THE SON OF THE BRAHMAN
百度搜索 SIDDHARTHA: An Indian Tale 天涯 或 SIDDHARTHA: An Indian Tale 天涯在线书库 即可找到本书最新章节.
In the shade of the house, in the sunshine of the riverbahe boats, in the shade of the Sal-wood forest, in the shade of the fig tree is where Siddhartha grew up, the handsome son of the Brahman, the young fal, together with his friend Govinda, son of a Brahman. The sun tanned his light shoulders by the banks of the river when bathing, perf the sacred ablutions, the sacred s. In the mango grove, shade poured into his black eyes, when playing as a boy, when his mother sang, when the sacred s were made, when his father, the scholar, taught him, when the wise men talked. For a long time, Siddhartha had been partaking in the discussions of the wise men<big>99lib?</big>, practisie with Govinda, practising with Govinda the art of refle, the servieditation. He already knew how to speak the Om silently, the word of words, to speak it silently into himself while inhaling, to speak it silently out of himself while exhaling, with all the tration of his soul, the forehead surrounded by the glow of the clear-thinking spirit. He already ko feel Atman in the depths of his being, iructible, oh the universe.Joy leapt in his fathers heart for his son who was quick to learn, thirsty for knowledge; he saw him growing up to bee great wise man and priest, a prince among the Brahmans.
Bliss leapt in his mothers breast when she saw him, when she saw him walking, when she saw him sit down a up, Siddhartha, strong, handsome, he alking on slender legs, greeting her with perfect respect.
Love touch<bdo></bdo>ed the hearts of the Brahmans young daughters when Siddhartha walked through the lanes of the town with the luminous forehead, with the eye of a king, with his slim hips.
But more than all the others he was loved by Govinda, his friend, the son of a Brahman. He loved Siddharthas eye and sweet voice, he loved his walk and the perfect decy of his movements, he loved everything Siddhartha did and said and what he loved most was his spirit, his transdent, fiery thoughts, his ardent will, his high calling. Govinda knew: he would not bee a on Brahman, not a lazy official in charge of s; not a greedy mert with magic spells; not a vain, vacuous speaker; not a meaful priest; and also not a det, stupid sheep in the herd of the many. No, and he, Govinda, as well did not want to bee one of those, not one of those tens of thousands of Brahmans. He wao follow Siddhartha, the beloved, the splendid. And in days to e, when Siddhartha would bee a god, when he would join the glorious, then Govinda wao follow him as his friend, his panion, his servant, his spear-carrier, his shadow.
Siddhartha was thus loved by everyone. He was a source of joy for everybody, he was a delight for them all.
But he, Siddhartha, was not a source of joy for himself, he found no delight in himself. Walking the rosy paths of the fig tree garden, sitting in the bluish shade of the grove of plation, washing his limbs daily ih of repentance, sacrifig in the dim shade of the mango forest, his gestures of perfect decy, everyones love and joy, he still lacked all joy in his heart. Dreams aless thoughts came into his mind, flowing from the water of the river, sparkling from the stars of the night, melting from the beams of the sun, dreams came to him and a restlessness of the soul, fuming from the sacrifices, breathing forth from the verses of the Rig-Veda, being infused into him, drop by drop, from the teags of the old Brahmans.
Siddhartha had started to nurse distent in himself, he had started to feel that the love of his father and the love of his mother, and also the love of his friend, Govinda, would n him joy for ever and ever, would not nurse him, feed him, satisfy him. He had started to suspect that his venerable father and his other teachers, that the wise Brahmans had already revealed to him the most a of their wisdom, that they had already filled his expeg vessel with their riess, and the vessel was not full, the spirit was not tent, the soul was not calm, the heart was not satisfied. The ablutions were good, but they were water, they did not wash off the sin, they did not heal the spirits thirst, they did not relieve the fear in his heart. The sacrifices and the invocation of the gods were excellent--but was that all? Did the sacrifices give a happy fortune? And what about the gods? Was it really Prajapati who had created the world? Was it not the Atmahe only ohe singular one? Were the gods not creations, created like me and you, subjee, mortal? Was it therefo<figure></figure>od, was it right, was it meaningful and the highest occupation to make s to the gods? For whom else were s to be made, who else was to be worshipped but Him, the only ohe Atman? And where was Atman to be found, where did He reside, where did his eternal heart beat, where else but in ones own self, in its innermost part, in its iructible part, which everyone had in himself? But where, where was this self, this innermost part, this ultimate part? It was not flesh and bo was her thought nor sciousness, thus the wisest oaught. So, where, where was it? To reach this place, the self, myself, the Atman, there was another way, which was worthwhile looking for? Alas, and nobody showed this way, nobody k, not the father, and not the teachers and wise men, not the holy sacrificial songs! They knew everything, the Brahmans and their holy books, they knew everything, they had taken care of everything and of more thahing, the creation of the world, the in of speech, of food, of inhaling, of exhaling, the arra of the sehe acts of the gods, they knew infinitely much--but was it valuable to know all of this, not knowing that one and only thing, the most important thing, the solely important thing?
