The ferryman's name was Vasudeva. He had carried Siddhartha across the river once, many years before, when Siddhartha was walking toward the city. Now he found Siddhartha back at the river, hollow and changed, and he took him in.

Vasudeva did not say much. He was a small, brown man with very quiet hands. He cooked rice. He mended his boat. He ferried the travellers. And in between — for hours — he sat and listened to the river.

Teach me, said Siddhartha.

I cannot teach you, said Vasudeva. But we can listen together. I have listened for a long time.

So Siddhartha became a ferryman too. He mended the boat. He cooked the rice. He carried the travellers — the pilgrims and the merchants, the weary and the singing. And when the day was done, he sat beside Vasudeva on the bank, and they listened.

Little by little, he began to hear what Vasudeva heard. He heard that the river was always going and always staying. He heard that every voice that had ever cried out in the world was still there, inside the running of it. He heard, at last, the single sound beneath all the sounds — the long low breath of Om, flowing through everything.

I cannot teach you. But we can listen together.