King Hariścandra, overwhelmed with grief, lamented his fate. His beloved wife, whom neither wind nor sun nor any man had ever seen before, had now been reduced to the state of a slave. His young son, born into the illustrious solar dynasty, with tender hands and delicate fingers, had been sold—he could only curse his own misguided actions. “Alas, my beloved! Alas, my child!” he cried. “Because of my unrighteous deeds, you have been subjected to such suffering, and yet I do not die—shame on me!” As Hariścandra wept, the birds watching said that the brahmin swiftly vanished, taking his wife and son away through lofty trees and houses. Soon after, the sage Viśvāmitra arrived and demanded the promised wealth from the king. Hariścandra handed over the money, which was all he had gained from selling his wife and son. Seeing how little it was, the sage Kauśika was angered and addressed the grief-stricken king: “O kṣatriya of low conduct! If you think this is a fitting sacrificial fee for me, then witness my supreme power.” He declared, “Here is the strength of my severe austerity, my pure brahminhood, my fierce might, and my flawless study.” Hariścandra, desperate, pleaded, “O venerable one, I will give you more—please wait a little. My wife has been sold, and my son is but a child.” Viśvāmitra replied, “King, only a fourth part of the day remains; that is all the time I will wait. You must not delay.” The birds observed that after speaking such harsh and merciless words, Viśvāmitra took the wealth and departed swiftly, his anger still burning. Hariścandra, left alone and submerged in an ocean of fear and sorrow, pondered every possibility. He 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.” Suddenly, Dharma himself appeared in the form of a caṇḍāla—a foul-smelling, deformed, harsh, bearded figure with protruding teeth, dark skin, pot-bellied, with tawny, rough eyes. He was adorned with garlands of corpses, holding a bundle of wings and a skull, his long face terrifying, his mouth constantly open, surrounded by packs of dogs and carrying a dreadful staff. The caṇḍāla said, “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 that, seeing this cruel and harsh figure, 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.” Hariścandra responded, “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.” As he spoke, Viśvāmitra, the storehouse of austerity, arrived, his eyes wide with anger and indignation, and addressed the king: “This caṇḍāla has come to give you ample wealth; why is the full sacrificial fee not given to me?” Hariścandra pleaded, “O venerable one, I know myself to be born of the Solar dynasty, O Kauśika. How can I, desiring wealth, become a caṇḍāla’s servant?” Viśvāmitra replied, “If you do not give me, in due time, the wealth obtained from the caṇḍāla by selling yourself, I will surely curse you.” The birds said that then King Hariścandra, trembling with anxiety, clasped the sage’s feet and pleaded, “Be gracious! I am your servant, afflicted and afraid, and above all, your devotee. Show me your favor, O great sage; this union with the caṇḍāla is dreadful. With the wealth that remains, I shall perform all tasks under your command, O best of sages! I will be your servant, obedient to your will.” Viśvāmitra said, “If you become my servant, then to the caṇḍāla I have given you, having received a hundred million in wealth, as one who has assumed the state of a slave.” The birds said that upon hearing this, the outcaste, delighted, gave the wealth to Viśvāmitra and bound the king. Struck with a staff, his mind bewildered and senses disturbed, grieving from separation from his beloved kin, Hariścandra was led to the city of the outcaste. There, the king dwelled, and morning, noon, and evening, he sang a sorrowful refrain: “Seeing the child with a sorrowful face, and the girl with a sorrowful face before me, afflicted with suffering, she remembers me; the king will release us. Having obtained wealth, I gave even more to the brāhmaṇa; yet that doe-eyed one does not know the greater sin I have committed. The loss of the kingdom, the abandonment of friends, the sale of wife and son, and now this state as an outcaste—alas, what a succession of sorrows!” Thus, dwelling there always, he remembered his beloved son and noble wife, who was as dear to him as his own self, distressed and having lost everything. After some time, King Hariścandra became one who collected shrouds from the dead, following the command of the outcaste, at the cremation ground. Instructed by the outcaste who gathered shrouds from the dead, he remained there day and night, watching for the arrival of corpses. He was told, “This must be given to the king as well—a sixth part from the corpse; three shares are mine, and two shares are your wages.” Thus instructed, Hariścandra went to the house of the dead, where offerings are given, in Vārāṇasī. The cremation ground was resounding with dreadful noise, crowded with hundreds of Śiva’s followers, filled with heaps of corpses, foul-smelling, and thick with smoke.