prompt:
Chapter: BY THE RIVER

Siddhartha walked through the forest, was already far from the city, and
knew nothing but that one thing, that there was no going back for him,
that this life, as he had lived it for many years until now, was over
and done away with, and that he had tasted all of it, sucked everything
out of it until he was disgusted with it.  Dead was the singing bird, he
had dreamt of.  Dead was the bird in his heart.  Deeply, he had been
entangled in Sansara, he had sucked up disgust and death from all sides
into his body, like a sponge sucks up water until it is full.  And full
he was, full of the feeling of been sick of it, full of misery, full of
death, there was nothing left in this world which could have attracted
him, given him joy, given him comfort.

Passionately he wished to know nothing about himself anymore, to have
rest, to be dead.  If there only was a lightning-bolt to strike him
dead!  If there only was a tiger to devour him!  If there only was a
wine, a poison which would numb his senses, bring him forgetfulness and
sleep, and no awakening from that!  Was there still any kind of filth,
he had not soiled himself with, a sin or foolish act he had not
committed, a dreariness of the soul he had not brought upon himself?
Was it still at all possible to be alive?  Was it possible, to breathe
in again and again, to breathe out, to feel hunger, to eat again, to
sleep again, to sleep with a woman again?  Was this cycle not exhausted
and brought to a conclusion for him?

Siddhartha reached the large river in the forest, the same river over
which a long time ago, when he had still been a young man and came from
the town of Gotama, a ferryman had conducted him.  By this river he
stopped, hesitantly he stood at the bank.  Tiredness and hunger had
weakened him, and whatever for should he walk on, wherever to, to which
goal?  No, there were no more goals, there was nothing left but the
deep, painful yearning to shake off this whole desolate dream, to spit
out this stale wine, to put an end to this miserable and shameful life.

A hang bent over the bank of the river, a coconut-tree; Siddhartha
leaned against its trunk with his shoulder, embraced the trunk with one
arm, and looked down into the green water, which ran and ran under him,
looked down and found himself to be entirely filled with the wish to
let go and to drown in these waters.  A frightening emptiness was
reflected back at him by the water, answering to the terrible emptiness
in his soul.  Yes, he had reached the end.  There was nothing left for
him, except to annihilate himself, except to smash the failure into
which he had shaped his life, to throw it away, before the feet of
mockingly laughing gods.  This was the great vomiting he had longed for:
death, the smashing to bits of the form he hated!  Let him be food for
fishes, this dog Siddhartha, this lunatic, this depraved and rotten
body, this weakened and abused soul!  Let him be food for fishes and
crocodiles, let him be chopped to bits by the daemons!

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

Then, out of remote areas of his soul, out of past times of his now
weary life, a sound stirred up.  It was a word, a syllable, which he,
without thinking, with a slurred voice, spoke to himself, the old word
which is the beginning and the end of all prayers of the Brahmans, the
holy "Om", which roughly means "that what is perfect" or "the
completion".  And in the moment when the sound of "Om" touched
Siddhartha's ear, his dormant spirit suddenly woke up and realized the
foolishness of his actions.

Siddhartha was deeply shocked.  So this was how things were with him,
so doomed was he, so much he had lost his way and was forsaken by all
knowledge, that he had been able to seek death, that this wish, this
wish of a child, had been able to grow in him: to find rest by
annihilating his body!  What all agony of these recent times, all
sobering realizations, all desperation had not brought about, this was
brought on by this moment, when the Om entered his consciousness:  he
became aware of himself in his misery and in his error.

Om! he spoke to himself:  Om!  and again he knew about Brahman, knew
about the indestructibility of life, knew about all that is divine,
which he had forgotten.

But this was only a moment, flash.  By the foot of the coconut-tree,
Siddhartha collapsed, struck down by tiredness, mumbling Om, placed his
head on the root of the tree and fell into a deep sleep.

Deep was his sleep and without dreams, for a long time he had not known
such a sleep any more.  When he woke up after many hours, he felt as if
ten years had passed, he heard the water quietly flowing, did not know
where he was and who had brought him here, opened his eyes, saw with
astonishment that there were trees and the sky above him, and he
remembered where he was and how he got here.  But it took him a long
while for this, and the past seemed to him as if it had been covered by
a veil, infinitely distant, infinitely far away, infinitely meaningless.
He only knew that his previous life (in the first moment when he thought
about it, this past life seemed to him like a very old, previous
incarnation, like an early pre-birth of his present self)--that his
previous life had been abandoned by him, that, full of disgust and
wretchedness, he had even intended to throw his life away, but that by a
river, under a coconut-tree, he has come to his senses, the holy word
Om on his lips, that then he had fallen asleep and had now woken up and
was looking at the world as a new man.  Quietly, he spoke the word Om to
himself, speaking which he had fallen asleep, and it seemed to him as if
his entire long sleep had been nothing but a long meditative recitation
of Om, a thinking of Om, a submergence and complete entering into Om,
into the nameless, the perfected.

What a wonderful sleep had this been!  Never before by sleep, he had
been thus refreshed, thus renewed, thus rejuvenated!  Perhaps, he had
really died, had drowned and was reborn in a new body?  But no, he knew
himself, he knew his hand and his feet, knew the place where he lay,
knew this self in his chest, this Siddhartha, the eccentric, the weird
one, but this Siddhartha was nevertheless transformed, was renewed,
was strangely well rested, strangely awake, joyful and curious.

Siddhartha straightened up, then he saw a person sitting opposite to him,
an unknown man, a monk in a yellow robe with a shaven head, sitting in
the position of pondering.  He observed the man, who had neither hair
on his head nor a beard, and he had not observed him for long when he
recognised this monk as Govinda, the friend of his youth, Govinda who
had taken his refuge with the exalted Buddha.  Govinda had aged, he too,
but still his face bore the same features, expressed zeal, faithfulness,
searching, timidness.  But when Govinda now, sensing his gaze, opened
his eyes and looked at him, Siddhartha saw that Govinda did not
recognise him.  Govinda was happy to find him awake; apparently, he had
been sitting here for a long time and been waiting for him to wake up,
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 be
sleeping in such places, where snakes often are and the animals of the
forest have their paths.  I, oh sir, am a follower of the exalted
Gotama, the Buddha, the Sakyamuni, and have been on a pilgrimage
together with several of us on this path, when I saw you lying and
sleeping in a place where it is dangerous to sleep.  Therefore, I sought
to wake you up, oh sir, and since I saw that your sleep was very deep,
I stayed behind from my group and sat with you.  And then, so it seems,
I have fallen asleep myself, I who wanted to guard your sleep.  Badly,
I have served you, tiredness has overwhelmed me.  But now that you're
awake, let me go to catch up with my brothers."

"I thank you, Samana, for watching out over my sleep," spoke Siddhartha.
"You're friendly, you followers of the exalted one.  Now you may go
then."

"I'm going, sir.  May you, sir, always be in good health."

"I thank you, Samana."

Govinda made the gesture of a salutation and said:  "Farewell."

"Farewell, Govinda," said Siddhartha.

The monk stopped.

"Permit me to ask, sir, from where do you know my name?"

Now, Siddhartha smiled.

"I know you, oh Govinda, from your father's hut, and from the school
of the Brahmans, and from the offerings, and from 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," Govinda exclaimed loudly.  "Now, I'm recognising
you, and don't comprehend any more how I couldn't recognise you right
away.  Be welcome, Siddhartha, my joy is great, to see you again."

"It also gives me joy, to see you again.  You've been the guard of my
sleep, again I thank you for this, though I wouldn't have required any
guard.  Where are you going to, oh friend?"

"I'm going nowhere.  We monks are always travelling, whenever it is not
the rainy season, we always move from one place to another, live
according to the rules if the teachings passed on to us, accept alms,
move on.  It is always like this.  But you, Siddhartha, where are you
going to?"

Quoth Siddhartha:  "With me too, friend, it is as it is with you.  I'm
going nowhere.  I'm just travelling.  I'm on a pilgrimage."

Govinda spoke:  "You're saying: you're on a pilgrimage, and I believe in
you.  But, forgive me, oh Siddhartha, you do not look like a pilgrim.
You're wearing a rich man's garments, you're wearing the shoes of a
distinguished gentleman, and your hair, with the fragrance of perfume,
is not a pilgrim's hair, not the hair of a Samana."

"Right so, my dear, you have observed well, your keen eyes see
everything.  But I haven't said 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, few in such shoes, few with such hair.
Never I have met such a pilgrim, being a pilgrim myself for many years."

"I believe you, my dear Govinda.  But now, today, you've met a pilgrim
just like this, wearing such shoes, such a garment.  Remember, my dear:
Not eternal is the world of appearances, not eternal, anything but
eternal are our garments and the style of our hair, and our hair and
bodies themselves.  I'm wearing a rich man's clothes, you've seen this
quite right.  I'm wearing them, because I have been a rich man, and I'm
wearing my hair like the worldly and lustful people, for I have been
one of them."

"And now, Siddhartha, what are you now?"

"I don't know it, I don't know it just like you.  I'm travelling.  I was
a rich man and am no rich man any more, and what I'll be tomorrow, I
don't know."

"You've lost your riches?"

