/jp/ - Otaku Culture

>erziele einen Pasch
>werde nochmals banniert

>>7243455
You're fat.

FAAAAAT.

>>7243463
Why are Germans such shitposters?

>>7243486
keine Ahnung

>>7243463
you're so cool "hacker" with your "elite" sp33k. go be a shitstain somewhere else.

>>7243486
Warum sind Amischuchteln solche Scheissepfostierer?

>>7243532
Man, is that even real German?

Looks misspelled to me.

>>7243548

Germanfag here, i find at least one misspelled word in every second "german" post here and "they" seem to make up words that don't even exist.
Probably krautchanfags.

>>7243455

GET OWNDED U FAT VIRGIN NERD.

THE SON OF THE BRAHMAN

In the shade of the house, in the sunshine of the riverbank near the boats, in the shade of the Sal−wood forest,
in the shade of the fig tree is where Siddhartha grew up, the handsome son of the Brahman, the young falcon,
together with his friend Govinda, son of a Brahman. The sun tanned his light shoulders by the banks of the
river when bathing, performing the sacred ablutions, the sacred offerings. In the mango grove, shade poured
into his black eyes, when playing as a boy, when his mother sang, when the sacred offerings were made, when
his father, the scholar, taught him, when the wise men talked. For a long time, Siddhartha had been partaking
in the discussions of the wise men, practising debate with Govinda, practising with Govinda the art of
reflection, the service of meditation. He already knew how to speak the Om silently, the word of words, to
speak it silently into himself while inhaling, to speak it silently out of himself while exhaling, with all the
concentration of his soul, the forehead surrounded by the glow of the clear−thinking spirit. He already knew
to feel Atman in the depths of his being, indestructible, one with the universe.

Joy leapt in his father's heart for his son who was quick to learn, thirsty for knowledge; he saw him growing
up to become great wise man and priest, a prince among the Brahmans.
Bliss leapt in his mother's breast when she saw him, when she saw him walking, when she saw him sit down
and get up, Siddhartha, strong, handsome, he who was walking on slender legs, greeting her with perfect
respect.
Love touched the hearts of the Brahmans' young daughters when Siddhartha walked through the lanes of the
town with the luminous forehead, with the eye of a king, with his slim hips.
But more than all the others he was loved by Govinda, his friend, the son of a Brahman. He loved Siddhartha's
eye and sweet voice, he loved his walk and the perfect decency of his movements, he loved everything
Siddhartha did and said and what he loved most was his spirit, his transcendent, fiery thoughts, his ardent will,
his high calling. Govinda knew: he would not become a common Brahman, not a lazy official in charge of
offerings; not a greedy merchant with magic spells; not a vain, vacuous speaker; not a mean, deceitful priest;
and also not a decent, stupid sheep in the herd of the many. No, and he, Govinda, as well did not want to
become one of those, not one of those tens of thousands of Brahmans.

He wanted to follow Siddhartha, the beloved, the splendid. And in days to come, when Siddhartha would become a god, when he would join the
glorious, then Govinda wanted to follow him as his friend, his companion, his servant, his spear−carrier, his
shadow.
Siddhartha was thus loved by everyone. He was a source of joy for everybody, he was a delight for them all.
But he, Siddhartha, was not a source of joy for himself, he found no delight in himself. Walking the rosy paths
of the fig tree garden, sitting in the bluish shade of the grove of contemplation, washing his limbs daily in the
bath of repentance, sacrificing in the dim shade of the mango forest, his gestures of perfect decency,
everyone's love and joy, he still lacked all joy in his heart.

Dreams and restless thoughts came into his mind,
flowing from the water of the river, sparkling from the stars of the night, melting from the beams of the sun,
dreams came to him and a restlessness of the soul, fuming from the sacrifices, breathing forth from the verses
of the Rig−Veda, being infused into him, drop by drop, from the teachings of the old Brahmans.
Siddhartha had started to nurse discontent in himself, he had started to feel that the love of his father and the
love of his mother, and also the love of his friend, Govinda, would not bring him joy for ever and ever, would
not nurse him, feed him, satisfy him. He had started to suspect that his venerable father and his other teachers,
that the wise Brahmans had already revealed to him the most and best of their wisdom, that they had already
filled his expecting vessel with their richness, and the vessel was not full, the spirit was not content, the soul
was not calm, the heart was not satisfied. The ablutions were good, but they were water, they did not wash off
the sin, they did not heal the spirit's thirst, they did not relieve the fear in his heart.

