Once more, the mighty Daitya lord ascended his chariot and made his way back to his own palace—a towering structure whose lofty heights echoed with the celestial songs of Siddhas and Gandharvas. As he entered his city, the sons of Diti sang his praises, and the Apsarases delighted him with their dances, so that it seemed as though all the fortune of the three worlds belonged to him alone. Within his splendid hall, he seated himself upon a throne crafted from radiant padmarāga gems. Jeweled earrings swayed at his ears as he took pleasure, if only for a moment, in the company of Kinnaras, Gandharvas, Nāgas, and beautiful women. At that moment, the doorkeeper appeared before him, his garments as blue as a spotless lotus. With great reverence, the doorkeeper approached, knelt, and respectfully covered his mouth with his hand before speaking. His words were clear and unambiguous, concise yet distinct, as he stood radiant before the lord of the Daityas and the assembled hosts. He announced, “Kālanemi stands at the door, having bound the gods. He asks, ‘Where should the bards remain, O Lord?’” Hearing this, the Daitya king replied with confidence, “Let them stay wherever they wish; my house is as vast as the three worlds.” Thus, with only simple cords and without delay, the gods themselves were restrained, their minds weighed down with distress. In their trouble, the gods, led by Indra, sought refuge with the Lotus-born, Brahmā, the great teacher of the worlds. Bowing low, they praised the Lotus-seated One with words both clear and full of meaning: “You are the sacred syllable Oṃ, the source from which this universe has sprouted, the soul of all infinite diversity. You are the first to arise, and the embodiment of all that exists. To you, who desire dissolution, to you who bear the form of Rudra, we bow in reverence. By your greatness, your own inconceivable form emerges from the cosmic egg, and from that egg you divide the realms of heaven and earth, above and below. We know that on Meru, your manifestation became the very lifespan of beings; what you have established shines forth, and the gods themselves are the offspring of your eternal birth. The sky is your head, the sun and moon your eyes. Serpents are your hair, the directions your ear-holes, the earth your feet, and the oceans your navel. The Vedas know you as the creator of illusion and cause, tranquil, luminous, and free. The Vedas describe you, the ancient one, abiding within the lotus of the heart; those who have attained yoga praise you as the Self, and the subtle seven principles of Sāṃkhya are established by you. Of these, the eighth—so often sung—is their cause, and in each of these you are praised as the end. Seeing your form, both gross and subtle, the gods have described your states with various causes. From you alone, at the beginning of creation, all beings arose, each attaining their own tendencies. By your will, time itself—though hidden by the attainment of the end—becomes measurable, its divisions and distinctions dissolved. You are the cause of the manifestation and dissolution of being and non-being; infinite, the creator of all. The subtle ones praise you, and from them arise the gross beings and their coverings. From those subtle ones, the ancient gross forms are perceived, and so the past and future of those who are born. In every state, you are united with what must be united, and by manifesting forms, you are set apart. Thus, O Lord of infinite forms, you are the refuge, protector, and guardian of all who are devoted.” Having thus praised Brahmā, the changeless one, the immortals fell silent, their minds intent, praying for the fulfillment of their wishes. Pleased by their devotion, Brahmā, filled with supreme grace, addressed the immortals and granted them a boon, gesturing with his left hand. He spoke to Indra: “A woman who, by misfortune, is separated from her husband and has cast away her ornaments does not shine; in the same way, O Indra, you appear before me with a faded face and drooping hair. Even freed from fire, you do not shine without smoke, just as one covered in ashes lacks luster, or a burnt forest left desolate. You do not shine in a body afflicted by disease and death, just as a staff cannot support you at every step without hardship. Though you are lord of the night-walkers, why do you speak as if afraid, O king of the gods? You seem wounded by your enemy, as if struck by an adversary. Your body is dried up like Varuna’s, as if surrounded by fire; bloodless, you gaze at the noose of serpents. O Wind, you are confused, as if subdued by gentle ones; why do you fear, O Lord of Wealth, abandoning your Kubera-hood? O Rudras, trident-bearers, declare your multitude of spears; by whom has your radiance been cast away, even among you? Your hand has become powerless and does not shine; enough of the discus resembling a blue lotus, O Madhusudana. Why do you, O all-faced one, gaze upon the world with unmoving eyes, as if you are observing the universe with a subdued glance?” Thus addressed by Brahmā, the gods, recognizing the authority of his words, turned to the wind and urged him to speak. Awakened by the gods led by Vishnu, the wind addressed the four-faced Brahmā, lord and teacher of all beings. He said, “O infinite one, you create the world; you are the source of all moving and unmoving beings, endowed with diverse qualities. Even the gods and demons are not your equals, for you are their progenitor. Yet, even with a father such as you, our minds are disturbed. Whether with qualities or without, strong or weak, the son of the thunderbolt, the son of Diti, is exceedingly powerful, his fear removed by your boon. Why, in the destruction of moving and unmoving beings, has deceit occurred? Indeed, O god, you have established wondrous and diverse qualities for the stability of the worlds. Though the leaders of the twice-born and the hosts of gods have been satisfied, and their desires granted, still the heaven of the sacrificers has not come to be, always subject to your allocation. Having seized the host of celestial vehicles, the son of Diti has made himself like a vast desert; you have established supreme excellence in all qualities, with the sovereignty of all mountain kings. That mountain, knowing the proper gesture and mood, has reached the sky with constant elevation; accustomed to the dwelling and play of the gods, its peaks and ridges are now trampled by the sons of Diti. Its jewel-filled caves have been plundered, and it has become the seat of many demon assemblies. O king of gods, out of fear of him, you have gone elsewhere, abandoning your body in vain. Long ago, you made the world suitable, its directions filled with pure brilliance, in the first age; but now the host of divine weapons has not been raised, O creator. Assuming the body of the son of Diti, he has gone forth, as if with a hundred divided minds, possessing little sense. We, battered and standing at the door, barely gained entry with difficulty, O enemy of the immortals.” Thus, the gods laid bare their distress and confusion before Brahmā, seeking his guidance and grace.