WITH THE SAMANAS
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In the evening of this day they caught up with the ascetics, the skinny Samanas, and offered them their panionship and--obediehey were accepted.Siddhartha gave his garments to a poor Brahman ireet. He wore nothing more than the loincloth and the earth-coloured, unsown cloak. He ate only once a day, and never something cooked. He fasted for fifteen days. He fasted for twe days. The flesh waned from his thighs and cheeks. Feverish dreams flickered from his enlarged eyes, long nails grew slowly on his parched fingers and a dry, shaggy beard grew on his . His glauro icy when he entered women; his mouth twitched with pt, when he walked through a city of nicely dressed people. He saw merts trading, princes hunting, mourners wailing for their dead, whores themselves, physis trying to help the sick, priests determining the most suitable day for seeding, lovers loving, mothers nursing their children--and all <big></big>of this was not worthy of one look from his eye, it all lied, it all stank, it all stank of lies, it all preteo be meaningful and joyful aiful, and it all was just cealed putrefa. The world tasted bitter. Life was torture.
A goal stood before Siddhartha, a single goal: to bee empty, empty of thirst, empty of wishiy of dreams, empty of joy and sorrow. Dead to himself, not to be a self any more, to find tranquility with aied heard, to be open to miracles in unselfish thoughts, that was his goal. Once all of my self was overe and had died, once every desire and every urge was silent in the heart, theimate part of me had to awake, the innermost of my being, which is no longer my self, the great secret.
Silently, Siddhartha exposed himself t rays of the sun directly above, glowing with pain, glowing with thirst, and stood there, until he her felt any pain nor thirst any more. Silently, he stood there in the rainy season, from his hair the water was dripping over freezing shoulders, over freezing hips and legs, and the pe stood there, until he could not feel the cold in his shoulders and legs any more, until they were silent, until they were quiet. Silently, he cowered ihorny bushes, blood dripped from the burning skin, from festering wounds dripped pus, and Siddhartha stayed rigidly, stayed motionless, until no blood flowed any more, until nothing stung any more, until nothing burned any more.
Siddhartha sat upright and learo breathe sparingly, learo get along with only few breathes, learo stop breathing. He learned, beginning with the breath, to calm the beat of his heart, leao reduce the beats of his heart, until they were only a few and almost none.
Instructed by the oldest if the Samanas, Siddhartha practised self-denial, practised meditation, acc to a new Samana rules. A heron flew over the bamboo forest--and Siddhartha accepted the heron into his soul, flew over forest and mountains, was a heron, ate fish, felt the pangs of a herons hunger, spoke the herons croak, died a heroh. A dead jackal was lying on the sandy bank, and Siddharthas soul slipped ihe body, was the dead jackal, lay on the banks, got bloated, stank, decayed, was dismembered by hyaenas, was skinned by vultures, turned into a skeleton, turo dust, was blown across the fields. And Siddharthas soul returned, had died, had decayed, was scattered as dust, had tasted the gloomy intoxication of the cycle, awaited ihirst like a hunter in the gap, where he could escape from the cycle, where the end of the causes, where ay without suffering began. He killed his senses, he killed his memory, he slipped out of his self into thousands of other forms, was an animal, was carrion, was stone, was wood, was water, and awoke every time to find his old self again, sun shone or moon, was his self again, turned round in the cycle, felt thirst, overcame the thirst, felt hirst.
Siddhartha learned a lot when he was with the Samanas, many ways leading away from the self he learo go. He went the way of self-denial by means of pain, through voluntarily suffering and overing pain, huhirst, tiredness. He went the way of self-denial by means of meditation, through imagining the mind to be void of all ceptions. These and other ways he learo go, a thousand times he left his self, for hours and days he remained in the non-self. But though the ways led away from the self, their eheless always led back to the self. Though Siddhartha fled from the self a thousand times, stayed in nothingness, stayed in the animal, iohe return was iable, inescapable was the hour, when he found himself ba the sunshine or in the moonlight, in the shade or in the rain, and was once again his self and Siddhartha, and agaihe agony of the cycle which had been forced upon him.
By his side lived Govinda, his shadow, walked the same paths, uook the same efforts. They rarely spoke to one ahan the servid the exercises required. Occasionally the two of them went through the villages, to beg for food for themselves and their teachers.
"How do you think, Govinda," Siddhartha spoke one day while begging this way, "how do you think did we <bdo>藏书网</bdress? Did we reay goals?"
Govinda answered: "We have learned, and well tinue learning. Youll be a great Samana, Siddhartha. Quickly, youve learned every exercise, often the old Samanas have admired you. One day, youll be a holy man, oh Siddhartha."
Quoth Siddhartha: "I t help but feel that it is not like this, my friend. What Ive learned, being among the Samanas, up to this day, this, oh Govinda, I could have learned more quickly and by simpler means. Iavern of that part of a towhe whorehouses are, my friend, among carters and gamblers I could have lear."
Quoth Govinda: "Siddhartha is putting me on. How could you have learned meditation, holding your breath, iivity against hunger and pain there among these wretched people?"
