SIDDHARTHA WANDERED in the forest. He was already far from the city, and knew only that he could not return, that life as he had known it for many years was gone and had dwindled away until he was disgusted and bone-dry. Dead were the singing birds of his dreams. Dead was the bird in his heart. Deeply entangled in the Samsara was he, and revulsion and death had he absorbed from all sides, as a sponge absorbs water, until he was full. He was full of disgust, full of suffering, full of death, until nothing in the world allured him, gave him joy, or comforted him.

He wished ardently to no longer know of himself, to have quiet, to be dead. Would that the lightning would come to strike him! Would that the tiger would come and devour him! Would that there was a wine, a poison that could anesthetize him, bring him forgetfulness and a slumber from which there was no more awakening! Was there not still some smut with which he had not stained himself, a sin and foolishness that he had not committed, a lament of the soul with which he had not burdened himself? Was it then yet possible to live? Was it possible, once more and yet once more to draw breath, to expel breath, to feel hunger, once more to eat, once more to sleep, once more to lie down by a woman? Was not this cycle exhausted and completed?

Siddhartha reached the large river in the woods, the selfsame river over which he had once been lead by a ferryman when he was a younger man and came from the city of Gotama. On this river he stopped, hesitated, and remained standing by the shore. Fatigue and hunger had weakened him, and to where should he travel further—where then, and to what goal? No, there were no more goals. There remained only the deep, sorrowful longing of the heart, remained only to shake off this whole arid dream of his, to spit out this stale wine, to bring to an end this entire wretched and ignominious life.

A tree hung over the riverbank, a coconut tree, and upon its branches Siddhartha leaned his shoulder. He laid his arm on the branch and glanced down under the green water that sluggishly passed by beneath him; he looked beneath the surface and found himself wholly and totally consumed by the desire to lose himself and to go beneath this water. He saw a horrible emptiness escaping the water's reflection, to which the terrible emptiness in his soul gave answer. Yes, it was the end. There was nothing more for him other than to extinguish himself, to destroy the failure of his life, to throw himself away before the feet of the scoffing and scornful gods. This was the immense vomit that he had yearned for: the death, the destruction of his hated corporeal form! He wanted the fish to feed upon him, this dog Siddhartha, this madman, this corrupt and rotted body; this limp and abused soul wanted the fish and the crocodiles to devour him, wanted the demons to dismember him!

He stared into the water with a distorted face, saw his face reflected there, and spat at the reflection. He took his arm away from the trunk of the tree in deep fatigue and turned a bit in order to let himself fall straight down and finally drown. With his eyes closed, he slipped towards death.

Then, out of the deep recesses of his soul and out of the past of his now weary life, a sound stirred. It was a word, a syllable, and he, without thinking and with a slurred voice, spoke to himself. It was the old word which is the beginning and the end of all Brahmin prayers, the holy “Om,” which means roughly “that which is perfect” or “the completion.” In that moment when the sound of “Om” touched Siddhartha's ear, his dormant spirit suddenly awoke and realized the foolishness of his actions.

Siddhartha was deeply shocked. This was how things stood with him; he was so doomed, so lost and forsaken by all knowledge, that he had been able to seek death; this wish, the wish of a child, had been able to grow in him: to find rest by annihilating his body! All the agony of recent times, all the sobering realizations, all the desperation had not produced what was now brought on by the moment when the “Om” entered his consciousness. He became aware of himself in his misery and error.

He said to himself: “Om!” And again, “Om!” He knew again about Brahman, about the indestructibility of life, about all that is divine and that he had forgotten.

Yet this was only a momentary flash. Siddhartha collapsed by the foot of the coconut tree; he was struck down by fatigue. Mumbling “Om,” he placed his head on the root of the tree and fell into a deep sleep.

His sleep was deep and dreamless; he had not known such sleep for a long time. When he awoke after many hours, he felt as if ten years had passed. He heard the water flowing quietly, and did not know where he was and who had brought him here. Opening his eyes, he saw with astonishment that there were trees and the sky above him, and he remembered where he was and how he had come there. This took a long while, and the past seemed infinitely distant, far away, and meaningless to him, as if it had been covered by a veil. He knew only that his previous life—in the first moment that he considered it, this past life seemed to him like an ancient pre-incarnation, like a proto-birth of his present self—had been abandoned by him, that, full of disgust and wretchedness, he had even intended to throw his life away. He had come to his senses, however, under a coconut tree by the river; with the holy word “Om” on his lips, he had fallen asleep and had now awakened, looking at the world as a new man. He had spoken the word “Om” quietly to himself, and, speaking it, he had fallen asleep; it seemed to him as if the entirety of his long sleep had been nothing but a long, meditative recitation of “Om,” a thought of “Om,” a submergence and complete entering into “Om,” into the nameless perfection.

