From the battlefield arose a cacophony of dreadful sounds, the drawn bows resounding like the thunder of storm clouds driven by wind across the sky. In the thick of the fight, warriors cried out to each other: “Do not fear! Where will you go? You are as good as dead! Strike quickly, I stand here—come, show your valor!” Their shouts rang out: “Seize! Cut! Break! Eat! Kill! Tear apart!” With such cries, they surged forward, as if rushing toward the very abode of Yama, the lord of death. The clash was merciless—some fighters fell under the blows of swords, others were hewn by axes, some were crushed by maces, and yet others were pummeled by fists. Spears split the bodies of some Dānavas, while tridents pierced others, and many, pierced and radiant with arrows like blossoming flowers, toppled into the vast ocean, as mighty mountains fall into the sea, landing among fearsome crocodiles and whales. The battlefield was strewn with lifeless, well-formed bodies of gods and others, and as they fell into the ocean, they made a sound like the roaring of clouds heavy with rain. That dreadful noise roused the sea creatures—crocodiles, sharks, and whales—who, intoxicated by the scent of blood, churned the great ocean into turmoil. With terrifying forms, these beasts fought among themselves, circling and devouring the blood of the Dānavas. The sharks, driving away other aquatic beings, devoured Daityas along with their chariots, weapons, horses, garments, and ornaments. Just as battles rage between Asuras and Pramathas in the sky and waters, so too did the aquatic creatures wage their own war. As the Pramathas and Daityas whirled about, so did the sharks and crocodiles; as they struck one another, the wounded cried out, their broken bodies echoing the violence of the gods and demons above. In an instant, the ocean region was awash with blood-red, surging waters, where gods, asuras, crocodiles, and whales, all wounded and bleeding, mingled in a ghastly tumult. At the forefront, Indra, endowed with the great strength of the immortals, pressed upon the massive gateway of Tripura, which loomed like a great mountain or a dark cloud. Skanda, radiant like young gold or the rising sun, ascended the northern inner gate of Hara’s city, appearing as an aged sun descending upon a mountain with eight peaks. At the western gate, Yama and the lord of wealth, both armed with staff and noose, stood firm, barring entry to the enemies of the gods. To the south, Rudra—the enemy of Daksha—shone with the brilliance of ten thousand suns. Mounted on his divine chariot, the blessed three-eyed one blocked the southern gate of the enemy’s city. Magnificent mansions with lofty gateways, golden and gleaming like the moon on Kailasa, delightful in form, were besieged by the Pramathas, who blazed like storm clouds raining stones. The Pramathas uprooted and tore out these houses, along with mountain ranges and altars, hurling them into the ocean with roars like dark thunderclouds. The houses, red and filled with countless groves, echoed with sorrowful cries and the songs of cuckoos. As their homes were destroyed, the women wailed in anguish, calling out, “O lord! Father! Son! Brother! Beloved! Dear one!”—their grief resounding with all manner of unseemly cries. As wives, sons, and lives were lost, and the battle within the city raged fiercely, the great Asuras, swift as the ocean’s currents, turned back the furious lords of the hosts. There, with axes, stones, tridents, thunderbolts, and mighty clubs, a most terrible battle erupted, bent on mutual destruction and fueled by deep enmity. As they rushed at each other, clashing and striking, the tumult of gods and Asuras was like the roar of oceans at the end of an age. Streaming with wounds and vomiting blood, flushed with wrath and roaring in many ways, the lords of the hosts and the foremost Asuras fought on, their mighty tumult shaking the very earth. The city’s streets grew muddy with blood, scattered with broken gold bricks and crystal. In moments, the fierce ones—heads, feet, and hands severed—lay strewn, making passage through the city unhindered. Then Taraka, his eyes red with rage, concealed himself among trees and mountains. At that moment, with wondrous might, he stood to defend the blocked main gate. This being of great and wondrous strength and courage, proud of his mastery over his senses, drove away the spirits who had come to the ramparts. Emerging from the city, he let out a terrible roar. The foremost Daitya, towering like a great mountain, charged like an enraged elephant, seeking to seize Rudra’s chariot. But he was restrained, as the ocean is held back at its shore. Shesha, Sudhanvan, the god Girisha, and the four-faced one—the three-eyed god—all approached Taraka and were shaken in battle, like oceans disturbed by the wind. Shesha, Girisha, and the lord of grandsires, greatly agitated, stood upon their chariot in the sky, assailed at the joints by force, making dreadful sounds. Bhava, with bow and arrow raised, stood with one foot on the back of the Rigveda-horse and the other on the bull, watching the mass of the city. But from the pressure of Bhava’s foot on the horse and bull, their teats and teeth fell out, pressed by the trident-bearer. From that time onward, the teats and teeth of horses and cows became dull, and thus they are seen as such to this day. Taraka, with terrifying eyes and blood-red pupils, was tightly restrained by Nandin, the joy of his lineage, in the presence of Rudra. Then Nandin, wielding a sharp axe, struck the lord of the Dānavas, felling him as a woodcutter fells a sandalwood tree. Wounded by the axe, the heroic Taraka, like a wild beast struck by a mountain, drew his sword against the lord of the Gaṇas and fled. Seizing his sacred thread, he cut it and roared; at once, a dreadful lion’s roar and a terrifying blast of conches arose, sounded by the lords of the Gaṇas when Taraka was slain. Hearing the black Pramathas and the sound of musical instruments, Maya, who stood nearby, spoke to Vidyunmālī, mighty among the Dānavas: “Why is this sound, like the roar of many-mouthed beings, heard as if the ocean were split? Tell me, Vidyunmālī, what is this? Have the elephant-lord Gaṇapālas gone to battle?” Thus addressed by Maya, Vidyunmālī—radiant as the sun—came to the battlefield and, delighted, spoke these words to the gods who subdue their foes: “O steadfast one, Taraka—the repository of your fame and the power of Yama, Varuṇa, Mahendra, and Rudra—who was the mountain peak of all battlefields, now perishes in battle with the lords of the Gaṇas.