Roberto Calasso - Ka

At that time the Devas and Asuras were still too alike. Coarse, greedy, hot-tempered, their main ambition was to destroy each other. And to escape death. But death struck them down just the same. After each gory encounter with the Asuras, the Devas would count their corpses. They thought: “One day there’ll be none of us left to do the counting.” Then they were plunged into melancholy. And roused themselves in fury when their spies came to tell them what they had seen in the camp of the Asuras. There too the dead, many of them disfigured, were piled high under the vultures’ gaze. But then Kāvya Uśanas, chief priest of the Asuras, would come down and with a calm wave of the hand resurrect them one by one. To him, and to him alone, Rudra had one day imparted the saṃjīvanī vidyā , the “science of resurrection.” Thus the place teemed with Asuras. You couldn’t say they didn’t know death, because they were often killed and spent some time in death’s kingdom, suffering like anybody else, but then they came back to life, with no memory, no knowledge. They were merely shot through by a long and invisible wound: the enduring sensation of having already been killed. They suffered from that — but then they would laugh wildly when they looked toward the camp of the Devas, where the dead would never stand up and walk again. All the same, even the Asuras, who never died a final death, were eager to keep death at bay. Hence, and for just this once, they agreed to ally themselves with the Devas. Like their enemies, the Asuras were eager to conquer the amṛta .

But here came the crucial uncertainty: would immortality become substance? The Devas and Asuras knew that they were involved in the first opus alchymicum . But what if their material were to remain opaque? What if the ocean did not yield up the “sweet wave”? Haggard and exhausted, they raised their eyes to find a splash of opalescence spreading out between Mount Mandara and the ocean. Suspended in the glow, like idols without pedestals, like actors who come forward one after another to greet the public, like bright rings in a bracelet, like painted figures on the breeze, like amulets strung across the torso of the cosmos, appeared the ratnas , the “gems,” sovereignty’s procession. First came Sun, then Moon — and then you could see the shadow of Śiva’s outstretched arm and hand encircling the white sickle like a slim girl and gathering it into his plaited hair, where it remains to this day, a shining clip. Next came the Apsaras, the waters, modeling the eddies in enchanting bodies dripping with shimmers of jewels. Both Devas and Asuras were equally avid for them, but they made no move: they knew that the Apsaras are living coinage, they pass through every hand. Not suitable as brides. Then came Uccaiḥśravas, the White Horse, swift as thought, who dazzled them with a toss of his mane. And there were more gems forming in the light. In white robes, fragrant and still, Śrī appeared majestic, then sank down on Visnu’s breast.

But still the amṛta hadn’t appeared. The Devas and Asuras hung on, at the ready. “Perhaps,” they thought, “the world isn’t able, we aren’t able to distill that supreme essence.” Then a dark mass stood out against the glow, rolling like an ocean across the ocean. It was Kālakūta, the poison of the world. Viṣṇu spoke once more, his voice calm, and again his irony escaped those listening, as before when he had advised the Devas to join up with the Asuras, their all too kindred enemies. He said: “Siva, supreme above all, yours is the beginning, yours the first fruit of everything. Only you can drink Kālakūta, the poison of the world, the first thing the world offers to us. Only he who can destroy the world can assimilate its poison. Only he who assimilates the poison of the world will have the strength of compassion.” Śiva answered: “My wish is to please you.”

Śiva bent down at the ocean shore, as the black mass began to lap around his feet. The Devas and Asuras watched, amazed, as though he were about to let himself be swallowed up by that unknown liquid. “This poison is born of the desire for immortality,” said a voice among them. Then they fell silent. Śiva plunged his left hand into Kālakūta, then raised it to his mouth, his face set in the expression of someone expecting delectable refreshment. He drank, swallowed, took the poison into his body, let it seep down and course through him like a secret river. The Devas and Asuras watched him, ever more amazed. An efflorescence formed on Śiva’s neck, like a tattoo, of a deep blue, whose brightness was reminiscent of a peacock feather or a sapphire. Śiva went on drinking, and the stain spread over his neck. Nor would it ever go away. They called him Nilakantha, the Blue-Necked One. One day a blushing Pārvatī would confess that the first time she saw him — when she was still a solemn child — and Śiva turned toward her, so that she saw his neck, all her desire had concentrated on the tip of her tongue, which longed to lick that blue stain, even if it meant splitting in two, as the snake’s tongue did.

