The Light of a Man

Once, when Janaka and Yājñavalkya had talked together about the fire offering, Yājñavalkya had granted the king a boon, and Janaka had chosen the right to ask whatever he wished. So one day, when Yājñavalkya came to him meaning to say nothing, the king began to ask.

Yājñavalkya, what is the light of a man? The sun is his light, your majesty, he said. By the light of the sun he sits, goes out, does his work and comes back. When the sun has set, Yājñavalkya, what is a man's light? The moon becomes his light. When the sun has set and the moon has set, what is his light? Fire becomes his light. When the sun has set, and the moon has set, and the fire has gone out, what is his light? Speech becomes his light; that is why, your majesty, when a man cannot see his own hand, he goes toward a voice. And when the sun has set, and the moon has set, and the fire has gone out, and speech is silent, what is a man's light then? The Self becomes his light. By the light of the Self he sits, goes out, does his work and comes back.

Which is the Self? Janaka asked. And Yājñavalkya told him of the person made of understanding among the breaths, the light within the heart, who moves between this world and the next, between waking and dream and dreamless sleep, unchanged. In deep sleep, he said, a father is no father, a mother no mother, the worlds no worlds, the gods no gods, the Vedas no Vedas. He becomes like water, one, the seer without a second. That is the world of Brahman, your majesty; that is his highest way, his highest attainment, his highest world, his highest joy, and all other beings live on a small part of that joy.

He told the king how a man dies: as a heavily loaded cart creaks along, so the self creaks along when a man is breathing his last; as a mango or a fig comes loose from its stalk, so the person comes loose from the limbs and hastens back the way he came, toward a new birth and a new life.