Like a potter’s wheel set in relentless motion, you have been propelled again and again by the one who wields the mighty pināka bow. Even now, the skull of the tortoise-formed being remains fixed upon you, a mark of past encounters. Have you forgotten, O deluded one, as you sit amidst Hara’s garland, that portion of yourself which was afflicted when the tusk arose? Does the memory slip away, lost in the confusion of pride? Recall how, in your boar form, you were scorched by the enemy of Tāraka, your cry echoing as the tip of his trident brought you down, Viṣvaksena, through cunning means. At Dakṣa’s sacrifice, I myself severed your head, for you are the very form of sacrifice; even now, the fifth head of your son, Brahmā, remains as a reminder. That portion, that power, was purposefully cut away by him; you, along with the hosts of Maruts, were vanquished in battle by the sage Dadhichi. How could you forget, when your own head itched, the discus so dear to you, O wielder of the discus? That very discus belonged to him who acted with valor. From whom did you receive it, and who forged it? Is that too forgotten? While you reposed in the ocean of milk, I seized all the worlds for myself. How can you claim to be sattvic, filled with purity, when you lie asleep, overcome by slumber, while the power of Rudra surges from the base to the summit of your own pillar? Though you are powerful, radiant like fire, even you are deluded; neither you nor your companion can truly behold the greatness of that supreme energy. Those who perceive that highest abode of Vishnu as something gross, who see only the physical—of heaven and earth, Indra, Agni, Yama, and Varuna—they do not see the truth. In the womb of darkness, the moon is born; you are time itself, the supreme lord, Mahakala, the time of all time, O great lord. Therefore, with your fierce aspect, you shall become death itself, even to Death—steadfast with your bow, the destroyer, the hero, the lord beyond all. With upraised hand, you are the terrible fever, the golden beast and bird, the chastiser of the entire world—neither you nor the four-faced one can escape this truth. Seeing all this, withdraw your essence into yourself, lest the wrath of the great Bhairava descend upon you now. Just as the thunderbolt of Sthanu strikes, so will death fall upon you. Thus did Virabhadra address Narasimha, who, overcome by anger, roared with all his might and rushed to seize him. At that moment, a most terrible form appeared, filling the sky, indomitable and awe-inspiring, rising from Shiva’s own energy—the very form of Virabhadra. It was neither golden nor gentle, neither solar nor born of fire, nor like lightning or the moon—an incomparable form of the great lord. All the energies merged into that Shankara form, and from that convergence, a great radiance emerged, visible to all. This form bore the marks of Rudra, with a distorted, fearsome appearance; in the guise of destruction, the supreme lord was manifest before all. As the gods looked on, with cries of victory and auspicious sounds, he appeared with a thousand arms, matted locks, and the crescent moon adorning his crest. Half his body was of a beast, with wings and a beak; his fangs were exceedingly sharp, and his weapons were like adamantine claws. Around his neck was Time itself, mighty-armed and four-legged, born of fire, roaring terrifyingly like thunderclouds at the end of an age. His form was fierce, his three eyes blazing outward like fire, teeth bared, lower lip prominent—Hara stood, joined with a thunderous roar. Upon seeing this, Hari lost all strength and prowess; his radiance, once like the sun, now flickered weakly, like fireflies beneath the sky. Then, whirling his wings, the terrible being lifted Hari by the navel and feet, bound his feet with his tail, and encircled his arms with his own. Striking Hari’s chest with his arms, Hara seized him and ascended into the sky, accompanied by the gods and great sages. Out of fear, the bird lifted and dropped Vishnu again and again, casting him down repeatedly. Soaring higher and higher, the bewildered Blessed One was carried away by the blows of wings, powerless before the bull-bannered Lord, the ruler of all. All the gods followed, praising him with reverent words, while Vishnu was led, powerless and dejected, hands joined in humility. Then Hari praised the Supreme Lord with gentle words: “Salutations to Rudra, to Sharva, to the great devourer, to Vishnu. Salutations to the fierce one, the terrible one, the wrathful, the angry; salutations to Bhava, to Sharva, to Shankara, to Shiva, to you. To the time of time, to Time, to the great Time, to Death, to the hero, to Virabhadra, to the destroyer of heroes, to the wielder of the spear. To the great god, the mighty one, the lord of beasts, salutations; to the solitary one, the blue-throated, the glorious-throated, the wielder of the bow. Salutations to the infinite, to the subtle, to you, the wrath of death; to the supreme, the supreme Lord, the highest of the high, to you. To the highest, to the universe, salutations to you, the form of the universe; salutations to the consort of Vishnu, to the field of Vishnu, to the radiant one. To the boatman, to the hunter, to the great disease, to the eternal, to Bhairava, to the refuge, to the one of the great Bhairava form. Salutations to the destroyer of Narasimha, to the slayer of Kāma and Kāla and Purā, to the destroyer of great bonds, to the ender of Vishnu’s illusion. To Tryambaka, to the three-lettered, to the all-pervading, to the gracious, to the conqueror of death, to Sharva, to the all-knowing, to the destroyer of sacrifices. To the lord of sacrifices, to the most excellent, salutations to you of fire-form; to the great nose, to the tongue, to the mover of breath and expiration.” Thus, in awe and humility, Vishnu praised the Supreme Lord, recognizing his immeasurable power and the unity that pervades all creation.