The two of them now ran along the path to reach people as soon as they could and were near the ferry crossing when Kamala collapsed, unable to go any further. But the lad raised a pitiful cry as he kissed and embraced his mother, who added her own voice to the boy’s loud calls for help. The sound reached the ears of Vasudeva as he stood by the ferry and he hurried to Kamala and her son. He took the woman by the arm and carried her into the boat, the boy also ran in, and they were all soon in the hut where Siddhartha stood at the stove, lighting the fire. He looked up and saw, first of all, the face of the boy which reminded him, in a way that was both wonderful and reproachful, of something he had forgotten. Then he saw Kamala. He recognised her immediately even though she lay unconscious in the arms of the ferryman, and now he realised that it was the face of his own son that had so reproached him, and his heart moved within his breast.
Kamala’s wound was washed, but was already black and her body was swollen, a healing drink was poured into her. Consciousness returned to her as she lay on Siddhartha’s bed in the hut, Siddhartha leant over her, he who had once had such earnest love for her. She thought she was dreaming, and, with a smile, looked into the face of her friend, slowly began to realise where she was, remembered the snake bite, and called out anxiously for the boy.
“He is with you. You need not worry,” said Siddhartha.
Kamala looked into his eyes. She spoke with a heavy tongue, made clumsy by the venom. “You have grown old, my love,” she said, “you have gone grey. But you are just like the young samana who once came to me in the garden with no clothes and with dusty feet. You are much more like him than you were then for you have gone away from me and Kamaswami. In your eyes you are just like him, Siddhartha. Oh, I too have grown old, old - did you still recognise me?”
Siddhartha smiled. “I recognised you immediately, Kamala, my love.”
Kamala pointed to her boy and said, “Did you recognise him, too? He is your son.”
Her eyes became erratic and fell shut. The boy wept, Siddhartha took him on his knee, let him cry, stroked his hair and, as he looked at the child’s face, a brahmanic prayer that he had once learned came to his mind, one that he had learned when he himself was a lad. Slowly, with melodic voice, he began to say it, the words flowed into him from the past, from his childhood. Affected by his sing-song the boy became quiet, sobbed now and then, and then fell asleep. Siddhartha put him down on Vasudeva’s bed. Vasudeva stood at the stove cooking rice. Siddhartha threw him a glance which he returned with a smile.