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SIDDHARTHA. An Indian Tale. Hermann Hesse. THE INTERNET ARCHIVE. The Presidio. San Francisco. Page 2. Page 3. Contents. FIRST PART. 3. THE SON. Project Gutenberg · 59, free ebooks · 16 by Hermann Hesse. Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse. No cover available. Download; Bibrec. Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse. Adobe PDF icon. Download this document as a. pdf: File size: MB What's this? light bulb idea Many people prefer to read.

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Siddhartha Free PDF Download by Hermann Hesse. Download his Public Domain e-book Siddhartha an Indian Tale here in full length here. There never was an official compilation of the works på Hermann Hesse in English. Here I have tried to sort out the PDF works currently in the. Page 1. Page 2. STEPPENWOLF. BY HERMANN HESSE. Translated by Basil Creighton. (Updated by Joseph Mileck). Page 3. This low-priced Bantam Book.

Skip to main content. Log In Sign Up. Autobiographical Writings by Herman Hesse. Ana Garcia. The reader of Hesse's novels who turns to his autobiographical writings will be able to trace the tenuous line between fact and fiction that characterizes Hesse's entire body of work. The present volume includes twelve revealing pieces arranged so that Hesse narrates his own life in roughly chronological sequence. The first three, dealing primarily with the portrait of the artist as a young man, suggest the experiences that underlie Demian, Beneath the Wheel, and the other novels of youth. In the next group, Hesse describes his journey to India, from which Siddhartha eventually emerged, as well as the trauma of the war years. The two long central pieces, A Guest at the Spa and Journey to Nuremberg, recapitulate the process of maturing that turned the mountain recluse of Montagnola into the ironic witness of the twenties, who could write with such humorous detachment about the spiritual torments of the Steppenwolf. The later writings, which move closer and closer to the reflective essay, render in a classically paradigmatic form an account of the highly ordered, virtually Castalian existence that assumed fictional shape in The Glass Bead Game. Through writing these Lives the students learn "to regard their own persons as masks, as the transitory garb of an entelechy. In the autobiographical sketch "Childhood of the Magician," Hesse confides that it was his most fervent wish, as a child, to possess the magical ability to disappear or to change his shape. The adult equivalent of this magical power, he continues, was the gift of concealing himself playfully behind the figures of his fictional world. This aesthetic dissimulation is exemplified by the fact that so many of his fictional surrogates -- from Hermann Heilner in Beneath the Wheel to Harry Haller in Steppenwolf and H.

A lot of it, in fact. Her response? Now, what did you expect, Siddhartha? Sex lessons for free? Oh, you naughty, naughty Siddhartha! Anyway, Siddhartha — remember: the guy who renounced everything to become an ascetic a while ago — now does the exact opposite. Kamala directs him to Kamaswami, a wealthy merchant under whose mentorship Siddhartha learns the secrets of business. Moreover, he even surpasses him, since the patience he has acquired during his years as a Samana makes him the perfect most rational businessman you can ever imagine.

Now that he is rich, Siddhartha goes back to Kamala and — well, enjoys the immediate joys of sexual pleasure. Otherwise, it would be difficult to explain how the couple gets a child, named — surprise!

Guys, you have to try harder. You know what happens next, right? Siddhartha grows sick with sex and money by the way, he becomes a gambler, as well and decides to return to the river.

There, he reunites with Vasudeva and starts to live a humbler life choosing the river to be his teacher. We would have loved such a teacher in our high school years as well! Where else of all the places in the seventh-largest country in the world? Kamala dies, so Siddhartha takes the young Siddhartha under his own wing. Siddhartha badly wants to find him, but Vasudeva tells him something modern parents will have a hard time understanding: leave him be.

Meaning: once you wanted to walk your own path, now your son is doing the exact same thing.

This alleviates Siddhartha suffering and, suddenly, he is overwhelmed by a jubilant mood which stems from the realization that even pain is an illusion. Siddhartha, finally fulfilled, becomes what Vasudeva was: an enlightened ferryman. And, of course, his first student is Govinda, who comes to the river to hear some words of wisdom from the wise ferryman everyone is talking about.

