名著精讀:《悉達多》 覺醒(2)

He looked around, as if he was seeing the world for the first time. Beautiful was the world, colourful was the world, strange and mysterious was the world! Here was blue, here was yellow, here was green, the sky and the river flowed, the forest and the Mountains were rigid, all of it was beautiful, all of it was mysterious and magical, and in its midst was he, Siddhartha, the awakening one, on the path to himself. All of this, all this yellow and blue, river and forest, entered Siddhartha for the first time through the eyes, was no longer a spell of Mara, was no longer the veil of Maya, was no longer a pointless and coincidental diversity of mere appearances, despicable to the deeply thinking Brahman, who scorns diversity, who seeks unity. Blue was blue, river was river, and if also in the blue and the river, in Siddhartha, the singular and divine lived hidden, so it was still that very divinity's way and purpose, to be here yellow, here blue, there sky, there forest, and here Siddhartha. The purpose and theessential properties were not somewhere behind the things, they were in them, in everything.
"How deaf and stupid have I been!" he thought, walking swiftly along. "When someone reads a text, wants to discover its meaning, he will not scorn the symbols and letters and call them deceptions, coincidence, and worthless hull, but he will read them, he will study and love them, letter by letter. But I, who wanted to read the book of the world and the book of my own being, I have, for the sake of a meaning I had anticipated before I read, scorned the symbols and letters, I called the visible world a deception, called my eyes and my tongue coincidental and worthless forms without substance. No, this is over, I have awakened, I have indeed awakened and have not been born before this very day."
In thinking this thoughts, Siddhartha stopped once again, suddenly, as if there was a snake lying in front of him on the path.
Because suddenly, he had also become aware of this: He, who was indeed like someone who had just woken up or like a new-born baby, he had to start his life anew and start again at the very beginning. When he had left in this very morning from the grove Jetavana, the grove of that exalted one, already awakening, already on the path towards himself, he he had every intention, regarded as natural and took for granted, that he, after years as an ascetic, would return to his home and his father. But now, only in this moment, when he stopped as if a snake was lying on his path, he also awoke to this realization: "But I am no longer the one I was, I am no ascetic any more, I am not a priest any more, I am no Brahman any more. Whatever should I do at home and at my father's place? Study? Make offerings? Practise meditation? But all this is over, all of this is no longer alongside my path."
Motionless, Siddhartha remained standing there, and for the time of one moment and breath, his heart felt cold, he felt a cold in his chest, as a small animal, a bird or a rabbit, would when seeing how alone he was. For many years, he had been without home and had felt nothing. Now, he felt it. Still, even in the deepest meditation, he had been his father's son, had been a Brahman, of a high caste, a cleric. Now, he was nothing but Siddhartha, the awoken one, nothing else was left. Deeply, he inhaled, and for a moment, he felt cold and shivered. Nobody was thus alone as he was. There was no nobleman who did not belong to the noblemen, no worker that did not belong to the workers, and found refuge with them, shared their life, spoke their language. No Brahman, who would not be regarded as Brahmans and lived with them, no ascetic who would not find his refuge in the caste of the Samanas, and even the most forlorn hermit in the forest was not just one and alone, he was also surrounded by a place he belonged to,he also belonged to a caste, in which he was at home. Govinda had become a monk, and a thousand monks were his brothers, wore the same robe as he, believed in his faith, spoke his language. But he, Siddhartha, where did he belong to? With whom would he share his life? Whose language would he speak?
Out of this moment, when the world melted away all around him, when he stood alone like a star in the sky, out of this moment of a cold and despair, Siddhartha emerged, more a self than before, more firmly concentrated. He felt: This had been the last tremor of the awakening, the last struggle of this birth. And it was not long until he walked again in long strides, started to proceed swiftly and impatiently, heading no longer for home, no longer to his father, no longer back.

