Roberto Calasso - Ka

There are only so many gestures one can make, but meanings are innumerable. So the same stories are repeated, with variations, so that each time we may discover, in one slow rotation, a new earth and a new sky of meanings. And it was precisely there, in the sky, that that rotation was first observed. There was a time when Orion had risen in the dawning of the spring equinox, beginning of every beginning, first moment of time. It shone brightly and soon disappeared, swamped by the sunlight. But the seers saw how through the centuries Orion was slowly moving — and how Aldebaran was approaching the place where it had been. They recognized the precession of the equinoxes long before Hipparchus gave it its name and consigned it to science. And they found all the actors in the drama up there. They saw the precession of crimes in the sky. In the beginning the guilt lay with Prajāpati, who was Orion, whom they called the Antelope, MṚga. In the end, as the equinoctial point shifted, it was in the hunter himself, the Archer, Rudra, who was Sirius. But now the arrow was loosed not by a god, in perfect wakefulness, but by a man, Pāndu, a hunter king who mistakenly, carelessly, shot two antelopes, one a brahman, the other his spouse, as they coupled.

There is a strip of sky that is the Place of the Hunter. It lies between Sirius and the Pleiades, Betelgeuse and Aldebaran. In the middle shines Orion. It is that area of the heavens between Gemini and Taurus, on the edge of the Milky Way. From places as far away as Greece and Guyana, people have looked up and seen it as the scene of a hunt, the trail of a desperate chase. Here and there, to the sides of the trail, you could see bright bones and shreds of flesh. And an antelope or a girl in flight. Or a huge man, shot through by a young huntress: Artemis. The arrow was always loosed from the point where Sirius shines, always buried itself in Orion: another great hunter, shot by mistake, or inscrutable calculation.

Aldebaran, Betelgeuse: between these enchanting names lies the Place of the Hunter. A bloody, feverish story has embedded itself in the sky. It reminds us that it will go on happening forever. But at its edges we find these names, which dissolve in the mind and dissolve the mind. They are the fragrance of sound. If every word conceals the killer of the thing, still without redress since time immemorial, these names emanate a substance that is soft and bright, a substance we would seek in vain among the things that are. Perhaps it is here that a hint of redress may be found.

When Uṣas took her place in the sky, when her moist body was stretched over Rohinī’s, the primordial scene once again found its home, there where it had all happened, motionless on the backdrop of the night. Beyond, blazed the awesome light of Orion. Uṣas immediately recognized it as Prajāpati’s head. Below flashed the three-notched arrow, buried in the three stars of Orion’s girdle. And still further away was a light that wounded, the light of Sirius, the Archer. Once again they formed the triangle of desire and punishment.

It takes millions of years for the gods to pass from one aeon to the next. A few centuries for mankind. The gods change their names and do the same things as before, with subtle variations. So subtle as to look like pure repetition. Or again: so subtle as to look like stories that have nothing to do with those that came before them. For men, what change are the names, and likewise the literary genres in which deed and variation are accomplished. Thus Prajāpati became Brahmā. Thus Rudra became Śiva. Thus, from the allusive cipher of the Ṛg Veda and the abrupt, broken narratives of the Brāhmanas, stories picked up only to be hurriedly dropped, one passed to the ruthless redundance of the Purānas, their incessant dilution, their indulgence in hypnotic and hypertrophic detail. Narration once again became the receptacle of every form, every calculation, every duty. A huge and divine novel unfolded, slowly. And the demands on the listener changed too. There was a time when he’d been obliged to solve abrupt enigmas, or find his head bursting. Now he could heap up rewards merely by listening to the stories as they proliferated. The shift had to do with a growing weariness: the era of the bhakti had begun, the era of obscure and pervasive devotion, where the pathos of abandoning oneself to a belief prevailed over the transparent perception of the bandhus , of the connections woven into all that is.

There came a moment when Brahmā believed his work on earth was done. He had created everything out of his mind: the entire inventory of beings, from microbe to mountain, stretched away before him. But there was a false note. It all looked like an enameled court painting. Everything moved, everything looked normal. But nothing decayed. Nor grew. Was all to remain intact forever? Was this the earth it behooved Brahmā to create? The god smiled a sad smile of solitary soliloquy. He knew it was not.

Brahmā’s creation suffered from this weakness: all were born exclusively of the mind, and worse still, no one died. Faced with such a world, at once rowdy and inert, a stifled, menacing anger slowly brewed up in its creator, an anger that seemed eager to unleash itself in a final conflagration. Brahmā sat apart from it all, his legs crossed, gazing at the world with the contempt of a father reflecting on the mediocrity of his son. In each separate element he recognized a sense of all-pervading fatuity. So Śiva was doing no more than showing mercy when he suggested to Brahmā what was missing, that figure who alone could save the world from a brusque and spiteful end: Mṛtyu, Death.

“Anger rushes out at the world from the orifices of your body, sets it ablaze, scorches its mane. Thus it is flat and arid once again. But still inhabited by these multitudes of men who don’t know what to do with themselves. Why reduce the life you have invented to such pettiness? Let men die. And, since among ourselves everything happens many times, they can die many times and live many times. That way they need no longer be humiliated by this endless life, which only oppresses the earth with its weight.” Thus spoke Śiva to Brahmā one day when his benevolent side was uppermost.

Grimly, Brahmā agreed. The earth was spared his flames. There was a moment of suspension, as if everything had stopped breathing. Then a girl appeared, a dark girl, dressed in red with large earrings. Crouched on the ground, the two gods gazed at her. Then Brahmā spoke: “Ṃrtyu, Death, come here. You must go forth into the world. You must kill my creatures, the scholars and the muddlers. You must have but one rule: that there be no exceptions.” The girl gazed at the god in silence, her fingers nervously twisting a garland of lotus flowers. Then she said: “Progenitor, why have you chosen me to do something that is against every law? And why should I do this and nothing but this? I shall burn on an everlasting pyre of tears.” Brahmā said: “No prevaricating. You are without stain and your body blameless. Go…” Death stood before Brahmā in silence, her shoulders slumped.

Death was stubborn and refused to obey Brahmā’s order for some time. In Dhenuka, surrounded by asceties she should already have slaughtered, she stood on one foot for fifteen million years. No one took any notice. She was one of the many who went there in retreat. Puzzled, Mṛtyu meditated.

Brahmā reminded her of her duty. But Death just changed the foot she was standing on — and went on meditating for another twenty million years. Then for another few million she lived with the wild beasts, are nothing but air, sank under the waters. Then she lay on Mount Meru for a long time, like a log. More millions of years passed. One day Brahmā went to see her: “My daughter, what is going on? A few moments or a few million years won’t change anything. We’re always back where we started. And I’ll say it again: ‘Do your duty.’” As if those millions of years hadn’t gone by and she were resuming the conversation after no more than a moment or two. Mṛtyu said: “I’m afraid of breaking the law.” “Don’t be afraid,” said Brahmā. “No judge could ever be as impartial as yourself. And I can’t see why you should cry as much as you do either: your tears will gouge ulcers in the bodies you must kill. Better kill them quickly, without dragging it out so long.” Then Death lowered her eyes and went forth silently into the world. She tried to keep the tears from her eyes, as a last sign of benevolence toward the creatures she was slaying.