The serpent Vṛtra lay coiled across the waters, his body spanning the sky itself, his fangs dripping poison. For ages he had held the waters captive, choking the breath of the world. No rain fell. No rivers flowed. The earth gasped in drought, and all creatures perished of thirst.

Then came Indra, the thunderbolt-wielder. His eyes blazed like molten gold. His hand gripped the vajra, that terrible weapon fashioned by the craftsman gods. The serpent saw him approach and hissed defiance: "I am Vṛtra! I am eternal as the mountains! What puny god cometh against me?"

But Indra answered not with words. He raised the thunderbolt high above his head, and it sang through the air like a falcon screaming at the height of its dive. The light from that bolt illuminated all the worlds. The gods cried out in exultation.

Down came the thunderbolt upon Vṛtra's hide. The sound of that blow echoed through the three worlds. The serpent's body shattered like clay struck by a stone. Blood gushed forth — not the blood of a god, but a dark ichor that poisoned the earth where it fell.

The waters, released at last from their captivity, rushed forth in a mighty torrent. They roared toward the ocean, carving out the river beds, soaking into the parched earth. The world was made whole again. Life returned.

And Indra stood triumphant above the broken corpse of the serpent, breathing heavily, the thunderbolt still gripped in his hand. The light of his eyes was fierce and exultant. He had done what no other god could do. He had slain the eternal serpent and restored the order of the cosmos.

We praise thee, O Indra! Thou alone hast the strength to break the chains of darkness!