The sacrifices and the
invocation of the gods were excellent−−but was that all? Did the sacrifices give a happy fortune? And what
about the gods? Was it really Prajapati who had created the world? Was it not the Atman, He, the only one,
the singular one? Were the gods not creations, created like me and you, subject to time, mortal? Was it
therefore good, was it right, was it meaningful and the highest occupation to make offerings to the gods? For
whom else were offerings to be made, who else was to be worshipped but Him, the only one, the Atman? And
where was Atman to be found, where did He reside, where did his eternal heart beat, where else but in one's
own self, in its innermost part, in its indestructible part, which everyone had in himself? But where, where
was this self, this innermost part, this ultimate part? It was not flesh and bone, it was neither thought nor
consciousness, thus the wisest ones taught. So, where, where was it? To reach this place, the self, myself, the
Atman, there was another way, which was worthwhile looking for? Alas, and nobody showed this way,
nobody knew it, not the father, and not the teachers and wise men, not the holy sacrificial songs! They knew
everything, the Brahmans and their holy books, they knew everything, they had taken care of everything and
of more than everything, the creation of the world, the origin of speech, of food, of inhaling, of exhaling, the
arrangement of the senses, the acts of the gods, they knew infinitely much−−but was it valuable to know all of
this, not knowing that one and only thing, the most important thing, the solely important thing?
Surely, many verses of the holy books, particularly in the Upanishades of Samaveda, spoke of this innermost
and ultimate thing, wonderful verses.

"Your soul is the whole world", was written there, and it was written
that man in his sleep, in his deep sleep, would meet with his innermost part and would reside in the Atman.
Marvellous wisdom was in these verses, all knowledge of the wisest ones had been collected here in magic
words, pure as honey collected by bees. No, not to be looked down upon was the tremendous amount of
enlightenment which lay here collected and preserved by innumerable generations of wise Brahmans.−− But
where were the Brahmans, where the priests, where the wise men or penitents, who had succeeded in not just
knowing this deepest of all knowledge but also to live it? Where was the knowledgeable one who wove his
spell to bring his familiarity with the Atman out of the sleep into the state of being awake, into the life, into
every step of the way, into word and deed? Siddhartha knew many venerable Brahmans, chiefly his father, the
pure one, the scholar, the most venerable one. His father was to be admired, quiet and noble were his manners,
pure his life, wise his words, delicate and noble thoughts lived behind its brow −−but even he, who knew so
much, did he live in blissfulness, did he have peace, was he not also just a searching man, a thirsty man? Did
he not, again and again, have to drink from holy sources, as a thirsty man, from the offerings, from the books,
from the disputes of the Brahmans?

>>7243967
lemme know if you decide to post Lord of Light some time

Why did he, the irreproachable one, have to wash off sins every day, strive for a cleansing every day, over and over every day? Was not Atman in him, did not the pristine source
spring from his heart? It had to be found, the pristine source in one's own self, it had to be possessed!
Everything else was searching, was a detour, was getting lost.
Thus were Siddhartha's thoughts, this was his thirst, this was his suffering.
Often he spoke to himself from a Chandogya−Upanishad the words: "Truly, the name of the Brahman is
satyam−−verily, he who knows such a thing, will enter the heavenly world every day." Often, it seemed near,
the heavenly world, but never he had reached it completely, never he had quenched the ultimate thirst. And
among all the wise and wisest men, he knew and whose instructions he had received, among all of them there
was no one, who had reached it completely, the heavenly world, who had quenched it completely, the eternal thirst.

>>7243984
That's the name of the first chapter, you ignorant!

