Synopsis of Hermann Hesse's Siddhartha

By Les Noll, Student

Detailed synopsis of Hermann Hesse's Siddhartha

An essay hosted at LiteratureClassics.com

Siddhartha, Hermann Hesse, New York, 1951 (English Translation), New Directions Publishing Corp.

The story of Siddhartha takes place in India at the same time Gautama Buddha, also known as Prince Siddhartha, walked the earth, in the sixth and fifth centuries BC. The names of the two are not the only parallels. Gautama was the son of a Nepalese king, Siddhartha the son of a well-to-do Brahmin. Gautama and Siddhartha both left their fathers' homes as seekers, starting as ascetics but eventually finding enlightenment by neither seeking nor following.

In Hindu philosophy, Brahman (with an a) is the supreme world soul or spirit. Atman is the individual soul. The goal is to merge the individual soul with the supreme soul. Actually, the goal is to understand that Atman is already Brahman. This is called enlightenment or Nirvana.

The caste system, whether purposely designed so or merely appropriated after the fact, serves as a help for the Hindu, to shorten his path through the cosmic cycle of life and rebirth. The caste into which one is born should be embraced. It will provide the proper life experiences to burn off karma and not accumulate any more. Once all of one's karma is gone, one is enlightened and merges with Brahman. The four castes, in descending order, are Brahmin (with an i: priests and intellectuals), Kshatriya (warriors), Vaisya (artisans and agriculturalists), Sudra (unskilled laborers). Pariahs (untouchables) belonged to no caste.

The Samana

Siddhartha was his Brahmin father's pride and joy. He thirsted for knowledge, easily conversed with learned men, practiced contemplation and meditation (he pronounced the sacred Om), read the Vedas; in all he did he excelled. But something was missing. One day three wandering Samanas, monks, came through Siddhartha's town. After the evening's meditation, Siddhartha went to his father and asked his permission to follow the Samanas. His father absolutely refused. Siddhartha did not disobey, he had never disobeyed his father, but neither did he relent. He continued to stand on the spot where he made his request and wait for his father's consent. His father went to bed but slept fitfully. He got up several times during the night and still Siddhartha stood and waited. Finally, before the sun broke, his father gave him what he desired. On wobbly legs Siddhartha kissed his mother, bowed to his father and walked out of his house, never to return. As he stepped outside he saw another figure in the twilight. It was his friend Govinda. Siddhartha's life goal was grand and mighty. Govinda's was less so. He merely wished to follow Siddhartha. Together the trudged off into the forest.

The Samanas accepted the two into their band. Siddhartha and Govinda gave away their fine clothes and wore only loin clothes. They ate once a day, no cooked food. Siddhartha fasted fourteen days, twenty eight days. His only goal was to empty himself of all desire. He learned to bear pain. He even denied himself breath. If he saw an animal he took the soul of that animal into himself and experienced what it experienced, even its birth and death. Siddhartha learned to conquer thirst, to be overcome by a new thirst, then to conquer that. Deeper and deeper he dove into that which was not him to rid himself of all that was him and eventually to become all that was.

But still he was unsatisfied. Still something was missing. Siddhartha reasoned with Govinda that meditation was no different than an oxen driver falling asleep over a bowl of rice wine at the end of the day. Both were forms of escaping the Self. He projected that the oldest Samana in their band, now about sixty years old, would at eighty still not have attained Nirvana.

After Siddhartha and Govinda had lived three years with the Samanas, they began hearing rumors of the Enlightened One, Gautama, the Buddha. He remembered his past lives, he conquered the devil and spoke to the gods. He also, of course, had detractors who called him unlearned, lazy. He did not offer sacrifices or practice mortifications. The Samanas, having heard Gautama had once been an ascetic but had given it up for high living, held no affection for this so-called Buddha.

