In the ancient days, the great Asura, regarded as a father, poured down the life-giving waters upon the earth. At his behest, the deep pools began to breathe anew, and Varuṇa, the lord of cosmic order, together with the waters, released the streams to flow freely. The dry land, once silent, now echoed with the croaking of frogs, their voices rising in joyful chorus. For a whole year, the Brahmins had kept their vows, maintaining silence in their devotion. But now, as the rains descended and enlivened the world, the frogs found their voices once more, filling the air with their calls. “Speak up, O frog,” the people urged, “and you too, Tādurī, call for the rain. Swim boldly in the middle of the pond, stretching out your four legs, rejoicing in the abundance.” The voices of Khaṇvakhā and Khaimakhā mingled with Tādurī’s in the heart of the waters, all calling for rain. “O fathers,” they invoked, “desire the favor of the Maruts, the storm gods.” The people prayed, “Let the great vessel of rain be poured out, let the wind blow with lightning, let offerings be made in many ways, and may the herbs rejoice, refreshed by the waters.” Amid this renewal, the presence of Varuṇa was ever-watchful. He, the great overseer, saw all as if from nearby. None could hide from his gaze—not those who stood still, moved about, deceived, or journeyed home or abroad. Even when two sat together in secret plotting, Varuṇa, the king, was the unseen third who knew their thoughts. The earth itself belonged to Varuṇa, as did the vast sky stretching far beyond sight. The oceans were his wombs, and even those hidden in the smallest pools were within his domain. None could escape him, not even one who crossed the sky’s expanse, for Varuṇa’s thousand-eyed spies moved everywhere, seeing all that happened on earth. Varuṇa counted everything—every blink, every deed—just as a gambler counts his dice. His nooses, seven by seven and set in threefold ways, were fiercely arrayed to ensnare falsehood. “Let these nooses cut off the one who speaks untruth,” the people prayed, “but let the speaker of truth go free.” They implored Varuṇa, “With a hundred nooses, bind the liar and the wrongdoer. Let him not escape, but remain emptied and exposed, like a burst bag.” All, whether among us or others, whether to be sent or kept away, whether divine or human, were subject to Varuṇa’s bonds. “With all your nooses, I bind this one, that one, and his son—assigning them all to you, O Varuṇa.” Yet, in this world of powers both seen and unseen, the healing herbs were revered. “We take hold of you, ruler of remedies, for deliverance,” the people declared. “O herb with a thousandfold power, we apply you for all healing.” The assembled herbs, victorious by truth and steadfast in their vows, were invoked to call out and carry the people safely across adversity. Curses and witchcraft, those who brought harm and madness, were turned back upon themselves. “Let the one who curses consume her own offspring,” they declared. Witchcraft made in raw vessels, in blue and red, or in flesh—let it destroy its maker. All evil—bad dreams, misfortune, demons, ruin, and ill-spoken words—were driven away. Hunger, thirst, childlessness, and loss of cattle were wiped away with the sacred apāmārga plant. Even defeat at dice was swept aside by its power. “O apāmārga, sovereign among herbs, with you we wipe away all that has settled upon us, for you move about as a remedy.” Balance was restored: “I make the light equal with the sun by day, and the night equally complete. I establish truth for protection—let the juices of the herbs be effective.” Any who performed witchcraft and entered the house of the innocent would be sent back, as a calf returns to its mother. Evil that sought to harm another would be burned away, crackling like stones in the fire. With herbs, all witchcraft—whether in the field, among cattle, or among people—was driven away. If one attempted harm but could not complete it, even cutting the foot or toe, he had unwittingly done good for himself and others, but still would be scorched by the sun. The apāmārga plant wiped away curses and drove out sorceresses and all hostile forces, cleansing the people again and again. The plant was honored: “You are the maker of kin and in-laws, shaped by the spell, able to cut off offspring as a river cuts through the rainy season. Empowered by the Brahmin, by Kaṇva and Nārṣada, you go forth with brightness, O plant, and where you reach, there is no fear.” At the head of all plants, shining like a light, apāmārga was both protector and slayer of demons. In the beginning, when the gods set apart the Asuras, apāmārga was born among the plants for this purpose. Its father was Splitting, and its task was to split back harm upon those who sent it. Rising from the unsteady earth, it moved widely, turning back all that was sent. “Protect me with a hundred, guard me with a thousand,” the people prayed, “for Indra has placed in you, O plant, fierce and mighty power.” In this world, the goddess saw all—forward and backward, near and far. She beheld heaven, the midspace, and earth. There were three heavens and three earths, and six directions in all. “With you, O divine plant, I see all beings,” the people proclaimed, acknowledging the all-seeing, all-healing power that pervaded the cosmos. Thus, in the interplay of rain and silence, truth and falsehood, healing and harm, the people lived in reverence—ever mindful of the watchful Varuṇa, the power of herbs, and the cosmic order that sustained them.