Surely, many verses of the holy books, particularly in the Upanishades of Samaveda, spoke of this innermost and ultimate thing, wonderful verses. "Your soul is the whole world", was written there, and it was written that man in his sleep, in his deep sleep, would meet with his innermost part and would reside iman. Marvellous wisdom was in these verses, all knowledge of the wisest ones had been collected here in magic words, pure as honey collected by bees. No, not to be looked down upon was the tremendous amount of enlighte which lay here collected and preserved by innumerable geions of wise Brahmans.-- But where were the Brahmans, where the priests, where the wise men or pes, who had succeeded in not just knowing this deepest of all knowledge but also to live it? Where was the knowledgeable one who wove his spell t his familiarity with the Atman out of the sleep into the state of being awake, into the life, into every step of the way, into word and deed? Siddhartha knew many venerable Brahmans, chiefly his father, the pure ohe scholar, the most venerable one. His father was to be admired, quiet and noble were his manners, pure his life, wise his words, delicate and houghts lived behind its brow --but even he, who knew so much, did he live in blissfulness, did he have peace, was he not also just a searg man, a thirsty man? Did he not, again and again, have to drink from holy sources, as a thirsty man, from the s, from the books, from the disputes of the Brahmans? Why did he, the irreproachable one, have to wash off sins every day, strive for a sing every day, over and over every day? Was not Atman in him, did not the pristine s<cite>.９9ｌｉb.</cite>ource spring from his heart? It had to be found, the pristine sour ones own self, it had to be possessed! Everything else was searg, was a detour, was getting lost.
Thus were Siddharthas thoughts, this was his thirst, this was his suffering.
Often he spoke t<s>９９liｂ.</s>o himself from a dogya-Upanishad the words: "Truly, the name of the Brahman is satyam--verily, he who knows such a thing, will ehe heavenly world every day." Often, it seemed near, the heavenly world, but never he had reached it pletely, never he had quehe ultimate thirst. And among all the wise and wisest men, he knew and whose instrus he had received, among all of them there was no one, who had reached it pletely, the heavenly world, who had que pletely, the eternal thirst.
"Govinda," Siddhartha spoke to his friend, "Govinda, my dear, e with me uhe Banyan tree, lets practise meditation."
They went to the Banyahey sat down, Siddhartha right here, Govinda twenty paces away. While putting himself down, ready to speak the Om, Siddhartha repeated murmuring the verse:
Om is the bow, the arrow is soul, The Brahman is the arrows target, That one should incessantly hit.
After the usual time of the exercise iation had passed, Govinda rose. The evening had e, it was time to perform the evenings ablution. He called Siddharthas name. Siddhartha did not answer. Siddhartha sat there lost in thought, his eyes were rigidly focused towards a very distant target, the tip of his tongue rotruding a little betweeeeth, he seemed not to breathe. Thus sat he, ed up in plation, thinking Om, his soul sent after the Brahman as an arrow.
Once, Samanas had travelled through Siddharthas town, asceti a pilgrimage, three skinny, withered meher old nor young, with dusty and bloody shoulders, almost naked, scorched by the sun, surrounded by loneliness, strangers and eo the world, strangers and lank jackals in the realm of humans. Behind them blew a hot st of quiet passion, of destructive servierciless self-denial.
In the evening, after the hour of plation, Siddhartha spoke to Govinda: "Early tomorrow m, my friend, Siddhartha will go to the Samanas. He will bee a Samana."