"I've lost them or they me.  They somehow happened to slip away from me.
The wheel of physical manifestations is turning quickly, Govinda.  Where
is Siddhartha the Brahman?  Where is Siddhartha the Samana?  Where is
Siddhartha the rich man?  Non-eternal things change quickly, Govinda,
you know it."

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

With a smiling face, Siddhartha watched him leave, he loved him still,
this faithful man, this fearful man.  And how could he not have loved
everybody and everything in this moment, in the glorious hour after his
wonderful sleep, filled with Om!  The enchantment, which had happened
inside of him in his sleep and by means of the Om, was this very thing
that he loved everything, that he was full of joyful love for everything
he saw.  And it was this very thing, so it seemed to him now, which had
been his sickness before, that he was not able to love anybody or
anything.

With a smiling face, Siddhartha watched the leaving monk.  The sleep had
strengthened him much, but hunger gave him much pain, for by now he had
not eaten for two days, and the times were long past when he had been
tough against hunger.  With sadness, and yet also with a smile, he
thought of that time.  In those days, so he remembered, he had boasted
of three things to Kamala, had been able to do three noble and
undefeatable feats: fasting--waiting--thinking.  These had been his
possession, his power and strength, his solid staff; in the busy,
laborious years of his youth, he had learned these three feats, nothing
else.  And now, they had abandoned him, none of them was his any more,
neither fasting, nor waiting, nor thinking.  For the most wretched
things, he had given them up, for what fades most quickly, for sensual
lust, for the good life, for riches!  His life had indeed been strange.
And now, so it seemed, now he had really become a childlike person.

Siddhartha thought about his situation.  Thinking was hard on him, he
did not really feel like it, but he forced himself.

Now, he thought, since all these most easily perishing things have
slipped from me again, now I'm standing here under the sun again just as
I have been standing here a little child, nothing is mine, I have no
abilities, there is nothing I could bring about, I have learned nothing.
How wondrous is this!  Now, that I'm no longer young, that my hair is
already half gray, that my strength is fading, now I'm starting again
at the beginning and as a child!  Again, he had to smile.  Yes, his fate
had been strange!  Things were going downhill with him, and now he was
again facing the world void and naked and stupid.  But he could not feed
sad about this, no, he even felt a great urge to laugh, to laugh about
himself, to laugh about this strange, foolish world.

"Things are going downhill with you!" he said to himself, and laughed
about it, and as he was saying it, he happened to glance at the river,
and he also saw the river going downhill, always moving on downhill,
and singing and being happy through it all.  He liked this well, kindly
he smiled at the river.  Was this not the river in which he had intended
to drown himself, in past times, a hundred years ago, or had he dreamed
this?

Wondrous indeed was my life, so he thought, wondrous detours it has
taken.  As I boy, I had only to do with gods and offerings.  As a youth,
I had only to do with asceticism, with thinking and meditation, was
searching for Brahman, worshipped the eternal in the Atman.  But as a
young man, I followed the penitents, lived in the forest, suffered of
heat and frost, learned to hunger, taught my body to become dead.
Wonderfully, soon afterwards, insight came towards me in the form of the
great Buddha's teachings, I felt the knowledge of the oneness of the
world circling in me like my own blood.  But I also had to leave Buddha
and the great knowledge.  I went and learned the art of love with
Kamala, learned trading with Kamaswami, piled up money, wasted money,
learned to love my stomach, learned to please my senses.  I had to spend
many years losing my spirit, to unlearn thinking again, to forget the
oneness.  Isn't it just as if I had turned slowly and on a long detour
from a man into a child, from a thinker into a childlike person?  And
yet, this path has been very good; and yet, the bird in my chest has
not died.  But what a path has this been!  I had to pass through so much
stupidity, through so much vices, through so many errors, through so
much disgust and disappointments and woe, just to become a child again
and to be able to start over.  But it was right so, my heart says "Yes"
to it, my eyes smile to it.  I've had to experience despair, I've had to
sink down to the most foolish one of all thoughts, to the thought of
suicide, in order to be able to experience divine grace, to hear Om
again, to be able to sleep properly and awake 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 to?  It is foolish, this
path, it moves in loops, perhaps it is going around in a circle.  Let
it go as it likes, I want to take it.

Wonderfully, he felt joy rolling like waves in his chest.

Wherever from, he asked his heart, where from did you get this
happiness?  Might it come from that long, good sleep, which has done me
so good?  Or from the word Om, which I said?  Or from the fact that I
have escaped, that I have completely fled, that I am finally free again
and am standing like a child under the sky?  Oh how good is it to have
fled, to have become free!  How clean and beautiful is the air here, how
good to breathe!  There, where I ran away from, there everything smelled
of ointments, of spices, of wine, of excess, of sloth.  How did I hate
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 did I hate myself, have deprive, poisoned, tortured
myself, have made myself old and evil!  No, never again I will, as I
used to like doing so much, delude myself into thinking that Siddhartha
was wise!  But this one thing I have done well, this I like, this I must
praise, that there is now an end to that hatred against myself, to that
foolish and dreary life!  I praise you, Siddhartha, after so many years
of foolishness, you have once again had an idea, have done something,
have heard the bird in your chest singing and have followed it!

Thus he praised himself, found joy in himself, listened curiously to his
stomach, which was rumbling with hunger.  He had now, so he felt, in
these recent times and days, completely tasted and spit out, devoured up
to the point of desperation and death, a piece of suffering, a piece of
misery.  Like this, it was good.  For much longer, he could have stayed
with Kamaswami, made money, wasted money, filled his stomach, and let
his soul die of thirst; for much longer he could have lived in this
soft, well upholstered hell, if this had not happened: the moment of
complete hopelessness and despair, that most extreme moment, when he
hung over the rushing waters and was ready to destroy himself.  That he
had felt this despair, this deep disgust, and that he had not succumbed
to it, that the bird, the joyful source and voice in him was still alive
after all, this was why he felt joy, this was why he laughed, this was
why his face was smiling brightly under his hair which had turned gray.

"It is good," he thought, "to get a taste of everything for oneself,
which one needs to know.  That lust for the world and riches do not
belong to the good things, I have already learned as a child.  I have
known it for a long time, but I have experienced only now.  And now I
know it, don't just know it in my memory, but in my eyes, in my heart,
in my stomach.  Good for me, to know this!"

For a long time, he pondered his transformation, listened to the bird,
as it sang for joy.  Had not this bird died in him, had he not felt its
death?  No, something else from within him had died, something which
already for a long time had yearned to die.  Was it not this what he
used to intend to kill in his ardent years as a penitent?  Was this not
his self, his small, frightened, and proud self, he had wrestled with
for so many years, which had defeated him again and again, which was
back again after every killing, prohibited joy, felt fear?  Was it not
this, which today had finally come to its death, here in the forest, by
this lovely river?  Was it not due to this death, that he was now like
a child, so full of trust, so without fear, so full of joy?

Now Siddhartha also got some idea of why he had fought this self in
vain as a Brahman, as a penitent.  Too much knowledge had held him
back, too many holy verses, too many sacrificial rules, to much
self-castigation, so much doing and striving for that goal!  Full of
arrogance, he had been, always the smartest, always working the most,
always one step ahead of all others, always the knowing and spiritual
one, always the priest or wise one.  Into being a priest, into this
arrogance, into this spirituality, his self had retreated, there it sat
firmly and grew, while he thought he would kill it by fasting and
penance.  Now he saw it and saw that the secret voice had been right,
that no teacher would ever have been able to bring about his salvation.
Therefore, he had to go out into the world, lose himself to lust and
power, to woman and money, had to become a merchant, a dice-gambler, a
drinker, and a greedy person, until the priest and Samana in him was
dead.  Therefore, he had to continue bearing these ugly years, bearing
the disgust, the teachings, the pointlessness of a dreary and
wasted life up to the end, up to bitter despair, until Siddhartha the
lustful, Siddhartha the greedy could also die.  He had died, a new
Siddhartha had woken up from the sleep.  He would also grow old, he
would also eventually have to die, mortal was Siddhartha, mortal was
every physical form.  But today he was young, was a child, the new
Siddhartha, and was full of joy.

