Ardor (25 page)

Awakening is the decisive act in life. We can see this from the passage in the
B
ṛ
had
ā
ra
ṇ
yaka Upani
ṣ
ad
where it is said that in the beginning there was only
brahman
, and
brahman
“was everything.” Then “it [
brahman
] became the gods, as they gradually awakened [
pratyabudhyata
, where the root
budh
- follows the prefix
prati-
, which indicates a movement
forward
, as if rousing from sleep].” But the gods are only the first category of beings, those who set the example. They are followed by the
ṛṣ
is
, and lastly mankind: “So also [did] the
ṛṣ
is
, so also men.” If becoming
brahman
is the target, then awakening is the appropriate instrument (the only one named: in this passage, for once, there is
no
reference to sacrifice). But this establishes a worrying proximity and affinity between mankind and the gods. And for this the gods use all possible means, even the lowest, to prevent man from reawakening. The text is abrupt. He who thinks that “divinity is one thing and I another,” that person “does not know.” The presumption is that men and gods are fundamentally one and the same thing. Nothing is more insidious and disturbing for the gods than this: “So they are not pleased that men know this.” It is no surprise that the authorities in the Castle ensured that a torpid haze fell upon K. as soon as he came close to discovering their secrets.

*   *   *

What appears under the name
brahman
is arcane, far more so than the gods. If seen as a group, and not each in their own dazzling singularity, the gods appeared as beings who had been fortunate: they had succeeded in passing from the earth to the sky, they had succeeded in becoming immortal. And yet they were obliged perpetually to fight and continually defeat the Asuras, their elder brothers before being downgraded to demons. And this is already a diminution of their supremacy, which ought to have been continually protected and maintained. The Devas had to be allies of the
ṛṣ
is
, though not always regarded by them with benevolence—or even with mere respect.

But
brahman
is neuter, untarnished, untarnishable. The seven suggested translations of the word listed in the St. Petersburg Lexicon are all inadequate. But so too are more recent attempts, such as those of Renou and Jan C. Heesterman, which show keen insight but also end up in a disastrous paraphrase: “connecting energy compressed in enigmas” (Renou); “the link between life and death” (Heesterman). In the end, it can be said only that
brahman
is the peak from which everything else follows.

And yet
brahman
is also a “world,”
brahmaloka
—and it is a world that can be
entered
(“he enters
brahman
”). But what allows access? Not power, nor piety, nor good works. But simple consciousness, contact with perpetual wakefulness: “He who is wakeful among sleepers, the mind that edifies the various desires, this one is pure, this is
brahman
, this is what is called the immortal. All worlds rest on it: no one goes beyond.” At last, in this passage in the
Ka
ṭ
ha Upani
ṣ
ad
, we discover—under the name of
brahman—
what constituted from the very beginning the Knowledge, which is the Veda. Though the Upani
ṣ
ads explain it (indeed: they are described as texts that seek above all to explain it), this secret of
brahman
as wakefulness and consciousness is already present, “unspoken,” throughout the
Ṛ
gveda.
In a hymn such as 5.44, for example, which Geldner describes as “the most difficult hymn in the
Ṛ
gveda.
” Here “divinity is everywhere unspoken (
anirukta
).” Here, according to Renou, “the phraseology, the esoteric intention, undeniably indicated the Vi
ś
vedev
āḥ
character” (meaning: this type of composition places the hymn among those to the Vi
ś
vedev
āḥ
, All-the-gods, a peculiarly Vedic entity). No single god is named, apart from Agni in stanza 15, at the end of a hymn where, wrote Geldner, “the final verses seem to be the solution to a riddle,” adding: “and this is undoubtedly all it seeks to be.” To a large extent it remains a riddle: Oldenberg, the father of all Vedists, had already laid down his arms in the face of such a tough obstacle (“Both the explanation and the textual analysis of this hymn remain for the most part doubtful and without solution”). And yet, even though the exposition of the riddle remains largely impenetrable, the “solution” speaks with marvelous clarity—and refers to the supremacy of wakefulness over everything. With these words: “He who is wakeful, the stanzas love him; he who is wakeful, the ritual chants also go to him. He who is wakeful,
soma
says to him: in your friendship (I feel as if) at home.” Since the hymns are the very formulation of
brahman
—in other words the expression of
brahman
as a “word of power” (Kramrisch)—the nexus that connects power to the word is already acknowledged here in
wakefulness.

*   *   *

“The life of sacrifice is therefore an infinite series of deaths and births,” wrote Sylvain Lévi. And so will be, in the first place, the initiation that is implicit in the sacrifice. To celebrate a sacrifice, the sacrificer must first be consecrated. And the consecration is a form of sacrifice—an endless circle on which everything turns. But for the initiand, more than for the others taking part in the ritual, birth and death must be as literal as possible. This is what distinguishes the initiand. During one part of the ceremony he will be the one who is still unborn: “He then wraps his head. For he who is consecrated becomes an embryo; and embryos are enveloped by the amniotic fluid and by the outer membrane; so he covers his head.” The veiled head, which we come across in Greek initiations and for which the texts give us no convincing justification, is explained here in a few brief words: the initiand, he who is consecrated, is an embryo—and the primary characteristic of an embryo is that of being hidden, veiled by a membrane. The turban therefore recalls that state of concealment, that of the initiand as an embryo, in the same way as its shape suggests V
ā
c’s womb torn open by Indra.

