Part II.
Buddha Standing, Gupta period (ca. 319?-500), 5th century, Uttar Pradesh, Mathura, India, Metropolitan Museum of Art
Chapter 5
Kamala
Kama: God of Love, ©Kathleen Cohen
From the reading. . .
“Now, he had to experience his self. . . But never, had he really found this self, because he had wanted to capture it in the net of thought.”
Ideas of Interest from “Kamala”
1. What is Siddhartha referring to by the phrase, “the random self of the senses”? Is the self different in different circumstances?
2. Explain the passage, “But never, had he really found this self, because he had wanted to capture it in the net of thought.” Why cannot my “self”
be thought?
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3. What is the significance of Siddhartha’s dream when he slept by the river.
Does your interpretation of Siddhartha’s dream reflect the recent change in Siddhartha’s world view?
4. Siddhartha seems to think the ferryman is one of the childlike people.
Nevertheless, can you find evidence in this chapter that the ferryman seems to have mystical powers?
5. In the encounter with the young woman by the stream, why did not Siddhartha stay with her? Why, later, does he overlook this encounter when he says to Kamala, “. . . and the first one I met, even before I had entered the city, was you”?
6. Interpret the significance of the keys to Siddhartha’s abilities and success in terms of his stated litany, “I can think, I can wait, I can fast.”
7. Explain Siddhartha’s characterization of the nature of magic in terms of the doctrine of noneffort.
The Reading Selection from “Kamala”
Siddhartha learned something new on every step of his path, for the world was transformed, and his heart was enchanted. He saw the sun rising over the mountains with their forests and setting over the distant beach with its palm trees. At night, he saw the stars in the sky in their fixed positions and the cres-cent of the moon floating like a boat in the blue. He saw trees, stars, animals, clouds, rainbows, rocks, herbs, flowers, stream and river, the glistening dew in the bushes in the morning, distant height mountains which were blue and pale, birds sang and bees buzzed, wind silverishly blew through the rice-field.
All of this, a thousand-fold and colourful, had always been there, always the sun and the moon had shone, always rivers had roared and bees had buzzed, but in former times all of this had been nothing more to Siddhartha than a fleeting, deceptive veil before his eyes, looked upon in distrust, destined to be penetrated and destroyed by thought, since it was not the essential existence, since this essence lay beyond, on the other side of, the visible. But now, his liberated eyes stayed on this side, he saw and became aware of the visible, sought to be at home in this world, did not search for the true essence, did not aim at a world beyond. Beautiful was this world, looking at it thus, without searching, thus simply, thus childlike. Beautiful were the moon and the stars, beautiful was the stream and the banks, the forest and the rocks, the goat and the gold-beetle, the flower and the butterfly. Beautiful and lovely it was, thus to walk through the world, thus childlike, thus awoken, thus open to what is near, thus without distrust. Differently the sun burnt the head, differently the shade of the forest cooled him down, differently the stream and the cistern, the pumpkin and the banana tasted. Short were the days, short 42
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the nights, every hour sped swiftly away like a sail on the sea, and under the sail was a ship full of treasures, full of joy. Siddhartha saw a group of apes moving through the high canopy of the forest, high in the branches, and heard their savage, greedy song. Siddhartha saw a male sheep following a female one and mating with her. In a lake of reeds, he saw the pike hungrily hunting for its dinner; propelling themselves away from it, in fear, wiggling and sparkling, the young fish jumped in droves out of the water; the scent of strength and passion came forcefully out of the hasty eddies of the water, which the pike stirred up, impetuously hunting.
All of this had always existed, and he had not seen it; he had not been with it. Now he was with it, he was part of it. Light and shadow ran through his eyes, stars and moon ran through his heart.
On the way, Siddhartha also remembered everything he had experienced in the Garden Jetavana, the teaching he had heard there, the divine Buddha, the farewell from Govinda, the conversation with the exalted one. Again he remembered his own words, he had spoken to the exalted one, every word, and with astonishment he became aware of the fact that there he had said things which he had not really known yet at this time. What he had said to Gotama: his, the Buddha’s, treasure and secret was not the teachings, but the inexpressible and not teachable, which he had experienced in the hour of his enlightenment—it was nothing but this very thing which he had now gone to experience, what he now began to experience. Now, he had to experience his self. It is true that he had already known for a long time that his self was Atman, in its essence bearing the same eternal characteristics as Brahman.
But never, had he really found this self, because he had wanted to capture it in the net of thought. With the body definitely not being the self, and not the spectacle of the senses, so it also was not the thought, not the rational mind, not the learned wisdom, not the learned ability to draw conclusions and to develop previous thoughts in to new ones. No, this world of thought was also still on this side, and nothing could be achieved by killing the random self of the senses, if the random self of thoughts and learned knowledge was fattened on the other hand. Both, the thoughts as well as the senses, were pretty things, the ultimate meaning was hidden behind both of them, both had to be listened to, both had to be played with, neither had to be scorned nor had to be overestimated; from both the secret voices of the innermost truth had to be attentively perceived. He wanted to strive for nothing, except for what the voice commanded him to strive for, dwell on nothing, except where the voice would advise him to do so. Why had Gotama, at that time, in the hour of all hours, sat down under the bo-tree, where the enlightenment hit him? He had heard a voice, a voice in his own heart, which had commanded him to seek rest under this tree, and he had neither preferred self-castigation, offerings, ablutions, nor prayer, neither food nor drink, neither sleep nor dream, he had obeyed the voice. To obey like this, not to an external command, only to the voice, to be ready like this, this was good, this was necessary, nothing else Siddhartha: An Open-Source Text
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was necessary.
In the night when he slept in the straw hut of a ferryman by the river, Siddhartha had a dream: Govinda was standing in front of him, dressed in the yellow robe of an ascetic. Sad was how Govinda looked like, sadly he asked,
“ Why have you forsaken me?” At this, he embraced Govinda, wrapped his arms around him, and as he was pulling him close to his chest and kissed him, it was not Govinda any more, but a woman, and a full breast popped out of the woman’s dress, at which Siddhartha lay and drank, sweetly and strongly tasted the milk from this breast. It tasted of woman and man, of sun and forest, of animal and flower, of every fruit, of every joyful desire. It intoxicated him and rendered him unconscious.—When Siddhartha woke up, the pale river shimmered through the door of the hut, and in the forest, a dark call of an owl resounded deeply and pleasantly.
From the reading. . .
“. . . he had already known for a long time that his self was Atman, in its essence bearing the same eternal characteristics as Brahman.”
When the day began, Siddhartha asked his host, the ferryman, to get him across the river. The ferryman got him across the river on his bamboo-raft, the wide water shimmered reddish in the light of the morning.
“This is a beautiful river,” he said to his companion.
“Yes,” said the ferryman, “a very beautiful river, I love it more than anything.
