Chapter four Awakening. When sadd Arthur left the grove where the Buddha, the perfected one, stayed behind, where Govinda stayed behind, then he felt that in this grove his past life also stayed behind and parted from him. He
pondered about the sensation which filled him completely. As he was slowly walking along, he pondered deeply, like diving into a deep water, he let himself sink down to the ground of the sensation, down to the place where the causes lie, because to identify the causes, so it seemed to him, is the very essence of thinking. And by this alone, sensations turn into realizations and are not lost, but become entities and start to emit like rays
of light, what is inside of them. Slowly walking along, Siddartha pondered. He realized that he was no youth anymore, but had turned into a man. He realized that one thing had left him, as a snake is left by its old skin, That one thing no longer existed in him, which had accompanied him throughout his youth and used to be a part of him,
the wish to have teachers and to listen to teachings. He had also left the last teacher who had appeared on his path, even him, the highest and wisest teacher, the most holy one Buddha, he had left him, had to part with him, was not able to accept his teachings slower, He walked along in his thoughts and asked himself, what is all this? What you have sought to learn from teachings and from teachers, and what
they who have taught you much was still unable to teach you? And he found it was the self, the purpose and essence of which I sought to learn. It was the self I wanted to free myself from which I sought to overcome. But I was not able to overcome it. Could only deceive it, could only flee from it, only hide from it. Truly, no thing in this world has kept my thoughts thus busy as this, my very own self, this mystery of me being alive, of me being one
and being separated and isolated from all others, of me being Siddhartha. And there is no thing in this world I know less about than me about Siddhartha. Having been pondering while slowly walking along, he now stopped as these thoughts caught hold of him, and right away another thought sprang forth from these, A new thought, which was that I know nothing about myself. That Siddartha
has remained thus alien and unknown to me. That I know nothing about myself, that Siddhartha has remained thus alien and unknown to me, stems from one cause, a single cause. I was afraid of myself. I was fleeing from myself. I searched Atman, I searched Brahman. I was willing to dissect myself and peel off all its layers, to find the core of all peals, in its unknown interior, the Atman life, the divine part, the ultimate part. But I have lost myself in the process. Sadatha opened
his eyes and looked around. A smile filled his face, and a feeling of awakening from long dreams flowed through him from his head down to his toes. And it was not long before he walked again, walked quickly, like a man who knows what he has got to do. Oh, he thought, taking a deep breath. Now, I would not let Sidhartha escape from me again. No longer. I want to begin my thoughts and my life with Atman and with the suffering of the world. I do not want to
kill and dissect myself any longer to find a secret behind the ruins. Neither yoga vada shall teach me any more, nor Athara vada, nor the ascetics, nor any kind of teachings. I want to learn from myself, want to be my student, to get to know myself the secret of Saddatha. He looked around as if he were seeing the world for the first time. Beautiful was the world. Colorful was the world. Strange and mysterious was the world. Here was blue, here was yellow, He was green. The
sky and the river flowed, the forest and the mountains were rigid. All of it was beautiful. All of it was mysterious and magical. And in its midst was he Sadatha, the awakening one on the path to himself. All of this, all this yellow and blue, river and forest, entered Siddartha for the first time through the eyes. Was no longer a spell of
Mara, was no longer the veil of Maya. Was no longer a pointless and coincidental diversity of mere appearances, despicable to the deeply thinking Brahman who scorns diversity, who seeks unity. Blue was blue, river was river, and if also in the blue and the river. In Siddhartha, the singular and divine lived hidden. So it was still that very divinity's way and purpose to be here yellow, here blue, their sky, their forest, and here
Siddhartha the purpose and essential properties were not somewhere behind the things. They were in them, in everything. How deaf and stupid have I been, he thought, walking swiftly along. When someone reads a text once to discover its meaning, he will not scorn the symbols and letters and call them deceptions, coincidence and worthless hull. But he will read them, he will study and
love them, letter by letter. But I, who wanted to read the book of the world and the book of my own being, I have, for the sake of a meaning I had anticipated before I read, scorned the symbols and letters. I called the visible world a deception, called my eyes and my tongue coincidental and worthless forms without substance. No, this is over. I have awakened. I have indeed awakened, and have not been born
before this very day. In thinking these thoughts, said d Arthur, stopped once again suddenly, as if there was a snake lying in front of him on the path because suddenly he had also become aware of this, he who was indeed like someone who had just woken up, or like a newborn baby. He had to start his life anew and start again at the very beginning.
When he had left in this very morning from the grove Jetavana, the grove of that exalted one, already awakening, already on the path towards himself, he had every intention regarded as natural and took for granted that he, after years as an ascetic, would return to his home and his father. But now only in this moment, when he stopped, as if a snake was lying on his path, he also awoke to this realization. But I am no longer the one I was. I am no ascetic anymore. I
am not a priest anymore. I am o brahman any more. What should I do at home and of my father's place? Study, make offerings, practice meditation? But all this is over all, of this is no longer alongside my path motionless, Siddhartha remained standing there, and for the time of one moment and breath, his heart felt cold. He felt a cold in his chest as a small animal, a bird or a rabbit. Wood when seeing how alone he was. For many years he had been without home and
had felt nothing. Now he felt it still, even in the deepest meditation. He had been his father's son, had been a Brahman of a high caste, a cleric. Now he was nothing but Siddhartha, the awoken one. Nothing else was left. Deeply, he inhaled, and for a moment he felt cold and shivered. Nobody was thus alone as he was. There was no nobleman who did not belong to the nobleman, no worker that did not belong to the workers and found refuge with them, shared their life,
spoke their language. No Brahman who would not be regarded as Brahmans and lived with them, no ascetic who would not find his refuge in the cast of the Samanas. And even the most forlorn hermit in the forest was not just one and alone. He was also surrounded by a place he belonged to. He also belonged to a caste in which he was at home. Govinda had
become a monk, and a thousand monks were his brothers. Wore the same robe as he believed in his faith, spoke his language, But he said, Arthur, where did he belong to, with whom would he share his life? Whose language would he speak? Out of this moment when the world melted away all around him, when he stood alone like a star in the sky, Out of this moment of cold and despair, Siddatha emerged more a self than before, more firmly concentrated. He felt this had been the last
tremor of the awakening, the last struggle of this birth. And it was not long until he walked again in long strides, started to proceed swiftly and impatiently, heading no longer for home, no longer to see his father, no longer back end of chapter four