The River Within: My Reflection on Siddhartha

Some books stay with you because they say something new. But this one — Siddhartha — it stays because it reminds you of something you already knew, deep down, but had maybe forgotten along the way.

It’s not dramatic. It’s not loud. It doesn’t hand out lessons or make you underline quotes to sound wise later. It just sits with you. Quietly. Like a friend who doesn’t speak much, but when they do, it changes the way you look at things.

I wrapped up Siddhartha last week, and even now, its essence lingers with me. At the same time, I've been reading Romancing with Life by Dev Anand for the past five months. Between office work and other responsibilities, I’ve been savoring it a few pages at a time. It's an autobiography that feels raw and real, one of the most honest books I’ve come across. Though I’m almost at the end, there are still a few pages to go. But despite diving into Dev Anand’s world, I can’t quite shake off the profound impact of Siddhartha. It's still with me, and every so often, I find myself reflecting on its teachings. This is the book I received as a gift—a gift that has stayed with me long after finishing it.

The thing that struck me most was how Siddhartha doesn’t really follow anything. Not even the Buddha. He meets Gautama, sees his serenity, recognizes the truth in him — and yet walks away. Not out of arrogance. But because he knows in his bones that some truths can’t be taught. They have to be lived. Felt. Stumbled into. You can’t copy someone else’s path, no matter how perfect it looks on them. You have to walk into your own wilderness.

And then there’s Kamala. She’s not just a lover or a distraction. She teaches him the beauty of form, the magic of desire. The sacredness of being close to another person. Through her, Siddhartha learns the world — its touch, its hunger, its softness. And even in that world of pleasure and wealth, there is something holy. The book doesn’t shame him for enjoying it. It just lets him live it, until one day, he doesn’t want it anymore. And that’s powerful too — learning to let go without regret.

Govinda — oh, Govinda — is the friend who stays behind. The one who follows the rules, who clings to the known, who believes the path is somewhere out there, just waiting to be discovered. His devotion is real. But it’s only at the very end, when he stops searching and simply sees, that something opens up in him. That moment — when he looks at Siddhartha and finally understands — gave me goosebumps. Because haven’t we all been Govinda at some point? Hoping someone else’s truth will become our own, if we just stay close enough?

But what really moved me was the river.

It’s not just water. It’s a teacher. It flows, it listens, it reflects. It holds everything — the child, the old man, the joy, the grief, the leaving and returning. It doesn’t push. It doesn’t pull. It just is. And that, somehow, is enough. Siddhartha learns more by sitting silently with the river than he ever did with the Samanas or the merchants or even Gautama. Because the river doesn’t explain. It mirrors.

This feels so relevant right now. In a world that’s loud, fast, full of how-to-guides and morning routines and checklists for happiness — Siddhartha says, stop. Be still. There’s nowhere to get to. You’re already on the path, even when it doesn’t feel like one.

It reminds me that it’s okay not to know. It’s okay to feel lost. That loving deeply and hurting badly don’t cancel each other out. That lust and longing and loneliness are not distractions from the spiritual — they’re part of it. That sometimes, falling apart is the start of something deeper.

This book doesn’t promise answers. But it does offer presence. And in its pages, I found something that felt honest, unpolished, and true. Not in the events — but in the feeling they leave behind.

So yes, it’s been nearly a hundred years since it was written. But the questions it asks are timeless. Who am I? What is love? What is real? Where does peace live?

And the answers — well, they change. They’re meant to.

But if you sit quietly, like Siddhartha did, maybe by a river, maybe just beside your own breath, you might hear something. Not from the outside. From within.

And that voice might say — you’re already becoming.

Book Name: Siddhartha

Author: Hermann Hesse

Publisher: Penguin Books (Penguin Select Classics)

(The writer of this blog, Shweta, a bookworm in our team, is a certified NLP practitioner who loves to write about family, relationships, and her takeaways from conversations, books, and movies. She believes in soulful storytelling and finding personal meaning through everyday reflections.)