O best of men, it is said that upholding one’s own truth is the highest duty a person can perform. All other acts—even the daily Agnihotra sacrifice or every act of charity—become fruitless if one’s word is left unfulfilled. The wise declare truth to be supreme, for while a lie may seem a raft for crossing difficulties, for those who waver it brings only ruin. Even a king who has performed seven Ashvamedha sacrifices and a Rajasuya can fall from heaven by uttering a single falsehood. Now, O King, in the midst of these trials, your queen, overwhelmed with emotion, cried out, “My child is born!” Tears filled her eyes as she wept, and you, Harishchandra, addressed her gently, “Compose yourself, good lady, do not grieve; the child is alive. Speak, O elephant-gaited one, if you wish to say something.” With a steady voice, your wife replied, “O King, my child is born. For virtuous women, sons are their reward. Therefore, give me away with wealth as a gift to the Brahmin.” Hearing these words, you, the king, were overcome with sorrow and fainted on the spot. When you regained consciousness, you lamented in deep anguish, “This is a great sorrow, dear one, that you speak to me in this way. Have you forgotten the smiles and gentle words you once shared with this sinful man? Alas, alas! How could you, pure-smiled one, utter such words? How can I, too, bring myself to say such unspeakable things?” Thus, tormented by grief, you cried out in despair and fell to the ground, fainting once more. Seeing you lying there, your queen, distressed and sorrowful, mourned, “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 Brahmins—this lord of the earth, my husband—now sleeps on the bare ground. Alas, what harm have you done, O king, that you, equal to Indra and Upendra, have been brought to this pitiable state?” Her grief unbearable, the lovely-hipped queen too fainted and fell, crushed by her husband’s sorrow. Their son, seeing both parents lying 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 Vishvamitra arrived. Seeing Harishchandra lying senseless, the sage sprinkled cool water on the king and said, “Rise, rise, O king of kings! Give now the desired gift. For one who bears a debt, sorrow only increases day by day.” Revived by the water, you looked upon Vishvamitra, but overcome by grief, you fainted again, which angered the sage. Reassuring you, the foremost of Brahmins spoke, “If you regard righteousness, give me my due reward. By truth the sun shines, upon truth the earth stands firm; truth is the highest dharma, and even heaven rests upon truth. If a thousand horse sacrifices and truth were weighed on a scale, truth would surpass them all. Or else, what use is there for me in this conciliatory speech? What reason is there to speak to one who is destitute, of wicked intent, cruel, and a speaker of falsehood?” He continued sternly, “Since you, O king, 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—so it will be.” Having said this, the Brahmin departed, and you were seized by fear. Reduced to misery, bereft of wealth, tormented by the harsh words of the Brahmin, your wife spoke again, urging you, “Do as I say. Do not, consumed by the fire of a curse, meet your end.” Thus, pressed by your devoted wife, you replied, “O gentle one, I will sell you, though it is pitiless; I will do what even the cruel-hearted would not dare. If I am able to utter such harsh words…” With these words, distressed beyond measure, you went to the city with your wife, your throat and eyes choked with tears, and proclaimed: “Ho, ho! All citizens, hear my words. Why do you ask, ‘Who are you?’ I am cruel, inhuman. I am like a demon, hard-hearted, or even more sinful; for I have come to sell my beloved, yet I do not give up my own life. If any of you has need of a maid, dearer to me than life, let him speak quickly, while I still have the strength to endure.” Then an old Brahmin approached and said, “Give her to me as a maid; I am the buyer and will pay the price. I have a little wealth, and my beloved is delicate; she cannot perform household tasks, so give her to me. According to the ability, age, beauty, and character of your wife, this wealth is appropriate; accept it and give me the woman.” Hearing these words, your heart torn by sorrow, you could not reply. The Brahmin, securing the money in his garment, seized your queen by the hair and dragged her away, while you stood silent, overwhelmed by grief.