Govinda was in town one day begging for alms when he heard a young Brahmin, who had actually seen and heard the Buddha, talking about the experience and he became excited. Remembering Siddhartha's dissatisfaction with the Samanas, he came back and told him what he had heard. Siddhartha had, by this time, grown distrustful of all teachings and had little faith in words. Words, he felt, could be easily distorted and misunderstood. Even so, he agreed with Govinda that they should leave the Samanas and go see this Enlightened One. He told Govinda, "I believe in my heart that we have already tasted the best fruit of [Gautama's teaching]". The best fruit having nothing to do with the Buddha's actual teaching, but that it was to take them away from the Samanas.

But leaving the Samanas might not prove so easy. Siddhartha humbly went the elder and told him of his and Govinda's desire to leave. At this the elder grew angry that they should both want to leave and for such a purpose. But Siddhartha used his will to subdue the will of the elder and in the end the elder wished them well on their journey. Siddhartha had learned much from the Samanas but it was not what he really wished to learn.

They found the Buddha at Jetavana. He was indistinguishable from the other yellow-robed monks except for his complete peacefulness of demeanor. He dressed like the others, begged for his own alms, appeared neither happy nor sad, yet an unfading light seemed to emanate from his pores. He spoke of the origin of suffering and the way to be released from it, of the four main points and the Eightfold Path. That evening many of the pilgrims asked to be accepted into community, Govinda among them. After being accepted, he ran back to Siddhartha, eager to share his joy, to see his closest friend also join the ranks but Siddhartha surprised him. He praised him for pursuing his own conviction rather than following after Siddhartha. But, he told him that now their paths would part. Though he found no fault in the Illustrious One's teaching, he reiterated to Govinda he distrust of all teaching.

In the morning they parted. Govinda swore his allegiance to the Perfect One and Siddhartha walked about the grove, deep in thought. On his walk he encountered Gautama, himself, and the man's mild demeanor encouraged Siddhartha to speak. He told him of his friend Govinda and how he, Siddhartha, found the Buddha's teachings impeccable. But, Siddhartha told him, he would not be staying with the Buddha's community, because, though the teachings of the Enlightened One show a man how to live an upright life, they do not show him how to reach salvation. They do not show him how to experience what Gautama experienced in that hour of his enlightenment. For that there is no teaching, only experiencing.

All his life, Siddhartha had been trying to escape the world. Perhaps this was the wrong tack. Perhaps it was the world, or through the world, that he should reach salvation. As he headed toward town he came to a river. He commented to the ferryman how beautiful the river was. "Yes, " the ferryman replied, "it is a very beautiful river. I love it above everything. I have often listened to it, gazed at it, and I have always learned something from it. One can learn much from a river."

The Merchant

As he came into town he encountered a most beautiful woman in her sedan chair. After she had passed he asked one of her servants who she was. Her name was Kamala, a well-known courtesan. He made friends with a barber's assistant and had him shave his beard and cut his hair and later he bathed in the river.

The next morning he asked to be announced to the lovely Kamala. That she should have seen him at all was incredible for he was penniless and poorly dressed, but perhaps because he was not uncomely or for whatever reason, she gave him entrance. He introduced himself and innocently asked her to be his teacher in the art of love, an art about which he new nothing. After laughing at him, she relented slightly. If he should return with fine clothes, shoes and money in his purse, then she would reconsider. This, then, is what he would do, he assured her. But just one more question: how would one go about acquiring these things? 'Well, what can you do?' she asked. "I can think, I can wait, I can fast," he replied. And he can also compose poetry. She promised him a kiss for a poem. He instantly composed a poem about her for which she kissed him deeply. After discovering that he could also read and write she sent him to a merchant named Kamaswami.

As with all things he attempted, Siddhartha excelled as a merchant. But, while Kamaswami's life was his business, to Siddhartha it was only a game. If he traveled to a distant town to buy a rice crop but found another merchant had beaten him to it, he didn't turn around and return home, angry and dejected, as Kamaswami would have done. Instead he stayed on a few days and made friends with the villagers. He enjoyed his visit and, perhaps if he returned, they might prefer to do business with him rather than some other merchant. In no time he grew rich, wore fine clothes and bought a house of his own, with servants. But it was all for one goal: to be with Kamala.

