Thus sat he, wrapped up in
contemplation, thinking Om, his soul sent after the Brahman as an arrow.
Once, Samanas had travelled through Siddhartha's town, ascetics on a
pilgrimage, three skinny, withered men, neither old nor young, with
dusty and bloody shoulders, almost naked, scorched by the sun,
surrounded by loneliness, strangers and enemies to the world, strangers
and lank jackals in the realm of humans. Behind them blew a hot scent
of quiet passion, of destructive service, of merciless self-denial.
In the evening, after the hour of contemplation, Siddhartha spoke to
Govinda: "Early tomorrow morning, my friend, Siddhartha will go to the
Samanas. He will become a Samana."
Govinda turned pale, when he heard these words and read the decision in
the motionless face of his friend, unstoppable like the arrow shot from
the bow. Soon and with the first glance, Govinda realized: Now it is
beginning, now Siddhartha is taking his own way, now his fate is
beginning to sprout, and with his, my own. And he turned pale like a
dry banana-skin.
"O Siddhartha," he exclaimed, "will your father permit you to do that?"
Siddhartha looked over as if he was just waking up. Arrow-fast he read
in Govinda?s soul, read the fear, read the submission.
"O Govinda," he spoke quietly, "let's not waste words.
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