And, after a brief discussion, he reaches some enlightenment as well: 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 humblest veneration in his heart.

Deeply, he bowed, touching the ground, before him who was sitting motionlessly, whose smile reminded him of everything he had ever loved in his life, what had ever been valuable and holy to him in his life. Like this summary?

Also published on Medium. 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 worthwhile 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 of Sama- Veda spoke of this innermost thing.

It is written: "Your soul is the whole world. 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 by Hermann Hesse

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, the 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. He often repeated to himself the words from one of the Chandogya- Upanishads. Indeed, he who knows it enters the heavenly world each day. And among the wise men that he knew and whose teachings he enjoyed, there was not one who had entirely reached it - the heavenly world - not one who had completely quenched the eternal thirst. We will practice meditation. As he sat down ready to pronounce the Om, Siddhartha softly recited the verse: "Om is the bow, the arrow is the soul, Brahman is the arrow's goal At which one aims unflinchingly.

Siddhartha

It was now evening. It was time to perform the evening ablutions. He called Siddhartha by his name; he did not reply. Siddhartha sat absorbed, his eyes staring as if directed at a distant goal, the tip of his tongue showing a little between his teeth.

He did not seem to be breathing. He sat thus, lost in meditation, thinking Om, his soul as the arrow directed at Brahman. Some Samanas once passed through Siddhartha's town. Wandering ascetics, they were three thin worn-out men, neither old nor young, with dusty and bleeding shoulders, practically naked, scorched by the sun, solitary, strange and hostile - lean jackals in the world of men.

Around them hovered an atmosphere of still passion, of devastating service, of unpitying self-denial. In the evening, after the hour of contemplation, Siddhartha said to Govinda: "Tomorrow morning, my friend, Siddhartha is going to join the Samanas. He is going to become a Samana. Govinda realized from the first glance at his friend's face that now it was beginning. Siddhartha was going his own way; his destiny was beginning to unfold itself, and with his destiny, his own. And he became as pale as a dried banana skin.

As quick as lightning he read Govinda's soul, read the anxiety, the resignation. Let us not discuss it again. He went up behind his father and remained standing there until his father felt his presence.

I wish to become a Samana. I trust my father will not object. His son stood silent and motionless with his arms folded. The father, silent and motionless, sat on the mat, and the stars passed across the sky. Then his father said: "It is not seemly for Brahmins to utter forceful and angry words, but there is displeasure in my heart.

I should not like to hear you make this request a second time. Siddhartha remained silent with folded arms. His father left the room displeased and lay down on his bed. As an hour passed by and he could not sleep, the Brahmin rose, wandered up and down and then left the house. He looked through the small window of the room and saw Siddhartha standing there with his arms folded, unmoving. He could see his pale robe shimmering. His heart troubled, the father returned to his bed. As another hour passed and the Brahmin could not sleep, he rose again, walked up and down, left the house and saw the moon had risen.

He looked through the window. Siddhartha stood there unmoving, his arms folded; the moon shone on his bare shinbones. His heart troubled, the father went to bed. He returned again after an hour and again after two hours, looked through the window and saw Siddhartha standing there in the moonlight, in the starlight, in the dark. And he came silently again, hour after hour, looked into the room, and saw him standing unmoving. His heart filled with anger, with anxiety, with fear, with sorrow.

And in the last hour of the night, before daybreak, he returned again, entered the room and saw the youth standing there. He seemed tall and a stranger to him.

The Brahmin saw that Siddhartha's knees trembled slightly, but there was no trembling in Siddhartha's face; his eyes looked far away.

Then the father realized that Siddhartha could no longer remain with him at home -that he had already left him. The father touched Siddhartha's shoulder.

If you find bliss in the forest, come back and teach it to me. If you find disillusionment, come back, and we shall again offer sacrifices to the gods together. Now go, kiss your mother and tell her where you are going. For me, however, it is time to go to the river and perform the first ablution.

