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 far away from the town. He feels disgust for the life he has led. He reaches the long river which the ferryman had helped him to cross when he had returned from Gotama's grove. Weakened by fatigue and hunger, he stops on the banks of this river and wishes for an end to his life. Then, from a remote corner of his soul, Siddhartha hears a sound. It one syllable -- the sound of the holy Om. When it reaches his ears, his slumbering soul suddenly awakens. Siddhartha sinks into a deep sleep at the foot of a coconut tree. When he wakes, he feels refreshed and rejuvenated, as though he is born anew. Siddhartha raises himself and sees a monk with no beard or hair on his head. He realizes it is Govinda, who has aged like Siddhartha; but eagerness, loyalty, curiosity, and anxiety are still written on his face. Siddhartha greets him, but does not reveal his identity. Govinda does not linger, saying that he must go and join the other followers of Gotama with whom he is traveling. When Siddhartha says "good-bye, Govinda," the monk is surprised to hear his name. He then realizes with joy that Siddhartha is before him. When Govinda quizzes his friend, asking "what are you now, Siddhartha," he can only say that he does not know, since he is no longer the Brahmin, the Samana, or the rich man. Govinda looks at his friend doubtfully, bows to him and goes on his way. Siddhartha is suddenly filled with a sense of happiness and joy. He realizes that he still has emotions, for he still loves Govinda. He thinks of himself as a child who is happy with nothing. He glances at the river and sings merrily. He ruminates on all that he has been so far and knows that everything in his past is dead. He realizes that his future salvation must come from within himself, not from any teacher. Siddhartha accepts that he is a new creation, rejuvenated by the river, where he decides to stay.


prompt:
Chapter: THE FERRYMAN

By this river I want to stay, thought Siddhartha, it is the same which
I have crossed a long time ago on my way to the childlike people, a
friendly ferryman had guided me then, he is the one I want to go to,
starting out from his hut, my path had led me at that time into a new
life, which had now grown old and is dead--my present path, my present
new life, shall also take its start there!

Tenderly, he looked into the rushing water, into the transparent green,
into the crystal lines of its drawing, so rich in secrets.  Bright
pearls he saw rising from the deep, quiet bubbles of air floating on
the reflecting surface, the blue of the sky being depicted in it.  With
a thousand eyes, the river looked at him, with green ones, with white
ones, with crystal ones, with sky-blue ones.  How did he love this
water, how did it delight him, how grateful was he to it!  In his heart
he heard the voice talking, which was newly awaking, and it told him:
Love this water!  Stay near it!  Learn from it!  Oh yes, he wanted to
learn from it, he wanted to listen to it.  He who would understand this
water and its secrets, so it seemed to him, would also understand many
other things, many secrets, all secrets.

But out of all secrets of the river, he today only saw one, this one
touched his soul.  He saw: this water ran and ran, incessantly it ran,
and was nevertheless always there, was always at all times the same
and yet new in every moment!  Great be he who would grasp this,
understand this!  He understood and grasped it not, only felt some idea
of it stirring, a distant memory, divine voices.

Siddhartha rose, the workings of hunger in his body became unbearable.
In a daze he walked on, up the path by the bank, upriver,
listened to the current, listened to the rumbling hunger in his body.

When he reached the ferry, the boat was just ready, and the same
ferryman who had once transported the young Samana across the river,
stood in the boat, Siddhartha recognised him, he had also aged very
much.

"Would you like to ferry me over?" he asked.

The ferryman, being astonished to see such an elegant man walking along
and on foot, took him into his boat and pushed it off the bank.

"It's a beautiful life you have chosen for yourself," the passenger
spoke.  "It must be beautiful to live by this water every day and to
cruise on it."

With a smile, the man at the oar moved from side to side:  "It is
beautiful, sir, it is as you say.  But isn't every life, isn't every
work beautiful?"

"This may be true.  But I envy you for yours."

"Ah, you would soon stop enjoying it.  This is nothing for people
wearing fine clothes."

Siddhartha laughed.  "Once before, I have been looked upon today because
of my clothes, I have been looked upon with distrust.  Wouldn't you,
ferryman, like to accept these clothes, which are a nuisance to me,
from me?  For you must know, I have no money to pay your fare."

"You're joking, sir," the ferryman laughed.

"I'm not joking, friend.  Behold, once before you have ferried me across
this water in your boat for the immaterial reward of a good deed.  Thus,
do it today as well, and accept my clothes for it."

"And do you, sir, intent to continue travelling without clothes?"

"Ah, most of all I wouldn't want to continue travelling at all.  Most of
all I would like you, ferryman, to give me an old loincloth and kept me
with you as your assistant, or rather as your trainee, for I'll have to
learn first how to handle the boat."

For a long time, the ferryman looked at the stranger, searching.

"Now I recognise you," he finally said.  "At one time, you've slept in
my hut, this was a long time ago, possibly more than twenty years ago,
and you've been ferried across the river by me, and we parted like good
friends.  Haven't you've been a Samana?  I can't think of your name any
more."

"My name is Siddhartha, and I was a Samana, when you've last seen me."

"So be welcome, Siddhartha.  My name is Vasudeva.  You will, so I hope,
be my guest today as well and sleep in my hut, and tell me, where you're
coming from and why these beautiful clothes are such a nuisance to you."

