Hear now the tale woven from the sacred Atharvaveda, a story of the Brahmin’s might and the drum’s resounding power. It is said that a Brahmin must never be harmed, for to injure him is as unthinkable as harming the cherished fire in one’s own home. Soma, the divine nectar, is the Brahmin’s heir, and mighty Indra stands as his protector against all curses. Though an enemy may strike down a hundred men, he cannot conquer the Brahmin. The one who covets the Brahmin’s food, thinking, “I will eat it,” is a fool indeed. For the Brahmin’s tongue becomes a bowstring, his speech a reed, his teeth sharpened by austerity. With these weapons—strengthened by his heart and guided by the gods—he strikes down those who consume what is meant for the divine. Brahmins are armed with sharp arrows, their weapons never missing their mark. By the power of their austerity and righteous anger, they pierce their foes, even from afar. O king, remember the fate of the Vaitahavyas: though they were a thousand strong, they were destroyed after eating the Brahmin’s cow. Like a cow being slaughtered, the Vaitahavyas were swept away; those who cut the last tuft of her mane perished. Of that once-great people, only a hundred remained, for the earth itself shook them off. Having harmed the Brahmin’s offspring, they met with utter destruction. Whoever consumes what belongs to the gods moves among mortals, swollen with poison, turning to bone. Whoever harms the Brahmin, the friend of the gods, finds no place in the world of the ancestors. The wise know: Agni is our guide, Soma our heir, and Indra the destroyer of curses. The Brahmin’s arrow is terrible—like a poisoned dart, like a sharp goad—it strikes down the one who consumes what is not his. There were those—Sṛñjayas and Vaitahavyas—who grew beyond measure, yet could not touch the sky. Having harmed Bhrigu, they too were destroyed. Those 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 in the middle of the watercourse, eating their own hair. As long as the Brahmin’s cow is being cooked, her energy wanders and destroys the kingdom; no strong hero is born there. Her curse is fierce, her flesh hard to eat, and the milk drunk from her becomes sin among the ancestors. The king who, thinking himself mighty, seeks to harm the Brahmin, finds his kingdom cast away, wherever the Brahmin dwells. The slayer of the Brahmin is haunted: with eight feet, four eyes, four ears, four jaws, two mouths, and two tongues, she shakes the kingdom. That kingdom flows away like water from a broken boat; where the Brahmin is harmed, ruin follows. Even the trees drive away the one who covets the Brahmin’s wealth, saying, “Let not his shadow come near us,” O Nārada. This is poison made by the gods, said King Varuṇa: none who has eaten the Brahmin’s cow ever prospers in the kingdom. Nine times ninety lands the earth shook; those who harmed the Brahmin’s offspring met utter ruin. What is tied to the foot of the dead, the clod placed at their feet—this, O slayer of the Brahmin, is your bedding, as the gods have declared. The tears of the compassionate, of the conquered, these the gods have assigned to you as your share of the waters. The water with which the dead are bathed, with which the beard is moistened—this too, O slayer of the Brahmin, is your lot. The Maitrāvaruṇa rain does not fall for the slayer of the Brahmin; no assembly is prepared for him, and no friend comes under his control. Now, hear of the drum’s power in battle. The drum, resounding loudly, crafted of wood and filled with the strength of cows, shatters the enemy’s speech and subdues rivals. Like a roaring lion, it conquers and proclaims victory. Like a bull in the herd, seeking cows, it breaks through with force, scattering enemies and announcing their defeat. The drum rouses the army, grants long life, and looks in all directions. It utters divine speech, revealing knowledge of enemies. Its voice, uttered with intent, is heard and recognized; let even the enemy’s wife, holding her child, flee from slaughter, frightened by its sound. First, the drum speaks out on the earth’s surface, shining forth, announcing the enemy’s army. Its echoes stretch across the sky, proclaiming victory. Roar aloud, O thunderous one, for the glory of heaven and the friendship of the trumpet! Made by skill, the drum utters speech, arousing the weapons of the strong, calling upon Indra, summoning friends, and driving away the unfriendly. Proclaiming boldly, the drum is the herald of the village, seeking the better path, bringing forth fame. The drum is the possessor of auspicious insight, victorious in wealth and strength, firm in sacred knowledge. Like the mountain pressing Soma drops with the stone, so does the drum resound with knowledge upon the battlefield. Destroyer of enemies, breaker of hostile might, seeker of cattle, the drum brings forth utterance for victory. Unshaken and full of energy, the drum leads in battle, protected by Indra, shining in heart, going forth to the destruction of enemies. O drum, we drive away heartache, confusion, and enmity among enemies; we lay down hatred, trembling, and fear among foes—strike them down! Let the enemies, trembling in mind and heart, flee in fear, running even when the sacred butter is poured in sacrifice. Gathered from the forest, with red cows, belonging to all clans, let the drum, struck with clarified butter, drive terror into the enemies. Thus, the Brahmin’s power and the drum’s voice shape the fate of kingdoms and the course of battle. Let their story be remembered.