What a wonderful sleep this had been! He had never before been so refreshed by sleep, so renewed and rejuvenated! Perhaps he had really died; perhaps he had drowned and was reborn in a new body? But no—he knew himself, his hands and his feet and the place where he lay. He knew this self in his breast, this Siddhartha, the eccentric and strange one; this Siddhartha was nonetheless transformed, renewed, and—strangely—was well rested, awake, joyful, and curious.

Siddhartha straightened up, and saw a person sitting opposite him. He was an unknown man, a monk in a yellow robe and a shaved head who was sitting in the contemplative position. He observed this man who had neither hair on his head nor a beard, and he had not observed long before he recognized this monk as Govinda, the friend of his youth, who had taken his refuge with the exalted Buddha. Govinda had also aged, but his face still bore the same features: expressive zeal, faithfulness, seeking, and timidity. However, when Govinda, sensing Siddhartha's gaze, opened his eyes and looked at him, Siddhartha saw that Govinda did not now recognize him. Govinda was glad to find Siddhartha awake; apparently, he had been sitting there for a long time while waiting for him to wake up, even though he did not know him.

“I have been sleeping,” said Siddhartha. “However did you get here?”

“You have been sleeping,” answered Govinda. “It is not good to sleep in such places, where there are often snakes and where the paths of the forest animals are. I, dear sir, am a follower of the exalted Gotama, the Buddha, the Sakyamuni, and several of us have been on a pilgrimage together on this path when I saw you lying down and sleeping in a place where it is dangerous to sleep. I therefore sought to wake you up, dear sir, and since your sleep was very deep, I let the group go on ahead and sat with you. And so then it seems that I, who wanted to guard your sleep, have fallen asleep myself. I have done you a disservice, and fatigue has overwhelmed me. Now that you are awake, however, let me go catch up with my brothers.

“Thank you, Samana, for watching over my sleep,” spoke Siddhartha. “You disciples of the exalted one are amiable. You may go now, then.”

“I'm going, sir. May you always enjoy success.”

“Thank you, Samana.”

Govinda made a sign of greeting and said “Farewell.”

“Farewell, Govinda,” said Siddhartha.

The monk stopped.

“May I ask, sir, from where it is that you know my name?”

Siddhartha now smiled.

“I know you, O Govinda, from your father's hut and from the school of the Brahmins; I know you from the sacrifices and our walk to the Samanas, and from that hour when you took your refuge with the exalted one in the grove Jetavana.”

“You're Siddhartha!” exclaimed Govinda loudly. “I now recognize you, and I don't understand how I hadn't recognized you immediately. Be welcome, Siddhartha; it is my great joy to see you again.”

“It also gives me joy to see you again. You've been the guardian of my sleep; again I thank you for this, although I wouldn't have required any guardian. Where are you going, O friend?”

“I'm going nowhere. We monks always travel when it is not the rainy season; we always move from one place to another, always live according to the teachings passed on to us, accept alms, and then move on. It's always like this. But Siddhartha—where are you going?”

Siddhartha spoke: “It is the same with me, friend, as it is with you. I'm going nowhere. I'm just traveling. I'm on a pilgrimage.”

Govinda spoke: “You say you're on a pilgrimage, and I believe you. But forgive me, O Siddhartha, you do not look like a pilgrim. You're wearing a wealthy man's clothes and the shoes of a distinguished gentleman, and your hair, which has the fragrance of perfume, is not a pilgrim's hair nor the hair of a Samana.”

“Exactly, my good man; you have observed well and your keen eyes see everything. But I didn't say to you that I was a Samana. I said: I'm on a pilgrimage. And so it is: I'm on a pilgrimage.”

“You're on a pilgrimage,” said Govinda, “but few would go on a pilgrimage in such clothes, such shoes, and such hair. Never have I met such a pilgrim, having been a pilgrim myself for many years.”

“I believe you, dear Govinda. Today, however, you've met a pilgrim just like this, wearing such shoes and such garments. Remember, my good man: the world of appearances is not eternal, and our garments, hairstyle, even our hair and bodies themselves are anything but eternal. I'm wearing a rich man's clothes; this you've quite rightly perceived. I'm wearing them because I have been a rich man, and I'm wearing my hair like the worldly, lust-filled people, for I have been one of them.”

