Whose ire is like a dreadful cloud, who is fleet like the mind or the wind, who always pierces the enemy to the very core of his heart, who, armed with shafts, is dreadful to gaze at, who profusely fills all the cardinal quarters with human blood like Death himself, who, with a terrific roar and a dreadful countenance, wielding the Gandiva, pours, in one continuous shower, on the head of my warriors led by Duryodhana, shafts whetted on stone and decked with the feathers of vultures, when that intelligent Vijaya came, what became the state of your mind.