Siddhartha, the handsome son of the Brahmin, the young eagle, in the shade of the house, in the sun by the boats on the river bank, in the shade of the Sal tree, in the shade of the fig tree , grew up with his good friend Govinda, who was also the son of a Brahmin.On the banks of the river, at bathing, at holy baptisms, at holy sacrifices, the sun tanned his pale shoulders.In the mango grove, when the children played, when the mother hummed, at the holy sacrifice, when his father the scholar taught, and when the sages spoke, the shadows melted into his black eyes.Siddhartha had long participated in the conversations of the sages, practiced debates with Govinda, practiced observation skills with Govinda, and concentrated on meditation.He has learned to say "Om" silently, the word of words, the word when he inhales, and the word when he exhales, with all his concentration, his brow covered with the radiance of pure intelligence.He has learned to know the Atman deep within himself, undisturbed and at one with the universe.

The father saw that he was a studious person, a person who thirsted for knowledge, and saw in him a great sage and monk growing up, a nobleman among the Brahmins, and his heart was filled with joy for having such a son.The mother also watched her son, watched him walk and sit up, watched Siddhartha, a strong, handsome lad walking on long legs, greeting her with flawless appearance, and her breast throbbed with ecstasy. . As Siddhartha walks through the streets of the city, with his shining brow, the eyes of a king, and his bony hips writhing, love disturbs the hearts of young Brahmin girls.

And his friend Govinda, the son of Brahman, loved him more than anyone else.He loved Siddhartha's eyes and charming voice, his gait and impeccable grooming, everything Siddhartha did and said.He loves his spirit, his noble, impassioned thoughts, his strong will, and his lofty sense of mission.Govinda knew that this man would not be an ordinary Brahmin, not a corrupt priest, not a greedy merchant who uttered spells, not a vain orator, not a vicious and cunning monk, nor Not a kind and dumb little sheep in the herd.No, even he, Govinda, did not want to be like that, a Brahmin like thousands of others.He was willing to follow Siddhartha, the great man he loved.If Siddhartha becomes a god and a shining figure in the future, then Govinda is still willing to follow him, to be his friend, to be his partner, to be his servant, to be his entourage, to be his shadow.

Everyone loves Siddhartha so much.He created joy for everyone and brought joy to everyone. But he, Siddhartha, was not happy himself, nor was he having much fun.He walked the rose-coloured paths of the fig orchard, sat in meditation in the bluish shade of the grove, washed his limbs in the daily atonement bath, offered sacrifices in the shady mango grove, and behaved flawlessly, He is loved by everyone and brings happiness to everyone, but he has no happiness in himself.He dreamed often, having endless thoughts that flowed from the river, flashed from the stars in the night, and released from the rays of the sun.He often dreamed, emerging from the rituals of the restless mind, emerging from the lines of the Rig Veda, dripping from the teachings of the old Brahmins.

The dissatisfaction in Siddhartha's heart began to increase.He began to feel that his father's love, his mother's love, and the love of his good friend Govinda could not always make him happy, calm him, satisfy him, satisfy his heart.He began to worry that his venerable father and other teachers, those wise Brahmins, had passed down to him the essence of wisdom, poured their rich knowledge into his expectant vessel, and this vessel could not hold it. Full, the spirit is not satisfied, the soul is not at peace, and the heart is not at peace.Baptisms are good, but they are water, they cannot wash away sins, they cannot cure spiritual thirst, they cannot relieve inner fears.Sacrifice and prayers to the gods are all well and good—but is that all? Did the sacrifices ever bring happiness? And what about the works of the gods? Was it really the Lord who created the world? Was it not the Atman , the unique lord of all things? Why are the gods not like you and me, created images, subject to time, temporary rather than eternal? It is really a good thing to sacrifice to the gods, and it is a reasonable and supreme action ?Who is worthy of sacrifice, who is worthy of worship but the unique Atman? Where is the Atman to be found, where does he dwell, where does his eternal heart beat? Except in the ego, And where is this self, this deep, this last thing? It is not flesh and legs, nor mind nor consciousness , that's what those sages taught.So, where is it, where is it? To squeeze in there, into the ego, into my heart, into the Atman - but is there another way worth exploring? Ah, no one pointed the way , and no one knows it, not the father, not the teachers and sages, not even the holy sacrificial songs! But the Paramans and their holy books know everything.They knew everything, cared about everything, and beyond everything, the creation of the world, the production of speech, eating, and breathing, the production of feeling and breathing, the order of the senses, the deeds of the gods—they knew an infinite number of things—but, What's the value of knowing all that if you don't know this unique thing, this most important thing, this only important thing?

