Carpe Diem #1371 Sansara (the cycle of life)

Dear Haijin, visitors and travelers,

Welcome at a new episode of our wonderful Kai. This month we are on a journey along the ancient Silk Road. A renown trade-route straight through Asia. While we are on this journey we are (trying) to read a very nice and spiritual novel written by Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha. A story about a young Brahman-son who is on a quest for Enlightenment. A few days ago I told you that Siddhartha had found Kamala, a rich courtesan. Through Kamala he is attracted by beauty and wealth, because Kamala wants a lot of goods and more richness of him. Siddhartha becomes a man of the material world. And that made the connection with the ancient Silk Road.

I am a bit "stuck" on prompts about the Silk Road, as I told you earlier this month I hadn't thought that making a whole month about the ancient Silk Road was this difficult.

For today's episode I have chosen to share a part of "Siddhartha" with you. In this part of Siddhartha we see how he is "running" away from his home and his beautiful Kamala. In other words "he is running away from the world". Siddhartha has finally found insight in his life and that the life he lived as a wealthy merchant will not bring him the Enlightment he is looking for. Than the story takes a turn ...

[...] " Siddhartha walked through the forest, was already far from the city, and knew nothing but that one thing, that there was no going back for him, that this life, as he had lived it for many years until now, was over and done away with, and that he had tasted all of it, sucked everything out of it until he was disgusted with it. Dead was the singing bird, he had dreamt of. Dead was the bird in his heart. Deeply, he had been entangled in Sansara (cycle of aimless drifting, wandering or mundane existence), he had sucked up disgust and death from all sides into his body, like a sponge sucks up water until it is full. And full he was, full of the feeling of been sick of it, full of misery, full of death, there was nothing left in this world which could have attracted him, given him joy, given him comfort.

the forest
quiet as never before
even the birds

© Chèvrefeuille

Passionately he wished to know nothing about himself anymore, to have rest, to be dead. If there only was a lightning-bolt to strike him dead! If there only was a tiger a devour him! If there only was a wine, a poison which would numb his senses, bring him forgetfulness and sleep, and no awakening from that! Was there still any kind of filth, he had not soiled himself with, a sin or foolish act he had not committed, a dreariness of the soul he had not brought upon himself? Was it still at all possible to be alive? Was it possible, to breathe in again and again, to breathe out, to feel hunger, to eat again, to sleep again, to sleep with a woman again? Was this cycle not exhausted and brought to a conclusion for him?

Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse (cover)

Siddhartha reached the large river in the forest, the same river over which a long time ago, when he had still been a young man and came from the town of Gotama, a ferryman had conducted him. By this river he stopped, hesitantly he stood at the bank. Tiredness and hunger had weakened him, and whatever for should he walk on, wherever to, to which goal? No, there were no more goals, there was nothing left but the deep, painful yearning to shake off this whole desolate dream, to spit out this stale wine, to put an end to this miserable and shameful life.

tears fall
on the bank of the river
weeping willow

© Chèvrefeuille

A hang bent over the bank of the river, a coconut-tree; Siddhartha leaned against its trunk with his shoulder, embraced the trunk with one arm, and looked down into the green water, which ran and ran under him, looked down and found himself to be entirely filled with the wish to let go and to drown in these waters. A frightening emptiness was reflected back at him by the water, answering to the terrible emptiness in his soul. Yes, he had reached the end. There was nothing left for him, except to annihilate himself, except to smash the failure into which he had shaped his life, to throw it away, before the feet of mockingly laughing gods. This was the great vomiting he had longed for: death, the smashing to bits of the form he hated! Let him be food for fishes, this dog Siddhartha, this lunatic, this depraved and rotten body, this weakened and abused soul! Let him be food for fishes and crocodiles, let him be chopped to bits by the demons! With a distorted face, he stared into the water, saw the reflection of his face and spit at it. In deep tiredness, he took his arm away from the trunk of the tree and turned a bit, in order to let himself fall straight down, in order to finally drown. With his eyes closed, he slipped towards death.

eyes closed
dreaming away into oblivion
beckoning death

© Chèvrefeuille

Then, out of remote areas of his soul, out of past times of his now weary life, a sound stirred up. It was a word, a syllable, which he, without thinking, with a slurred voice, spoke to himself, the old word which is the beginning and the end of all prayers of the Brahmans, the holy “Om,” which roughly means “that what is perfect” or “the completion.” And in the moment when the sound of “Om” touched Siddhartha’s ear, his dormant spirit suddenly woke up and realized the foolishness of his actions.

entering Heavens
finally purified and without ego
I became wise

© Chèvrefeuille

Siddhartha was deeply shocked. So this was how things were with him, so doomed was he, so much he had lost his way and was forsaken by all knowledge, that he had been able to seek death, that this wish, this wish of a child, had been able to grow in him: to find rest by annihilating his body! What all agony of these recent times, all sobering realizations, all desperation had not brought about, this was brought on by this moment, when the Om entered his consciousness: he became aware of himself in his misery and in his error. Om! he spoke to himself: Om! and again he knew about Brahman, knew about the indestructibility of life, knew about all that is divine, which he had forgotten.

Brahmans Siddhartha and Govinda (painting by Scharkan, Deviant Art)

But this was only a moment, flash. By the foot of the coconut-tree, Siddhartha collapsed, struck down by tiredness, mumbling Om, placed his head on the root of the tree and fell into a deep sleep." [...] (Source: Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse)

Of course the story continues. The part after the above given one is in my opinion the most beautiful story written ever, but that we will read next week as we are closing in to the end of February.

This episode is NOW OPEN for your submissions and will remain open until February 23rd at noon (CET). I will try to publish our new weekend-meditation later on. For now ... have fun!