Listen now to the tale that the Atharva Veda weaves—a tale of the Brahmin’s wife, the sacred cow, and the fate of kingdoms. There is one whom the people call “the star-haired,” her hair disheveled—a bringer of misfortune, entering villages and scattering calamity. Yet, she is none other than the Brahmin’s wife. Where the hare arrives, bearing a blazing brand, there too does she sow confusion, and the kingdom is unsettled. In contrast, the celibate—free from hatred—moves through the world untouched, becoming as a limb of the gods themselves. Through such a one, Bṛhaspati once recovered the Brahmin’s wife, whom the gods, led by Soma, had carried away like an oblation. The gods spoke of her, and so did the ancient Seven Sages, who sat in deep austerity. The Brahmin’s wife, once taken, burdens even the highest heaven with her loss. She brings harm to all embryos cast down, to whatever moves and perishes, and to heroes who fall in strife—the Brahmin’s wife is the silent cause of their destruction. Even if a woman had ten former husbands, none of them Brahmins, the moment a Brahmin takes her hand, he alone is truly her husband. The Brahmin alone is the true husband—not the Kṣatriya, not the Vaiśya. So proclaims the Sun to the five races of men. And so, when she was lost, the gods restored her, and men restored her; kings, upholding truth, gave the Brahmin’s wife back to her rightful place. Having restored her, and made her guiltless before the gods, they partook of the earth’s bounty and received abundant praise. But in that kingdom where the Brahmin’s wife is held in captivity, the king’s own wife does not lie upon a splendid, adorned couch. There, no one with mutilated ears or a broad head is born in that house. No servant adorned with a necklace of coins appears before the sons. No white ox with black ears is yoked to the plough. No lotus pond or lotus stalk flourishes in the fields. No speckled cow is milked by those who tend her. Even the finest cow does not endure the yoke with the bull, in that place where the Brahmin spends the night in sin. Hear this, O king: the gods did not give you the Brahmin’s ancient cow—not to you, nor to any in the wilderness. Do not desire to seize what is not yours, O Kṣatriya. The Kṣatriya who, blinded by dice, anger, or evil, and defeated by his own self, seeks to take the Brahmin’s cow—let him die today, not tomorrow. The Brahmin’s cow is covered in the poison of sin, as if with a fresh hide. She is fierce and not to be eaten. Whoever leads her away destroys the power of the warrior, consumes brilliance, and like fire, burns up everything. Whoever thinks the Brahmin is mere food, drinks poison and is ruined by his own act. Whoever kills the Brahmin, thinking him gentle and desiring wealth, as one who heedlessly eats what belongs to the gods, Indra kindles a fire in his heart. Both heaven and earth turn against him as he walks among men. A Brahmin must not be harmed, just as one would not harm fire cherished in the home. Soma is his heir, Indra his protector from curses. Though one may throw down a hundred-boned foe, he cannot subdue the Brahmin completely. Whoever thinks the Brahmin’s food is sweet, saying, “I will eat it,” is a fool. For the Brahmin’s tongue becomes a bowstring, his speech a reed, his teeth sharpened by austerity. With these, he strikes down those who consume what belongs to the gods, his heart strong, his bow guided by the gods. The Brahmins are sharp-arrowed, armed with weapons; their missiles do not miss, and by their austerity and anger, even from afar, they pierce the wrongdoer. O king, remember: those who were a thousand, even ten hundred, after eating the Brahmin’s cow—the Vaitahavyas—were destroyed. Like a cow being slaughtered, they were swept away; those who cut off even the last tuft of her mane perished. Of that people, only a hundred remained, for the earth shook them off. Having harmed the Brahmin’s offspring, they met with destruction. He who consumes what belongs to the gods walks among mortals, swollen with poison, turned to bone. Whoever harms the Brahmin, friend of the gods, does not reach the world of the ancestors. Agni is our guide, Soma our heir, Indra the destroyer of curses—so the wise know. The Brahmin’s arrow, O king, is like a poisoned dart, like a sharp goad—terrible and deadly, striking down the one who consumes. There were those who grew beyond measure, yet never touched the sky; having harmed Bhrigu, the Sṛñjayas and Vaitahavyas were destroyed. Those people who handed over the Brahmin, the singer of the great Sāman, fell; both their elders and their children perished. Those who expelled the Brahmin, or sought a price for him, now sit by the watercourse, eating their own hair in misery. As long as the Brahmin’s cow is being cooked, so long does her spirit wander; her energy destroys the kingdom, and no strong hero is born there. Her curse is fierce, her flesh hard to eat; the milk drunk from her becomes sin among the ancestors. The king who, thinking himself mighty, seeks to harm the Brahmin, loses his kingdom—wherever the Brahmin dwells, misfortune follows the king who wrongs him. She who is the slayer of the Brahman appears, with eight feet, four eyes, four ears, four jaws, two mouths, and two tongues—she shakes the very kingdom. That kingdom flows away like water from a broken boat; where the Brahmin is harmed, that land is destroyed by evil. Even the trees drive away the one who covets the Brahmin’s wealth, saying, “Let not his shadow come near us,” O Nārada. King Varuṇa declared: this is poison made by the gods—no one who has eaten the cow of a Brahmin ever prospers in the kingdom. Thus, the tale stands: the Brahmin and his wife, the sacred cow—protected by gods, feared by kings, and the fate of all who transgress against them is utter ruin.