And Siddhartha said quietly, as if he was talking to himself: "What is meditation? What is leaving ones body? What is fasting? What is holding ones breath? It is fleeing from the self, it is a short escape of the agony of being a self, it is a short numbing of the senses against the pain and the pointlessness of life. The same escape, the same short numbing is what the driver of an ox-cart finds in the inn, drinking a few bowls of rice-wine or fermented ut-milk. Then he wont feel his self any more, then he wohe pains of life any more, then he finds a short numbing of the senses. When he falls asleep over his bowl of rice-wine, hell find the same what Siddhartha and Govinda find when they escape their bodies through long exercises, staying in the non-self. This is how it is, oh Govinda."
Quoth Govinda: "You say so, oh friend, a you know that Siddhartha is no driver of an ox-cart and a Samana is no drunkard. Its true that a drinker numbs his senses, its true that he briefly escapes as, but hell return from the delusion, finds everything to be unged, has not bee wiser, has gathered no enlighte,--has not risen several steps."
And Siddhartha spoke with a smile: "I do not know, Ive never been a drunkard. But that I, Siddhartha, find only a short numbing of the senses in my exercises aations and that I am just as far removed from wisdom, from salvation, as a child ihers womb, this I know, oh Govinda, this I know."
And once again, aime, when Siddhartha left the forest together with Govinda, to beg for some food in the village for their brothers and teachers, Siddhartha began to speak and said: "What now, oh Govinda, might we be on the right path? Might we get closer to enlighte? Might we get closer to salvation? Or do we >..</a>perhaps live in a circle-- we, who have thought we were esg the cycle?"
Quoth Govinda: "We have learned a lot, Siddhartha, there is still much to learn. We are not going around in circles, we are moving up, the circle is a spiral, we have already asded many a level."
Siddhartha answered: "How old, would you think, is our oldest Samana, our venerable teacher?"
Quoth Govinda: "Our oldest one might be about sixty years of age."
And Siddhartha: "He has lived for sixty years and has not reached the nirvana. Hell tury ay, and you and me, we will grow just as old and will do our exercises, and will fast, and will meditate. But we will not reach the nirvana, he wont and we wont. Oh Govinda, I believe out of all the Samanas out there, perhaps not a single one, not a single one, will reach the nirvana. We find fort, we find numbness, we lears, to deceive others. But the most important thing, the path of paths, we will not find."
"If you only," spoke Govinda, "wouldnt speak such terrible words, Siddhartha! How could it be that among so many learned men, among so many Brahmans, among so many austere and venerable Samanas, among so many who are searg, so many who are eagerly trying, so many holy men, no one will find the path of paths?"
But Siddhartha said in a voice which tained just as much sadness as mockery, with a quiet, a slightly sad, a slightly mog voice: "Soon, Govinda, your friend will leave the path of the Samanas, he has walked along your side for so long. Im suffering of thirst, oh Govinda, and on this long path of a Samana, my thirst has remained as strong as ever. I always thirsted for knowledge, I have always been full of questions. I have asked the Brahmans, year after year, and I have asked the holy Vedas, year after year, and I have asked the devote Samanas, year after year. Perhaps, oh Govinda, it had been just as well, had been just as smart and just as profitable, if I had asked the hornbill-bird or the chimpa took me a long time and am not finished learning this yet, oh Govinda: that there is nothing to be learhere is indeed no such thing, so I believe, as what we refer to as `learning. There is, oh my friend, just one knowledge, this is everywhere, this is Atman, this is within me and within you and within every creature. And so Im starting to believe that this knowledge has no worser ehan the desire to know it, than learning."
At this, Govinda stopped oh, rose his hands, and spoke: "If you, Siddhartha, only would not bother your friend with this kind of talk! Truly, you words stir up fear in my heart. And just sider: what would bee of the sanctity of prayer, what of the venerability of the Brahmans caste, what of the holiness of the Samanas, if it was as you say, if there was no learning?! What, oh Siddhartha, what would then bee of all of this what is holy, what is precious, what is venerable oh?!"
And Govinda mumbled a verse to himself, a verse from an Upanishad:
He who ply, of a purified spirit, loses himself in the meditation of Atman, unexpressable by words is his blissfulness of his heart.
But Siddhartha remained silent. He thought about the words which Govinda had said to him and thought the words through to their end.
Yes, he thought, standing there with his head low, what would remain of all that which seemed to us to be holy? What remains? What stand the test? And he shook his head.
At oime, whewo young men had lived among the Samanas for about three years and had shared their exercises, some news, a rumour, a myth reached them after beiold many times: A man had appeared, Gotama by he exalted ohe Buddha, he had overe the suffering of the world in himself and had halted the cycle of rebirths. He was said to wahrough the land, teag, surrounded by disciples, without possession, without home, without a wife, in the yellow cloak of an ascetic, but with a cheerful brow, a man of bliss, and Brahmans and princes would bow down before him and would bee his students.
This myth, this rumour, this legend resounded, its fragrants rose up, here and there; iowns, the Brahmans spoke of it and in the forest, the Samanas; again and again, the name of Gotama, the Buddha reached the ears of the young men, with good and with bad talk, with praise and with defamation.
