When Vrishakapi journeyed northward to the house of Indra, a question arose: “Where is that spotted deer? What path did the mother take to give birth to her calf?” In all these mysteries, Indra stands supreme, surpassing all. In another tale, Parshurha, a woman by name, bore twenty children. Her womb became blessed, her belly swelled with fortune—again, Indra surpasses all. Listen, O people, for Narashansa is worthy of praise. Sixty thousand and ninety Kauramas have been placed among the Rusamas. Pravahana’s camels, accompanied by brides, are twelve in number; their chariot’s body never descends, but rises to the sky, touching the heights. For these blessings, we strive with longing: a hundred necklaces, ten garlands, three hundred horses, and a thousand cows. Rebha is called upon to speak, his voice like a bird singing on a ripe tree. When the tongue is lost, it still chatters, like a razor on a whetstone. The Rebhas, thoughtful as bulls, go forth and protect the cows; their sons are secure, and their herds are safe. Rebha is urged: “Go forth, bring forth wisdom, you who know cows and wealth. Speak these words before the gods, O wise one, as a skilled sailor crosses the waters.” To the king of all peoples, to the god whose wisdom among mortals is immortal, to Vaiśvānara, let well-composed praise be offered, O Parikṣit. Having set boundaries, he established security and the highest seat; he made a household, and as lord, Kauravya speaks with his wife. In the realm of King Parikṣit, the wife asks her husband, “Who among you has taken the curds, the churned and well-filtered?” The ripe barley swells and withdraws into its hole, and the people prosper under Parikṣit’s rule. Indra awakens the poet: “Arise, move among the people. Do not praise the fierce one for me; let every enemy be filled by you.” Here, let cows be born, here horses, here men; here, let Pūṣan, giver of a thousand gifts, take his seat. Indra is invoked: “Let not these cows be harmed, nor their herdsman injured. Let no hostile man, nor thief, have power over them.” With this hymn and auspicious speech, may delight be ours; may our voices never be lost in the forest, nor at any time. He who is skilled in assemblies, wise in councils, a sacrificer and a true man—him the gods first established as the devourer of hosts and the Sun. He who surpasses his kin, seeking to outdo his companion, when the eldest is without wisdom, is deemed the lowest. When the son of a noble man is steadfast, then the sage has spoken, and the Gandharva utters his desired speech. The swift Paṇi, champion in contest, and the godless Dāśuri are far from the wise and the eternal. Some gods did not sacrifice, some gave away to others; but having gone to heaven like the Sun, Maghavan does not abandon us. Whether a chanter is unwashed, unadorned, without a necklace or gold, priest or not, he is recognized in the rituals. Likewise, the one who is adorned, decked in gold and necklaces, a good priest and son of a priest, is also honored as a chanter. A maiden with broad palms, adorned and splendid in every direction, beautiful and worthy, is recognized as a chanter in the rituals. The queen, set apart and going to battle with well-being, and the tireless, strong one—these too are honored as chanters. “May you, O queen, go forth to battle with favoring winds and well-being; may your father-in-law and mother-in-law be in harmony with you in the assemblies.” Whatever Indra has done for the king of the people, dividing mankind in wondrous and diverse ways, is fit for sacrifice. Indra, bountiful one, made the bull strong, made mortals radiant like the sun, shattered the head of Vritra, and drove away the demon Rauhiṇa. He set the mountains in place and entered the waters—Indra, the great slayer of Vritra, to you be homage. To the swift pair, steeds of high renown, as they ran on the track, people spoke: “With well-being, O horse, carry Indra to victory, adorned with a fair garland.” Those white, high-spirited steeds, which Indra harnesses to the right side, bear the ancient homage of the gods and are magnified. Now, these horses swim forth. They go against the current, seeking the well-pressed Soma. Among them, one stands out with a golden mane. “Golden-maned one, what do you desire?” he is asked. “A good son, rich in gold,” is his reply. “Where has he gone, the one from afar?” “Where those three śiṃśapā trees stand. Around the three.” Thus, the story flows: of gods and mortals, of kings and queens, of wise priests and honored maidens, of horses seeking Soma and the blessings of Indra—each playing their part in the eternal order, each praised and remembered in sacred verse.