Most Vedic creator gods (like most Vedic gods in general) are male, but one Vedic poem imagines cosmic creation through the down-to-earth image of a female, called Aditi (“Without Limits,” “Infinity”), who gives birth to a baby:
ADITI GIVES BIRTH
Let us now speak with wonder of the births of the gods—so that some one may see them when the poems are chanted in this later age. In the earliest age of the gods, existence was born from nonexistence. After this the quarters of the sky, and the earth, were born from her who crouched with legs spread. From female Infinity (Aditi), male dexterity (Daksha) was born, and from male dexterity (Daksha), female infinity (Aditi) was born. After her were born the blessed gods, the kinsmen of immortality (10.72.1-5).
The dominant visual image of this poem is the goddess of infinity, who crouches with legs stretched up (uttana-pad), more particularly with knees drawn up and legs spread wide,bw a term that designates a position primarily associated with a woman giving birth.67 This position is later associated with yoga and might have yogic overtones even in this period.
Again we encounter the paradox of mutual creation:bx The female principle of infinity and the male principle of virile dexterity create each other as Brahma and Vishnu will later create each other. A Vedic commentary takes pains to explain that for the gods, two births can mutually produce each other.68 The creator often has the tautological name of “self-existing” or “self-created” (svayambhu ):by He creates himself, as does circular time itself, and the cosmos, according to the theory of the four Ages.
POLYTHEISM AND KATHENOTHEISM
In the house of the Rig Veda there are many divine mansions. We have noted the importance of multiplicity to Hindus and Hinduism, and it begins here. The Rig Veda has a kind of polytheism, but one that already has in it the first seeds of what will flower, in the philosophical texts called the Upanishads, into monism (which assumes that all living things are elements of a single, universal substance). A much-quoted line proclaims this singular multiplicity, in a context that is clearly theological rather than philosophical: “They call it Indra, Mitra, Varuna, Agni, and it is the heavenly bird that flies. The wise speak of what is One in many ways; they call it Agni, Yama, Matarishvan” (1.164.46). This is a tolerant, hierarchical sort of devotional polytheism: The worshiper acknowledges the existence, and goodness, of gods other than the god that he or she is addressing at the moment. This creative tension between monism and polytheism extends through the history of Hinduism.
The polytheism of Vedic religion is actually a kind of serial monotheism that Müller named henotheism or kathenotheism, the worship of a number of gods, one at a time, regarding each as the supreme, or even the only, god while you are talking to him. Thus one Vedic poem will praise a god and chalk up to his account the credit for separating heaven and earth, propping them apart with a pillar, but another Vedic poem will use exactly the same words to praise another god. (In addition, each god would have characteristics and deeds that are his alone; no one but Indra cures Apala.) Bearing in mind the way in which the metaphor of adultery has traditionally been used by monotheistic religions to stigmatize polytheism (“whoring after other gods”), and used by later Hinduism to characterize the love of god, we might regard this attitude as a kind of theological parallel to serial monogamy, or, if you prefer, open hierogamos: “You, Vishnu, are the only god I’ve ever worshiped; you are the only one.” “You, Varuna, are the only god I’ve ever worshiped; you are the only one.” “You, Susan, are the only woman I’ve ever loved; you are the only one.” “You, Helen, are the only woman I’ve ever loved; you are the only one.” Vedic kathenotheism made possible a quasihierarchical pantheon; the attitude to each god was hierarchical, but the various competing practical monotheisms canceled one another out, so that the total picture was one of equality; each of several was the best (like the pigs on George Orwell’s Animal Farm: They’re all equal, but some are more equal than others).
This time-sharing property of the Vedic gods is an example of individual pluralism: Each individual worshiper would know, and might use, several different poems to different gods. And the text is intolerant of intolerance. One Rig Vedic poem curses people who accuse others of worshiping false gods or considering the gods useless (7.104.14). When the double negatives in this statement cross one another out, we are left with an extraordinary defense of heretics and atheists. But the broader intellectual pluralism of the Vedas regards the world, or the deity, or truth itself as plural; the Vedas tackle the problem of ontology from several (plural) different angles, branching off from an ancient and still ongoing argument about the way the world is, about whether it is basically uniform or basically multiform.
