Sansara

by Hermann Hesse

　　For a long time, Siddhartha had lived the life of the world and of lust,though without being a part of it. His senses, which he had killed offin hot years as a Samana, had awoken again, he had tasted riches, hadtasted lust, had tasted power; nevertheless he had still remained in hisheart for a long time a Samana; Kamala, being smart, had realized thisquite right. It was still the art of thinking, of waiting, of fasting,which guided his life; still the people of the world, the childlikepeople, had remained alien to him as he was alien to them.Years passed by; surrounded by the good life, Siddhartha hardly feltthem fading away. He had become rich, for quite a while he possessed ahouse of his own and his own servants, and a garden before the city bythe river. The people liked him, they came to him, whenever they neededmoney or advice, but there was nobody close to him, except Kamala.That high, bright state of being awake, which he had experienced thatone time at the height of his youth, in those days after Gotama'ssermon, after the separation from Govinda, that tense expectation, thatproud state of standing alone without teachings and without teachers,that supple willingness to listen to the divine voice in his own heart,had slowly become a memory, had been fleeting; distant and quiet, theholy source murmured, which used to be near, which used to murmur withinhimself. Nevertheless, many things he had learned from the Samanas, hehad learned from Gotama, he had learned from his father the Brahman,had remained within him for a long time afterwards: moderate living,joy of thinking, hours of meditation, secret knowledge of the self,of his eternal entity, which is neither body nor consciousness. Manya part of this he still had, but one part after another had beensubmerged and had gathered dust. Just as a potter's wheel, once it hasbeen set in motion, will keep on turning for a long time and only slowlylose its vigour and come to a stop, thus Siddhartha's soul had kept onturning the wheel of asceticism, the wheel of thinking, the wheel ofdifferentiation for a long time, still turning, but it turned slowly andhesitantly and was close to coming to a standstill. Slowly, likehumidity entering the dying stem of a tree, filling it slowly andmaking it rot, the world and sloth had entered Siddhartha's soul,slowly it filled his soul, made it heavy, made it tired, put it tosleep. On the other hand, his senses had become alive, there was muchthey had learned, much they had experienced.Siddhartha had learned to trade, to use his power over people, to enjoyhimself with a woman, he had learned to wear beautiful clothes, to giveorders to servants, to bathe in perfumed waters. He had learned to eattenderly and carefully prepared food, even fish, even meat and poultry,spices and sweets, and to drink wine, which causes sloth andforgetfulness. He had learned to play with dice and on a chess-board,to watch dancing girls, to have himself carried about in a sedan-chair,to sleep on a soft bed. But still he had felt different from andsuperior to the others; always he had watched them with some mockery,some mocking disdain, with the same disdain which a Samana constantlyfeels for the people of the world. When Kamaswami was ailing, when hewas annoyed, when he felt insulted, when he was vexed by his worries asa merchant, Siddhartha had always watched it with mockery. Just slowlyand imperceptibly, as the harvest seasons and rainy seasons passed by,his mockery had become more tired, his superiority had become morequiet. Just slowly, among his growing riches, Siddhartha had assumedsomething of the childlike people's ways for himself, something of theirchildlikeness and of their fearfulness. And yet, he envied them, enviedthem just the more, the more similar he became to them. He envied themfor the one thing that was missing from him and that they had, theimportance they were able to attach to their lives, the amount ofpassion in their joys and fears, the fearful but sweet happiness ofbeing constantly in love. These people were all of the time in lovewith themselves, with women, with their children, with honours or money,with plans or hopes. But he did not learn this from them, this out ofall things, this joy of a child and this foolishness of a child; helearned from them out of all things the unpleasant ones, which hehimself despised. It happened more and more often that, in the morningafter having had company the night before, he stayed in bed for a longtime, felt unable to think and tired. It happened that he became angryand impatient, when Kamaswami bored him with his worries. It happenedthat he laughed just too loud, when he lost a game of dice. His facewas still smarter and more spiritual than others, but it rarely laughed,and assumed, one after another, those features which are so oftenfound in the faces of rich people, those features of discontent, ofsickliness, of ill-humour, of sloth, of a lack of love. Slowly thedisease of the soul, which rich people have, grabbed hold of him.Like a veil, like a thin mist, tiredness came over Siddhartha, slowly,getting a bit denser every day, a bit murkier every month, a bit heavierevery year. As a new dress becomes old in time, loses its beautifulcolour in time, gets stains, gets wrinkles, gets worn off at the seams,and starts to show threadbare spots here and there, thus Siddhartha'snew life, which he had started after his separation from Govinda, hadgrown old, lost colour and splendour as the years passed by, wasgathering wrinkles and stains, and hidden at bottom, already showing itsugliness here and there, disappointment and disgust were waiting.Siddhartha did not notice it. He only noticed that this bright andreliable voice inside of him, which had awoken in him at that time