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Kamala's Journal
Dear Journal, This afternoon after I returned to my grove, one of my servants told me a Brahmin desired to speak to me. After a few moments, my servant led this man to the pavillion, where I lay on my couch. He looked very familiar, and I knew I had seen him yesterday. He had greeted me. But, something was different about him. Yesterday, he had a beard and long hair with dust all over him. This man's name was Siddhartha. He then went on to tell me that he wanted to learn the art of love from me. I told him he must learn have clothes, fine shoes, and money in order to learn from me. I later exhanged a kiss for a poem. Siddhartha's poetry is very good indeed. It will be hard for him to earn money with a talent like poetry- but I discovered that he is literate. I recommended him to my good friend, Kamaswami, so that he can acquire money and clothes. I do hope Siddhartha will come back. Love, Kamala
Dear Journal, Siddhartha now visits me every day. He arrives in fine clothes and shoes of a rich man's, and always has a present for me in his hands. He is a wonderful pupil to teach the pleasures of love to. Once, Siddhartha told me something I had thought all night about. I still remember his exact words- "You are like me; you are different from other people. You are Kamala and no one else, and within you there is a stillness and sanctuary to which you can retreat at any time and be yourself, just as I can. Few people have that capacity and yet everyone could have it." He said one distinct thing that I will never forget. "Perhaps people like us cannot love. Ordinary people can- that is their secret." Maybe his is right. I feel Siddhartha still has that little bit of a Samana within him. I think that is what makes him such a unique person. He is the most extraordinary person I have ever taught. Love, Kamala
Dear Journal, Siddhartha is an acclaimed man in our town. People go to him for advice or to ask for money. He now has is own house, servants, and even a garden at the outskirts of town. However, he has no close friends except for me. Siddhartha seems different now, though. I feel like he is soon going to leave because he has not yet achieved what he came to the other side of the river for. Love, Kamala
Dear Journal, I am writing these last few words as I struggle to take my last breaths in this world. Siddhartha is now at peace- I could tell by his smile and eyes. He seems much more happy and content with his life, and I am elated for him. News that Buddha was dying had swept through the land, and many pilgrimages were made. Among these pilgrimages are I, Kamala ,and my son. He is not a pleasant traveler. He constantly longs of our home. I was a short distance away from the river, so I stopped to rest. Before I knew it, a poisonous snake bit me. My son was crying out loud for help. A ferryman, who was nearby, heard his calls and carried me to the ferry. He took me across the river to his hut. Although this is still quite hazy, I think Siddhartha immediately recognized me, and I think he thought that my son looked familiar to him. I have lived long enough to speak to Siddhartha. In our final conversation, I discovered that I do not have to see Budha to fulfill my wish of seeing an enlightened one. My Siddhartha is no different from the enlightened one. Farewell! Love, Kamala
"You are the best lover that I have had. You are stronger than the others, more supple, more willing. You have learned my art well."
"I am like you. You cannot love either, otherwise how could you practice love as an art? Perhaps people like us cannot love. Ordinary people can- that is their secret."
Dear Journal, I feel that Siddhartha is becoming restless in the world of pleasures. I feel he will leave soon, so when the news came about his dissapearance, I am not surprised. I opened the songbird's cage, and have let it free. I identify the songbird as Siddhartha. I have just discovered that I am pregnant. Love, Kamala
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