Roberto Calasso - Ka

“What were they to do? A deal with the ants. They promised the ants that they would always find water wherever they dug. A line of white ants set off toward the bottom of Visnu’s bow, where it was thrust into the ground. They worked in silence. Viṣṇu was still on his feet, motionless and radiant. The ants began to gnaw at the bowstring. How long did it take? There were Visnu’s half-closed eyes — and there were the gods’ greedy eyes, staring at the ants. The sun was setting, the days came and went. The white ants never ceased their gnawing. One team took over from another. The silence was full of menace. Then there was a hiss, a new sound: grn . The bowstring had been bitten through. Springing open, the bow whipped off Visnu’s head. Lymph poured down on the grass. The gods leapt at it like dogs. But Indra threw himself on Visnu’s acephalous body. He placed his own hands, torso, legs, and feet over Visnu’s. He wanted to cover his whole body, to be what Viṣṇu had been. Then they resumed the sacrifice. It was a dull, demanding, useful sacrifice, but they did not conquer the celestial world, because it was a sacrifice without a head.”

Dadhyañc went on speaking: “The world was sad then, but it did work. Indra took care of the wheel of sacrifice, kept it perennially turning, like the year, like the rains. He was a reliable administrator. No one thought any more about conquering the sky.

“One day, Indra appeared before me. Even before speaking, he knew. He’d felt my eyes go right through him. ‘You know the doctrine of the honey…,’ said Indra, looking around, to make sure no one was listening. ‘Yes,’ I told him. ‘If you reveal it to anyone, I’ll cut off your head,’ said Indra, his voice full of hate.”

Dadhyañc added: “The world is a broken pot. Sacrifice tries to put it back together, slowly, piece by piece. But some parts have crumbled away. And even when the pot is put back together, it’s pitted with scars. There are those who say this makes it more beautiful. To know the head of the sacrifice also means to know the sacrifice that happens in the head, that cannot be seen, that has no need of gestures, implements, calendars, liturgies, victims — or even words.”

The Aśvins spoke some more with Dadhyañc. They told him that, despite bringing relief to the world, they themselves felt orphaned and alienated. The gods would not accept them in their circle, said they had no dignity because they were forever moving around. And even accused them of connivance with men. The woman they had most desired had preferred her decrepit husband. Now, at last, they knew something of their birth. But what had happened before that mare and stallion rubbed their muzzles together? The brighter they appeared, the greater the haze that stretched behind them.

Sitting between the Aśvins, Dadhyañc lightly inclined his long nose and again began to speak: “I know what you are feeling. You have always loved horses — and now you discover that your mother was a mare. You have always yearned for the soma —and now I am about to tell you that the lord of the soma was your grandfather Tvaṣṭṛ, the Craftsman, father of your mother, Saraṇyū. It is with him that the endless chain of twins began. Saraṇyū was herself a twin. Of Triśiras, the insolent Tricephalous, whom Indra decapitated. This too, perhaps, will be useful for you to know,” added Dadhyañc, mildly smiling. “It’s not clear why there began to be twins. Perhaps because the moon reflects the sun. Perhaps because reeds are reflected in the water they grow in. Perhaps because the Craftsman’s mind reflected a shape as yet unmanifest. Perhaps because the cup the Craftsman forged reflected the cup that resides in his mind. But perhaps for another reason too: in order to breathe, to branch out, life needed the help of beings in whom sameness and diversity were simultaneous and inseparable, to the point, almost, of being exactly superimposed, one over the other. Otherwise we wouldn’t know how to know. Every apparition would leave us overwhelmed and speechless. Whereas sameness and diversity allow us to travel far, very far — as you travel on your cart. And men follow in your tracks.

“But let’s get back to your complicated family: Saranyū herself was born as a reflection. Tvaṣṭṛ couldn’t break away from her. They slept in the same bed.” Dadhyañc’s voice dropped. “I can’t rule out the possibility that one of you may be his son.” Dadhyañc resumed: “Tvastr knew that he ought to break off with his daughter. But his choice of a husband for her was governed by malice. Tvaṣṭṛ possessed all the forms there are (indeed they called him Viśvarūpa, the Omniform One), and so as his daughter’s husband he chose he who has no form, the shapeless solar globe, whom they now call Vivasvat, the Brilliant One. It’s time you knew this as well: the Sun, at first, was a Dead Egg, Mārtānda. And that’s what they called him. He was stillborn from Aditi’s womb. Never trust nature. It’s never simple. It’s never natural. But back to Tvaṣṭṛ. Was his choice a punishment? A bad joke? No doubt there was jealousy. Physical contact with her husband must be a torture, for thus Saranyūwould yearn only for her first lover, her father. Embracing her, Vivasvat scorched Saranyū’s tender, opalescent skin. But all the same she gave him two children. Yama and Yamī. Twins again. In the bed where she had given birth, Saranyū felt she would never be able to bear her husband’s embraces again. Her mind formed a simulacrum, identical to herself, called Samjñā. If her father was the master of forms, it was she who would evoke copies. And we’ve been beset by them, enchanted by them, ever since. Saranyū told Samjñā what to do: she must take her place, look after the little ones, sleep with her husband. ‘You can do it,’ she told her, ‘because you are a shadow. Not even he can burn you. You can survive anything.’ Then Saranyū left. ‘They hid the immortal from mortals,’ the hymns say. When men lose their heart for a beloved, it’s Saranyū they are seeking, but they embrace a copy. Vivasvat didn’t realize that he was dealing with an identical copy, not with Saranyū. He was merely amazed to find her so accommodating. Foolishly, he imagined that motherhood had calmed her down. At last their life seemed to be running smoothly.

“That’s how Manu, first among men, was procreated. That’s why men always go after simulacra. They are born of a simulacrum. That’s why they are never sure if they really exist. And never will be. Meanwhile Saranyū wandered around and meditated. She had taken the form of a mare. One day Vivasvat opened a door and caught Samjñā scolding the little Yama quite bitterly. It was as though she were a servant taking advantage of her mistress’s absence. ‘She can’t be his mother.’ The thought forced itself upon Vivasvat’s mind. He ran outside, overcome by rage. As he was running, he heard the drumming of hooves. He was a stallion. In the distance, in the middle of a meadow, he saw a mare, motionless, immersed in tapas . As soon as she caught sight of the stallion, she became nervous. She fled. She did everything not to turn her back to him. You already know the end of the story.”

“But now let’s go back a bit,” said Dadhyañc. “No sooner had the gods been born than a cloud of dust arose. Within it: a shuffling sound. On the ground: the first footprints, which immediately became mixed up. Seven beings were dancing. They felt they had been freed, because born of Aditi, She-who-loosens-bonds. But Aditi had given birth to eight children. Seven were dancing, one was an amorphous fetus, a piece of flesh as broad as it was long. The mother had pushed it away, with a kick. The dust of the gods, who had already gone, sifted down onto Mārtānda, the abortion. Then the dead egg rolled slowly in the waters. Nature swelled with lymph. Surrounded it. The gods remembered their brother, and they said to themselves: ‘We mustn’t waste him.’ They pulled him out of the water and tried to give him a form. So Mārtānda became Vivasvat, the Sun. But they couldn’t rid him of Death, who dwells within him and in every descendant of his son, Manu: in men.”