Manas, “mind” (later mens in Latin), “thought.” But above all the pure fact of being conscious, awake. For the Vedic people, everything came from consciousness, in the sense of pure awareness devoid of any other attribute. They invoked it delicately, as “the divine one that comes forward from afar when we awake and falls back when we slumber.” Likewise “she through whom the seers, able creators, operate in the sacrifice and in the rites.” They said it was an “unprecedented wonder, dwelling in living beings.” They recognized in it “what envelops all that was, is and shall be.” They called it “stable in the heart and yet moveable, infinitely fast.” The unattainable speed of the mind: here it was named, evoked, adored perhaps for the first time. Finally the much-repeated wish: “May that which it [the mind] conceives be propitious for me.” The mind is an external power, equal to the gods and superior to the gods, which conceives in solitude and can, through its grace, reverberate in the mind of every living being. And the first, the highest wish, is that this might take place “propitiously.” Manas would then act like “a good charioteer,” it would become the one “who powerfully guides his men like steeds, by the reins.”
Absolutism of the mind, a prerequisite of Vedic thought, certainly doesn’t mean omnipotence of the mind, as if supremely magical powers were attributed to it. If that were the case, the result would have in the end been a crude construction, equivalent—in reverse—to one where such sovereign powers were attributed to an entity called “matter.”
To appreciate the power peculiar to the mind, one has to go back to a most mysterious state, that in which “there was no unmanifest (asat) and there was no manifest (sat).” The same words are found in a passage of the Śatapatha Brāhmaṇa with the addition of an iva, “so to speak,” which increases the uncertainty and mystery. And with a clarification from which everything else follows: “At that time there was only this mind (manas).” What then is mind? Of all that exists, it is the only element that already existed before there were the manifest and the unmanifest. A sort of shell in which everything else is, or is not. Mind is the only element from which there is no way out. Whatever happens or has happened, mind was already there. Mind is the air in which consciousness breathes. So consciousness was there before the existence of something that could have consciousness. The guardians come before what they must guard. The ṛṣis were there before the world.
The fact that manas was there before everything became separated between manifest and unmanifest gives the mind an ontological privilege over every other element. The world may even be infinite, but it will not succeed in canceling out the entity that has always watched over it. There again, the picture of a cosmos totally devoid of consciousness is something that many assume but no one has ever succeeded in portraying. And yet that would be the most radical positivist view: wasn’t the mind supposed to be an epiphenomenon? If consciousness has to be something that belongs only to the higher functions (as they used to be called), what happened before those functions were formed? A sort of unsullied naturalness must have existed. But natural in relation to what? And what if consciousness is something that emerges at some point, like birds and insects, as evolutionism—that sturdy branch sprouting from the tree of positivism—would have it? What then would earlier history have been? A long story of massacres between automatons, assuming we can be sure that automatons have no consciousness.
There again, the fact of mind being present even before the separation between manifest and unmanifest instills a peculiar weakness in it. And the same would be true for the other hypothesis, that the mind is indeed born from the unmanifest: “That unmanifest, which was alone, then became mind, saying: I want to be.” It is true that others would never have given it such preeminence, since manas is nevertheless the first being to be emitted from nonexistence, but at the same time its proximity to the beginning still makes the mind doubt its own existence. On the one hand, manas fears its own insubstantiality, its return into asat; on the other, the mind is tempted to see everything as an hallucination, since everything actually sprang forth from mind. This insuperable uncertainty, the anxiety peculiar to mind, was transmitted to Prajāpati, the god closest to the mind, the only one of whom it is said that he is the mind: “Prajāpati is, so to speak, mind”; “mind is Prajāpati.”
The world can function without any reference to mind, in the same way that the gods will carry on with their tangled exploits without needing to refer to Prajāpati. It once happened that Prajāpati himself missed his turn while he was dividing up the portions of the sacrifice among the gods. He was the first to behave as if he himself didn’t count. The mind, in fact, can easily convince itself that it doesn’t exist. Born before existence, it is continually tempted to consider itself nonexistent. And in a way its existence is never complete, as it is always mixed up with something that was there before anything else. That is enough to place it in doubt.
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Manasā, “mentally,” “with the mind,” is a word that appears 116 times in the Ṛgveda. There is nothing similar in the founding text of any other ancient civilization. It is as though the Vedic people had developed a peculiar lucidity and an obsession toward that phenomenon they called manas, “mind,” which imposed itself on them as something evident, with a force unknown elsewhere.
***
The first couple, from which all other couples are descended, could only have been formed by Mind and Speech, Vāc (the Latin vox). Mind is Prajāpati—and the first oblation goes in fact to him; Speech is the gods. So the second oblation goes to Indra, king of the gods. These two powers belong to two different levels of being, but to demonstrate their effectiveness they have to unite, to be yoked together, with appropriate devices. By themselves, Mind and Speech are powerless—or at least insufficient to transport the offering to the gods. The horse of the mind must allow itself to be harnessed with speech, with meter: otherwise it will be lost.
