King Hariścandra, having lost everything, now dwelled in the city of the outcaste. Morning, noon, and evening, he would lift his voice in sorrow, singing of his plight. Whenever he saw his son’s face, drawn with grief, or beheld his wife, her eyes heavy with suffering, his heart ached. “She remembers me,” he thought, “the king will surely one day release us from this misery.” He recalled how, even after regaining some wealth, he had given even more to the brāhmaṇa. Yet, his beloved wife, with her gentle, doe-like eyes, could not know the deeper sin he felt he had committed. The loss of his kingdom, the abandonment of friends, the sale of his wife and son, and now his existence as an outcaste—such a relentless succession of sorrows weighed upon him! Thus he lived, ever remembering his noble wife, as dear to him as his own life, and his cherished son. All he had loved was lost, and he was left distressed and alone. With time, King Hariścandra’s suffering deepened. At the command of the outcaste, 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, learning the ways of that grim place from the chief of the outcastes. The outcaste instructed him: “A sixth part from each corpse must be given to the king; three shares are mine, and two are your wages.” Thus directed, Hariścandra went to the house of the dead in Vārāṇasī, where offerings were made for the departed. The cremation ground was a dreadful place: its air resounded with terrifying noises, and it was crowded with hundreds of Śiva’s followers. Heaps of corpses lay everywhere, filling the air with a foul stench and thick smoke. The ground teemed with piśācas, ghosts, spirits, ḍākinīs, and yakṣas, and was surrounded by vultures, jackals, and packs of dogs. Heaps of bones were scattered everywhere, the air heavy with a terrible odor and the cries of the bereaved. The tumult was overwhelming—wails of “Alas, my son! Friend! Kinsman! Brother! Beloved! My lord! Sister! Mother! Uncle! Grandfather!” filled the air. “Grandfather! Father! Where have you gone? Come, relatives!”—such were the cries that echoed through the night. The ground was littered with burning flesh, fat, and marrow, and heaps of half-burnt skin. Half-burnt corpses, dark and grim, with rows of exposed teeth, seemed to laugh from within the flames—a chilling reminder of the body’s fate. The crackling of the fire mingled with the cries of the living and the delighted shouts of the outcastes. The great and terrible roar of spirits, ghouls, and demons singing filled the air, as if the world itself was ending. Buffalo and cow dung lay in heaps, mounds of ash and protruding bones rose up everywhere. Scattered offerings, flickering lamps, and crows picking at remains made the cremation ground seem like the very image of hell. Dreadful cries of those possessed by inauspicious spirits echoed, jackals howled, and terrifying wails resounded; even fear itself would fear such a place, so thick were the lamentations of the bereaved. Into this place came King Hariścandra, his heart heavy with grief. “Alas, my servants, ministers, and priests—my kingdom has gone to ruin,” he lamented. “Alas, Shaivya! Alas, my son! Alas, my child! You have all left me, wretched as I am. Because of Viśvāmitra’s curse, you have vanished beyond my reach.” Thinking these thoughts again and again, as Chanda had once spoken, he became filthy and rough, his limbs unkempt, his hair matted, his body foul-smelling, and he bore a staff. Looking like Death itself, he ran here and there, crying, “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,” he called out, running in all directions, as if he had entered another womb while still alive. He wore a patched garment tied with many knots, his face, arms, belly, thighs, and feet smeared with the dust and ash of the funeral pyre. His hands and fingers were sticky with various fats, marrow, and grease. He breathed heavily, always finding his sustenance among the remains of the dead. He adorned his head with garlands taken from corpses, and neither by night nor by day did he sleep, constantly crying out in distress. In this way, twelve months passed—each day seeming like a hundred years to that noble king, weary and bereft of his kin. Overcome by exhaustion, his body rough and unmoving, he lay as if dead upon his bed, and there he saw a wondrous vision. By the force of fate and his constant association with the cremation ground, he found himself, in another body, giving the teacher his due offering. Then, after twelve years of suffering, he found release—he saw himself born from the womb of a low-caste woman. While in this new form, the king resolved within himself, “As soon as I am freed from here, I will perform acts of charity and righteousness.” Yet, immediately after being born, that low-caste boy was always engaged in preparing the funeral rites at the cremation ground. When his seventh year arrived, a twice-born man died and was brought to the cremation ground by his relatives. The poor but virtuous boy saw him there. As he demanded payment, the brahmins present felt insulted and began to speak of Viśvāmitra’s deeds. They said, “Commit this most sinful and inauspicious act, you doer of evil! Long ago, King Hariścandra was made a low-caste by Viśvāmitra. He was brought low by the loss of his merit, for taking away the property of brahmins; when he could not endure their words, he was cursed by them in anger.” “Go now to the terrible hell, you most wicked man!” As soon as these words were spoken, the king found himself in a dreamlike state, suspended in the strange and sorrowful journey that fate had set before him.