like those children, and in all this, his life had been much more miserable and poorer than theirs, and their goals were not his, nor their worries; after all, that entire world of the Kamaswami-people had only been a game to him, a dance he would watch, a comedy.  Only Kamala had been dear, had been valuable to him—­but was she still thus?  Did he still need her, or she him?  Did they not play a game without an ending?  Was it necessary to live for this?  No, it was not necessary!  The name of this game was Sansara, a game for children, a game which was perhaps enjoyable to play once, twice, ten times—­but for ever and ever over again?

Then, Siddhartha knew that the game was over, that he could not play it any more.  Shivers ran over his body, inside of him, so he felt, something had died.

That entire day, he sat under the mango-tree, thinking of his father, thinking of Govinda, thinking of Gotama.  Did he have to leave them to become a Kamaswami?  He still sat there, when the night had fallen.  When, looking up, he caught sight of the stars, he thought:  “Here I’m sitting under my mango-tree, in my pleasure-garden.”  He smiled a little —­was it really necessary, was it right, was it not as foolish game, that he owned a mango-tree, that he owned a garden?

He also put an end to this, this also died in him.  He rose, bid his farewell to the mango-tree, his farewell to the pleasure-garden.  Since he had been without food this day, he felt strong hunger, and thought of his house in the city, of his chamber and bed, of the table with the meals on it.  He smiled tiredly, shook himself, and bid his farewell to these things.

In the same hour of the night, Siddhartha left his garden, left the city, and never came back.  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?  And most of all, she had felt this the last time they had been together, and she was happy, in spite of all the pain of the loss, that she had pulled him so affectionately to her heart for this last time, that she had felt one more time to be so completely possessed and penetrated by him.

When she received the first news of Siddhartha’s disappearance, she went to the window, where she held a rare singing bird captive in a golden cage.  She opened the door of the cage, took the bird out and let it fly.  For a long time, she gazed after it, the flying bird.  From this day on, she received no more visitors and kept her house locked.  But after some time, she became aware that she was pregnant from the last time she was together with Siddhartha.

BY THE RIVER