But how will the action of the two powers be perceived, moment by moment, in the ritual? “When this is performed in a murmur, mind transports the sacrifice to the gods and, when this is performed aloud, speech transports the sacrifice to the gods.” It will therefore be in the ceaseless alternation between murmuring (or silence) and clear, distinct speech that we may perceive the combined action of Mind and Speech, like a perpetual oscillation between two levels, both present if what we do is to be effective.
Yet it is not enough to establish what are the two powers that can alone bear the oblation to the gods. The ritualists loved detail and lists of equivalents. They were not content to establish a polarity, as Western metaphysicians would one day do. So where do we begin? With ladles and spoons. Manas, the male element (a slight strain on linguistic interpretation is needed in this speculation, since manas is neutral), is equivalent to the “ladle,” sruva (masculine noun), and with it carries out “the libation that is the root of the sacrifice”; whereas vāc, the female element, is equivalent to the spoon with a spout, sruc (a feminine noun), and with it offers “the libation that is the head of the sacrifice.” Silence also belongs to mind, since “undefined is the mind and undefined is that which takes place in silence.” Mind is equivalent to the sitting position, speech to the standing position.
The most difficult point is the search for a balance between Mind and Speech. These two beings are not of equal power. Mind is “far more unlimited.” When, together, they become the yoke for the horse of the oblation, the imbalance is apparent. The yoke leans to the heavier part, that of the mind. So it will not be effective, and will skew the movement. So a supplementary plank must be inserted on the side of speech, to balance the weight. This supplementary plank is a sublime metaphysical device—and the oblation succeeds in reaching the gods only thanks to it. The reason for it helps us to understand why speech is never complete, but always flawed or made up of other factors, compromised by its flimsiness—or, in any case, its lack of weight.
***
Relations between Mind and Speech were always difficult and fraught. They sometimes clashed like two warriors—or two lovers. Each wished to do better than the other. “Mind said: ‘I am surely better than you, for you say nothing that I don’t understand; and since you imitate what I have done and follow in my wake, I am surely better than you.’
“Speech said: ‘I am surely better than you, for I communicate what you know, I make it understood.’
“They appealed to Prajāpati for him to decide. He decided in favor of Mind and said [to Speech]: ‘Mind is indeed better than you, for you imitate what Mind has done and you follow in his wake’; and in truth he who imitates what his better has done and follows in his wake is inferior.
“Then Speech, having been contradicted, was upset and miscarried. She, Speech, then said to Prajāpati: ‘May I never be your oblation-bearer, I who have been rejected by you.’ So whatever thing is celebrated in the sacrifice for Prajāpati, is celebrated quietly; for Speech was no longer the oblation-bearer for Prajāpati.”
The dispute between Mind and Speech over supremacy is reminiscent of what would happen in Greece between the spoken and written word. And perhaps in this sliding of levels lies an insuperable difference between Greece and India: in Greece, Speech, Logos, takes the place held in India by Mind, Manas. Otherwise, the points of dispute are the same. What in India is accused of being secondary, imitative, and derivative (Speech) in Greece becomes the force that directs the same accusations against the written word. In Greece, all that happens takes place within speech. In India, it originates in something that precedes speech: Mind. In the same way that the Devas gradually forgot Prajāpati, though only after a long period when they sought his help, particularly when they had to fight their elder brothers, the Asuras, so too the Olympians regarded themselves from the very beginning as the ultimate reality, relegating the exploits of Cronos and his “twisted mind” to the dark and cruel history of their beginnings, even though he had given his measures and order to the cosmos.
***
The wars between the Devas and the Asuras were fought in many different ways and ended in many different ways, though the outcome was always the same—with the Devas victorious. But before that happened, there was a constant series of setbacks and reversals. The decisive moment came when the gods took refuge in Mind and the Asuras in Speech.
Mind meant sacrifice. The nature of Mind was such as to make it correspond with sacrifice and the sky. This is told in the story explaining why the sacrificer should tie the horn of a black antelope to his garment: “He then ties a black antelope horn to the edge of his garment. Now the Devas and the Asuras, each created by Prajāpati, received their father’s inheritance: the Devas took Mind and the Asuras Speech. So the Devas took the sacrifice and the Asuras speech. The Devas took the yonder sky and the Asuras this earth.”