"Govinda," Siddhartha spoke to his friend, "Govinda, my dear, come with me under the Banyan tree, let's
practise meditation."
They went to the Banyan tree, they sat down, Siddhartha right here, Govinda twenty paces away. While
putting himself down, ready to speak the Om, Siddhartha repeated murmuring the verse:
Om is the bow, the arrow is soul, The Brahman is the arrow's target, That one should incessantly hit.
After the usual time of the exercise in meditation had passed, Govinda rose. The evening had come, it was
time to perform the evening's ablution. He called Siddhartha's name. Siddhartha did not answer. Siddhartha
sat there lost in thought, his eyes were rigidly focused towards a very distant target, the tip of his tongue was
protruding a little between the teeth, he seemed not to breathe. 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. Tomorrow, at daybreak I will begin the life of the
Samanas. Speak no more of it."
Siddhartha entered the chamber, where his father was sitting on a mat of bast, and stepped behind his father
and remained standing there, until his father felt that someone was standing behind him. Quoth the Brahman:
"Is that you, Siddhartha? Then say what you came to say."

Quoth Siddhartha: "With your permission, my father. I came to tell you that it is my longing to leave your
house tomorrow and go to the ascetics. My desire is to become a Samana. May my father not oppose this."
The Brahman fell silent, and remained silent for so long that the stars in the small window wandered and
changed their relative positions, 'ere the silence was broken. Silent and motionless stood the son with his arms
folded, silent and motionless sat the father on the mat, and the stars traced their paths in the sky. Then spoke
the father: "Not proper it is for a Brahman to speak harsh and angry words. But indignation is in my heart. I
wish not to hear this request for a second time from your mouth."
Slowly, the Brahman rose; Siddhartha stood silently, his arms folded.
"What are you waiting for?" asked the father.
Quoth Siddhartha: "You know what."
Indignant, the father left the chamber; indignant, he went to his bed and lay down.
After an hour, since no sleep had come over his eyes, the Brahman stood up, paced to and fro, and left the
house. Through the small window of the chamber he looked back inside, and there he saw Siddhartha
standing, his arms folded, not moving from his spot. Pale shimmered his bright robe. With anxiety in his
heart, the father returned to his bed.
After another hour, since no sleep had come over his eyes, the Brahman stood up again, paced to and fro,
walked out of the house and saw that the moon had risen. Through the window of the chamber he looked back
inside; there stood Siddhartha, not moving from his spot, his arms folded, moonlight reflecting from his bare
shins. With worry in his heart, the father went back to bed.

And he came back after an hour, he came back after two hours, looked through the small window, saw
Siddhartha standing, in the moon light, by the light of the stars, in the darkness. And he came back hour after
hour, silently, he looked into the chamber, saw him standing in the same place, filled his heart with anger,
filled his heart with unrest, filled his heart with anguish, filled it with sadness.
And in the night's last hour, before the day began, he returned, stepped into the room, saw the young man
standing there, who seemed tall and like a stranger to him.

"Siddhartha," he spoke, "what are you waiting for?"

"You know what."

"Will you always stand that way and wait, until it'll becomes morning, noon, and evening?"

"I will stand and wait.

"You will become tired, Siddhartha."

"I will become tired."

"You will fall asleep, Siddhartha."

"I will not fall asleep."

"You will die, Siddhartha."

"I will die."

"And would you rather die, than obey your father?"

"Siddhartha has always obeyed his father."

"So will you abandon your plan?"

"Siddhartha will do what his father will tell him to do."

The first light of day shone into the room. The Brahman saw that Siddhartha was trembling softly in his
knees. In Siddhartha's face he saw no trembling, his eyes were fixed on a distant spot. Then his father realized
that even now Siddhartha no longer dwelt with him in his home, that he had already left him.

>>7243957
Its google translator's fault, it makes up words.

The Father touched Siddhartha's shoulder.
"You will," he spoke, "go into the forest and be a Samana. When you'll have found blissfulness in the forest,
then come back and teach me to be blissful. If you'll find disappointment, then return and let us once again
make offerings to the gods together. Go now and kiss your mother, tell her where you are going to. But for me
it is time to go to the river and to perform the first ablution."
He took his hand from the shoulder of his son and went outside. Siddhartha wavered to the side, as he tried to
walk. He put his limbs back under control, bowed to his father, and went to his mother to do as his father had
said.
As he slowly left on stiff legs in the first light of day the still quiet town, a shadow rose near the last hut, who
had crouched there, and joined the pilgrim−−Govinda.

