Govinda

by Hermann Hesse

　　Together with other monks, Govinda used to spend the time of restbetween pilgrimages in the pleasure-grove, which the courtesan Kamalahad given to the followers of Gotama for a gift. He heard talk of anold ferryman, who lived one day's journey away by the river, andwho was regarded as a wise man by many. When Govinda went back on hisway, he chose the path to the ferry, eager to see the ferryman.Because, though he had lived his entire life by the rules, though he wasalso looked upon with veneration by the younger monks on account of hisage and his modesty, the restlessness and the searching still had notperished from his heart.He came to the river and asked the old man to ferry him over, and whenthey got off the boat on the other side, he said to the old man:"You're very good to us monks and pilgrims, you have already ferriedmany of us across the river. Aren't you too, ferryman, a searcher forthe right path?"Quoth Siddhartha, smiling from his old eyes: "Do you call yourself asearcher, oh venerable one, though you are already of an old in yearsand are wearing the robe of Gotama's monks?""It's true, I'm old," spoke Govinda, "but I haven't stopped searching.Never I'll stop searching, this seems to be my destiny. You too, so itseems to me, have been searching. Would you like to tell me something,oh honourable one?"Quoth Siddhartha: "What should I possibly have to tell you, ohvenerable one? Perhaps that you're searching far too much? That in allthat searching, you don't find the time for finding?""How come?" asked Govinda."When someone is searching," said Siddhartha, "then it might easilyhappen that the only thing his eyes still see is that what he searchesfor, that he is unable to find anything, to let anything enter his mind,because he always thinks of nothing but the object of his search,because he has a goal, because he is obsessed by the goal. Searchingmeans: having a goal. But finding means: being free, being open, havingno goal. You, oh venerable one, are perhaps indeed a searcher, because,striving for your goal, there are many things you don't see, which aredirectly in front of your eyes.""I don't quite understand yet," asked Govinda, "what do you mean bythis?"Quoth Siddhartha: "A long time ago, oh venerable one, many years ago,you've once before been at this river and have found a sleeping man bythe river, and have sat down with him to guard his sleep. But, ohGovinda, you did not recognise the sleeping man."Astonished, as if he had been the object of a magic spell, the monklooked into the ferryman's eyes."Are you Siddhartha?" he asked with a timid voice. "I wouldn't haverecognised you this time as well! From my heart, I'm greeting you,Siddhartha; from my heart, I'm happy to see you once again! You'vechanged a lot, my friend.--And so you've now become a ferryman?"In a friendly manner, Siddhartha laughed. "A ferryman, yes. Manypeople, Govinda, have to change a lot, have to wear many a robe, I amone of those, my dear. Be welcome, Govinda, and spend the night in myhut."Govinda stayed the night in the hut and slept on the bed which used tobe Vasudeva's bed. Many questions he posed to the friend of his youth,many things Siddhartha had to tell him from his life.When in the next morning the time had come to start the day's journey,Govinda said, not without hesitation, these words: "Before I'llcontinue on my path, Siddhartha, permit me to ask one more question.Do you have a teaching? Do you have a faith, or a knowledge, youfollow, which helps you to live and to do right?"Quoth Siddhartha: "You know, my dear, that I already as a young man, inthose days when we lived with the penitents in the forest, started todistrust teachers and teachings and to turn my back to them. I havestuck with this. Nevertheless, I have had many teachers since then. Abeautiful courtesan has been my teacher for a long time, and a richmerchant was my teacher, and some gamblers with dice. Once, even afollower of Buddha, travelling on foot, has been my teacher; he sat withme when I had fallen asleep in the forest, on the pilgrimage. I've alsolearned from him, I'm also grateful to him, very grateful. But most ofall, I have learned here from this river and from my predecessor, theferryman Vasudeva. He was a very simple person, Vasudeva, he was nothinker, but he knew what is necessary just as well as Gotama, he was aperfect man, a saint."Govinda said: "Still, oh Siddhartha, you love a bit to mock people, asit seems to me. I believe in you and know that you haven't followed ateacher. But haven't you found something by yourself, though you'vefound no teachings, you still found certain thoughts, certain insights,which are your own and which help you to live? If you would like totell me some of these, you would delight my heart."Quoth Siddhartha: "I've had thoughts, yes, and insight, again andagain. Sometimes, for an hour or for an entire day, I have feltknowledge in me, as one would feel life in one's heart. There havebeen many thoughts, but it would be hard for me to convey them to you.Look, my dear Govinda, this is one of my thoughts, which I have found:wisdom cannot be passed on. Wisdom which a wise man tries to