Kamala taught him the ways of love. And he taught her too. He told her of his life, of the son of a Brahmin, of the Samana, of Gautama. The Enlightened One fascinated her. Perhaps, someday, she too would go see him. Also, someday, when she was older, she would have Siddhartha's baby. They spent their time together talking and playing love games.

But the world was more clever than Siddhartha. For quite a while he played the world's game without being touched by it. But soon, and without his awareness, he was being caught up in Samsara, the cycle of existence. The dice games that he participated in became his passion. Often he lost. His comforts were now necessities. Of the three things that he told Kamala he could do, he now never waited or fasted and rarely even thought. Now, in his forties, he had become Kamaswami. He felt like a glutton who had consumed too much and could think of nothing but purging himself. He sat in his pleasure garden and thought. He thought of his father, of Govinda, of Gautama. He got up and left his garden and his town. Kamaswami spent a long time looking for him. Kamala understood, though. For all his wealth he was still a Samana and she knew one day he would return to the forest. On that day, she closed her house and stopped receiving visitors. Soon thereafter, she found she was carrying Siddhartha's child.

The Ferryman

He found himself back on the bank of the river, the same river he had crossed after leaving Gautama and heading for town. He couldn't go any further. He sat down under a coconut tree and spat at his reflection in the water. He despised himself and all he had become. He longed for death. He leaned forward, toward comfort, toward oblivion, toward his watery end. Then, from somewhere, perhaps from deep within himself, he heard the holy Om. It awakened him to his folly. He pulled himself back from the edge and laid down among the roots of his tree. There he fell asleep to the melody of Om.

When he awoke he saw a yellow-clad monk sitting beside him. It was Govinda, older but no less in personality his childhood friend. He did not recognize Siddhartha. He had seen a man sleeping at a dangerous place and decided to wait by him until he awakened. Siddhartha thanked Govinda by name and only then did Govinda recognize his old friend. They exchanged pleasantries and then Govinda continued on his journey.

Siddhartha looked lovingly at the river and decided he would stay near it. He heard it talking to him with many voices. He saw one of its secrets: it was always new but it was always the same, it continually flowed but it was always there. He found Vasudeva, the ferryman, waiting with his boat to take him across. He explained that he had no money, the same as some twenty years prior when he crossed as a Samana. But he offered him his fine clothes. And, he added, he should like if he would take him on as an assistant. Vasudeva looked at Siddhartha for a moment and then recognized him. He took him into his hut, gave him bread and fruit and listened as Siddhartha recounted the story of his life. At the end of the story, as Siddhartha recounted how the river had spoken to him, Vasudeva smiled and invited him to stay.

The two became more like brothers than their age difference might have suggested. Vasudeva spoke very little, preferring to listen, a talent the river had taught him well. Siddhartha, too, learned from the river. They ferried people to and fro, people to whom the river was but a hindrance. And always the river spoke, sometimes as a king, sometimes as a pregnant woman, sometimes as a bird. The ferrymen gained a small reputation as holy men. The curious came to consult with them or extract some magic incantation. But they found only friendly old men and the constant river that whispered Om as the oars broke her surface.

The years passed and word began circulating that Gautama was dying. Pilgrims begin making their way across the river to pay him last respects. Among those pilgrims was Kamala and her son, Siddhartha. But, as she rested, not far from the river, a small black snake bit her. They began running for the ferry in hopes of finding some help but she collapsed before reaching her destination. The boy cried out and Vasudeva heard him. He carried her to his hut where Siddhartha immediately recognized her. They dressed her wound but it was too late. She recognized Siddhartha, now older looking, but in him she saw the young Samana she had tutored. She introduced him to his son and died.

