Roberto Calasso: Ardor

If ancient Indian history as a whole is one of rivalry, bullying, and deceit between brahmins and kṣatriyas , the story of Yājñavalkya and Janaka can be seen as the opposite, as an example of a harmonious relationship. Janaka remains drawn to Yājñavalkya, he knows that the brahmin possesses a superior knowledge — and is ready to yield everything to him. But at the same time Janaka is the warrior who can compete with the brahmins not just on equal terms, but sometimes surpassing them in learning, as happens in the case of the agnihotra. Only then will Yājñavalkya acknowledge that the balance has shifted, and grant him a boon. And only when he has to fulfill that boon will he agree to set out the doctrine with a magnanimity that he has never shown before, proceeding in a state of lucid rapture, passing from prose to verse and from verse to prose, adding more and more detail and lavish imagery. That teaching will turn Janaka into a brahmin. The only convincing picture of a happy, and therefore effective, relationship between a philosopher and a man of power is not that between Plato and Dionysius — which was tense and ill-fated from the very beginning — but the relationship between Yājñavalkya and Janaka.

* * *

The rituals gave constant cause for disputation — and thus it happened that Yājñavalkya’s guidance was sought. Some disputations could be at the same time metaphysical, psychological, and sexual. For example: where to place the ghee used for the offering to the wives of the gods? If the ghee was placed on the altar, the wives of the gods found themselves being separated from the gods themselves, who were squatting, absorbed in thought, around the altar. The prudent sacrificer, who did not wish to create ill-feeling between the divine couples, took pains therefore to place the ghee a little to the north of the altar, on a line traced with a wooden sword, so that the gods’ wives remained beside their husbands. But some ritualists were less timorous, more cursory, concerned more about metaphysics than the marital harmony of the gods. Most notable among them was Yājñavalkya. Each time, his words were aimed straight at their target. He was rather like certain Zen masters in Chinese painting who seemed to emanate a barely contained physical power and looked upon the world as if it were a dry leaf.

Several ritualists had long plagued Yājñavalkya, asking him where the ghee should be placed, so as not to create friction between the gods and their wives. Yājñavalkya was well aware that the sacrificers were concerned not so much about the gods but about their own wives, who would have also felt excluded , in obvious imitation of the gods’ wives. A wife who feels excluded is always dangerous. She begins to feel dissatisfied with her husband. And then, who knows, she may take advantage of that estrangement to go looking for other men. Yājñavalkya knew all this. And his answer was intentionally insolent, touching on the sore point: “What does it matter if his [the sacrificer’s] wife goes off with other men?” Why so curt? As always happened with Yājñavalkya, his bluntness served to get straight to the metaphysical point, his only real interest. The ghee must be placed on the altar because the sacrifice must be edified by the sacrifice itself. If it were placed outside, the sacrifice would have to apply to something external, whereas it is essential for the sacrifice to be self-sufficient and self-generating, with all the paradoxes and contradictions that this implies. This was the supreme precept. And it certainly couldn’t be compromised by any concern for the marital harmony of a sacrificer. On that matter there was no turning back. Yājñavalkya spoke in this tone.

* * *

One day Yājñavalkya said he had to choose a place of worship for Vārṣṇya, who wished to celebrate a sacrifice. So Sātyayajña (about whom we know nothing, except that his name means “Descendant of True Sacrifice”) said: “In truth the whole earth is divine: a place of sacrifice is anywhere where a sacrifice can be made after having marked out the place with the appropriate formula.” Once again Yājñavalkya stepped in where there was a point of theology to be resolved. His interlocutor’s statement was enough to end any excessive geomantic concern. And it touched on a crucial question: all is decided when a sacrificial formula is imprinted on a place, like a seal, and so transforms it. But the text of the Śatapatha Brāhmaṇa goes further and says — without it being clear whether it is still a doctrine of Sātyayajña or has been added by Yājñavalkya—“the officiants are the place of sacrifice: the brahmins who perform the sacrifice are stability, being experts in doctrine, able to recite it, men of wisdom: we consider that to be the greatest proximity [to the gods], so to speak.” Wherever we find a perfect brahmin, that is the place of sacrifice. These words have a distant resonance in Thomas Mann when he said that, wherever he was, there too was the German language.

* * *

Janaka wanted to celebrate a sacrifice with large ritual fees. Large ritual fees meant many officiants. He assembled a thousand cows. On the horns of every cow he strung pieces of gold. Janaka wanted to understand which of the brahmins had attained the greatest knowledge; who was the brahmiṣṭha , “the wisest in brahman ” (the whole of India has been a question of brahman ). The cows would be presented to him. Yājñavalkya then told his disciple Sāmaśravas: “Lead them away.” The brahmins were shocked: “How can he say who has gone further in brahman ?” The king’s priest, Aśvala, then stepped forward and asked Yājñavalkya: “Are you the one who went further than anybody else in brahman ?” Yājñavalkya replied: “Let us pay homage to the brahmiṣṭha , but I wish to have the cows.” At this point Aśvala dared to question him.

It was a long exchange. Yājñavalkya answered the questions of seven brahmins and a woman. The brahmins were Aśvala, Jāratkārava Ārtabhāga, Bhujyu Lāhyāyani, Uṣasta Cākrāyaṇa, Kahola Kauṣītakeya, Uddālaka Āruṇi, and Vidagdha Śākalya. The woman was Gārgī Vācaknavī, the weaver.

What did they want to know? First was Aśvala, a priest in the king’s household, a hotṛ , who was accustomed to reciting hymns and formulas as well as pouring oblations. He wanted to begin with what is most certain, with what forms the basis of everything: the ritual. He had to find out if that arrogant Yājñavalkya really knew the basics of the ceremonies.

But he also wanted to find out whether Yājñavalkya was able to connect ritual with what was the first and final question: death. Ritual and death : anyone able to give an explanation about these two words can say that he is knowledgeable in brahman , that he is intimately versed in it. He began with death: “Everything here is in the hold of death, everything is subject to death: in what way can a sacrificer escape from the grip of death?”

Talking about the “sacrificer” was the same as talking about what, from Descartes onward, is the “subject”: the generic, sentient being who observes the world and encounters death. Implicit in the question was this: even before trying to say what it is, thought must serve as an escape from death, which is a “grip.” Man is the animal who attempts to escape from the predator. But how? Through ritual, which involves — very often — the killing of animals. This is what Aśvala thought, this is what he did every day. But was it right? Was it enough? And how would Yājñavalkya now respond? He would have known that behind his question was another: “What do I, an officiant, a hotṛ , do to escape death?”