He thought these thoughts, listened with a smile to his stomach,
listened gratefully to a buzzing bee.  Cheerfully, he looked into the
rushing river, never before he had liked a water so well as this one,
never before he had perceived the voice and the parable of the moving
water thus strongly and beautifully.  It seemed to him, as if the river
had something special to tell him, something he did not know yet, which
was still awaiting him.  In this river, Siddhartha had intended to
drown himself, in it the old, tired, desperate Siddhartha had drowned
today.  But the new Siddhartha felt a deep love for this rushing water,
and decided for himself, not to leave it very soon.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Siddhartha wanders into the forest, knowing that he can never return to his former life. He is disgusted with his life and wants only oblivion. When he reaches the river, the same river he had been ferried across as a young man, he wants to throw himself into it and drown. Then he hears the holy word OM, which means "perfection," welling up from within his soul, and for a moment he remembers the divine, and regrets that he had wished to die. He falls asleep and wakes up many hours later, feeling refreshed. It is as if he has been reborn. He sees a monk in a yellow gown sitting opposite him, and immediately recognizes him to be his old friend, Govinda. Govinda is still a disciple of the Buddha, and is on a pilgrimage. Govinda does not recognize Siddhartha until Siddhartha identifies himself. Siddhartha says that although he is not going anywhere in particular, he is on a pilgrimage, which surprises Govinda because Siddhartha is still dressed in his rich clothes. The two men part on friendly terms, although Govinda is mystified by what his friend tells him. After Govinda leaves, Siddhartha reflects on his life. He feels he has returned to how he was as a child, without possessions, and without knowledge. He accepts all his experiences that have led him to this point, and he is happy. He realizes that when he was a Brahmin and an ascetic, too much knowledge had hindered him, and he had been arrogant. He had had to go out and lose himself in worldly activities because that was the only way the arrogant Brahmin self could be destroyed. Then, out of his despair, a new man could arise.


prompt:
Chapter: GOVINDA

Together with other monks, Govinda used to spend the time of rest
between pilgrimages in the pleasure-grove, which the courtesan Kamala
had given to the followers of Gotama for a gift.  He heard talk of an
old ferryman, who lived one day's journey away by the river, and
who was regarded as a wise man by many.  When Govinda went back on his
way, he chose the path to the ferry, eager to see the ferryman.
Because, though he had lived his entire life by the rules, though he was
also looked upon with veneration by the younger monks on account of his
age and his modesty, the restlessness and the searching still had not
perished from his heart.

He came to the river and asked the old man to ferry him over, and when
they got off the boat on the other side, he said to the old man:
"You're very good to us monks and pilgrims, you have already ferried
many of us across the river.  Aren't you too, ferryman, a searcher for
the right path?"

Quoth Siddhartha, smiling from his old eyes:  "Do you call yourself a
searcher, oh venerable one, though you are already of an old in years
and are wearing the robe of Gotama's monks?"

"It's true, I'm old," spoke Govinda, "but I haven't stopped searching.
Never I'll stop searching, this seems to be my destiny.  You too, so it
seems to me, have been searching.  Would you like to tell me something,
oh honourable one?"

Quoth Siddhartha:  "What should I possibly have to tell you, oh
venerable one?  Perhaps that you're searching far too much?  That in all
that searching, you don't find the time for finding?"

"How come?" asked Govinda.

"When someone is searching," said Siddhartha, "then it might easily
happen that the only thing his eyes still see is that what he searches
for, that he is unable to find anything, to let anything enter his mind,
because he always thinks of nothing but the object of his search,
because he has a goal, because he is obsessed by the goal.  Searching
means: having a goal.  But finding means: being free, being open, having
no goal.  You, oh venerable one, are perhaps indeed a searcher, because,
striving for your goal, there are many things you don't see, which are
directly in front of your eyes."

"I don't quite understand yet," asked Govinda, "what do you mean by
this?"

Quoth Siddhartha:  "A long time ago, oh venerable one, many years ago,
you've once before been at this river and have found a sleeping man by
the river, and have sat down with him to guard his sleep.  But, oh
Govinda, you did not recognise the sleeping man."

Astonished, as if he had been the object of a magic spell, the monk
looked into the ferryman's eyes.

"Are you Siddhartha?" he asked with a timid voice.  "I wouldn't have
recognised you this time as well!  From my heart, I'm greeting you,
Siddhartha; from my heart, I'm happy to see you once again!  You've
changed a lot, my friend.--And so you've now become a ferryman?"

In a friendly manner, Siddhartha laughed.  "A ferryman, yes.  Many
people, Govinda, have to change a lot, have to wear many a robe, I am
one of those, my dear.  Be welcome, Govinda, and spend the night in my
hut."

Govinda stayed the night in the hut and slept on the bed which used to
be Vasudeva's bed.  Many questions he posed to the friend of his youth,
many things Siddhartha had to tell him from his life.

When in the next morning the time had come to start the day's journey,
Govinda said, not without hesitation, these words:  "Before I'll
continue on my path, Siddhartha, permit me to ask one more question.
Do you have a teaching?  Do you have a faith, or a knowledge, you
follow, which helps you to live and to do right?"

Quoth Siddhartha:  "You know, my dear, that I already as a young man, in
those days when we lived with the penitents in the forest, started to
distrust teachers and teachings and to turn my back to them.  I have
stuck with this.  Nevertheless, I have had many teachers since then.  A
beautiful courtesan has been my teacher for a long time, and a rich
merchant was my teacher, and some gamblers with dice.  Once, even a
follower of Buddha, travelling on foot, has been my teacher; he sat with
me when I had fallen asleep in the forest, on the pilgrimage.  I've also
learned from him, I'm also grateful to him, very grateful.  But most of
all, I have learned here from this river and from my predecessor, the
ferryman Vasudeva.  He was a very simple person, Vasudeva, he was no
thinker, but he knew what is necessary just as well as Gotama, he was a
perfect man, a saint."

Govinda said:  "Still, oh Siddhartha, you love a bit to mock people, as
it seems to me.  I believe in you and know that you haven't followed a
teacher.  But haven't you found something by yourself, though you've
found no teachings, you still found certain thoughts, certain insights,
which are your own and which help you to live?  If you would like to
tell me some of these, you would delight my heart."

Quoth Siddhartha:  "I've had thoughts, yes, and insight, again and
again.  Sometimes, for an hour or for an entire day, I have felt
knowledge in me, as one would feel life in one's heart.  There have
been many thoughts, but it would be hard for me to convey them to you.
Look, my dear Govinda, this is one of my thoughts, which I have found:
wisdom cannot be passed on.  Wisdom which a wise man tries to pass on
to someone always sounds like foolishness."

"Are you kidding?" asked Govinda.

"I'm not kidding.  I'm telling you what I've found.  Knowledge can be
conveyed, but not wisdom.  It can be found, it can be lived, it is
possible to be carried by it, miracles can be performed with it, but it
cannot be expressed in words and taught.  This was what I, even as a
young man, sometimes suspected, what has driven me away from the
teachers.  I have found a thought, Govinda, which you'll again regard as
a joke or foolishness, but which is my best thought.  It says:  The
opposite of every truth is just as true!  That's like this: any truth
can only be expressed and put into words when it is one-sided.
Everything is one-sided which can be thought with thoughts and said with
words, it's all one-sided, all just one half, all lacks completeness,
roundness, oneness.  When the exalted Gotama spoke in his teachings of
the world, he had to divide it into Sansara and Nirvana, into deception
and truth, into suffering and salvation.  It cannot be done differently,
there is no other way for him who wants to teach.  But the world itself,
what exists around us and inside of us, is never one-sided.  A person or
an act is never entirely Sansara or entirely Nirvana, a person is never
entirely holy or entirely sinful.  It does really seem like this,
because we are subject to deception, as if time was something real.
Time is not real, Govinda, I have experienced this often and often
again.  And if time is not real, then the gap which seems to be between
the world and the eternity, between suffering and blissfulness, between
evil and good, is also a deception."

"How come?" asked Govinda timidly.

"Listen well, my dear, listen well!  The sinner, which I am and which
you are, is a sinner, but in times to come he will be Brahma again, he
will reach the Nirvana, will be Buddha--and now see: these 'times to
come' are a deception, are only a parable!  The sinner is not on his
way to become a Buddha, he is not in the process of developing, though
our capacity for thinking does not know how else to picture these
things.  No, within the sinner is now and today already the future
Buddha, his future is already all there, you have to worship in him, in
you, in everyone the Buddha which is coming into being, the possible,
the hidden Buddha.  The world, my friend Govinda, is not imperfect, or
on a slow path towards perfection: no, it is perfect in every moment,
all sin already carries the divine forgiveness in itself, all small
children already have the old person in themselves, all infants already
have death, all dying people the eternal life.  It is not possible for
any person to see how far another one has already progressed on his
path; in the robber and dice-gambler, the Buddha is waiting; in the
Brahman, the robber is waiting.  In deep meditation, there is the
possibility to put time out of existence, to see all life which was,
is, and will be as if it was simultaneous, and there everything is
good, everything is perfect, everything is Brahman.  Therefore, I see
whatever exists as good, death is to me like life, sin like holiness,
wisdom like foolishness, everything has to be as it is, everything only
requires my consent, only my willingness, my loving agreement, to be
good for me, to do nothing but work for my benefit, to be unable to ever
harm me.  I have experienced on my body and on my soul that I needed sin
very much, I needed lust, the desire for possessions, vanity, and needed
the most shameful despair, in order to learn how to give up all
resistance, in order to learn how to love the world, in order to stop
comparing it to some world I wished, I imagined, some kind of perfection
I had made up, but to leave it as it is and to love it and to enjoy
being a part of it.--These, oh Govinda, are some of the thoughts which
have come into my mind."

Siddhartha bent down, picked up a stone from the ground, and weighed it
in his hand.

