Sleep Story: Siddhartha Chapter 1

Enjoy this sleep story to help you drift off into a peaceful slumber. Tonight we read the first chapter 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 children or adults who want to relax or find adventure into a great night's sleep.

Transcript

Good evening.

My name is Hilary LaFawn and I'm so grateful that you've joined me to explore Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse.

I will be reading the first chapter titled The Brahmin Son.

Before we begin,

Allow yourself to get as comfortable as only you know how,

Enjoying your pillows,

Your blankets,

And your sheets.

Closing your eyes,

Taking deep breaths.

Allowing yourself to start the process of relaxation.

Allow this chapter to help quiet your mind,

Relax the muscles in your body,

And help you get the sleep that is well deserved.

The Brahmin Son.

In the shade of the house,

In the sunshine on the river,

By the boats,

In the shade of the sallow wood and the fig tree,

Siddhartha,

The handsome Brahmin Son,

Grew up with his friend Govinda.

The sun browned his slender shoulders on the river bank while bathing at the holy ablutions,

At the holy sacrifices.

He rose past across his eyes in the mango grove during play,

While his mother sang,

During his father's teachings,

When with the learned men.

Siddhartha had already long taken part in the learned men's conversations,

Had engaged in debate with Govinda,

And had practiced the art of contemplation and meditation with him.

Already he knew how to pronounce om silently,

This word of words,

To say it inwardly with the intake of breath.

In breathing out with all his soul,

His brow radiating the glow of pure spirit.

Already he knew how to recognize Atman within the depth of his being,

Indestructible,

One with the universe.

There was happiness in his father's heart because of his son who was intelligent and thirsty for knowledge.

He saw him growing up to be a great learned man,

A priest,

A prince among Brahmins.

There was pride in his mother's breast when she saw him walking,

Sitting down and rising.

Siddhartha,

Strong,

Handsome,

Supple-limbed,

Greeting her with complete grace.

Love stirred in the hearts of the young Brahmin's daughters when Siddhartha walked by.

When he walked through the streets of town with his lofty brow,

His king-like eyes,

And his slim figure.

Govinda,

His friend,

The Brahmin's son,

Loved him more than anybody else.

He loved Siddhartha's eyes and clear voice.

He loved the way he walked,

His complete grace of movement.

He loved everything that Siddhartha did and said.

And above all,

He loved his intellect,

His fine,

Ardent thoughts,

His strong will,

His high vocation.

Govinda knew that he would not become an ordinary Brahmin,

A lazy sacrificial official,

An avaricious dealer in magic sayings,

A conceited,

Worthless orator,

A wicked,

Sly priest,

Or just a good,

Stupid sheep amongst a large herd.

No,

And he,

Govinda,

Did not want to become any of these.

Not a Brahmin like ten thousand others of their kind.

He wanted to follow Siddhartha,

The beloved,

The magnificent.

And if he ever became a god,

If he ever entered the All-Radiant,

Then Govinda wanted to follow him as a friend,

His companion,

His servant,

His lance bearer,

His shadow.

That was how everybody loved Siddhartha.

He delighted and made everybody happy.

But Siddhartha himself was not happy.

Wandering along the rosy paths of the fig garden,

Sitting in contemplation in the bluest shade of the grove,

Washing his limbs in the daily bath of atonement,

Offering sacrifices in the depths of the shady mango wood,

With complete grace of manner,

Beloved by all,

A joy to all,

There was yet no joy in his own heart.

Dreams and restless thoughts came flowing to him from the river,

From the twinkling stars at night,

From the sun's melting rays.

Dreams and restlessness of the soul came to him,

Arising from the smoke of the sacrifices,

Emanating from the verses of the Rig Veda,

Trickling through from the teachers of the old Brahmins.

Siddhartha had begun to feed and feel the seeds of disconnect within him.

He had begun to feel that the love of his father and mother,

And also the love of his friend Govinda,

Would not always make him happy,

Give him peace,

Satisfy and suffice him.

He had begun to suspect that his worthy father and his own teachers,

The wise Brahmins,

Had already passed on to him the bulk and the best of their wisdom,

That they had already poured the sun total of the knowledge into his waiting vessel.

And the vessel was not full.

His intellect was not satisfied.

His soul was not at peace.

His heart was not still.

The ablutions were good,

But they were water.

They did not wash away sins and did not relieve the distressed heart.

The sacrifices and the supplication of the gods were excellent,

But were they everything?

Did the sacrifices give happiness?

And what about the gods?

Was it really Prajapati who had created the world?

Was it not Atman,

He alone,

Who had created it?

Were not the gods' forms created like me and you,

Mortal,

Transient?

Was it therefore good and right?

Was it a sensible and worthy act to offer sacrifices to the gods?

To whom else should one offer sacrifices?

