the same way that Ka had been “the sole breath of the gods.”
* * *
Praj ā pati: the creator god who is not entirely sure he exists. Praj ā pati is the god who has no identity, who is the origin of all insoluble paradoxes. All identities arise from him, who himself has none. And so he takes a step back, or to one side, allowing the rush of mortal beings, ready to forget him, to carry on. But they will then return to him, to ask him the wherefore. And the wherefore can only be similar to what made them first emerge: a rite, a composition of elements, of forms, a temporary—the only—guarantee of existence. Compared with every monotheistic god, and with all other plural deities, Praj ā pati is more intimate and more remote, more elusive and more familiar. Any reasoning person continually encounters him wherever speech and thought arise, wherever they dissolve away. That is Praj ā pati.
The Ś atapatha Br ā hma ṇ a returns on innumerable occasions to the scene that takes place “at the beginning,” when Praj ā pati “desired.” And on most occasions we read that Praj ā pati wanted to reproduce himself, wanted to know other beings apart from himself. But there is a passage where it says that Praj ā pati had another desire: “May I exist, may I be generated.” The very first being to be unsure of his own existence was thus the Progenitor. And he had good reason, since Praj ā pati was an amalgam of seven ṛṣ is , those “seers” who, in turn, had been seven “vital breaths,” though incapable of existing alone. Prior to the drama of things generated there was the drama of that which feared it could not exist. This was what forever marked Praj ā pati’s character and made him the most phantom-like, the most anxious, the most fragile of all creator gods. He never resembled a sovereign who elatedly surveys his dominions. He left that feeling to one of his sons, Indra—and he pitied him for it. He knew that, along with euphoria, and bound up with it, Indra would face mockery and retribution.
To gather the difference between Praj ā pati and the gods, it is enough to murmur a ritual formula. The low voice is indistinct—and that indistinctness already brings us in contact with the nature of Praj ā pati, which is precisely this: indistinct. By playing with meter, with names, with formulas, with murmurs, with silence, the sacrificer manages to move about among the various forms of the divine. But, even in the case of the most elementary gesture, he will have to reach that vast, mysterious level, that indistinctness where he encounters only Praj ā pati—and himself.
* * *
Unlike Elohim, Praj ā pati does not have a hand in creation as a working craftsman, but is the process of creation itself: in it he is made and he is unmade. The further Praj ā pati goes in creation, the more he is dismembered and exhausted. His view of what he does is never from the outside. He cannot look upon his work and say: “It is good.” As soon as he looks outward, he evokes another being, V ā c, the “second,” a column of water, which was a female, pouring between sky and earth. And immediately the two copulate. Praj ā pati was so little external to his creation that, according to some texts, it was he himself who became impregnated: “With his mind he united with V ā c, Speech: he became pregnant with eight drops.” They became eight deities, the Vasus. Then he set them upon the earth. Copulation continued. Praj ā pati was once again impregnated, by eleven drops. They became other deities, the Rudras. He then set them in the atmosphere. There was also a third copulation. And Praj ā pati was impregnated by twelve drops. This time they were the Ā dityas, the great gods of light: “He placed them in the sky.” Eight, eleven, twelve: thirty-one. Praj ā pati was impregnated by another drop: the Vi ś vedev āḥ , All-the-gods. They had reached thirty-two. Only one was missing to
* * *
Praj ā pati: the creator god who is not entirely sure he exists. Praj ā pati is the god who has no identity, who is the origin of all insoluble paradoxes. All identities arise from him, who himself has none. And so he takes a step back, or to one side, allowing the rush of mortal beings, ready to forget him, to carry on. But they will then return to him, to ask him the wherefore. And the wherefore can only be similar to what made them first emerge: a rite, a composition of elements, of forms, a temporary—the only—guarantee of existence. Compared with every monotheistic god, and with all other plural deities, Praj ā pati is more intimate and more remote, more elusive and more familiar. Any reasoning person continually encounters him wherever speech and thought arise, wherever they dissolve away. That is Praj ā pati.
The Ś atapatha Br ā hma ṇ a returns on innumerable occasions to the scene that takes place “at the beginning,” when Praj ā pati “desired.” And on most occasions we read that Praj ā pati wanted to reproduce himself, wanted to know other beings apart from himself. But there is a passage where it says that Praj ā pati had another desire: “May I exist, may I be generated.” The very first being to be unsure of his own existence was thus the Progenitor. And he had good reason, since Praj ā pati was an amalgam of seven ṛṣ is , those “seers” who, in turn, had been seven “vital breaths,” though incapable of existing alone. Prior to the drama of things generated there was the drama of that which feared it could not exist. This was what forever marked Praj ā pati’s character and made him the most phantom-like, the most anxious, the most fragile of all creator gods. He never resembled a sovereign who elatedly surveys his dominions. He left that feeling to one of his sons, Indra—and he pitied him for it. He knew that, along with euphoria, and bound up with it, Indra would face mockery and retribution.
To gather the difference between Praj ā pati and the gods, it is enough to murmur a ritual formula. The low voice is indistinct—and that indistinctness already brings us in contact with the nature of Praj ā pati, which is precisely this: indistinct. By playing with meter, with names, with formulas, with murmurs, with silence, the sacrificer manages to move about among the various forms of the divine. But, even in the case of the most elementary gesture, he will have to reach that vast, mysterious level, that indistinctness where he encounters only Praj ā pati—and himself.
* * *
Unlike Elohim, Praj ā pati does not have a hand in creation as a working craftsman, but is the process of creation itself: in it he is made and he is unmade. The further Praj ā pati goes in creation, the more he is dismembered and exhausted. His view of what he does is never from the outside. He cannot look upon his work and say: “It is good.” As soon as he looks outward, he evokes another being, V ā c, the “second,” a column of water, which was a female, pouring between sky and earth. And immediately the two copulate. Praj ā pati was so little external to his creation that, according to some texts, it was he himself who became impregnated: “With his mind he united with V ā c, Speech: he became pregnant with eight drops.” They became eight deities, the Vasus. Then he set them upon the earth. Copulation continued. Praj ā pati was once again impregnated, by eleven drops. They became other deities, the Rudras. He then set them in the atmosphere. There was also a third copulation. And Praj ā pati was impregnated by twelve drops. This time they were the Ā dityas, the great gods of light: “He placed them in the sky.” Eight, eleven, twelve: thirty-one. Praj ā pati was impregnated by another drop: the Vi ś vedev āḥ , All-the-gods. They had reached thirty-two. Only one was missing to
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