Siddhartha rose, the workings of hunger in his body became unbearable.  In a daze he walked on, up the path by the bank, upriver, listened to the current, listened to the rumbling hunger in his body.

When he reached the ferry, the boat was just ready, and the same ferryman who had once transported the young Samana across the river, stood in the boat, Siddhartha recognised him, he had also aged very much.

“Would you like to ferry me over?” he asked.

The ferryman, being astonished to see such an elegant man walking along and on foot, took him into his boat and pushed it off the bank.

“It’s a beautiful life you have chosen for yourself,” the passenger spoke.  “It must be beautiful to live by this water every day and to cruise on it.”

With a smile, the man at the oar moved from side to side:  “It is beautiful, sir, it is as you say.  But isn’t every life, isn’t every work beautiful?”

“This may be true.  But I envy you for yours.”

“Ah, you would soon stop enjoying it.  This is nothing for people wearing fine clothes.”

Siddhartha laughed.  “Once before, I have been looked upon today because of my clothes, I have been looked upon with distrust.  Wouldn’t you, ferryman, like to accept these clothes, which are a nuisance to me, from me?  For you must know, I have no money to pay your fare.”

“You’re joking, sir,” the ferryman laughed.

“I’m not joking, friend.  Behold, once before you have ferried me across this water in your boat for the immaterial reward of a good deed.  Thus, do it today as well, and accept my clothes for it.”

“And do you, sir, intent to continue travelling without clothes?”

“Ah, most of all I wouldn’t want to continue travelling at all.  Most of all I would like you, ferryman, to give me an old loincloth and kept me with you as your assistant, or rather as your trainee, for I’ll have to learn first how to handle the boat.”

For a long time, the ferryman looked at the stranger, searching.

“Now I recognise you,” he finally said.  “At one time, you’ve slept in my hut, this was a long time ago, possibly more than twenty years ago, and you’ve been ferried across the river by me, and we parted like good friends.  Haven’t you’ve been a Samana?  I can’t think of your name any more.”

“My name is Siddhartha, and I was a Samana, when you’ve last seen me.”

“So be welcome, Siddhartha.  My name is Vasudeva.”  You will, so I hope, be my guest today as well and sleep in my hut, and tell me, where you’re coming from and why these beautiful clothes are such a nuisance to you.”

They had reached the middle of the river, and Vasudeva pushed the oar with more strength, in order to overcome the current.  He worked calmly, his eyes fixed in on the front of the boat, with brawny arms.  Siddhartha sat and watched him, and remembered, how once before, on that last day of his time as a Samana, love for this man had stirred in his heart.  Gratefully, he accepted Vasudeva’s invitation.  When they had reached the bank, he helped him to tie the boat to the stakes; after this, the ferryman asked him to enter the hut, offered him bread and water, and Siddhartha ate with eager pleasure, and also ate with eager pleasure of the mango fruits, Vasudeva offered him.