विष्णुना राक्षससंहारः मालिवधश्च

Roaring like clouds, the rākṣasas pelted the mountain that was Nārāyaṇa with a rain of weapons, as clouds pelt a mountain with rain. Surrounded by those dark night-rangers, Viṣṇu, himself dark and radiant, looked like Mount Añjana ringed by raining clouds. As locusts fly into a field, as gnats into a fire, as stinging flies into a jar of nectar and as crocodiles into the ocean, so the arrows loosed from the rākṣasas' bows, swift as the thunderbolt, the wind and thought, entered Hari, as all the worlds enter him at the dissolution of the universe. Chariot-fighters with their chariots, elephant-riders with their elephants, horsemen with their horses, and foot-soldiers too, all stood in the sky, for the battle was fought in the air. The rākṣasa lords, huge as mountains, pressed Hari with arrows, spears, swords and lances until he had no room to breathe, as breath-control stops the breath of a brahmin. This sarga is a stream of similes. In the first, Viṣṇu is the mountain, the rākṣasas the clouds and their weapons the rain; a mountain is not moved by rain, only drenched, and so Viṣṇu's steadiness is hinted at from the start. In the second the colours are set against each other: Viṣṇu dark and shining, the rākṣasas dark, like the black mountain wrapped in cloud. Then come four images: locusts perish in fire, gnats in flame, flies in a honey-jar, and crocodiles disappear into the sea; so the rākṣasas' arrows vanished into Viṣṇu's body and could not hurt him. And as at the end of an age all the worlds pass into Viṣṇu, so did the arrows. The army is the fourfold army of chariots, elephants, horses and foot, all of it in the sky. The last image is a strange one: as a brahmin holding his breath in meditation stops its flow, so the rākṣasas smothered Viṣṇu's breath.

Struck by the night-rangers as the great ocean is struck by fish, the invincible one drew his bow Śārṅga and loosed arrows at the rākṣasas. With sharp arrows drawn to the full, like thunderbolts and swift as thought, Viṣṇu cut them to pieces in hundreds and thousands. Scattering their weapons with his rain of arrows as the wind scatters a rising shower, the Supreme Person blew his great conch Pāñcajanya. Blown by Hari with all his breath, the water-born king of conches roared with a terrible sound, as though shaking the three worlds. The blast of that king of conches terrified the rākṣasas as the king of beasts terrifies elephants in rut in the forest. The horses could not stand their ground, the elephants lost their frenzy, and the warriors, unnerved by the blast, fell from their chariots. And arrows loosed from Śārṅga, with heads like thunderbolts and fine feathers, tore through the rākṣasas and plunged into the earth. The simile of the fish completes the thought of the previous verses: fish may strike the ocean, but the ocean does not stir. Because the bow was drawn to the full, the arrows flew with greater force, and the wind scattering the rain continues the earlier image of the rākṣasas as clouds. The conch is described three ways, as born of the waters, as king of conches, and as terrible in sound, and because Viṣṇu blew it with all his strength its roar filled the three worlds. The blast did three things: the horses could not stand, the elephants lost their frenzy and the warriors fell from their chariots, so that the army was broken before the fighting was well begun. Even rutting elephants tremble at a lion's roar. And the arrows passed right through the rākṣasas into the ground, such was their force.

Pierced in battle by the arrows loosed from Nārāyaṇa's hand, the rākṣasas fell to the ground like mountains struck by the thunderbolt. The wounds that Viṣṇu's discus dealt to enemy bodies poured blood in streams, like mountains pouring streams of gold, as a mountain spring runs red with ochre. The blast of the king of conches, the twang of the bow Śārṅga and Viṣṇu's own roar swallowed up the cries of the rākṣasas. With his arrows Hari cut off their trembling heads, their arrows, banners and bows, their chariots, pennants and quivers, all the gear of war. As rays pour from the sun, floods of water from the ocean, great serpents from a mountain and torrents from a cloud, so the arrows loosed from Śārṅga and sped by Nārāyaṇa flew out swiftly in hundreds and thousands, an endless stream from a single source. As lions flee before the śarabha, elephants before the lion, tigers before the elephant, leopards before the tiger, dogs before the leopard, cats before the dog, snakes before the cat and rats before the snake, so all the rākṣasas fled, routed by mighty Viṣṇu, and others lay stretched upon the ground. Having slain thousands of rākṣasas, the slayer of Madhu filled his conch with sound again, as the king of the gods fills a cloud with water. Terrified by Nārāyaṇa's arrows and bewildered by the blast of the conch, the shattered rākṣasa army fled towards Laṅkā. The chain of animals is the heart of this passage: each creature puts to flight the one weaker than itself, from the śarabha down to the snake and the rat. Its point is that Viṣṇu is stronger than all, while before him the rākṣasas are the weakest of the weak. Some fled and some lay on the ground, and the broken army's turning towards Laṅkā was the first stage of its defeat.