pass onto someone always sounds like foolishness.""Are you kidding?" asked Govinda."I'm not kidding. I'm telling you what I've found. Knowledge can beconveyed, but not wisdom. It can be found, it can be lived, it ispossible to be carried by it, miracles can be performed with it, but itcannot be expressed in words and taught. This was what I, even as ayoung man, sometimes suspected, what has driven me away from theteachers. I have found a thought, Govinda, which you'll again regard asa joke or foolishness, but which is my best thought. It says: Theopposite of every truth is just as true! That's like this: any truthcan only be expressed and put into words when it is one-sided.Everything is one-sided which can be thought with thoughts and said withwords, it's all one-sided, all just one half, all lacks completeness,roundness, oneness. When the exalted Gotama spoke in his teachings ofthe world, he had to divide it into Sansara and Nirvana, into deceptionand truth, into suffering and salvation. It cannot be done differently,there is no other way for him who wants to teach. But the world itself,what exists around us and inside of us, is never one-sided. A person oran act is never entirely Sansara or entirely Nirvana, a person is neverentirely holy or entirely sinful. It does really seem like this,because we are subject to deception, as if time was something real.Time is not real, Govinda, I have experienced this often and oftenagain. And if time is not real, then the gap which seems to be betweenthe world and the eternity, between suffering and blissfulness, betweenevil and good, is also a deception.""How come?" asked Govinda timidly."Listen well, my dear, listen well! The sinner, which I am and whichyou are, is a sinner, but in times to come he will be Brahma again, hewill reach the Nirvana, will be Buddha--and now see: these "times tocome" are a deception, are only a parable! The sinner is not on hisway to become a Buddha, he is not in the process of developing, thoughour capacity for thinking does not know how else to picture thesethings. No, within the sinner is now and today already the futureBuddha, his future is already all there, you have to worship in him, inyou, in everyone the Buddha which is coming into being, the possible,the hidden Buddha. The world, my friend Govinda, is not imperfect, oron a slow path towards perfection: no, it is perfect in every moment,all sin already carries the divine forgiveness in itself, all smallchildren already have the old person in themselves, all infants alreadyhave death, all dying people the eternal life. It is not possible forany person to see how far another one has already progressed on hispath; in the robber and dice-gambler, the Buddha is waiting; in theBrahman, the robber is waiting. In deep meditation, there is thepossibility to put time out of existence, to see all life which was,is, and will be as if it was simultaneous, and there everything isgood, everything is perfect, everything is Brahman. Therefore, I seewhatever exists as good, death is to me like life, sin like holiness,wisdom like foolishness, everything has to be as it is, everything onlyrequires my consent, only my willingness, my loving agreement, to begood for me, to do nothing but work for my benefit, to be unable to everharm me. I have experienced on my body and on my soul that I needed sinvery much, I needed lust, the desire for possessions, vanity, and neededthe most shameful despair, in order to learn how to give up allresistance, in order to learn how to love the world, in order to stopcomparing it to some world I wished, I imagined, some kind of perfectionI had made up, but to leave it as it is and to love it and to enjoybeing a part of it.--These, oh Govinda, are some of the thoughts whichhave come into my mind."Siddhartha bent down, picked up a stone from the ground, and weighed itin his hand."This here," he said playing with it, "is a stone, and will, after acertain time, perhaps turn into soil, and will turn from soil into aplant or animal or human being. In the past, I would have said: Thisstone is just a stone, it is worthless, it belongs to the world of theMaja; but because it might be able to become also a human being and aspirit in the cycle of transformations, therefore I also grant itimportance. Thus, I would perhaps have thought in the past. But todayI think: this stone is a stone, it is also animal, it is also god, it isalso Buddha, I do not venerate and love it because it could turn intothis or that, but rather because it is already and always everything--and it is this very fact, that it is a stone, that it appears to me nowand today as a stone, this is why I love it and see worth and purpose ineach of its veins and cavities, in the yellow, in the gray, in thehardness, in the sound it makes when I knock at it, in the dryness orwetness of its surface. There are stones which feel like oil or soap,and others like leaves, others like sand, and every one is special andprays the Om in its own way, each one is Brahman, but simultaneously andjust as much it is a stone, is oily or juicy, and this is this very factwhich I like and regard as wonderful and worthy of worship.