名著精讀:《悉達多》 卡瑪拉(1)

KAMALA
Siddhartha learned something new on every step of his path, for the world was transformed, and his heart was enchanted. He saw the sun rising over the mountains with their forests and setting over the distant beach with its palm-trees. At night, he saw the stars in the sky in their fixed positions and the crescent of the moon floating like a boat in the blue. He saw trees, stars, animals, clouds, rainbows, rocks, herbs, flowers, stream and river, the glistening dew in the bushes in the morning, distant hight mountains which were blue and pale, birds sang and bees, wind silverishly blew through the rice-field. All of this, a thousand-fold and colourful, had always been there, always the sun and the moon had shone, always rivers had roared and bees had buzzed, but in former times all of this had been nothing more to Siddhartha than a fleeting, deceptive veil before his eyes, looked upon in distrust, destined to be penetrated and destroyed by thought, since it was not the essential existence, since this essencelay beyond, on the other side of, the visible. But now, his liberated eyes stayed on this side, he saw and became aware of the visible, sought to be at home in this world, did not search for the true essence, did not aim at a world beyond. Beautiful was this world, looking at it thus, without searching, thus simply, thus childlike. Beautiful were the moon and the stars, beautiful was the stream and the banks, the forest and the rocks, the goat and the gold-beetle, the flower and the butterfly. Beautiful and lovely it was, thus to walk through the world, thus childlike, thus awoken, thus open to what is near, thus without distrust. Differently the sun burnt the head, differently the shade of the forest cooled him down, differently the stream and the cistern, the pumpkin and the banana tasted. Short were the days, short the nights, every hour sped swiftly away like a sail on the sea, and under the sail was a ship full of treasures, full of joy. Siddhartha saw a group of apes moving through the high canopy of theforest, high in the branches, and heard their savage, greedy song. Siddhartha saw a male sheep following a female one and mating with her. In a lake of reeds, he saw the pike hungrily hunting for its dinner; propelling themselves away from it, in fear, wiggling and sparkling, the young fish jumped in droves out of the water; the scent of strength and passion came forcefully out of the hasty eddies of the water, which the pike stirred up, impetuously hunting.
All of this had always existed, and he had not seen it; he had not been with it. Now he was with it, he was part of it. Light and shadow ran through his eyes, stars and moon ran through his heart.
On the way, Siddhartha also remembered everything he had experienced in the Garden Jetavana, the teaching he had heard there, the divine Buddha, the farewell from Govinda, the conversation with the exalted one. Again he remembered his own words, he had spoken to the exalted one, every word, and with astonishment he became aware of the fact that there he had said things which he had not really known yet at this time. What he had said to Gotama: his, the Buddha's, treasure and secret was not the teachings, but the unexpressable and not teachable, which he had experienced in the hour of his enlightenment--it was nothing but this very thing which he had now gone to experience, what he now began to experience. Now, he had to experience his self. It is true that he had already known for a long time that his self was Atman, in its essence bearing the same eternal characteristics as Brahman. But never, he had really found this self, because he had wanted to capture it in the net of thought. With the body definitely not being the self, and not the spectacle of the senses, so it also was not the thought, not the rational mind, not the learned wisdom, not the learned ability to draw conclusions and to develop previous thoughts in to new ones. No, this world of thought was also still on this side, and nothing could be achieved by killing the random self of the senses, if the random self of thoughts and learned knowledge was fattened on the other hand. Both, the thoughts as well as the senses, were pretty things, the ultimate meaning was hidden behind both of them, both had to be listened to, both had to be played with, both neither had to be scorned nor overestimated, from both the secret voices of the innermost truth had to be attentively perceived. He wanted to strive for nothing, except for what the voice commanded him to strive for, dwell on nothing, except where the voice would advise him to do so. Why had Gotama, at that time, in the hour of all hours, sat down under the bo-tree, where the enlightenment hit him? He hadheard a voice, a voice in his own heart, which had commanded him to seek rest under this tree, and he had neither preferred self-castigation, offerings, ablutions, nor prayer, neither food nor drink, neither sleep nor dream, he had obeyed the voice. To obey like this, not to an external command, only to the voice, to be ready like this, this was good, this was necessary, nothing else was necessary.
In the night when he slept in the straw hut of a ferryman by the river, Siddhartha had a dream: Govinda was standing in front of him, dressed in the yellow robe of an ascetic. Sad was how Govinda looked like, sadly he asked: Why have you forsaken me? At this, he embraced Govinda, wrapped his arms around him, and as he was pulling him close to his chest and kissed him, it was not Govinda any more, but a woman, and a full breast popped out of the woman's dress, at which Siddhartha lay and drank, sweetly and strongly tasted the milk from this breast. It tasted of woman and man, of sun and forest, of animal and flower, of every fruit, of every joyful desire. It intoxicated him and rendered him unconscious.--When Siddhartha woke up, the pale river shimmered through the door of the hut, and in the forest, a dark call of an owl resounded deeply and pleasantly.
When the day began, Siddhartha asked his host, the ferryman, to get him across the river. The ferryman got him across the river on his bamboo-raft, the wide water shimmered reddishly in the light of the morning.
"This is a beautiful river," he said to his companion.