One Vedic poem ends: “Where did this creation come from? The gods came afterward, with the creation of this universe. Who then knows where it came from? Where it came from—perhaps it formed itself, or perhaps it did not—the one who looks down on it, in the highest heaven, only he knows—or perhaps he does not know (10.129).” There is a charming humility and open-mindedness in this poem, which begins, most confusingly, with the statement “There was neither existence nor nonexistence then”—easy enough to say, impossible actually to visualize. Its final phrase (“or perhaps he does not know”) seems almost to mock the rhetoric in the line that comes right before it: “—the one who looks down on it, in the highest heaven, only he knows.” The poem asks a question about the very nature, perhaps the very existence, of god.
The unanswered cosmic question (“Who really knows?”) recurs in the Rig Veda in another cosmogonic poem, in which each stanza ends with the questioning refrain: “Who is the god whom we should worship with the oblation?” Thus: “He by whom the awesome sky and the earth were made firm, by whom the dome of the sky was propped up, and the sun, who measured out the middle realm of space—who is the god whom we should worship with the oblation? (10.121).” The Veda shows a tolerance, a celebration of plurality, even in asking unanswerable questions about the beginnings of all things.
AGNI, INDRA, AND VARUNA
The great gods of later Hinduism, Vishnu and Shiva (in the form of Rudra), make only cameo appearances in the Veda.69 By contrast, the most important gods of the Veda, such as Agni, Soma, Indra, and Varuna, all closely tied to the Vedic sacrifice, become far less important in later Hinduism, though they survive as symbolic figures of natural forces: fire, the moon, rain, and the waters, respectively. Other Vedic gods too are personifications of natural forces, particularly solar gods, as Müller rightly noted but overemphasized. (He was mocked for it too; one scholar wrote an article proving that by his own criteria, Max Müller himself was a solar god.70) There are exquisite poems to the goddesses Dawn (1.92) and Night (10.127) and to the god Surya, the sun.
But most of the gods, even those representing natural forces, are vividly anthropomorphized. The gods are like us, only more so. They want what we want, things like marriage (and adultery), and fame, and praise. And most of the gods are closely associated with particular social classes: Agni is the Brahmin, Varuna the Brahminical sovereign, Indra the warrior, and the Ashvins the Vaishyas. There are no Shudra gods in the Vedas.
Agni, god of fire, serves as the divine model for the sacrificial priest, the messenger who carries the oblation from humans to the gods, brings all the gods to the sacrifice, and intercedes between gods and humans (1.26.3). When Agni is pleased, the gods become generous. The building of the fire altar is a foundational Vedic ceremony,71 and the kindling and maintaining of three fires—the household fire (Garhapatya), the ceremonial fire (Dakshina), and the sacrificial fire (Ahavaniya)—were a basic responsibility of every householder.
Agni and Soma connect in many ways. As fire and liquid they are complementary oppositions that unite in the concept of the fiery liquid, the elixir of immortality, or ambrosia; Soma is the fiery fluid and Agni the fluid fire. As ritual elements, the embodiments of the sacrificial fire and the sacrificial drink, they are invoked more than any other gods of the Rig Veda. A
s metaphorical symbols they are the pivot of speculations about the nature of the cosmos. Their mythologies join in the image of the sunbird, a form of Agni (the firebird) who brings Soma to earth (10.123, 177). They are two contrasting sources of the inspiration that enables the Vedic poet to understand the meaning of the sacrifice and of his life: Where Soma is Dionysian, representing the wild, raw, disruptive aspect of rituals, Agni is Apollonian, representing the cultivated, cooked, cultured aspects of rituals. The Vedic sacrifice needs both of them.