Siddhartha swayed as he tried to walk. He controlled himself, bowed to his father and went to his mother to do what had been told to him. As, with benumbed legs, he slowly left the still sleeping town at daybreak, a crouching shadow emerged from the last but and joined the pilgrim. It was Govinda. With the Samanas On the evening of that day they overtook the Samanas and requested their company and allegiance. They were accepted. Siddhartha gave his clothes to a poor Brahmin on the road and only retained his loincloth and earth-colored unstitched cloak.

He only ate once a day and never cooked food. He fasted fourteen days. He fasted twenty-eight days. The flesh disappeared from his legs and cheeks.

Strange dreams were reflected in his enlarged eyes. The nails grew long on his thin fingers and a dry, bristly beard appeared on his chin. His glance became icy when he encountered women; his lips curled with contempt when he passed through a town of well-dressed people.

He saw businessmen trading, princes going to the hunt, mourners weeping over their dead, prostitutes offering themselves, doctors attending the sick, priests deciding the day for sowing, lovers making love, mothers soothing their children - and all were not worth a passing glance, everything lied, stank of lies; they were all illusions of sense, happiness and beauty.

All were doomed to decay. The world tasted bitter. Life was pain. Siddhartha had one single goal - to become empty, to become empty of thirst, desire, dreams, pleasure and sorrow - to let the Self die.

No longer to be Self, to experience the peace of an emptied heart, to experience pure thought - that was his goal. When all the Self was conquered and dead, when all passions and desires were silent, then the last must awaken, the innermost of Being that is no longer Self - the great secret! Silently Siddhartha stood in the fierce sun's rays, filled with pain and thirst, and stood until he no longer felt pain and thirst.

Silently he stood in the rain, water dripping from his hair on to his freezing shoulders, on to his freezing hips and legs. And the ascetic stood until his shoulders and legs no longer froze, till they were silent, till they were still. Silently he crouched among the thorns. Blood dripped from his smarting skin, ulcers formed, and Siddhartha remained stiff, motionless, till no more blood flowed, till there was no more pricking, no more smarting.

Siddhartha sat upright and learned to save his breath, to manage with little breathing, to hold his breath. He learned, while breathing in, to quiet his heartbeat, learned to lessen his heartbeats, until there were few and hardly any more.

Instructed by the eldest of the Samanas, Siddhartha practiced self- denial and meditation according to the Samana rules.

Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse - Free Ebook

A heron flew over the bamboo wood and Siddhartha took the heron into his soul, flew over forest and mountains, became a heron, ate fishes, suffered heron hunger, used heron language, died a heron's death. A dead jackal lay on the sandy shore and Siddhartha's soul slipped into its corpse; he became a dead jackal, lay on the shore, swelled, stank, decayed, was dismembered by hyenas, was picked at by vultures, became a skeleton, became dust, mingled with the atmosphere.

And Siddhartha's soul returned, died, decayed, turned into dust, experienced the troubled course of the life cycle. He waited with new thirst like a hunter at a chasm where the life cycle ends, where there is an end to causes, where painless eternity begins. He killed his senses, he killed his memory, he slipped out of his Self in a thousand different forms.

He was animal, carcass, stone, wood, water, and each time he reawakened. The sun or moon shone, he was again Self, swung into the life cycle, felt thirst, conquered thirst, felt new thirst. Siddhartha learned a great deal from the Samanas; he learned many ways of losing the Self.

He travelled along the path of self-denial through pain, through voluntary suffering and conquering of pain, through hunger, thirst and fatigue. He travelled the way of self-denial through meditation, through the emptying of the mind of all images.

Along these and other paths did he learn to travel. He lost his Self a thousand times and for days on end he dwelt in non-being. But although the paths took him away from Self, in the end they always led back to it. Although Siddhartha fled from the Self a thousand times, dwelt in nothing, dwelt in animal and stone, the return was inevitable; the hour was inevitable when he would again find himself, in sunshine or in moonlight, in shadow or in rain, and was again Self and Siddhartha, again felt the torment of the onerous life cycle.