They had reached the middle of the river, and Vasudeva pushed the oar
with more strength, in order to overcome the current.  He worked calmly,
his eyes fixed in on the front of the boat, with brawny arms.
Siddhartha sat and watched him, and remembered, how once before, on that
last day of his time as a Samana, love for this man had stirred in his
heart.  Gratefully, he accepted Vasudeva's invitation.  When they had
reached the bank, he helped him to tie the boat to the stakes; after
this, the ferryman asked him to enter the hut, offered him bread and
water, and Siddhartha ate with eager pleasure, and also ate with eager
pleasure of the mango fruits, Vasudeva offered him.

Afterwards, it was almost the time of the sunset, they sat on a log by
the bank, and Siddhartha told the ferryman about where he originally
came from and about his life, as he had seen it before his eyes today,
in that hour of despair.  Until late at night, lasted his tale.

Vasudeva listened with great attention.  Listening carefully, he let
everything enter his mind, birthplace and childhood, all that learning,
all that searching, all joy, all distress.  This was among the
ferryman's virtues one of the greatest:  like only a few, he knew how
to listen.  Without him having spoken a word, the speaker sensed how
Vasudeva let his words enter his mind, quiet, open, waiting, how he
did not lose a single one, awaited not a single one with impatience,
did not add his praise or rebuke, was just listening.  Siddhartha felt,
what a happy fortune it is, to confess to such a listener, to bury in
his heart his own life, his own search, his own suffering.

But in the end of Siddhartha's tale, when he spoke of the tree by the
river, and of his deep fall, of the holy Om, and how he had felt such
a love for the river after his slumber, the ferryman listened with twice
the attention, entirely and completely absorbed by it, with his eyes
closed.

But when Siddhartha fell silent, and a long silence had occurred, then
Vasudeva said:  "It is as I thought.  The river has spoken to you.  It
is your friend as well, it speaks to you as well.  That is good, that is
very good.  Stay with me, Siddhartha, my friend.  I used to have a wife,
her bed was next to mine, but she has died a long time ago, for a long
time, I have lived alone.  Now, you shall live with me, there is space
and food for both."

"I thank you," said Siddhartha, "I thank you and accept.  And I also
thank you for this, Vasudeva, for listening to me so well!  These people
are rare who know how to listen.  And I did not meet a single one who
knew it as well as you did.  I will also learn in this respect from
you."

"You will learn it," spoke Vasudeva, "but not from me.  The river has
taught me to listen, from it you will learn it as well.  It knows
everything, the river, everything can be learned from it.  See, you've
already learned this from the water too, that it is good to strive
downwards, to sink, to seek depth.  The rich and elegant Siddhartha is
becoming an oarsman's servant, the learned Brahman Siddhartha becomes a
ferryman: this has also been told to you by the river.  You'll learn
that other thing from it as well."

Quoth Siddhartha after a long pause:  "What other thing, Vasudeva?"

Vasudeva rose.  "It is late," he said, "let's go to sleep.  I can't
tell you that other thing, oh friend.  You'll learn it, or perhaps you
know it already.  See, I'm no learned man, I have no special skill in
speaking, I also have no special skill in thinking.  All I'm able to do
is to listen and to be godly, I have learned nothing else.  If I was
able to say and teach it, I might be a wise man, but like this I am only
a ferryman, and it is my task to ferry people across the river.  I have
transported many, thousands; and to all of them, my river has been
nothing but an obstacle on their travels.  They travelled to seek money
and business, and for weddings, and on pilgrimages, and the river was
obstructing their path, and the ferryman's job was to get them quickly
across that obstacle.  But for some among thousands, a few, four or
five, the river has stopped being an obstacle, they have heard its
voice, they have listened to it, and the river has become sacred to
them, as it has become sacred to me.  Let's rest now, Siddhartha."

Siddhartha stayed with the ferryman and learned to operate the boat, and
when there was nothing to do at the ferry, he worked with Vasudeva in
the rice-field, gathered wood, plucked the fruit off the banana-trees.
He learned to build an oar, and learned to mend the boat, and to weave
baskets, and was joyful because of everything he learned, and the days
and months passed quickly.  But more than Vasudeva could teach him, he
was taught by the river.  Incessantly, he learned from it.  Most of all,
he learned from it to listen, to pay close attention with a quiet heart,
with a waiting, opened soul, without passion, without a wish, without
judgement, without an opinion.

In a friendly manner, he lived side by side with Vasudeva, and
occasionally they exchanged some words, few and at length thought about
words.  Vasudeva was no friend of words; rarely, Siddhartha succeeded
in persuading him to speak.

"Did you," so he asked him at one time, "did you too learn that secret
from the river: that there is no time?"

Vasudeva's face was filled with a bright smile.

"Yes, Siddhartha," he spoke.  "It is this what you mean, isn't it: that
the river is everywhere at once, at the source and at the mouth, at the
waterfall, at the ferry, at the rapids, in the sea, in the mountains,
everywhere at once, and that there is only the present time for it, not
the shadow of the past, not the shadow of the future?"

"This it is," said Siddhartha.  "And when I had learned it, I looked at
my life, and it was also a river, and the boy Siddhartha was only
separated from the man Siddhartha and from the old man Siddhartha by a
shadow, not by something real.  Also, Siddhartha's previous births were
no past, and his death and his return to Brahma was no future.  Nothing
was, nothing will be; everything is, everything has existence and is
present."

