Sleep Story: Siddhartha Ch 10 & 11

Enjoy this sleep story to help you drift off into a peaceful slumber. Tonight we read chapters 10 and 11 of the timeless classic, Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse. Fall asleep while listening to a young man live out his heart's true calling. Let this reading inspire you to live your most authentic life. This audio is perfect for young adults or adults who want to relax or find adventure into a great night's sleep.

Transcript

Siddhartha by Herman Hess Chapter 10 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 said,

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 honored 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 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 man 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 him.

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 is 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 ask the river,

O 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 intend 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 any 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 it forced?

Isn't he punished by all this?

Troubled,

Siddhartha looked to the ground.

Quietly,

He asked,

What do you think I should do?

Vasudeva said,

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 anymore,

Bring him to a teacher.

Not for the teaching's 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 asked,

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 teaching,

Prayer,

Admonition.

My dear,

Have you entirely forgotten that story?

That story containing so many lessons,

That story about Siddhartha,

A Brahmin 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 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?

And even if you would die ten times for him,

You would not be able to take the slightest part of his destiny from you,

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 said to him once,

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 the 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,

The 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 attribute which would win the boy over.

He was bored by his 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'd been threatened by him,

If he'd 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 go gather brushwood,

But the boy did not leave the hut.

In stubborn disobedience and rage he stared where he was,

Thumped on the ground with his feet,

Clenched his fist and screamed in a powerful outburst,

His hatred and contempt for 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.

Savage 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 a basket of two colors in which the ferrymen kept those copper and silver coins which they received as a gift.

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 that 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 him run along my friend.

He is no child anymore.

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 failed to do.

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 for the ore of our boat to get lost.

But Siddhartha knew what his friend was thinking.

He thought the boy would have thrown away or broken the ore in order to get even and in order to keep them from following him.

And in fact there was no ore 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 ore.

But Siddhartha bid his farewell to look for the runaway.

Vasudeva did not stop him.

When Siddhartha had already been walking through the forest for a long time,

The thought occurred to him that the 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 this worldly life.

He saw Kamaswami,

Saw the servants,

The orgies,

The gamblers with the dice,

The musicians.

He saw Kamala's songbird in the cage,

Lived through all of this once again.

To breathe sansara,

Was once again old and tired,

Felt once again disgust,

Once again the wish to annihilate himself,

Once again healed by the holy Aum.

After having been standing by the gate of the garden for a long time,

Siddhartha realized 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 runaway in his heart,

Like a wound,

And he felt all 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 anymore,

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 anymore,

Fell into emptiness,

Let himself fall without seeing a path.

And when he felt the wound burning,

He silently spoke,

The Aum,

Filled himself with the Aum.

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 recognized his 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 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,

He offered him a bowl of coconut milk.

He already found him asleep.

Chapter 11 Aum For a long time the wound continued to burn.

Many a traveler,

Siddhartha,

Had to ferry across the river,

Who was accompanied by a son or a daughter.

And he saw none of them without envying them,

Without thinking.

So many,

So many thousands possess the sweetest of good fortunes.

Why don't I,

Even bad people,

Even thieves and robbers of 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 travelers 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 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 this simple,

Foolish,

But immensely strong,

Strongly living,

Strongly prevailing urges and desires were now no childish notions for Siddhartha anymore.

He saw people living for their sake,

Saw them achieving infinitely much for their sake,

Traveling,

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 had 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 realization,

The knowledge that 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 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 Brahmin.

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 bet his farewell to him,

How he had gone and 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 ago 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 himself and the entire world.

Alas,

The wound was not yet blossoming.

His heart was still fighting his fate.

Cheerfulness and victory were not yet shining from his suffering.

Nevertheless,

He felt hope and once he 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,

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 benoflence 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 his walk to the city at the 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 runaway,

Willing to walk to the city,

How the river had laughed.

While he spoke,

He 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 the listener was the same as bathing 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 his motionless man was the river itself,

And that he was God himself,

That he was the eternal itself.

And while Siddhartha stopped thinking of himself and his wound,

This realization of Vasudeva's changed character,

Took position of him.

And the more he felt it and entered into it,

The less wondrous it became,

The more he realized 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 recognized it yet,

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.

Through all this,

He talked incessantly.

When he finished talking,

Vasudeva turned his friendly eyes,

Which had grown slightly weak,

Said nothing,

Let his silent love and cheerfulness,

Understanding and knowledge shine at him.

He took Siddhartha's hand,

Led him by the seat of 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 so full of yearning,

Full of burning woe,

Full of unsatisfiable desire.

For the goal,

The river was heading.

Siddhartha sought hurrying.

The river,

Which consisted of him and his loved ones,

And of all people he'd 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 vapor 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,

Is still resounded,

Full of suffering,

Searching,

But other voices joined it,

Voices of joy and 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 the children from those of the 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 and tangled 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 himself 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 the Aum,

The perfection.

Do you hear Vasudeva's gaze asked again?

Brightly,

Vasudeva's smile was shining,

Floating radiantly over all the wrinkles of his face as the Aum was floating in the air over 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 faith,

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 of the bank,

When he looked into Siddhartha's eyes and saw the cheerfulness and the knowledge shining in them,

He softly touched his shoulder with his hand.

In this careful and tender manner,

He 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 bids his farewell.

I've known it,

He said quietly.

You'll go into the forest?

I'm going into the forest.

I'm going into the oneness,

Spoke Vasudeva with a bright smile.

With a bright smile,

He left.

Siddhartha watched him leave with deep joy,

With deep solemnity.

He watched him leave,

Saw his steps full of peace,

Saw his head full of luster,

Saw his body full of light.

And that is the end of our story this evening.

Until next time,

Sweet dreams.

Reviews

Hilary LaFore’s thoughtful and peaceful narration is exactly how I’m sure the author would mean for us to enjoy the tale of Siddhartha.

So Siddhatha has to let his child go and accept such. And now Vassadavid. I didn’t fall asleep today. It must be after 4 now. Wondering how or if Siddhartha wil reconnect with his child ? Reflections of a relationship with one of my daughters . Hoping there is an answer that satisfies . 🙏🏼🙏🏼

Wonderful thanks

Love the story, love your voice ! Thank you