Amidst a terrifying battlefield, spirits danced wildly, their skulls and clubs stirring waves of blood that surged and splashed in great currents. These radiant beings, glowing like masses of twilight clouds, constructed bridges across the rivers of blood, forging a path through the chaos. In the midst of this dreadful turmoil, one warrior rose above the rest. His purpose was clear: to destroy the enemy armies and bring calm to his own. He possessed a steadfast memory and boundless, noble patience, and in that moment, he recalled the illustrious and supreme Vaishnava weapon of Vishnu—equal in might to the weapon of Shiva, who is the lord of all arms. With focused intent, he released an arrow empowered by the mantra of the Vaishnava weapon. From its tip, blazing missiles shot forth, like firebrands streaking across the sky. Rows of whirling discs radiated such brilliance that the quarters of the heavens seemed filled with a hundred suns. Mighty maces advanced, their shafts rising like a hundred bamboo thickets in the sky. Thunderbolts with many streams filled the air, their shafts resembling arrow-tips, while spears and swords, their blades sharp and gleaming, formed groves along the riverbanks. But the second king, seeking to pacify the unleashed Vaishnava weapon, invoked the same supreme power, offering the Vaishnava weapon to quell all arms. From this too emerged rivers of weapons, their force neutralizing those already released: streams of arrows, spears, maces, lances, swords, and axes surged forth. A battle of these rivers of weapons and missiles unfolded in the sky, destroying the gaps between mountains and shattering the noble peaks. Spears were split by arrows, swords shattered by blades, lances struck by mighty javelins, and missiles were cleft by spears. The scene was like the Mandara mountain itself, intoxicated with the task of churning the ocean of arrows and waters—a mighty club and thunderbolt-like mass, ready to shatter all before it with irresistible force. A whirling circle of spears quelled showers of missiles, resembling the moon surrounded by stars, or the god of death himself, eager to devour with the tip of his lance. The mountains, scorched by the half-disc of a spinning discus and the heat of thunderbolts, shone with the flash of tridents and the piercing sound of iron goads. The region resounded with the clamor of Bhusundi slings and clubs, filled with the tumult of maces, and crossed by countless axes wielded by fierce warriors. It was a field where crests and crested helmets were shattered, beaks and fans severed, and even the river Ganges seemed broken by the loud, cracking, and splitting sounds of battle. A vast canopy of swirling dust rose from the shattered weapons, and the clash of arms sent forth blazing flashes of lightning from the whirling flames. The tumult was like the breaking of the cosmic egg of Brahma; mountains of warrior clans were destroyed, and streams of weapons were cut down in the battle between the two champions. By the mere act of parrying weapons, the time of the mighty passed. Each stood, confident in his own strength, poised with ease in the ocean of battle. Then Viduratha released the Agneya weapon. It thundered like a bolt of lightning and set the chariot ablaze, as a fire consumes the dry brush along a riverbank. Meanwhile, in the vast expanse of the sky, within the hollow of battle, the warrior stood armored, like a rain-laden cloud wrapped in a veil. Having unleashed the king of weapons, the two fought a most fierce battle. Both strong and valiant, they eventually came to a truce with each other. Yet, in that moment, the fiery weapon swiftly reduced the chariot to ashes. Having burned the forest, it reached the river, like a lion emerging from its cave. The river, close by, countered the fire weapon with the Varuna weapon. Abandoning his chariot, the warrior reached the ground, armed with sword and shield. Swiftly, with a single stroke, he sliced the hooves of the enemy’s chariot horses, as easily as cutting lotus stalks. Viduratha too, now without his chariot, took up shield and sword. Both warriors, equally eager and armed, moved in circles, ready for battle. Their swords struck each other, becoming like saws, and the people watched, awestruck, as if witnessing the grinding of teeth in a fierce contest. Viduratha, seizing a spear, hurled it with all his might and cast aside his sword. The spear thundered with a roaring sound in the ocean, like a great calamity or a bolt of lightning. Unbroken, it struck his opponent’s chest, just as a beloved who does not wish for an unpleasant husband falls upon him. Yet, by the blow of the spear, death did not come; only a stream of blood flowed out, like water from a wounded serpent. Seeing him broken in that place, like darkness dispelled by the moon, Taddeshalila, radiant and joyful, spoke of her former play. “O goddess, see—our husband has been slain by Narasimha; the demon Sindhu, with his mighty neck, was torn by the lion’s claws, sharp as a thousand spears. Like the mighty wind roaring over a lake where the king of serpents dwells, blood pours from his chest with a sound like sharp arrows. Alas, how terrible! The chariot has been brought for Sindhu to ascend; it is golden, like the crest of Mount Meru, swirling like a lotus whirlpool. See, goddess, his chariot has been shattered by the mace, like a golden city crushed by the fall of a whirling mountain. My husband, who set out and brought the chariot to mount, is struck down, as if by Indra’s thunderbolt or the club hurled by the ocean. Deceiving with his charm, he swiftly mounted the chariot—see, my husband shines forth exceedingly in battle. Alas, how terrible! That Sindhu has forcefully seized the prince’s chariot, like a monkey climbing a cliff or a branch in the air. Look, my husband, as he climbs, is struck on the shoulder by a sword, and like a mountain of ruby, he pours forth blood in brilliance. Alas, alas, how dreadful! By this Sindhu wielding a sword, my husband’s legs are cut, as a tree is severed by a saw. Alas, alas, I am slain, I am burned, I am dead, I am destroyed; my husband’s two knees are cut, like lotus stalks severed.” Thus, in the midst of battle, the warriors’ valor and the lament of Taddeshalila echoed, bearing witness to the ferocity and tragedy that unfolded on that field of arms.