Vedic ritual has a grammar for powers you want and a separate grammar for powers you want to be rid of, and Nirriti belongs entirely to the second. She is offered to, which means she is a deity, but the offering is not a request. It is a settlement made so that she will take what is hers and go, and the material used for it is marked off from ordinary offering material: dark, broken, set apart, directed away from the fire toward the south or the south west. A worshipper who has done it correctly has not obtained her favour. He has ended her interest.
Her name is precise. Rita is the right ordering of things, the truth by which the seasons come round and an oath binds, and it is what the Adityas guard. Nir strips it away. Nirriti is therefore not disorder in the sense of chaos or of an enemy army; she is the state in which the order simply is not present, and everything that follows from that: decay, misfortune, the failure of things to work, and finally death. The hymns ask to be kept out of her lap, and lap is the right word, because what she does is receive.
Set beside her relatives, the theology is exact. Varuna binds the guilty, and his bonds can be loosened by asking. Aditi is boundlessness and her name is the release itself. Nirriti is the third position: not bound and not free, but out of the system in which binding and release mean anything. The Vedic poets, whose religion was fundamentally an account of how order is maintained, gave the absence of it a name and a rite, and then did what people do with it. They paid it and asked it to leave.