Protector of devotees, festival of joy, even little children sing your auspicious praises. Victory to you, bearer of the Garuda banner; we wave the lamp before you for the sake of devotion. Without name or form, you become whatever your devotees desire: fish, tortoise, boar, and Narasimha you became. Death to demons, yet the object of the sages' meditation. Your true color is neither dark nor fair; the Vedas say 'not this, not this,' O sustainer of the universe. You are the life of all life, the giver, whose limits even Brahma and the gods cannot fathom. In the homes of saints you gladly call yourself their servant, though you carry the weight of conch, disc, mace, and all weapons. The Sudarshana whirls ceaselessly; you are neither delicate nor large, but perfectly lovely. Without true feeling your worship cannot be accomplished. All the holy rivers have sprung from you. Creation, dissolution, and preservation you alone perform. Says Tuka, I hold fast to your feet with absolute certainty.