Siddhartha was determined to care for and teach his son all he had learned but the boy was spoiled and rebellious. The more Siddhartha repaid malice with kindness, the more defiant he became. Finally, he ran away. Siddhartha began to follow but Vasudeva tried to dissuade him. He reiterated to Siddhartha that the boy did not belong here, living with two old men. He belonged in the city with his friends and the things he was used to. But Siddhartha had to go. He soon found himself standing outside Kamala's pleasure garden at the edge of the city. This is where the boy would have gone. Memories of his younger days rushed over him. He remembered himself as a Samana, he saw Kamala for the first time again, he saw Kamaswami and his life as a merchant. He could go no farther, nor could he return to the ferry. He stood by the gate, knowing that his son belonged here and not with him, knowing that he may never see him again. Where his heart had once been full of peace, it now held a void left by the departure of the son he didn't know he had. And the wound wouldn't stop hurting. He sat down and called Om, filled himself with Om. And then Vasudeva was there. He touched Siddhartha on the shoulder and the two walked back to the river together.

The wound continued to hurt as Siddhartha ferried people across the river. But where he had felt a distance, even an aloofness from them, he now shared a sense of life with them. One day he happened to glance into the river and saw the reflection of his father in his own face. His own father had died, probably long ago, without ever seeing his son again. The river laughed at him. "Everything that was not suffered to the end and finally concluded, recurred, and the same sorrows were undergone," it told him. He went to Vasudeva, sitting in their hut weaving a basket. He told him what he had just seen. He told him, confessed to him, all that he had experienced when he followed his son to town. He felt like Vasudeva was more than a kind old man listening to his tale but rather more like the river, even like God himself. He continued to talk but he was understanding that this new realization meant an end and a new beginning.

Vasudeva took him by the hand and led him to the river. There was more to hear than the laugh. Siddhartha watched and listened. He saw his father, Govinda, Kamala, Gautama, all flowing by in the river. He heard the suffering and desires, the laughing and woe, all mixed together in thousands of voices, all flowing by in the river. And the combination of all the good and bad, the events and emotions, together, in their integration made the single sound Om.

Vasudeva saw his friend's recognition. He saw Siddhartha had surrendered to the stream of life. As he rose, Siddhartha knew his friend must leave. They bade farewell and Vasudeva walked off into the woods, "into the unity of all things," leaving Siddhartha alone, "with great joy and gravity."

In his old age, Govinda was staying at the pleasure garden Kamala had given to the followers of Gautama. While there he heard about the old ferryman that some called holy. He did not recognize Siddhartha. Rather, he asked if he was, like himself, a seeker. Siddhartha kindly suggested that, perhaps, the venerable Govinda was seeking too much and not seeing that what he was seeking was right in front of him. Siddhartha then revealed his identity to his old friend and invited him to stay the night in his hut. In the morning when Govinda was about to leave, he asked Siddhartha if he might tell him what his doctrine or belief was. Siddhartha reminded him that even as a young man he distrusted doctrines. He told Govinda that he has had many teachers in his life but the last and best were his predecessor, Vasudeva, and the river. "Knowledge can be communicated, but not wisdom." He went on to pick up a stone and explain that that stone would one day be dirt, then perhaps a plant and then an animal or a man. And a man will one day become a Buddha and, in that, God. One can love that stone, not just a stone but as all of those other things, but one cannot love words. Words can only express part of a truth, leaving the remainder either unexpressed or misrepresented. And thoughts are very much the same as words, both are unreliable. But things, Govinda interjected, are illusion, Maya. "If they are illusion, then I also am illusion, and so they are always of the same nature as myself," Siddhartha replied. He told Govinda that the most important thing in the world is love, that we are "able to regard the world and ourselves and all beings with love, admiration and respect." But, Govinda told him, Gautama preached a similar doctrine but forbade his followers from binding themselves with earthly love. Siddhartha replied that is just the reason he so mistrusted doctrines.

Govinda did not fathom much of what Siddhartha had told him but he did regard him as a holy man and so, before leaving his presence, he asked that Siddhartha give him something he could understand to take with him. Siddhartha told him to kiss him on the forehead. Although this seemed an odd request he did so and when his lips touched Siddhartha's forehead he saw, suddenly and wonderfully, many things. There were human faces and animals, death and birth, experiences and sensations, in changing streams, flooding his consciousness, merging, transforming, in time and out of time. How long it lasted he was not sure but he found he had tears trickling down his face as he bowed to the ground in front of this man "whose smile reminded him of everything that he had ever loved in his life."

© Lester L. Noll
17-Nov-2001