The month-long period of service had come to an end, and the sage Viśvāmitra approached King Harishchandra to remind him of his promise. “O royal sage,” Viśvāmitra said, “the month is now complete. Remember your word: you promised me my fee for the Rājasūya sacrifice. Please give it to me now, as you said you would.” Harishchandra, full of respect and worry, replied, “O Brāhmin, today indeed marks the completion of the month. O sage of unfading austerity, I beg you, please wait a little longer for the remaining half of your gift.” Viśvāmitra agreed, but with a stern warning: “So be it, great king. I will come again. But if you do not give me the promised fee today, I will have no choice but to curse you.” With these words, the sage departed, leaving Harishchandra in deep anxiety. The king was troubled and pondered, “How will I fulfill my promise to the sage? Where are my prosperous friends now, and where is my wealth? Accepting gifts is forbidden to me; how could I allow myself to fall into ruin?” His mind raced with despair. “Should I abandon my life? Where shall I go, destitute as I am? 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 that I sell myself as a servant.” Seeing her husband so dejected and lost in thought, his wife approached him, her voice trembling with tears. “Abandon your anxiety, great king, and uphold your truth,” she implored. “A man who abandons truth should be shunned like a cremation ground. O tiger among men, there is no higher duty than keeping one’s word. Whether a person has performed the Agnihotra or given in charity, all these acts are fruitless if his word is unfulfilled. The wise declare that truth is supreme. Untruth may seem like a raft to cross over, but for the unsteady, it leads only to ruin. Even a king who has performed seven Aśvamedha sacrifices and a Rājasūya can fall from heaven by a single false word.” Overcome with emotion, she cried out, “O king, my child is born,” and began to weep, her eyes brimming with tears. Harishchandra, seeing her distress, tried to comfort her. “Compose yourself, good lady. Do not grieve; the child is alive. Speak, O you of graceful gait, if you wish to say something.” His wife replied, “O king, my child is born. For virtuous women, sons are their reward. Therefore, give me away, along with wealth, as a gift to the Brāhmin.” Hearing these words, the king was overcome with grief and fainted. When he regained consciousness, he cried out in anguish, “What great sorrow is this, dear one, that you speak to me so? Have you forgotten the smiles and gentle words you once shared with this sinful man? Alas, how could you, pure-smiled one, utter such words? How can I bring myself to say such unspeakable things?” Repeatedly crying “Fie, fie!” that foremost of men fell to the ground, faint with sorrow. Seeing her husband thus, the queen, herself overwhelmed with grief, lamented, “Alas, great king, what misfortune has come upon you, that you lie fallen on the ground, who once were accustomed to royal couches? He who possessed wealth surpassing tens of millions of cows, untouched by Brāhmins—this lord of the earth, my husband—now sleeps on the bare ground. What harm have you done, O king, that you, equal to Indra and Upendra, have been brought to this pitiable state?” Unable to bear the weight of her husband’s sorrow, the queen too fainted and fell to the ground. Their young son, seeing both his parents helpless and tormented by hunger, cried out in distress, “Father, father! Give me food! Mother, mother! Give me something to eat! My hunger is intense, my tongue is parched.” At that moment, the great sage Viśvāmitra arrived and saw Harishchandra lying on the ground in a faint. The sage sprinkled water on the king and said, “Rise, rise, O king of kings! Give now the gift you promised. For one who bears a debt, sorrow only increases with each passing day.” Revived by the cold water, Harishchandra looked upon Viśvāmitra, but the weight of his grief caused him to faint again, and the sage’s anger was kindled. Yet, Viśvāmitra calmed himself and spoke again, “If you regard righteousness, O king, give me my due reward. By truth the sun shines, upon truth the earth stands firm. Truth, it is said, is the highest dharma, and even heaven is established upon truth. If a thousand horse sacrifices and truth were weighed on a scale, truth would surpass them all. But what use is there in conciliatory speech? What is the point of speaking to one who is destitute, of wicked intent, cruel, and a speaker of falsehood?” Viśvāmitra continued, “O king, since you possess authority, listen: if today you do not give me my reward, then—when the sun sets behind the western mountain, I shall curse you, and it will surely come to pass.” With these harsh words, the Brāhmin departed, and the king was seized with fear. Reduced to misery, bereft of wealth, and tormented by the sage’s words, Harishchandra’s wife spoke to him again: “Do as I say. Do not, consumed by the fire of a curse, meet your end.” Thus, urged again and again by his devoted wife, the king faced his fate, his heart heavy with sorrow and duty.