Chapter 11 Om

That wound still hurts for a long time.Sometimes, when Siddhartha ferryed a passenger with his son or daughter across the river, he was always envious and thought: "So many people, thousands of people, have this most warm happiness— —Why didn’t I? Even bad guys, thieves and robbers have their own children, love them and be loved by them, but I can’t alone!” He thought so simply, so irrationally, he became Exactly the same as those childlike mortals. Now he treats people differently, no longer shrewd and arrogant, but more warm, curious and caring.As he ferries the usual types of travelers, childlike laymen, merchants, soldiers, and women, these people feel less foreign than they used to: he understands them, understands and shares with them not by ideas and opinions but by Lives led by instinct and desire, feel themselves like them.Although he is close to perfection and has his recent wounds, he feels that these common people are his brothers. Their vanity, greed and ridiculousness have lost their ridiculousness to him, and have become understandable, lovable and even It's respectable.The blind love of a mother for her child, the foolish and blind pride of a pompous father in his only son, the blind and insane pursuit of jewelry and the admiring glance of a man by a prettily young woman, all these desires, all these Childishness, all these simple, stupid but extremely strong, extremely active and stubborn desires and greeds are no longer childish for Siddhartha now, he sees people living for these, busying themselves for these , running around, beating each other, eating endless hardships, and enduring endless troubles.He loved them for this, and in their every passion and every action he saw life, that freshness, that indestructibility, he saw Brahman.These men are lovely and admirable in their blind fidelity and their blind strength and tenacity.They lack nothing, scholars and thinkers are no better than them, except one little thing, a very small thing: enlightenment, a clear idea of ​​the unity of all life.Sometimes Siddhartha even wondered whether he should have the childishness of a thinker, of a thinking layman, whether he should value this knowledge, this idea so highly.In short, the common man is in other respects equal to, and far superior to, the wise and wise, just as the animal sometimes surpasses man in his obstinate and steadfast necessity.

In Siddhartha's heart, there is a kind of understanding, a kind of knowledge, that is, what is wisdom and what is the goal of his long-term exploration, which gradually blossomed and matured.It is nothing more than a spiritual preparation, an ability, a mystical art, to be able to think of a unified thought, to feel and inhale this unity, every moment, in the midst of life.It slowly blossomed in his mind, and was reflected in Vasudevan's old face: harmony, awareness of the eternal perfection of the world, smile, unity. But the wound was still burning, and Siddhartha was still thinking hard about his son, cultivating his love and tenderness in his heart, letting the pain torment him, and doing all the stupid things about love.This flame will not extinguish itself.

One day, the wound hurt so badly that Siddhartha crossed the river, unable to bear the pain of longing. After getting off the boat, he planned to go to the city to find his son.The river was flowing gently, and it was the dry season, but there was something special about the sound of the river: it was laughing!It is smiling clearly.The river was laughing, mocking the old boatman crisply and loudly.Siddhartha stopped, bending over the water to hear better.He saw his own face reflected in the still running water, and it reminded him of something, something he had forgotten.He thought about it, and finally found that this face was very similar to a face he was familiar with, loved but feared.It was like his father's face, the Brahman's face.He recalled many years ago, when he was a young man, how he forced his father to allow him to go out to practice penance, how he said goodbye to his father, and how he never went back after leaving home.Had not his father suffered the same for him as he now suffers for his son?Didn't his father die a long time ago, and he never saw his son again alone?Why wouldn't he suffer the same fate himself?Isn't this repetition, this circle in an unlucky circle, a comedy, a strange and absurd thing?

The river is laughing.Yes, that's how it is, and as long as it's not over, it's all going to repeat itself, the same pain over and over again.Siddhartha boarded the boat again and returned to the hut.He misses his father, he misses his son, he is mocked by the river, he struggles with himself, he is prone to despair, and he is equally prone to laughing loudly at himself and the world.Ah, the wound has not yet bloomed, his heart is still fighting against fate, his pain has not yet radiated joy and victory.But he felt hope, and when he returned to the hut he felt an irrepressible desire to open his heart to Vasudeva, to tell him everything, to the Master who listened.

Vasudeva was sitting in his hut weaving a basket.He no longer punted because his eyesight was beginning to fail, not only his eyes but his arms and hands too.Only the joy and cheerful kindness on his face remained unchanged, still radiant. Siddhartha sat beside the old man and began to speak slowly.He was telling now things he had never told before, about his trip to town, about the searing wound, about his jealousy when he saw other happy fathers, about his knowledge of the folly of such desires, about His futile struggle.He talks about everything, he is willing to talk about everything, even the most difficult things, he talks about everything, can expose everything, and tell everything.He showed his wounds, and he told how he wanted to escape today, how he crossed the river, how he, a childish and ridiculous escaper, intended to go to the city, and how the river laughed at him.

