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?”