One night he dreamed that a small songbird — the one Kamala kept in a gilded cage by her window — was dead. He took it from the cage. It was light as paper in his hand. He threw it into the street. And then, in the dream, he understood: the bird was something in himself, and he had just thrown it away.

He woke in the dark. He rose without waking Kamala. He walked out of the house, through the garden, past the mango grove, until he came to the river.

He stood a long time at the edge of the water. He was sick with himself. He was sick of the rooms, the wine, the game of dice, the softness of pillows and the hardness of thought when it had nothing to think about. He wanted to be done with Siddhartha — with this man whose name he had been dragging behind him for so long.

He leaned forward, and the river was beneath him.

Then, from somewhere far inside him — from a place he had thought he had lost — a single syllable came up, quietly. Om. And he did not jump.

He wanted to be done with Siddhartha, with this man whose name he had been dragging behind him for so long.