Ardor (17 page)

Etymologists and lexicographers help us approach certain telling details that the ritualists do not always make clear. Behind the dismembered body of Praj
ā
pati, who “has run the whole race” and has ended up falling on his own eye, from which food flowed forth as if it were tears (“From him, thus fallen, food flowed forth: it was from his eye on which he lay that the food flowed”), behind his indistinct figure from whom his son Indra soon sought to take away greatness and splendor, one began to see a boundless extension of desire, over and above which was a happiness that came before all existence, in a space that came before everything and was able to contain everything, in a perpetual circulation of winds. And this was Ka.

Ka
,
kha
: written differently, sounding almost the same, those two syllables, put together, had to heal all sadness. Why? In
ka
, Praj
ā
pati loomed this time only in the shadows, whereas the meaning of “happiness,”
sukha
, was clearly apparent. Happiness spread out into space (
kha
)—and space allowed happiness to breathe. On another occasion, another master explained to Upakosala the simple opening of space called
kha
(which also means “orifice,” “wound,” “zero”).

But how does
brahman
appear in
kha
, in “open space”? In the form of an hourglass. Its upper part extends out into the totality of outer space. Its neck narrows to a point that is almost imperceptible, in a minuscule cavity in the heart of each person. Behind it there opens up an immensity equivalent to that of the outside world. This is the lower part of the hourglass. The grain of mustard, of which the Upani
ṣ
ads (and the Gospels) speak, passes through the neck and extends out into the invisible. One passage in the
Ch
ā
ndogya Upani
ṣ
ad
states all this (a revelation that shatters all previous thinking) in the quietest, most direct way, as in a calm, persuasive conversation: “That which is called
brahman
is this space,
ā
k
āś
a
, which is outside man. This space which is outside man is the same as the one within man. And this space within man is the same as that inside the heart. It is what is full, unchangeable.” The aura that surrounds people is the impression that allows us to detect the presence of the lower part of the hourglass. For the German romantics, inner exploration was a relentless search for the neck of the hourglass, without the assistance of rituals and fires.

*   *   *

Arka
: a word belonging to a secret language, about which we know little. It was familiar to Armand Minard, the most austere priest of the
Ś
atapatha Br
ā
hma
ṇ
a
, who dedicated his life’s work to a word-by-word commentary on it, with the perverse satisfaction of making it even more inaccessible: “
arká
-: ray (flash of lightning, flame, fire, sun),—plant whose flamed leaves carry the offering to Rudra in his lustral century (
ś
atarudriya
),—laud, hymn (
=
uktha
), which is perhaps the first meaning (Ren. JAs 1939 344 n. 1). This polysemy opens up endless speculations (thus X 6 2 5-10). And the word (almost:
525 a
) always, as here (and
363
), taken in two or more senses.” These words are a comment on the
Ś
atapatha Br
ā
hma
ṇ
a
, 10, 3, 4, 3 (“Do you know the
arka
? So, may your Lordship deign to teach it to us”) and they make us feel the rapturous shiver of Minard’s philology. In contrast, Stella Kramrisch has another style: “
Arka
is anything that radiates. It is ray, splendor, and lightning. It is the song.”

The passage Minard comments on is a provocative example of a series of riddles, where the human body appears behind the description of
arka
as a flower,
Calotropis gigantea
(“Do you know the flowers of the
arka
? With this he meant the eyes”—and so forth for the other organs), and behind the
arka
can be seen the profile of Agni, up to the last comparison: “He who regards Agni as
arka
and as man, in his body this Agni, the
arka
, will be built up through the knowledge that ‘I here am Agni, the
arka.
” But also to be found in
arka
were Ka as well as
ka
, “happiness.” Immediately after the opening of the
B
ṛ
had
ā
ra
ṇ
yaka Upani
ṣ
ad
—an overwhelming procession of divinities led by the young girl called Dawn, U
ṣ
as, who reveals herself to be “the head of the sacrificial horse”—we move on to
arka
: “In the beginning there was nothing here below. Everything was wrapped in Death [M
ṛ
tyu], in hunger, for hunger is Death. He [M
ṛ
tyu] had this thought: ‘Let me have a Self.’ So he began to pray. And, while he was praying, waters were generated. He said: ‘While I was praying [
arc-
] happiness came to me [
ka
; this according to Senart, but
ka
also means ‘water,’ and so Olivelle translates the passage: ‘While I was occupied in a liturgical recital, water poured forth from me’].’ This is where the name
arka
comes from. Happiness goes to the one who knows thus why
arka
is called
arka
[Olivelle is in difficulty here, so that he has to translate as follows: ‘Water pours forth from the one who knows thus’].”

