In the ancient days, a tale unfolds—a tale of struggle, longing, and divine might. There was one who, like a fierce she-wolf, tore out the entrails of her prey, yet found no solace among the gods. In her sorrow, she witnessed her beloved wife being taken away, and only the falcon, swift and sure, brought her the honey she sought. Amidst such turmoil, the gods themselves turned to Indra, the wielder of the thunderbolt. All the deities, easily invoked and mighty, chose Indra above all others. Even the vast heavens and the broad earth, grown great and high, singled him out for a singular purpose—the slaying of the serpent Vritra. At the gods’ behest, Indra, the true-born king, broke the serpent’s hold. He released the living waters, striking down the serpent that lay coiled and unyielding, blocking the flow of rivers. With his thunderbolt, Indra found the serpent lying unconscious, asleep across the seven streams. With a mighty blow, he shattered the serpent’s grasp. Indra’s strength stirred even the dried-up riverbeds. His power broke through the firmest barriers and struck the mountain ridges asunder. As a result, the people surged forth like eager offspring, and the freed streams rushed together like chariots in a race. By Indra’s force, the rivers were unleashed, their waves sent forth across the land. For Turvīti and Vayya, Indra made the earth, ever-nourishing and abundant, pour out her bounty. He made the rivers easy to cross for those who worshipped him. He opened up the ancient, ever-youthful, law-abiding rivers—just as the sky opens with clouds. The thirsty deserts were filled, and even the wives of the Dasa were subdued. For many dawns and autumns, the rivers had been hidden, their waters withheld. But Indra slew Vritra and broke the bonds, letting the channels flow freely once more, bringing life to the earth. With the humble, he took the unoffered son from his dwelling. The blind one consumed the serpent, and even the highest peaks, once unreachable, were conquered. The wise recounted these deeds to Indra, the knower, speaking of his past exploits to the one who understands. O King, you have entered into mighty acts, renowned for your strength, and the waters themselves tell of your glory. Now, O Indra, praised and sung to, grant sustenance to your worshippers, nourishing as rivers do. For you, O charioteer of the bay steeds, a new hymn is composed—may we, with insight, ever be victorious in contest. May Indra come to us from afar or from near, the mighty helper of those who seek aid. He is the lord of men, strong-armed with the thunderbolt, victorious in battle, subduer in contests. Let Indra arrive with his bay steeds, turning towards us for help and riches. The thunderer, ever bountiful, stands by our sacrifice, responding to our call for strength. Indra, you will establish our sacrifice at the forefront and grant us wisdom. Like a slayer of foes, O thunderer, help us gain wealth—may we, with you, O noble one, win the contest. Gladly, with a gracious mind, approach us, Indra, delighting in the well-pressed Soma. Drink the sweet mead we offer, rejoice in the exhilarating draught as your heart desires. He who, like a tree laden with fruit or a swift racer, is loosened by the new seers; like a youth exulting over a maiden, so do I, longing, call upon Indra, the much-invoked. Like a mountain, mighty in his own strength, Indra is born strong for enduring power from the beginning. He wields the ancient, terrible thunderbolt, as one draws forth a vessel filled with wealth from the waters. There is none who can follow his path by birth, nor exhaust his bounty or gifts. O mighty one, raise your strength and bestow upon us, much-invoked, abundant wealth. You watch over the wealth and dwellings of peoples, opening the pens of cattle. Victorious in assemblies, you lead forth a great heap of riches for us. By what power, O most powerful, do you perform mighty deeds again and again? You, most generous to the worshipper, discerning many gifts, bestow wealth upon the singer. Do not harm us; bring us the gift, grant it to us. Give much of your wealth to the worshipper for giving. In this new, excellent, and praiseworthy hymn, let us, praising Indra, declare your glory. Now, O Indra, praised and sung to, grant nourishment to the worshipper, as rivers nourish the land. For you, O charioteer of the bays, a new hymn has been composed—may we, with insight, ever be victorious in the contest. Let Indra come here for help, praised by us, and let the hero sit with us at the feast. Ever growing in might, his many powers are vast as the sky; may his dominion flourish unconquered. Here, let us praise his mighty deeds, those of the strong one, famed for abundant gifts to men. His resolve is sovereign in the assembly; he calls forth and stirs the peoples. Let Indra come from the sky, from the earth, quickly from the sea or from the waters; the bringer of light, companion of the Maruts, or from the distant seat of truth. Of his great wealth, which he rules, let us praise him in the assemblies—Indra, who wins by might among the wealthy, leading the bold to riches. He who, bowing in reverence, restrains the arrogant, who sets forth speech for the sacrifice—the generous, much-invoked one—let him, Indra, be made the Hotar in our gatherings. If, guided by wisdom, you dwell among the swift, abiding in the cave of the mountain of the Maujiga, O Hotar, you kindle the fire for us in the assemblies and guard the dwelling. Whenever the mighty Bhārvara exerts his strength for praise and offering, hidden in the cave of the Maujiga, then, through devotion and striving, he brings forth delight. When he chooses the best treasures of the mountain, he invigorates the swift courses of the waters with nourishment. He finds the cow in the cave of the wild one, when the well-fed ones bear it forth for the prize. Indra, your hands are auspicious and skillful, your palms grant gifts to the one who praises. Why would you refuse us? Will you not remember us? What, O mighty one, prevents you from giving? Thus, Indra, the true and sovereign, grants passage to Pūru by slaying the serpent. O much-praised one, grant us wealth through your power, let us enjoy your divine favor. Now, O Indra, praised and sung to, grant us nourishment, like rivers that fill, for you, O Hariva, a new hymn has been composed—may we, through wisdom, always be charioteers. Whatever Indra chooses, whatever he desires, that the great one accomplishes by his might. Maghavan, bearing the stone with strength, accepts our hymn, praise, and Soma offering. The mighty one, with powerful arms, the best among men, vigorous, eats the four-sided food. For glory, he tears the wool from Paruṣṇī, whose joints he has made for friendship. He, the god most divine among gods, being born, with great steeds and mighty powers, holding the thunderbolt in his broad arms, made the sky resound with his force and shone forth upon the earth. All barriers and ancient paths, the lofty sky, the earth, and their origins resounded. The mother brings the force of the cow, and the winds, like men, follow the circuit. These, O Indra, are your great deeds among all the assemblies, to be proclaimed. O hero, bold and daring, you struck the serpent with the thunderbolt, displaying your might. These are your true, mighty deeds: all the cows flow forth from the udder of the bull; then, fearing your strength, the rivers moved swiftly. Thus is sung the glory of Indra—slayer of the serpent, releaser of the rivers, bestower of riches, and ever the champion of his people.