"You have come," said Siddhartha and smiled.

"I have come," said Govinda.

WITH THE SAMANAS

In the evening of this day they caught up with the ascetics, the skinny Samanas, and offered them their
companionship and−−obedience. They were accepted.
Siddhartha gave his garments to a poor Brahman in the street. He wore nothing more than the loincloth and
the earth−coloured, unsown cloak. He ate only once a day, and never something cooked. He fasted for fifteen
days. He fasted for twenty−eight days. The flesh waned from his thighs and cheeks. Feverish dreams flickered
from his enlarged eyes, long nails grew slowly on his parched fingers and a dry, shaggy beard grew on his
chin. His glance turned to icy when he encountered women; his mouth twitched with contempt, when he
walked through a city of nicely dressed people. He saw merchants trading, princes hunting, mourners wailing
for their dead, whores offering themselves, physicians trying to help the sick, priests determining the most
suitable day for seeding, lovers loving, mothers nursing their children−−and all of this was not worthy of one
look from his eye, it all lied, it all stank, it all stank of lies, it all pretended to be meaningful and joyful and
beautiful, and it all was just concealed putrefaction. The world tasted bitter. Life was torture.
A goal stood before Siddhartha, a single goal: to become empty, empty of thirst, empty of wishing, empty of
dreams, empty of joy and sorrow. Dead to himself, not to be a self any more, to find tranquility with an
emptied heard, to be open to miracles in unselfish thoughts, that was his goal.

Once all of my self was
overcome and had died, once every desire and every urge was silent in the heart, then the ultimate part of me had to awake, the innermost of my being, which is no longer my self, the great secret.
Silently, Siddhartha exposed himself to burning rays of the sun directly above, glowing with pain, glowing
with thirst, and stood there, until he neither felt any pain nor thirst any more. Silently, he stood there in the
rainy season, from his hair the water was dripping over freezing shoulders, over freezing hips and legs, and
the penitent stood there, until he could not feel the cold in his shoulders and legs any more, until they were
silent, until they were quiet. Silently, he cowered in the thorny bushes, blood dripped from the burning skin,
from festering wounds dripped pus, and Siddhartha stayed rigidly, stayed motionless, until no blood flowed
any more, until nothing stung any more, until nothing burned any more.
Siddhartha sat upright and learned to breathe sparingly, learned to get along with only few breathes, learned to
stop breathing. He learned, beginning with the breath, to calm the beat of his heart, leaned to reduce the beats
of his heart, until they were only a few and almost none.

Instructed by the oldest if the Samanas, Siddhartha practised self−denial, practised meditation, according to a
new Samana rules. A heron flew over the bamboo forest−−and Siddhartha accepted the heron into his soul,
flew over forest and mountains, was a heron, ate fish, felt the pangs of a heron's hunger, spoke the heron's
croak, died a heron's death. A dead jackal was lying on the sandy bank, and Siddhartha's soul slipped inside
the body, was the dead jackal, lay on the banks, got bloated, stank, decayed, was dismembered by hyaenas,
was skinned by vultures, turned into a skeleton, turned to dust, was blown across the fields. And Siddhartha's
soul returned, had died, had decayed, was scattered as dust, had tasted the gloomy intoxication of the cycle,
awaited in new thirst like a hunter in the gap, where he could escape from the cycle, where the end of the
causes, where an eternity without suffering began. He killed his senses, he killed his memory, he slipped out
of his self into thousands of other forms, was an animal, was carrion, was stone, was wood, was water, and
awoke every time to find his old self again, sun shone or moon, was his self again, turned round in the cycle,
felt thirst, overcame the thirst, felt new thirst.
Siddhartha learned a lot when he was with the Samanas, many ways leading away from the self he learned to
go. He went the way of self−denial by means of pain, through voluntarily suffering and overcoming pain,
hunger, thirst, tiredness. He went the way of self−denial by means of meditation, through imagining the mind
to be void of all conceptions. These and other ways he learned to go, a thousand times he left his self, for
hours and days he remained in the non−self. But though the ways led away from the self, their end
nevertheless always led back to the self.