Indeed, many poems in the sacred books, especially in the Upanishads of the Sama Veda, deal with this innermost, ultimate thing, really great poems. "Your soul is the whole world." It is written in it, and it is also written that when a person sleeps, in a deep sleep, he enters the depths of his heart and enters the Atman.In these poems there is an astonishing wisdom, where all the knowledge of the wisest men is concentrated, embodied in words of magic, pure as the honey of the bees.No, do not underestimate this vast wealth of knowledge, collected and preserved here by countless generations of wise Brahmins. --But where are those who not only know but experience this deepest knowledge, those Brahmins, those monks, those sages or penitents? , make it clear, enter into life, step forward, where is the expert in speaking and doing? Siddhartha knew many respectable Brahmins, first of all his father, that noble man, that scholar, that worthy Respected people.His father was admirable, serene and noble in manner, simple in life, wise in speech, wise in mind and noble in thought; but even he, with so much knowledge, lived in happiness, with peace and tranquility? Is it not also a seeker, a thirster? Is he not also a thirsty man, who has to run again and again to the holy spring to drink, to drink from sacrifices, from books, from the conversation of Brahmans? He Why does this blameless man have to wash away his sins every day, try to wash every day, and try again every day? Is the Atman not in him, is the source not flowing in him at all? It must be found, in this ego The fundamental source of life, we must have it! Everything else is exploration, detours, and misguided paths.

This is what Siddhartha thinks, this is his longing, this is his distress. He often read aloud the words in the "Upanishads": "Indeed, the name Brahman is the truth-indeed, whoever understands this can enter the heavenly world every day." The heavenly world is often approaching, but he But never fully attained, never quenched of the last thirst.None of the sages, whom he knew and taught, had reached the heavenly world and quenched the thirst of eternity. "Govinda," Siddhartha said to his friend, "Govinda, my dear, come with me under the banyan tree, and it is time for us to concentrate on meditation."

They went to the banyan tree and sat down, here was Siddhartha, twenty paces away was Govinda.Siddhartha sat down and got ready to chant sutras, then muttered and repeated: The mouth is the bow, the heart is the arrow, Brahmins are the target of the arrow, It should always be directed towards it. After the normal time for meditation and meditation had passed, Govinda stood up.Evening came, and it was time for the evening bath.He called Siddhartha's name, but Siddhartha did not answer.Siddhartha was still meditating, his eyes staring blankly at a distant target, the tip of his tongue protruded slightly from between his teeth, as if he was not breathing.He just sat like this, immersed in concentration, silently chanting "Mouth Dying", and his mind has shot towards the Brahman like an arrow.

At that time, several ascetics passed by the city where Siddhartha was.They were ascetics on a pilgrimage, three gaunt, haggard men, neither old nor young, travel-stained, bleeding from their shoulders, almost naked, sunburned, living in solitude, ignorant of the world Strange and hostile, he is called a stranger and a thin wolf in the world.Wafting from behind them was a strong smell of quiet passion, stoic practice, and a ruthlessly restrained ego. In the evening, after meditating on his meditation lessons, Siddhartha said to Govinda, "Early tomorrow morning, my friend, Siddhartha is going to a Samana, and he is going to be a Samana."

