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For a long time, Kamaswami had people look for him, thinking that he had fallen into the hands of robbers. Kamala had no one look for him. When she was told that Siddhartha had disappeared, she was not astonished. Did she not always expect it? Was he not a Samana, a man who was at home nowhere, a pilgrim?
"I also know the sacrificial songs," said Siddhartha, "but I do not want to sing them any more. I also know magic spells, but I do not want to speak them any more. I have read the scriptures " "Stop," Kamala interrupted him. "You're able to read? And write?" "Certainly, I can do this. Many people can do this." "Most people can't. I also can't do it.
Kamaswami is just as smart as I, and still has no refuge in himself. Others have it, who are small children with respect to their mind. Most people, Kamala, are like a falling leaf, which is blown and is turning around through the air, and wavers, and tumbles to the ground.
It is very good that you're able to read and write, very good. You will also still find use for the magic spells." In this moment, a maid came running in and whispered a message into her mistress's ear. "There's a visitor for me," exclaimed Kamala. "Hurry and get yourself away, Siddhartha, nobody may see you in here, remember this! Tomorrow, I'll see you again."
In those days, so he remembered, he had boasted of three three things to Kamala, had been able to do three noble and undefeatable feats: fasting waiting thinking. These had been his possession, his power and strength, his solid staff; in the busy, laborious years of his youth, he had learned these three feats, nothing else.
Alas, I have also grown old, old could you still recognise me?" Siddhartha smiled: "Instantly, I recognised you, Kamala, my dear." Kamala pointed to her boy and said: "Did you recognise him as well? He is your son." Her eyes became confused and fell shut.
Vasudeva also said nothing and waited, friendly, knowing, patient. They were both masters of patience. At one time, when the boy's face reminded him very much of Kamala, Siddhartha suddenly had to think of a line which Kamala a long time ago, in the days of their youth, had once said to him.
She, Kamala herself, had also become tired, and while the boy was chewing a banana, she crouched down on the ground, closed her eyes a bit, and rested. But suddenly, she uttered a wailing scream, the boy looked at her in fear and saw her face having grown pale from horror; and from under her dress, a small, black snake fled, by which Kamala had been bitten.
Wonderful hours he spent with the beautiful and smart artist, became her student, her lover, her friend. Here with Kamala was the worth and purpose of his present life, nit with the business of Kamaswami. The merchant passed to duties of writing important letters and contracts on to him and got into the habit of discussing all important affairs with him.
For all good Christians must work. And upon a stipend more modest even than that of an English lay-reader, Justus Krenk kept house beyond Kamala and the gorge of Malair, beyond the Berbulda River close to the foot of the blue hill of Panth on whose summit stands the Temple of Dungara in the heart of the country of the Buria Kol the naked, good-tempered, timid, shameless, lazy Buria Kol.
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