And so it happened that the war between the Devas and the Asuras was transformed into the story of the relations between a male being, Yajña, Sacrifice, and a female being, Vāc, Speech, herald of the Asuras. Here the enemy lines and the clash of arms fade away. The stage was cleared—ready for playing out the first comedy of love. The Devas peered out from the wings. They were no longer warriors but prompters, whispering from the sides. As soon as they saw Vāc’s radiance, they thought all they had to do to defeat the Asuras was to abduct her. So imperious must have been the power emanating from Speech. It is true not only, as Herodotus wrote, that the abduction of a woman lies at the origin of every war, but also that the final conquest of a certain woman marks the end of war. So the Devas began to whisper to Yajña, telling him how to seduce Vāc. What resulted would establish the traditional rules of courtship between men and women, like a code of manners that would remain basically unchanged for centuries:
“The Devas said to Yajña, Sacrifice: ‘This Vāc, Speech, is a woman: make a sign to her and she will surely invite you to come to her.’ Or perhaps he himself thought: ‘This Vāc is a woman: I’ll make a sign to her and she will surely invite me to come to her.’ So he made a sign to her. But she at first rejected him, from a distance: for a woman, when a man makes a sign to her, at first rejects him, from a distance. He said: ‘She has rejected me, from a distance.’
“They said: ‘Just make a sign to her, sir, and she will surely invite you to come to her.’ He made a sign to her; but she answered him, so to speak, only by shaking her head: for a woman, when a man makes a sign to her, answers, so to speak, only by shaking her head. He said: ‘She has answered me only by shaking her head.’
“They said: ‘Just make a sign to her, sir, and she will invite you to come to her.’ He made a sign to her, she invited him to come to her. For a woman in the end invites the man to come to her. He said: ‘She has in fact invited me.’
“The Devas reflected: ‘This Vāc, being a woman, we had better be careful she doesn’t seduce him. Say to her: “Come here to where I am” and then tell us whether she has come to you.’ Then she went to where he was. For a woman goes to a man who lives in a fine house. He told of how she had come to him, saying: ‘She has in fact come.’”
The story couldn’t be more perfect than it is and is heavily spiced with Vedic irony—an irony that has largely gone unnoticed over the centuries, in India as well as the West—for example, where it says: “For a woman goes to a man who lives in a fine house.” With their taste for both basic and systematic detail, the Vedic ritualists managed to recount the comedy of seduction in all its classic phases, as if it were a rite—the kind of comedy that, from the Greek poets up to the story of Don Giovanni, has been represented only in sharp, hot morsels, without worrying about reconstructing the sequence in all its stages, as happens here. This amorous approach is a crucial step in a cosmic game—and at the same time is the model for what will take place over and over again in narrow lanes, public squares, drawing rooms, bars, and cafés throughout the world.
***
In the story of Yajña and Vāc, it is taken for granted that the Devas will win their war, as they have chosen the side of the Mind and of Sacrifice. At the same time, though, they badly need Vāc, the adversary’s prime force. Mind must first of all assert its supremacy over Speech, since the operation of Mind involves language, yet also goes beyond it. Thinking is not a linguistic act: this was a basic idea of the ṛṣis. But thinking can also be a linguistic act, once the Devas, through Yajña, succeed in bringing Vāc across to their side. And that passage brings an enhancement in the implicit power of the Devas, as well as the defeat of the Asuras. At this point the gap between the Devas and Asuras opens up once and for all: the Asuras are now beings who have lost speech. They become “barbarians (mlecchas)” as soon as Vāc abandons them. This is the first expression of scorn for the barbarian as a babbler. And the brahmin’s work, preeminently work of the mind, would follow the greatest rigor in the use of speech, so as not to descend into the “language of the Asuras.” The Devas thus gained the highest and most unassailable power. But inherent in this supreme power was a supreme danger. Indra, king of the Devas, discovered it for himself. And so it happened that Indra “thought to himself: ‘A monstrous being will surely spring from this union of Yajña and Vāc: let it not take advantage of me.’ Indra became an embryo and entered into that coupling.” A few months later, as his birth was approaching, Indra thought once again: “The womb that has contained me certainly has great vigor: no monstrous being must be born from it after me, lest it should take advantage of me.” So Indra ripped out Vāc’s womb, into which he had introduced himself, so that it was impossible for it to give birth to another being. That torn and tattered womb is now on the head of the Sacrifice like a pleated turban: “Having seized it and held it tightly, he ripped out the womb and put it on the head of Yajña, Sacrifice, for the black antelope is sacrifice: the skin of the black antelope is the same as the sacrifice, the horn of the black antelope is the same as that womb. And since Indra ripped out the womb holding it tightly, for that reason the horn is tied tightly to the edge of the garment; and since Indra, having become an embryo, was born from that union, for that reason the sacrificer, after having become an embryo, is born from that union.”
