Yes, everyone loved Siddhartha. He aroused joy in everyone, he was a delight to all. But Siddhartha was no joy to himself; he brought no pleasure to himself. Walking on the rosy paths of the fig garden, sitting in the bluish shadows of the meditation grove, washing his limbs in his daily baths of purification, performing sacrifices in the deep shade of the mango wood, perfect in the grace of his gestures, he was beloved of everyone, a joy to all-but still there was no joy in his heart. Dreams came to him and restless thoughts. They flowed into him from the water of the river, glittered from the night stars, melted out of the rays of the sun. Dreams came and a restless mind, rising in the smoke of the offerings, wafting from the verses of the rigveda, seeping into him from the teachings of the old Brahmins.
Siddhartha had begun to breed discontent within himself. He had begun to feel that his father’s love and his mother’s love, and even the love of his friend govinda, would not bring him enduring happiness, would not bring him contentment and satisfaction, would not be sufficient to his needs. He had begun to sense that his venerable father and his other teachers, the wise Brahmins, had already shared with him the better part of their wisdom; they had already poured their all into his waiting vessel, and the vessel was not full, his mind was not satisfied, his soul was to at peace, his heart was not content.