Listen now to the sacred tale woven from the hymns of the Ṛgveda, where the seers invoke the mighty Indra, the Ashvins, and speak of the paths of men and gods. In those ancient days, the people lifted their voices in song to the one who alone was worthy of praise among all. To him, as to a bountiful bull, the peoples drew near, seeking his gifts as barley seeks the hand of the bestower. In his two hands, he held the treasures of the five tribes, and the wise were urged to seek out those hostile to them, calling upon him to strike down their foes as a bolt from the heavens. They prayed that he would smite the non-sacrificer, the malicious one who was not a friend, and grant them knowledge, so that even the wise could not deprive them of their share. His twofold might dwelled in their hymns, his power joined with the highest, and so they called upon Indra and Soma to lead them to victory and reward, to bring the strong to the contests. As in ages past, Indra had become like an unfailing stream to the singers, so now they called upon him, longing for the long-lived prosperity of their people. Indra, the bull, lord and king of men, much-invoked, came forth, seeking renown. They invited him to their offering, urging him to yoke his strong steeds and approach with speed. His steeds, powerful and swift as bulls, drawn by hymns, were ready to bear him. “Mount them, Indra,” they cried, “come swiftly to the pressed Soma.” They poured out the sweet drink, spread the sacred seat, and called him to sit, to let his horses rest, and to partake of the sacrifice. With praise, they invited Indra to their hymns, hoping to gain his favor and the wealth he could bestow. They prayed for the well-being and longevity of their people, remembering the times Indra had aided the singers with his favor. They wished that their desires would not go unfulfilled, that all Indra’s riches might be theirs. None could harm Indra—not kings, not even his sisters. The eager waters themselves came to him, for he had found friendship and strength. Indra was the conqueror among men, the hero in battle, the one who heard the humble singer’s call. For those who worshipped, he set forth the chariot and raised up their songs. Thus, Indra, famed among men, stood glorious, surpassing all rivals. He was praised for his strength in every assembly, and the worshipper’s words made him steadfast. With Indra, the generous protector, they hoped to overcome enemies and those who thought themselves great. He was their strength, their shield, and they prayed to know their people long-lived. Then, the singer reflected on his own journey. He had endured many autumns, grown weary as nights and dawns wore away his strength. Age dimmed the beauty of bodies, yet the strong still found joy with their wives. Even those who once kept the law with the gods sometimes faltered, and in their weakness, did not reach the highest. Still, the strong attained their desires. It was not in vain that the gods helped the weary. The singer had overcome rivals, won victories, and found fulfillment when the two, rightly paired, came together. No desire, though restrained, had come to him from afar, yet Lopamudra, the wise and resolute woman, drew the strong one near, taming the panting man. Now, he called upon Soma, pressed and drunk in the hearts, asking forgiveness for all deeds, for man is ever eager for pleasure. Agastya, the mighty seer, digging with spades, sought offspring, progeny, and strength, nourishing both races and attaining true blessings among the gods. The tale then turned to the Ashvins, the wondrous twins. Their realms, well-guided horses, and chariot were gifts upon the paths they traveled. Their golden filter poured forth honey, joining with the dawn. They never neglected the offerings of the noble worshipper, and their sister brought them universal praise, desiring strength and sweet drink. The Ashvins placed milk in the cow’s udder, the ripe and ancient gift, and when the pure sacrificer invoked them among the woods, they were worshipped with oblations. They chose the honeyed warmth for the guest, as waters choose their channel, and the cattle sought them, honey flowing like wheels along the road. For their giving, the singer would turn to them with the strength of a bull. Waters and earth attended their greatness, and the swift, worshipful one praised them. When they harnessed their generous steeds, they sent forth nourishment with their powers, swift as the wind, granting greatness and strength to those of good will. The singers, proclaiming their truth with praise, knew the reward was set. The Ashvins’ paths were never to be blamed, for the strong always led to the divine. They followed the days at the stream of the mighty one, and Agastya, renowned among men, shone forth like a craftsman with thousands. When the Ashvins advanced with their great chariot, they moved swiftly, like a priest. They granted treasures to the wise and to their own horses, so all might be rich. The singer invoked their chariot for new prosperity, wishing for unbroken wheels traversing the sky, and prayed to know the people long-lived. The sacrificers asked, “What is the most beloved among riches, when you raise up the waters?” The sacrifice itself brought praise to the protectors, the wealth-givers, and guardians of people. The Ashvins’ horses were pure, rich in milk, swift as the wind, royal and eager, bringing the Ashvins to the worshipper. Their chariot, like a river, never stopped, fit for prosperity, swifter than thought, foremost among the worshipful. Born here, flawless in form and name, one Ashvin was victorious and wise, the other, blessed, the son of heaven. Their cows, dappled and brown, followed the path to the dwellings; their horses were filled with strength, and the chariot resounded through the realms. Their bull moved forth like autumn, distributing ancient gifts, seeking honey, and the rivers, upright, came in their course. The ancient poet sent forth their song, threefold and flowing, and the Ashvins helped those who praised them, never abandoning the faithful. Their shining forms were praised on the sacred grass in the assembly of men; the bull-cloud strong, their milk delighted the people. As Pūṣan, the wise woman, does not grow old, so the worshipper, full of offerings, called on the Ashvins for help. The singer, invoking them for aid, prayed to know his people long-lived and flourishing. Thus, from these hymns, the tale of the gods and men is woven—a story of longing and fulfillment, of strength and praise, of gifts received and prayers uttered, echoing through the ages in the sacred songs of the Ṛgveda.