It was as if the plague had broken out in a try and news had been spreading around that in one or another place there was a man, a wise man, a knowledgeable one, whose word and breath was enough to heal everyone who had been ied with the pestilence, and as suews would gh the land and everyone would talk about it, many would believe, many would doubt, but many would get on their way as soon as possible, to seek the wise man, the helper, just like this this myth ran through the land, that fragrant myth of Gotama, the Buddha, the wise man of the family of Sakya. He possessed, so the believers said, the highest enlighte, he remembered his previous lives, he had reached the nirvana and never returned into the cycle, was never again submerged in the murky river of physical forms. Many wonderful and unbelievable things were reported of him, he had performed miracles, had overe the devil, had spoken to the gods. But his enemies and disbelievers said, this Gotama was a vain seducer, he would spent his days in luxury, sed the s, was without learning, and knew her exercises nor self-castigation.
The myth of Buddha sounded sweet. The st of magic flowed from these reports. After all, the world was sick, life was hard to bear--and behold, here a source seemed t forth, here a messenger seemed to call out, f, mild, full of noble promises. Everywhere where the rumour of Buddha was heard, everywhere in the lands of India, the young men listened up, felt a longing, felt hope, and among the Brahmans sons of the towns and villages every pilgrim and stranger was wele, when he brought news of him, the exalted ohe Sakyamuni.
The myth had also reached the Samanas in the forest, and also Siddhartha, and also Govinda, slowly, drop by drop, every drop laden with hope, every drop laden with doubt. They rarely talked about it, because the oldest one of the Samanas did not like this myth. He had heard that this alleged Buddha used to be an ascetic before and had lived in the forest, but had then turned back to luxury and worldly pleasures, and he had no high opinion of this Gotama.
"Oh Siddhartha," Govinda spoke one day to his friend. "Today, I was in the village, and a Brahman invited me into his house, and in his house, there was the son of a Brahman from Magadha, who has seen the Buddha with his own eyes and has heard him teach. Verily, this made my chest ache when I breathed, and thought to myself: If only I would too, if only we both would too, Siddhartha and me, live to see the hour when we will hear the teags from the mouth of this perfected man! Speak, friend, wouldnt we want to go there too and listen to the teags from the Buddhas mouth?"
Quoth Siddhartha: "Always, oh Govinda, I had thought, Govinda would stay with the Samanas, always I had believed his goal was to live to be sixty ay ye<dfn></dfn>ars of age and to keep on practising those feats and exercises, which are being a Samana. But behold, I had not known Govinda well enough, I knew little of his heart. So now you, my faithful friend, want to take a new path and go there, where the Buddha spreads his teags."
Quoth Govinda: "Youre mog me. Mock me if you like, Siddhartha! But have you not also developed a desire, an eagerness, to hear these teags? And have you not at oime said to me, you would not walk the path of the Samanas for much longer?"
At this, Siddhartha laughed in his very own manner, in which his voice assumed a touch of sadness and a touockery, and said: "Well, Govinda, youve spoken well, youve remembered correctly. If you only remembered the other thing as well, youve heard from me, which is that I have grown distrustful and tired against teags and learning, and that my faith in words, which are brought to us by teachers, is small. But le<s>.</s>ts do it, my dear, I am willing to listen to these teags--though in my heart I believe that weve already tasted the best fruit of these teags."
Quoth Govinda: "Your willingness delights my heart. But tell me, how should this be possible? How should the Gotamas teags, even before we have heard them, have already revealed their best fruit to us?"
Quoth Siddhartha: "Let us eat this fruit and wait for the rest, oh Govinda! But this fruit, which we already now received thanks to the Gotama, sisted in him calling us away from the Samanas! Whether he has also other aer things to give us, oh friend, let us await with calm hearts."
On this very same day, Siddhartha informed the oldest one of the Samanas of his decision, that he wao leave him. He informed the oldest oh all the courtesy and modesty being to a younger one and a student. But the Samana became angry, because the two young men wao leave him, and talked loudly and used crude swearwords.
Govinda was startled and became embarrassed. But Siddhartha put his mouth close to Govindas ear and whispered to him: "Now, I want to show the old man that Ive learned something from him."
Positioning himself closely in front of the Samana, with a trated soul, he captured the old mans glah his glances, deprived him of his power, made him mute, took away his free will, subdued him under his own will, anded him, to do silently, whatever he demanded him to do. The old man became mute, his eyes became motionless, his will aralysed, his arms were hanging down; without power, he had fallen victim to Siddharthas spell. But Siddharthas thoughts brought the Samana uheir trol, he had to carry out, what they anded. And thus, the old man made several bows, performed gestures of blessing, spoke stammeringly a godly wish food journey. And the young meurhe bows with thanks, returhe wish, went on their way with salutations.
On the way, Govinda said: "Oh Siddhartha, you have learned more from the Samanas than I knew. It is hard, it is very hard to cast a spell on an old Samana. Truly, if you had stayed there, you would soon have learo walk on water."
"I do not seek to walk on water," said Siddhartha. "Let old Samanas be tent with such feats!"
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