To whom else should one pay honor but to him,

Atman,

The only one?

And where was Atman to be found?

Where did he dwell?

Where did his eternal heart beat,

If not within the self,

In the innermost,

In the eternal self which each person carried within him?

But where was this self,

This innermost?

It was not flesh and bone.

It was not thought or consciousness.

That was what the wise men taught.

Where then was it?

To press towards the self,

Towards Atman,

Was there another way that was worth seeking?

Nobody showed the way.

Nobody knew it,

Neither his father nor the teachers and wise men,

Nor the holy songs.

The Brahmins and their holy books knew everything,

Everything.

They had gone into everything.

The creation of the world,

The origin of speech,

Food,

Inhalation,

Exhalation,

The arrangement of the senses,

The acts of the gods.

They knew a tremendous number of things.

But was it worthwhile knowing all these things if they did not know the one important thing,

The only important thing?

Many verses of the holy books,

Above all the Upanishads of Sama Veda,

Spoke of this innermost things.

It is written,

Your soul is the whole world.

It says that when a man is asleep,

He penetrates his innermost and dwells in Atman.

There was wonderful wisdom in these verses.

All the knowledge of the sages was told here in enchanting language,

Pure as honey collected by the bees.

No,

This tremendous amount of knowledge collected and preserved by successive generations of wise Brahmins could not be easily overlooked.

But where were the Brahmins,

The priests,

The wise men,

Who were successful not only in having this most profound knowledge,

But in experiencing it?

Where were the initiated who,

Attaining Atman in sleep,

Could retain it to consciousness in life everywhere,

In speech and in action?

Siddhartha knew many worthy Brahmins,

Above all his father,

Holy,

Learned,

Of highest esteem.

His father was worthy of admiration.

His manner was quiet and noble.

He lived a good life.

His words were wise.

Fine and noble thoughts dwelt in his head.

But even he who knew so much,

Did he live in bliss?

Was he at peace?

Was he not also a seeker,

Insatiable?

Did he not go continually to the holy springs with the insatiable thirst,

To the sacrifices,

To the books,

To the Brahmin's discourses?

Why must he,

The blameless one,

Wash away his sins and endeavor to cleanse himself anew each day?

Was Atman then not within him?

Was not then the source within his own heart?

One must find the source within one's own self.

One must possess it.

Something else was seeking,

A detour,

Error.

These were Siddhartha's thoughts.

This was his thirst,

His sorrow.

He often repeated to himself the words from one of the Chandogya Upanishads.

In truth,

The name of Brahmin is Satya.

Indeed,

He who knows it enters the heavenly world each day.

It often seemed near,

The heavenly world.

But never had he quite reached it,

Never had he quenched the final thirst.

And among the wise men that he knew and those teachings he enjoyed,

There was not one who entirely reached it,

The heavenly world.

Not one who had completely quenched the eternal thirst.

Govinda said Siddhartha to his friend,

Govinda,

Come with me to the banyan tree.

We will practice meditation.

They went to the banyan tree and sat down,

Twenty paces apart.

As he sat down,

Ready to pronounce the Aum,

Siddhartha silently and softly recited the verse.

Aum is the bow,

The arrow is the soul.

Brahman is the arrow's goal,

At which one aims unflinchingly.

When the customary time for the practice of meditation had passed,

Govinda rose.

It was now evening.

It was time to perform the evening ablutions.

He called Siddhartha by his name.

He did not reply.

Siddhartha sat absorbed,

His eyes staring as if directed at a distant goal,

The tip of his tongue showing a little between his teeth.

He did not seem to be breathing.

He sat thus,

Lost in meditation,

Thinking Aum,

His soul as the arrow,

Directed at Brahman.

Some Samanas once passed through Siddhartha's town,

Wandering aesthetics.

They were three thin,

Worn-out men,

Neither old nor young,

With dusty and bleeding shoulders,

Practically naked,

Scorched by the sun,

Solitary,

Strange and hostile,

Lean-jackaled in the world of men.

Around them hovered an atmosphere of still passion,

Of devastating service,

Of unpitting self-denial.

In the evening,

After the hour of contemplation,

Siddhartha said to Govinda,

Tomorrow morning,

My friend,

Siddhartha is going to join the Samanas.

He is going to become a Samana.

Govinda blanched as he heard these words and read the decision in his friend's determined face,

Undeviating as the released arrow from the bow.

Govinda realized from the first glance at his friend's face that now it was beginning.

Siddhartha was going his own way.

His destiny was beginning to unfold itself,

And with his destiny,

His own.

And he became as pale as a dried banana skin.

Oh,

Siddhartha,

He cried,

Will your father permit it?

Siddhartha looked at him like one who had just awakened.

As quick as lightning,

He read Govinda's soul,

Read the anxiety,

The resignation.

