Let me tell you the story sung by the sages in these hymns, a tale of Indra, the mighty friend and leader, ever invoked by those who seek strength and victory. The seers, with hearts full of devotion, call upon Indra, urging him to partake of the sacred drink, for he is the lord of ancient praise and the guide of peoples. None among mortals, no matter how strong, can win his friendship by mere force, nor can any surpass his wondrous powers. Yet, by his grace, when yoked together with him, mortals may find success—whether in the flowing waters, beneath the radiant sun, or in the gaining of great wealth. With Indra, the wielder of the thunderbolt, they may emerge victorious in battle. The people invite Indra with sacrifices and with songs, as they always have, for he delights in hymns and is ever generous in contests. His friendship and guidance are sweet, sweeter than honey, and the offerings are laid out for him to enjoy. The worshippers pray that he make wide spaces for them—for their bodies, their homes, and their lives. They ask him to extend his protection, making ample room for men, for cattle, and for the racing chariots, so that they may follow the path of the gods. The people gather, filled with the joy of Soma, preparing sweet gifts for the god. With steady hands, they yoke the two bay steeds to the chariot, ready for the horse-sacrifice. The horses, splendid and shining, are adorned for the rite, and among them, the ruddy mare, spirited and swift, stands out as a lash among the strong. Indra, in his generosity, once gave six noble horses to Ātithigva, together with pure rites, as a lasting boon. No mortal competitor can overcome these companions of victory, and the worshippers pray that no blame may fall upon them. Now, the poets raise a hymn in the Triṣṭubh meter for Indra, who delights in strength. Puramdhi calls upon him with thought, seeking wisdom. Indra is the stream of the waters, the stream of young women, the lord of the unyoked cows, who eagerly seeks the offering. The spotted cows, mothers of the gods, prepare the Soma for him in the three shining realms of heaven. The singers praise Indra as the lord of cows, the true son of truth. The bay horses are set in motion, the ruddy ones stand ready on the sacred grass where the people gather. The cows have milked forth a sweet drink for Indra, the wielder of the bolt, just as he discovered it in a hidden place. Indra is invited to rise and come to the shining dwelling, to drink the honeyed Soma and be united in friendship at the three times seven steps of the companion. The Priyamedhasas and their sons lift their voices in song, chanting mightily like a fortress. Gargara, Godhā, and Piṅgā all resound, raising a hymn for Indra. When the easy-to-milk one leaps forth, they seize the Soma for Indra to drink. Indra drinks, Agni drinks, and all the gods rejoice; Varuṇa, too, is present, and the waters follow him like cows to their calf. Varuṇa is praised as a good god, for whom the seven rivers flow after his summit, just as water flows through a well-made channel. The skilled guide, well-yoked, leads forth the swift ones for the worshipper, revealing his true form, released and free. Shakra, Indra, has surpassed all enemies, shattering even the cooking vessel and its contents with his distant voice. Like a young boy standing upon a new chariot, Indra apportions the buffalo, the beast, as an offering to his father and mother. The people invite the fair-cheeked lord and lady to mount the golden chariot and join the shining, thousand-footed, ruddy steed, bringing well-being and freedom from harm. To Indra, the sovereign of songs, the reverent return again and again, seeking even a small share of his favor. With sacred grass and fitting offerings, they seek the ancient path of worship, following the ways of their forefathers. Indra is praised as the king of peoples, the chariot-rider, tireless and unconquered in battle, the greatest of all, the slayer of Vritra. His strength is unmatched; the thunderbolt shines in his hand like the sun in the wide sky. No action can harm him, for he is ever-growing, famed everywhere, unassailable and mighty. When he is born, the cows flow forth, and the heavens and earth are undiminished by his coming. Even if Indra had a hundred heavens and a hundred earths, a thousand suns would not equal him, nor both worlds together. He has expanded by his might, most powerful among all, and the worshippers pray that he bring down the prize rich in cattle, accompanied by splendid aid. No god or mortal, no matter how long-lived or swift, can reach him in distress; even those who strive their hardest, Indra has yoked his steeds and surpassed them. To this great and mighty Indra, the people call for help, whether in deep waters, wilderness, or contests—he is always worthy of invocation. They pray that he rise up for them, generous and heroic, considering them for his favor. They call him to rise for greatness, for giving, for fame—ever Indra, the thunderer, the bestower of glory.