Siddhartha was a beautiful boy. He had the shoulders of a young warrior and the eyes of a thinker. He was the son of a Brahmin, and the son of a Brahmin stands close to the gods. The old men praised him. The young women watched him from behind their water-jars. His mother's heart grew warm when she saw him walk across the courtyard.

And yet.

He was not happy — not in the way he had once imagined happiness would feel. He could recite the Vedas. He could perform the sacrifice. He could sit in meditation until his breath grew small and the Atman stirred softly inside him. But the words had begun to feel like stones he had polished so many times that they had lost their meaning. He began to suspect that his father, for all his holiness, had never truly met the Self either. That perhaps none of them had. That perhaps everyone was only passing the cup of wisdom from hand to hand without ever drinking from it.

One evening he told his friend Govinda: I am going. I will join the Samanas.

Govinda looked at him a long time. Then Govinda said: I am coming with you.

The words had begun to feel like stones he had polished so many times that they had lost their meaning.