The game has been set up on the open sands with great fervor. The Vaishnava brothers dance, trampling anger and pride underfoot, bowing at one another's feet. They dance in waves of bliss, singing the holy litany of the Name. They have girded themselves against the power of time itself, each one mightier than the last. Sandalwood paste, tulsi garlands, and flower necklaces adorn their throats. Cymbals and drums beat in a shower of blossoms, an incomparable festival of joy. The sound draws everyone into a trance: the dull, the common folk, men and women, the learned, the yogis, and the great souls, all are made equal in that one devotion. They have forgotten the pride of caste and birth; they prostrate before one another. Their hearts have become soft as butter, and even stones begin to melt. The cry of victory resounds and the sky trembles; these Vaishnava warriors are intoxicated. Says Tuka, they have made the path simple and easy for crossing the ocean of worldly existence. Play with a single-minded stroke and you will never fall; a divided effort will defeat you, O brother.