他環視四周，就好像是第一次見到這個世界。世界多麼美好，世界多麼絢麗，世界多麼奇妙和迷人!這兒有藍色，有黃色，有綠色，天空在流動，河流也在流動，森林高高聳立，山嶺也高高聳立，一切都十分美麗，一切都十分神祕和不可思議，而席特哈爾塔置身其中，他是個正在覺醒的人，正走在通向自我的路上。所有這一切，這黃色和藍色，這河流和森林，第一次通過眼睛進入席特哈爾塔內心，不再是瑪拉的法術，不再是瑪雅的面紗，不再是現象世界毫無意義和偶然的繁複多樣，而對於這個鄙棄繁複多樣並尋求和諧統一的婆羅門來說卻算不得什麼。藍色就是藍色，河流就是河流，即便在席特哈爾塔眼裏，藍色與河流中潛藏着神性，那也是神性的方式和意義。這邊是黃色，是藍色，那邊是天空，是森林，而席特哈爾塔就在這裏。內容和本質並不是在事物後面的什麼地方，而是在事物內部，在所有事物之中。
“我是多麼麻木和遲鈍啊!”這個匆匆前行的人心想，“如果一個人讀一篇文章，其內容正是他要尋找的，那麼，他就不會看不起那些符號和字母，稱它們爲錯覺、偶然和沒有價值的皮毛，而是逐字逐句地仔細閱讀，鑽研和熱愛它們。而我呢，我想閱讀世界這本書，閱讀我自己的本質這本書，卻爲了取悅一個預先臆測的含義，輕視 些符號和字母，我稱現象的世界爲錯覺，稱我的眼睛和舌頭爲偶然和無價值的現象。不，這已經過去了，我已經醒來了，我確實已經覺醒了，今天才剛剛新生!”
席特哈爾塔想着這些，又一次突然停下了鄶步，就好像有一條蛇橫在他面前的路上。
這是因爲他突然還明白了一點:他實際上就像一個覺醒者或者新生者，必須從頭開始他的生活，完全從頭開始。當天早上他離開耶塔瓦納林苑，離開那個活佛的林苑時，他已經開始覺醒，已經在通向自我的道路上了，這正是他的目的。在經過多年苦修之後，他覺得回家鄉去看望父親是理所當然和不言而喻的。但是現在，就在他停住腳，彷彿有一條蛇橫在他路上這一瞬間，他又清醒地認識到:“我不再是原來的我，不再是苦修者，不再是僧侶，不再是婆羅門了。我回到家在父親身邊又能做什麼呢?鑽研?祭祀?沉思潛修?這一切都過去了，這一切都不再擋着我的路了。”
席特哈爾塔一動不動地站着，他的心冷了一下，感到心在胸口中很冷很冷，就像一隻小動物，就像一隻鳥兒或一隻免子，他看到了自己是多麼孤獨。多年來他沒有家，流落四方，沒有這種感受，而今天卻感覺到了。即使在以前的潛修中，他依然是他父親的兒子，是婆羅門，地位高貴，是個有教養的人。而現在他只是席特哈爾塔，一個覺醒者，除此之外便什麼也不是了。他深深地吸氣，有一瞬間感到渾身發冷，顫慄不已，沒有誰像他這麼孤獨。沒有一個貴族不屬於貴族們，沒有一個工匠不屬於工匠們，同時還求助於他們，分享他們的生活，說他們的語言。沒有一個婆羅門不屬於所有婆羅門，和他們在一起生活。沒有一個苦行僧不求助於沙門這個階層。就連森林中與世隔絕的隱士，也不是孤零零的一個人，他周圍也有附屬的東西，他也屬於一個階層，那就是他的家。戈文達當了和尚，上千的和尚都是他的弟兄，穿着他的衣服，信奉他的信仰，講他的語言。但是他，席特哈爾塔，他屬於哪兒呢?他分享誰的生活?他講誰的語言呢?
從這一瞬間起，他周圍的世界消失了。他一個人站在那兒，就好像天空中的一顆星星。從這一瞬間起，席特哈爾塔已從一種寒冷和沮喪中浮了上來，比先前有了更多的自我，也顯得更堅實了。他感到這便是覺醒的最後寒戰，新生的最後痙攣。他重又邁開了步子，急匆匆地走起來，不再是回家，不再是投奔父親，不再是走回頭路。