Gods Kill the Danavas After Ocean Drained

The ocean was gone. The great expanse of water that had once covered the deep had been rendered completely dry, and the gods, looking down at the empty basin, were delighted. They had waited for this moment. The danavas — the ancient enemies of the gods — had made their home in the ocean, using its depths as a fortress. As long as the waters stood, the gods could not reach them. But now the ocean was waterless, and the path lay open. The thirty gods took up their divine and supreme weapons. With uplifted hearts, they descended. They were strong and swift, and they roared aloud as they attacked. The danavas, caught in the open bed of the ocean, tried to resist. They were adorned in golden armor, earrings, and arm-guards — splendid in their war-finery. But they could not withstand the force of the great-souled gods. They could not bear it. The danavas let out terrible roars as the gods fell upon them. For an instant, they managed to put up a tumultuous fight. But that was all. They had already been burnt — not by weapons, but by something subtler. The austerities of the sages, the long penances of holy men pure in their souls, had eaten away at the danavas' strength over time. The sages had never raised a weapon against them. They had simply sat in meditation, and their accumulated spiritual energy had done its work. By the time the gods arrived, the danavas were already hollowed out. The gods killed them in great numbers. The danavas fell, their golden armor gleaming even in death, and they looked beautiful as they lay scattered — like kimshuka flowers, the flame-of-the-forest blossoms that burn red and orange across the Indian landscape. Those among the Kaleyas — a clan of the danavas — who were not killed did not wait. They cleft the goddess earth itself, burrowing down through rock and soil, and sought refuge in the nether regions, the worlds below the surface where even gods might hesitate to follow.