Slowly blossomed, slowly ripened in Siddhartha the recognition, awareness of what wisdom really is, what was the goal of his long search. Was nothing che una disposizione dell’anima, una capacità, un’arte segreta di pensare in qualunque istante, nel bel mezzo della vita, il pensiero dell’unità, sentire l’unità e per così dire respirarla. Lentamente questo fioriva in lui, gli raggiava incontro dal vecchio volto infantile di Vasudeva: armonia, scienza dell’eterna perfezione del mondo, sorriso, unità.
Ma la ferita bruciava ancora: con amaro desiderio Siddharta pensava a suo figlio, nutriva in cuore l’amore e la tenerezza per lui, si lasciava consumare dal dolore, commetteva tutte le pazzie dell’amore. Non da sé si sarebbe mai spenta questa fiamma. E un giorno, che la ferita bruciava intensamente, Siddharta crossed the river, driven by nostalgia, and got out of the boat decided to go into town and find her son. The river was calm and mild - it was the dry season - but his voice had a strange sound: laugh! It was clear that he laughed. The river laughed, laughed openly at the back of the old boatman.
[...]
The river laughed. Yes, it was so, all that was not consummated until the end and suffered repeated, and they always suffer the same pain again. But Siddhartha got back into the boat and returned to the hut, thinking of his father, remembering his son, laughed at by the river, at odds with itself, close to despair, and less near laugh loudly to himself and the world. Alas! not yet bloomed the wound, yet her heart rebelled against destiny, not yet sprouted peace and victory by his suffering. However, he felt something like a hope, and when he returned to the hut he felt an irresistible desire to open up to Vasudeva, to reveal all, to tell everything to him, who was master of listening.
Vasudeva was sitting in the hut and weaving a basket. Not longer drove the boat, his eyes were beginning to weaken, and not just the eyes, but also arms and hands. Only joy and serene benevolence of his face bloomed unchanged.
Siddhartha sat down next to the old, began to speak slowly. He told them those things they had never spoken of his visit to town, that time, the burning wound, of his envy at the sight of happy fathers, of his futile struggle against those desires of which he knew very well the folly. He reported everything, even the most difficult, all he could say, everything he tried to speak, all he could tell and reveal. Discover your wound, telling also of his last flight, that day, as he had on board, little boy, with the intention of going into town, and as the river had laughed.
As he spoke - and spoke at length - while Vasudeva listened quietly in the face, Siddhartha felt this attraction Vasudeva's stronger than he had ever heard, felt his pain, his troubles disappear, he felt his secret hope to take the flight over there and save him for another meeting. Show his wound to this listener was the same as that wash into the river, until it becomes one with the cold river. While still kept talking and confessing, Siddhartha felt more and more that this was no longer Vasudeva, was no longer a man who was listening, that this property listener absorbed in his own confession as a tree in the rain, that this man was motionless the river itself, was God Himself was the Lord. And while Siddhartha stopped thinking of himself and his wound, This discovery of the mutated be Vasudeva took possession of him, as if he n'accorgeva and plunged us, the less beautiful it becomes, the more he saw that everything was in order and natural, that for a long time perhaps always Vasudeva had been so, only he had never fully realized. He felt that he now saw the old Vasudeva as the people see the gods, and that such a state could not last, his heart was already beginning to take leave of Vasudeva. With all that went on talking.
When he had finished, Vasudeva rose upon him his loving look, a little 'weakened by the years, did not speak, but the meeting in silence spread love and peace, understanding and knowledge. Siddhartha took her hand and led him to the seat at the bank, sat down with him, and smiled at the River.
"You have heard him laugh," he said. "But you did not hear anything. Listen, you'll hear even more. "
listened. Mild rose the song of the river from many voices. Siddhartha looked into the water and the water appeared in the images: his father appeared, lonely, distressed by his son, and he himself appeared, lonely, too, bound by ties of nostalgia for his son away, his son appeared, only he , eager boy on the road unbridled burning of his young wishes, each stretched to its goal each in the grip of suffering. The river sang with sorrowful voice, with longing, desire and ran towards his goal, his voice sounded like a lament.
"Odi?" Asked the silent gaze of Vasudeva. Siddhartha nodded.
"Listen better!" Vasudeva whispered.
Siddhartha made an effort to listen better. The image of his father, his own image, the image of his son mingled with one another, Kamala's image also appeared and disappeared, and so the image of Govinda, and many others, all of which mixed together, all turned into the river, they flowed like a river toward the goal, longing, hungry, suffering, and the voice of the river sounded full of yearning, full of burning pain, of insatiable desire. The river tended to the goal, Siddhartha saw it hurrying, the river that had made him and his children and all the men he had ever seen, all the waves, all that water hastened, suffering, towards their goals . Many destinations: the waterfall, the lake, the rapids, the sea, and all goals were achieved, and each half a new one followed, and water vapor was generated and ascended to Heaven, became rain and fell down from heaven, becomes the source, stream, river, and back again on a journey, again began to flow. But the eager voice had changed. More ed'affanno sounded full of anxiety, but other voices joined her, voices crying and pain, good and bad voices, laughing and sad, a hundred voices, a thousand voices. Siddhartha listened. It was now all ears, entirely immersed in listening, completely empty, totally willing to absorb, he felt that he had now learned the art of listening. Often he had heard all these thousands of voices in the river, but now everything had a new sound. That's no longer could distinguish the many voices, from those joyful tears, the children than male, all mingled together, moaning with desire and laughter of the wise, angry shouts and groans of the dying, it was all one thing , everything was mixed and twisted in a thousand ways context. And all together, all voices, all goals, all desires, all the pain, all joy, all the good and evil, all together was the world. All along the river was becoming, was the music of life. And when Siddhartha was listening attentively this river, this song of a thousand voices, or if you would not listen to the pain or rice, if not bound his soul to one of those voices, and if not s'impersonava in it with his own ego, but all heard them, felt the whole, the Oneness, and then the great song of a thousand voices consisted of one word and that word was Om: the perfection.
"Listen" asked the new look Vasudeva. Vasudeva's smile shone clear above all the wrinkles of his old face hovering light, as well as Om hovered over all the items of the River. Light shone his smile when he looked at his friend, and now the same clear shining smile on the face of Siddhartha. His wound blossomed, his pain spread beams, while his ego flowed into Oneness.
In that hour Siddhartha ceased to fight against his fate, at that hour ceased to suffer. Bloomed on his face the serenity of knowledge, which does not conflict any more will, knowing who knows perfection, which is consistent with the river of becoming, with the current of life, a sapere che è pieno di compassione e di simpatia, docile al flusso degli eventi, aderente all’Unità.
– da “Siddharta” di Hermann Hesse –
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