He talked and talked for a long time, and Vasudeva listened with a calm face.Siddhartha felt that Vasudeva was listening more powerfully now than he had ever felt before, and he felt how his own pain, his own worries were being passed on, how his secret hope was being passed on, and how it was being passed on from the old man. Side pass back.Showing their wounds to the listener is like bathing in the river until they cool down and become one with the water.Siddhartha kept telling, pouring out confessions and confessions, and he felt more and more that what he was listening to was not Vasudeva, not a person anymore, this immobile listener imbibed his confessions , just like a tree soaked up the rain, this motionless man is the river, God, and eternity.When Siddhartha stopped thinking about himself and his wounds, the realization that Vasudeva had changed his nature dominated him, and the more he felt it, the deeper he probed, the less Strange, the more he realizes, everything is normal and natural, Vasudeva has been like this for a long time, almost always has been like this, but he himself has not fully realized it.Yes, he himself was hardly any different.He felt that the way he was looking at old Vasudeva now, as a mortal looks at God, would not last long; he had begun to say goodbye to Vasudeva in his heart.At the same time, he was still talking non-stop.

After he finished speaking, Vasudeva looked at him with his kind and somewhat dim eyes, did not speak, but silently conveyed love and happiness, understanding and understanding to him.He took Siddhartha's hand and led him to his usual place by the river, sat down with him and faced the water with a smile. "You heard the river laugh," he said, "but you didn't hear everything. Let's listen again, and you'll hear more." They listened intently, and the multi-part chorus of the river resounded softly.Looking at the river, Siddhartha reflected a series of images in the flowing water: his father appeared, alone, sad because of missing his son; he himself appeared, alone, also missing his son from afar Trouble bound; his son appeared, also alone, racing forward on the track of his youthful desires.Everyone suffers.The river moaned in a painful voice, longingly, longing to flow to its own goal, and the sound was like weeping.

"Did you hear that?" Vasudeva asked with silent eyes.Siddhartha nodded. "Listen more carefully!" Vasudeva whispered. Siddhartha tried to listen more carefully.The image of the father, the image of himself, the image of the son, all merged together, even the image of Kamala appeared and then faded, and the image of Govinda, the images of others, all mixed together Blending together, all in the river, as the river rushes to the goal, rushes to the goal with eagerness, longing and pain.The sound of the river is full of longing, full of burning pain, full of insatiable desire.The river was rushing towards its goal, and Siddhartha watched it hurrying away.The river was made up of him, his kin, and all the people he'd ever seen, and the waves were rushing, rushing to the goal, to many goals, to the waterfall, to the lake, to the rapids, to the sea, to all goals, each followed by a new one!And so the water turns into steam, rises to the sky, turns into rain, falls from the sky, turns into a spring, turns into a brook, turns into a river, flows again, flows again.But the longing voice changed.It still chimed painfully, probingly, but other voices had joined it, voices of joy and pain, beauty and ugliness, laughter and sorrow, a hundred voices, a thousand voices.

Siddhartha listened intently.He is now an attentive listener, completely immersed in listening, blank, inhaling with all his strength, and he feels that he has learned listening at this moment.He used to hear all these things, these many sounds in the river, but today it seemed very strange.He could no longer distinguish the many voices, the laughter from the cry, the child from the adult, all mingled together, wistful whining and knowing laughter, angry cries and dying groans, All in one piece, all interwoven and interconnected, entwined a thousand times over.Putting everything together, all voices, all goals, all desires, all pain, all joy, all good and evil, is this world.Putting it all together is the river of events, the music of life.When Siddhartha listens intently to the sound of the river, to this song that contains thousands of sounds, when he doesn't worry or laugh, his heart is not controlled by a certain sound, but let him When the ego melts into it, hears everything, hears the whole, hears the unity, then this great song of a thousand voices is condensed into one word, and that is "Om" - perfect.

"Did you hear that?" Vasudeva's eyes asked again. Vasudeva's smile was so bright that it illuminated all the wrinkles of his aging face, like an "Om" floating above all the sounds of the river.He looked at his friend with a bright smile, and the same smile spread across Siddhartha's face.His wounds bloom, his pain shines, his ego melts into unity. At this moment, Siddhartha stopped fighting against fate, stopped worrying.In his countenance the joy of knowledge is manifested, the will is no longer against him, it understands perfection, agrees with the river of events, agrees with the flow of life, full of sympathy, full of joy, eager to flow, subordinate to unity.

Vasudeva rose from his seat on the bank, looked into Siddhartha's eyes, and seeing the joy of knowledge shining in them, touched his shoulder lightly with his hand in his cautious and gentle way, and said: "I've been waiting for this moment, my dear. Now it's finally here, let me go. I've been waiting for this moment for as long as I have been Vasudeva the boatman. Now it can end. Farewell, hut, farewell, river, farewell, Siddhartha!" Siddhartha bowed deeply to the fareweller. "I already know," he whispered. "You're going to the forest?" "I'm going to the forest, I'm going to integrate into unity." Vasudeva said radiantly. He went radiantly.Siddhartha watched him go.With deep joy and deep sincerity, he watched the old man go away, saw his peaceful steps, the radiance of his head, and the radiance of his body.