Siddhartha (7 page)

Siddhartha too was filled with longing and felt the source of his sex stir, but as he had never before touched a woman, he hesitated for a moment while his hands were already preparing to reach out for her. And in this moment he heard something that made him tremble: It was his inner voice, and the voice said no. At once the charm vanished from the smiling face of the young woman; all he saw now was the dewy gaze of a beast in heat. With a friendly gesture he stroked her cheek,
turned away from her, and with a light step disappeared into the bamboo thicket, leaving the disappointed woman behind.

Before evening he came to a large city and was happy, for he felt the desire to be among people. He’d lived a long time in the forest, and the straw hut of the ferryman in which he’d spent the night was the first roof he’d had over his head in quite a while.

Just outside the city, near a lovely fenced-in grove, the wanderer encountered a small company of maids and menservants laden with baskets. In their midst, an ornate sedan chair with four bearers held a woman seated upon red cushions beneath a brightly colored canopy: their mistress. Siddhartha remained standing at the entrance to the pleasure garden and observed this procession; saw the servants, the maids, the baskets, the sedan chair, and the lady seated in it. Beneath black hair piled high upon her head, he saw a very fair, very delicate, very clever face, a bright red mouth like a fig split in two, eyebrows groomed and painted in high arches, dark eyes clever and watchful, a long pale throat rising out of a green and gold outer garment, fair hands in repose, long and narrow, with thick golden bracelets about the wrists.

Siddhartha saw how beautiful she was, and his heart rejoiced. Deeply he bowed before her as the sedan chair approached, and as he straightened up again he looked into her pale, lovely face, read for a moment her clever eyes beneath their high arches, caught a whiff of a perfume he did not know. Smiling, the beautiful woman nodded, just for an instant; then she disappeared into the grove with her servants behind her.

Siddhartha thought, What a fine omen marks my arrival in this city! He felt an urge to hurry into the grove straightaway but then thought better of it; only now did it occur to him how the servants and maids standing at its entrance had looked at him, with what contempt, what suspicion, what displeasure.

Even now, I am a Samana, he thought, an ascetic and mendicant. I will not be able to remain as I am, will not be able to enter the grove in this guise. He gave a laugh.

He asked the next person to come along what this grove was and the name of the woman, and learned that this was the grove of Kamala, the famous courtesan, and that in addition to the grove she owned a house in town.

Then he entered the city. He now had a goal.

In pursuit of this goal, he allowed the city to suck him in, drifted with the current down its streets, paused in its squares, rested upon the stone steps along the river. Toward evening he made the acquaintance of a barber’s assistant he had observed working in the shadow of an archway and encountered again praying in a temple of Vishnu; he regaled him with tales of Vishnu and Lakshmi. He slept that night beside the river where the boats were moored, and early the next morning, before the first customers arrived at the shop, he had the barber’s assistant shave off his beard, cut and comb his hair, and anoint it with precious oil. Then he went to the river to bathe.

When, late in the afternoon, the beautiful Kamala approached her grove in her sedan chair, Siddhartha was standing at the entrance; he bowed and received the courtesan’s greeting. Then he signaled to the last of the servants following in her train and asked him to tell his mistress a young Brahmin wished to speak with her. After a while the servant returned and instructed the waiting youth to follow him; without another word, he led Siddhartha to a pavilion where Kamala was reclining upon a daybed and left him alone with her.

“Was it not you standing there yesterday greeting me?” Kamala asked.

“Yes, I saw you yesterday and greeted you.”

“But did you not have a beard yesterday, and long hair, and dust in your hair?”

“You certainly observed well, seeing all this. You saw Siddhartha, the Brahmin’s son, who left home to become a Samana and was a Samana for three years. But now I have left that path behind me and come to this city, and the first person I saw here, even before entering the city, was you. I have come here to tell you this, O Kamala! You are the first woman to whom Siddhartha has spoken without averting his eyes. Never again shall I avert my eyes when I meet a beautiful woman.”

Kamala smiled and played with her fan of peacock feathers. “And is it only to tell me this that Siddhartha has come?” she asked.

