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earth or a heaven of everlasting life. But he speaks of physiology. He speaks of that minuscule figure we see reflected in the pupil of another’s eye. And he calls it a “person,” puru ṣ a , a being about which the B ṛ had ā ra ṇ yaka Upani ṣ ad itself said: “The ā tman , the Self, existed alone in the beginning in the form of Puru ṣ a.” In this case the king of the gods, Indra, is a cover for another figure, the mysterious Indha, the Flaming One, who has a female companion, Vir ā j (the name of a meter but also the consort of Puru ṣ a). But why should these two minuscule reflected figures reveal to us what happens after death? Because they are linked together in an extremely long and continually renewed coitus in the space inside the heart: a protective cavern. And what do they live on? “Their food is the red mass inside the heart.” Here, like a cusp, metaphysics penetrates physiology. The coitus between Indra and Vir ā j is wakefulness—and the state that reigns at the end of coitus is sleep: “For, as here, when human coitus comes to an end the man becomes, as it were, insensible, so then he becomes insensible; because this is a divine union, and this is the supreme happiness.” The two figures reflected in the two eyes enabled Y ā jñavalkya to enter the cavity of the Self and surprise it in its constant and double erotic activity, which is the mind itself. And from here Y ā jñavalkya rises straightaway to the peak of negative theology: “As for the ā tman , the Self, it can only be expressed in the negative: ungraspable, because it cannot be grasped; indestructible, because it cannot be destroyed; detached, because it doesn’t become attached; without ties, nothing stirs it, nothing wounds it. In truth, Janaka, you have attained non-fear ( abhaya ).” And here is an echo of the speech that will denote the mudr ā of the hand raised to shoulder height: the most typical gesture of the Buddha.
    The boldness of Y ā jñavalkya’s reply should be stressed. He is speaking to someone who already knows much, but whose knowledge lacks one final step. He does not think it appropriate to use words of reassurance, nor to make any promises. Y ā jñavalkya needs only to refer to one physiological fact—the figure reflected in the pupil—in order to produce the revelation of something that encapsulates everything: the Self as an unshakable power that acts unremittingly in every living being, even if it is not perceived. Nothing else is needed to attain “non-fear,” which is the only form of peace. As soon as he had heard him, Janaka said to Y ā jñavalkya: “May abhaya , non-fear, peace, be with you, Y ā jñavalkya.”
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    In two boundless Indian works, the presumed author is also a character in the work itself. As Vy ā sa is for the Mah ā bh ā rata , so Y ā jñavalkya is for the Ś atapatha Br ā hma ṇ a. In the case of Vy ā sa it is impossible to give any historical identity to him; in the case of Y ā jñavalkya it is almost impossible. But their appearance as characters is equally necessary. The author is an actor who appears on the scene and then disappears, like so many others. And at the same time he is the eye behind which there is none other, the eye that allows everything to unfold before the eye of that nameless being who listens, who reads.
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    How did Janaka react when Y ā jñavalkya showed him, in just a few words, what happens after death—and with reference only to the figure we see reflected in the pupil? The B ṛ had ā ra ṇ yaka Upani ṣ ad tells us immediately after: “At that time Y ā jñavalkya went to Janaka of Videha, with the intention not to speak.” A magnificent incipit , once again in keeping with the stern character of Y ā jñavalkya. But Janaka remembered that on another occasion, when he had argued on the agnihotra , Y ā jñavalkya had granted him a vara , a “boon”: the chance to make a wish that he