In the shade of the house, in the sunshine of the riverbahe boats, in the shade of the Sal-wood forest, in the shade of the fig tree is where Siddhartha grew up, the handsome son of the Brahman, the young fal, together with his friend Govinda, son of a Brahman. The sun tanned his light shoulders by the banks of the river when bathing, perf the sacred ablutions, the sacred s. In the mango grove, shade poured into his black eyes, when playing as a boy, when his mother sang, when the sacred s were made, when his father, the scholar, taught him, when the wise men talked. For a long time, Siddhartha had been partaking in the discussions of the wise men, practisie with Govinda, practising with Govinda the art of refle, the servieditation. He already knew how to speak the Om silently, the word of words, to speak it silently into himself while inhaling, to speak it silently out of himself while exhaling, with all the tration of his soul, the forehead surrounded by the glow of the clear-thinking spirit. He already ko feel Atman in the depths of his being, iructible, oh the universe.
Joy leapt in his fathers heart for his son who was quick to learn, thirsty for knowledge; he saw him growing up to bee great wise man and priest, a prince among the Brahmans.
Bliss leapt in his mothers breast when she saw him, when she saw him walking, when she saw him sit down a up, Siddhartha, strong, handsome, he alking on slender legs, greeting her with perfect respect.
Love touched the hearts of the Brahmans young daughters when Siddhartha walked through the lanes of the town with the luminous forehead, with the eye of a king, with his slim hips.
But more than all the others he was loved by Govinda, his friend, the son of a Brahman. He loved Siddharthas eye and sweet voice, he loved his walk and the perfect decy of his movements, he loved everything Siddhartha did and said and what he loved most was his spirit, his transdent, fiery thoughts, his ardent will, his high calling. Govinda knew: he would not bee a on Brahman, not a lazy official in charge of s; not a greedy mert with magic spells; not a vain, vacuous speaker; not a meaful priest; and also not a det, stupid sheep in the herd of the many. No, and he, Govinda, as well did not want to bee one of those, not one of those tens of thousands of Brahmans. He wao follow Siddhartha, the beloved, the splendid. And in days to e, when Siddhartha would bee a god, when he would join the glorious, then Govinda wao follow him as his friend, his panion, his servant, his spear-carrier, his shadow.
Siddhartha was thus loved by everyone. He was a source of joy for everybody, he was a delight for them all.
But he, Siddhartha, was not a source of joy for himself, he found no delight in himself. Walking the rosy paths of the fig tree garden, sitting in the bluish shade of the grove of plation, washing his limbs daily ih of repentance, sacrifig in the dim shade of the mango forest, his gestures of perfect decy, everyones love and joy, he still lacked all joy in his heart. Dreams aless thoughts came into his mind, flowing from the water of the river, sparkling from the stars of the night, melting from the beams of the sun, dreams came to him and a restlessness of the soul, fuming from the sacrifices, breathing forth from the verses of the Rig-Veda, being infused into him, drop by drop, from the teags of the old Brahmans.
Siddhartha had started to nurse distent in himself, he had star