Though Siddhartha fled from the self a thousand times, stayed in
nothingness, stayed in the animal, in the stone, the return was inevitable, inescapable was the hour, when he
found himself back in the sunshine or in the moonlight, in the shade or in the rain, and was once again his self
and Siddhartha, and again felt the agony of the cycle which had been forced upon him.
By his side lived Govinda, his shadow, walked the same paths, undertook the same efforts. They rarely spoke
to one another, than the service and the exercises required. Occasionally the two of them went through the
villages, to beg for food for themselves and their teachers.
"How do you think, Govinda," Siddhartha spoke one day while begging this way, "how do you think did we
progress? Did we reach any goals?"
Govinda answered: "We have learned, and we'll continue learning. You'll be a great Samana, Siddhartha.
Quickly, you've learned every exercise, often the old Samanas have admired you. One day, you'll be a holy
man, oh Siddhartha."
Quoth Siddhartha: "I can't help but feel that it is not like this, my friend. What I've learned, being among the
Samanas, up to this day, this, oh Govinda, I could have learned more quickly and by simpler means. In every
tavern of that part of a town where the whorehouses are, my friend, among carters and gamblers I could have
learned it."

Quoth Govinda: "Siddhartha is putting me on. How could you have learned meditation, holding your breath,
insensitivity against hunger and pain there among these wretched people?"
And Siddhartha said quietly, as if he was talking to himself: "What is meditation? What is leaving one's body?
What is fasting? What is holding one's breath? It is fleeing from the self, it is a short escape of the agony of
being a self, it is a short numbing of the senses against the pain and the pointlessness of life. The same escape,
the same short numbing is what the driver of an ox−cart finds in the inn, drinking a few bowls of rice−wine or
fermented coconut−milk. Then he won't feel his self any more, then he won't feel the pains of life any more,
then he finds a short numbing of the senses. When he falls asleep over his bowl of rice−wine, he'll find the
same what Siddhartha and Govinda find when they escape their bodies through long exercises, staying in the
non−self. This is how it is, oh Govinda."
Quoth Govinda: "You say so, oh friend, and yet you know that Siddhartha is no driver of an ox−cart and a
Samana is no drunkard. It's true that a drinker numbs his senses, it's true that he briefly escapes and rests, but
he'll return from the delusion, finds everything to be unchanged, has not become wiser, has gathered no
enlightenment,−−has not risen several steps."

And Siddhartha spoke with a smile: "I do not know, I've never been a drunkard. But that I, Siddhartha, find
only a short numbing of the senses in my exercises and meditations and that I am just as far removed from
wisdom, from salvation, as a child in the mother's womb, this I know, oh Govinda, this I know."
And once again, another time, when Siddhartha left the forest together with Govinda, to beg for some food in
the village for their brothers and teachers, Siddhartha began to speak and said: "What now, oh Govinda, might
we be on the right path? Might we get closer to enlightenment? Might we get closer to salvation? Or do we
perhaps live in a circle−− we, who have thought we were escaping the cycle?"
Quoth Govinda: "We have learned a lot, Siddhartha, there is still much to learn. We are not going around in
circles, we are moving up, the circle is a spiral, we have already ascended many a level."
Siddhartha answered: "How old, would you think, is our oldest Samana, our venerable teacher?"
Quoth Govinda: "Our oldest one might be about sixty years of age."
And Siddhartha: "He has lived for sixty years and has not reached the nirvana. He'll turn seventy and eighty,
and you and me, we will grow just as old and will do our exercises, and will fast, and will meditate. But we
will not reach the nirvana, he won't and we won't. Oh Govinda, I believe out of all the Samanas out there,
perhaps not a single one, not a single one, will reach the nirvana. We find comfort, we find numbness, we
learn feats, to deceive others. But the most important thing, the path of paths, we will not find."