Govinda turned pale, when he heard these words ahe decision iionless face of his friend, unstoppable like the arrow shot from the bow. Soon and with the first glance, Govinda realized: Now it is beginning, now Siddhartha is taking his own way, now his fate is beginning to sprout, and with his, my own. Aurned pale like a dry banana-skin.
"O Siddhartha," he exclaimed, "will your father permit you to do that?"
Siddhartha looked over as if he was just waking up. Arrow-fast he read in Govinda丩s soul, read the fear, read the submission.
"O Govinda," he spoke quietly, "lets not waste words. Tomorrow, at daybreak I will begin the life of the Samanas. Speak no more of it."
Siddhartha ehe chamber, where his father was sitting on a mat of bast, and stepped behind his father and remaianding there, until his father felt that someone was standing behind him. Quoth the Brahman: "Is that you, Siddhartha? Then say what you came to say."
Quoth Siddhartha: "With your permission, my father. I came to tell you that it is my longing to leave your house tomorrow and go to the ascetics. My desire is to bee a Samana. May my father not oppose this."
The Brahman fell silent, and remained silent for so long that the stars in the small window wandered and ged their relative positiohe silence was broken. Silent and motionless stood the son with his arms folded, silent and motionless sat the father o, and the stars traced their paths in the sky. Then spoke the father: "Not proper it is for a Brahman to speak harsh and angry words. But indignation is in my heart. I wish not to hear this request for a sed time from your mouth."
Slowly, the Brahman rose; Siddhartha stood silently, his arms folded.
"What are you waiting for?" asked the father.
Quoth Siddhartha: "You know what."
Indignant, the father left the chamber; indignant, he went to his bed and lay down.
After an hour, sino sleep had e over his eyes, the Brahman stood up, paced to and fro, ahe house. Through the small window of the chamber he looked baside, and there he saw Siddhartha standing, his arms folded, not moving from his spot. Pale shimmered his bright robe. With ay in his heart, the father returo his bed.
After another hour, sino sleep had e over his eyes, the Brahman stood up again, paced to and fro, walked out of the house and saw that the moon had risen. Through the window of the chamber he looked baside; there stood Siddhartha, not moving from his spot, his arms folded, moonlight refleg from his bare shins. With worry in his heart, the father went back to bed.
And he came back after an hour, he came back after two hours, looked through the small window, saw Siddhartha standing, in the moon light, by the light of the stars, in the darkness. And he came back hour after hour, silently, he looked into the chamber, saw him standing in the same place, filled his heart with anger, filled his heart with u, filled his heart with anguish, filled it with sadness.
And in the nights last hour, before the day begaurned, stepped into the room, saw the young man standing there, who seemed tall and like a strao him.
"Siddhartha," he spoke, "what are you waiting for?"
"You know what."
"Will you always stand that way and wait, until itll bees m, noon, and evening?"
"I will stand and wait.
"You will bee tired, Siddhartha."
"I will bee tired."
"You will fall asleep, Siddhartha."
"I will not fall asleep."
"You will die, Siddhartha."
"I will die."
"And would you rather die, than obey your father?"
"Siddhartha has always obeyed his father."
"So will you abandon your plan?"
"Siddhartha will do what his father will tell him to do."
The first light of day shoo the room. The Brahman saw that Siddhartha was trembling softly in his knees. In Siddharthas face he saw no trembling, his eyes were fixed on a distant spot. Then his father realized that even now Siddhartha no longer dwelt with him in his home, that he had already left him.
The Father touched Siddharthas shoulder.
"You will," he spoke, "go into the forest and be a Samana. When youll have found blissfulness in the forest, then e bad teach me to be blissful. If youll find disappoi, theurn a us once again make s to the gods together. Go now and kiss your mother, tell her where yoing to. But for me it is time to go to the river and to perform the first ablution."
He took his hand from the shoulder of his son a outside. Siddhartha wavered to the side, as he tried to walk. He put his limbs bader trol, bowed to his father, ao his mother to do as his father had said.
As he slowly left on stiff legs in the first light of day the still quiet town, a shadow rose he last hut, who had crouched there, and joihe pilgrim--Govinda.
"You have e," said Siddhartha and smiled.
"I have e," said Govinda.
百度搜索 SIDDHARTHA: An Indian Tale 天涯 或 SIDDHARTHA: An Indian Tale 天涯在线书库 即可找到本书最新章节.