Siddhartha spoke with ecstasy; deeply, this enlightenment had delighted
him.  Oh, was not all suffering time, were not all forms of tormenting
oneself and being afraid time, was not everything hard, everything
hostile in the world gone and overcome as soon as one had overcome time,
as soon as time would have been put out of existence by one's thoughts?
In ecstatic delight, he had spoken, but Vasudeva smiled at him brightly
and nodded in confirmation; silently he nodded, brushed his hand over
Siddhartha's shoulder, turned back to his work.

And once again, when the river had just increased its flow in the rainy
season and made a powerful noise, then said Siddhartha:  "Isn't it so,
oh friend, the river has many voices, very many voices?  Hasn't it the
voice of a king, and of a warrior, and of a bull, and of a bird of the
night, and of a woman giving birth, and of a sighing man, and a thousand
other voices more?"

"So it is," Vasudeva nodded, "all voices of the creatures are in its
voice."

"And do you know," Siddhartha continued, "what word it speaks, when you
succeed in hearing all of its ten thousand voices at once?"

Happily, Vasudeva's face was smiling, he bent over to Siddhartha and
spoke the holy Om into his ear.  And this had been the very thing which
Siddhartha had also been hearing.

And time after time, his smile became more similar to the ferryman's,
became almost just as bright, almost just as throughly glowing with
bliss, just as shining out of thousand small wrinkles, just as alike to
a child's, just as alike to an old man's.  Many travellers, seeing the
two ferrymen, thought they were brothers.  Often, they sat in the
evening together by the bank on the log, said nothing and both listened
to the water, which was no water to them, but the voice of life, the
voice of what exists, of what is eternally taking shape.  And it
happened from time to time that both, when listening to the river,
thought of the same things, of a conversation from the day before
yesterday, of one of their travellers, the face and fate of whom had
occupied their thoughts, of death, of their childhood, and that they
both in the same moment, when the river had been saying something good
to them, looked at each other, both thinking precisely the same thing,
both delighted about the same answer to the same question.

There was something about this ferry and the two ferrymen which was
transmitted to others, which many of the travellers felt.  It happened
occasionally that a traveller, after having looked at the face of one of
the ferrymen, started to tell the story of his life, told about pains,
confessed evil things, asked for comfort and advice.  It happened
occasionally that someone asked for permission to stay for a night with
them to listen to the river.  It also happened that curious people came,
who had been told that there were two wise men, or sorcerers, or holy
men living by that ferry.  The curious people asked many questions, but
they got no answers, and they found neither sorcerers nor wise men, they
only found two friendly little old men, who seemed to be mute and to
have become a bit strange and gaga.  And the curious people laughed and
were discussing how foolishly and gullibly the common people were
spreading such empty rumours.

The years passed by, and nobody counted them.  Then, at one time, monks
came by on a pilgrimage, followers of Gotama, the Buddha, who were
asking to be ferried across the river, and by them the ferrymen were
told that they were most hurriedly walking back to their great
teacher, for the news had spread the exalted one was deadly sick and
would soon die his last human death, in order to become one with the
salvation.  It was not long, until a new flock of monks came along on
their pilgrimage, and another one, and the monks as well as most of the
other travellers and people walking through the land spoke of nothing
else than of Gotama and his impending death.  And as people are flocking
from everywhere and from all sides, when they are going to war or to the
coronation of a king, and are gathering like ants in droves, thus they
flocked, like being drawn on by a magic spell, to where the great Buddha
was awaiting his death, where the huge event was to take place and the
great perfected one of an era was to become one with the glory.

Often, Siddhartha thought in those days of the dying wise man, the
great teacher, whose voice had admonished nations and had awoken
hundreds of thousands, whose voice he had also once heard, whose holy
face he had also once seen with respect.  Kindly, he thought of him, saw
his path to perfection before his eyes, and remembered with a smile
those words which he had once, as a young man, said to him, the exalted
one.  They had been, so it seemed to him, proud and precocious words;
with a smile, he remembered them.  For a long time he knew that there
was nothing standing between Gotama and him any more, though he was
still unable to accept his teachings.  No, there was no teaching a
truly searching person, someone who truly wanted to find, could accept.
But he who had found, he could approve of any teachings, every path,
every goal, there was nothing standing between him and all the other
thousand any more who lived in that what is eternal, who breathed what
is divine.

On one of these days, when so many went on a pilgrimage to the dying
Buddha, Kamala also went to him, who used to be the most beautiful of
the courtesans.  A long time ago, she had retired from her previous
life, had given her garden to the monks of Gotama as a gift, had taken
her refuge in the teachings, was among the friends and benefactors of
the pilgrims.  Together with Siddhartha the boy, her son, she had gone
on her way due to the news of the near death of Gotama, in simple
clothes, on foot.  With her little son, she was travelling by the river;
but the boy had soon grown tired, desired to go back home, desired to
rest, desired to eat, became disobedient and started whining.

Kamala often had to take a rest with him, he was accustomed to having
his way against her, she had to feed him, had to comfort him, had to
scold him.  He did not comprehend why he had to go on this exhausting
and sad pilgrimage with his mother, to an unknown place, to a stranger,
who was holy and about to die.  So what if he died, how did this concern
the boy?

