Hear now the tale as woven in the sacred verses: “This is my intoxicant,” the voice declares, setting the tone for all that follows. In the sacred grove, the trees stand together in silent witness. Offerings of cooked food are prepared with care, and fresh vegetables are laid out in reverence. Among the trees, the fig, the acacia, and the dhava are named, each bearing their own significance. The araduparama is present as well, marking its place in the assembly. Amid these rites, one lies as if struck down, spread out upon the ground—a man overcome, perhaps, or lost in deep ritual. “I do not milk,” says the voice, “thus for the nourisher,” hinting at a withholding, a sacrifice made not in milk but in abstention. There is mention of exceeding half a verse from another’s wealth, a cryptic reminder of boundaries and propriety. Two elephants appear, their strength and firmness of hand evoked, standing as emblems of power and steadiness. Then, a dialogue begins, enigmatic and insistent. “Two rays are stretched out; the man crushes them. It is not so, maiden, as you think, maiden.” Again and again, the maiden is addressed: “Two rays of your mother are withdrawn, except for the man. It is not so, maiden, as you think, maiden.” The verses speak of restraining two ears and sending forth the middle, of concealment for those lying face up or standing, of smoothness hidden within smoothness, and of something not smooth, fallen into the abyss. Each time, the refrain returns: “It is not so, maiden, as you think, maiden.” The narrative moves to a scene of ritual order. In all directions—east, west, north, and south—the rod is raised in scolding, maintaining discipline. Calves sit together with the men, their heads aligned to the cardinal points. The cooking pot, the broad dish, the ladle, and the dripping spoon are all set down, each with their heads facing east, west, and north, marking the sacred space with careful precision. The singer enters, coming for food, seeking rice, standing for fruit. By beating the drum, he calls upon divine strength. In the hollow of the vessel, at night, the knot and the foot are placed; the highest birth is to be born, the lesser birth to proceed on its way. Gourds, wild cucumbers, fig and palāśa leaves, the breath of the anthill, the hoof of the horse and cow—all are invoked as the singer seeks divine power. The gods themselves have leapt to this place; the officiant is urged to move swiftly, assured of goodness, strength, and energy. When the wife is seen, when she is the focus of sacrifice, the singer invokes the gods’ power. The priest, by the viṣṭīma, joins in this invocation. The Ādityas once brought the fee to the singers from the Angiras, and the singer brought it back. “That, the singer took for us; we know no other, nor do we lead another in sacrifice.” The white one is swift, the youngest by his feet, and the swift one supports the measure. A prayer rises: “O Ādityas, Rudras, Vasus, take this gift, O Angiras; this gift is all-pervading, mighty, great, and broad.” May the gods grant the demon, may wise insight be yours always, ever grasped, day by day. Indra is invoked for protection, to carry the offering to the distant ones, to bring wealth for the sage who praises, and to drive it away from the ill-famed. Indra is asked to provide for the pigeon with broken wings, for the deceived, making ripe black millet and pīlu fruit for him in the day. The one who makes no sound, bound threefold with three straps, says “vāvadīti”; he praises the food, while the one without food drives it away. Then, the verses turn to a mysterious image: when her testicles, which are to be split, strike the thick part, they move, trembling, like the eggs of a bird in the hoof of a cow. When, with the thick one, she strikes the testicles on the stone, they grow unsteadily, like donkeys on sand. The small ones move among the small, like a grinding stone, as if going to the spring festival, driven by the wind. At last, when the gods entered the ornament, they revealed this woman; she is pointed out with her companions, as clearly as the eye-sockets of truth. Thus, in vivid images and sacred order, the ritual unfolds, blending the seen and unseen, the offering and the offering-maker, the questions and the answers, all woven in the tapestry of the Atharva Veda.