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. The boy wept, Siddhartha took him on his knees, let him weep, petted his hair, and at the sight of the child’s face, a Brahmin prayer came to his mind, which he had learned a long time ago, when he had been a little boy himself. Slowly, with a singing voice, he started to speak; from his past and childhood, the words came flowing to him. And with that singsong, the boy became calm, was only now and then uttering a sob and fell asleep. Siddhartha placed him on Vasudeva’s bed. Vasudeva stood by the stove and cooked rice. Siddhartha gave him a look, which he returned with a smile.
“She’ll die,” Siddhartha said quietly.
Vasudeva nodded; over his friendly face ran the light of the stove’s fire.
Once again, Kamala returned to consciousness. Pain distorted her face, Siddhartha’s eyes read the suffering on her mouth, on her pale cheeks. Quietly, he read it, attentively, waiting, his mind becoming one with her suffering. Kamala felt it, her gaze sought his eyes.
Looking at him, she said: “Now I see that your eyes have changed as well. They’ve become completely different. By what do I still recognise that you’re Siddhartha? It’s you, and it’s not you.”
Siddhartha said nothing, quietly his eyes looked at hers.
“You have achieved it?” she asked. “You have found peace?”
He smiled and placed his hand on hers.
“I’m seeing it,” she said, “I’m seeing it. I too will find peace.”