A sister gazes upward, puzzled by the sight before her. “Sister, what is this sky, filled with straw, that stands here?” she asks. But she is gently corrected: “This is not straw, O brave one—these are clouds laden with arrows.” The very heavens are thick with the weapons of war. As the battle rages below, each particle of dust quenched by blood marks the passage of thousands of years for the warriors’ souls, who dwell in the sky for as long as the earth absorbs their sacrifice. Yet, reassurance is offered: “Do not fear—these are not swords gleaming like blue lotus petals; these are the playful glances of Lakshmi herself, the observer of heroes.” The god of love, ever eager to loosen the girdles of heavenly women who long for the embrace of valiant warriors, sets forth amid the tumult. He is adorned with arms shining like waving lotus stalks, hands as delicate as red buds, eyes drunken with the beauty of clustered blossoms, and his fragrance is as sweet as honeyed flowers. Meanwhile, in the celestial Nandana grove, the goddesses, anticipating the arrival of these heroes, begin to dance, their sweet words inviting the warriors to join them. But on the battlefield, the army, like a village woman of wicked deeds, turns inward, breaking the enemy with hard axes and harming even those she loves. Amidst this chaos, a daughter laments: “Alas, my father’s head, with blazing earrings, was carried near the sun by an arrow, as if seized by Time itself, like a wandering planet.” In the midst of the fray, a warrior, swift and strong, raises both arms and spins the wheel called Citradaṇḍa, which is fastened to his feet by a chain and revolves two massive stones—his strength and resolve unyielding. From the southern quarter, a towering warrior, as formidable as Yama, gathers the army from all sides. “Come, let us return as we came, like Yama,” he calls, leading the soldiers onward. The field is a gruesome dance: headless bodies, their heads freshly severed and swarmed by vultures and jackals, flail their arms wildly as if possessed. In the heavenly assemblies, the gods debate: “Tell us, to which other world will these heroes go? Who will depart, and from where?” The armies arriving are swallowed like rivers by the ocean, their formations resembling fish and crocodiles—warriors now face dire peril. The earth is littered with elephants, their bodies pierced by spears, as if torrents of rain had gathered among mountain peaks. Warriors cry out, “Alas, my head has been taken by a spear!” Yet it is only their severed heads that echo, “The head has been taken,” their voices resounding in the sky like flocks of birds. Those who rain mechanical stones upon us are met with calls to cast a net of chains over the enemy army, trapping them in their own devices. Let all these deluded, half-dead men—your very own—be struck down by you, the most wicked, with the mere blow of your foot. Amidst the throng of celestial nymphs, their braided hair tossed in excitement, a divine-bodied warrior arrives at your side—behold his splendor. On the banks of the heavenly river, among blooming golden lotuses and cooled by gentle breezes, another approaches from afar. The peaks of mighty mountains, shattered by the clash of countless weapons, soar through the sky with a clamor, like stars falling from the heavens. In the sky, the empty river of space flows, its waters now arrows swirling like a wheel, reducing even mountains to mere rows. On the paths of the planets, the severed heads of heroic kings whirl about, pierced and adorned with the points and barbs of weapons. The sky, decorated with banners and lotus-stalks, and bristling with arrows, has become a lake of lotuses, the wind rippling its surface. In the heaps of dead elephants, fearful women vanish like ants among mountains, or disappear as women do in the embrace of their beloved. The playful winds toss the flowing locks of the Vidyādhara women, who proclaim the joy of a meeting adorned with supreme and unprecedented beauty. When parasols are cast away and torn, the moonlight itself becomes their white canopy in the sky, shaped by the ever-glorious form of the moon. At the end of death’s faintness, the warrior instantly attains an immortal body, crafted by his own imagination, as if entering a city in a dream. Showers of spears, lances, arrows, and discs are hurled in volleys, standing in the sky-ocean like shoals of fish, sharks, and alligators, undaunted by the chaos. The sky, filled with broken parasols and fans cut by arrows, shines as if covered with clusters of full moons. Above, parasols tossed aloft and beautiful, humming fans glow like waves of white geese stirred by the wind. Yet those parasols, fans, and banners, utterly shattered, are scattered across the sky like showers of hailstones. Carried aloft by countless arrows, the rain of spears brings destruction, just as swarms of locusts devastate the splendor of crops. This is the fierce roar of Death itself, born from the harsh clashing of armor and the resounding ring of swords wielded by warriors with outstretched arms. Swept by winds like volleys of arrows, streams of blood from shattered teeth flow; in this time of destruction, the broken elephants lie like fallen mountains. Chariots, horses, warriors, and their lords are submerged in the great red lake of blood. Cries of “Alas! Lost! Destroyed!” rise as the chariot-city falls. As the Night of Time dances wildly on the battlefield, the sharp, harsh clangor of swords striking armor resounds like the music of a veena. The directions are reddened by the wind, sprinkled with drops of blood fallen from the bodies of men, elephants, and horses, and from the heaps of corpses. In the sky, which resembles an ocean of sword-blades, the dark tresses of Kali are adorned with garlands of arrow-buds, flashing like rain-laden lightning. With armies and earth stained with fresh blood and bristling with weapons, the world blazes intensely, as if it were the tumultuous realm of fire itself. Showers of arrows, spears, javelins, swords, and maces from Bhusunda and others, hurled in mutual destruction, are reduced to mere fragments, the remnants of a battle whose fury shakes heaven and earth.