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battle-river, whose banks were Bhishma and Drona, whose water was Jayadratha, whose blue lotus was Gandhara, whose crocodile was Shalya, whose current was Kripa, whose billows were Karna, whose terrible alligators were Asvatthama and Vikarna, whose whirlpool was Duryodhana. May this Lotus of the Mahabharata be for our good, born on the lake of the words of Parasharya, sweet with the fragrance of the meaning of the Gita, pollened with many stories, unfolding to the sun of the history of Hari, sucked by the bees of good men in the world day by day, cleanser of the stains of Kali. I salute Him, Madhava, the supreme Bliss, whose grace makes the dumb man eloquent, and the cripple a climber of mountains. Whom Brahma, Varuna, Indra, Rudra, and the Maruts praise with divine songs; whom the Sama-chanters sing with the Vedas and with Angas, in the pada and krama methods with the Upanishats; whom Yogis see by the mind fixed in meditation, to Him going ; whose end Suras and Asuras know not; to that God, all hail !