The pilgrims were getting close to Vasudeva's ferry, when little
Siddhartha once again forced his mother to rest.  She, Kamala herself,
had also become tired, and while the boy was chewing a banana, she
crouched down on the ground, closed her eyes a bit, and rested.  But
suddenly, she uttered a wailing scream, the boy looked at her in fear
and saw her face having grown pale from horror; and from under her
dress, a small, black snake fled, by which Kamala had been bitten.

Hurriedly, they now both ran along the path, in order to reach people,
and got near to the ferry, there Kamala collapsed, and was not able to
go any further.  But the boy started crying miserably, only interrupting
it to kiss and hug his mother, and she also joined his loud screams for
help, until the sound reached Vasudeva's ears, who stood at the ferry.
Quickly, he came walking, took the woman on his arms, carried her into
the boat, the boy ran along, and soon they all reached the hut, were
Siddhartha stood by the stove and was just lighting the fire.  He looked
up and first saw the boy's face, which wondrously reminded him of
something, like a warning to remember something he had forgotten.  Then
he saw Kamala, whom he instantly recognised, though she lay unconscious
in the ferryman's arms, and now he knew that it was his own son, whose
face had been such a warning reminder to him, and the heart stirred in
his chest.

Kamala's wound was washed, but had already turned black and her body was
swollen, she was made to drink a healing potion.  Her consciousness
returned, she lay on Siddhartha's bed in the hut and bent over her stood
Siddhartha, who used to love her so much.  It seemed like a dream to
her; with a smile, she looked at her friend's face; just slowly she,
realized her situation, remembered the bite, called timidly for the boy.

"He's with you, don't worry," said Siddhartha.

Kamala looked into his eyes.  She spoke with a heavy tongue, paralysed
by the poison.  "You've become old, my dear," she said, "you've become
gray.  But you are like the young Samana, who at one time came without
clothes, with dusty feet, to me into the garden.  You are much more like
him, than you were like him at that time when you had left me and
Kamaswami.  In the eyes, you're like him, Siddhartha.  Alas, I have also
grown old, old--could you still recognise me?"

Siddhartha smiled:  "Instantly, I recognised you, Kamala, my dear."

Kamala pointed to her boy and said:  "Did you recognise him as well?
He is your son."

Her eyes became confused and fell shut.  The boy wept, Siddhartha took
him on his knees, let him weep, petted his hair, and at the sight of
the child's face, a Brahman prayer came to his mind, which he had
learned a long time ago, when he had been a little boy himself.  Slowly,
with a singing voice, he started to speak; from his past and childhood,
the words came flowing to him.  And with that singsong, the boy became
calm, was only now and then uttering a sob and fell asleep.  Siddhartha
placed him on Vasudeva's bed.  Vasudeva stood by the stove and cooked
rice.  Siddhartha gave him a look, which he returned with a smile.

"She'll die," Siddhartha said quietly.

Vasudeva nodded; over his friendly face ran the light of the stove's
fire.

Once again, Kamala returned to consciousness.  Pain distorted her face,
Siddhartha's eyes read the suffering on her mouth, on her pale cheeks.
Quietly, he read it, attentively, waiting, his mind becoming one with
her suffering.  Kamala felt it, her gaze sought his eyes.

Looking at him, she said:  "Now I see that your eyes have changed as
well.  They've become completely different.  By what do I still
recognise that you're Siddhartha?  It's you, and it's not you."

Siddhartha said nothing, quietly his eyes looked at hers.

"You have achieved it?" she asked.  "You have found peace?"

He smiled and placed his hand on hers.

"I'm seeing it," she said, "I'm seeing it.  I too will find peace."

"You have found it," Siddhartha spoke in a whisper.

Kamala never stopped looking into his eyes.  She thought about her
pilgrimage to Gotama, which wanted to take, in order to see the face of
the perfected one, to breathe his peace, and she thought that she had
now found him in his place, and that it was good, just as good, as if
she had seen the other one.  She wanted to tell this to him, but the
tongue no longer obeyed her will.  Without speaking, she looked at him,
and he saw the life fading from her eyes.  When the final pain filled
her eyes and made them grow dim, when the final shiver ran through her
limbs, his finger closed her eyelids.

For a long time, he sat and looked at her peacefully dead face.  For a
long time, he observed her mouth, her old, tired mouth, with those lips,
which had become thin, and he remembered, that he used to, in the spring
of his years, compare this mouth with a freshly cracked fig.  For a long
time, he sat, read in the pale face, in the tired wrinkles, filled
himself with this sight, saw his own face lying in the same manner,
just as white, just as quenched out, and saw at the same time his face
and hers being young, with red lips, with fiery eyes, and the feeling of
this both being present and at the same time real, the feeling of
eternity, completely filled every aspect of his being.  Deeply he felt,
more deeply than ever before, in this hour, the indestructibility of
every life, the eternity of every moment.

When he rose, Vasudeva had prepared rice for him.  But Siddhartha did
not eat.  In the stable, where their goat stood, the two old men
prepared beds of straw for themselves, and Vasudeva lay himself down
to sleep.  But Siddhartha went outside and sat this night before the
hut, listening to the river, surrounded by the past, touched and
encircled by all times of his life at the same time.  But occasionally,
he rose, stepped to the door of the hut and listened, whether the boy
was sleeping.

Early in the morning, even before the sun could be seen, Vasudeva came
out of the stable and walked over to his friend.

"You haven't slept," he said.