"If you only," spoke Govinda, "wouldn't speak such terrible words, Siddhartha! How could it be that among
so many learned men, among so many Brahmans, among so many austere and venerable Samanas, among so
many who are searching, so many who are eagerly trying, so many holy men, no one will find the path of
paths?"
But Siddhartha said in a voice which contained just as much sadness as mockery, with a quiet, a slightly sad, a
slightly mocking voice: "Soon, Govinda, your friend will leave the path of the Samanas, he has walked along
your side for so long. I'm suffering of thirst, oh Govinda, and on this long path of a Samana, my thirst has
remained as strong as ever. I always thirsted for knowledge, I have always been full of questions. I have asked
the Brahmans, year after year, and I have asked the holy Vedas, year after year, and I have asked the devote
Samanas, year after year. Perhaps, oh Govinda, it had been just as well, had been just as smart and just as
profitable, if I had asked the hornbill−bird or the chimpanzee.

It took me a long time and am not finished
learning this yet, oh Govinda: that there is nothing to be learned! There is indeed no such thing, so I believe, as what we refer to as `learning'. There is, oh my friend, just one knowledge, this is everywhere, this is
Atman, this is within me and within you and within every creature. And so I'm starting to believe that this
knowledge has no worser enemy than the desire to know it, than learning."
At this, Govinda stopped on the path, rose his hands, and spoke: "If you, Siddhartha, only would not bother
your friend with this kind of talk! Truly, you words stir up fear in my heart. And just consider: what would
become of the sanctity of prayer, what of the venerability of the Brahmans' caste, what of the holiness of the
Samanas, if it was as you say, if there was no learning?! What, oh Siddhartha, what would then become of all
of this what is holy, what is precious, what is venerable on earth?!"

And Govinda mumbled a verse to himself, a verse from an Upanishad:
He who ponderingly, of a purified spirit, loses himself in the meditation of Atman, unexpressable by words is
his blissfulness of his heart.
But Siddhartha remained silent. He thought about the words which Govinda had said to him and thought the
words through to their end.
Yes, he thought, standing there with his head low, what would remain of all that which seemed to us to be
holy? What remains? What can stand the test? And he shook his head.
At one time, when the two young men had lived among the Samanas for about three years and had shared
their exercises, some news, a rumour, a myth reached them after being retold many times: A man had
appeared, Gotama by name, the exalted one, the Buddha, he had overcome the suffering of the world in
himself and had halted the cycle of rebirths. He was said to wander through the land, teaching, surrounded by
disciples, without possession, without home, without a wife, in the yellow cloak of an ascetic, but with a
cheerful brow, a man of bliss, and Brahmans and princes would bow down before him and would become his students.

This myth, this rumour, this legend resounded, its fragrants rose up, here and there; in the towns, the
Brahmans spoke of it and in the forest, the Samanas; again and again, the name of Gotama, the Buddha
reached the ears of the young men, with good and with bad talk, with praise and with defamation.
It was as if the plague had broken out in a country and news had been spreading around that in one or another
place there was a man, a wise man, a knowledgeable one, whose word and breath was enough to heal
everyone who had been infected with the pestilence, and as such news would go through the land and
everyone would talk about it, many would believe, many would doubt, but many would get on their way as
soon as possible, to seek the wise man, the helper, just like this this myth ran through the land, that fragrant
myth of Gotama, the Buddha, the wise man of the family of Sakya. He possessed, so the believers said, the
highest enlightenment, he remembered his previous lives, he had reached the nirvana and never returned into
the cycle, was never again submerged in the murky river of physical forms. Many wonderful and unbelievable
things were reported of him, he had performed miracles, had overcome the devil, had spoken to the gods. But
his enemies and disbelievers said, this Gotama was a vain seducer, he would spent his days in luxury, scorned
the offerings, was without learning, and knew neither exercises nor self−castigation.

The myth of Buddha sounded sweet. The scent of magic flowed from these reports. After all, the world was
sick, life was hard to bear−−and behold, here a source seemed to spring forth, here a messenger seemed to call
out, comforting, mild, full of noble promises. Everywhere where the rumour of Buddha was heard,
everywhere in the lands of India, the young men listened up, felt a longing, felt hope, and among the
Brahmans' sons of the towns and villages every pilgrim and stranger was welcome, when he brought news of
him, the exalted one, the Sakyamuni.