"This here," he said playing with it, "is a stone, and will, after a
certain time, perhaps turn into soil, and will turn from soil into a
plant or animal or human being.  In the past, I would have said:  This
stone is just a stone, it is worthless, it belongs to the world of the
Maja; but because it might be able to become also a human being and a
spirit in the cycle of transformations, therefore I also grant it
importance.  Thus, I would perhaps have thought in the past.  But today
I think: this stone is a stone, it is also animal, it is also god, it is
also Buddha, I do not venerate and love it because it could turn into
this or that, but rather because it is already and always everything--
and it is this very fact, that it is a stone, that it appears to me now
and today as a stone, this is why I love it and see worth and purpose in
each of its veins and cavities, in the yellow, in the gray, in the
hardness, in the sound it makes when I knock at it, in the dryness or
wetness of its surface.  There are stones which feel like oil or soap,
and others like leaves, others like sand, and every one is special and
prays the Om in its own way, each one is Brahman, but simultaneously and
just as much it is a stone, is oily or juicy, and this is this very fact
which I like and regard as wonderful and worthy of worship.--But let me
speak no more of this.  The words are not good for the secret meaning,
everything always becomes a bit different, as soon as it is put into
words, gets distorted a bit, a bit silly--yes, and this is also very
good, and I like it a lot, I also very much agree with this, that this
what is one man's treasure and wisdom always sounds like foolishness to
another person."

Govinda listened silently.

"Why have you told me this about the stone?" he asked hesitantly after
a pause.

"I did it without any specific intention.  Or perhaps what I meant was,
that love this very stone, and the river, and all these things we are
looking at and from which we can learn.  I can love a stone, Govinda,
and also a tree or a piece of bark.  This are things, and things can be
loved.  But I cannot love words.  Therefore, teachings are no good for
me, they have no hardness, no softness, no colours, no edges, no smell,
no taste, they have nothing but words.  Perhaps it are these which keep
you from finding peace, perhaps it are the many words.  Because
salvation and virtue as well, Sansara and Nirvana as well, are mere
words, Govinda.  There is no thing which would be Nirvana; there is just
the word Nirvana."

Quoth Govinda:  "Not just a word, my friend, is Nirvana.  It is a
thought."

Siddhartha continued:  "A thought, it might be so.  I must confess to
you, my dear: I don't differentiate much between thoughts and words.
To be honest, I also have no high opinion of thoughts.  I have a better
opinion of things.  Here on this ferry-boat, for instance, a man has
been my predecessor and teacher, a holy man, who has for many years
simply believed in the river, nothing else.  He had noticed that the
river's spoke to him, he learned from it, it educated and taught him,
the river seemed to be a god to him, for many years he did not know that
every wind, every cloud, every bird, every beetle was just as divine and
knows just as much and can teach just as much as the worshipped river.
But when this holy man went into the forests, he knew everything, knew
more than you and me, without teachers, without books, only because he
had believed in the river."

Govinda said:  "But is that what you call `things', actually something
real, something which has existence?  Isn't it just a deception of the
Maja, just an image and illusion?  Your stone, your tree, your river--
are they actually a reality?"

"This too," spoke Siddhartha, "I do not care very much about.  Let the
things be illusions or not, after all I would then also be an illusion,
and thus they are always like me.  This is what makes them so dear and
worthy of veneration for me: they are like me.  Therefore, I can love
them.  And this is now a teaching you will laugh about: love, oh
Govinda, seems to me to be the most important thing of all.  To
thoroughly understand the world, to explain it, to despise it, may be
the thing great thinkers do.  But I'm only interested in being able to
love the world, not to despise it, not to hate it and me, to be able to
look upon it and me and all beings with love and admiration and great
respect."

"This I understand," spoke Govinda.  "But this very thing was discovered
by the exalted one to be a deception.  He commands benevolence,
clemency, sympathy, tolerance, but not love; he forbade us to tie our
heart in love to earthly things."

"I know it," said Siddhartha; his smile shone golden.  "I know it,
Govinda.  And behold, with this we are right in the middle of the
thicket of opinions, in the dispute about words.  For I cannot deny, my
words of love are in a contradiction, a seeming contradiction with
Gotama's words.  For this very reason, I distrust in words so much, for
I know, this contradiction is a deception.  I know that I am in
agreement with Gotama.  How should he not know love, he, who has
discovered all elements of human existence in their transitoriness, in
their meaninglessness, and yet loved people thus much, to use a long,
laborious life only to help them, to teach them!  Even with him, even
with your great teacher, I prefer the thing over the words, place more
importance on his acts and life than on his speeches, more on the
gestures of his hand than his opinions.  Not in his speech, not in his
thoughts, I see his greatness, only in his actions, in his life."

For a long time, the two old men said nothing.  Then spoke Govinda,
while bowing for a farewell:  "I thank you, Siddhartha, for telling me
some of your thoughts.  They are partially strange thoughts, not all
have been instantly understandable to me.  This being as it may, I thank
you, and I wish you to have calm days."

(But secretly he thought to himself:  This Siddhartha is a bizarre
person, he expresses bizarre thoughts, his teachings sound foolish.
So differently sound the exalted one's pure teachings, clearer, purer,
more comprehensible, nothing strange, foolish, or silly is contained in
them.  But different from his thoughts seemed to me Siddhartha's hands
and feet, his eyes, his forehead, his breath, his smile, his greeting,
his walk.  Never again, after our exalted Gotama has become one with the
Nirvana, never since then have I met a person of whom I felt: this is a
holy man!  Only him, this Siddhartha, I have found to be like this.  May
his teachings be strange, may his words sound foolish; out of his gaze
and his hand, his skin and his hair, out of every part of him shines a
purity, shines a calmness, shines a cheerfulness and mildness and
holiness, which I have seen in no other person since the final death of
our exalted teacher.)

As Govinda thought like this, and there was a conflict in his heart, he
once again bowed to Siddhartha, drawn by love.  Deeply he bowed to him
who was calmly sitting.

"Siddhartha," he spoke, "we have become old men.  It is unlikely for
one of us to see the other again in this incarnation.  I see, beloved,
that you have found peace.  I confess that I haven't found it.  Tell me,
oh honourable one, one more word, give me something on my way which I
can grasp, which I can understand!  Give me something to be with me on
my path.  It is often hard, my path, often dark, Siddhartha."

Siddhartha said nothing and looked at him with the ever unchanged,
quiet smile.  Govinda stared at his face, with fear, with yearning,
suffering, and the eternal search was visible in his look, eternal
not-finding.

Siddhartha saw it and smiled.

"Bend down to me!" he whispered quietly in Govinda's ear.  "Bend down to
me!  Like this, even closer!  Very close!  Kiss my forehead, Govinda!"

But while Govinda with astonishment, and yet drawn by great love and
expectation, obeyed his words, bent down closely to him and touched his
forehead with his lips, something miraculous happened to him.  While his
thoughts were still dwelling on Siddhartha's wondrous words, while he
was still struggling in vain and with reluctance to think away time, to
imagine Nirvana and Sansara as one, while even a certain contempt for
the words of his friend was fighting in him against an immense love and
veneration, this happened to him:

He no longer saw the face of his friend Siddhartha, instead he saw
other faces, many, a long sequence, a flowing river of faces, of
hundreds, of thousands, which all came and disappeared, and yet all
seemed to be there simultaneously, which all constantly changed and
renewed themselves, and which were still all Siddhartha.  He saw the
face of a fish, a carp, with an infinitely painfully opened mouth, the
face of a dying fish, with fading eyes--he saw the face of a new-born
child, red and full of wrinkles, distorted from crying--he saw the face
of a murderer, he saw him plunging a knife into the body of another
person--he saw, in the same second, this criminal in bondage, kneeling
and his head being chopped off by the executioner with one blow of his
sword--he saw the bodies of men and women, naked in positions and cramps
of frenzied love--he saw corpses stretched out, motionless, cold, void--
he saw the heads of animals, of boars, of crocodiles, of elephants, of
bulls, of birds--he saw gods, saw Krishna, saw Agni--he saw all of these
figures and faces in a thousand relationships with one another, each one
helping the other, loving it, hating it, destroying it, giving re-birth
to it, each one was a will to die, a passionately painful confession of
transitoriness, and yet none of them died, each one only transformed,
was always re-born, received evermore a new face, without any time
having passed between the one and the other face--and all of these
figures and faces rested, flowed, generated themselves, floated along
and merged with each other, and they were all constantly covered by
something thin, without individuality of its own, but yet existing, like
a thin glass or ice, like a transparent skin, a shell or mold or mask of
water, and this mask was smiling, and this mask was Siddhartha's smiling
face, which he, Govinda, in this very same moment touched with his lips.
And, Govinda saw it like this, this smile of the mask, this smile of
oneness above the flowing forms, this smile of simultaneousness above
the thousand births and deaths, this smile of Siddhartha was precisely
the same, was precisely of the same kind as the quiet, delicate,
impenetrable, perhaps benevolent, perhaps mocking, wise, thousand-fold
smile of Gotama, the Buddha, as he had seen it himself with great
respect a hundred times.  Like this, Govinda knew, the perfected ones
are smiling.

Not knowing any more whether time existed, whether the vision had lasted
a second or a hundred years, not knowing any more whether there existed
a Siddhartha, a Gotama, a me and a you, feeling in his innermost self
as if he had been wounded by a divine arrow, the injury of which tasted
sweet, being enchanted and dissolved in his innermost self, Govinda
still stood for a little while bent over Siddhartha's quiet face, which
he had just kissed, which had just been the scene of all manifestations,
all transformations, all existence.  The face was unchanged, after under
its surface the depth of the thousandfoldness had closed up again, he
smiled silently, smiled quietly and softly, perhaps very benevolently,
perhaps very mockingly, precisely as he used to smile, the exalted one.

