A profound friendship blossomed between Indra, king of the gods, and Maya, the mighty demon. Their bond was marked by genuine affection, and Maya, approaching Indra in secret and with humility, revealed to him the intentions of Diti, her sacred vow, the growth of her embryo, and the remarkable powers it possessed. Maya spoke all this in goodwill, reflecting the trust that exists between true friends—those who are steadfast, free from fear, and whose loyalty is earned through many virtuous deeds. Yet, Maya was the beloved younger brother of Namuci, the powerful demon lord. How, then, could there be friendship between Maya and Indra, the very slayer of Namuci? Namuci had harbored a fierce and terrifying enmity with Indra. Once, after the battle had ceased, Namuci followed Indra as he departed, approaching him from behind. Indra, husband of Śacī, was so frightened upon seeing Namuci that he abandoned his elephant Airāvata and hid himself within foam. With only foam and his thunderbolt, Indra struck Namuci swiftly, and thus Namuci met his end, leaving Maya as the surviving brother. Determined to avenge his brother’s death, Maya undertook great austerities, seeking to destroy Indra. Through his penance, he obtained terrifying magical powers over the gods. Receiving boons from Viṣṇu, the refuge of all worlds, Maya became adept in both giving and pleasing speech. Meanwhile, Indra prepared for battle, honoring fire and Brahmins, giving gifts to those who sought them, and earning praise from bards. Knowing that Maya, his magical adversary, was approaching for a good fight, Indra transformed himself into a Brahmin and went to Maya. Śacī’s husband, Maghavan, addressed Maya, the Daitya, repeatedly, saying, “O lord of Daityas, grant me the boon I desire, for I have come to you, hearing of your generosity, as a foremost Brahmin seeking a favor.” Maya, believing him to be a Brahmin, replied, “I have given you what you ask. The wise consider whether to give much or little to a supplicant.” Then Hari spoke: “I desire friendship with you.” Maya, surprised, asked, “What use is this, O best of Brahmins?” Hari responded, “You have no enmity with me, friend. Speak the truth,” and revealed his true form. Maya saw the form called Sahasrākṣa and, amazed, addressed Hari, “What is this? You are Vajrapāṇi! This act is unworthy of you, friend.” Laughing and embracing him, Hari replied, “It is done. The wise accomplish their aim by some means.” From that moment, great affection arose between Śakra and Maya, and Maya became devoted to Hari. Maya went to Indra’s palace and reported everything to him. Hari then asked Maya, “What should I do?” Maya gladly gave his magic to Hari, who again asked, “What should I do, Maya? Tell me.” Maya advised, “Go to Agastya’s hermitage, where Diti, who is pregnant, resides. Serve her there and remain for some time. O Maghavan, enter her womb and, bearing the thunderbolt, cut the growing embryo until it submits or dies. Continue striking with the thunderbolt; only then will the enemy be vanquished.” Indra, saying “so be it,” honored Maya and departed alone, humbly, to Diti, his mother. He served the goddess Daitya-mother, who was unaware of Indra’s hostile intent. Whatever being was in her womb, acted upon by the lord of gods, was protected by the unfailing and unassailable power of the sage Kashyapa. Indra, grasping his thunderbolt, dwelled there for a long time, waiting for the right moment. One twilight, seeing Diti with her head washed and asleep, he declared, “This is the moment,” and entered her womb. The being within, seeing Indra armed and intent on killing, spoke again and again, fearlessly: “Why do you not protect me, O wielder of the thunderbolt? You wish to kill your own brother. In battle, nothing is a greater sin than killing. Except in battle, mighty-armed one, fight only when I have departed. Therefore, this is not fitting for you, O Śakra. You are Śatakratu, thousand-eyed, husband of Śacī, Purandara, wielder of the thunderbolt, lord of the gods; such an act is not proper for you, O master. Or, if you desire battle, mighty-armed one, arrange for my exit as you wish; move me away from this path. Even great ones, when in danger, do not act wrongly; one who is ignorant and unarmed should not be engaged in combat. You are learned, O wielder of the thunderbolt; do you not feel shame in striking me? Noble people never perform blameworthy deeds. What fame or merit arises from killing, or from slaying brothers out of desire while they are still in the womb? What manliness is there in that? If your devotion to battle is truly directed at me, O brother, then, without doubt, I stand before you, O wielder of the thunderbolt, with my fist raised. A slayer of children, a slayer of Brahmins, a betrayer of trust—such a person reaps the fruit of these acts. Why, O Śakra, are you intent on killing me? By whose command all this, moving and unmoving, exists—he would kill a child like me. What fame or manliness is there in that?” Despite these words, Indra, blinded by anger and greed, cut the embryo with his thunderbolt. For those consumed by such passions, compassion is nowhere to be found.