With a heavy heart, King Harishchandra turned to his gentle wife and said, “O gentle one, I must sell you—even though it is pitiless. I will do what even the cruel-hearted would not dare.” Overwhelmed by the harshness of his own words, the distressed king, his throat and eyes choked with tears, journeyed with his wife to the city. There, he called out to the people, “Ho, ho! All citizens, hear my words. Why do you ask who I am? 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.” He continued, “If any of you is in need of a maid—dearer to me than my own life—speak quickly, while I still have the strength to endure this suffering.” At this, an old brahmin approached and addressed the king: “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 your wife’s ability, age, beauty, and character, this wealth is appropriate; accept it and give me the woman.” Hearing these words, King Harishchandra was torn by sorrow and could not utter a reply. The brahmin then tied the money into the end of his garment, seized the queen by her hair, and began to drag her away. Rohitāśva, their young son with hair dark as a raven’s wing, saw his mother being taken and began to weep, clutching at her garment with his tiny hand. The queen cried out, “Release me, priest, release me for a moment, so that I may see my child! O dear one, it will be difficult for me to see him again.” She turned to her son, “Look at me, my child, as I am now being taken away to serve as a slave. Do not touch me, prince, for I am no longer to be touched by you.” The boy, seeing his mother dragged away, ran after her, calling out, “Mother!” his eyes brimming with tears. The brahmin, angered, struck the boy with his foot, but even so, the child clung to his mother and would not let go, crying, “Mother!” The queen pleaded, “Have mercy on me, lord; buy this child as well. Even if I am bought by you, I cannot fulfill my duties without him. Be gracious to me, who am so unfortunate; unite me with my child, as a cow is joined with her calf.” The brahmin replied, “Take this wealth and give me the boy. According to the scriptures on the duties of men and women, the price has been set—whether it be a hundred, a thousand, a hundred thousand, or even a crore.” The birds, who witnessed all, said, “So the wealth was tied up in an upper garment, and taking the boy along with his mother, he bound them together as one.” King Harishchandra, seeing his wife and son led away, was overwhelmed with grief. He lamented bitterly, sighing again and again, “She whom neither wind, nor sun, nor even other men had seen before—this very wife of mine has now come to the state of a slave. This boy, born in the solar dynasty, with tender hands and fingers, has now been sold—shame on me, so misguided! Alas, beloved! Alas, child! O dear one! Because of my unrighteous actions, you have come to this state, subject to fate, and yet I do not die—shame on me!” The birds continued, “As the king was lamenting thus, the brahmin vanished, quickly taking them away through lofty trees and houses.” Then Viśvāmitra arrived and demanded the wealth from the king. Harishchandra handed over the money he had received. Seeing this small amount, gained from selling his wife and son, the sage Kauśika (Viśvāmitra), angered, spoke harshly to the grief-stricken king: “O kṣatriya of low conduct! If you think this is a fitting sacrificial fee for me, then quickly witness my supreme power—here is the power of my severe austerity, of my pure brahminhood, of my fierce might, and of my faultless study.” Harishchandra pleaded, “O venerable one, I will give you another; please wait for some time. At present, my wife has been sold and my son is but a child.” Viśvāmitra replied sternly, “O king, only this fourth part of the day remains; this alone is the time I will wait. You must not speak any further.” The birds said, “Having spoken such harsh and merciless words to the king, he took the wealth and, angered, the sage Kauśika departed swiftly.” When Viśvāmitra had gone, the king, submerged in an ocean of fear and sorrow, considered every possibility and spoke aloud, his face cast down, “Let the man whom I purchased with wealth, my servant, speak quickly, before the sun sets, about the task for which he was bought.” Then, Dharma himself arrived in haste, taking the form of a caṇḍāla—a foul-smelling, deformed, harsh, bearded man with protruding teeth and a repulsive appearance. He was dark, pot-bellied, with tawny, rough eyes, harsh in speech, holding a bundle of wings, and adorned with garlands of corpses. In one hand he held a skull, his face long and terrifying, mouth constantly open, surrounded by packs of dogs, staff in hand, dreadful to behold. The caṇḍāla spoke, “I am the one you bought; quickly tell me your own price—whether little or much—by which you may be obtained.” The birds said, “Seeing him thus—cruel in gaze, extremely harsh, and speaking most wickedly—the king asked, ‘Who are you?’” The caṇḍāla replied, “I am called a caṇḍāla here, known as Pravīra in this city, famed as an executioner and remover of corpse-clothes.” Harishchandra, his dignity wounded, said, “I do not wish for the servitude of a caṇḍāla, which is greatly condemned. Better to be burned by a curse and fire than fall under a caṇḍāla’s power.