Deeply, Govinda bowed; tears he knew nothing of, ran down his old face;
like a fire burnt the feeling of the most intimate love, the humblest
veneration in his heart.  Deeply, he bowed, touching the ground, before
him who was sitting motionlessly, whose smile reminded him of everything
he had ever loved in his life, what had ever been valuable and holy to
him in his life.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Govinda has heard talk of the wise old ferryman, and goes to see him. Siddhartha takes him across the river, but as happened the last time they met, Govinda does not recognize his old friend until Siddhartha reveals his identity. Govinda stays the night in Siddhartha's hut. Govinda asks Siddhartha whether he follows any teachings or doctrine. Siddhartha replies that wisdom, unlike knowledge, is not communicable. He explains that life should not be divided into the opposites of good and evil but accepted in its totality as an expression of perfection. Everything is good and necessary, death as well as life, sin as well as holiness, wisdom as well as folly. He sees infinite value in everything in creation, even a stone. He still distrusts teachings and words. He is no longer concerned, as Govinda still is, about whether the things in the world are real or illusory. The important thing, Siddhartha says, is that he should love them. Love is the most important thing in the world. Govinda replies that the Buddha did not preach love, because love would binds a person to earth rather than ensuring his salvation. Siddhartha admits there seems to be a contradiction between his own beliefs and the teachings of the Buddha, but he says the apparent contradiction is an illusion. He regards the Buddha as a great man who expressed great love for humanity. As Govinda prepares to leave, he thinks that Siddhartha is a strange man with strange thoughts. And yet he also acknowledges that Siddhartha radiates a purity and peace that he has encountered in no man other than the Buddha. He asks Siddhartha to give him something that will help him on his spiritual quest. Siddhartha asks him to kiss him on the forehead. As he does this, Govinda receives an experience of the unity of life in the midst of all its diversity. He sees all forms of life changing and being reborn, but he sees no death. He sees Siddhartha's smiling face as a smile of unity that somehow embraces all the changing forms. This smile of Siddhartha is exactly like the smile Govinda had perceived a hundred times in the smile of the Buddha. This is Govinda's moment of enlightenment. He bows low to Siddhartha, whose smile reminds him of everything he had ever loved in his life.


prompt:
Chapter: SECOND PART Dedicated to Wilhelm Gundert, my cousin in Japan KAMALA

Siddhartha learned something new on every step of his path, for the
world was transformed, and his heart was enchanted.  He saw the sun
rising over the mountains with their forests and setting over the
distant beach with its palm-trees.  At night, he saw the stars in the
sky in their fixed positions and the crescent of the moon floating like
a boat in the blue.  He saw trees, stars, animals, clouds, rainbows,
rocks, herbs, flowers, stream and river, the glistening dew in the
bushes in the morning, distant high mountains which were blue and
pale, birds sang and bees, wind silverishly blew through the rice-field.
All of this, a thousand-fold and colourful, had always been there,
always the sun and the moon had shone, always rivers had roared and
bees had buzzed, but in former times all of this had been nothing more
to Siddhartha than a fleeting, deceptive veil before his eyes,
looked upon in distrust, destined to be penetrated and destroyed by
thought, since it was not the essential existence, since this essence
lay beyond, on the other side of, the visible.  But now, his liberated
eyes stayed on this side, he saw and became aware of the visible, sought
to be at home in this world, did not search for the true essence, did
not aim at a world beyond.  Beautiful was this world, looking at it thus,
without searching, thus simply, thus childlike.  Beautiful were the moon
and the stars, beautiful was the stream and the banks, the forest and
the rocks, the goat and the gold-beetle, the flower and the butterfly.
Beautiful and lovely it was, thus to walk through the world, thus
childlike, thus awoken, thus open to what is near, thus without
distrust.  Differently the sun burnt the head, differently the shade
of the forest cooled him down, differently the stream and the cistern,
the pumpkin and the banana tasted.  Short were the days, short the
nights, every hour sped swiftly away like a sail on the sea, and under
the sail was a ship full of treasures, full of joy.  Siddhartha saw a
group of apes moving through the high canopy of the forest, high in the
branches, and heard their savage, greedy song.  Siddhartha saw a male
sheep following a female one and mating with her.  In a lake of reeds,
he saw the pike hungrily hunting for its dinner; propelling themselves
away from it, in fear, wiggling and sparkling, the young fish jumped in
droves out of the water; the scent of strength and passion came
forcefully out of the hasty eddies of the water, which the pike stirred
up, impetuously hunting.

All of this had always existed, and he had not seen it; he had not been
with it.  Now he was with it, he was part of it.  Light and shadow
ran through his eyes, stars and moon ran through his heart.

On the way, Siddhartha also remembered everything he had experienced in
the Garden Jetavana, the teaching he had heard there, the divine Buddha,
the farewell from Govinda, the conversation with the exalted one.  Again
he remembered his own words, he had spoken to the exalted one, every
word, and with astonishment he became aware of the fact that there he
had said things which he had not really known yet at this time.  What he
had said to Gotama: his, the Buddha's, treasure and secret was not the
teachings, but the unexpressable and not teachable, which he had
experienced in the hour of his enlightenment--it was nothing but this
very thing which he had now gone to experience, what he now began to
experience.  Now, he had to experience his self.  It is true that he had
already known for a long time that his self was Atman, in its essence
bearing the same eternal characteristics as Brahman.  But never, he had
really found this self, because he had wanted to capture it in the net
of thought.  With the body definitely not being the self, and not the
spectacle of the senses, so it also was not the thought, not the
rational mind, not the learned wisdom, not the learned ability to draw
conclusions and to develop previous thoughts in to new ones.  No, this
world of thought was also still on this side, and nothing could be
achieved by killing the random self of the senses, if the random self of
thoughts and learned knowledge was fattened on the other hand.  Both,
the thoughts as well as the senses, were pretty things, the ultimate
meaning was hidden behind both of them, both had to be listened to, both
had to be played with, both neither had to be scorned nor overestimated,
from both the secret voices of the innermost truth had to be attentively
perceived.  He wanted to strive for nothing, except for what the voice
commanded him to strive for, dwell on nothing, except where the voice
would advise him to do so.  Why had Gotama, at that time, in the hour
of all hours, sat down under the bo-tree, where the enlightenment hit
him?  He had heard a voice, a voice in his own heart, which had
commanded him to seek rest under this tree, and he had neither preferred
self-castigation, offerings, ablutions, nor prayer, neither food nor
drink, neither sleep nor dream, he had obeyed the voice.  To obey like
this, not to an external command, only to the voice, to be ready like
this, this was good, this was necessary, nothing else was necessary.

In the night when he slept in the straw hut of a ferryman by the river,
Siddhartha had a dream:  Govinda was standing in front of him, dressed
in the yellow robe of an ascetic.  Sad was how Govinda looked like,
sadly he asked:  Why have you forsaken me?  At this, he embraced
Govinda, wrapped his arms around him, and as he was pulling him close
to his chest and kissed him, it was not Govinda any more, but a woman,
and a full breast popped out of the woman's dress, at which Siddhartha
lay and drank, sweetly and strongly tasted the milk from this breast.
It tasted of woman and man, of sun and forest, of animal and flower,
of every fruit, of every joyful desire.  It intoxicated him and rendered
him unconscious.--When Siddhartha woke up, the pale river shimmered
through the door of the hut, and in the forest, a dark call of an owl
resounded deeply and pleasantly.

When the day began, Siddhartha asked his host, the ferryman, to get him
across the river.  The ferryman got him across the river on his
bamboo-raft, the wide water shimmered reddishly in the light of the
morning.

"This is a beautiful river," he said to his companion.

"Yes," said the ferryman, "a very beautiful river, I love it more than
anything.  Often I have listened to it, often I have looked into its
eyes, and always I have learned from it.  Much can be learned from a
river."

"I thank you, my benefactor," spoke Siddhartha, disembarking on the other
side of the river.  "I have no gift I could give you for your
hospitality, my dear, and also no payment for your work.  I am a man
without a home, a son of a Brahman and a Samana."

"I did see it," spoke the ferryman, "and I haven't expected any payment
from you and no gift which would be the custom for guests to bear.  You
will give me the gift another time."

"Do you think so?" asked Siddhartha amusedly.

"Surely.  This too, I have learned from the river: everything is coming
back!  You too, Samana, will come back.  Now farewell!  Let your
friendship be my reward.  Commemorate me, when you'll make offerings to
the gods."

Smiling, they parted.  Smiling, Siddhartha was happy about the
friendship and the kindness of the ferryman.  "He is like Govinda," he
thought with a smile, "all I meet on my path are like Govinda.  All are
thankful, though they are the ones who would have a right to receive
thanks.  All are submissive, all would like to be friends, like to
obey, think little.  Like children are all people."

