11 - Om - Siddhartha - Hermann Hesse

0:00Chapter 11 Olm For a long time the wound continued to burn. Many a traveller Siddhartha had to ferry across the river who was accompanied by a son or a daughter, and he saw none of them without envying him, without thinking, so many, so many thousands possessed this sweetest of good fortunes. Why don't I? Even bad people, even thieves and robbers have children, and love them, and are being loved by them, all except for me. Thus simply, thus without reason he now thought, thus similar to the childlike people he had become. Differently than before he now looked upon people, less smart, less proud, but instead warmer, more curious, more involved. Only ferried travellers of the ordinary kind, childlike people, businessmen, warriors,

1:03women, these people did not seem alien to him as they used to. He understood them, he understood and shared their life which was not guided by thoughts and insight, but solely by urges and wishes. He felt like them. Though he was near perfection and was bearing his final wound, it seemed to him as if those childlike people were his brothers, their vanities, desires for possession, and ridiculous aspects were no longer ridiculous to him, became understandable, became lovable, and even became worthy of veneration to him. The blind love of a mother for her child, the stupid blind pride of a conceited father for his only son, the blind wild desire of a young vain woman for jewellery and admiring glances from men, all of these urges, all of this childish stuff, all of these simple,

2:05foolish, but immensely strong, strongly living, strongly prevailing urges and desires, were now no childish notions for Siddhartha anymore. He saw people living for their sake, saw them achieving infinitely much for their sake, travelling, conducting wars, suffering infinitely much, bearing infinitely much, and he could love them for it. He saw life that, what is alive, the indestructible, the Brahmin in each of their passions, each of their acts. With the of love and admiration were these people in their blind loyalty, their blind strength and tenacity. They lacked nothing, there was nothing the knowledgeable one, the thinker, had put himself above them except for one thing, a single tiny small thing, the consciousness, the conscious thought

3:07of the oneness of all life, and Siddhartha even doubted in many an hour whether this knowledge this thought was to be valued thus highly, whether it might also perhaps be a childish idea of the thinking people, of the thinking and child-like people. In all other respects the worldly people were of equal rank to the wise men, were often far superior to them, just as animals to can after in some moments seem to be superior to humans in their tough, unrelenting performance of what is necessary. Slowly blossomed, slowly ripened in Siddhartha, the realization, the knowledge, what wisdom actually was, what the goal of his long search was. It was nothing but a readiness of the soul, an ability, a secret art, to think every moment while living his life the thought of oneness, to be able to feel and inhale the oneness.

4:12Slowly this blossomed in him was shining back at him from Vasudeva's old child-like face. In harmony, knowledge of the eternal perfection of the world, smiling oneness. But the wound still burned, longingly and bitterly Siddhartha thought of his son, nurtured his love and tenderness in his heart, allowed the pain to nor at him, committed all foolish acts of love. Not by itself this flame would go out, and one day when the wound burned violently, Siddhartha ferried across the river driven by a yearning, got off the boat and was willing to go to the city and to look for his son. The river flowed softly and quietly, it was the dry season, but its voice sounded strange, laughed, it laughed clearly. The river laughed, it laughed brightly and clearly at the old

5:16ferryman. Siddhartha stopped. He bent over the water in order to hear even better, and he saw his face reflected in the quietly moving waters, and in this reflected face there was something which reminded him something he had forgotten, and as he thought about it he found it. His face resembled another face which he used to know and love and also fear. It resembled his father's face, the Brahman, and he remembered how he, a long time ago as a young man, had forced his father to let him go to the penitence, how he had bad his farewell to him, how he had gone and had never come back. And his father not also suffered the same pain for him which he now suffered for his son, had his father not long since died alone, without having seen his son again. Did he not

6:17have to expect the same fate for himself? Was it not a comedy, a strange and stupid matter this repetition, this running around in a fateful circle? The river laughed. Yes, so it was. Everything came back which had not been suffered and solved up to its end. The same pain was suffered over and over again. But Siddhartha went back into the boat and ferried back to the hut, thinking of his father, thinking of his son, laughed at by the river, at odds with himself, tending towards despair, and not less tending towards laughing along at himself, and the entire world. Alas, the wound was not blossoming again. His heart was still fighting his fate, cheerfulness and victory were not yet shining from his suffering. Nevertheless, he felt hope, and once

7:18he had returned to the hut, he felt an undefeatable desire to open up to Vasudeva, to show him everything the master of listening, to say everything. Vasudeva was sitting in the hut and weaving a basket. He no longer used the ferryboat. His eyes were starting to get weak and not just his eyes, his arms and hands as well. Unchanging and flourishing was only the joy and the cheerful benevolence of his face. Siddhartha sat down next to the old man, slowly he started talking. What they had never talked about he now told him of, of his walk to the city, at that time, of the burning wound, of his envy at the sight of happy fathers, of his knowledge of the foolishness of such wishes, of his futile fight against them. He reported everything. He was able to say everything, even

8:20the most embarrassing parts. Everything could be said, everything shone, everything he could tell. He presented his wound. Also told how he fled today, how he ferried across the water, a child like runaway, willing to walk to the city, how the river had laughed. While he spoke, spoke for a long time, while Vassudeva was listening with a quiet face, Vassudeva's listening gave Siddhartha a stronger sensation than ever before. He sensed how his pain, his fears, flowed over to him, how his secret hope flowed over, came back at him from his counterpart. To show his wound to this listener was the same as bathing it in the river, until it had cooled and become one with the river. While he was still speaking, still admitting and confessing, Siddhartha felt more and more that this was no longer Vassudeva,

