When, near the city, he reached a wide road, he stopped, by the entrance of the beautiful pleasure-garden, which used to belong to Kamala, where he had seen her for the first time in her sedan-chair.  The past rose up in his soul, again he saw himself standing there, young, a bearded, naked Samana, the hair full of dust.  For a long time, Siddhartha stood there and looked through the open gate into the garden, seeing monks in yellow robes walking among the beautiful trees.

For a long time, he stood there, pondering, seeing images, listening to the story of his life.  For a long time, he stood there, looked at the monks, saw young Siddhartha in their place, saw young Kamala walking among the high trees.  Clearly, he saw himself being served food and drink by Kamala, receiving his first kiss from her, looking proudly and disdainfully back on his Brahmanism, beginning proudly and full of desire his worldly life.  He saw Kamaswami, saw the servants, the orgies, the gamblers with the dice, the musicians, saw Kamala’s song-bird in the cage, lived through all this once again, breathed Sansara, was once again old and tired, felt once again disgust, felt once again the wish to annihilate himself, was once again healed by the holy Om.

After having been standing by the gate of the garden for a long time, Siddhartha realised that his desire was foolish, which had made him go up to this place, that he could not help his son, that he was not allowed to cling him.  Deeply, he felt the love for the run-away in his heart, like a wound, and he felt at the same time that this wound had not been given to him in order to turn the knife in it, that it had to become a blossom and had to shine.

That this wound did not blossom yet, did not shine yet, at this hour, made him sad.  Instead of the desired goal, which had drawn him here following the runaway son, there was now emptiness.  Sadly, he sat down, felt something dying in his heart, experienced emptiness, saw no joy any more, no goal.  He sat lost in thought and waited.  This he had learned by the river, this one thing:  waiting, having patience, listening attentively.  And he sat and listened, in the dust of the road, listened to his heart, beating tiredly and sadly, waited for a voice.  Many an hour he crouched, listening, saw no images any more, fell into emptiness, let himself fall, without seeing a path.  And when he felt the wound burning, he silently spoke the Om, filled himself with Om.  The monks in the garden saw him, and since he crouched for many hours, and dust was gathering on his gray hair, one of them came to him and placed two bananas in front of him.  The old man did not see him.