The battle raged with unimaginable fury. Arrows of every shape and terror filled the sky—some tipped like spears, others razor-edged; some bore the sharpness of a lance, while others curved like crescent moons. Among them flew arrows with lion-faced heads, some gleaming with trident tips, and others with three-pronged faces, heavy and formidable as great stones. The stone-headed arrows hurtled through the air, descending like showers of rocks driven by the apocalyptic winds. In that moment, chaos reigned—the tumult was as if the storming ocean at the world’s end had risen up between the warriors. Amidst this confusion, the king arrived before the surging ocean, whose waves rose high in agitation. Consumed by wrath, he spread out his forces, blazing like the midday sun. Drawing his mighty bow, he sent forth a sound that resounded in all directions, thundering like the doomsday wind striking the slopes of the gods’ own mountain. The king’s hands moved with power, and volleys of arrows leapt from his quiver as the morning sun sends forth its rays. From his bowstring, a single great arrow would emerge, but as it soared, hundreds of thousands split forth, filling the sky. The force and swiftness of the ocean, the radiance of the sun, and the might of Vishnu’s bow seemed to be his allies. His arrows, known as Musulā, were shaped like clubs and roared as they flew, covering the heavens as if they were mountains at the end of an age. Their golden tips flashed in the storm of missiles, scattered like stars falling in distress at the world’s end. From Viduratha, too, streams of arrows poured forth without ceasing, like floods from the ocean or rays from the sun. They flew like blossoms stripped from a great tree by a fierce wind, or like showers of sparks struck from red-hot iron. The arrows rained down like waters from a cloudburst, like droplets from a waterfall, like brilliant sparks from a blazing city fire. The sharp crackling of the two bows echoed across the field, and all the assembled forces grew silent, as if the ocean itself had stilled, watching in mute attention. Arrows surged through the sky like the swelling Ganges, rushing toward the ocean with the roaring tumult of yakṣas. From the cloud of drawn bows, an unceasing rain of golden-tipped arrows poured forth, mingled with the dreadful cries of the dying, thundering across the battlefield. Watching from her window, the lady of the city gazed with playful curiosity at this river of arrows advancing to flood the ocean. Beholding the mass of arrows and anticipating her husband’s victory, her lotus face blossomed with joy. She spoke with delight, “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 watched intently, their faces bright with laughter, and felt a tender, human warmth in their hearts. Yet, that ocean of arrows was swallowed by the Sindhu fire, just as the river Jahnu, with its unapproachable heat, once drank the Mandakini. With a dense shower of arrows, the king pierced through that mass of shafts, drove it downward, and cast it into the ocean of the sky. The course of those arrows was lost—like a lamp’s movement after it has gone out, none could discern where they had gone. Cutting through the torrent, the king spread his own dense cloud of arrows in the sky, accompanied by the fallen bodies of warriors. Swiftly, Viduratha scattered that cloud as well with his finest arrows, like a furious doomsday wind dispersing a common raincloud. Thus, with ceaseless showers, the two kings countered each other’s attacks, each rendering the other’s volleys futile. Then, Sindhu, out of friendship for the Gandharvas, took up the weapon of stupefaction. Its power cast all beings into delusion—save for Viduratha. The warriors laid aside their weapons and garments, fell silent and downcast, appearing as if dead, or like painted figures on a canvas. As long as Viduratha’s chariot slowed under the weapon’s spell, so long did the king take up the weapon of awakening. As the people regained their senses, like lotuses opening at dawn, a flood of wrath arose in Viduratha, as if an ocean surged in anger against a demon. He took up the dreadful serpent-weapon, which brought the pain of binding fetters. At once, the sky was filled with serpents as vast as mountains. The earth writhed with snakes, just as a lake is filled with the stalks of lotuses, and all the mountains became covered with black, writhing serpent-blankets. Every object was concealed by the forms of serpents; the earth, with its mountains and forests, became helpless beneath their coils. Hot winds blew fiercely, carrying embers and ash, bearing the force of poison and heat like fiery dust-storms. Then Viduratha, master of mighty weapons, invoked the Suparna-weapon. At its power, Garuḍas arose—golden as mountains—filling all directions with radiance. Winds of dissolution swept forth, born from the tumult of these mountain-winged birds. The circles of serpents, breathing and hissing, rose and swayed, their hoods filling the clouds with a great, rumbling roar. But the mighty Garuda devoured that host of serpents covering the earth, just as Agastya once drank the ocean, while the serpents hissed and rustled as they were seized. Freed from the serpent-blanket, the earth appeared vast, seamless, and shining, like a great, uninterrupted expanse of silver. Then, as suddenly as they had appeared, the host of Garudas vanished, becoming invisible—like a cluster of lamps scattered by the wind, or a mass of autumn clouds dissolved in the sky.