To Romain Rolland, my dear friend
In the shade of the house, in the sunshine of the riverbank near
the boats, in the shade of the Sal-wood forest, in the shade of the
fig tree is where Siddhartha grew up, the handsome son of the
Brahman, the young falcon, together with his friend Govinda, son
of a Brahman. The sun tanned his light shoulders by the banks of
the river when bathing, performing the sacred ablutions, the sacred
offerings. In the mango grove, shade poured into his black eyes,
when playing as a boy, when his mother sang, when the sacred
offerings were made, when his father, the scholar, taught him,
