Surrounded on every side by thousands upon thousands of fierce warriors, all armed with discus, spear, club, dart, and a host of other weapons, the two mighty sides swept across the vast battlefield. They moved freely as they wished, weaving through the cries of embattled fighters and the thunder of massive chariot wheels, passing amid the fallen and those still struggling for life. Rivers of blood flowed across the field, and the warriors, like intoxicated elephants at play, crossed them with ease, their chariot wheels stained crimson and tangled with hair and entrails. Their chariots, driven with such force that even maddened elephants were toppled and shaken by their wheels, resounded with the jingling of precious gems and the clatter of ornamented yokes. Banners fluttered violently in the wind, their loud rattling filling the air, as these charioteers were followed by hosts of great heroes and countless soldiers, many of whom trembled in fear. Upon their shoulders they bore heavy loads—spears, arrows, bows, lances, darts, spikes, and the dazzling brilliance of spinning discs. In the midst of this tumult, the two champions, each encircled by vast ranks, confronted one another face to face, standing like storm clouds bristling with weapons. Their hands, thick and strong from ceaselessly hurling volleys of arrows, gripped their bows as they roared at each other, their voices echoing like the thunder of wild, rain-laden clouds. As these two lion-like warriors engaged, their arrows filled the sky, transformed into stones and maces, spreading far and wide. Some arrows were shaped like sword blades, others like hammers and clubs; some bore sharp disc-edges, others had axe-like mouths. There were arrows tipped like spears, some razor-edged, others fashioned after the point of a lance or the curve of a crescent moon. Some carried lion-faced heads, some ended in trident-tips, and others had three-pronged faces, massive as boulders. These stone-headed arrows whirled about like showers of rocks driven by the winds of doomsday, and the tumult between the two warriors seemed as if the churning of the cosmic ocean at the end of time had arisen between them. Amidst this chaos, the king arrived before the swelling ocean, its waves rising high, and he himself seemed to blaze with wrath, radiant as the midday sun. Drawing his bow, he made the directions resound with the thunderous blast, like the world-ending wind striking the peaks of the gods’ mountain. He released volley after volley, his arrows strung in the quiver like the rays of the morning sun. Though he loosed a single great arrow from his bowstring, as it soared, hundreds of thousands followed, filling the sky. His force and swiftness matched the ocean’s, his radiance rivaled the sun, and the might of Vishnu’s bow seemed to belong to them both. His arrows, called Musulā and shaped like clubs, roared as they flew, filling the sky as if they were mountains hurled at the end of an age. Their golden tips flashed brilliantly, scattered among the storm of missiles like distressed stars falling at the world’s end. From Viduratha’s bow, streams of arrows poured forth without ceasing, like floods from the ocean or rays from the sun. They flew like blossoms swept from a great tree by a fierce wind, or like showers of sparks struck from red-hot iron. Like the streams from a rain-cloud, like droplets from a waterfall, like brilliant sparks from a raging city fire, the arrows filled the sky. The sharp crackling of their two bows rang out, and for a moment, both armies fell silent, as if the ocean itself had grown still, watching in mute attention. A flood of arrows surged through the sky, swelling like the Ganges rushing toward the ocean with the tumult of yakṣas. From the cloud of bows came an unending rain of golden-tipped arrows, mingled with the dreadful cries of the dying, pouring forth like thunder. From her window, the lady of the city gazed with playful curiosity at the river of arrows advancing to overwhelm the ocean. Beholding that mass of shafts and anticipating her husband’s victory, her lotus face blossomed with joy. She spoke, her words bright with hope: “Victory, O goddess! Our lord triumphs—look! Even Mount Meru would be reduced to dust by this torrent of arrows.” As she spoke, her voice thick with deep affection, the two goddesses beside her, their eyes intent and faces bright with laughter, felt a wave of human tenderness stir within their hearts. But that ocean of arrows was swallowed up by the Sindhu fire, just as the river Jahnu, with its unapproachable heat, once drank up the Mandakini. With a dense shower of arrows, Sindhu pierced through that mass of shafts, drove it downward, and cast it into the ocean of the sky. The course of that multitude of arrows could not be discerned, just as the movement of a lamp that has gone out cannot be seen. Cutting through the torrent, he spread his own dense cloud of arrows across the sky, accompanied by the bodies of fallen warriors. Yet Viduratha swiftly scattered that assault as well with his finest shafts, like a furious doomsday wind dispersing a common raincloud. Thus, with ceaseless countering showers, the two kings struck at each other, each rendering the other’s attacks futile. Then, Sindhu, out of friendship for the Gandharvas, took up the weapon of stupefaction. By its power, all beings except Viduratha fell into delusion. The warriors, laying aside their weapons and garments, became mute, their faces downcast; they stood as if lifeless, like figures painted on a canvas. For as long as Viduratha’s chariot slowed under the influence of delusion, so long did the king himself take up the weapon of awakening. As the people awakened, like lotuses blossoming at dawn, a mighty surge arose within Viduratha—as if an ocean swelled in anger, ready to rise against a demon.