At about noon, he came through a village.  In front of the mud cottages,
children were rolling about in the street, were playing with
pumpkin-seeds and sea-shells, screamed and wrestled, but they all
timidly fled from the unknown Samana.  In the end of the village, the
path led through a stream, and by the side of the stream, a young
woman was kneeling and washing clothes.  When Siddhartha greeted her,
she lifted her head and looked up to him with a smile, so that he saw
the white in her eyes glistening.  He called out a blessing to her, as
it is the custom among travellers, and asked how far he still had to go
to reach the large city.  Then she got up and came to him, beautifully
her wet mouth was shimmering in her young face.  She exchanged humorous
banter with him, asked whether he had eaten already, and whether it was
true that the Samanas slept alone in the forest at night and were not
allowed to have any women with them.  While talking, she put her left
foot on his right one and made a movement as a woman does who would want
to initiate that kind of sexual pleasure with a man, which the textbooks
call "climbing a tree".  Siddhartha felt his blood heating up, and since
in this moment he had to think of his dream again, he bend slightly
down to the woman and kissed with his lips the brown nipple of her
breast.  Looking up, he saw her face smiling full of lust and her
eyes, with contracted pupils, begging with desire.

Siddhartha also felt desire and felt the source of his sexuality moving;
but since he had never touched a woman before, he hesitated for a
moment, while his hands were already prepared to reach out for her.  And
in this moment he heard, shuddering with awe, the voice if his innermost
self, and this voice said No.  Then, all charms disappeared from the
young woman's smiling face, he no longer saw anything else but the damp
glance of a female animal in heat.  Politely, he petted her cheek,
turned away from her and disappeared away from the disappointed woman
with light steps into the bamboo-wood.

On this day, he reached the large city before the evening, and was
happy, for he felt the need to be among people.  For a long time, he
had lived in the forests, and the straw hut of the ferryman, in which
he had slept that night, had been the first roof for a long time he has
had over his head.

Before the city, in a beautifully fenced grove, the traveller came
across a small group of servants, both male and female, carrying
baskets.  In their midst, carried by four servants in an ornamental
sedan-chair, sat a woman, the mistress, on red pillows under a colourful
canopy.  Siddhartha stopped at the entrance to the pleasure-garden and
watched the parade, saw the servants, the maids, the baskets, saw the
sedan-chair and saw the lady in it.  Under black hair, which made to
tower high on her head, he saw a very fair, very delicate, very smart
face, a brightly red mouth, like a freshly cracked fig, eyebrows which
were well tended and painted in a high arch, smart and watchful dark
eyes, a clear, tall neck rising from a green and golden garment, resting
fair hands, long and thin, with wide golden bracelets over the wrists.

Siddhartha saw how beautiful she was, and his heart rejoiced.  He bowed
deeply, when the sedan-chair came closer, and straightening up again,
he looked at the fair, charming face, read for a moment in the smart
eyes with the high arcs above, breathed in a slight fragrant, he did
not know.  With a smile, the beautiful women nodded for a moment and
disappeared into the grove, and then the servant as well.

Thus I am entering this city, Siddhartha thought, with a charming omen.
He instantly felt drawn into the grove, but he thought about it, and
only now he became aware of how the servants and maids had looked at him
at the entrance, how despicable, how distrustful, how rejecting.

I am still a Samana, he thought, I am still an ascetic and beggar.  I
must not remain like this, I will not be able to enter the grove like
this.  And he laughed.

The next person who came along this path he asked about the grove and
for the name of the woman, and was told that this was the grove of
Kamala, the famous courtesan, and that, aside from the grove, she owned
a house in the city.

Then, he entered the city.  Now he had a goal.

Pursuing his goal, he allowed the city to suck him in, drifted through
the flow of the streets, stood still on the squares, rested on the
stairs of stone by the river.  When the evening came, he made friends
with barber's assistant, whom he had seen working in the shade of an
arch in a building, whom he found again praying in a temple of Vishnu,
whom he told about stories of Vishnu and the Lakshmi.  Among the boats
by the river, he slept this night, and early in the morning, before the
first customers came into his shop, he had the barber's assistant shave
his beard and cut his hair, comb his hair and anoint it with fine oil.
Then he went to take his bath in the river.

When late in the afternoon, beautiful Kamala approached her grove in her
sedan-chair, Siddhartha was standing at the entrance, made a bow and
received the courtesan's greeting.  But that servant who walked at the
very end of her train he motioned to him and asked him to inform his
mistress that a young Brahman would wish to talk to her.  After a while,
the servant returned, asked him, who had been waiting, to follow him
conducted him, who was following him, without a word into a pavilion,
where Kamala was lying on a couch, and left him alone with her.

"Weren't you already standing out there yesterday, greeting me?" asked
Kamala.

"It's true that I've already seen and greeted you yesterday."

"But didn't you yesterday wear a beard, and long hair, and dust in your
hair?"

"You have observed well, you have seen everything.  You have seen
Siddhartha, the son of a Brahman, who has left his home to become a
Samana, and who has been a Samana for three years.  But now, I have
left that path and came into this city, and the first one I met, even
before I had entered the city, was you.  To say this, I have come to
you, oh Kamala!  You are the first woman whom Siddhartha is not
addressing with his eyes turned to the ground.  Never again I want to
turn my eyes to the ground, when I'm coming across a beautiful woman."

Kamala smiled and played with her fan of peacocks' feathers.  And asked:
"And only to tell me this, Siddhartha has come to me?"

"To tell you this and to thank you for being so beautiful.  And if it
doesn't displease you, Kamala, I would like to ask you to be my friend
and teacher, for I know nothing yet of that art which you have mastered
in the highest degree."

At this, Kamala laughed aloud.

"Never before this has happened to me, my friend, that a Samana from the
forest came to me and wanted to learn from me!  Never before this has
happened to me, that a Samana came to me with long hair and an old, torn
loin-cloth!  Many young men come to me, and there are also sons of
Brahmans among them, but they come in beautiful clothes, they come in
fine shoes, they have perfume in their hair and money in their pouches.
This is, oh Samana, how the young men are like who come to me."

Quoth Siddhartha:  "Already I am starting to learn from you.  Even
yesterday, I was already learning.  I have already taken off my beard,
have combed the hair, have oil in my hair.  There is little which is
still missing in me, oh excellent one: fine clothes, fine shoes, money
in my pouch.  You shall know, Siddhartha has set harder goals for
himself than such trifles, and he has reached them.  How shouldn't I
reach that goal, which I have set for myself yesterday:  to be your
friend and to learn the joys of love from you!  You'll see that I'll
learn quickly, Kamala, I have already learned harder things than what
you're supposed to teach me.  And now let's get to it: You aren't
satisfied with Siddhartha as he is, with oil in his hair, but without
clothes, without shoes, without money?"

Laughing, Kamala exclaimed:  "No, my dear, he doesn't satisfy me yet.
Clothes are what he must have, pretty clothes, and shoes, pretty shoes,
and lots of money in his pouch, and gifts for Kamala.  Do you know it
now, Samana from the forest?  Did you mark my words?"

"Yes, I have marked your words," Siddhartha exclaimed.  "How should I
not mark words which are coming from such a mouth!  Your mouth is like
a freshly cracked fig, Kamala.  My mouth is red and fresh as well, it
will be a suitable match for yours, you'll see.--But tell me, beautiful
Kamala, aren't you at all afraid of the Samana from the forest, who has
come to learn how to make love?"

"Whatever for should I be afraid of a Samana, a stupid Samana from the
forest, who is coming from the jackals and doesn't even know yet what
women are?"

"Oh, he's strong, the Samana, and he isn't afraid of anything.  He could
force you, beautiful girl.  He could kidnap you.  He could hurt you."

"No, Samana, I am not afraid of this.  Did any Samana or Brahman ever
fear, someone might come and grab him and steal his learning, and his
religious devotion, and his depth of thought?  No, for they are his very
own, and he would only give away from those whatever he is willing to
give and to whomever he is willing to give.  Like this it is, precisely
like this it is also with Kamala and with the pleasures of love.
Beautiful and red is Kamala's mouth, but just try to kiss it against
Kamala's will, and you will not obtain a single drop of sweetness from
it, which knows how to give so many sweet things!  You are learning
easily, Siddhartha, thus you should also learn this: love can be
obtained by begging, buying, receiving it as a gift, finding it in the
street, but it cannot be stolen.  In this, you have come up with the
wrong path.  No, it would be a pity, if a pretty young man like you
would want to tackle it in such a wrong manner."

Siddhartha bowed with a smile.  "It would be a pity, Kamala, you are so
right!  It would be such a great pity.  No, I shall not lose a single
drop of sweetness from your mouth, nor you from mine!  So it is settled:
Siddhartha will return, once he'll have what he still lacks:
clothes, shoes, money.  But speak, lovely Kamala, couldn't you still
give me one small advice?"

"An advice?  Why not?  Who wouldn't like to give an advice to a poor,
ignorant Samana, who is coming from the jackals of the forest?"

"Dear Kamala, thus advise me where I should go to, that I'll find these
three things most quickly?"

"Friend, many would like to know this.  You must do what you've learned
and ask for money, clothes, and shoes in return.  There is no other way
for a poor man to obtain money.  What might you be able to do?"

"I can think.  I can wait.  I can fast."

"Nothing else?"

"Nothing.  But yes, I can also write poetry.  Would you like to give me
a kiss for a poem?"

