That was how everybody loved Siddhartha. He delighted and made everybody happy.
But Siddhartha himself was not happy. Wandering along the rosy paths of the fig garden, sitting in
contemplation in the bluish shade of the grove, washing his limbs in the daily bath of atonement,
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offering
sacrifices in the depths of the shady mango wood with complete grace of manner, beloved by all, a joy to all,
there was yet no joy in his own heart. Dreams and restless thoughts came flowing to him from the river,
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from the twinkling stars at night, from the sun's melting rays. Dreams and a restlessness of the soul came to
him, arising from the smoke of the sacrifices, emanating from the verses of the Rig-Veda,
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trickling through
from the teachings of the old Brahmins.
Siddhartha had begun to feel the seeds of discontent within him. He had begun to feel that the love of his
father and mother, and also the love of his friend Govinda, would not always make him happy give him
peace, satisfy and suffice him. He had begun to suspect that his worthy father and his other teachers, the
wise Brahmins, had already passed on to him the bulk and best of their wisdom, that they had already poured
the sum total of their knowledge into his waiting vessel; and the vessel was not full, his intellect was not
satisfied, his soul was not at peace, his heart was not still. The ablutions were good, but they were water;
they did not wash sins away, they did not relieve the distressed heart. The sacrifices and the supplication of
the gods were excellent - but were they everything? Did the sacrifices give happiness? And what about the
gods? Was it really Prajapati
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who had created the world? Was it not Atman, He alone, who had created
it? Were not the gods forms created like me and you, mortal, transient? Was it therefore good and right,
was it a sensible and worthy act to offer sacrifices to the gods? To whom else should one offer sacrifices, to
whom else should one pay honor, but to Him, Atman, the Only One? And where was Atman to be found,
where did He dwell, where did His eternal heart beat, if not within the Self,
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in the innermost, in the eternal
which each person carried within him? But where was this Self, this innermost? It was not flesh and bone,
it was not thought or consciousness. That was what the wise men taught. Where, then, was it? To press
towards the Self, towards Atman - was there another way that was worth seeking? Nobody showed the way,
nobody knew it - neither his father, nor the teachers and wise men, nor the holy songs. The Brahmins and
their holy books knew everything, everything; they had gone into everything - the creation of the world, the
origin of speech, food, inhalation, exhalation, the arrangement of the senses, the acts of the gods. They
knew a tremendous number of things - but was it worth while knowing all these things if they did not know
the one important thing, the only important thing?
Many verses of the holy books, above all the Upanishads
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of Sama-Veda
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spoke of this innermost thing. It
is written: "Your soul is the whole world." It says that when a man is asleep, he penetrates his innermost
and dwells in Atman. There was wonderful wisdom in these verses; all the knowledge of the sages was told
here in enchanting language, pure as honey collected by the bees. No, this tremendous amount of
knowledge, collected and preserved by successive generations of wise Brahmins could not be easily
overlooked. But where were the Brahmins, the priests, the wise men, who were successful not only in
having this most profound knowledge, but in experiencing it? Where were the initiated who, attaining
Atman in sleep, could retain it in consciousness, in life, everywhere, in speech and in action? Siddhartha
knew many worthy Brahmins, above all his father - holy, learned, of highest esteem. His father was worthy
of admiration; his manner was quiet and noble. He lived a good life, his words were wise; fine and noble
thoughts dwelt in his head - but even he who knew so much, did he live in bliss, was he at peace? Was he
not also a seeker, insatiable? Did he not go continually to the holy springs with an insatiable thirst, to the
sacrifices, to books, to the Brahmins' discourses? Why must he, blameless one, wash away his sins and
endeavor to cleanse himself anew each day? Was Atman then not within him? Was not then the source
within his own heart? One must find the source within one's own Self, one must possess it. Everything else
was seeking, a detour, error.
These were Siddhartha's thoughts; this was his thirst, his sorrow.
