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.
OM
For a long time, the wound continued to burn.
Many a traveller Siddhartha had to ferry across the
river who was accompanied by a son or a daughter,
and he saw none of them without envying him, without
thinking: “So many, so many thousands possess
this sweetest of good fortunes—why don’t
I? Even bad people, even thieves and robbers
have children and love them, and are being loved by
them, all except for me.” Thus simply,
thus without reason he now thought, thus similar to
the childlike people he had become.
Differently than before, he now looked upon people,
less smart, less proud, but instead warmer, more curious,
more involved. When he ferried travellers of
the ordinary kind, childlike people, businessmen,
warriors, women, these people did not seem alien to
him as they used to: he understood them, he understood
and shared their life, which was not guided by thoughts
and insight, but solely by urges and wishes, he felt
like them. Though he was near perfection and
was bearing his final wound, it still seemed to him
as if those childlike people were his brothers, their
vanities, desires for possession, and ridiculous aspects
were no longer ridiculous to him, became understandable,
became lovable, even became worthy of veneration to
him. The blind love of a mother for her child,
the stupid, blind pride of a conceited father for his
only son, the blind, wild desire of a young, vain woman
for jewelry and admiring glances from men, all of
these urges, all of this childish stuff, all of these
simple, foolish, but immensely strong, strongly living,
strongly prevailing urges and desires were now no childish
notions for Siddhartha any more, he saw people living
for their sake, saw them achieving infinitely much
for their sake, travelling, conducting wars, suffering
infinitely much, bearing infinitely much, and he could
love them for it, he saw life, that what is alive,
the indestructible, the Brahman in each of their passions,
each of their acts. Worthy of love and admiration