卡瑪拉
席特哈爾塔在自己的路上每走一步都學到新東西，因爲世界發生了變化，他的心完全被迷住了。他看見太陽從密林覆蓋的山峯上升起，又在遠方的棕櫚海灘處落下。他看見夜間天空中星斗羅列，彎月如一葉小舟在藍天中飄遊。他看見樹木、星斗、動物、雲團、彩虹、岩石、雜草、鮮花、小溪與河流，清晨的灌木叢中有露珠在閃爍，遠方的高山淡藍和灰白，鳥兒啼鳴，蜜蜂嗡嗡，清風悠悠地吹過稻田。這一切都千變萬化，五彩繽紛，而且歷來如此，日月總是照耀，河水總是流淌，蜜蜂總是哼唱，然而在以前，這一切對於席特哈爾塔來說都只是蒙在他眼前的一層虛無縹緲的輕紗，帶着懷疑細看，註定要被思想浸透和消滅，因爲它們並非本質，因爲本質是在超然於可見之處的另一邊。如今，他的得到解放的眼睛則停留在這一邊，看見和認出了可見的東西，在這個世界上尋找家園，不是尋求本 質，不是對準那一邊。世界是美好的，只要你這樣不帶探究、這樣單純、這樣天真地去看它。月亮和星星是美麗的，小溪和河岸是美麗的，此外還有森林和山岩，山羊和金龜子孫，鮮花和蝴蝶。這樣漫遊世界，這樣天真，這樣清醒，這樣坦誠交往，這樣沒有戒心，的確是美好和可愛的。有時讓太陽直曬頭頂，有時在樹蔭下乘涼，有時啜飲小溪和池塘的水，有時品嚐南瓜和香蕉。白天顯得短促，夜晚也顯得短促，每一個鐘頭都過得飛快，就好像大海上的一張帆，而在帆下面是一艘滿載珍寶和歡樂的船。席特哈爾塔看見一羣猴子在高高的樹梢上游蕩，在高高的枝杈間跳躍，並且聽見一種粗野、渴求的啼聲。席特哈爾塔看見一隻公羊追逐一隻母羊並與之交媾。在一片蘆葦蕩裏，他看見梭魚由於飢餓而追逐捕食，小魚在他面前成羣地躍出水面，驚恐萬分，撲擊翻騰，熠熠閃光。兇猛的捕食者攪起陣陣水渦，散發出力量和激情。
所有這一切都是歷來如此，可是以前他卻沒見到，因爲他沒有到過這裏。現在他來了，他理應屬於這裏。光和影掠過他的眼，星星和月亮映入他的心。
席特哈爾塔在路上又想起了他在耶塔瓦納林苑經歷的一切，想起他在那兒聽過的教誨，想起活佛，想起他與戈文達的分別，想起他與活佛的談話。他回憶自己當時對活佛講過的話，回憶每一句話，驚訝地注意到自己居然講了當時他還根本不知道的事。他對戈塔馬所說的一切——他的事，活佛的事，珍貴和祕密的並不是學問，而是他在茅塞頓開時體驗到的無可言傳和難以講授的東西——這也正是他現在準備經歷的東西，他現在開始經歷的東西。現在他必須體驗自我。他早就清楚他的自我就是阿特曼，像婆羅門一樣具有永恆的性質。可是，他從來沒有真正找到過這個自我，因爲原來他是想用思想之網去捕獲它。如果說身體不是自我，本義的遊戲不是自我，那麼，思想也不是自我。要想得出結論並且從已經思考過的東西推出新想法，理性不行，學到的智慧不行，學到的技巧也不行。不，這個思想世界也還是塵世的，如果扼殺這個偶然的感覺的自我，卻去喂肥那個偶然的思想和學問的自我，那是不會達到什麼目標的。思想和感覺，這兩者都是可愛的事物，這兩者後面都潛藏着最後的意識，兩者都值得傾聽，都值得打交道，既不可輕視也不可高估，應當從這兩者來了解內心深處的穩祕聲音。他只想追求這個聲音命令他追求的東西，他只想在這個聲音建議他停留的地方停留。當初，在他豁然開朗的時候，戈塔馬爲什麼是坐在菩提樹下？當時他聽見了一個聲音，自己心中的一個聲音，吩咐他在這棵樹下歇息，他沒有先進行苦修、祭祀、沐浴或祈禱，沒吃也沒喝，沒睡覺也沒做夢，而是聽從了這個聲音。他就這麼服從了，不是服從外來的命令，而是服從這個聲音，心甘情願地服從。這是對的，是必要的，是必不可少的。
夜裏，席特哈爾塔睡在河邊一個船伕的茅草屋裏，做了一個夢：戈文達站在他面前，穿着一件黃僧衣。戈文達的樣子很傷心，他傷心地問：“你爲什麼離開我？”於是他擁抱戈文達，伸出兩臂摟住他，把他緊貼在自己胸前，親吻他。誰知這時不再是戈文達了，變成了一個女人，從這個女人的衣裳裏露出一個豐滿的乳房，席特哈樂塔湊到乳房上吸吮，乳汁又甜又香。那是女人和男人的味道，太陽和森林的味道，動物和鮮花的味道，各種果實的味道，各種樂趣的味道。它使人陶醉，醉得不省人事。——當席特哈爾塔醒來時，灰白的河水透過茅屋的小門閃着微光，樹林裏響起貓頭鷹的一聲神祕啼叫，深沉而又響亮。
天亮了，席特哈爾塔請求那個款待他的主人，也就是那個船伕，擺渡他過河去。船伕用竹筏送他過了河，寬闊的水面在晨曦中閃着微紅的光。
“這是一條美麗的河。”他對船伕說。