We will not waste words,

Govinda,

He said softly.

Tomorrow at daybreak,

I will begin the life of the Samanas.

Let us not discuss it again.

Govinda went into the room where his father was sitting on a mat made of best.

He went up behind his father and remained steady,

Standing there until his father felt his presence.

It is you,

Siddhartha,

The Brahman,

Ask.

Then speak what is in your mind.

Siddhartha said,

With your permission,

Father,

I have come to tell you that I wish to leave your house tomorrow and join the aesthetics.

I wish to become a Samana.

I trust my father will not object.

The Brahman was silent so long that the stars passed across the small window and changed their design before the silence in the room was finally broken.

His son stood silent and motionless with his arms folded.

The father,

Silent and motionless,

Sat on the mat.

When the stars passed from the sky,

Then his father said,

It is not seemingly for Brahmans to utter forceful and angry words,

But there is displeasure in my heart.

I should not like to hear you make this request a second time.

The Brahman rose slowly.

The Brahman remained silent with folding arms.

Why are you waiting,

Said his father.

You know why,

Answered Siddhartha.

His father left the room displeased and lied down on his bed.

As an hour passed by and he could not sleep,

The Brahman rose,

Wandered up and down,

And then left the house.

He looked through the small window of the room and saw Siddhartha standing there with his arms folded,

Unmoving.

He could see his pale robe shimmering.

His heart troubled.

The father returned to his bed.

As another hour passed and the Brahman could not sleep,

He rose again,

Walked up and down.

Left the house and saw the moon had risen.

He looked through the window.

Siddhartha stood there unmoving,

His arms folded,

The moon shone on his bare skin bones.

His heart troubled.

The father went to bed.

He returned again after an hour and again after two.

Looked through the window and saw Siddhartha standing there in the moonlight,

In the starlight,

In the dark.

And he came silently again,

Hour after hour,

Looked into the room and saw him standing unmoving.

His heart filled with anger,

With anxiety,

With fear,

With sorrow.

And in the last hour of the night,

Before daybreak,

He returned again,

Entered the room and saw the youth standing there.

He seemed tall and a stranger to him.

Siddhartha,

He said,

Why are you waiting?

You know why.

Will you go on standing and waiting until it is day,

Noon,

Evening?

I will stand and wait.

You will grow tired,

Siddhartha.

I will grow tired.

You will fall asleep,

Siddhartha.

I will not fall asleep.

You will die,

Siddhartha.

I will die.

And you would rather die than obey your father?

Siddhartha has always obeyed his father.

So you will give up your project?

Siddhartha will do what his father tells him.

The first light of day entered the room.

The Brahmin saw that Siddhartha's knees trembled slightly.

But there was no trembling in Siddhartha's face.

His eyes looked far away.

Then the father realized that Siddhartha could no longer remain with him at home,

That he had already left him.

The father touched Siddhartha's shoulder.

You will go into the forest,

He said,

And become a Samana.

If you find bliss in the forest,

Come back and teach it to me.

If you find disillusionment,

Come back and we shall again offer sacrifices to the gods together.

Now go,

Kiss your mother,

And tell her where you are going.

For me,

However,

It is time to go to the river and perform the first ablution.

He dropped his hand from his son's shoulder and went out.

Siddhartha swayed as he tried to walk.

He controlled himself,

Bowed to his father,

And went to his mother to do what he had been told.

As,

With benumbed legs,

He slowly left the still sleeping town at daybreak.

A crouching shadow emerged from the last hut and joined the pilgrim.

It was Govinda.

You have come,

Said Siddhartha and smiled.

I have come,

Said Govinda.

This is the end of our story tonight.

Thank you so much for allowing me the precious gift of your time.

Until next time,

Sweet dreams.

Reviews

Wonderful as usual. So needed now. Bless and keep You Lovely One.
💖♾️❤️‍🩹

Thank you for your beautiful readings and making most free, not premium. They are such a comfort for sleep. Hope you’ll do more.🙏🏽

Thank

I have owned this book for 40 years it’s nice to have it read to me, I was a big fan of Hesse in the 70s
Thanks Hilary 🙏🏼❤️

I like your gentle voice….. and I fell asleep before it was done, do had to listen over a couple more times y to o hear the whole thing- when I was aware of hearing

Delightful voice, pace, and energy. Thank you!

I’ve always heard about Siddhartha but never took the time to read it myself. Now it has popped up again in my life, I’m ready for the lessons.
This is my third attempt to hear the first chapter, I finally stayed awake long enough to hear its entirety. I look forward to chapter 2! Thank you for reading this, your voice is extraordinarily soothing. I’ll be sure to look at other of your meditations! All the best :)

Perfect for a Samhain/day of the dead transition story 🌙 thank you 🙏🏽

Lovely soothing voice, I didn't make it very far♡
Thank you