Once, when the two youths had been living with the Samanas for about three years and had shared their exercises, she received a message, a rumor, a legend in various ways and in a roundabout way: someone had appeared, called Gotama, the Blessed One, the Buddha, who had overcome the suffering of the world within himself and brought the wheel of rebirths to a standstill. As a teacher, surrounded by disciples, he walks through the country, ownerless, homeless, womanless, in the yellow cloak of an ascetic, but with a serene forehead, a blessed one, and Brahmins and princes bowed down to him and became his disciples
So you say, O friend, and yet you know that Siddhartha is not an ox-driver, and a samana is not a drunkard. It is true that the drinker finds a stupor, it is true that he finds a short escape and takes a rest, but he returns from the delusion and, finding everything the same, has not become wiser, has not gained knowledge, has not risen higher by steps