Timid and weeping, the boy had attended his mothers funeral; gloomy and shy, he had listeo Siddhartha, who greeted him as his son and weled him at his pla Vasudevas hut. Pale, he sat for many days by the hill of the dead, did not want to eat, gave no open look, did not open his heart, met his fate with resistand denial.
Siddhartha spared him a him do as he pleased, he honoured his m. Siddhartha uood that his son did not know him, that he could not love him like a father. Slowly, he also saw and uood that the eleven-year-old ampered boy, a mothers boy, and that he had grown up in the habits of rich people, aced to finer food, to a soft bed, aced to giving orders to servants. Siddhartha uood that the m, pampered child could not suddenly and willingly be tent with a life among strangers and in poverty. He did not force him, he did many a chore for him, alicked the best piece of the meal for him. Slowly, he hoped to win him over, by friendly patience.
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