kíṃ svit sūryasamaṃ jyótiḥ
kíṃ samudrásamaṃ sáraḥ
kíṃ svit pṛthivyaí várṣīyaḥ
kásya mātrā ná vidyate
What is the light that equals the sun?
What is the stream that equals the ocean?
What is greater than the earth?
Whose measure cannot be found?
Vājasaneyi Saṁhitā (Thompson 1997)
natthi sūriyasamā ābhā
samuddaparamā sarā …
natthi paññāsamā ābhā
vuṭṭhi ve paramā sarā
There is no light that equals the sun
The ocean is among streams supreme …
There is no light that equals wisdom
Rain is that supreme of streams
SN 1.13
It seems that the classic brahmodya of the White Yajurveda was fixed in form. Students would memorize the call-and-response poems in preparation for that moment in the sacrifice when their wits would be called into question. Knowledge of the sacrifice and its deeper meaning would require rigorous initiation, for that which is evident to the gods is but concealed to men (yanma manuṣyāṇāṃ parokṣaṃ taddevānāṃ pratyakṣam PB 22.10.4).
These poetic competitions were not new to the Brahmanical tradition. George Thompson (1997) argued that they could be found already in the Ṛgveda, the tradition’s oldest work, albeit in a more subtle and nuanced form. Following in his tracks to truth, Jurewicz (2010) discusses in more depth how the great Nāsadīya Sūktam is itself part of such a brahmodya, drilling its audience—the “eye-witness in the highest heaven”—on some of those most haunting of questions:
“The blend created by the competing priest makes him believe in his absolute competence and his participation in the events which took place in illo tempore. That is why the questions asked in the last two stanzas of the Nāsadīya are left unanswered: the answer is given every time a concrete human being realises a particular cognitive act.”
These riddles, then, vary in the extent of their use. They may test their opponent to see if they know the divine and esoteric dialect of the ritual, or throw them through the clouds to contemplate the origin of creation itself. And they will continue weaving their way through the layers of text, down to the Upaniṣads where they are clothed in a much more free style of inquiry and debate. In fact, the Indic loom on which these riddles were woven seems broader than the Vedas alone.
Bausch (2015) shed light ahead in the philosophical development from the Vājasaneyi Saṃhitā—the tradition to which Yājñavalkya belonged and had mastered, and to which our rhythmically compact brahmodya are typical. We are left then to tie together these ends and connect them back to the inheritance such brilliant Upaniṣadic debaters were moving forward from. After all, it is in the search for hidden connections so dear to the gods that motivated and propelled the contemplative search for divinity within.
The Sagāthāvagga of the Saṃyutta Nikāya manages to hold shadows from both of these traditions in plain sight. There we find the more open and personal dialogue characteristic of the dialogues and brahmodya debates in the Upaniṣads. But the majority of these discourses preserve poetic riddles suspiciously close in form to those we might expect to find in the Yajurveda.
Thompson (1997) discusses different types of verse brahmodya, and offers some of the core characteristics of our more familiar fill-in-the-blank poems. These reduce the semantic content of the poems to little more than a series of esoteric symbols which the answerer must, in near identical meter, mirror the question with an obvious connection underlying the hidden. This is precisely the structure and style of so many of the poems in the Sagāthāvagga, that the genre of at least the most obviously similar cases is undeniably the same.
What this might mean for the origins, use, and context of the Buddhist poems is up to discover. There is another hidden connection waiting to be known.