Raikwa of the Cart - Chandogya IV 1 & 2

I've done a fairly free translation here, as the key thing is the story. It's a kind of fairy tale, but with a lot to consider. The story is the first in section IV of the Upanishad; there are more like this to follow, but none perhaps so unusual.

Once upon a time there was a descendant of Jaanashruta, the grandson of his son, who offered gifts respectfully, gave alms in plenty, and fed many. He had rest-houses built everywhere, with the thought, "I will feed the people everywhere". He was called Jaanashruti Pautraayana.

Then once, two swans came flying in the night to where Jaanashruti slept. He woke up when he heard their wings, and was astonished to hear them speak. This is what they said.

The first swan spoke mockingly to the other, "You are far-sighted indeed! Do you not see how the lustrous fame of Jaanashruti spreads everywhere like the light of heaven. Don't touch it - it will burn you!"
The second replied, as quick as anything, "What, who is this individual you are speaking about, as though he were the equal of Raikwa of the Cart?" The first said, "Who is this Raikwa of the Cart?"
"Just as in a game of dice, the highest throw wins over all the others, so all virtuous deeds people may do are outdone by Raikwa. Only someone who knows what Raikwa knows, is like Raikwa. That is who I am talking about."

Jaanashruti overheard this conversation, and as soon as he got up the next morning, he spoke to his charioteer bitterly. "You have praised me in the past, as though I were the equal of Raikwa of the Cart". The charioteer asked in surprise, "What kind of a man is this Raikwa of the Cart?" And Jaanashruti repeated what the swan had said: "Just as in a game of dice, the highest throw wins over all the others, so all virtuous deeds people may do are outdone by Raikwa. Only someone who knows what Raikwa knows, is like Raikwa. That is who I am talking about."

The charioteer was ordered by the king to search everywhere for the great Raikwa, and he searched through all the towns and villages for a king or nobleman of this name. He returned without success. When he reported this to the king, he was told: "Then look for him in the places that a holy man would live!" The charioteer wandered through the forests and lonely places, but nowhere could he find Raikwa.

At last he sat down, discouraged and worn-out, leaning against an old cartwheel, and next to him he saw a man, lying underneath the cart, busy scratching himself. The charioteer was amazed, and said, "Are you, Sir, Raikwa of the Cart?" The man replied, "I am indeed", and having heard that the charioteer returned to tell the king what he had found.

Jaanashruti Pautraayana gathered six hundred head of cattle, a gold necklace, a chariot drawn by she-mules, and travelled to the place.
"O Raikwa!" he said, "Here are six hundred heads of cattle, a fine gold necklace, and a chariot drawn by she-mules. Sir, please teach me about that deity on whom you meditate."
But Raikwa was unimpressed at this offer, and replied scornfully: "Peasant! Keep your chariot, necklace and cows!"

Jaanashruti returned once more, this time with a thousand head of cattle, a gold necklace, a chariot drawn by she-mules, and his daughter. He offered all this to Raikwa, together with the village where he lived, asking once more, "please teach me, Sir".
Gazing on Jaanashruti's daughter's face, Raikwa said, "Well, peasant, you have brought these; and through this very face you will make me speak". And to him he imparted his knowledge.

Chandogya IV, I-II

The king has to give what is most precious to him to get the knowledge.  Raikwa is neither a brahmana nor a kshatriya, nor does he do good deeds like the king, but his knowledge ("the deity on whom you meditate") is more valuable than anything.  Also interesting is the role of the daughter: the feminine is what brings the secret knowledge into the open.

They see the light of the day

These are described in the Chandogya as a pair of Rik-mantras. I don't know what that means, but they appear to be fragments handed down by tradition. One or two syllables are, according to the commentator, meaningless. So we are dealing with some very ancient words that have been passed down for centuries. I have given a literal translation here.

This is one of many meditations on the sun in the Upanishads. Whoever composed these mantras was moved to worship the sun, the source of life and light, and found in it a reflection of "the light that is ours", the light in the heart of our being.

आदित्पत्नास्य रेतसः ज्योतिः पश्यन्ति वासरम। पारो यदिध्यते दिवि ॥ ७ ॥

They see the light of the day, the everlasting source, that which shines supreme in the luminous heaven.

उद्वयन तमासपरी ज्योतिः पश्यनता उत्तरंग स्वः पश्यनता उत्तरं देवन देवत्रा सुर्यमागंमा ज्योतिरुत्तममिति ज्योतितुत्तामामिति ॥ ८ ॥

"We have seen beyond darkness the supreme light that is ours, have seen the supreme, he who is brightest among lights.
We have attained that sun that is the best of all lights, the best of all lights."
Chandogya III 17 7-8

I am struck once more by the simplicity of the Sanskrit, tricky as it is to tease out the meaning. It's hard to understand how the translation in the Advaita Ashrama edition has been arrived at:

In the supreme Brahman which is the oldest and is the source of the world, they (the knowers of Brahman) visualize everywhere that supreme Light which shines like the all-pervading daylight.
Having realised the Light (in the sun), which is the dispeller of ignorance, (and) which is non-different from the Light within our hearts-having visualized the Light which is higher than other lights-, we have attained the Sun, the Light that is the best of all lights, bright among the lights.

