य इमां ब्रह्मविद्याममावास्यायां पठेच्छृणुयाद्वा यावज्जीवं न हिंसन्ति सर्पाः । अष्टौ ब्राह्मणान्ग्राहयित्वा तृणेन मोचयेत् । शतं ब्राह्मणान्ग्राहयित्वा चक्षुषा मोचयेत् । सहस्रं ब्राह्मणान्ग्राहयित्वा मनसा मोचयेत् । सर्पाञ्जले न मुञ्चन्ति । तृणे न मुञ्चन्ति । काष्ठे न मुञ्चन्तीत्याह भगवान्ब्रह्मेत्युपनिषत्
ya imāṃ brahmavidyāmamāvāsyāyāṃ paṭhecchṛṇuyādvā yāvajjīvaṃ na hiṃsanti sarpāḥ | aṣṭau brāhmaṇāngrāhayitvā tṛṇena mocayet | śataṃ brāhmaṇāngrāhayitvā cakṣuṣā mocayet | sahasraṃ brāhmaṇāngrāhayitvā manasā mocayet | sarpāñjale na muñcanti | tṛṇe na muñcanti | kāṣṭhe na muñcantītyāha bhagavānbrahmetyupaniṣat
«Whoever reads or hears this knowledge of brahman at the new moon — as long as he lives, serpents will not harm him. Having caused eight bitten brāhmaṇas [to be brought], let him release them with a blade of grass; a hundred bitten — let him release them with a glance; a thousand bitten — let him release them with a thought. Serpents are not released into water, not into grass, not into a tree. Thus said the Lord Brahmā. Such is the upaniṣad».
6237fa3b0ad1 · 发布于 2026年8月12日 05:00:00 UTC
可用语言RUEN用方向键翻颂
The book ends, and it ends with a promise that must be spoken of with full frankness. It is promised that the reader will heal eight bitten with a blade of grass, a hundred with a glance, a thousand with a thought. Let us say it plainly: this does not happen.
One bitten by a venomous serpent is not healed by a blade of grass, nor by a glance, nor by a thought; he needs antivenom, and soon. We said this at the start of the book and repeat it at the end, for here the promise is stated in its most enticing form, with an exact count that lends it an air of credibility. Let us add what deserves note in the very construction of the promise, for it is curiously built.
Eight — with a blade of grass; a hundred — with a glance; a thousand — with a thought. That is, the larger the number, the subtler the means: from a thing to a glance, from a glance to a thought. This construction occurs in Indian literature and denotes an ascent in subtlety; and in itself it is beautiful.
Let us add the last line, the most obscure of all: sarpān jale na muñcanti, “serpents are not released into water, nor into grass, nor into a tree.” It seems to refer to the exorcist's rule: an expelled serpent must not be released where it will bite someone else again. This reading, if correct, shows that even here the thought was not only for oneself: in expelling trouble, one was careful where it would go.
Let us look back over the whole book. It is a charm, and as a charm it does not work; but it is also a monument, and there are three passages in it worth reading. The first — Garuḍa's folded hands (1.1): the king of birds, the terror of serpents, is depicted bowing, his whole strength turned beneath another's feet.
The second — the inventory of the world (2.16), which lists everything that can harm, and shows what the life of the one who wrote it was like. The third is what lies beyond the book itself: Parīkṣit, bitten by Takṣaka, did not try to charm away the poison, but sat down to listen — and his seven days became the Bhāgavatam.