Siddhartha: Indian Brahmin or Yeshiva Bochur?
There was no sitting room on the 1 Train at 5 p.m., so I held onto a grab rail as I flipped to the second page of my book with my thumb. Although a crowded subway is perhaps an unnatural place for introductions, it was there that I met Siddhartha, a young man born into Indian nobility in the fifth century B.C.E. A mere first impression composed of introductory paragraphs proved Siddhartha to be a charismatic and intellectual individual, esteemed and admired by his parents, neighbors and friends. Yet as Siddhartha’s tale unfolds, it becomes clear that his general favorability fails to fill the gaping hole of questions within his chest — questions about the meaning of life and the nature of the universe, which he spends the rest of the book (and his entire life) seeking to answer.
Written in the 1940’s by German author Hermann Hesse, “Siddhartha” captures some of the most profound and essential human experiences, such as pursuit of truth, spiritual elevation and the intoxication of materialism. While the book is embedded with Buddhist philosophy, its tale of a young man who devotes his life to the search for enlightenment resonates with a vastly diverse readership. As a Stern College student who recently returned from a year of learning in seminary, perhaps it is unsurprising that I couldn’t help but read “Siddhartha” through the lens of the Israel gap year experience.
In Hesse’s opening chapter, Siddhartha and his childhood friend Govinda leave their parents’ homes and set out on a journey to discover spiritual enlightenment. They join a rank of shramanas, ascetics who submit themselves to lives of poverty, maintaining that spirituality can be found only by renouncing the physical world. With their youthful determination to become diligent shramanas, Siddhartha and Govinda remind me of students at Newark airport, strapped with Masa backpacks and overweight duffels, ready and excited for a year in yeshiva.
But soon the grind of Elul sets in, the summer heat is ever present, and the students push harder, sleeping less, forgetting a time before the feverish intensity of this moment. Or, as Hesse puts it, as Siddhartha becomes more deeply ingrained in the grueling shramanic ideology, he increasingly scorns the vanities of his previous life. Like yeshiva and seminary students so rigorously devoted to intellectual yearning that they can no longer grasp what they perceive as pointless material endeavors, Siddhartha sees people performing regular functions of day-to-day living and derisively reflects that “it all stank of lies, it all feigned significance, good fortune and beauty, and it was all unavowed putrefaction.”
Siddhartha’s journey takes a turn, though, when word begins to flow about the Buddha Gautama, a man referred to as “the Perfect One,” who has reputedly achieved “nirvana,” the ultimate spiritual redemption. Hesse describes the Buddha’s teachings as “consoling, tender, full of noble promises,” and writes, “[E]verywhere, wherever rumor of the Buddha spread, through every region of India, youths pricked up their ears, felt longing, felt hope.” This portrayal of religious vitality, of a desire and excitement to belong to a spiritual identity, is reminiscent to me of the buzz that begins to spread among seminary students around Chanukah time — the eager chatter following shiurim, the constant evaluations, reflections, and discussions that become a facet of lunchroom table conversations, when the fire of Torah becomes the sole source of heat during an otherwise brutal Zman Choref.
For some students, an encounter with a teacher, with someone who speaks directly to their hearts and intellects, is a watershed, a moment at which they find a religious home and never wish to turn back. Such is certainly the case for Govinda, who wholeheartedly embraces the Buddha’s teachings and eagerly joins his following as a devoted student. For many, however, the inspiration of one teacher (or one philosophy) will not fill their cup; they will spend not only their year in Israel (if they choose to do so), but many years of their lives, seeking different viewpoints and ideologies in order to come to a fuller, and more individualized, understanding of the world. Siddhartha, for example, although deeply inspired by the Buddha, determines that he must proceed on a personal journey rather than joining the Buddha’s community. He articulates that although the Buddha’s teachings “encompass a great deal … how to live life righteously, how to avoid evil,” they fail in one respect: “they do not contain the secret of what the Exalted One himself experienced.” Ultimately, personal experience is the wisest and most profound teacher.
Siddhartha will continue on his quest for meaning; along the road he will plunge into depths that resemble the foulness of the New York City subway system, and even there he will find sparks of truth and humanity. For the time being, though, the subway’s sudden jerks and stops had made it difficult to read, so I placed an index card at “Part Two” and closed the pages.
I met the gaze of a stranger who was eyeing the cover of “Siddhartha” from a few feet away. This stranger stood up to leave at the next exit, nodded at my book, and smiled: “It’s a beautiful book. Good luck.” If you also choose to find some warmth in “Siddhartha’s” pages this winter, I pass along the very same wish.
Photo Caption: Reading “Siddhartha” on the 1 Train
Photo Credit: Elza Koslowe
