Deeply he felt,
more deeply than ever before, in this hour, the indestructibility of
every life, the eternity of every moment.
When he rose, Vasudeva had prepared rice for him. But Siddhartha did
not eat. In the stable, where their goat stood, the two old men
prepared beds of straw for themselves, and Vasudeva lay himself down
to sleep. But Siddhartha went outside and sat this night before the
hut, listening to the river, surrounded by the past, touched and
encircled by all times of his life at the same time. But occasionally,
he rose, stepped to the door of the hut and listened, whether the boy
was sleeping.
Early in the morning, even before the sun could be seen, Vasudeva came
out of the stable and walked over to his friend.
"You haven't slept," he said.
"No, Vasudeva. I sat here, I was listening to the river. A lot it has
told me, deeply it has filled me with the healing thought, with the
thought of oneness."
"You've experienced suffering, Siddhartha, but I see: no sadness has
entered your heart."
"No, my dear, how should I be sad? I, who have been rich and happy,
have become even richer and happier now. My son has been given to me."
"Your son shall be welcome to me as well. But now, Siddhartha, let's
get to work, there is much to be done. Kamala has died on the same bed,
on which my wife had died a long time ago.
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