At his side lived Govinda, his shadow; he travelled along the same path, made the same endeavors. They rarely conversed with each other apart from the necessities of their service and practices. Sometimes they went together through the villages in order to beg food for themselves and their teachers. Have we reached our goal? You will become a great Samana, Siddhartha. You have learned each exercise quickly. The old Samanas have often appraised you.

Some day you will be a holy man, Siddhartha. What I have so far learned from the Samanas, I could have learned more quickly and easily in every inn in a prostitute's quarter, amongst the carriers and dice players. How could you have learned meditation, holding of the breath and insensibility towards hunger and pain, with those wretches? What is abandonment of the body? What is fasting?

What is the holding of breath? It is a flight from the Self, it is a temporary escape from the torment of Self. It is a temporary palliative against the pain and folly of life. The driver of oxen makes this same flight, takes this temporary drug when he drinks a few bowls of rice wine or cocoanut milk in the inn. He then no longer feels his Self, no longer feels the pain of life; he then experiences temporary escape.

Falling asleep over his bowl of rice wine, he finds what Siddhartha and Govinda find when they escape from their bodies by long exercises and dwell in the non-Self. The drinker does indeed find escape, he does indeed find a short respite and rest, but he returns from the illusion and finds everything as it was before.

He has not grown wiser, he has not gained knowledge, he has not climbed any higher. I have never been a drunkard. But that I, Siddhartha, only find a short respite in my exercises and meditation, and am as remote from wisdom, from salvation, as a child in the womb, that, Govinda, I do know.

Are we gaining knowledge? Are we approaching salvation? Or are we perhaps going in circles - we who thought to escape from the cycle? There still remains much to learn. We are not going in circles, we are going upwards. The path is a spiral; we have already climbed many steps.

He will be seventy and eighty years old, and you and I, we shall grow as old as he, and do exercises and fast and meditate, but we will not attain Nirvana, neither he nor we. Govinda, I believe that amongst all the Samanas, probably not even one will attain Nirvana. We find consolations, we learn tricks with which we deceive ourselves, but the essential thing - the way - we do not find. I suffer thirst, Govinda, and on this long Samana path my thirst has not grown less.

I have always thirsted for knowledge, I have always been full of questions. Year after year I have questioned the Brahmins, year after year I have questioned the holy Vedas. Perhaps, Govinda, it would have been equally good, equally clever and holy if I had questioned the rhinoceros or the chimpanzee.

I have spent a long time and have not yet finished, in order to learn this, Govinda: that one can learn nothing. There is, so I believe, in the essence of everything, something that we cannot call learning.

There is, my friend, only a knowledge - that is everywhere, that is Atman, that is in me and you and in every creature, and I am beginning to believe that this knowledge has no worse enemy than the man of knowledge, than learning. Truly, your words trouble me. Think, what meaning would our holy prayers have, the venerableness of the Brahmins, the holiness of the Samanas, if, as you say, there is no learning?

Siddhartha, what would become of everything, what would be holy on earth, what would be precious and sacred? He dwelt long on the words which Govinda had uttered. Yes, he thought, standing with bowed head, what remains from all that seems holy to us? What remains? What is preserved? And he shook his head. Once, when both youths had lived with the Samanas about three years and shared their practices, they heard from many sources a rumor, a report.

Someone had appeared, called Gotama, the Illustrious, the Buddha. He had conquered in himself the sorrows of the world and had brought to a standstill the cycle of rebirth. He wandered through the country preaching, surrounded by disciples, having no possessions, homeless, without a wife, wearing the yellow cloak of an ascetic, but with lofty brow, a holy man, and Brahmins and princes bowed before him and became his pupils.

This report, this rumor, this tale was heard and spread here and there. The Brahmins talked about it in the town, the Samanas in the forest. The name of Gotama, the Buddha, continually reached the ears of the young men, spoken of well and ill, in praise and in scorn.

