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to the north of the altar, on a line traced with a wooden sword, so that the gods’ wives remained beside their husbands. But some ritualists were less timorous, more cursory, concerned more about metaphysics than the marital harmony of the gods. Most notable among them was Y ā jñavalkya. Each time, his words were aimed straight at their target. He was rather like certain Zen masters in Chinese painting who seemed to emanate a barely contained physical power and looked upon the world as if it were a dry leaf.
    Several ritualists had long plagued Y ā jñavalkya, asking him where the ghee should be placed, so as not to create friction between the gods and their wives. Y ā jñavalkya was well aware that the sacrificers were concerned not so much about the gods but about their own wives, who would have also felt excluded , in obvious imitation of the gods’ wives. A wife who feels excluded is always dangerous. She begins to feel dissatisfied with her husband. And then, who knows, she may take advantage of that estrangement to go looking for other men. Y ā jñavalkya knew all this. And his answer was intentionally insolent, touching on the sore point: “What does it matter if his [the sacrificer’s] wife goes off with other men?” Why so curt? As always happened with Y ā jñavalkya, his bluntness served to get straight to the metaphysical point, his only real interest. The ghee must be placed on the altar because the sacrifice must be edified by the sacrifice itself. If it were placed outside, the sacrifice would have to apply to something external, whereas it is essential for the sacrifice to be self-sufficient and self-generating, with all the paradoxes and contradictions that this implies. This was the supreme precept. And it certainly couldn’t be compromised by any concern for the marital harmony of a sacrificer. On that matter there was no turning back. Y ā jñavalkya spoke in this tone.
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    One day Y ā jñavalkya said he had to choose a place of worship for V ā r ṣṇ ya, who wished to celebrate a sacrifice. So S ā tyayajña (about whom we know nothing, except that his name means “Descendant of True Sacrifice”) said: “In truth the whole earth is divine: a place of sacrifice is anywhere where a sacrifice can be made after having marked out the place with the appropriate formula.” Once again Y ā jñavalkya stepped in where there was a point of theology to be resolved. His interlocutor’s statement was enough to end any excessive geomantic concern. And it touched on a crucial question: all is decided when a sacrificial formula is imprinted on a place, like a seal, and so transforms it. But the text of the Ś atapatha Br ā hma ṇ a goes further and says—without it being clear whether it is still a doctrine of S ā tyayajña or has been added by Y ā jñavalkya—“the officiants are the place of sacrifice: the brahmins who perform the sacrifice are stability, being experts in doctrine, able to recite it, men of wisdom: we consider that to be the greatest proximity [to the gods], so to speak.” Wherever we find a perfect brahmin, that is the place of sacrifice. These words have a distant resonance in Thomas Mann when he said that, wherever he was, there too was the German language.
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    Janaka wanted to celebrate a sacrifice with large ritual fees. Large ritual fees meant many officiants. He assembled a thousand cows. On the horns of every cow he strung pieces of gold. Janaka wanted to understand which of the brahmins had attained the greatest knowledge; who was the brahmi ṣṭ ha , “the wisest in brahman ” (the whole of India has been a question of brahman ). The cows would be presented to him. Y ā jñavalkya then told his disciple S ā ma ś ravas: “Lead them away.” The brahmins were shocked: “How can he say who has gone further in brahman ?” The king’s priest, A ś vala, then stepped forward and asked Y ā jñavalkya: “Are you the one who