andhad ever guided him in his best times, had become silent.He had been captured by the world, by lust, covetousness, sloth, andfinally also by that vice which he had used to despise and mock themost as the most foolish one of all vices: greed. Property,possessions, and riches also had finally captured him; they were nolonger a game and trifles to him, had become a shackle and a burden.On a strange and devious way, Siddhartha had gotten into this final andmost base of all dependencies, by means of the game of dice. It wassince that time, when he had stopped being a Samana in his heart, thatSiddhartha began to play the game for money and precious things, whichhe at other times only joined with a smile and casually as a custom ofthe childlike people, with an increasing rage and passion. He was afeared gambler, few dared to take him on, so high and audacious were hisstakes. He played the game due to a pain of his heart, losing andwasting his wretched money in the game brought him an angry joy, in noother way he could demonstrate his disdain for wealth, the merchants'false god, more clearly and more mockingly. Thus he gambled with highstakes and mercilessly, hating himself, mocking himself, won thousands,threw away thousands, lost money, lost jewelry, lost a house in thecountry, won again, lost again. That fear, that terrible and petrifyingfear, which he felt while he was rolling the dice, while he was worriedabout losing high stakes, that fear he loved and sought to always renewit, always increase it, always get it to a slightly higher level, for inthis feeling alone he still felt something like happiness, somethinglike an intoxication, something like an elevated form of life in themidst of his saturated, lukewarm, dull life.And after each big loss, his mind was set on new riches, pursued thetrade more zealously, forced his debtors more strictly to pay, becausehe wanted to continue gambling, he wanted to continue squandering,continue demonstrating his disdain of wealth. Siddhartha lost hiscalmness when losses occurred, lost his patience when he was not payedon time, lost his kindness towards beggars, lost his disposition forgiving away and loaning money to those who petitioned him. He, whogambled away tens of thousands at one roll of the dice and laughed atit, became more strict and more petty in his business, occasionallydreaming at night about money! And whenever he woke up from this uglyspell, whenever he found his face in the mirror at the bedroom's wall tohave aged and become more ugly, whenever embarrassment and disgust cameover him, he continued fleeing, fleeing into a new game, fleeing into anumbing of his mind brought on by sex, by wine, and from there he fledback into the urge to pile up and obtain possessions. In this pointlesscycle he ran, growing tired, growing old, growing ill.Then the time came when a dream warned him. He had spend the hours ofthe evening with Kamala, in her beautiful pleasure-garden. They hadbeen sitting under the trees, talking, and Kamala had said thoughtfulwords, words behind which a sadness and tiredness lay hidden. She hadasked him to tell her about Gotama, and could not hear enough of him,how clear his eyes, how still and beautiful his mouth, how kind hissmile, how peaceful his walk had been. For a long time, he had to tellher about the exalted Buddha, and Kamala had sighed and had said: "Oneday, perhaps soon, I'll also follow that Buddha. I'll give him mypleasure-garden for a gift and take my refuge in his teachings." Butafter this, she had aroused him, and had tied him to her in the actof making love with painful fervour, biting and in tears, as if, oncemore, she wanted to squeeze the last sweet drop out of this vain,fleeting pleasure. Never before, it had become so strangely clear toSiddhartha, how closely lust was akin to death. Then he had lain byher side, and Kamala's face had been close to him, and under her eyesand next to the corners of her mouth he had, as clearly as never before,read a fearful inscription, an inscription of small lines, of slightgrooves, an inscription reminiscent of autumn and old age, just asSiddhartha himself, who was only in his forties, had already noticed,here and there, gray hairs among his black ones. Tiredness was writtenon Kamala's beautiful face, tiredness from walking a long path, whichhas no happy destination, tiredness and the beginning of withering,and concealed, still unsaid, perhaps not even conscious anxiety: fear ofold age, fear of the autumn, fear of having to die. With a sigh, he hadbid his farewell to her, the soul full of reluctance, and full ofconcealed anxiety.Then, Siddhartha had spent the night in his house with dancing girlsand wine, had acted as if he was superior to them towards thefellow-members of his caste, though this was no longer true, had drunkmuch wine and gone to bed a long time after midnight, being tired andyet excited, close to weeping and despair, and had for a long timesought to sleep in vain, his heart full of misery which he thought hecould not bear any longer, full of a disgust which he felt penetratinghis entire body like the lukewarm, repulsive taste of the wine, thejust too sweet, dull music, the just too soft smile of the dancinggirls, the just too sweet scent of their hair and breasts. But morethan by anything else, he was disgusted by himself, by his perfumedhair, by the smell of wine from his mouth, by the flabby tiredness andlistlessness of his skin. Like when someone, who has eaten and drunkfar too much, vomits it back up again with agonising pain and isnevertheless glad about the relief, thus this sleepless man wished tofree himself of these pleasures, these habits and all of this pointlesslife and himself, in an immense burst of disgust. Not until the lightof the morning and the beginning of the