Just as when a country is ravaged with the plague and a rumor arises that there is a man, a wise man, a learned man, whose words and breath are sufficient to heal the afflicted, and as the report travels across the country and everyone speaks about it, many believe and many doubt it.

Many, however, immediately go on their way to seek the wise man, the benefactor. In such a manner did that rumor, that happy report of Gotama the Buddha, the wise man from the race of Sakya, travel through the country. He possessed great knowledge, said the believers; he remembered his former lives, he had attained Nirvana and never returned on the cycle, he plunged no more into the troubled stream of forms.

Many wonderful and incredible things were reported about him; he had performed wonders, had conquered the devil, had spoken with the gods. His enemies and doubters, however, said that this Gotama was an idle fraud; he passed his days in high living, scorned the sacrifices, was unlearned and knew neither practices nor mortification of the flesh. The rumors of the Buddha sounded attractive; there was magic in these reports. The world was sick, life was difficult and here there seemed new hope, here there seemed to be a message, comforting, mild, full of fine promises.

Everywhere there were rumors about the Buddha. Young men all over India listened, felt a longing and a hope.

And among the Brahmins' sons in the towns and villages, every pilgrim and stranger was welcome if he brought news of him, the Illustrious, the Sakyamuni.

The rumors reached the Samanas in the forest and Siddhartha and Govinda, a little at a time, every little item heavy with hope, heavy with doubt. They spoke little about it, as the eldest Samana was no friend of this rumor. He had heard that this alleged Buddha had formerly been an ascetic and had lived in the woods, had then turned to high living and the pleasures of the world, and he held no brief for this Gotama.

Truly I was filled with longing and I thought: I wish that both Siddhartha and I may live to see the day when we can hear the teachings from the lips of the Perfect One. My friend, shall we not also go hither and hear the teachings from the lips of the Buddha? I always believed it was his goal to be sixty and seventy years old and still practice the arts and exercises which the Samanas teach.

But how little did I know Govinda! How little did I know what was in his heart! Now, my dear friend, you wish to strike a new path and go and hear the Buddha's teachings. No matter if you do, Siddhartha. Do you not also feel a longing, a desire to hear this teaching? And did you not once say to me - I will not travel the path of the Samanas much longer?

But, very well, my friend, I am ready to hear that new teaching, although I believe in my heart that we have already tasted the best fruit of it.

But tell me, how can the teachings of Gotama disclose to us its most precious fruit before we have even heard him? This fruit, for which we are already indebted to Gotama, consists in the fact that he has enticed us away from the Samanas.

Whether there are still other and better fruits, let us patiently wait and see. He told the old man with the politeness and modesty fitting to young men and students. But the old man was angry that both young men wished to leave him and he raised his voice and scolded them strongly.

Govinda was taken aback, but Siddhartha put his lips to Govinda's ear and whispered: "Now I will show the old man that I have learned something from him. The old man became silent, his eyes glazed, his will crippled; his arms hung down, he was powerless under Siddhartha's spell. Siddhartha's thoughts conquered those of the Samana; he had to perform what they commanded.

And so the old man bowed several times, gave his blessings and stammered his wishes for a good journey. The young men thanked him for his good wishes, returned his bow, and departed.

On the way, Govinda said: "Siddhartha, you have learned more from the Samanas than I was aware. It is difficult, very difficult to hypnotize an old Samana. In truth, if you had stayed there, you would have soon learned how to walk on water. Near the town was Gotama's favorite abode, the Jetavana grove, which the rich merchant Anathapindika, a great devotee of the Illustrious One, had presented to him and his followers.

The two young ascetics, in their search for Gotama's abode, had been referred to this district by tales and answers to their questions, and on their arrival in Savathi, food was offered to them immediately at the first house in front of whose door they stood silently begging.

They partook of food and Siddhartha asked the lady who handed him the food: "Good lady, we should very much like to know where the Buddha, the Illustrious One, dwells, for we are two Samanas from the forest and have come to see the Perfect One and hear his teachings from his own lips.