9:24no longer a human being who was listening to him, that this motionless listener was absorbing his confession into himself, like a tree the rain, that this motionless man was the river itself, that he was God himself, that he was the eternal itself. And while Siddhartha stopped thinking of himself and his wound, this realization of Vassudeva's changed character took possession of him, and the more he felt it and entered into it, the less wondrous it became, the more he realized that everything was in order and natural. The Vassudeva had already been like this for a long time, almost forever, that only he had not quite recognized it, yes, that he himself had almost reached the same state. He felt that he was now seeing old Vassudeva as the people see the gods, and that this could not last. In his heart he

10:28started bidding his farewell to Vassudeva. Through all this, he talked incessantly. When he had finished talking, Vassudeva turned his friendly eyes which had grown slightly weak at him, said nothing, let his silent love and cheerfulness understanding and knowledge shine at him. He took Siddhartha's hand, led him to the seat of the bank, sat down with him, smiled at the river. You've heard it laugh, he said, but you haven't heard everything, let's listen, you'll hear more. They listened. Softly sounded the river singing in many voices. Siddhartha looked into the river and images appeared to him in the moving water. His father appeared lonely, morning for his son. He himself appeared, lonely, he also being tied with the bondage

11:29of yearning to his distant son. His son appeared, lonely as well, the boy greedily rushing along the burning course of his young wishes. Each one heading for his goal, each one obsessed by the goal, each one suffering. The river sang with the voice of suffering, longingly it sang, longingly it flowed towards its goal, lamentingly its voice sang. Do you hear, Vassudeva's mute gaze asked, Siddhartha nodded, listen better, Vassudeva whispered, Siddhartha made an effort to listen better. The image of his father, his own image, the image of his son merged. Kamala's image also appeared and was dispersed, and the image of Govinda and other images, and they merged with each other, turned all into the river,

12:31headed all, being the river, for the goal, longing, desiring, suffering, and the river's voice sounded full of yearning, full of burning woe, full of unsatisfiable desire. For the goal the river was heading, Siddhartha saw it hurrying the river, which consisted of him and his loved ones, and of all people he had ever seen. All of these waves and waters were hurrying, suffering towards goals, many goals, the waterfall, the lake, the rapids, the sea, and all goals were reached, and every goal was followed by a new one, and the water turned into vapor and rose to the sky, turned into rain and poured down from the sky, turned into a source, a stream, a river, headed forward once again, flowed on once again. But the longing voice had changed, it still resounded full of suffering, searching,

13:37but other voices joined it, voices of joy and of suffering, good and bad voices, laughing and sad ones, a hundred voices, a thousand voices. Siddhartha listened. He was now nothing but a listener, completely concentrated on listening. Completely empty, he felt that he had now finished learning to listen. Often before he had heard all this, these many voices in the river. Today it sounded new. Already he could no longer tell the many voices apart, not the happy ones from the weeping ones, not the ones of children from those of men. They all belong together, the lamentation of yearning, and the laughter of the knowledgeable one, the scream of rage and the moaning of the dying ones. Everything was one. Everything was intertwined and connected, entangled a thousand times. And everything altogether, all voices,

14:45all goals, all yearning, all suffering, all pleasure, all that was good and evil, all of this together, was the world. All of it together was the flow of events, was the music of life. And when Siddhartha was listening attentively to this river, this song of a thousand voices, when he neither listened to the suffering nor the laughter, when he did not tie his soul to any particular voice and submerged his self into it, but when he heard them all and perceived the whole, the oneness, then the great song of the thousand voices consisted of a single word, which was, ohm, the perfection. Do you hear, Vasudeva's gaze, asked again, brightly Vasudeva's smile was shining, floating radiantly over all the wrinkles of his old face, as the ohm was floating in the air above all the voices of the river. Brightly his smile was shining

15:51when he looked at his friend, and brightly the same smile was now starting to shine on Siddhartha's face as well. His wound blossomed, his suffering was shining, his self had flown into the oneness. In this hour Siddhartha stopped fighting his fate, stopped suffering. On his face flourished the cheerfulness of a knowledge which is no longer opposed by any will, which knows perfection, which is in agreement with the flow of events, with the currents of life, for all of sympathy for the pain of others, for all of sympathy for the pleasure of others, devoted to the flow, belonging to the oneness. When Vasudeva rose from the seat by the bank, when he looked into Siddhartha's eyes and saw the cheerfulness of the knowledge shining in them, he softly touched his shoulder with his hand, in his careful and tender manner, and said, I've been waiting for this hour, my dear,

16:56and now that it has come, let me leave. For a long time I've been waiting for this hour, for a long time I've been Vasudeva the fairy-man. Now it's enough. Fair well-hot, fair well-river, fair well-siddhartha. Siddhartha made a deep bow before him who bid his farewell. I've known it, he said quietly. You're going to the forests? I am going into the forests. I am going into the oneness, spoke Vasudeva with a bright smile. With a bright smile, he left. Siddhartha watched him leaving. With deep joy, with great solemnity, he watched him leave. Saw his steps full of peace. Saw his head full of lustre. Saw his body full of light. End of chapter 11