first activities in the streetbefore his city-house, he had slightly fallen asleep, had found for afew moments a half unconsciousness, a hint of sleep. In those moments,he had a dream:Kamala owned a small, rare singing bird in a golden cage. Of this bird,he dreamt. He dreamt: this bird had become mute, who at other timesalways used to sing in the morning, and since this arose his attention,he stepped in front of the cage and looked inside; there the small birdwas dead and lay stiff on the ground. He took it out, weighed it for amoment in his hand, and then threw it away, out in the street, and inthe same moment, he felt terribly shocked, and his heart hurt, as if hehad thrown away from himself all value and everything good by throwingout this dead bird.Starting up from this dream, he felt encompassed by a deep sadness.Worthless, so it seemed to him, worthless and pointless was the way hehad been going through life; nothing which was alive, nothing which wasin some way delicious or worth keeping he had left in his hands. Alonehe stood there and empty like a castaway on the shore.With a gloomy mind, Siddhartha went to the pleasure-garden he owned,locked the gate, sat down under a mango-tree, felt death in his heartand horror in his chest, sat and sensed how everything died in him,withered in him, came to an end in him. By and by, he gathered histhoughts, and in his mind, he once again went the entire path of hislife, starting with the first days he could remember. When was thereever a time when he had experienced happiness, felt a true bliss? Ohyes, several times he had experienced such a thing. In his years as aboy, he has had a taste of it, when he had obtained praise from theBrahmans, he had felt it in his heart: "There is a path in front ofthe one who has distinguished himself in the recitationof the holy verses, in the dispute with the learned ones, as anassistant in the offerings." Then, he had felt it in his heart: "Thereis a path in front of you, you are destined for, the gods are awaitingyou." And again, as a young man, when the ever rising, upward fleeing,goal of all thinking had ripped him out of and up from the multitude ofthose seeking the same goal, when he wrestled in pain for the purpose ofBrahman, when every obtained knowledge only kindled new thirst in him,then again he had, in the midst of the thirst, in the midst of the painfelt this very same thing: "Go on! Go on! You are called upon!" Hehad heard this voice when he had left his home and had chosen the lifeof a Samana, and again when he had gone away from the Samanas to thatperfected one, and also when he had gone away from him to the uncertain.For how long had he not heard this voice any more, for how long had hereached no height any more, how even and dull was the manner in whichhis path had passed through life, for many long years, without a highgoal, without thirst, without elevation, content with small lustfulpleasures and yet never satisfied! For all of these many years, withoutknowing it himself, he had tried hard and longed to become a man likethose many, like those children, and in all this, his life had beenmuch more miserable and poorer than theirs, and their goals were nothis, nor their worries; after all, that entire world of theKamaswami-people had only been a game to him, a dance he would watch, acomedy. Only Kamala had been dear, had been valuable to him--but wasshe still thus? Did he still need her, or she him? Did they not playa game without an ending? Was it necessary to live for this? No, itwas not necessary! The name of this game was Sansara, a game forchildren, a game which was perhaps enjoyable to play once, twice, tentimes--but for ever and ever over again?Then, Siddhartha knew that the game was over, that he could not play itany more. Shivers ran over his body, inside of him, so he felt,something had died.That entire day, he sat under the mango-tree, thinking of his father,thinking of Govinda, thinking of Gotama. Did he have to leave them tobecome a Kamaswami? He still sat there, when the night had fallen.When, looking up, he caught sight of the stars, he thought: "Here I'msitting under my mango-tree, in my pleasure-garden." He smiled a little--was it really necessary, was it right, was it not as foolish game,that he owned a mango-tree, that he owned a garden?He also put an end to this, this also died in him. He rose, bid hisfarewell to the mango-tree, his farewell to the pleasure-garden. Sincehe had been without food this day, he felt strong hunger, and thoughtof his house in the city, of his chamber and bed, of the table with themeals on it. He smiled tiredly, shook himself, and bid his farewell tothese things.In the same hour of the night, Siddhartha left his garden, left thecity, and never came back. For a long time, Kamaswami had people lookfor him, thinking that he had fallen into the hands of robbers. Kamalahad no one look for him. When she was told that Siddhartha haddisappeared, she was not astonished. Did she not always expect it? Washe not a Samana, a man who was at home nowhere, a pilgrim? And most ofall, she had felt this the last time they had been together, and she washappy, in spite of all the pain of the loss, that she had pulled him soaffectionately to her heart for this last time, that she had felt onemore time to be so completely possessed and penetrated by him.When she received the first news of Siddhartha's disappearance, she wentto the window, where she held a rare singing bird captive in a goldencage. She opened the door of the cage, took the bird out and let itfly. For a long time, she gazed after it, the flying bird. From thisday on, she received no more visitors and kept her house locked. Butafter some time, she became aware that she was pregnant from the lasttime she was together with Siddhartha.