Roberto Calasso - Ka

“This is why I found myself on that occasion among the celebrants of a vrātya rite. This is why I inclined toward them, unlike the brahmans, who secretly detested them and were only waiting for the chance to eliminate them from the canonical course of events altogether. And they almost succeeded. I was always an anomaly among the ṛṣis , because I am a warrior, a kṣatriya . I had a kingdom to rule too, in my life, not just an āśrama . I am also the only one who ever managed to upset my companions, the ṛṣis of the Great Bear, the time when, out of sheer spite, since they refused to welcome my favorite Triśanku into the sky, I caused seven other ṛṣis —identical to them — to appear in the southern sky. They saw those other ṛṣis take shape in the starry depths and recognized themselves, as though in a terrifying mirror. And they imagined that, at the other end of the universe, seven pairs of eyes must be looking at them with the same terror. Who was who? But the ṛṣis got to the bottom of that uncertainty, like all the others… What has never ended, on the other hand, is the quarrel between myself and Vasiṣṭha. Even when I was a heron and he a marsh bird, we pecked each other with our sharp beaks. They said of us that we were ‘always entangled in love and hate, always impatient in anger.’ I don’t deny it. Nor will I renounce it. All this by way of making clear that, if ever a a ṛṣi were destined to celebrate a rite with the vrātyas , with those who were outcasts because they knew too much, it was I.

“But now let’s speak of the rite itself. It was a sattra , something different from all other rites. Sattra means ‘sitting’: one sits, perhaps for a very long time, sometimes as long as sixty-one nights. Other rites were celebrated in an open space, often on a riverbank, the sattra in a thicket. To other ceremonies one walks, to a sattra one creeps. You see the sacrificers moving in a line, bent double, circumspect, each holding a corner of the robe of the person in front. Thus one arrives at the place of sacrifice: creeping. Why? The sacrifice is like an antelope, it mustn’t be frightened. Otherwise it runs off.

“In other rites there is a patron, and there are officiants. In a sattra all are patrons, all are officiants. Hence there are no ritual fees, no dakṣiṇā . What does one sacrifice, then, in a sattra ? Oneself. At the center of the mahāvrata there is a swing. It is the sun. Then they mark out something like a track, for a chariot race. And they set up a target, in this case a cowhide. Then the water dance begins. Nine girls, six in front, three behind, move from left to right, tapping one foot lightly on the ground, each with a full jug of water on her head. ‘Here is the sweet,’ they said, over and over. At the end of the dance, they poured out the water on the ground. I didn’t know why until I met Indra, but that dance enchanted me. I had never seen anything more graceful in my life. Then the hotṛ approached the swing, but without climbing onto it. He touched the seat with his elbows, with his hands, then with his chin. He looked like a snake, testing the ground. Then, as though the angle were the result of long calculation, he would slowly push the seat toward the east, then upward, downward, sideways. It was the ceremony of the breaths. When the hotṛ finally climbed on the swing, the hymns burst out. All desires were made word. The drums sounded, the flutes and harps played. The officiants sang till they were out of breath. There were many other phases, including the chariot race and the coitus, behind a quivering curtain, of the ‘non-whore called whore’ with the ‘man-not-from-the-Magadha called man-from-the-Magadha.’

“All this is very far off. The brahmans concerned themselves not only with thinking but also with covering their tracks. The vrātyas were cast out among those best left unmentioned. They lived on as ghosts. Which in a sense they had always been. The herds of the dead. And yet the breaths, we Saptarṣis that is, whom every renouncer knows as his last companions when he withdraws into the forest and speaks with them alone, the breaths without which thought could not mingle with existence, since the one mingles with the other only by virtue of breathing — yet the breaths, I say, were first revealed to the vrātyas , who arranged the right gestures, through the revelation Indra gave to me, that day I am now remembering.”

Vasiṣṭha said: “What is knowledge composed of? If it wishes to know the world in its very fiber, knowledge must achieve the highest level of affinity with that state from which the world arose. That state is knowledge. Every other descends from it. One is what one knows: ‘One becomes what one thinks: this is the eternal enigma,’ say the texts. He who knows, transforms himself. Whatever does not make one become like the thought that has been thought is not full knowledge. Which is another reason why thinking is dangerous. If whoever thinks horror becomes horror too, his thinking will have to be vast indeed if the horror that gathers there is not to suffocate all around it, as has happened, and still happens to many a wretched mind not lacking in perception.”

Yājñavalkya said: “I know that for many of you the real torment is that you must abandon your dear bodies. You imagine, not unreasonably, that the happiness of a disembodied spirit has something dreary about it. But that is not the case. After death, you will find yourself wandering through a haze, shouting without being heard, but all at once it will be you who hear. You will become aware that someone is following you, like an animal in the forest, only now in the darkness of the heavens. The person following you is your oblation, the being composed of the offering you made in your life. In a whisper, he will say to you: ‘Come here, come here, it is I, your Self.’ And in the end you will follow him.”

Sukanyā was beautiful and curious. She had left her friends behind and was wandering alone in the forest, when she came across a huge anthill. She went closer to take a look, and felt looked at herself. Behind the ceaseless motion of the laboring ants, she sensed that there was something still. Two reddish points of light glowed in the labyrinth. Two imprisoned fireflies perhaps? Sukanyā took a thorn and pricked them. There came a low moan. Sukanyā walked on lighthearted, thinking nothing of it.

Śaryāti soon noticed that his kingdom had been struck by a scourge: people were unable to void their bowels. Along with everybody else, he tried to find out if some evil deed had been done. One of those he summoned was his daughter Sukanyā. “Do you remember doing anything wrong?” “Nothing,” answered Sukanyā. Her smile was at once sweet and tinged with mockery. “Think carefully,” said her father. “I pricked two firelies with a thorn.” “Where?” “In an anthill.” Śaryāti lowered his eyes and turned pale. Nothing could be more dangerous and delicate than an anthill. It is the earth’s ear. It is the place where the leftovers of sacrifices are left. It is the home of the snake. It is the threshold of the world below the earth. There are temples in whose cells the liṅga rises from an anthill. Śaryāti fell silent. Sukanyā said: “I remember exactly where it was. I’ll take you there, if you want.” “Let’s go,” said the king.

Cyavana was “decrepit and ghostlike” says the Śatapatha Brāhmana , when, having raised the power of their rituals by every possible means, the Bragus finally felt ready to set sail for the sky on the ship of sacrifice. They were impatient to be off — and at the same time knew that it would be a disgrace to leave their old father behind. But Cyavana had seen their embarrassment. Ironic and allusive, he watched them through the narrow slits in his ruined face: “Please go ahead. Don’t worry about me. By all means leave me here with the leftovers. I have the formula of the Lord of the Residues. Perhaps I’ll manage something more uplifting than going to heaven.” He laughed, though nothing but a dry rustle came from his throat. His sons looked at him and hesitated. Then they laid him down like a bundle of bones wrapped in a rag near a tree trunk where the leftovers of their sacrifices had been heaped. Soon he was covered by ants. For years they climbed all over his body.