As King Hariścandra prepared to leave his city, sorrow and anguish filled the hearts of his people. They cried out, “Alas, why do you abandon us, O king? We are always afflicted and suffering. You are devoted to righteousness and have shown great favor to your citizens. If you truly regard dharma, take us with you! Wait just a moment, so we may gaze upon your lotus-like face one last time.” The citizens pleaded, their eyes longing, “Let us drink in your form with our bee-like eyes. When will we see you again? Some of us walk before you, others behind, as you depart. Your wife follows, carrying your young son, and your loyal servants walk ahead, standing in the path like mighty elephants. Yet now, O King Hariścandra, you go by foot, and your tender-skinned, beautiful-browed son walks beside you. What will become of his face, covered with dust along the road? Stay, O foremost of kings! Uphold your duty.” They implored him further, “Compassion is the highest dharma, especially for kings. What are wives, sons, riches, or grain compared to this? We have abandoned all for you—we are your shadow. Why do you leave us, O great king? Wherever you dwell is our happiness; the city is where you reside, and heaven itself is wherever our king is.” Hearing these heartfelt words, the king was overcome by sorrow and paused on the path, moved by compassion for his grieving people. But seeing the king’s resolve shaken, the sage Viśvāmitra approached, his eyes blazing with anger. He rebuked Hariścandra harshly, “Shame on you, wicked king! Your words are false and crooked. You gave me your kingdom—why do you now wish to take it back?” Stung by these words, Hariścandra trembled and said only, “I will go.” Quickly, he grasped his beloved wife’s hand and departed. His wife, exhausted and delicate, stumbled as they walked, and Viśvāmitra, in his anger, struck her with a stick. Seeing his wife struck, Hariścandra, stricken with grief, could only repeat, “I will go,” and said nothing more. At that moment, five compassionate gods looked on and wondered, “What worlds will Viśvāmitra, so sinful, attain? He has cast down the best of sacrificers from his own kingdom. By whose faith will we now drink the purified soma at the great sacrifice and depart joyfully, led by the mantras?” Hearing their words, Viśvāmitra, angered further, cursed them: “All of you shall be born as humans.” But then, appeased by their humility, the sage relented: “Even in your human birth, you shall have no offspring. You will not take wives, nor harbor envy. Freed from desire and anger, you will become gods again.” Thus, those five gods descended to earth, born as the five sons of Pāṇḍu from Draupadī’s womb in the house of Kuru. For this reason, the mighty sons of Pāṇḍu took no wives, bound by the curse of the great sage. And so, the story of the sons of Pāṇḍu and the fourfold question have been recounted. “What else do you wish to hear?” the sage asked. Jaimini replied, “You have narrated all this in order, as I asked. Yet I am filled with curiosity about the story of Hariścandra. That great-souled king endured the utmost hardship. Tell me, O best of the twice-born, did he at last attain happiness?” The sage continued: Hearing Viśvāmitra’s words, Hariścandra departed slowly, followed by his sorrowful wife Śaivya and his son Rohita. The lord of the earth journeyed on foot to the divine city of Varanasi, a city not for human enjoyment, for it is under the protection of the wielder of the trident, Śiva. Afflicted by sorrow, he entered Varanasi with his devoted wife, and there he saw Viśvāmitra present. Upon seeing the sage, Hariścandra humbled himself, joined his palms in reverence, and spoke, “O sage, here are my life, my son, and my wife; whatever you desire, accept it as the highest offering. Or if there is any other task for us, please permit it.” Viśvāmitra replied, “The month is now complete, O royal sage. Give me my fee, for you promised it to me for the Rājasūya sacrifice. Remember your word.” Hariścandra answered, “O Brahmin, the month is indeed complete today. Please wait a little for the remaining half of the gift, O possessor of unfading austerity.” Viśvāmitra said, “So be it, great king. I will return. But if you do not give it today, I will pronounce a curse upon you.” With these words, the sage departed. Left alone, the king pondered in despair, “How shall I give the promised fee? Where are my prosperous friends now, and where is my wealth? It is forbidden for me to accept gifts—how could I fall to such ruin? Should I abandon my life? Which direction shall I go, destitute? If I die without fulfilling my promise, I will become the lowest of the low, a sinner, a worm in the heart of Brahman. Perhaps it is better to sell myself as a servant.” Seeing her husband troubled, dejected, and bowed down with grief, his wife spoke to him with tears in her voice, “Abandon your anxiety, great king, and uphold your truth. A man who abandons truth should be shunned like a cremation ground.