Speech and Mind must both remain on the side of the Devas, but they must not be united: intercourse between Mind and Speech would end up creating a being of such power that it would overwhelm the power of the Devas. And the Devas have lived, from the beginning, in terror of such a moment. With pain and effort they have conquered the sky and immortality. Now they are chasing humans away, removing all traces of the sacrifice while, on the other hand, they are keeping watch to make sure no power is unleashed by rites that might overwhelm them. If relations between Speech and Mind were from then on unstable, clouded, and marked at times with ill-concealed hostility, it is due to Indra’s ruthless intervention: one of those vile and mysterious exploits of his that trigger enormous consequences.
The relationship between Mind and Speech thus established what was to happen in the world: not simply a pair of lovers, but a scene of horror that recalled a brutal attack. A male being, Sacrifice, bears on his head the torn uterus of his lover Speech, where he will never be able to pour his semen. The Devas wanted it this way so that the balance of power would never again be upset—in this case, against them. This is the condition in which the world must live. This is where one should go back in order to understand sexual attraction, but also the insuperable imbalance and disunity that has reigned between Mind and Speech from then on. In the West, it is a theme that finds echoes in the nostalgia and perpetual, helpless evocation of the language of Adam.
Another layer of implications in the story of Yajña and Vāc and their fateful coitus is that of the conflict, of the latent and deadly hostility between myth and ritual. While the stories of the Olympians in Greece manage to free themselves from their ritual associations, to proliferate and eventually be lost in the vast estuary of Alexandrian literature, in Vedic India the process is the reverse: the progressive subjection of the mythical stories to ritual action, as if their purpose was simply that of illustrating it—and not to exist in their own right, as a primary manifestation of the divine. Perhaps this is why the Devas always retained a certain cowardly and ineffectual streak. A sequence of ritual acts had once made them into what they then were. Another sequence, breaking free from their control, would one day be able to bring them down.
***
Although they were opposites in everything else, Athens and Jerusalem ended up establishing a strategic alliance and basing it on one word: lógos. An alliance sealed with the opening verse of John’s Gospel. From the time of the Greek sages, lógos had been a power connected to speech, to discourse, even though it did not let itself be wholly absorbed into it. Noûs, on the other hand, had always been a force independent from speech. With John’s Gospel, lógos, in becoming the Word and the divine incarnation, reestablished its sovereignty. Any further power was inconceivable. And so thought and mind were indissolubly linked to speech. From then on, nondiscursive thought was to be pushed aside, or even underground. It was the Egypt of thought, its facies hieroglyphica, that was swallowed up, driven away by the formidable forces of lógos as Reason and of lógos as the Word.
Vedic India remained extraneous and hostile to this drama without ever giving way. The Brāhmaṇas already abandon the mythical stories and liturgical sequences devoted to the irreversible imbalance between Mind and Speech, to the greater weight of the first over the other. Then in the Chāndogya Upaniṣad the relationship is described more bluntly: “The mind indeed is more than speech.” The watershed between East and West, over which so much thought has been given, can be traced to this point. All the rest follows from that radical divergence, which India would never abandon, following it from the Veda to the Vedānta.
In saying this, the Chāndogya Upaniṣad uses a language that is neither philosophical nor oracular, but serenely apodictic: “The mind indeed is more than speech. As a fist holds two āmalaka or kola or akṣa fruits, in the same way the mind holds speech and name. If the mind thinks: I want to study the hymns, then they are studied; I want to celebrate sacrifices, then they are celebrated; I want to obtain children and cattle, then they are obtained; I want to devote myself to this and the other world, then they are devoted to. For the Self, ātman, is mind, the world is mind, brahman is mind. Venerate the mind.”
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Sacrifice is not only the offering of a specific substance, such as the prodigious soma. Sacrifice is also a concerted action that produces a substance: “‘It is honey,’ they say; for honey means the sacrifice.” But if we watch a sacrifice, we don’t see this honey. We see gestures accompanied by words. And the essence of the word is in its being a substitute: but for what? For the thing named, say the Western theorists. The Vedic ritualists thought differently: the word substitutes the honey produced by the sacrifice, honey that the gods sucked and drained away to prevent men finding the path to heaven through the sacrifice: “The sacrifice is speech: for with it he provides that part of the sacrifice which has been sucked and drained away.” For the word to substitute the honey, it has to have a sacrificial nature already. Let us recall how Yajña, Sacrifice, as soon as he saw Vāc, Speech, thought: “Let me couple with her,” as if nothing for him were quite like it. And nothing attracted him more. This is why speech comes into action.
For the Vedic ritualists, everything involved composition, work. Even the splendor of Indra (who is also the sun) was not so in the beginning: “In the same manner that everything else is now dark, so was he then.” It was only when the gods composed their “favorite forms and desirable powers” that Indra began to shine. Never had composition been recognized as having so much power: in its forms, gestures, words. This is the secret inheritance that ritual—through devious paths and deep oblivion—has consigned to art.