--But let mespeak no more of this. The words are not good for the secret meaning,everything always becomes a bit different, as soon as it is put intowords, gets distorted a bit, a bit silly--yes, and this is also verygood, and I like it a lot, I also very much agree with this, that thiswhat is one man's treasure and wisdom always sounds like foolishness toanother person."Govinda listened silently."Why have you told me this about the stone?" he asked hesitantly aftera pause."I did it without any specific intention. Or perhaps what I meant was,that love this very stone, and the river, and all these things we arelooking at and from which we can learn. I can love a stone, Govinda,and also a tree or a piece of bark. This are things, and things can beloved. But I cannot love words. Therefore, teachings are no good forme, they have no hardness, no softness, no colours, no edges, no smell,no taste, they have nothing but words. Perhaps it are these which keepyou from finding peace, perhaps it are the many words. Becausesalvation and virtue as well, Sansara and Nirvana as well, are merewords, Govinda. There is no thing which would be Nirvana; there is justthe word Nirvana."Quoth Govinda: "Not just a word, my friend, is Nirvana. It is athought."Siddhartha continued: "A thought, it might be so. I must confess toyou, my dear: I don't differentiate much between thoughts and words.To be honest, I also have no high opinion of thoughts. I have a betteropinion of things. Here on this ferry-boat, for instance, a man hasbeen my predecessor and teacher, a holy man, who has for many yearssimply believed in the river, nothing else. He had noticed that theriver's spoke to him, he learned from it, it educated and taught him,the river seemed to be a god to him, for many years he did not know thatevery wind, every cloud, every bird, every beetle was just as divine andknows just as much and can teach just as much as the worshipped river.But when this holy man went into the forests, he knew everything, knewmore than you and me, without teachers, without books, only because hehad believed in the river."Govinda said: "But is that what you call `things', actually somethingreal, something which has existence? Isn't it just a deception of theMaja, just an image and illusion? Your stone, your tree, your river--are they actually a reality?""This too," spoke Siddhartha, "I do not care very much about. Let thethings be illusions or not, after all I would then also be an illusion,and thus they are always like me. This is what makes them so dear andworthy of veneration for me: they are like me. Therefore, I can lovethem. And this is now a teaching you will laugh about: love, ohGovinda, seems to me to be the most important thing of all. Tothoroughly understand the world, to explain it, to despise it, may bethe thing great thinkers do. But I'm only interested in being able tolove the world, not to despise it, not to hate it and me, to be able tolook upon it and me and all beings with love and admiration and greatrespect.""This I understand," spoke Govinda. "But this very thing was discoveredby the exalted one to be a deception. He commands benevolence,clemency, sympathy, tolerance, but not love; he forbade us to tie ourheart in love to earthly things.""I know it," said Siddhartha; his smile shone golden. "I know it,Govinda. And behold, with this we are right in the middle of thethicket of opinions, in the dispute about words. For I cannot deny, mywords of love are in a contradiction, a seeming contradiction withGotama's words. For this very reason, I distrust in words so much, forI know, this contradiction is a deception. I know that I am inagreement with Gotama. How should he not know love, he, who hasdiscovered all elements of human existence in their transitoriness, intheir meaninglessness, and yet loved people thus much, to use a long,laborious life only to help them, to teach them! Even with him, evenwith your great teacher, I prefer the thing over the words, place moreimportance on his acts and life than on his speeches, more on thegestures of his hand than his opinions. Not in his speech, not in histhoughts, I see his greatness, only in his actions, in his life."For a long time, the two old men said nothing. Then spoke Govinda,while bowing for a farewell: "I thank you, Siddhartha, for telling mesome of your thoughts. They are partially strange thoughts, not allhave been instantly understandable to me. This being as it may, I thankyou, and I wish you to have calm days."