"No, Vasudeva.  I sat here, I was listening to the river.  A lot it has
told me, deeply it has filled me with the healing thought, with the
thought of oneness."

"You've experienced suffering, Siddhartha, but I see: no sadness has
entered your heart."

"No, my dear, how should I be sad?  I, who have been rich and happy,
have become even richer and happier now.  My son has been given to me."

"Your son shall be welcome to me as well.  But now, Siddhartha, let's
get to work, there is much to be done.  Kamala has died on the same bed,
on which my wife had died a long time ago.  Let us also build Kamala's
funeral pile on the same hill on which I had then built my wife's
funeral pile."

While the boy was still asleep, they built the funeral pile.

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

completion: Siddhartha looks at the flowing water of the river with its varied hue; he is enchanted by and grateful to it. A voice within him tells him to love and learn from it. He then remembers the friendly ferryman who had taken him across the river when he first crossed to begin his Samsara life and seeks him out. The ferryman recognizes Siddhartha as the Samana who had slept in his hut. He invites him to be his guest again and gives him food and water. As the sun begins to set, the two men sit and talk on a tree trunk by the river. Siddhartha tells him about the origin of his life and his recent despair. Vasudeva says that it seems as though the river has spoken to Siddhartha and suggests that he stay with him beside the water. Siddhartha accepts the invitation and states his appreciation to the ferryman for being a good listener. When Siddhartha says that he has a lot to learn, Vasudeva says the river will be a good teacher. Soon he is helping the ferryman with the boat, working in the rice fields, picking fruit from the banana tree, and gathering wood. Both Vasudeva and the river become his teachers. Siddhartha learns from the river that there is no such thing as time; it is a discovery that makes him very happy, for it is time that causes sorrow and difficulty. When Siddhartha discusses his new knowledge with Vasudeva, the ferryman smiles radiantly and nods in agreement. Siddhartha find that the two of them often think the same thoughts. One day a group of monks come by. They are going to pay homage to the Buddha who is seriously ill. Among the pilgrims is Kamala with her son, who wonders why his mother is going to see a dying man. Kamala has grown old, given up her old way of life, and taken refuge in the Buddha's teachings. When she lays down to rest, she is bitten by a snake. Although Kamala's wound is washed and cleaned, the poison has already taken effect and she slips in and out of consciousness. Siddhartha stays by her and puts his hand on hers. She is glad to see him smiling and feels he has attained peace. She tells him she was going to Gotama to find peace, but instead she found Siddhartha. She tries to tell him that she too feels at peace, but she cannot speak any more and soon dies. Vasudeva says that they will light Kamala's funeral pyre on the same hill where he had cremated his own wife. The two men prepare the fire while the Kamala and Siddhartha's son sleeps.


prompt:
Chapter: THE SON

Timid and weeping, the boy had attended his mother's funeral; gloomy
and shy, he had listened to Siddhartha, who greeted him as his son and
welcomed him at his place in Vasudeva's hut.  Pale, he sat for many
days by the hill of the dead, did not want to eat, gave no open look,
did not open his heart, met his fate with resistance and denial.

Siddhartha spared him and let him do as he pleased, he honoured his
mourning.  Siddhartha understood that his son did not know him, that
he could not love him like a father.  Slowly, he also saw and understood
that the eleven-year-old was a pampered boy, a mother's boy, and that he
had grown up in the habits of rich people, accustomed to finer food, to
a soft bed, accustomed to giving orders to servants.  Siddhartha
understood that the mourning, pampered child could not suddenly and
willingly be content with a life among strangers and in poverty.  He did
not force him, he did many a chore for him, always picked the best piece
of the meal for him.  Slowly, he hoped to win him over, by friendly
patience.

Rich and happy, he had called himself, when the boy had come to him.
Since time had passed on in the meantime, and the boy remained a
stranger and in a gloomy disposition, since he displayed a proud and
stubbornly disobedient heart, did not want to do any work, did not pay
his respect to the old men, stole from Vasudeva's fruit-trees, then
Siddhartha began to understand that his son had not brought him
happiness and peace, but suffering and worry.  But he loved him, and he
preferred the suffering and worries of love over happiness and joy
without the boy.  Since young Siddhartha was in the hut, the old men had
split the work.  Vasudeva had again taken on the job of the ferryman all
by himself, and Siddhartha, in order to be with his son, did the work in
the hut and the field.

For a long time, for long months, Siddhartha waited for his son to
understand him, to accept his love, to perhaps reciprocate it.  For
long months, Vasudeva waited, watching, waited and said nothing.  One
day, when Siddhartha the younger had once again tormented his father
very much with spite and an unsteadiness in his wishes and had broken
both of his rice-bowls, Vasudeva took in the evening his friend aside
and talked to him.

"Pardon me." he said, "from a friendly heart, I'm talking to you.  I'm
seeing that you are tormenting yourself, I'm seeing that you're in grief.
Your son, my dear, is worrying you, and he is also worrying me.  That
young bird is accustomed to a different life, to a different nest.  He
has not, like you, ran away from riches and the city, being disgusted
and fed up with it; against his will, he had to leave all this behind.
I asked the river, oh friend, many times I have asked it.  But the river
laughs, it laughs at me, it laughs at you and me, and is shaking with
laughter at our foolishness.  Water wants to join water, youth wants to
join youth, your son is not in the place where he can prosper.  You too
should ask the river; you too should listen to it!"