I am continually struck by how over-complicated the standard translations are. Shankara's 8th Century AD commentary is lucid, but he deliberately adds things to the text that are not there, in order to prove that the Upanishads are an expression of his Advaita Vedanta philosophy.
He's not wrong to find that philosophy in the Upanishads, but I think he does them a disservice when he tries to find only that philosophy.

We also read III, 19 today, a delightful creation myth involving an egg that becomes the universe, with the sun born out of it.

I take refuge in the indestructible treasury

This is a mysterious and delightful short section from the Chandogya. It imagines the world as a treasury or treasure-chest. Dive in to the chest and see what you find ...


The treasury which has the atmosphere as its inside, and the earth as its bottom, is never spent. The directions themselves are its corners, heaven is its upper opening. This treasury which is such, is the vault for wealth. In it is held all this.

The name of the eastern side is Juhuu, the southern is Sahamaanaa, the western is Raajnii, the northern is Subhutaa. Air is their son. He who knows this air as the son of the directions, he needs not cry for the loss of a son.

‘I have known this air as the son of the directions. May I not have to cry for the loss of a son.’

‘I take shelter in the indestructible treasury through this one, this one, this one.
‘I take shelter in the vital force through this one, this one, this one.
‘I take shelter in the earth through this one, this one, this one.
‘I take shelter in the atmosphere through this one, this one, this one.
‘I take shelter in heaven through this one, this one, this one.’

‘When I said, “I take shelter in the vital force”, I meant: “The vital force is indeed all this that exists. Thereby, I take refuge in that itself.”'

‘Then, when I said, “I take refuge in the earth”, I meant: “I take refuge in the earth, I take refuge in the atmosphere, I take refuge in heaven.”'

‘Then, when I said, “I take refuge in the atmosphere”, I meant: “I take refuge in fire, I take refuge in air, I take refuge in the sun.”'

‘Then, when I said, “I take refuge in heaven”, I meant, I surely meant: “I take refuge in Rig Veda, I take refuge in Yajur-Veda, I take refuge in Saama-Veda.”'


Chandogya Upanishad III, 15

The treasury (kosha कोष ) consists of the three worlds spoken of in the Vedas: bhu (earth), bhuvah (atmosphere) and svah (heaven). It is therefore “all this”, that is, the entire universe. "kosha" is a covering or receptacle and comes from a root word meaning "to embrace".

Interestingly, the word kosha later comes to be an important part of yoga philosophy, where it means a "sheath". There are said to be "five sheaths" (koshas) - food, breath, mind, intellect and bliss - that enfold the consciousness. It is a matter of interpretation whether the koshas are covering up the consciousness or embracing and supporting it; in this passage from the Chandogya, it is definitely the latter.

I don’t know the significance of the four names for the directions, but the crucial point, it seems, is that the air (vaayuh) is their son. Vaayuh is the god of the wind, the air. In these early Upanishads vaayuh is important because it is the cosmic equivalent to the life-force, the life-breath within the body, praana. The relation of vaayu to the universe is the same as the prana to the body: the most subtle essence, within or behind which is to be found the self (aatman आत्मन ).

This is why the knowledge of the air is the ultimate consolation. If one knows the air, one knows the praana; and if one knows the praana, then one knows the one that is beyond death. Even the death of a son (which in Vedic culture means that there is no-one to perform the death duties that carry the spirit of the father to heaven, and is therefore the ultimate misfortune) is no cause for mourning. The son does not really die, and nor does the father.

He takes shelter in the indestructible treasury that is this universe “through this one, this one, this one”. (Gambhiranananda translates as "for the sake of this one", but amunaa means "by means of/through this one").

It seems mysterious that shelter is taken “through this one”: it might be expected that he takes shelter in this one, and not in the universe. Perhaps the knowledge of this one (amunaa) is what allows someone to shelter in the universe. Unless the one is known, the all is a threat and a burden; but when it is known, then one can take a place within “all this” without fear.

The repetition "I meant, I surely meant" is a typical stylistic point of the final verses in the chapters of this Upanishad.

I don't know about anyone else, but for me this chapter has the characteristic savour of the oldest Upanishads. It has a unique poetic vision, apparently that of some sage whose name has been lost but whose words (in quotation marks here) have been preserved. The earlier and later verses may be written at a later date; it's hard to say. Is the son, who may or may not be lost, the "one"? Or is it the self, the spirit? Grief and the transcendence of grief each make their presence felt, and in the background is the holiest of the Vedic chants, the Gayatri mantra: "bhur bhuvah svah ..." ("earth, atmosphere, heaven ...").