Of course, for the initiand to be literally an embryo raises certain difficulties, which might seem frivolous, like many other details of the ritual. For example: what does he do if, during the ceremony, he feels an itch? The rules are very strict: “He shall not scratch with a splinter of wood or with a fingernail. For he who is consecrated becomes an embryo: and if an embryo is scratched with a wooden splinter or a fingernail, the amniotic fluid could escape and he would die. Thereafter the consecrated one might suffer from itchiness; and his offspring might also be born with itchiness. Now the womb does not damage the embryo, and since the horn of the black antelope is the womb, it does not damage it; so the consecrated one should scratch himself with the horn of the black antelope and with nothing other than the horn of the black antelope.” The pictures conjured up by the rite are never
just
metaphors, in the sense of a lame literary device. They are invisible presences and at the same time are to be understood in a strict literal sense. If the consecrated one becomes an embryo, this must determine his behavior even at the most casual, unexpected, and insignificant moment: for example, when he feels an itch. And so we discover the subtle answer of the womb, which, with motherly concern, soothes the embryo within it. But how? With the horn of a black antelope, which, contrary to all evidence and appearance, is declared
to be
the womb. And so, the consecrated one scratches himself with the horn of a black antelope during the ceremony.

When the initiand is finally born, who is his father? The new birth that takes place through initiation makes it possible to escape the old worry of
pater semper incertus.
The father will now be one alone—and is neuter:
brahman.
And
brahman
, whatever it might be, is an intrinsic presence in the sacrifice, so that it could be said that “only he who is born from
brahman
is truly born,” but at the same time that “he who is born from the sacrifice is born from
brahman.
” Beyond this acquired paternity, anyone might also be the child or the descendant of one of those Rak
ṣ
as who wandered the land and went “hunting for women,” like the angels in Genesis copulating with the daughters of men.

*   *   *

The night before the ceremony in which a person kindles his fires with the
agny
ā
dheya
ritual is a most delicate moment. Until then he was a “mere man”—and what he did was unimportant. But now, if he wants to start building a relationship with the gods, the ritualists suggest he should remain awake through the night. And here lies the crucial point. What is the prime characteristic of the gods that we can emulate? Not power: ours will always be limited. Not immortality: we don’t have it—at most we may fool ourselves into thinking we have gained temporary immortality, after long practice. But it’s an immortality that gradually crumbles away, like every conquest gained by merit. Not knowledge, because it is far inferior to that of the gods: we don’t even know the mind of our neighbor, while “the gods know the minds of men.” So then, what? The pure fact of consciousness: of being awake. “The gods are awake”: moving closer to the gods means being awake. Not performing good works, not pleasing the gods with homage and offerings. Simply being awake. This is what enables anyone to become “more divine, more calm, more ardent,” in other words, richer in
tapas.
And was it not
tapas
that had enabled the gods to become gods? By isolating the pure fact of being awake and giving it supremacy over everything else, the ritualists made known their particular view with the utmost clarity. Everything could be traced back to this. And everything else could be eliminated, except this.

Becoming divine
was not an ultimate experience reserved for the mystics: it was instead the experience of anyone who
enters
the sacrificial ceremony, immediately after having been consecrated: “He who is consecrated moves toward the gods; he becomes one of the divinities.” This is the passage to which Henri Hubert and Marcel Mauss refer when they describe
entering the sacrifice
as follows: “All that touches the gods must be divine; the sacrificer is obliged to become a god himself to be able to act over them.” Hidden in a hut built purposefully to keep him apart from the human world, shaved, washed, oiled, dressed in white linen and covered by a black antelope skin, the “consecrated one,”
d
ī
k
ṣ
ita
, gradually transformed into a divine embryo. He was made to move back and forth around the fire like the fetus kicking in the uterus. As always, the ritualists note the most subtle details: it is essential that the consecrated one holds his fists clenched. But not out of anger or despair. With that gesture he tries to seize the sacrifice. At that moment he says: “With the mind I take hold of the sacrifice.” It must be like this, because the sacrifice is invisible, like the gods: “The sacrifice is not visibly taken hold of, in fact, like this stick or a garment, but invisible are the gods, invisible the sacrifice.” Every event will be accurately described only if the description includes two parts: the visible and the invisible. And so the correct moment to unclench the fists is indicated with precision. Then the fetus “is born to divine existence, it is god.”

But even though the consecrated one, during the sacrificial journey, gradually moved closer to the gods, there still remained a vast distance. Revealed above all by one fact: the gods do not sleep, men are not granted sleeplessness. This, ironically, is enough to thwart human claims: not only do you have to die, but you are also unable to avoid sleep. And this again is why wakefulness was the highest good, the moment of greatest proximity to divine life. Otherwise, in ordinary life, when people found themselves in rites that lasted days and days, all they could do when overcome by sleep was to turn to Agni, the good awakener: may he rouse us, whole, after everything has abandoned us in sleep, everything but breath.

*   *   *

Having listed the other sacrifices, the sacrifice to
brahman
still has to be described. And so we read: “The sacrifice to
brahman
is the daily study of the Veda.” There is a line that starts off with the sacrifice as a long ceremony, structured into hundreds of movements and actions—and therefore entirely visible—and which leads up to a later and invaluable variant, the sacrifice as an invisible and imperceptible activity, as it is performed through the study of the Veda.