“And what, Siddhartha, are you now?”

“I don't know, just as you don't know. I'm traveling. I was a rich man and am not a rich man any more; what I'll be tomorrow, I don't know.”

“You've lost your riches?”

“I've lost them or they lost me. They somehow happened to slip away from me. The wheel of physical manifestations is turning quickly, Govinda. Where is Siddhartha the Brahmin? Where is Siddhartha the Samana? Where is Siddhartha the rich man? Ephemeral things change quickly, Govinda; you know this.”

Govinda looked for a long time with doubt in his eyes at the friend of his youth. After that, he gave him the greeting which one would use on a gentleman and went on his way.

With a smiling face, Siddhartha watched him leave. He still loved him, this faithful and fearful man. How could he not love everybody and everything in this moment, following the glorious hour after his wondrous sleep that was filled with “Om!” The very enchantment that had transpired inside of him during his sleep by means of “Om” was the fact that he loved everything, that he was full of joyous love for everything he saw. It was this very thing, it seemed to him now, which had been his sickness before: that he was not able to love anybody or anything.

Siddhartha had a smiling face as he watched the monk leave. The sleep had strengthened him greatly, but he had many hunger pains because he now hadn't eaten for two days, and the times when he had been hardened against hunger were now long gone. He thought of that time with sadness and yet also with a smile. He remembered that in those days he had boasted of three things to Kamala; he had been able to do three noble and insurmountable feats: fasting, waiting, and thinking. These had been his possession, his power and strength, his solid staff. In the busy and laborious years of his youth he had learned these three feats and nothing else. Now, they had abandoned him; none of them were his any more, neither fasting, nor waiting, nor thinking. He had given them up for the most wretched things, for that which fades most quickly: sensual lust, a life of luxury, and riches! His life had been strange indeed. And so it now seemed that he had truly become a childlike person.

Siddhartha thought about his situation. Thinking was difficult for him; he didn't really feel like doing it, and yet he forced himself.

Now that all these fleeting things have slipped away from me again, he thought, I'm standing here beneath the sun, just as I stood here as a little child. Nothing is mine. I can do nothing. I don't have the ability to do anything. I have learned nothing. How wondrous is all this! Now that I'm no longer young, with my hair already half-gray, with my strength fading, I'm starting as a child again at the beginning! He had to smile again. Yes, his destiny had been strange! Things had been going in a downward spiral for him, and now he faced the world again void, naked, and stupid. But he could not feel sad about this; instead, he even felt a great urge to laugh about himself and about this strange, foolish world.

“Things are going in a downward spiral for you!” he said to himself, and laughed about it. As he was saying this, he happened to glance at the river, and he saw that the river was also going downwards, always moving downhill while singing and being happy through it all. He liked this, and smiled kindly at the river. Wasn't this the same river in which he had intended to drown himself in former times, a hundred years ago, or had he dreamed that?

My life has been wondrous indeed, so he thought; it has taken wondrous detours. As a boy, I concerned myself only with gods and sacrifices. As a youth, I concerned myself only with asceticism, with thinking and meditation as I searched for Brahman and worshipped eternity in the Atman. But as a young man I followed the penitents, lived in the forest, suffered from heat and frost, learned to hunger, and taught my body to become dead. Insight came to me wonderfully in the form of the great Buddha's teachings. I felt the knowledge of the unity of the world coursing through me like my own blood. Yet I also had to leave the Buddha and the great knowledge. I went and learned the art of love with Kamala, learned to trade with Kamaswami, piled up money, wasted money, and learned to love my stomach and senses. It took me many years to lose my spirit, to unlearn thinking and forget the unity. Isn't it just as if I had turned about slowly and was on a long detour from being a man to being a child, from a thinker to a childlike person? And yet, this path has been very good, and the bird in my chest has not died. But what a path this has been! I had to pass through so much stupidity, so many vices, so many errors, so much disgust, so many disappointments and woes just to become a child again and to be able to begin again. But it was fitting this way; my heart says “Yes” to it and my eyes smile at it. I've had to experience despair. I've had to descend to the most foolish of all thoughts—the thought of suicide—in order to be able to experience divine grace, to hear “Om” again, to be able to sleep and awaken properly again. I had to become a fool to find Atman in me again. I had to sin to be able to live again. Where else might my path lead me? This path is foolish; it moves in loops, and perhaps it is going around in a circle. Let it go where it likes; I want to follow it.