Indra, the king of the gods, the paradigmatic warrior, and the god of rain, is (in English) a homonym: He reigns and he rains. As the great soma drinker he appears often in the soma poems, and he is the one who brings Agni back when the antigods (Asuras) steal him (10.51, 124). The poets also praise Indra for freeing the cows that have been stolen and hidden in a cave (3.31, 10.108), but his greatest deed is the killing of the dragon Vritra, who is called a Dasa, and who dams up the waters, causing a drought (1.32). Both Indra and Vritra are drinkers, but Vritra cannot hold his soma as Indra can (on this occasion). By killing Vritra, Indra simultaneously releases the waters or rains that Vritra has held back and conquers the enemies of the Vedic people, getting back the waters and the cows trapped in the cave.
This myth of dragon slaying, linked to the myth of the cattle raid,72 is foundational to the Kshatriya class,bz as “Poem of the Primeval Man” is for the Brahmin class. Indra’s famous generosity—particularly when he is high on soma—and his endearing anthropomorphism emboldened at least one poet to imagine himself in Indra’s place (8.14). But these same qualities may have led worshipers even in Vedic times to devalue Indra;ca one poem records doubts about his existence: “He about whom they ask, ‘Where is he?’ or say, ‘He does not exist,’—believe in him! He, my people, is Indra (2.12.5).” Yet even that poem ultimately affirms Indra’s existence.
Varuna combines aspects of the roles of priest and king. His original function was that of a sky god, in particular the god of the waters in the heavenly vault (Ouranos, also a sky god, is his Greek counterpart). But by the time of the Rig Veda Varuna had developed into a god whose primary role was watching over human behavior (as a sky god was well situated to do) and punishing those who violated the sacred law (rita) of which Varuna was the most important custodian. He would snare miscreants in his bonds (pasha), which often revealed their presence through disease.
One hymn to Varuna is extraordinary in its introspective tone, its sense of personal unworthiness and uncertainty (“What did I do?”):
VARUNA’S ANGER AND MERCY
I ask my own heart, “When shall I be close to Varuna? Will he enjoy my offering and not be provoked to anger? When shall I see his mercy and rejoice?” I ask myself what the transgression was, Varuna, for I wish to understand. I turn to the wise to ask them. The poets have told me the very same thing: “Varuna has been provoked to anger against you.” O Varuna, what was the terrible crime for which you wish to destroy your friend who praises you? Proclaim it to me so that I may hasten to prostrate myself before you and be free from error, for you are hard to deceive and are ruled by yourself alone. Free us from the harmful deeds of our fathers and from those that we have committed with our own bodies. The mischief was not done by my own free will, Varuna; wine, anger, dice, or carelessness led me astray. The older shares in the mistake of the younger. Even sleep does not avert evil. As a slave serves a generous master, so would I serve the furious god and be free from error (7.86).
The poem assumes that on the one hand, one may not be blamed, or perhaps not entirely blamed, for errors committed under the influence of passionate emotions, and on the other hand, one may be punished not only for conscious errors but also for errors committed unconsciously, in sleep, or even by other people (both one’s parents and one’s children). The idea that one person can be punished for the crime of another person is the flip side of an idea implicit in the Vedic sacrifice, which the priest performs for the benefit of someone else, the sacrificial patron (yajamana, in Sanskrit). This idea becomes much more important in later Hinduism, in texts that characterize the Vedic transaction as one in which the ritual transfers to the sponsor the good karma that the priest generates. Eventually—to fast-forward for a moment—the idea of the transfer of good karma in a ritual act with effects in this life develops into the idea of the moral consequences of any act, not only in this life but also in future lives.
DEATH
Just as the Vedic poets speculate in various contrasting, even conflicting ways about the process of creation, so too do they vary in their speculations about death and in the questions they ask about death. The poets view death and sleep as a part of chaos, in contrast with the ordering of life in the hierarchy of social classes.cb Death in the Vedas is something to be avoided as long as possible; one hopes only to escape premature death, never to live forever; the prayer is that people should die in the right order, that children should not die before their parents (10.18.5). Surprisingly for a document so devoted to war and sacrifice, both of which involve killing, the Rig Veda actually says relatively little about death. What it does say, however, is comforting: For the virtuous, death is a hazy but pleasant place.