Govinda's face turned pale when he heard this, and he saw in his friend's calm face a determination that was as irreversible as an arrow that leaves the string.Govinda understood at a glance: the matter had already begun, and now Siddhartha was going his own way, his fate had begun to sprout new teeth, and his own fate was connected with it.His face was as pale as a withered banana peel. "Oh, Siddhartha," he cried, "will your father allow it?" Siddhartha looked over like someone waking up.He soon saw Govinda's heart, fear, and obedience. "Oh, Govinda," he whispered, "let's not waste our tongues. I'm going to be a Samana at dawn tomorrow. Stop talking."

Siddhartha entered the room, where his father was sitting on a hemp Siddhartha.He walked up to his father and stood there until his father became aware of someone behind him.The brahmin said, "Is that you, Siddhartha? Speak, say what you want to say." Siddhartha said, "Father, please allow me. I have come to tell you that tomorrow I want to leave this house and go to an ascetic. It is my wish to be a Samana. I hope you will not object, Daddy." The Brahmin didn't say a word, and remained silent for a long time, until the stars twinkled in the small window and changed their positions, and the room remained silent.The son stood there with his arms folded without saying a word or moving, and the father also sat without saying a word or moving on the Siddhar Tower, and only the stars moved in the sky.Later, the father said: "It is not suitable for a Brahmin to speak fierce and angry words, but I am very dissatisfied in my heart. I don't want to hear this kind of request from you again." After the Brahmin finished speaking, he stood up slowly.Siddhartha still stood silently with his arms folded. "What are you waiting for?" asked the father. "You know," Siddhartha said. Father stormed out of the room, touched his own bed and lay down. After an hour, the Brahmin woke up again from sleeplessness, paced up and down the room, and then left the house.He looked into the room through the small window and saw Siddhartha still standing there, arms folded, motionless, the light of his light-coloured blouse shining faintly.My father went back to his bed very disturbed. After another hour, the brahmin still did not feel sleepy, so he got up again, paced up and down in the room, and then walked to the front of the house, and saw that the moon had risen.He looked in through the little window and saw Siddhartha still standing there, motionless, arms folded, moonlight illuminating his bare calves.My father groped back to his bed again worriedly. After another hour, he got up again; after another two hours, he repeated it again.Through the small window he saw Siddhartha still standing in the moonlight, in the starlight, in the darkness.Hour after hour passed, and he silently looked into the room, and saw that the person standing was still motionless.His heart was full of anger, anxiety, hesitation, and pain. In the last hour before dawn, he turned back, walked into the room, saw the young man still standing there, felt that he had grown up suddenly, but also seemed strange. "Sitdhartha," he said, "what are you waiting for?" "you know." "Are you just standing there, waiting until dawn, noon, and night?" "Yes, I'll just stand and wait." "You will be tired, Siddhartha." "Yes, I will be tired." "You will fall asleep, Siddhartha." "I won't fall asleep." "You will die, Siddhartha." "Yes, I will die." "Would you rather die than listen to your father?" "Sitdhartha always listened to his father." "Then, are you willing to give up your plan?" "Sitdhartha will do what his father tells him to do." The first rays of morning light entered the room.The Brahmin father saw that Xi's knees were trembling slightly.No trembling was visible on Siddhartha's face, his eyes were fixed into the distance.At this time, the father realized that Siddhartha was no longer with him, not in his hometown, and he had left his father. Father stroked Siddhartha's shoulder. He said: "You are going into the forest to be a Samana. If you find eternal happiness in the forest, come back and teach me. If all you get is disappointment, come back and worship the gods with us again. Go , to kiss your mother good-bye, and tell her where you are going. As for me, it is time to go to the river for my first bath." He withdrew his hand from his son's shoulder and went out.Siddhartha was about to move, but his body swayed sideways.He forced himself to bow to his father, and then went to see his mother, to say goodbye to her as his father had ordered. When he slowly left the still silent city with numb and stiff legs in the morning light, a squatting figure flashed out from a hut in the city and joined the pilgrimage—that was Govinda. "Here you are," Siddhartha said, smiling slightly. "Here I am," said Govinda.