In ancient times, when the need arose to overcome a hostile army, the seers invoked the powers of the universe with sacred words. They called upon all the gods above, who, with their might, spread a net of power. The Angirases were summoned to strike at the heart of the enemy force, both in the midst of the battle and upon the earth itself. The forest trees and woodland beings, the herbs and the grasses, all living things—those with two feet and those with four—were sent forth to join in striking down the opposing army. Alongside them, the Gandharvas and Apsarases, serpents and gods, the blessed beings and the ancestors, both seen and unseen, were dispatched to bring destruction upon the foe. The seers declared: these are the snares of death, inescapable once grasped. May this thousandfold pitfall utterly destroy the hostile force. Rituals were performed: heated libations were kindled with fire, and offerings made a thousand times. The fierce deities Bhava, Pṛśnibāhu, and Śarva were invoked to strike down the enemy. “Let them fall,” the prayers continued, “into the grasp of death, into hunger, decay, slaughter, and fear. O Indra, wield your two thunderbolts! O Śarva, together strike down the hostile army!” The hope was that the enemies, terrified and defeated, would flee, driven away by the force of the sacred word. Those whom Bṛhaspati had repelled would be unable to retaliate. The warriors’ weapons would fall from their hands; they would be unable to aim their arrows. In their confusion and trembling, their own arrows would turn back upon themselves. Cries would rise from among them as heaven and earth, the midspace, and all the deities turned against them. In their bewilderment, they would fail to recognize kin or home, obstacles would bar their way, and death would draw near. The seers envisioned the universe as a divine chariot: the four directions serving as its horses, the sacrificial cakes as its foreparts, the midspace as its hooves, and the upper space as its yoke. Heaven and earth became its wings, the seasons its reins, the regions between its attendants, and speech the path encircling it. The year was the chariot itself, the half-year its seat, the shining ones the fires at its front. Indra stood as the left shaft, the Moon as the charioteer. “From here,” they proclaimed, “conquer, surpass, unite, and be victorious—svāhā! May these win, may my adversaries be overcome—svāhā! I subdue them with the blue-red one.” Yet, the seers’ minds turned to deeper mysteries. They asked: From where were those two born? Which is that half? From which world, from which part of the earth? The two calves of Virāj arose from the waters, but by whom were they milked? It was he who made the waters cry out in greatness, forming the womb with three bends—the wish-fulfilling calf, Virāj, who concealed his forms. There are three great ones, of whom the fourth divides speech. Only the wise, through sacred knowledge and austerity, know in which the one is yoked, in which the one abides. Around the great one, the Sāmans are arranged, five above the sixth. The great is born from the great—yet from where is the great meter measured? The great meter is measured by the measure, placed above the mother’s measure. Māyā is born from Māyā, with Mātalī surrounding Māyā. Upon the likeness of Vaiśvānara, heaven pressed down upon both worlds, but Agni restrained them. From the sixth, the hymns proceed, and those that arise move toward the sixth day. The seers asked six questions of the sage Kaśyapa, for he was wise and had yoked what should be yoked. They called Virāj the father of Brahman and sought their share among friends. That which, when fallen away, is followed by sacrifices as they approach her who is to be approached—by whose vow and impulse the yakṣa moves—she is Virāj, known to the seers in the highest heaven. She who is without breath moves with the breath of the breathing; Virāj, the sovereign, follows. All examine her, the beautiful Virāj—some see her, some do not. Who knows the duality of Virāj? Who knows her seasons, her order, her steps, the number of times she has been milked, her abode, and how many dawns she has? This is she, the first among them, who moves among the others, having entered in; great are her powers within her. She, the bride, has prevailed, the mother of nine generations. In the waxing phase of the moon, the Dawns shine forth together, moving to the same womb. The wife of the Sun moves with them, wise, adorned with signs, ageless, and rich in seed. Three have come along the path of truth; three hot seasons have come with the seed; one brings forth offspring, one brings strength, and one protects the realm of the gods. Agni and Soma established her as the fourth, as the two wings of the sacrifice, arranging the stallions; the meters—Gayatri, Trishtubh, Jagati, Anushtubh, and Brihati—bear the sound for the sacrificer. There are five dawnings, five milkings, the cow of five names, five seasons following after five; the five directions are arranged with the fifteenth, all with one head, encompassing the one world. Six beings are born, the firstborn of truth; six are the Saman hymns, six days they carry; following the sixfold connection, the Sama upon Sama. The heavens and earth are said to be six, and six are the wide spaces. There are six cold seasons and six hot months. The seers ask, “O season, which one is in excess?” Seven swans, the sages, have settled down, seven meters, and after them, seven initiations. There are seven offerings, seven kindling sticks, seven sweet things, seven seasons, and seven clarified butters that have encompassed the being—these are the seven vultures, so it is said. Seven meters, each with four more, are established one upon another. How do the chants stand among them, and how are they placed within the stomas? How did the Gayatri meter extend threefold? How is the Trishtubh arranged with fifteen? How does the Jagati with thirty-three, the Anushtubh, and the Ekavimsha? Eight beings are born, the firstborn of truth; eight are Indra’s divine priests; Aditi is the eightfold womb, mother of eight sons; the eighth night receives the offering. Thus, seeking the better way, one comes to the assembly, seeking friendship. The will is of one birth, auspicious is the resolve; may the knower move among all. Eight are for Indra, six for Yama, seven for the seers, sevenfold; waters, humans, and plants—these five have been sprinkled upon them. The cow yielded solely for Indra the first milking, the sweet essence; then she satisfied four in fourfold ways—the gods, humans, asuras, and the seers. The seers ask: Who is the cow? Who is the one seer? What is the abode? What are the wishes? What is the wonder on earth, the single form, the one doer—who is he? The answer: One is the cow, one the seer, one the abode, one the wish. The wonder on earth, the single form of the doer, is unsurpassed. In the beginning, Virāj alone existed. When she was born, she divided everything, thinking, “This indeed will become.” She moved forth and entered the household fire. He who knows this becomes a true householder, a master of the house.