Roberto Calasso - Ka

Dadhyañc went on explaining the doctrine of the honey to the Aśvins. His speech spread through them from pores to marrow. The world was the same as before. Nothing was the same as before. One day Dadhyañc said: “Śaryāti wants to celebrate a soma sacrifice with both gods and men. Do you know who he is? He is the father of Sukanyā, the girl who rejected you. And he is the son of Manu. Thus Sukanyā is your niece, through the simulacrum, Samjñā. But at this point you would hardly be surprised by any relationship… You must come to the sacrifice too. This is the last time you shall see me with my horse’s head. Now, go…”

The Aśvins wept. Although they hadn’t yet savored the soma , they knew that the best part of their lives was coming to an end.

Given that the Aśvins were born of a mare, given that they always traveled by land and sea — and even in the sky — on a chariot drawn by white horses, given that they learned the doctrine of the honey from a being who had a horse’s head, it would seem obvious that their name should derive from aśva , “horse.” But the etymologists of ancient times did not restrict themselves to such obvious reflections. The name also derived, they said, from aś - “to gain.” Why? Because they were the first to gain the Daughter of the Sun, Sūryā, when they won her in a contest; because they “gained everything.” How so? “One with wetness, the other with light,” says the etymologist.

Sons, lovers, husbands, brothers, friends, paranymphs, conquerors, chosen ones: such, simultaneously, were the Aśvin for the woman they traveled with, or who traveled with them. It might be Uṣas — or Sūryā. And they would have liked it to be Sukanyā. They were the “Lords of Ornament,” Śubháspátis — and there was no other god who could boast that name. Which is why women were drawn to their chariot, as if to a jar full of honey. The two of them were never alone, even though they were to fill the world with duplication. There was always a third, as their chariot had three wheels, a girl between them, often invisible. In her they communed.

The “honey whip,” káśā mádhumatī , darted from the Aśvins’ hands and cracked down on the earth. Who can be sure what it was made of? What is sure is that people wanted nothing better than to feel its edge. A goatskin bursting with honey poked out from the Aśvins’ three-wheeled chariot. They would dip their whip in it before cracking its dripping sweetness all around them. Where did the whip come from? From the mother of all mothers, from Aditi, the Unlimited One, from she who has no need of a husband to bring forth fruit. The supreme moments of the Aśvins’ lives always had to do with a female figure: when they awoke — and all they saw was Uṣas’s tawny hair bowed over them; when Aditi silently placed that whip in their hands; when, at the end of a wild chariot race — the time their fourth wheel was lost forever — Sūryā stood waiting for them on a rostrum beside the finish line and climbed onto their chariot, “for such was her wish,” she said. Only a mortal, Sukanyā, whom they had seen rise from the waters like a goddess, rejected them. And that rejection — they thought — had been their salvation, because it had led them to Dadhyañc. Thus they had gained what had always been lacking, the one element that is ever the thing we lack: knowledge. From the honey to the doctrine of the honey. Isn’t this the only step we can ever make? All others depend on it — or are illusory. They smailed into emptainess and set off on their way again.

A great crowd had gathered. In a circle, in the middle, were the gods, mingling with the ṛṣis . The Aśvins kept to one side, like travelers who have happened upon a scene by chance. The ceremony began, very slowly. The Aśvins watched the celebrants. There was a familiar face among the ṛṣis . But who was it? He resembled themselves, with a more solemn expression. “Cyavana…,” they both whispered. The rite went on. They saw Cyavana lift a cup. They heard his clear voice: “This is for the Aśvins…” There was a sudden whirlwind. Indra was on his feet, furiously tearing the cup from Cyavana’s hands: “I do not recognize this cup…,” he said. Clouds of dust made it impossible to see what was going on. “Who dares to wrench the cup of soma from a ṛṣi? ” boomed a voice. The Maruts shook their spears. In the uproar, Agni went to Indra and said: “It’s not in our interests to provoke the ṛṣis . In the end, they are better than we are. We were born of them. Swallow your anger.” But even had they wanted to, there wasn’t much the gods could do. Summoned up by the ṛṣis , Mada, the demon, was intoxicating them. Nothing was clear anymore, in sky or on earth. Eyes lowered, Indra stood still. The whirlwind settled. The Aśvins found themselves beside Cyavana, who had the cup in his hand again. Thus the Aśvins at last brought the soma to their lips. Then they looked around: the gods had slunk off. “That was the last time that men and gods drank the soma together.” And one day someone would add the gloss “In ancient times they drank together visibly, now they do so in the invisible.”

The soma has been identified with many plants over the course of time. One thing is clear: the sap of the soma was inebriating. That substance was sensation: the one quantity that was quality. Everything depended on its being won or lost. There had been a time when even the gods didn’t have the soma . And they called it by another name: amṛta , the “immortal.” But they had yet to find it, to discover it, to touch the substance that was free from death, and that freed from death. All children of Prajāpati, though divided into the opposing ranks of the Devas and the Asuras, they agreed that for this once they could join forces, for this one undertaking, from which all others descend: the churning of the ocean.

The ocean seethed. The waves foamed like madmen in all directions as a vast pendulum plowed the waters. Torn from its roots, bristling with trees and sharp rocks, Mount Mandara thrashed the liquid mass like the beater in a churn. All the juices, the resins, the lymph of the plants flowed into the water along with liquid gold and cataracts of gems. All essences streamed together into the marine desert. Meanwhile the huge carcasses of deep-sea creatures hitherto unseen by any eye were driven up from the depths by the ceaseless motion of Mandara, who braced himself on the back of the giant turtle Akūpāra, the only creature to have remained impassive in the tumult. Looking closely, you could see a sash slithering around the lush grass of Mandara’s flanks. Or was it a thick rope? It was a snake, Vāsuki. With the Devas gripping its tail and the Asuras its head, it was being tugged back and forth to keep Mount Mandara churning beneath the waters, while from its mouth rose fumes that swirled around the Asuras and muddled their minds. But then it was they themselves, proud firstborn that they were, who had insisted on holding Vāsuki’s head, because the head is always the noblest part of anything.

“All this,” thought the Devas, “recalls the beginnings of tapas , that first friction in the mind from which every marvel is born.” But what was to appear this time? Or would anything appear? The Devas were exhausted. Like slaves at their oars, they held on to Vāsuki’s scales, just able to see in a steamy distance the grimaces of their eternal enemies, the Asuras, whom for this one undertaking they had accepted as allies. “When the stakes are high, one must be ready to make allies of one’s enemies, like the snake with the mouse,” Viṣṇu had exhorted. One must risk the ultimate, if one wants to gain the amṛta , the “immortal.”