Siddhartha and his mother's relationship

Siddhartha's mother appears in the narrative as a figure of pure, wordless devotion. In his childhood, bliss leapt in her breast when she saw him walking, sitting down, and getting up—strong, handsome, greeting her with perfect respect. Her love was one of the earliest sources of joy in his life, yet it was also a love that Siddhartha, even as a boy, sensed could not ultimately satisfy the deeper thirst of his soul. He began to feel that the love of his father and mother would not bring him joy forever, would not nurse him, feed him, or satisfy him. This early recognition of the limits of familial love set the stage for his departure from home.

The Departure and Its Echo

When Siddhartha resolved to leave his father's house to become a Samana, his father's permission came with a specific instruction: "Go now and kiss your mother, tell her where you are going to." Siddhartha obeyed, going to his mother to do as his father had said. This brief, dutiful farewell is the last direct interaction between them in the narrative. He left the still quiet town in the first light of day, and his mother does not appear again in the story. Yet her absence becomes a presence: Siddhartha never returns to her, and she is never mentioned as having been seen again. This pattern of a son leaving a loving mother and never coming back is one that Siddhartha himself will later repeat, and it is a source of profound pain and recognition.

The Wound of the Son

Years later, when Siddhartha's own son, also named Siddhartha, arrives at the ferry, the boy is a pampered, grieving child who has lost his mother, Kamala. Siddhartha, now a ferryman, tries to win the boy's heart with friendly patience, always picking the best piece of the meal for him. But the boy remains a stranger, displaying a proud and stubbornly disobedient heart. Siddhartha begins to understand that his son has not brought him happiness and peace, but suffering and worry. Yet he prefers the suffering and worries of love over happiness and joy without the boy. This blind, suffering love for his son is a new experience for Siddhartha, one that makes him, for the first time, completely a childlike person, lost to a love, having become a fool on account of love.

The River's Laugh and the Cycle of Love

The wound of his son's eventual rebellion and departure burns deeply. Siddhartha, driven by yearning, considers going to the city to look for his son. But the river laughs at him. In that moment, he sees his own face reflected in the water and recognizes it as resembling his father's face. He remembers how he, as a young man, had forced his father to let him go, had bid his farewell, and had never come back. He realizes that his father must have suffered the same pain for him that he now suffers for his son. The river's laugh reveals the comedy, the strange and stupid matter of this repetition, this running around in a fateful circle. Siddhartha understands that everything comes back, that the same pain is suffered over and over again. This realization is a key step toward his final acceptance of the oneness of all life, where love, even in its most painful form, is part of the perfect whole.

The Transformation of Love

In his final wisdom, Siddhartha's understanding of love expands beyond the personal. He comes to see the blind love of a mother for her child as something worthy of veneration, not ridicule. He sees life, the indestructible, the Brahman, in each of these passions. He learns to love the world itself, not to despise it, not to hate it, but to look upon it and all beings with love and admiration and great respect. This final, all-encompassing love is the culmination of his journey, a love that includes the memory of his mother, the pain of his son, and the laughter of the river. It is a love that has passed through the wound and emerged as a smile, a smile that is the same as the smile of the perfected ones.