Like tarot figures upturned, the gems stood out against the column of light. The White Horse, the Precious Stone, the Nymph, the Elephant, the Physician, the Moon, the Cow of Desires. People still argue over how many there were and in what order they appeared. But one thing is certain: the amṛta could only appear within the procession of gems, within the sequence woven over the epiphanic veil. Nothing that appeared there was new or unheard of. Everything that emerged from the depths had emerged before. And yet everyone was amazed: because now existence was being formed, composed. With the churning of the ocean, the gems that have ever sparkled along the seams of existence were once again brought into being as second nature, elaborated, fixed, separate substance. The gods toiled like slaves in a smoke-filled workshop to have these emblems, seals of perennial existence, shine forth anew. “Elaborate the emblems and existence will follow,” such was their motto, and so it was. Then they left men to their own devices in the tangle of the existent world.

Last among the ratnas , the “immortal” liquid finally appeared. Gathering it in a cup, the gods’ Physician, Dhanvantari, offered it to the void. Among the Devas and Asuras, wonder soon gave way to apprehension, apprehension to avarice. Who was going to get it? Allies became enemies again. Petulant, childish voices were raised: “It’s mine, it’s mine…” Viṣṇu looked on, unsurprised. To head off another bloody battle between Devas and Asuras, perhaps even total reciprocal destruction — something that must not happen, since both the gods and their enemies are necessary to keep the world in equilibrium — Viṣṇu chose to resort to what had proved the most effective trick in his repertoire: turning himself into a woman. He became Mohinī: the Enchantress. Like a princess, like a courtesan, like a simple girl walking thoughtlessly by, Mohinī paraded before the Asuras. distracting them from whatever else was in their minds. Thus the Devas were able to grab the amṛta and take a quick drink before hurling themselves into the fray. Now they would slaughter each other as they always had. But soon they would be back in line again, invulnerable marionettes. The amṛta had made its entry on the world stage. The wiser of the Devas. however, felt it would be sensible if Viṣṇu took it under his care. Thus it disappeared once again, into the sky.

The stories of the soma tell of repeated conquest, repeated loss. Nothing is constant in its being but the soma itself. This applies to the gods too. Many have said that the gods are immortal and live in the sky. Not true. “Soma was in the sky and the gods here on earth.” The gods didn’t possess immortality. They thought of ways of getting it. They wanted to snatch the soma from the sky. Where was it hidden? In two golden cups, one upturned on the other, their sharp rims snapping shut at every blink of an eye. Flying across the skies came an eagle, Vāc, Word, sent by the gods. She tore the two cups apart with her beak, then sank her claws in the soft soma . But a Gandharva, Viśvāvasu, intercepted the eagle. Once again Soma eluded the gods. “We’ll never have eternal life without Soma.” “Soma was ours, all we have to do is buy it back,” they said. Vāc spoke up: “The Gandharvas are crazy about women. Give me to them in exchange for the soma .” The gods looked at her and said: “No, we could never live without you.” “It cost us dearly to win you from the Asuras. How could we live if we lost you again?” Calmly. Vāc answered: “Afterward, you could always buy me back again.” The gods fell silent. Then they nodded their agreement. Thus the gods assigned Vāc a second mission. She must seduce the Gandharvas, get them to forget the soma . But this time she wouldn’t need to be an eagle. All she had to do was to put on some makeup and the prettiest clothes she had.