"I would like to, if I'll like your poem.  What would be its title?"

Siddhartha spoke, after he had thought about it for a moment, these
verses:

Into her shady grove stepped the pretty Kamala,
At the grove's entrance stood the brown Samana.
Deeply, seeing the lotus's blossom,
Bowed that man, and smiling Kamala thanked.
More lovely, thought the young man, than offerings for gods,
More lovely is offering to pretty Kamala.

Kamala loudly clapped her hands, so that the golden bracelets clanged.

"Beautiful are your verses, oh brown Samana, and truly, I'm losing
nothing when I'm giving you a kiss for them."

She beckoned him with her eyes, he tilted his head so that his face
touched hers and placed his mouth on that mouth which was like a
freshly cracked fig.  For a long time, Kamala kissed him, and with a
deep astonishment Siddhartha felt how she taught him, how wise she was,
how she controlled him, rejected him, lured him, and how after this first
one there was to be a long, a well ordered, well tested sequence of
kisses, everyone different from the others, he was still to receive.
Breathing deeply, he remained standing where he was, and was in this
moment astonished like a child about the cornucopia of knowledge and
things worth learning, which revealed itself before his eyes.

"Very beautiful are your verses," exclaimed Kamala, "if I was rich, I
would give you pieces of gold for them.  But it will be difficult for
you to earn thus much money with verses as you need.  For you need a lot
of money, if you want to be Kamala's friend."

"The way you're able to kiss, Kamala!" stammered Siddhartha.

"Yes, this I am able to do, therefore I do not lack clothes, shoes,
bracelets, and all beautiful things.  But what will become of you?
Aren't you able to do anything else but thinking, fasting, making
poetry?"

"I also know the sacrificial songs," said Siddhartha, "but I do not want
to sing them any more.  I also know magic spells, but I do not want to
speak them any more.  I have read the scriptures--"

"Stop," Kamala interrupted him.  "You're able to read?  And write?"

"Certainly, I can do this.  Many people can do this."

"Most people can't.  I also can't do it.  It is very good that you're
able to read and write, very good.  You will also still find use for
the magic spells."

In this moment, a maid came running in and whispered a message into
her mistress's ear.

"There's a visitor for me," exclaimed Kamala.  "Hurry and get yourself
away, Siddhartha, nobody may see you in here, remember this!  Tomorrow,
I'll see you again."

But to the maid she gave the order to give the pious Brahman white
upper garments.  Without fully understanding what was happening to him,
Siddhartha found himself being dragged away by the maid, brought into
a garden-house avoiding the direct path, being given upper garments as a
gift, led into the bushes, and urgently admonished to get himself out of
the grove as soon as possible without being seen.

Contently, he did as he had been told.  Being accustomed to the forest,
he managed to get out of the grove and over the hedge without making a
sound.  Contently, he returned to the city, carrying the rolled up
garments under his arm.  At the inn, where travellers stay, he
positioned himself by the door, without words he asked for food, without
a word he accepted a piece of rice-cake.  Perhaps as soon as tomorrow,
he thought, I will ask no one for food any more.

Suddenly, pride flared up in him.  He was no Samana any more, it was no
longer becoming to him to beg.  He gave the rice-cake to a dog and
remained without food.

"Simple is the life which people lead in this world here," thought
Siddhartha.  "It presents no difficulties.  Everything was difficult,
toilsome, and ultimately hopeless, when I was still a Samana.  Now,
everything is easy, easy like that lessons in kissing, which Kamala is
giving me.  I need clothes and money, nothing else; this a small, near
goals, they won't make a person lose any sleep."

He had already discovered Kamala's house in the city long before, there
he turned up the following day.

"Things are working out well," she called out to him.  "They are
expecting you at Kamaswami's, he is the richest merchant of the city.
If he'll like you, he'll accept you into his service.  Be smart, brown
Samana.  I had others tell him about you.  Be polite towards him, he is
very powerful.  But don't be too modest!  I do not want you to become
his servant, you shall become his equal, or else I won't be satisfied
with you.  Kamaswami is starting to get old and lazy.  If he'll like
you, he'll entrust you with a lot."

Siddhartha thanked her and laughed, and when she found out that he had
not eaten anything yesterday and today, she sent for bread and fruits
and treated him to it.

"You've been lucky," she said when they parted, "I'm opening one door
after another for you.  How come?  Do you have a spell?"

Siddhartha said:  "Yesterday, I told you I knew how to think, to wait,
and to fast, but you thought this was of no use.  But it is useful for
many things, Kamala, you'll see.  You'll see that the stupid Samanas are
learning and able to do many pretty things in the forest, which the
likes of you aren't capable of.  The day before yesterday, I was still a
shaggy beggar, as soon as yesterday I have kissed Kamala, and soon I'll
be a merchant and have money and all those things you insist upon."

"Well yes," she admitted.  "But where would you be without me?  What
would you be, if Kamala wasn't helping you?"

"Dear Kamala," said Siddhartha and straightened up to his full height,
"when I came to you into your grove, I did the first step.  It was my
resolution to learn love from this most beautiful woman.  From that
moment on when I had made this resolution, I also knew that I would
carry it out.  I knew that you would help me, at your first glance at
the entrance of the grove I already knew it."

"But what if I hadn't been willing?"

"You were willing.  Look, Kamala:  When you throw a rock into the water,
it will speed on the fastest course to the bottom of the water.  This
is how it is when Siddhartha has a goal, a resolution.  Siddhartha does
nothing, he waits, he thinks, he fasts, but he passes through the things
of the world like a rock through water, without doing anything, without
stirring; he is drawn, he lets himself fall.  His goal attracts him,
because he doesn't let anything enter his soul which might oppose the
goal.  This is what Siddhartha has learned among the Samanas.  This is
what fools call magic and of which they think it would be effected by
means of the daemons.  Nothing is effected by daemons, there are no
daemons.  Everyone can perform magic, everyone can reach his goals, if
he is able to think, if he is able to wait, if he is able to fast."

Kamala listened to him.  She loved his voice, she loved the look from
his eyes.

"Perhaps it is so," she said quietly, "as you say, friend.  But perhaps
it is also like this: that Siddhartha is a handsome man, that his glance
pleases the women, that therefore good fortune is coming towards him."

With one kiss, Siddhartha bid his farewell.  "I wish that it should be
this way, my teacher; that my glance shall please you, that always
good fortune shall come to me out of your direction!"

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Part Two . Kamala . As he journeys along his way, Siddhartha appreciates the beauty of the world in a way he has never done before. He resolves to gain more experience by following the voice of his own heart. After a strange dream in which his friend Govinda appears but then turns into a woman, Siddhartha gets a ferryman to take him across the river. At midday he passes through a village. He greets a young woman, and she makes an amorous gesture, and he kisses her breast. But then an inner voice checks him, and he moves on, past the disappointed woman. . He reaches a large town, where he sees a beautiful woman in a sedan chair carried by four people. He is enchanted by her beauty. On inquiry, he learns that the woman is Kamala, a well-known courtesan. Next morning, Siddhartha has his beard shaved off, his hair combed, and he bathes in the river. He sees Kamala again and speaks to her, asking her to be his teacher in matters of love, since he knows nothing of the art. She tells him that in order to be good enough for her, he must have fine clothes and shoes, and the money to buy her gifts. Siddhartha replies that he will come to her again when he has what he now lacks. Before he leaves he asks her advice about where he can get these things. He says that as a Samana all he can do is think, wait, and fast. But he can also compose poetry, and he recites a poem for her, and about her, on the spot. Kamala says his poetry is good and she kisses him, but tells him that he will not earn as much money as he needs from poetry. She orders her servant to give him a white gown. He leaves and returns the next day. She tells him that through others, she has spoken to Kamaswami, a rich merchant. He is expecting Siddhartha to call on him. If Siddhartha pleases him, the merchant will take him into his service. Siddhartha is confident that he will get whatever he wants because his years as a Samana have taught him how to focus single-mindedly on a goal. .


prompt:
Chapter: 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 were these people in their blind
loyalty, their blind strength and tenacity.  They lacked nothing, there
was nothing the knowledgeable one, the thinker, had to put him above them
except for one little thing, a single, tiny, small thing: the
consciousness, the conscious thought of the oneness of all life.  And
Siddhartha even doubted in many an hour, whether this knowledge, this
thought was to be valued thus highly, whether it might not also perhaps
be a childish idea of the thinking people, of the thinking and childlike
people.  In all other respects, the worldly people were of equal rank
to the wise men, were often far superior to them, just as animals too
can, after all, in some moments, seem to be superior to humans in their
tough, unrelenting performance of what is necessary.

Slowly blossomed, slowly ripened in Siddhartha the realisation, the
knowledge, what wisdom actually was, what the goal of his long search
was.  It was nothing but a readiness of the soul, an ability, a secret
art, to think every moment, while living his life, the thought of
oneness, to be able to feel and inhale the oneness.  Slowly this
blossomed in him, was shining back at him from Vasudeva's old, childlike
face: harmony, knowledge of the eternal perfection of the world,
smiling, oneness.

But the wound still burned, longingly and bitterly Siddhartha thought of
his son, nurtured his love and tenderness in his heart, allowed the
pain to gnaw at him, committed all foolish acts of love.  Not by itself,
this flame would go out.

