You are Siddhartha’s son after your mother died and you are forced to live with your father. Write your thoughts.
I am still aching with the loss of my mother, my beloved mother who had been nothing but kind to me. She gave me everything I wanted and never uttered a harsh word to me. An unbearable feeling of agony had welled up in my chest as I attended her burial. My mother, my beautiful mother burned to ashes in front of my eyes. I had wept like I had never before.
At first, I had been terrified because I hadn’t known what would happen to me after my mother’s death. But then he told me that I was his son.
Now, I live with him and another old man, and to me, every day is a living hell. Our house, if you could even call it that, is a miserable little hut barely enough to accommodate three people. I can’t help but reminiscence about my old house. There, I slept in a soft bed, ordered my servants around and I could eat fine food to my heart’s content. We had a large pleasure garden where I had spent many fine, careless hours. Now, I live in misery and utter poverty. I sleep in a hard, stiff bed capable of breaking my back, and unless I rob the fruit trees at the back of the house, I am forced to eat bananas every day like them, to who even rice is a dainty. Whereas before I had commanded servants, now I am the servant. I am expected to work for these old men, as if I’m supposed to be grateful to them for letting me stay in their filthy hut.
It always makes me furious, the way my father treats me. No matter what I do, no matter how rude and disrespectful I am to him, he never raises his voice, seldom gets angry. He never beats me; he dare not lay a finger on me. He has never punished me or commanded me. Instead, he tries to be kind to me, which makes it even worse. I would much rather he beat me. He shames me daily with his friendliness and patience, answering my insults with a smile, my disobedience with friendliness. I boil with rage every time he does this. I can clearly see how hard he tries to win me over, but the harder he tries, the more I resist. He is always thoughtful saving the best morsels for me, and he works in the hut and the fields in order to be close and keep an eye on me. He refuses to understand that I have no desire for his compassion, that I do not want his love.
It has been months now and I am no closer to liking this place than I was before. In fact, my regard for this place and my father is getting worse by the day. It has gotten to the point where even waking up in the morning is a chore. Staying in this hut is boring me to the brink of madness; there is nothing to do here. It is so painful, so degrading to have to live in such poverty.
Being ill-mannered does not bother me in the least bit, and the fact that my father never punishes me just fuels my rage even more. I insulted my father, and shattered both rice bowls, and as usual he responded with his indulgence and patience.
That was the final straw. I absolutely refuse to take it anymore. I cannot, will not spend another day here. The sun will not rise while I am still in this house.
While I have no doubt that I will leave, I still didn’t have a concrete idea on where I would go. But I would be content as long as I am not here. I’ll steal away in the dead of the night and they would be none the wiser.
I need money; I will not survive a day without it. I will take the copper and silver coins which they receive for ferrying travellers across the river. I will take their boat and break the oar once I have reached the other side, to prevent them following me. I know it is wrong but I cannot, will not spend another day here.
