Hear now the wondrous tale, O seekers, of the supreme Lord upon whom all the gods depend—the one praised even by the Vedas as the primordial deity, the Lord of the universe and the cause of all causes. Once, after a fierce and prolonged battle lasting ten thousand years, the eternal God Janārdana—He who is Viṣṇu, the god of gods, resplendent with supreme brilliance—became deeply exhausted. At that auspicious place, the Lord fashioned a lotus seat for Himself. Holding His mighty, strung bow, He rested it at His neck and sat down upon the earth. Wearied, He placed the weight of His form upon the tip of the bow, and, by divine arrangement, He fell into a deep and profound yogic sleep. Meanwhile, all the gods, led by Indra, and accompanied by Brahmā and Śiva, resolved to perform a great sacrifice. To fulfill this sacred purpose, they journeyed together to Vaikuṇṭha, seeking the presence of Janārdana, the Lord of sacrifices. Not finding Him there, they perceived with the eye of knowledge where the Blessed Viṣṇu lay. Thus, the gods made their way to that place and found the all-pervading Lord, lost in deep, unbroken sleep. Standing before the sleeping Lord, the gods were overcome with anxiety. Brahmā, Rudra, and the rest wondered what should be done. Then Indra spoke, “What action must we take, O best of gods? Let us consider how to awaken the Lord from His sleep, for the sacrifice must be accomplished.” Śambhu, that is Śiva, replied, “Indeed, there is fault in disturbing the Lord’s rest. Yet, the work of the sacrifice cannot be neglected, O best among gods.” At this, Brahmā, the supreme creator, devised a plan. He created a termite and instructed it to gnaw at the tip of the bow, which rested on the ground beneath the sleeping Lord. The gods reasoned that when the tip was eaten through, the bow would descend and thus awaken Viṣṇu from His slumber. They assured themselves that, in this way, the divine work would be accomplished. Brahmā then instructed the termite: “Go, and eat the tip of the bow, so that our task may be fulfilled.” But the termite, wise and discerning, questioned, “How can I, a mere creature, cause the Lord of gods, the teacher of the worlds, to lose His happiness? Is it not said that to break one’s sleep, to interrupt a story, to separate loving couples, or to divide mother and child is as sinful as killing a Brahmin? What fruit could I gain that would justify such a deed?” Yet, recognizing that all beings act out of self-interest and that the world itself is driven by such motives, the termite agreed to do the gods’ bidding for its own share in the sacrifice. Brahmā promised, “Your portion shall be the share that falls to you from the oblations offered at the side of the sacrificial rite. Perform this task swiftly, and it shall be yours.” Thus persuaded, the termite quickly set to work, gnawing through the tip of the bow. With a sudden release, the bowstring sprang upwards, producing a terrible sound that shook the heavens. The gods were seized with fear as the entire cosmic egg trembled, the earth quaked, the oceans churned, and the creatures of the deep were terrified. Fierce winds began to blow, mountains shook, meteors fell, and dire omens appeared in all directions. The sun itself set, and a dreadful darkness descended. The gods, filled with anxiety, wondered what further calamity this day would bring. As they watched in horror, the head of Viṣṇu—adorned with splendid earrings and a radiant crown—vanished from His body. Brahmā and Śiva alone remained calm amidst the turmoil, and in the darkness they beheld the headless trunk of the Lord, a sight so strange and dreadful that all the gods were plunged into grief and astonishment. “We are undone, O Lord!” they cried. “What has happened, O Master? This is a calamity for all the gods, most astonishing and beyond all reason. By whose magic has Your head been taken today? You are ever uncut, unbroken, and unburnable. If You remain thus, O Lord, the gods themselves are doomed. What affection do we truly have for You if we grieve only for our own sakes?” They lamented further, “This was not the doing of demons, nor yakṣas or rākṣasas. It was caused by the gods themselves. O Lord of Lakṣmī, whose fault is this? We are powerless—where can we go? There is no refuge for the deluded-minded gods. Nor is this the work of sāttvic, rājasic, or tāmasic māyā. By what mystery, O Lord of Māyā, Teacher of the world, was Your head severed today?” Witnessing the gods, led by Śiva, weeping in despair, Bṛhaspati, the wise teacher and knower of the Vedas, sought to calm them. “O blessed ones,” he said, “what use is there in crying and wailing? Some means must surely be devised, for results come from both destiny and effort. Let us act within the reach of our understanding.” Yet Indra, overcome by the magnitude of the event, declared, “I see fate as supreme; what use is human effort? Even Viṣṇu’s head was cut off before the very eyes of the gods.” Thus, in this way, the gods stood bewildered and sorrowful, reflecting on the mysterious workings of destiny and the limits of their own power before the supreme Lord.