A simple blade of grass
author: Matthijs Cornelissen
last revision: November 2020
 

केनेषितं पतति प्रेषितं मनः
केन प्राणः प्रथमः प्रैति युक्तः ।
केनेषितां वाचमिमां वदन्ति
चक्षुः श्रोत्रं क उ देवो युनक्ति ॥ १ ॥
 
By whom missioned falls the mind shot to its mark?
By whom yoked moves the first life-breath forward on its paths?
By whom impelled is this word that men speak?
What god set eye and ear to their workings?

The Kena Upaniṣad is one of the oldest Upaniṣads and with that perhaps one of the oldest texts that deals entirely and explicitly with issues of perception, knowing and agency. Though not as short as the Iśa Upaniṣad, the Kena Upaniṣad is still a short text, and it remains throughout its 35 slokas tightly focused on the central question that it asks at the beginning. Its verses are traditionally divided into four groups, and in the first of these, it attempts an abstract, philosophical answer. Hardly has it done this, however, or it argues in the second group of verses something that could be summarised as: “If you now think you’ve understood, you’ve missed the point!” Its scepticism has a definite post-modern flavour, but the Kena doesn’t allow us to escape in an easy, philosophical agnosticism. Instead, it adds, with the refined psychological perception that is so typical for these early writings, “But if you say you haven’t understood at all, you are not speaking the truth either.” So where do these contradictory statements leave us? To take us to the next level of understanding, the Kena gives up on philosophical discourse, and tells instead a story, and, even now, after several thousands of years of mental development, it is still the story that makes the basic intention most easily understood.

The story relates how the gods, after a difficult & laborious victory over evil, have become too cocky for their own good. They obviously need a lesson in humility, and Brahman, the Absolute One, appears in their midst in the form of a simple blade of grass. The gods are baffled by this sudden appearance of a blade of grass in their heavenly abode, and each one of them tries to deal with it in his or her own typical way. But to their great consternation Agni (fire) cannot burn it, Vayu (wind) cannot blow it away, and when Indra (mind) approaches it, it simply vanishes. When in the fourth section, Uma (the pre-dawn) finally points out to Indra that the blade of grass is no other than Brahman, Indra is stunned and later all the other gods realise the folly of their pride: they are forced to acknowledge the One who infinitely surpasses them.

When we take the gods as divine personifications of fundamental psychological powers and processes, the interpretation of the story is not difficult: Agni, the basic human drive and aspiration, Vayu, the cleaning force of the pure heart, and Indra, the Lord of the mind, are great godheads, no doubt, but by themselves they have neither power nor value. In fact by themselves they could not even exist. What makes them gods — and it is this that distinguishes the Devas, from the Asuras — is that they acknowledge that there is a true Divine beyond them, an Absolute of which they only represent one of its infinite aspects. As Uma, the first pre-dawn light of pure discernment, in this story has to remind them, there is indeed a “secret ingredient”, an Absolute that makes them what they are and that, at the same time, infinitely and eternally surpasses them. That secret One is Brahman, at once the ineffable Transcendence, the all-comprehensive Cosmos, and the ultimate individual Presence. There is nothing beyond Him, nothing outside of Her, nothing too small for It.

An interesting detail of the story is that it clearly comes from a time when the Word still had power. Uma only needs to mention the name of Brahman, and Indra and the other gods instantly have the complete realisation of Brahman’s Presence, with all that it implies. For us, words have lost that power, we use them too much and too flippantly. As a result, a story like this tends to be for us just that, a story; it may stay stuck somewhere in our memory, but we need to do much more work of a different kind, before it becomes part of our “blood and bones”.