(But secretly he thought to himself: This Siddhartha is a bizarreperson, he expresses bizarre thoughts, his teachings sound foolish.So differently sound the exalted one's pure teachings, clearer, purer,more comprehensible, nothing strange, foolish, or silly is contained inthem. But different from his thoughts seemed to me Siddhartha's handsand feet, his eyes, his forehead, his breath, his smile, his greeting,his walk. Never again, after our exalted Gotama has become one with theNirvana, never since then have I met a person of whom I felt: this is aholy man! Only him, this Siddhartha, I have found to be like this. Mayhis teachings be strange, may his words sound foolish; out of his gazeand his hand, his skin and his hair, out of every part of him shines apurity, shines a calmness, shines a cheerfulness and mildness andholiness, which I have seen in no other person since the final death ofour exalted teacher.)As Govinda thought like this, and there was a conflict in his heart, heonce again bowed to Siddhartha, drawn by love. Deeply he bowed to himwho was calmly sitting."Siddhartha," he spoke, "we have become old men. It is unlikely forone of us to see the other again in this incarnation. I see, beloved,that you have found peace. I confess that I haven't found it. Tell me,oh honourable one, one more word, give me something on my way which Ican grasp, which I can understand! Give me something to be with me onmy path. It it often hard, my path, often dark, Siddhartha."Siddhartha said nothing and looked at him with the ever unchanged,quiet smile. Govinda stared at his face, with fear, with yearning,suffering, and the eternal search was visible in his look, eternalnot-finding.Siddhartha saw it and smiled."Bent down to me!" he whispered quietly in Govinda's ear. "Bend down tome! Like this, even closer! Very close! Kiss my forehead, Govinda!"But while Govinda with astonishment, and yet drawn by great love andexpectation, obeyed his words, bent down closely to him and touched hisforehead with his lips, something miraculous happened to him. While histhoughts were still dwelling on Siddhartha's wondrous words, while hewas still struggling in vain and with reluctance to think away time, toimagine Nirvana and Sansara as one, while even a certain contempt forthe words of his friend was fighting in him against an immense love andveneration, this happened to him:He no longer saw the face of his friend Siddhartha, instead he sawother faces, many, a long sequence, a flowing river of faces, ofhundreds, of thousands, which all came and disappeared, and yet allseemed to be there simultaneously, which all constantly changed andrenewed themselves, and which were still all Siddhartha. He saw theface of a fish, a carp, with an infinitely painfully opened mouth, theface of a dying fish, with fading eyes--he saw the face of a new-bornchild, red and full of wrinkles, distorted from crying--he saw the faceof a murderer, he saw him plunging a knife into the body of anotherperson--he saw, in the same second, this criminal in bondage, kneelingand his head being chopped off by the executioner with one blow of hissword--he saw the bodies of men and women, naked in positions and crampsof frenzied love--he saw corpses stretched out, motionless, cold, void--he saw the heads of animals, of boars, of crocodiles, of elephants, ofbulls, of birds--he saw gods, saw Krishna, saw Agni--he saw all of thesefigures and faces in a thousand relationships with one another, each onehelping the other, loving it, hating it, destroying it, giving re-birthto it, each one was a will to die, a passionately painful confession oftransitoriness, and yet none of them died, each one only transformed,was always re-born, received evermore a new face, without any timehaving passed between the one and the other face--and all of thesefigures and faces rested, flowed, generated themselves, floated alongand merged with each other, and they were all constantly covered bysomething thin, without individuality of its own, but yet existing, likea thin glass or ice, like a transparent skin, a shell or mold or mask ofwater, and this mask was smiling, and this mask was Siddhartha's smilingface, which he, Govinda, in this very same moment touched with his lips.And, Govinda saw it like this, this smile of the mask, this smile ofoneness above the flowing forms, this smile of simultaneousness abovethe thousand births and deaths, this smile of Siddhartha was preciselythe same, was precisely of the same kind as the quiet, delicate,impenetrable, perhaps benevolent, perhaps mocking, wise, thousand-foldsmile of Gotama, the Buddha, as he had seen it himself with greatrespect a hundred times. Like this, Govinda knew, the perfected onesare smiling.Not knowing any more whether time existed, whether the vision had lasteda second or a hundred years, not knowing any more whether there existeda Siddhartha, a Gotama, a me and a you, feeling in his innermost selfas if he had been wounded by a divine arrow, the injury of which tastedsweet, being enchanted and dissolved in his innermost self, Govindastill stood for a little while bent over Siddhartha's quiet face, whichhe had just kissed, which had just been the scene of all manifestations,all transformations, all existence. The face was unchanged, after underits surface the depth of the thousandfoldness had closed up again, hesmiled silently, smiled quietly and softly, perhaps very benevolently,perhaps very mockingly, precisely as he used to smile, the exalted one.Deeply, Govinda bowed; tears he knew nothing of, ran down his old face;like a fire burnt the feeling of the most intimate love, the humblestveneration in his heart. Deeply, he bowed, touching the ground, beforehim who was sitting motionlessly, whose smile reminded him of everythinghe had ever loved in his life, what had ever been valuable and holy tohim in his life.