In a time when the world was woven with the presence of gods and the sacred rites of men, a seeker reflected deeply on the mysteries of bounty and wisdom. “It is not by mere desire that I become generous again,” he mused, “but by careful consideration—whom should I approach, whom should I join?” He wondered aloud, “By what wisdom, O Atharvan, by what birth have you become Jātavedas, the knower of all births?” A voice answered, resonant and profound: “Truly, it is through wisdom that I am deep; by birth, I am Jātavedas. No servant, no woman has measured the greatness of the vow I uphold.” The seeker then turned his thoughts to Varuṇa, lord of order, recognizing, “None but you, O Varuṇa, are more poetic, none wiser in understanding. You know all the worlds, and even your own may fear your power.” He questioned further, “You, O Varuṇa, know all origins and guide well. What lies beyond this region? Is there anything higher? What is below, what is above, O immortal one?” A revelation came: “One region lies beyond, another below; by one, even the evildoer is brought low. Know this, O Varuṇa: let the gains of the wicked be cast down, let slaves draw near to the earth.” He continued, “You, O Varuṇa, declare many blameless things to the generous; let not the greedy approach your gifts. Let people not call you harsh, O lord.” And Varuṇa replied, “Let not people call me harsh; once more, I grant the southern quarter to the singer. May my praise, filled with power, go forth across all regions of humankind.” The devotee prayed, “May your raised-up praises travel throughout all regions. Grant me what you have not yet given; you are my companion of seven steps, my friend.” He added, “Let our kinship, O Varuṇa, be united; let our birth be the same, as I know it is. I give you what you have not given; you are my companion of seven steps, my friend.” In this sacred exchange, the god praised the god, the wise lauded the wise. Inspired Varuṇa, lord of order, had begotten Atharvan, the ancestral friend of the gods. Thus, the seeker prayed, “Grant us your favor, well-praised one; you are our friend, our highest kin.” On a sacred day, the fire-god Jātavedas was kindled in the house of man to worship the gods. The priest called, “Bring Mitra and Varuṇa, the wise, for you, O Jātavedas, are the messenger, the sage, the conscious one.” To Tanūnapāt, who walks the path of truth, sweet-tongued and honey-loving, he prayed, “Arrange our thoughts with wisdom and kindle the sacrifice; make our ritual divine.” Agni, called and praised, was invoked to come with the Vasus in harmony, for he is the mighty priest of the gods, most worthy of sacrifice. The sacred grass was spread in the eastern quarter, the best place at the beginning of days—a broad and spacious path for the gods, for Aditi, a pleasant seat. The shining, wide doors were opened, like wives adorned for their lords. The great divine doors, all-knowing, became easy of access for the gods. The one who brings fortune worshipped; Dawn and Night sat together in their seat, the great heavenly maidens splendidly adorned, bearing shining beauty. The divine Hotṛ priests, first and eloquent, measured out the sacrifice for men, inspiring the skilled in the assemblies and directing the ancient light toward the right direction. The powerful Bharati was invoked to come to the sacrifice, awakening among men, and the three Sarasvatīs of true inspiration were invited to sit upon the pleasant sacrificial grass. They honored Tvaṣṭṛ, the god who, with Heaven and Earth, shaped all the worlds, and prayed, “Let us worship Tvaṣṭṛ here, knowing him, prompted by the Hotṛ.” Vanaspati, lord of the forest, was asked to release the offerings to the gods in due order, and Agni, the peacemaker, was invited to taste the oblation of honey and ghee. Agni, born at once, measured out the sacrifice and became the leader of the gods. At the command of the Hotṛ, in the speech of truth, the gods were to partake of the offering made with svāhā. In another moment, the wise Varuṇa from heaven bestowed, through powerful words, the antidote to poison. “Whether the poison is dug up, not dug up, or attached at the root, it has dried up in the desert for you,” the priest declared. “Whatever waterless poison is yours, that which clings to the root, I seize your sap—middle, highest, and lowest—so it may not harm you out of fear.” With a voice like thunder, the healer proclaimed, “With fierce speech, I drive away harm from you. I, with men, seize the foremost sap of darkness; as from darkness, let the sun arise as light.” He declared, “With my eye I strike your eye; with poison I strike your poison. Die, O serpent, do not live; let the poison return to you.” He called out to the dark, the spotted, the brown, and the black serpents, “Hear me, all you false ones! Do not remain near my companion, do not stand by, do not speak out; go away, dissolve the poison.” He loosened the anger of the black, brown, and waterless ones, the mighty and powerful, as a bowstring from a bow, as a chariot from its yoke. “We know all your kin, binder and unbinder, father and mother—what will you do?” he challenged. He named the daughter of Urugūlā, born of the Dāsi Siknī, as the source of all leprous sores, the sap and poison of them all. The dog, dwelling near the mountain, declared the ears; among all that are dug up, the most sappy is the poison. Addressing the poison, he said, “You are Tābuva, not Tābuva, not a ghēttvam, but Tābuva; with Tābuva, the sapless poison.” And again, “You are Tastuva, not Tastuva, not a ghēttvam, but Tastuva; with Tastuva, the sapless poison.” Then, the story turned to the sacred herb, discovered by the eagle and dug up by the boar. “O sharp herb, strike down the one who strikes; destroy what is done and not done.” The herb was invoked to strike down sorcerers and those who attack, to destroy all harm, whether done or yet to be done. Just as the skin is stripped from a spotted deer, the gods were called to cut away sorcery from the sorcerer, releasing it as a jewel from its setting. The sorcerer was told, “Take hold of the sorcery by the hand and lead it away; place it before us so it may strike its maker.” The oaths and the sorcery were to return to their source, moving smoothly as a chariot on its path. Whether man or woman had performed the sorcery, it was to be led back to them, as a horse is led by a horse-caller. Whether made by gods or men, the sorcery was now to be returned, with mighty Indra as ally. Finally, Agni, destroyer in battle, was invoked to overcome all battles, and the sorcery was to be taken back from the sorcerer by the power of counteraction. Thus, through wisdom, prayer, sacred ritual, and the intervention of gods and herbs, the people sought order, healing, and protection in the world, ever upholding the bonds between the divine and humankind.