Wonderfully, he felt joy swelling up within his breast.

From where, he asked his heart, from where did you get this happiness? Might it have come from that long, good sleep which has done me so much good? Or from the word “Om” which I said? Or perhaps from the fact that I have escaped, that I have completely fled, that I am finally free again and am standing like a child underneath the sky? Oh how good it is to have fled and to have become free! How clean and beautiful is the air here; how good it is to breathe it! Everything there where I escape from smelled like ointments, spices, wine, excess, and laziness. How I hated this world of the rich, of those who revel in fine food, of the gamblers! How did I hate myself for staying in this terrible world for so long! How I hated myself, deprived myself, poisoned and tortured myself, making myself old and evil! No, I will never again, as I used to like to do so much, delude myself into thinking that Siddhartha is wise! But I have done this one thing well; this pleases me and this I must praise: there is now an end to that self-hatred, that foolish and bleak life! I praise you, Siddhartha, for after so many years of foolishness, you have once again had a concept, you have done something, you have heard the bird in your breast singing and have followed it!

He praised himself in this way, found joy in himself, and listened with curiosity to his stomach, which was rumbling with hunger. He now felt as if he had in recent days fully tasted, spit out, and devoured a portion of suffering and misery, even to the point of desperation and death. And it was good. He could have stayed with Kamaswami for a lot longer, accruing money, wasting money, filling his stomach, and letting his soul die of thirst. He could have lived in this soft, upholstered hell for quite a bit longer if this moment had not happened, this moment of complete hopelessness and despair, that most extreme moment when he hung over the rushing waters, fully prepared to destroy himself. He felt joy because he had felt this despair and deep disgust and had not succumbed to it; he laughed because the bird, that joyful source and the voice within him was still alive after all. This was why his face was smiling brightly under his graying hair.

“It's good,” he thought, “to taste for one's self all that which one needs to know. The lust for the world and wealth were not among the best things in life; I already learned this as a child. I have known it for a long time, but have only experienced this now. And now I know this, not just in my mind, but in my eyes, my heart, and my stomach. Bravo for me because I know this!”

He pondered his transformation for a long time; he listened to the bird as it sang for joy. Hadn't this bird died within him; hadn't he felt its death? No, something else within himself had died, something which he had yearned to see die for a long time. Wasn't it this thing that he had wanted to deaden in his years as a devout penitent? Wasn't it his small, frightened, and proud self, with which he had wrestled for so many years and which had defeated him time and again, coming back after every deadening, every forbidden joy, every troubled fear? Wasn't it this which had today finally come to its death in the forest by this lovely river? Was it not because of this death that he was now like a child, so trusting, fearless, and joyful?

Siddhartha now had some notion of why his fight against this self had been in vain while he was a Brahmin and a penitent. Too much knowledge had been holding him back, too many holy verses, sacrificial rules, self-castigation, and striving for this goal! He had always been full of arrogance, the most intelligent, the most zealous worker, one step ahead of the others, the knowing and spiritual one, the priest or the wise one. His self had retreated into this arrogance, this spirituality, this priesthood, and there it was firmly planted, growing, while he thought he would kill it by fasting and penance. Now he saw it, and saw that the secret voice had been correct, that no teacher would have ever been able to bring about his salvation. This was why he had gone out into the world to lose himself to lust and power, to women and money. He had had to become a merchant, a gambler with the dice, a drunkard, and a miser until the priest and Samana within him were dead. This is why he had to endure these hated years—the revulsion, the lessons, the pointlessness of a dreary and wasted life—endure up to the end, up to bitter despair, until Siddhartha the lust-filled and greedy one could also die. He had died, and a new Siddhartha had awakened out of the sleep. He would also grow old and eventually have to die; Siddhartha was mortal, and every physical form was mortal. But today he was young and a child; he was the new Siddhartha and was full of joy.

He contemplated these thoughts and perked up his ears with a smile at his grumbling stomach, and listened with thanks to the buzzing bee. He looked cheerfully into the rushing river; he had never before had water so please him, never had he perceived the voice and parable of the moving water so strongly and beautifully. It seemed to him as if the river had something special to tell him that he did not yet know; it was still awaiting him. Siddhartha had intended to drown himself in this river, and the old, tired, desperate Siddhartha had drowned today. But the new Siddhartha felt a deep love for this rushing water, and decided on his own not to leave it any time soon.