“To tell you this, and to thank you for being so beautiful. And if it does not displease you, Kamala, I would like to ask you to be my friend and teacher, for I know nothing of the art of which you are a master.”

At this Kamala laughed aloud. “Never before, my friend, has a Samana come out of the forest and asked to learn from me. Never has a Samana with long hair and clad in a torn loincloth paid me a visit. Many young men come to call on me—there are even Brahmins’ sons among them—but they come in beautiful clothes, they come in fine shoes, and they have fragrance in their hair and money in their wallets. This, O Samana, is what the young men are like who come to call on me.”

Siddhartha said, “Already I am beginning to learn from you. Even yesterday I learned something. Already I have given up my beard and combed and oiled my hair. Very little is still lacking, most splendid woman: fine clothes, fine shoes, money in my wallet. Know that Siddhartha has undertaken far more difficult tasks than these and has succeeded in them. How could I fail to succeed in yesterday’s resolve: to be your friend and learn from you the pleasures of love? You will find me a willing pupil, Kamala; I have learned more difficult
things than what you are to teach me. So tell me: Is Siddhartha satisfactory to you as he is now, with oil in his hair but without clothes, shoes, or money?”

Laughing, Kamala cried out, “No, cherished friend, he is not yet satisfactory. He must have clothes, attractive clothes, and shoes, attractive shoes, and plenty of money in his wallet, and presents for Kamala. Now do you understand, Samana from the forest? Will you remember?”

“Certainly I shall remember,” Siddhartha cried. “How could I fail to remember words that come from such lips? Your mouth is like a fig split in two, Kamala. My mouth, too, is fresh and red; it will fit nicely against yours, you’ll see. But tell me, beautiful Kamala, are you not at all afraid of this Samana from the forest who has come to learn the art of love?”

“Why should I be afraid of a Samana, a foolish Samana from the forest who has been living among the jackals and doesn’t even know yet what a woman is?”

“Oh, but he is strong, this Samana, and he is afraid of nothing. He could force you, beautiful girl. He could carry you off. He could harm you.”

“No, Samana, I have no fear of this. Has a Samana or a Brahmin ever been afraid that someone might come and seize him and rob him of his learnedness, his piousness, and his profound thoughts? No, for these things belong to him, and he gives of them only what and to whom he will. It is precisely the same with Kamala and the pleasures of love. Beautiful and red is Kamala’s mouth, but try to kiss it against her will and you will get from it not a single drop of sweetness, though it has much sweetness to offer. You are a willing pupil, Siddhartha, so learn this as well: Love can be begged, bought, or received as a gift, one can find it in the street, but one cannot steal it. This notion of yours is misguided. It would be a shame if a handsome youth like you were to set about things in the wrong way.”

Siddhartha bowed to her, smiling. “A shame it would be, Kamala, how right you are! A terrible shame. No, not a single drop of your mouth’s sweetness shall go to waste, and you will taste the full sweetness of mine. Let this be our agreement: Siddhartha will come again when he has what he is presently lacking: clothes, shoes, and money. But tell me, lovely Kamala, can you not give me one more piece of advice?”

“Advice? Why not? Who would refuse advice to a poor, ignorant Samana who has come from the jackals of the forest?”

“Advise me then, dear Kamala: Where should I go to find these three things the most swiftly?”

“Friend, that is something many would like to know. You must do what you have learned to do and in exchange have people give you money and clothes and shoes. There is no other way for a poor man to get money. What do you know how to do?”

“I can think. I can wait. I can fast.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes… no. I can also write poetry. Would you give me a kiss for a poem?”

“If the poem pleases me, then yes. What is it called?”

Siddhartha reflected for a moment, then spoke these lines:

Kamala clapped her hands loudly, making the golden bracelets ring out.

“How beautiful your poetry is, brown Samana! Truly, I will be losing nothing if I trade you a kiss for it.”