And one day, when the wound burned violently, Siddhartha ferried across
the river, driven by a yearning, got off the boat and was willing to go
to the city and to look for his son.  The river flowed softly and
quietly, it was the dry season, but its voice sounded strange: it
laughed!  It laughed clearly.  The river laughed, it laughed brightly
and clearly at the old ferryman.  Siddhartha stopped, he bent over the
water, in order to hear even better, and he saw his face reflected in
the quietly moving waters, and in this reflected face there was
something, which reminded him, something he had forgotten, and as he
thought about it, he found it: this face resembled another face, which
he used to know and love and also fear.  It resembled his father's face,
the Brahman.  And he remembered how he, a long time ago, as a young man,
had forced his father to let him go to the penitents, how he had bed his
farewell to him, how he had gone and had never come back.  Had his
father not also suffered the same pain for him, which he now suffered
for his son?  Had his father not long since died, alone, without having
seen his son again?  Did he not have to expect the same fate for
himself?  Was it not a comedy, a strange and stupid matter, this
repetition, this running around in a fateful circle?

The river laughed.  Yes, so it was, everything came back, which had not
been suffered and solved up to its end, the same pain was suffered over
and over again.  But Siddhartha went back into the boat and ferried back
to the hut, thinking of his father, thinking of his son, laughed at by
the river, at odds with himself, tending towards despair, and not less
tending towards laughing along at (?? ueber) himself and the entire
world.

Alas, the wound was not blossoming yet, his heart was still fighting his
fate, cheerfulness and victory were not yet shining from his suffering.
Nevertheless, he felt hope, and once he had returned to the hut, he felt
an undefeatable desire to open up to Vasudeva, to show him everything,
the master of listening, to say everything.

Vasudeva was sitting in the hut and weaving a basket.  He no longer used
the ferry-boat, his eyes were starting to get weak, and not just his
eyes; his arms and hands as well.  Unchanged and flourishing was only
the joy and the cheerful benevolence of his face.

Siddhartha sat down next to the old man, slowly he started talking.
What they had never talked about, he now told him of, of his walk to
the city, at that time, of the burning wound, of his envy at the sight
of happy fathers, of his knowledge of the foolishness of such wishes, of
his futile fight against them.  He reported everything, he was able to
say everything, even the most embarrassing parts, everything could be
said, everything shown, everything he could tell.  He presented his
wound, also told how he fled today, how he ferried across the water,
a childish run-away, willing to walk to the city, how the river had
laughed.

While he spoke, spoke for a long time, while Vasudeva was listening
with a quiet face, Vasudeva's listening gave Siddhartha a stronger
sensation than ever before, he sensed how his pain, his fears flowed
over to him, how his secret hope flowed over, came back at him from
his counterpart.  To show his wound to this listener was the same as
bathing it in the river, until it had cooled and become one with the
river.  While he was still speaking, still admitting and confessing,
Siddhartha felt more and more that this was no longer Vasudeva, no
longer a human being, who was listening to him, that this motionless
listener was absorbing his confession into himself like a tree the rain,
that this motionless man was the river itself, that he was God himself,
that he was the eternal itself.  And while Siddhartha stopped thinking
of himself and his wound, this realisation of Vasudeva's changed
character took possession of him, and the more he felt it and entered
into it, the less wondrous it became, the more he realised that
everything was in order and natural, that Vasudeva had already been like
this for a long time, almost forever, that only he had not quite
recognised it, yes, that he himself had almost reached the same state.
He felt, that he was now seeing old Vasudeva as the people see the
gods, and that this could not last; in his heart, he started bidding his
farewell to Vasudeva.  Thoroughout all this, he talked incessantly.

When he had finished talking, Vasudeva turned his friendly eyes, which
had grown slightly weak, at him, said nothing, let his silent love and
cheerfulness, understanding and knowledge, shine at him.  He took
Siddhartha's hand, led him to the seat by the bank, sat down with him,
smiled at the river.

"You've heard it laugh," he said.  "But you haven't heard everything.
Let's listen, you'll hear more."

They listened.  Softly sounded the river, singing in many voices.
Siddhartha looked into the water, and images appeared to him in the
moving water: his father appeared, lonely, mourning for his son; he
himself appeared, lonely, he also being tied with the bondage of
yearning to his distant son; his son appeared, lonely as well, the boy,
greedily rushing along the burning course of his young wishes, each
one heading for his goal, each one obsessed by the goal, each one
suffering.  The river sang with a voice of suffering, longingly it sang,
longingly, it flowed towards its goal, lamentingly its voice sang.

"Do you hear?" Vasudeva's mute gaze asked.  Siddhartha nodded.

"Listen better!" Vasudeva whispered.

Siddhartha made an effort to listen better.  The image of his father,
his own image, the image of his son merged, Kamala's image also appeared
and was dispersed, and the image of Govinda, and other images, and they
merged with each other, turned all into the river, headed all, being the
river, for the goal, longing, desiring, suffering, and the river's voice
sounded full of yearning, full of burning woe, full of unsatisfiable
desire.  For the goal, the river was heading, Siddhartha saw it
hurrying, the river, which consisted of him and his loved ones and of
all people, he had ever seen, all of these waves and waters were
hurrying, suffering, towards goals, many goals, the waterfall, the lake,
the rapids, the sea, and all goals were reached, and every goal was
followed by a new one, and the water turned into vapour and rose to the
sky, turned into rain and poured down from the sky, turned into a
source, a stream, a river, headed forward once again, flowed on once
again.  But the longing voice had changed.  It still resounded, full of
suffering, searching, but other voices joined it, voices of joy and of
suffering, good and bad voices, laughing and sad ones, a hundred voices,
a thousand voices.

Siddhartha listened.  He was now nothing but a listener, completely
concentrated on listening, completely empty, he felt, that he had now
finished learning to listen.  Often before, he had heard all this, these
many voices in the river, today it sounded new.  Already, he could no
longer tell the many voices apart, not the happy ones from the weeping
ones, not the ones of children from those of men, they all belonged
together, the lamentation of yearning and the laughter of the
knowledgeable one, the scream of rage and the moaning of the dying ones,
everything was one, everything was intertwined and connected, entangled
a thousand times.  And everything together, all voices, all goals, all
yearning, all suffering, all pleasure, all that was good and evil, all
of this together was the world.  All of it together was the flow of
events, was the music of life.  And when Siddhartha was listening
attentively to this river, this song of a thousand voices, when he
neither listened to the suffering nor the laughter, when he did not tie
his soul to any particular voice and submerged his self into it, but
when he heard them all, perceived the whole, the oneness, then the great
song of the thousand voices consisted of a single word, which was Om:
the perfection.

"Do you hear," Vasudeva's gaze asked again.

Brightly, Vasudeva's smile was shining, floating radiantly over all the
wrinkles of his old face, as the Om was floating in the air over all the
voices of the river.  Brightly his smile was shining, when he looked at
his friend, and brightly the same smile was now starting to shine on
Siddhartha's face as well.  His wound blossomed, his suffering was
shining, his self had flown into the oneness.

In this hour, Siddhartha stopped fighting his fate, stopped suffering.
On his face flourished the cheerfulness of a knowledge, which is no
longer opposed by any will, which knows perfection, which is in
agreement with the flow of events, with the current of life, full of
sympathy for the pain of others, full of sympathy for the pleasure of
others, devoted to the flow, belonging to the oneness.

When Vasudeva rose from the seat by the bank, when he looked into
Siddhartha's eyes and saw the cheerfulness of the knowledge shining
in them, he softly touched his shoulder with his hand, in this careful
and tender manner, and said:  "I've been waiting for this hour, my dear.
Now that it has come, let me leave.  For a long time, I've been waiting
for this hour; for a long time, I've been Vasudeva the ferryman.  Now
it's enough.  Farewell, hut, farewell, river, farewell, Siddhartha!"

Siddhartha made a deep bow before him who bid his farewell.

"I've known it," he said quietly.  "You'll go into the forests?"

"I'm going into the forests, I'm going into the oneness," spoke Vasudeva
with a bright smile.

With a bright smile, he left; Siddhartha watched him leaving.  With deep
joy, with deep solemnity he watched him leave, saw his steps full of
peace, saw his head full of lustre, saw his body full of light.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Now that he has felt the pain of losing his son, Siddhartha has more sympathy with the needs and desires of ordinary people. He again decides to seek his son in the town, but stops when he thinks he hears a special message from the river. He remembers when he rebelled against his own father, and realizes that his father must have suffered the same pain as he, Siddhartha, suffers now. Sorrows repeat themselves. Still suffering, he returns to the hut and tells Vasudeva of his troubles. Vasudeva, in his silent attentiveness, seems to Siddhartha like a god. They both go and sit by the river bank. Siddhartha practices his technique of listening to the river and realizes the unity of all life amidst all its diverse elements. He realizes that in the unity is perfection. His pain disappears as his Self merges with the unity. From that moment on, Siddhartha no longer fights against his destiny. He accepts everything. Vasudeva, now that he has seen his friend attain enlightenment, announces that he is leaving. He is going to live in the woods and be in the unity of all things.