O revered goddess, behold the tragic scene before us: our husband has been slain by the fierce Narasimha. The mighty demon Sindhu, whose powerful neck once inspired dread, was torn asunder by the lion’s claws—claws sharp as a thousand spears. From his chest, blood pours in torrents, roaring like a tempestuous wind over a serpent king’s lake, the sound echoing the sharpness of arrows. How dreadful is this sight! A golden chariot, swirling like the whirlpool of a lotus and gleaming like the crest of Mount Meru, was brought for Sindhu to ascend. Yet now, look, that very chariot has been shattered by a mace—crushed like a radiant city beneath the fall of a whirling mountain. My husband, who set out so bravely to mount the chariot, has been struck down, as if felled by Indra’s thunderbolt or the mighty club cast by the ocean itself. He, ever swift and charming, deceived all as he mounted the chariot, shining forth in the thick of battle. But alas, how terrible! Sindhu, with brutal force, seized the prince’s chariot, like a monkey scaling a cliff or swinging through the empty air. See, as my husband climbed, a sword struck his shoulder, and blood poured forth in vivid brilliance, as if a mountain of rubies had been split open. Alas, alas, what horror! Sindhu, sword in hand, severed my husband’s legs as a saw cuts through the trunk of a tree. I am slain, I am burned, I am dead, I am destroyed—my husband’s knees have been cut, like lotus stalks sliced in two. Overwhelmed by fear for her beloved, she cried out thus and, seeing the dreadful sight, fainted to the ground like a vine felled by an axe. Even as his knees were severed, Viduratha, ever valiant, continued to strike at his enemy, but quickly fell upon the chariot, like a tree whose roots have been cut. As he fell, his charioteer carried him away in the chariot, but in that moment, the agitated horse struck his neck. With his neck half-severed, he was pursued by the horse and entered the palace in his chariot, just as Lakshmi enters the heart of a lotus. Yet, that house—endowed with the power of Sarasvati—remained beyond his reach. Intoxicated by pain and defeat, he was like a fly unable to pass through a ring of blazing fire. His body, thin and stained with blood from the sword’s wound, his garments smeared red, the charioteer left him near the goddess, then entered the house and lay down upon the bed of death, having escaped the enemy. A fearful cry rose up: “The king is slain, the king is slain by the rival king in battle!” At these words, terror seized the kingdom. The people, burdened with their possessions and household goods, fled in panic; the city, filled with the weeping of wives, became a fortress of flight. As the people scattered, the streets rang with desperate cries, wives were snatched away, and the great conflict descended into frantic plundering. The tumult of foreign soldiers, dancing in triumph, resounded through the city, which was now bereft of rulers, elephants, horses, spies, or swift messengers. Doors were flung open, treasure chests were broken into, and the enemy soldiers wrapped themselves in countless looted silken garments. The palace courtyard was stained with the entrails of the slain, torn out by daggers, and heaps of outcaste and dog-eater corpses lay in the royal chambers. Commoners, desperate for food, found their meals stolen from their homes; children lay on the ground, their limbs crushed by the feet of gold-laden thieves. Young women of the inner apartments wandered with disheveled hair, assaulted by strangers, while the streets were littered with priceless jewels dropped by fleeing robbers. The circle of vassals was thrown into turmoil, their horses and chariots colliding in confusion, while the chief ministers hurriedly prepared for the royal consecration. Master architects gathered on the city’s slopes, building anew, as the king’s favorites fell from wells, windows, and balconies in their frantic escape. The city echoed with hundreds of victory cries, was filled with throngs of warriors, and was surrounded by countless hosts of loyal kings, standing firm like the ocean itself. Yet the king’s favorites fled as villages were overrun, and the plundering of towns and villages spread to neighboring lands. The roads were choked with endless thievery and harsh words; the heat of the day grew more intense, dazzling with the presence of mighty and powerful men, glittering like jewels. Amidst it all were the cries of those mourning their dead, the sounds of musical instruments, and the heavy, indistinct noise of horses and elephants, all mingling together in a cacophony of grief and confusion. Then, in every city, drums were sounded, proclaiming, “Victory to King Sindhudeva, sovereign of the single-umbrella realm!” Sindhu, holding his neck high, entered the capital city like another Manu at the end of an age, ready to create new subjects for the world. From all ten directions, people streamed into Sindhu’s city, as if treasures poured into the ocean from the stables of elephants and horses. For a moment, the ministers established new regulations, marks, and decrees for each region and for the entire realm. Very soon, in every land and city, order arose in matters of life and death, honor and dishonor, just as discipline is imposed by Yama. In an instant, the disturbances and confusions of the land subsided; the winds of calamity were stilled, and the world returned to its proper course. The region, adorned with the ten directions, swiftly became gentle, like the ocean of milk, its churning waves suddenly calmed after Mandara mountain was raised. Yet, winds blew, tossing the hair and stirring the lotus-like faces of the Sindhu women; everywhere, in an instant, the air was filled with restless gusts, as if bearing inauspicious omens. At that moment, Lila turned to Sarasvati. Having seen her husband, who now clung to life by a single breath, she spoke: “O Ambika, my husband is about to abandon his body; and this Lila, too, stands as if lifeless, her limbs unmoving.