Troubled, Siddhartha looked into his friendly face, in the many wrinkles
of which there was incessant cheerfulness.

"How could I part with him?" he said quietly, ashamed.  "Give me some
more time, my dear!  See, I'm fighting for him, I'm seeking to win his
heart, with love and with friendly patience I intent to capture it.
One day, the river shall also talk to him, he also is called upon."

Vasudeva's smile flourished more warmly.  "Oh yes, he too is called
upon, he too is of the eternal life.  But do we, you and me, know what
he is called upon to do, what path to take, what actions to perform,
what pain to endure?  Not a small one, his pain will be; after all, his
heart is proud and hard, people like this have to suffer a lot, err a
lot, do much injustice, burden themselves with much sin.  Tell me, my
dear: you're not taking control of your son's upbringing?  You don't
force him?  You don't beat him?  You don't punish him?"

"No, Vasudeva, I don't do anything of this."

"I knew it.  You don't force him, don't beat him, don't give him orders,
because you know that 'soft' is stronger than 'hard', Water stronger
than rocks, love stronger than force.  Very good, I praise you.  But
aren't you mistaken in thinking that you wouldn't force him, wouldn't
punish him?  Don't you shackle him with your love?  Don't you make him
feel inferior every day, and don't you make it even harder on him with
your kindness and patience?  Don't you force him, the arrogant and
pampered boy, to live in a hut with two old banana-eaters, to whom even
rice is a delicacy, whose thoughts can't be his, whose hearts are old
and quiet and beats in a different pace than his?  Isn't forced, isn't
he punished by all this?"

Troubled, Siddhartha looked to the ground.  Quietly, he asked:  "What
do you think should I do?"

Quoth Vasudeva:  "Bring him into the city, bring him into his mother's
house, there'll still be servants around, give him to them.  And when
there aren't any around any more, bring him to a teacher, not for the
teachings' sake, but so that he shall be among other boys, and among
girls, and in the world which is his own.  Have you never thought of
this?"

"You're seeing into my heart," Siddhartha spoke sadly.  "Often, I have
thought of this.  But look, how shall I put him, who had no tender heart
anyhow, into this world?  Won't he become exuberant, won't he lose
himself to pleasure and power, won't he repeat all of his father's
mistakes, won't he perhaps get entirely lost in Sansara?"

Brightly, the ferryman's smile lit up; softly, he touched Siddhartha's
arm and said:  "Ask the river about it, my friend!  Hear it laugh about
it!  Would you actually believe that you had committed your foolish acts
in order to spare your son from committing them too?  And could you in
any way protect your son from Sansara?  How could you?  By means of
teachings, prayer, admonition?  My dear, have you entirely forgotten
that story, that story containing so many lessons, that story about
Siddhartha, a Brahman's son, which you once told me here on this very
spot?  Who has kept the Samana Siddhartha safe from Sansara, from sin,
from greed, from foolishness?  Were his father's religious devotion, his
teachers warnings, his own knowledge, his own search able to keep him
safe?  Which father, which teacher had been able to protect him from
living his life for himself, from soiling himself with life, from
burdening himself with guilt, from drinking the bitter drink for
himself, from finding his path for himself?  Would you think, my dear,
anybody might perhaps be spared from taking this path?  That perhaps
your little son would be spared, because you love him, because you would
like to keep him from suffering and pain and disappointment?  But even
if you would die ten times for him, you would not be able to take the
slightest part of his destiny upon yourself."

Never before, Vasudeva had spoken so many words.  Kindly, Siddhartha
thanked him, went troubled into the hut, could not sleep for a long
time.  Vasudeva had told him nothing, he had not already thought and
known for himself.  But this was a knowledge he could not act upon,
stronger than the knowledge was his love for the boy, stronger was his
tenderness, his fear to lose him.  Had he ever lost his heart so much
to something, had he ever loved any person thus, thus blindly, thus
sufferingly, thus unsuccessfully, and yet thus happily?

Siddhartha could not heed his friend's advice, he could not give up the
boy.  He let the boy give him orders, he let him disregard him.  He
said nothing and waited; daily, he began the mute struggle of
friendliness, the silent war of patience.  Vasudeva also said nothing
and waited, friendly, knowing, patient.  They were both masters of
patience.

At one time, when the boy's face reminded him very much of Kamala,
Siddhartha suddenly had to think of a line which Kamala a long time
ago, in the days of their youth, had once said to him.  "You cannot
love," she had said to him, and he had agreed with her and had compared
himself with a star, while comparing the childlike people with falling
leaves, and nevertheless he had also sensed an accusation in that line.
Indeed, he had never been able to lose or devote himself completely to
another person, to forget himself, to commit foolish acts for the love
of another person; never he had been able to do this, and this was, as
it had seemed to him at that time, the great distinction which set him
apart from the childlike people.  But now, since his son was here, now
he, Siddhartha, had also become completely a childlike person, suffering
for the sake of another person, loving another person, lost to a love,
having become a fool on account of love.  Now he too felt, late, once
in his lifetime, this strongest and strangest of all passions, suffered
from it, suffered miserably, and was nevertheless in bliss, was
nevertheless renewed in one respect, enriched by one thing.

He did sense very well that this love, this blind love for his son, was
a passion, something very human, that it was Sansara, a murky source,
dark waters.  Nevertheless, he felt at the same time, it was not
worthless, it was necessary, came from the essence of his own being.
This pleasure also had to be atoned for, this pain also had to be
endured, these foolish acts also had to be committed.