The poet says, speaking of the creator, “His shadow is immortality—and death,” and he prays, “Deliver me from death, not from immortality (7.59.12).” By “immortality” the ancient sages meant not an actual eternity of life—even the gods do not live forever, though they live much longer than we do, and they never age—but rather a full life span (usually conceived of as seventy or a hundred years). When it comes to the inevitable end of that span, the Rig Veda offers varied but not necessarily contradictory images of a rather muted version of life on earth: shade (remember how hot India is), lots of good-looking women (this heaven is imagined by men), and good things to eat and drink. There is also some talk about a deep pit into which evil spirits and ogres are to be consigned forever, but no evidence that human sinners would be sent there (7.104).
The poems also propose many different nonsolutions to the insoluble problem of death, many different ways that the square peg of the fact of death cannot be fitted into the round hole of human rationality. These approaches are often aware of one another; they react against one another and incorporate one another, through the process of intertextuality. And there is general agreement on some points, such as that the dead person would go to the House of Clay, to be punished, or to the World of the Fathers, to be rewarded.73
FAST-FORWARD: REINCARNATION
The Rig Veda is more concerned with the living than with the dead, as is clear from the way texts address mourners (10.18), but they also address the corpse: “Leaving behind all imperfections, go back home again; merge with a glorious body (10.14.8).” Despite this “glorious body” with which the dead person unites, another poem expresses concern that the old body be preserved and confidence that this will be so. The poem begins by addressing the funeral fire: “Do not burn him entirely, Agni, or engulf him in your flames. Do not consume his skin or his flesh. When you have cooked him perfectly, only then send him forth to the fathers (10.16.1).” Not only is the fire not to destroy the body, but it is to preserve it.cc Speaking to the dead man, the poem says: “Whatever the black bird has pecked out of you, or the ant, the snake, or even a beast of prey, may Agni who eats all things make it whole (10.16.6).” (Something very similar was said of and to the sacrificial horse, as we have seen.)
When this poem addresses the dead man, it speaks of the ultimate cosmic dispersal of the old body: “May your eye go to the sun, your life’s breath to the wind. Go to the sky or to earth, as is your nature; or go to the waters, if that is your fate. Take root in the plants with your limbs (10.16.3).” (This dismembermentis reversed in “Poem of the Primeval Man” (10.90): “The moon was born from his mind; from his eye the sun was born.”) And then it asks Agni to let the dead man “join with a body (10.16.5).”
The fate of the dead was a site of contention that was not tackled
head-on until the Upanishads began to meditate philosophically on the ritual and mythology of the Vedas, and it was not fully explored until the full flourishing of Indian philosophy. Yet ever dogged by hindsight, our unshakable bête noire, we might note even in the Vedic poems some rather vague intimations of transmigration. 74 “Take root in the plants with your limbs (10.16.3)” might be a hint of the sort of rebirth in plants that the Upanishads are going to describe in detail, especially when that verse is coupled, later in that same poem, with a rather suggestive, if cryptic, allusion to rebirth: “Let him reach his own descendants, dressing himself in a life span (10.16.5).” This verse can be interpreted to mean that Agni shold let the dead person come back to his former home and to his offspring.75 The dead in the Upanishads come back to the earth in the form of rain, and that idea may be encoded here too. Though a line in another poem, which expresses several rather different views of the fate of the dead, reverts to the idea of heaven, it also hints at the importance of the record of good deeds—which is to say, good karma: “Unite with the fathers, with Yama [king of the dead], with the rewards of your sacrifices and good deeds, in the highest heaven (10.14.7).” But these are, at best, but the early, murky stirrings of a doctrine that will become clear only in the Brahmanas and Upanishads.
CHAPTER 6
SACRIFICE IN THE BRAHMANAS
800 to 500 BCE
CHRONOLOGY (ALL DATES BCE)
1100-1000 Vedic texts mention the Doab (the area between the two [do] rivers [ab], the Ganges and the Yamuna)
The Hindus Page 17