When the rākṣasa army had been routed by Nārāyaṇa's arrows, Sumālī checked Hari in battle with a rain of arrows. He covered him as mist covers the sun, and the rākṣasas, men of mettle, took heart again. Then, proud of his strength, the rākṣasa rushed forward in fury with a great roar, as though bringing the rākṣasas back to life. Raising his hand, hung with ornaments, and shaking it as an elephant shakes its trunk, he roared with joy like a cloud flashing with lightning. As Sumālī roared, Viṣṇu cut off his charioteer's head with its blazing earrings, and the rākṣasa's horses bolted. Sumālī, lord of the rākṣasas, was carried round and round by the runaway horses, as a man without self-command is carried by the horses of his senses. Sumālī's attack was only a moment's respite. Mist may hide the sun for a while, but it cannot destroy it. His roar alone put new life into the broken rākṣasas, and the poet does not deny that the rākṣasas too had courage. But Viṣṇu did not strike Sumālī himself; he killed his charioteer, a mark of skill in war, so that Sumālī was carried off the field by his own horses. The picture of the ornamented arm raised like an elephant's trunk is vivid. The last simile is a philosophical one: the senses are the horses and the man the rider, and a man without self-command is dragged wherever his senses go, just as Sumālī was by his horses. It recalls the image of the chariot in the Kaṭha Upaniṣad.

As the mighty-armed Viṣṇu pressed on over the battlefield and Sumālī's chariot was carried away by its horses, Mālī rushed forward armed, seizing his bow and arrow. The gold-adorned arrows from Mālī's bow, a sign of the rākṣasas' splendour even in battle, reached Hari and entered him as birds enter the cleft of the Krauñca mountain, the mountain pierced by Skanda. Though struck by thousands of Mālī's arrows, Viṣṇu was not shaken in battle, as one who has mastered his senses is not shaken by cares. Then the blessed lord, sustainer of beings, bearing sword and mace, twanged his bowstring and loosed floods of arrows at Mālī. Bright as thunderbolt and lightning, the arrows struck Mālī's body and drank his blood as serpents drink nectar. First the bearer of conch, discus and mace drove Mālī back, then struck down his crown, his banner and bow, and his horses too, defeating him step by step; the fall of his crown was like an insult to his kingship. Robbed of his chariot, Mālī, best of night-rangers, seized his mace and leapt down, mace in hand, like a lion from a mountain top, for he too was a hero. With his mace he struck Garuḍa, lord of birds, on the forehead, as though Death were striking Śiva, or as Indra strikes a mountain with the thunderbolt. Struck hard by Mālī's mace and tormented by pain, Garuḍa turned the god away from the battle. The comparison with one who has mastered his senses again carries a lesson: such a person is not disturbed by troubles of the mind. And because Viṣṇu protects all beings, he destroys those who torment them. Garuḍa turning back in pain, and with him Viṣṇu for a moment, is the dramatic reversal of the battle.

When the god had been turned away by Mālī and Garuḍa, a great roar rose from the shouting rākṣasas. Hearing their clamour, the blessed Hari, Indra's younger brother, was enraged. Though he was turned away, he twisted sideways on the lord of birds and hurled his discus, eager to slay Mālī. Bright as the orb of the sun and like the wheel of Time, lighting up the sky with its radiance, the discus struck off Mālī's head. Cut off by the discus, the dreadful head of the rākṣasa lord fell spouting blood, as Rāhu's head fell long ago. Then the gods, overjoyed, raised a lion-roar with all their breath, crying, "Well done, lord!" Viṣṇu is called Indra's younger brother because in his dwarf incarnation he was born as Upendra, younger brother of Indra. Even with Garuḍa turned away from the fight, he turned in his seat and loosed the discus; such was his skill, for even in a reverse he did not lose his mark. The comparison with Rāhu recalls the churning of the ocean, when Viṣṇu cut off Rāhu's head with this same discus, so the likeness lies not only in the falling head but in the one who struck it. The word used for the head here means "dreadful"; it is not the name of Rāvaṇa's brother Vibhīṣaṇa. The gods shouted their cry of victory with all their strength.

Seeing Mālī slain, Sumālī and Mālyavān, burning with grief, fled with their forces to Laṅkā. Garuḍa recovered, his pain soon past, turned back as before, and in his anger drove off the rākṣasas with the wind of his wings. Some had the lotuses of their faces cut off by the discus, some their chests crushed by the mace, their necks torn by the plough or their heads split by the pestle; some were cut down by the sword, others struck by arrows, and the rākṣasas fell swiftly from the sky into the waters of the ocean. Nārāyaṇa too tore apart the night-rangers, their hair loosed and streaming as they fled, with thunderbolt-like arrows from his bow, as a great cloud with lightning strikes with its thunderbolts. Its parasols broken, its weapons falling, its fine array torn by arrows, entrails spilling and eyes rolling in fear, the army grew wilder still. The cries and the rush of the night-rangers and their elephants, crushed by the ancient Lion, were like those of elephants hunted by a lion. Held back by nets of Hari's arrows and loosing their own nets of arrows in return, those night-rangers, dark as the clouds of doom, ran like black clouds driven by the wind. Their heads cut off by the discus, their limbs crushed by the mace, cut in two by the sword, the rākṣasa lords fell like mountains. And with the night-rangers falling like dark storm-clouds, their jewelled necklaces and earrings dangling, the field looked as though it were covered everywhere by falling dark mountains, with no space left between them. Six verses in a longer metre close the sarga in the heroic mood. Every one of Viṣṇu's weapons is used, discus, mace, plough, pestle, sword and arrows, and the plough and pestle call to mind the weapons of Balarāma. "The ancient Lion" points to Viṣṇu's form as Narasiṁha, the man-lion. The army's ruin is drawn in five strokes: broken parasols, falling weapons, ruined dress, spilled entrails and eyes darting in fear. And the sarga is bound together by a single image: at its beginning the rākṣasas were clouds raining weapons on Viṣṇu, and at its end they are clouds scattered by the wind.