The myth had also reached the Samanas in the forest, and also Siddhartha, and also Govinda, slowly, drop by
drop, every drop laden with hope, every drop laden with doubt. They rarely talked about it, because the oldest
one of the Samanas did not like this myth. He had heard that this alleged Buddha used to be an ascetic before
and had lived in the forest, but had then turned back to luxury and worldly pleasures, and he had no high opinion of this Gotama.

"Oh Siddhartha," Govinda spoke one day to his friend. "Today, I was in the village, and a Brahman invited me
into his house, and in his house, there was the son of a Brahman from Magadha, who has seen the Buddha
with his own eyes and has heard him teach. Verily, this made my chest ache when I breathed, and thought to
myself: If only I would too, if only we both would too, Siddhartha and me, live to see the hour when we will
hear the teachings from the mouth of this perfected man! Speak, friend, wouldn't we want to go there too and
listen to the teachings from the Buddha's mouth?"

Quoth Siddhartha: "Always, oh Govinda, I had thought, Govinda would stay with the Samanas, always I had
believed his goal was to live to be sixty and seventy years of age and to keep on practising those feats and
exercises, which are becoming a Samana. But behold, I had not known Govinda well enough, I knew little of
his heart. So now you, my faithful friend, want to take a new path and go there, where the Buddha spreads his
teachings."
Quoth Govinda: "You're mocking me. Mock me if you like, Siddhartha! But have you not also developed a
desire, an eagerness, to hear these teachings? And have you not at one time said to me, you would not walk
the path of the Samanas for much longer?"
At this, Siddhartha laughed in his very own manner, in which his voice assumed a touch of sadness and a
touch of mockery, and said: "Well, Govinda, you've spoken well, you've remembered correctly. If you only
remembered the other thing as well, you've heard from me, which is that I have grown distrustful and tired
against teachings and learning, and that my faith in words, which are brought to us by teachers, is small. But
let's do it, my dear, I am willing to listen to these teachings−−though in my heart I believe that we've already
tasted the best fruit of these teachings."

Quoth Govinda: "Your willingness delights my heart. But tell me, how should this be possible? How should
the Gotama's teachings, even before we have heard them, have already revealed their best fruit to us?"
Quoth Siddhartha: "Let us eat this fruit and wait for the rest, oh Govinda! But this fruit, which we already now
received thanks to the Gotama, consisted in him calling us away from the Samanas! Whether he has also other
and better things to give us, oh friend, let us await with calm hearts."
On this very same day, Siddhartha informed the oldest one of the Samanas of his decision, that he wanted to
leave him. He informed the oldest one with all the courtesy and modesty becoming to a younger one and a
student. But the Samana became angry, because the two young men wanted to leave him, and talked loudly
and used crude swearwords.
Govinda was startled and became embarrassed. But Siddhartha put his mouth close to Govinda's ear and
whispered to him: "Now, I want to show the old man that I've learned something from him."
Positioning himself closely in front of the Samana, with a concentrated soul, he captured the old man's glance
with his glances, deprived him of his power, made him mute, took away his free will, subdued him under his
own will, commanded him, to do silently, whatever he demanded him to do. The old man became mute, his
eyes became motionless, his will was paralysed, his arms were hanging down; without power, he had fallen
victim to Siddhartha's spell. But Siddhartha's thoughts brought the Samana under their control, he had to carry
out, what they commanded. And thus, the old man made several bows, performed gestures of blessing, spoke
stammeringly a godly wish for a good journey.

And the young men returned the bows with thanks, returned the wish, went on their way with salutations.
On the way, Govinda said: "Oh Siddhartha, you have learned more from the Samanas than I knew. It is hard,
it is very hard to cast a spell on an old Samana. Truly, if you had stayed there, you would soon have learned to
walk on water."
"I do not seek to walk on water," said Siddhartha. "Let old Samanas be content with such feats!"

Teleport thread?

Best thread on /jp/

-----2nd CHAPTER END-----

And that's it for today, folks! I hope you enjoyed the reading, and until next time.