O Indra, the mighty wielder of the thunderbolt, shattered the strongholds of Pipru the magician with his incomparable strength. In his grace, he bestowed upon Rijishvan, the generous worshipper, a gift that could not be taken away, a boon unassailable by any force. Ever compassionate, Indra delivered Vetasu, Dashamaya, Dashoni, and Tutujin from danger; he freed Tugra, the ever-youthful, allowing him to shine forth, as a loving mother releases her child to grow and flourish. Bearing the thunderbolt that slew Vritra, Indra subdued his foes without resistance. His steeds, ever ready, stood as if waiting in a pit, yoked by the power of words, carrying Indra, the lofty one, into battle. O Indra, may we win your ever-renewing favor; let the Purus praise you with their sacrifices, remembering how you shattered the seven fortresses of the Dasa Shambara for Purukutsa, granting him shelter through the autumn. Indra’s might reaches from ancient times, granting wide space to Ushana Kavi. He gave to the great father his own descendant, one who cannot be surpassed or overtaken, ensuring that the new remains far away. As the mighty shaker, Indra set free trembling waters, making them flow like streams. When he crosses over the sea, he brings Turvasha and Yadu safely across, guiding them with heroic strength. In every battle, Indra is victorious. He scattered the Cumuri and Dhuni as they lay sleeping, his brilliance shining forth as Soma is offered to him. Even the fearful sacrificer, trembling, praises Indra with songs and oblations. These offerings, O most bountiful Indra, the prayers of the poet, call upon you, hero. Thoughts placed on the chariot, ever-young and unfading, bring wealth and abundance through the power of speech. I praise Indra, who knows all, eloquent and strengthened by hymns. His greatness, rich in many forms, spreads over the sky and the earth. He alone, the best, extends skill, manifesting it with the sun as with intelligence. When will mortals, longing for immortality, not transgress your law, O self-sustaining one? Where is that Indra who accomplished such deeds? Among which peoples does he move? Which sacrifice pleases your mind, O Indra? Which hymn, and who is the priest who wins your favor? Now, those ancient friends of yours, O ever-victorious, who were born before, have become eager for you. Whether they are of the middle times or the new, or even the youngest, be mindful of them, O much-invoked one. Those who inquire, the later ones, follow after your ancient glories, O Indra. We praise you, hero, bearer of prayer, as much as we know you, O great one. Against you, the strength of the Rakshasas has arisen; stand firm in that great birth. With your ancient, fitting friendship and thunderbolt, O bold one, drive them away. So now, Indra, hear the prayer of the new singer, O hero, for the poet. You have always been the helper of our fathers in the highest heaven, ever well-invoked at the sacrifice. Call upon Varuna, Mitra, Indra, the Maruts for our aid today; also Pūshan, Vishnu, Agni, Purandhi, Savitar, the plants and the mountains. These many singers, worthy of sacrifice, honor you with hymns, O Indra; hear the call of the one who invokes you, for there is no other immortal like you. Come near to my speech, O wise one, with all the sons of strength, worthy of sacrifice; those whose tongues are Agni, upholders of truth, who made Manu the chief for the people. Be our leader, knowing the good paths and the difficult ones, the guide on the way; with those tireless, far-reaching helpers, bring us, O Indra, to the prize. Indra alone is to be invoked by all peoples. Let us honor him with hymns—the bull, strong in might, true in being, rich in many forms, powerful. Our forefathers, the Navagvas and the seven sages, seeking victory, praised him. They did not miss the mark, the strong one on the mountain, whose words are true, with their thoughts. We praise Indra, lord of riches, of many heroes, of men, of much strength; unwearied, ageless, possessing light, bring to us, O Hariva, for our delight. To you I speak: if those who praised you in ancient times have ever brought you delight, what is your share, what strength is yours, O much-invoked, rich in gifts, destroyer of the Asura? She who questions Indra, the wielder of the bolt, standing on his chariot—her trembling voice now sings his praise. To him, of mighty grasp, powerful form, giver of riches, she seeks to approach the strong one for the path to the prize. By his own power, swift as thought, self-strong, Indra grows with the mountain; even when unshaken, he is struck down, but his own force breaks apart the firm, the bold, the shining. To him, the most powerful, ancient, ever-new, direct your thoughts, surround him with praise. May Indra, unopposed, bring us safe passage and overcome all difficulties. For the people, he makes the earthly and heavenly realms shine, and the spaces between. Burn, O mighty one, with your radiance on all sides—burn those who hate the prayer, and those who are barren of the earth. You are the king of the heavenly people, of the earthly world, with a fierce gaze; take up the bolt in your right hand, O Indra, and with it, strike down all the unaging powers and illusions. Come, Indra, with undiminished welfare for us, for victory over enemies, with your great, unfailing strength; with which, O bolt-wielder, you have subdued the Dasa and Aryan foes, and the hostile Nahusha. Come to us, O much-invoked, wise one, with your hosts, with all your gifts, O worthy of sacrifice; with those whom neither godless nor god can surpass, come here, urged on, to our pressing-stone, O Indra. You, Indra, are praised in the pressed Soma, in the hymn, in the song, in the recited verse; whether you come yoked with your two bay steeds, O generous one, bearing the bolt in your arms. Whether in the highest heaven, O Indra, you aid in the slaying of Vritra, or in the heroic battle; or when you made the Dasyus flee in terror, and the hostile ones trembled at your might. May Indra drink the pressed Soma—the strong one, protector, fierce, supporter of the singer. May he make a space for the hero, for the strong, may he grant wealth to the one who praises, even to the singer. He comes to the pressings with his two bay steeds, tawny, bearing the bolt, drinking Soma, bestowing cows; he makes the hero, the manly, all-powerful, he hears the call, bringing the hymn with praise. To him, whatever we have done, we declare to Indra, who is our helper from above. In the pressed Soma we praise with a song, to Indra, the hymn that increases as it should. For you have made the hymns, the means of increase; so far, O Indra, we have discerned with our thoughts. In the pressed Soma, O Soma-drinker, the most pleasing, we shall perform the acts, we shall fill your stores with sacrifices. Be mindful of us, accepting our offering, drink the Soma, O Indra, who roars like a bull; sit on this sacred grass of the sacrificer, make wide the space for the one who seeks you. So be delighted, according to your desire, O mighty one; may these sacrifices reach you. Let these invocations, O much-invoked, come to us; to you, O Indra, belong these wise, fitting thoughts. To him, O friends, as at the pressings, fill Indra, the generous one, with Soma, the giver; who knows if he will be for us in battle? For Indra, in the pressed Soma, does not fail to help. Here, Indra has rejoiced in the pressed Soma among the Bharadvājas, the generous lord; as a singer, as a wise one, Indra is the giver of all kinds of wealth. Thus, the story of Indra’s greatness is sung—his ancient deeds, his unfailing gifts, his victories for gods and mortals, his ever-renewing presence among those who praise him with hymns and sacrifices.