
intensity, truly to take part in them, to enjoy and live their lives instead of only being there as an onlooker.
He visited the beautiful Kamala regularly, learned the art of love in which, more than anything else, giving and taking become one. He talked to her, learned from her, gave her advice, received advice. She understood him better than Govinda had once done. She was more like him.
Once he said to her: 'You are like me; you are different from other people. You are Kamala and no one else, and within you there is a stillness and sanctuary to which you can retreat at any time and be yourself, just as I can. Few people have that capacity and yet everyone could have it.'
'Not all people are clever,' said Kamala. 'It has nothing to do with that, Kamala,' said Siddhartha. 'Kamaswami is just as clever as I am and yet he has no sanctuary. Others have it who are only children in understanding. Most people, Kamala, are like a falling leaf that drifts and turns in the air, flutters, and falls to the ground. But a few others are like stars which travel one defined path: nowind reaches them, they have within themselves their guide and path. Among all the wise men, of whom I knew many, there was one who was perfect in this respect. I can never forget him. He is Gotama, the Illustrious One who preaches this gospel. Thousands of young men hear his teachings every day and follow his instructions every hour, but they are all falling leaves, they have not the wisdom and guide within themselves.
Kamala looked at him and smiled. 'You are talking about him again,' she said. Again you have Samana thoughts.'
Siddhartha was silent, and they played the game of love, one of the thirty or forty different games which Kamala knew. Her body was as supple as a jaguar and a hunter's bow; whoever learned about love from her, learned many pleasures, many secrets. She played with Siddhartha for a
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