She drew him to her with her eyes; he lowered his face to
hers and placed his mouth upon the mouth that was like a fig split in two. For a long time Kamala kissed him, and with deep astonishment Siddhartha felt how she was teaching him, how wise she was, how she mastered him, pushed him away, lured him, and how behind this first kiss stood a long, well-ordered, and well-tried sequence of kisses, each different from the others, still awaiting him. Breathing deeply, he stood there and in this moment was like a child, gaping in astonishment at the wealth of things worth knowing and learning that had opened before his eyes.

“How very beautiful your poetry is!” Kamala exclaimed. “If I were rich, I would give you pieces of gold for it. But it will be difficult for you to earn as much money as you need with poetry. For you will need a great deal of money if you wish to be Kamala’s friend.”

“How you can kiss, Kamala!” Siddhartha stammered.

“Yes, I kiss well, and therefore I am not lacking in clothes, shoes, bracelets, or any other beautiful things. But what will become of you? Can you do nothing besides think, fast, and write poems?”

“I know the sacrificial songs,” Siddhartha said, “but I don’t want to sing them any longer. I know magical incantations, but I don’t want to utter them any longer. I have read the writings of—”

“Stop.” Kamala interrupted him. “You can read and write?”

“Certainly I can. Many can do these things.”

“Most cannot. Even I cannot. It is very good that you can read and write, very good. And the incantations will be of use to you as well.”

At this moment a maidservant ran in to the pavilion and whispered something in her mistress’s ear.

“I must receive a guest,” Kamala cried. “Hurry and get out of sight, Siddhartha. No one may see you here, remember that! Tomorrow I will receive you again.”

She instructed the maid to give the pious Brahmin a white cloak. Before he knew what was happening, Siddhartha found himself whisked away by the maid and taken by a circuitous route to a garden house, where he was given a cloak. Then he was led into the bushes and urgently admonished to find his way out of the grove at once and unseen.

Pleased with himself, he did as he was told. Being accustomed to life in the forest, he was able to find his way out of the grove and over the hedge without a sound. Pleased with himself, he returned to the city, carrying the rolled-up cloak beneath his arm. In a hostel where travelers stopped, he positioned himself at the door, silently asked for food, silently accepted a piece of rice cake. Perhaps as soon as tomorrow, he thought, I will no longer be asking for food.

Pride suddenly flared up within him. He was no longer a Samana, no longer was it fitting for him to beg. He gave the rice cake to a dog and went without eating.

Simple is the life one leads here in the world, Siddhartha thought. There are no difficulties. Everything was difficult, laborious, and in the end hopeless when I was still a Samana. Now everything is easy, easy as the kissing lessons Kamala is giving me. I need clothing and money, that is all. These goals are small and within reach; they will not trouble my sleep.

He had long since identified Kamala’s town house, and the next day he presented himself there.

“All is well,” she cried out when she saw him. “You are expected at the home of Kamaswami; he is the richest merchant in the city. If you please him, he will take you into his service. Be clever, brown Samana. I have had others tell him of you. Be friendly toward him; he is very powerful. But do not be too modest! I do not want you to become his servant. You must become his equal, otherwise I shall not be satisfied with you. Kamaswami is beginning to grow old and lazy. If you please him, he will entrust you with a great deal.”

Siddhartha thanked her and laughed, and when she learned that he had eaten nothing this day or the one before, she ordered bread and fruit to be brought and served him herself.

“You’ve been lucky,” she said, as he was taking leave of her. “One door after the other is opening before you. How is that? Do you have magical powers?”

Siddhartha said, “Yesterday I told you that I knew how to think, to wait, and to fast, but you declared these things to have no value. But they have great value, Kamala, as you will see. You will see that the foolish Samanas in the forest learn and are able to do many fine things that you cannot. The day before yesterday I was still an unkempt beggar, but already yesterday I kissed Kamala, and soon I shall be a merchant and have money and all these things you consider important.”

“Well, yes,” she conceded, “but where would you be without me? What would you be if Kamala did not help you?”

“Dear Kamala,” said Siddhartha, straightening up to his full height, “when I came into your grove to you, I was taking my first step. It was my resolve to learn love from this most beautiful of women. From the moment I resolved to do this, I knew I would succeed. I knew you would help me; from the first glance you gave me at the entrance to the grove I knew this.”