As the birds continued their tale, they described how, at that moment, the great sage Viśvāmitra, renowned for his fierce austerities, arrived before King Hariścandra. His eyes blazed with anger and indignation as he addressed the king directly. Viśvāmitra demanded to know why, when the caṇḍāla had come forth to offer so much wealth, the full sacrificial fee had not yet been given to him. King Hariścandra, deeply troubled, replied with humility, “O venerable sage, born as I am in the Solar dynasty, how could I, even in pursuit of wealth, become the servant of a caṇḍāla? This is unthinkable for me, O Kauśika.” But Viśvāmitra, unmoved, warned the king sternly, “If you do not give me, at the appointed time, the wealth you gain from the caṇḍāla by selling yourself, I shall certainly curse you.” Hearing this, Hariścandra was seized by anxiety. Trembling, he fell at the sage’s feet and pleaded, “Be gracious, O great one! I am your servant, afflicted and frightened, but above all, I am your devotee. Show me your compassion, for this union with the caṇḍāla is dreadful to me.” He continued, “With whatever wealth remains, I will carry out all your commands, O best of sages! I will serve you faithfully and obey your every wish.” Viśvāmitra replied, “If you become my servant, then know that I have already given you to the caṇḍāla. Having received a hundred million in wealth, you are now his slave.” The birds then described how, upon hearing these words, the outcaste was overjoyed. He handed the wealth to Viśvāmitra and bound King Hariścandra as his property. Struck with a staff, his mind reeling, his senses confused, and his heart aching from separation from his loved ones, Hariścandra was led away to the city of the outcastes. There, in that city, King Hariścandra began to dwell, and morning, noon, and evening, he would sing out in sorrow. He lamented the sight of his child’s sorrowful face and the suffering of his wife, remembering how she would look at him in hope, believing the king would one day free them. He reflected on his actions, saying, “Having obtained wealth, I gave even more to the brāhmaṇa, but my doe-eyed wife does not know the greater sin I have now committed.” He mourned the loss of his kingdom, the abandonment of friends, and the sale of his wife and son. Now, reduced to the state of an outcaste, he cried, “What a succession of sorrows has come upon me!” In his heart, he constantly remembered his beloved son and noble wife, as dear to him as his own life, grieving over all he had lost. Time passed, and Hariścandra was set to a new, grim task: by the command of the caṇḍāla, he became a collector of shrouds from the dead at the cremation ground. Day and night, he remained there, ever watchful for the arrival of new corpses, as instructed by the outcaste who managed the cremation ground. The outcaste dictated, “A sixth part from each corpse must be given to the king; three parts are mine, and two are your wages.” Thus instructed, Hariścandra went to the house of the dead, the place of final offerings, which at that time was in Vārāṇasī. The cremation ground was a terrible place: it resounded with dreadful noises and was crowded with hundreds of Śiva’s followers. Heaps of corpses lay everywhere, the air was thick with smoke and foul odors. The place teemed with piśācas, ghosts, spirits, ḍākinīs, and yakṣas. Vultures and jackals prowled about, surrounded by packs of dogs. Bones were piled high, and the stench was overpowering. The cries of the bereaved mingled with the tumult, as people wailed for their lost loved ones: “Alas, my son! Friend! Kinsman! Brother! Beloved! Alas, my lord! Sister! Mother! Uncle! Grandfather! Grandfather! Father! Where have you gone? Come, relatives!”—such were the sounds that echoed through the cremation ground. Burning flesh, fat, marrow, and heaps of half-burnt skin littered the ground. Half-burnt corpses, dark and ghastly, with exposed teeth, seemed to laugh amidst the flames—a stark reminder of the body’s fate. The crackling of the fire mingled with the cries of mourners and the shouts of the outcastes, who rejoiced in their grim work. The dreadful roar of spirits, ghouls, and demons singing filled the air, as if the end of the world had come. Heaps of cow and buffalo dung were scattered about, mounds of ash rose up, and bones jutted from the ground. Offerings lay about, lamps flickered, and crows picked at the remains. The cremation ground, full of many sounds, appeared like a vision of hell itself. The cries of those possessed by evil spirits, the howling of jackals, and the wails of the bereaved made the place terrifying—even fear itself would have feared to enter there. In this dreadful place, King Hariścandra arrived, overcome with grief and lamenting, “Alas, my servants, ministers, and priests—my kingdom has been destroyed.” He cried out for his wife, Shaivya, and for his son, “Alas, my child! You have left me, wretched as I am. Because of Viśvāmitra’s curse, you have gone somewhere beyond my reach.” Thinking thus, again and again, as Chanda had spoken, Hariścandra became unkempt and filthy. His limbs were rough, his hair matted, his body foul-smelling, and he carried a staff. Looking like Death itself, he ran here and there, calling out, “For this corpse, I have received this price, and I will receive more. This is mine, this is the king’s, and this belongs to the chief Chandalaka,” as he hurried in all directions, as if he had been born anew into another, lower existence while still alive. He wore a patched garment tied with many knots, and his face, arms, belly, thighs, and feet were smeared with the dust and ash of the funeral pyre. His hands and fingers were coated with fats, marrow, and grease from the corpses, and he breathed heavily, surviving on scraps taken from the dead. He adorned his head with garlands taken from the corpses, and neither by day nor by night did he sleep, constantly crying out in distress. Thus, twelve months passed for the once-great king, each day stretching out like a hundred years, as he endured this life, weary and bereft of all his kin.