The Illustrious One sojourns in Jetavana, in the garden of Anathapindika. You may spend the night there, pilgrims, for there is enough room for the numerous people who flock here to hear the teachings from his lips. But tell us, mother of pilgrims, do you know the Buddha? Have you seen him with your own eyes? On many a day I have seen him walk through the streets, silently, in a yellow cloak, and silently hold out his alms bowl at the house doors and return with his filled bowl.

They expressed their thanks and departed. It was hardly necessary to enquire the way, for quite a number of pilgrims and monks from Gotama's followers were on the way to Jetavana. When they arrived there at night, there were continual new arrivals. There was a stir of voices from them, requesting and obtaining shelter. The two Samanas, who were used to life in the forest, quickly and quietly found shelter and stayed there till morning.

At sunrise they were astounded to see the large number of believers and curious people who had spent the night there. Monks in yellow robes wandered along all the paths of the magnificent grove.

Here and there they sat under the trees, lost in meditation or engaged in spirited talk. The shady gardens were like a town, swarming with bees. Most of the monks departed with their alms bowls, in order to obtain food for their midday meal, the only one of the day. Even the Buddha himself went begging in the morning. Siddhartha saw him and recognized hirn immediately, as if pointed out to him by a god. He saw him, bearing an alms bowl, quietly leaving the place, an unassuming man in a yellow cowl.

Yes, it was he, and they followed him and watched him. The Buddha went quietly on his way, lost in thought. His peaceful countenance was neither happy nor sad. He seemed to be smiling gently inwardly. With a secret smile, not unlike that of a healthy child, he walked along, peacefully, quietly. He wore his gown and walked along exactly like the other monks, but his face and his step, his peaceful downward glance, his peaceful downward-hanging hand, and every finger of his hand spoke of peace, spoke of completeness, sought nothing, imitated nothing, reflected a continuous quiet, an unfading light, an invulnerable peace.

And so Gotama wandered into the town to obtain alms, and the two Samanas recognized him only by his complete peacefulness of demeanor, by the stillness of his form, in which there was no seeking, no will, no counterfeit, no effort - only light and peace. Siddhartha did not reply. He was not very curious about the teachings.

He did not think they would teach him anything new. He, as well as Govinda, had heard the substance of the Buddha's teachings, if only from second and third-hand reports.

But he looked attentively at Gotama's head, at his shoulders, at his feet, at his still, downward-hanging hand, and it seemed to him that in every joint of every finger of his hand there was knowledge; they spoke, breathed, radiated truth.

This man, this Buddha, was truly a holy man to his fingertips. Never had Siddhartha esteemed a man so much, never had he loved a man so much. They both followed the Buddha into the town and returned in silence. They themselves intended to abstain from food that day. They saw Gotama return, saw him take his meal within the circle of his disciples - what he ate would not have satisfied a bird - and saw him withdraw to the shade of the mango tree. In the evening, however, when the heat abated and everyone in the camp was alert and gathered together, they heard the Buddha preach.

They heard his voice, and this also was perfect, quiet and full of peace. Gotama talked about suffering, the origin of suffering, the way to release from suffering. Life was pain, the world was full of suffering, but the path to the release from suffering had been found. There was salvation for those who went the way of the Buddha. The Illustrious One spoke in a soft but firm voice, taught the four main points, taught the Eightfold Path; patiently he covered the usual method of teaching with examples and repetition.

Clearly and quietly his voice was carried to his listeners - like a light, like a star in the heavens. When the Buddha had finished - it was already night - many pilgrims came forward and asked to be accepted into the community, and the Buddha accepted them and said: "You have listened well to the teachings.

Join us then and walk in bliss; put an end to suffering. As soon as the Buddha had withdrawn for the night, Govinda turned to Siddhartha and said eagerly: "Siddhartha, it is not for me to reproach you. We have both listened to the Illustrious One, we have both heard his teachings. Govinda has listened to the teachings and has accepted them, but you, my dear friend, will you not also tread the path of salvation?

Will you delay, will you still wait?

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