Encounter with his son

Siddhartha's encounter with his son is not a meeting he seeks but one that arrives with the force of fate. Years after leaving the city, Siddhartha is living as a ferryman with Vasudeva when Kamala, the beautiful courtesan who once taught him the art of love, appears on a pilgrimage to the dying Buddha, Gotama. She is accompanied by her young son, and as she collapses near the ferry, bitten by a snake, Siddhartha recognizes her and, seeing the boy's face, knows instantly that this is his own child. The heart stirred in his chest, and the life of quiet, river-taught detachment he had built was irrevocably broken open.

Kamala's Arrival and Death

Kamala had long since retired from her former life, giving her pleasure-garden to the monks of Gotama and taking refuge in the teachings. She traveled in simple clothes on foot with her son, drawn by the news of the Buddha's impending death. The boy, accustomed to finer food and a soft bed, grew tired and disobedient, forcing his mother to rest frequently. As they neared Vasudeva's ferry, a small black snake bit Kamala. She collapsed, her body swelling, and was carried to the hut by Vasudeva. Siddhartha, lighting the fire, looked up and first saw the boy's face, which wondrously reminded him of something forgotten. Then he saw Kamala, and he knew. He washed her wound and gave her a healing potion, but the poison had already spread. As she lay on his bed, she looked at him with a dreamlike smile, noting how he had aged but was more like the young Samana who had first come to her garden. She pointed to the boy and said, "He is your son." Her eyes became confused and fell shut. Siddhartha took the weeping boy on his knees, and from his own distant childhood, a Brahman prayer came flowing to him, sung in a slow, calming voice. Kamala returned to consciousness once more, her gaze seeking his. She asked if he had achieved peace, and he smiled, placing his hand on hers. She whispered that she too would find peace, and then, with her eyes fixed on his, she died. Siddhartha closed her eyelids and sat for a long time, observing her peaceful, dead face, remembering how he had once compared her mouth to a freshly cracked fig. He felt, more deeply than ever before, the indestructibility of every life and the eternity of every moment.

The Son's Arrival and Siddhartha's Transformation

The boy, timid and weeping, attended his mother's funeral and then sat for many days by the hill of the dead, gloomy and refusing to eat. Siddhartha spared him, honoring his mourning, and slowly understood that the eleven-year-old was a pampered mother's boy, accustomed to giving orders and to a life of comfort. Siddhartha did not force him; he did chores for him, always gave him the best piece of the meal, and hoped to win him over with friendly patience. But the boy remained a stranger, displaying a proud and stubbornly disobedient heart. He stole fruit from Vasudeva's trees and refused to work. Siddhartha began to understand that his son brought not happiness but suffering and worry. Yet he loved him, and he preferred the suffering and worries of love over any joy without the boy. This love, this blind, suffering love for his son, was a passion he had never before experienced. He, who had once compared himself to a star and the childlike people to falling leaves, now became completely a childlike person himself, suffering for another, lost to a love, having become a fool on account of love. He felt that this love was Sansara, a murky source, but also that it was necessary, coming from the essence of his own being.

The Son's Rebellion and Departure

The boy grew increasingly bored with his father's kindness, which he saw as a hated trick. He wanted to be threatened, not met with a smile. One day, when Siddhartha asked him to gather brushwood, the boy exploded in rage, screaming that he hated his father and would rather become a highway-robber and murderer than become like him. He ran away, stealing a small basket of copper and silver coins and taking the ferryboat to the opposite bank. Siddhartha, shivering with grief, wanted to follow him, but Vasudeva advised him to let the boy go, saying he was doing what Siddhartha himself had once done: taking his own course. Siddhartha built a raft and crossed the river, finding the boat with its oar missing, a clear sign of the boy's defiance. He walked through the forest to the edge of the city, stopping at the entrance of Kamala's pleasure-garden, where he had first seen her. There, he realized that his desire to follow his son was foolish, that he could not help him, and that he was not allowed to cling to him. He felt the love for the runaway in his heart like a wound, and he understood that this wound had to become a blossom and shine. He sat in the dust, listening, and waited. Vasudeva found him there, and they returned to the ferry in silence, never again speaking of the boy's name.

The Wound and the Final Realization

For a long time, the wound continued to burn. Siddhartha envied every traveler who had a son or daughter, thinking bitterly that even thieves and robbers possessed this sweet fortune, while he did not. Yet, this suffering changed him. He began to look upon the ordinary, childlike people with new eyes—less smart, less proud, but warmer and more curious. He understood their blind love, their vanities, their desires, and he could love them for it, seeing the Brahman in each of their passions. The wound slowly ripened into wisdom. One day, when the pain was violent, Siddhartha was about to go to the city to search for his son, but the river laughed at him. He saw his own face reflected in the water and recognized in it the face of his own father, the Brahman. He remembered how he had forced his father to let him go, how he had left and never returned. He realized that the same pain was being suffered over and over again, that everything came back. The river's laugh taught him that his suffering was part of a fateful circle, and he felt both despair and a desire to laugh along at himself and the entire world. He confessed everything to Vasudeva, who listened with a quiet face, and in that listening, Siddhartha felt his pain flow into the river and cool. He heard the river's thousand voices—of yearning, suffering, joy, and laughter—all merging into the single word Om, the perfection. In that hour, his wound blossomed, his suffering shone, and his self flowed into the oneness. He stopped fighting his fate and was filled with a cheerfulness that knew no will, only sympathy for all beings and devotion to the flow of life.