Through all this, the son let him commit his foolish acts, let him
court for his affection, let him humiliate himself every day by giving
in to his moods.  This father had nothing which would have delighted
him and nothing which he would have feared.  He was a good man, this
father, a good, kind, soft man, perhaps a very devout man, perhaps a
saint, all these there no attributes which could win the boy over.  He
was bored by this father, who kept him prisoner here in this miserable
hut of his, he was bored by him, and for him to answer every naughtiness
with a smile, every insult with friendliness, every viciousness with
kindness, this very thing was the hated trick of this old sneak.  Much
more the boy would have liked it if he had been threatened by him, if he
had been abused by him.

A day came, when what young Siddhartha had on his mind came bursting
forth, and he openly turned against his father.  The latter had given
him a task, he had told him to gather brushwood.  But the boy did not
leave the hut, in stubborn disobedience and rage he stayed where he was,
thumped on the ground with his feet, clenched his fists, and screamed in
a powerful outburst his hatred and contempt into his father's face.

"Get the brushwood for yourself!" he shouted foaming at the mouth, "I'm
not your servant.  I do know, that you won't hit me, you don't dare; I
do know, that you constantly want to punish me and put me down with
your religious devotion and your indulgence.  You want me to become like
you, just as devout, just as soft, just as wise!  But I, listen up, just
to make you suffer, I rather want to become a highway-robber and
murderer, and go to hell, than to become like you!  I hate you, you're
not my father, and if you've ten times been my mother's fornicator!"

Rage and grief boiled over in him, foamed at the father in a hundred
savage and evil words.  Then the boy ran away and only returned late at
night.

But the next morning, he had disappeared.  What had also disappeared was
a small basket, woven out of bast of two colours, in which the ferrymen
kept those copper and silver coins which they received as a fare.
The boat had also disappeared, Siddhartha saw it lying by the opposite
bank.  The boy had ran away.

"I must follow him," said Siddhartha, who had been shivering with grief
since those ranting speeches, the boy had made yesterday.  "A child
can't go through the forest all alone.  He'll perish.  We must build a
raft, Vasudeva, to get over the water."

"We will build a raft," said Vasudeva, "to get our boat back, which the
boy has taken away.  But him, you shall let run along, my friend, he is
no child any more, he knows how to get around.  He's looking for the
path to the city, and he is right, don't forget that.  He's doing what
you've failed to do yourself.  He's taking care of himself, he's taking
his course.  Alas, Siddhartha, I see you suffering, but you're suffering
a pain at which one would like to laugh, at which you'll soon laugh for
yourself."

Siddhartha did not answer.  He already held the axe in his hands and
began to make a raft of bamboo, and Vasudeva helped him to tie the
canes together with ropes of grass.  Then they crossed over, drifted
far off their course, pulled the raft upriver on the opposite bank.

"Why did you take the axe along?" asked Siddhartha.

Vasudeva said:  "It might have been possible that the oar of our boat
got lost."

But Siddhartha knew what his friend was thinking.  He thought, the boy
would have thrown away or broken the oar in order to get even and in
order to keep them from following him.  And in fact, there was no oar
left in the boat.  Vasudeva pointed to the bottom of the boat and looked
at his friend with a smile, as if he wanted to say:  "Don't you see what
your son is trying to tell you?  Don't you see that he doesn't want to
be followed?"  But he did not say this in words.  He started making a
new oar.  But Siddhartha bid his farewell, to look for the run-away.
Vasudeva did not stop him.

When Siddhartha had already been walking through the forest for a long
time, the thought occurred to him that his search was useless.  Either,
so he thought, the boy was far ahead and had already reached the city,
or, if he should still be on his way, he would conceal himself from him,
the pursuer.  As he continued thinking, he also found that he, on his
part, was not worried for his son, that he knew deep inside that he had
neither perished nor was in any danger in the forest.  Nevertheless, he
ran without stopping, no longer to save him, just to satisfy his desire,
just to perhaps see him one more time.  And he ran up to just outside of
the city.

When, near the city, he reached a wide road, he stopped, by the entrance
of the beautiful pleasure-garden, which used to belong to Kamala, where
he had seen her for the first time in her sedan-chair.  The past rose
up in his soul, again he saw himself standing there, young, a bearded,
naked Samana, the hair full of dust.  For a long time, Siddhartha stood
there and looked through the open gate into the garden, seeing monks in
yellow robes walking among the beautiful trees.

For a long time, he stood there, pondering, seeing images, listening to
the story of his life.  For a long time, he stood there, looked at the
monks, saw young Siddhartha in their place, saw young Kamala walking
among the high trees.  Clearly, he saw himself being served food and
drink by Kamala, receiving his first kiss from her, looking proudly and
disdainfully back on his Brahmanism, beginning proudly and full of
desire his worldly life.  He saw Kamaswami, saw the servants, the
orgies, the gamblers with the dice, the musicians, saw Kamala's
song-bird in the cage, lived through all this once again, breathed
Sansara, was once again old and tired, felt once again disgust, felt
once again the wish to annihilate himself, was once again healed by the
holy Om.