But the story carries on: “The froth of the waters solidified and was land. On the land he [M
ṛ
tyu] toiled. When he was exhausted and hot, the essence of his brilliance became fire.” After the waters and the land, other parts of the world were formed: the sun, the wind. It was the breath of life that broke down into pieces. Death then wished: “Let me give birth to a second Self. Death, which is hunger, coupled mentally (
manas
ā
) in coitus (
mithunam
) with Speech, V
ā
c. That which was the seed became the Year.” Speech, V
ā
c, as a daughter with whom to have immediate intercourse, then the appearance of Time (Year): we have already come across this in the
Ś
atapatha Br
ā
hma
ṇ
a
, the long text of which the
B
ṛ
had
ā
ra
ṇ
yaka Upani
ṣ
ad
forms the final part. There, however, it was all about Praj
ā
pati; here it is M
ṛ
tyu, Death, who continues to behave like Praj
ā
pati. He practices
tapas
, becomes exhausted, dismembered. “The breaths: splendor, energy” flee from his body. His body swells, as also happens in the stories about Praj
ā
pati. It is a carcass, but his mind is still in it. M
ṛ
tyu then decided to make another body for himself. He formulated the same words in his mind as he had spoken at the beginning: “Let me have a Self.” He then became a horse,
a
ś
va
, since he had “swollen,”
a
ś
vat.
And once M
ṛ
tyu has swollen up in the horse, he can sacri
fi
ce it, since “what was swollen had become fit for sacrifice (
medhya
).” This is the origin of the “horse sacrifice,”
a
ś
vamedha.
Here we sense the action of the same coded, lightning process that operated for the word
arka.
The text, in fact, immediately points it out: “They are two,
arka
and
a
ś
vamedha
, but there is one single divinity, which is M
ṛ
tyu.” Throughout, up to the institution of the
a
ś
vamedha
, which is the greatest of all sacrifices, M
ṛ
tyu and Praj
ā
pati have each followed in the footsteps of the other, like two doubles. But only now, in the Upani
ṣ
ad of the Forest, is the piercing obsession of the Vedic ritualists given form, which in the Br
ā
hma
ṇ
as appears only fleetingly: “recurring death,”
punarm
ṛ
tyu
, the greatest of all ills that can be suffered. And the power that makes it possible to escape it is M
ṛ
tyu, Death, itself: “He [who knows this] avoids recurring death, death cannot reach him, M
ṛ
tyu becomes his Self, he who knows thus becomes one of these divinities.”

How was this astonishing reversal reached, through which Death became liberation from death? It was a process with various stages. In the beginning, “Praj
ā
pati created living creatures: from upward breaths he produced the gods, from downward breaths mortals. And, over living creatures, he created Death as the one who devours them.” Farther on, the same
k
āṇḍ
a
of the
Ś
atapatha Br
ā
hma
ṇ
a
speaks of Praj
ā
pati who, “having created living things, felt emptied and was frightened of Death.” Later, it says: “Death, which is evil (
p
ā
pm
ā
m
ṛ
tyu
ḥ
)” overcame Praj
ā
pati while he was creating. The farther we venture in the text, the closer M
ṛ
tyu comes to Praj
ā
pati and surrounds him: an impending presence, finally a dueling presence. When we reach the
B
ṛ
had
ā
ra
ṇ
yaka Upani
ṣ
ad
, the situation is reversed: there is no more mention of Praj
ā
pati, it is now M
ṛ
tyu—and it is Death who now submits to all the tests, to all the labors faced by Praj
ā
pati. Does this mean the Upani
ṣ
ad radically changes viewpoint? Definitely not. Everything had already been established. Back in the tenth
k
āṇḍ
a
of the
Ś
atapatha Br
ā
hma
ṇ
a
we read that Praj
ā
pati is “the Year, Death, the Ender.”

*   *   *

At the age of eight, the young brahmin came before the master and said: “I am here to become a pupil.” The master then asked him: “
Ka
(Who, What) is your name?” The question included the answer: “
Ka
is your name.” At that moment the pupil came under the shadow of Praj
ā
pati, taking even his name: “Thus he makes him one belonging to Praj
ā
pati and initiates him.” Everything else was a consequence. The master took his pupil’s right hand and said: “You are a disciple of Indra. Agni is your master.” Powerful divinities, who cast a shadow. And in that shadow were Praj
ā
pati and the pupil himself, who was about to undergo a long transformation. It would last twelve years.

*   *   *

“Praj
ā
pati is truly that sacrifice which is performed here; and from which these creatures are born: and likewise they are born again today.” These clear-cut words are found three times within a few pages. They sound like a warning, an opening chord. They remind us that Praj
ā
pati’s theology is above all a liturgy. It is not just a matter of reconstructing Praj
ā
pati’s original actions in which living beings were created. It is now a matter of carrying out corresponding actions so that living beings continue to be produced. Praj
ā
pati’s action is uninterrupted and perpetual. It is the action that is carried out in the mind, in every mind, whether it knows it or not, when forms break away from its inarticulate and borderless dominion—forms that have an outline and stand out among everything else.