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Siddhartha: The Son. Feraco Search for Human Potential 9 October 2012. “The Son” poses Siddhartha with his greatest challenge yet: how to raise a preadolescent who isn’t beholden to him in any way.
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Siddhartha:The Son Feraco Search for Human Potential 9 October 2012
“The Son” poses Siddhartha with his greatest challenge yet: how to raise a preadolescent who isn’t beholden to him in any way. He realizes (consciously, at least) that the boy has no connection to him, and therefore no reason to love him. (Must love be earned?) He also realizes that his son will not be happy living with him and Vasudeva; their life holds as little for him as the Brahmins’ held for Siddhartha in his youth.
Yet he keeps him there anyway! His desire to save his foolish son from suffering is so great that it causes him to repeat the mistakes of the past – indeed, the same ones his father made with him. In a supremely ironic masterstroke, Siddhartha turns not the forest, but the river, into a sort of permawomb for his son.
Unsurprisingly, many months pass, and Siddhartha makes no progress. His son is just as stubborn as he once was – or, perhaps more accurately, remains. Once again, he has taken an obsessive interest in something…and once again, he’s stagnating.
Vasudeva recognizes this and gently nudges him through debate, trying to get Siddhartha to see that even actions taken with the best of intentions can be harmful. (Baseline implications?) When Siddhartha asks him what he would do, the ferryman advocates returning the boy to his old life, where he can continue developing as he once had. It may not be the best choice if you’re trying to protect him from making the same mistakes you once made, but counterintuitively, it’s the logical choice if you don’t want to trap the boy in the samsara cyle forever.
Do you really think you have committed your follies in order to spare your son them? Can you then protect your son from Samsara? How? Through instruction, through prayers, through exhortation? My dear friend, have you forgotten that instructive story about Siddhartha, the Brahmin’s son, which you once told me here? Who protected Siddhartha the Samana from Samsara, from sin, greed, and folly? Could his father’s piety, his teacher’s exhortations, his own knowledge, his own seeking, protect him? Which father, which teacher, could prevent him from living his own life, from soiling himself with life, from loading himself with sin, from swallowing the bitter drink himself, from finding his own path? Do you think, my dear friend, that anybody is spared this path? Perhaps your little son, because you would like to see him spared sorrow and pain and disillusionment? But if you were to die ten times for him, you would not alter his destiny in the slightest.
It’s a testament to how badly Siddhartha wants to protect the boy that he still disregards Vasudeva’s advice even though he knows it’s solid counsel. He reflects back on the conversation he had with Kamala back in “Amongst the People,” about love and stars and falling leaves, and realizes that he can’t help himself.
As it so happens, Siddhartha was wrong in Chapter 6 (about oh so many things, actually): he can love, but he doesn’t know how to love appropriately. He only knows how to throw his entire existence at a person, and he’s just going to helplessly, hopelessly follow a course that he recognizes, on some level, is doomed. He’s determined to leave his heart open because he feels like this sort of desire is necessary… which is why it hurts so badly when he finally gets punched.
If anything, Siddhartha’s son wants his father to discipline him, to force him to do things, to fill in the blanks for him (shades of After You…). Siddhartha may not have wanted strict guidance and doctrine when he was younger, but his son needs it. Instead, by constantly accommodating his son’s worst behavior, Siddhartha unintentionally but inevitably dooms any chance he has of connecting with the boy.
And it’s here that Hesse’s book-long obsession with cycles, with relationships, and with the ways we repeat our histories comes to the fore. When push comes to shove, Siddhartha’s son stands before him, just as Siddhartha once stood before the Brahmin…but he’s openly defiant, willing to leave without his parent’s consent (remember, Siddhartha wasn’t).
When Siddhartha made his request, the Brahmin said “No” without really saying “No.” Consequently, Siddhartha refuses his wish without refusing it; in the end, the Brahmin says “Yes” without really acknowledging that Siddhartha requested to leave (his parting words to his son – “Go into the forest and become a Samana…” are phrased as a command). Here, the boy shouts that he wants to leave…and Siddhartha, true to (cyclical) form, doesn’t acknowledge it.
The next day, he’s stolen the ferryman’s money and stolen across the river in their boat. Vasudeva calmly makes a new boat to use to retrieve the old one (rolling with life’s punches!), and urges Siddhartha to just let the boy go. Siddhartha won’t listen, but everything Vasudeva says – everything he thinks – is true, down to the missing oar. It’s never explicitly stated, but the implication is that the boy broke the oar and tossed it in the river.
He pursues his son, but it’s futile…and when his search is over, only Vasudeva remains by his side. Siddhartha was sad when he lost Kamala, but this is different: this is devastating. In Kamala’s case, there was nothing he could have done to save her; with his son, he’s left only with unanswerable questions about how he failed the person he loved most, and what else he could have tried to do in order to avoid his abandonment. Frankly, after the life Siddhartha’s led, and the lessons he hasn’t learned, he kind of deserves what happens here… …But we still feel bad for him.