In thinking this thoughts, Siddhartha stopped once
again, suddenly, as if there was a snake lying in
front of him on the path.
Because suddenly, he had also become aware of this:
He, who was indeed like someone who had just woken
up or like a new-born baby, he had to start his life
anew and start again at the very beginning. When
he had left in this very morning from the grove Jetavana,
the grove of that exalted one, already awakening,
already on the path towards himself, he he had every
intention, regarded as natural and took for granted,
that he, after years as an ascetic, would return to
his home and his father. But now, only in this
moment, when he stopped as if a snake was lying on
his path, he also awoke to this realization:
“But I am no longer the one I was, I am no ascetic
any more, I am not a priest any more, I am no Brahman
any more. Whatever should I do at home and at
my father’s place? Study? Make offerings?
Practise meditation? But all this is over,
all of this is no longer alongside my path.”
Motionless, Siddhartha remained standing there, and
for the time of one moment and breath, his heart felt
cold, he felt a cold in his chest, as a small animal,
a bird or a rabbit, would when seeing how alone he
was. For many years, he had been without home
and had felt nothing. Now, he felt it.
Still, even in the deepest meditation, he had been
his father’s son, had been a Brahman, of a high
caste, a cleric. Now, he was nothing but Siddhartha,
the awoken one, nothing else was left. Deeply,
he inhaled, and for a moment, he felt cold and shivered.
Nobody was thus alone as he was. There was no
nobleman who did not belong to the noblemen, no worker
that did not belong to the workers, and found refuge
with them, shared their life, spoke their language.
No Brahman, who would not be regarded as Brahmans and
lived with them, no ascetic who would not find his
refuge in the caste of the Samanas, and even the most
forlorn hermit in the forest was not just one and
alone, he was also surrounded by a place he belonged
to, he also belonged to a caste, in which he was at
home. Govinda had become a monk, and a thousand
monks were his brothers, wore the same robe as he,
believed in his faith, spoke his language. But
he, Siddhartha, where did he belong to? With
whom would he share his life? Whose language
would he speak?
Out of this moment, when the world melted away all
around him, when he stood alone like a star in the
sky, out of this moment of a cold and despair, Siddhartha
emerged, more a self than before, more firmly concentrated.
He felt: This had been the last tremor of the
awakening, the last struggle of this birth.
And it was not long until he walked again in long
strides, started to proceed swiftly and impatiently,
heading no longer for home, no longer to his father,
no longer back.