After having been standing by the gate of the garden for a long time,
Siddhartha realised that his desire was foolish, which had made him go
up to this place, that he could not help his son, that he was not
allowed to cling him.  Deeply, he felt the love for the run-away in his
heart, like a wound, and he felt at the same time that this wound had
not been given to him in order to turn the knife in it, that it had to
become a blossom and had to shine.

That this wound did not blossom yet, did not shine yet, at this hour,
made him sad.  Instead of the desired goal, which had drawn him here
following the runaway son, there was now emptiness.  Sadly, he sat down,
felt something dying in his heart, experienced emptiness, saw no joy any
more, no goal.  He sat lost in thought and waited.  This he had learned
by the river, this one thing: waiting, having patience, listening
attentively.  And he sat and listened, in the dust of the road, listened
to his heart, beating tiredly and sadly, waited for a voice.  Many an
hour he crouched, listening, saw no images any more, fell into
emptiness, let himself fall, without seeing a path.  And when he felt
the wound burning, he silently spoke the Om, filled himself with Om.
The monks in the garden saw him, and since he crouched for many hours,
and dust was gathering on his gray hair, one of them came to him and
placed two bananas in front of him.  The old man did not see him.

From this petrified state, he was awoken by a hand touching his
shoulder.  Instantly, he recognised this touch, this tender, bashful
touch, and regained his senses.  He rose and greeted Vasudeva, who had
followed him.  And when he looked into Vasudeva's friendly face, into
the small wrinkles, which were as if they were filled with nothing but
his smile, into the happy eyes, then he smiled too.  Now he saw the
bananas lying in front of him, picked them up, gave one to the ferryman,
ate the other one himself.  After this, he silently went back into the
forest with Vasudeva, returned home to the ferry.  Neither one talked
about what had happened today, neither one mentioned the boy's name,
neither one spoke about him running away, neither one spoke about the
wound.  In the hut, Siddhartha lay down on his bed, and when after a
while Vasudeva came to him, to offer him a bowl of coconut-milk, he
already found him asleep.

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

completion: Siddhartha's son is frightened and weeping. He is shocked to witness his mother's funeral. Even though the boy is spoiled, Siddhartha is kind to him. The father realizes that his son has grown up amidst riches and is used to living in luxury as his mother did. When the boy comes, Siddhartha considers himself richer; but he soon becomes very troubled by his behavior. The child is arrogant and defiant. He steals fruits from Vasudeva's trees and does not listen to anything Siddhartha says. In spite of the weaknesses, Siddhartha realizes he loves him. Vasudeva tells Siddhartha that the child will suffer and commit many sins if he is not corrected. He says that it is a mistake on Siddhartha's part to be so lenient with him. He advises that the child should be punished for the wrong that he does. The ferryman also tells Siddhartha that it is no use expecting a spoiled and arrogant boy to live in a hut and eat bananas and rice. Vasudeva advises Siddhartha to take him to the servants in his mother's house. If they are no longer there, then the boy should be taken to a teacher -- to be educated, to meet other children, and to be in the world to which he belongs. Siddhartha ignores this advice, and his son continues his poor behavior. Although Siddhartha is a good, kind, gentle, and holy man, these qualities do not appeal to his son. When his father responds to his rudeness with a polite smile, he thinks that he is a cunning fox. In truth, the boy would have preferred to be ill- treated and threatened by him. One day when Siddhartha tells him to go and collect twigs, he rudely tells him to go and collect them himself, for he is not a servant. The next morning the child disappears. A basket containing copper and silver coins and the boat also disappear. Siddhartha knows that his son has run away and goes to search for the boy. When he is unable to find his son, he accepts that it is foolish to pursue him. Siddhartha stands outside the town and meditates on his loss and the pain that it causes. A hand gently touches his shoulder and awakens him from his trance. It is Vasudeva who has followed him. He gets up and greets his friend and offers him a banana to eat. The catch the ferry and return to the hut. Both men carefully avoid talking about the boy.


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: Because of the depth of the love he had for his son, Siddhartha's pain over his loss does not quickly subside. One day, when his pain seems unbearable, he rows across the river to go to town to seek his son. As he crosses the river, its voice appears to be distinctly laughing at Siddhartha. When he bends down close to the river to hear it better, he notices his own reflection and realizes it resembles the face of his father of whom he was once afraid and from whom he ran away. Suddenly Siddhartha wants to tell Vasudeva everything about his past, even things he has never mentioned before. He returns to the hut and tells him how the river laughed at him. Vasudeva listens with a serene face and tells Siddhartha to listen to the river harder. When Siddhartha returns to the river, he sees the images of his father, himself, and his son flowing into each other. The images of Kamala and Govinda also appear and flow on without merging. Siddhartha listens intently to the river, completely absorbed as Vasudeva has taught him. He hears voices which he has heard before, but now they sound different. All of them together form a stream of events. When he hears the whole in unity, the great song of a thousand voices consists of one word: Om. The serenity of knowledge shines on his face. It is the serenity attained when one no longer has to face the conflict between desires. Siddhartha has found his salvation. He is in harmony with the stream of life. Full of sympathy and compassion, he surrenders himself and becomes one with all things. Vasudeva recognizes the serenity that shines in Siddhartha's eyes and touches his shoulder gently. The ferryman tells his friend that he has long awaited this hour of enlightenment for Siddhartha. Vasudeva tells him that he is going to the woods. Siddhartha watches his friend walk away with great joy; he sees that Vasudeva is full of peace, for his face glows and his body is filled with light.