Let Indra drive thy chariot forth, though it be ill-shaped or oddly yoked.
In this race for renown, in this drawing of lots and spoil, aid us, thou oft-called.
The wind played the wanton with her cloak as she won a thousand kine and a chariot besides.
Mudgalānī was her name, charioteer in the cattle-quest, who, as Indra’s own weapon, cast the perfect throw and claimed the match.
Hold fast the club of the foe who would strike us, O Indra.
Turn aside the death-blow, whether cast by Dāsa hand or Ārya—thou who givest freely.
He grew wild with thirst and drank a whole lake.
The hammer rang loud, breaking hatred.
The ball’d bull, hungry for glory, lunged forward with mighty limbs.
They came against him, and he roared; they made the bull piss mid-race.
Yet by him, Mudgala gained a thousand and a hundred cattle, fat and fine.
The bull was yoked to the work of kaka.
His long-haired driver dodged and weaved, but the dung of the frenzied beast struck Mudgalānī all the same.
Seeing all, he struck the wheel’s outer rim aside and yoked the bull anew, with toil.
Indra lent hand to the lord of prize-kine, and the hunch-backed bull flew forth in stride.
Whip in hand, the braided man made luck his own, tying wood to strap with craft.
Doing bold deeds for many men, eye on the kine, he rose in might.
“Lo! the yokemate of the bull—there lies the club of wood, set mid the race-path, wherewith Mudgala took his thousand and his hundred in the clash of carts.”
“Be gone, ill fortune! Who hath seen the like?
They yoke him, and now bid him ride—no grass, no water given.
The chariot’s pole standeth high, drawing the cart ever onward.”
She hath brought back her man, as a shunned wife bringeth back her love.
She swelleth, he drippeth, as one who toils with a poor water-wheel.
May we too win, with a driver swifter than swift— let our gain be good luck and golden hoard.
Indra, thou art the eye of all that stirreth and goeth, the eye behind the eye.
As bull thyself, thou strivest in the race of bulls, driving one on with a steer beside him.