The cremation ground was a place of terror and desolation, teeming with piśācas, ghosts, spirits, ḍākinīs, and yakṣas. Vultures and jackals crowded its edges, while packs of wild dogs roamed all around. Everywhere lay heaps of bones, and the air was thick with a dreadful stench. The cries of the bereaved echoed through the place, mixing with a tumult of dreadful noises. From every direction arose the wails of grief: “Alas, my son! Friend! Kinsman! Brother! Beloved! Alas, my lord! Sister! Mother! Uncle! Grandfather!”—and again, “Grandfather! Father! Where have you gone? Come, relatives!” These sorrowful cries filled the air, a great sound of suffering that could not be stilled. The ground was littered with burning flesh, fat, and marrow, heaps of half-burnt skin smoldering in the pyres. Half-burnt corpses, darkened and with exposed teeth, seemed to mock life itself as they lay amid the flames, their grimaces like laughter—a stark reminder of the body’s fate. The fire crackled over bones, and the cries of mourning mingled with the delighted shouts of outcastes who scavenged among the remains. A dreadful roar rose up, as hosts of spirits, ghouls, and demons sang in terrible chorus, as if heralding the world’s end. The ground was crowded with heaps of dung from buffaloes and cows, mounds of ash rising high, and bones protruding from the earth. Offerings and scattered lamps lay everywhere, while crows picked at the remains, making the cremation ground seem like a vision of hell itself. Dreadful cries of those possessed by inauspicious spirits echoed through the air, mingling with the howling of jackals and the terrifying wails of the grieving. Even fear itself would have trembled in such a place, so thick was the suffering and lamentation. Into this dreadful scene came the king, his heart shattered with grief. Lamenting bitterly, he cried, “Alas, my servants, ministers, and priests—my kingdom has gone to ruin. Alas, Shaivya! Alas, my son! My child! You have left me, wretched in fortune. Because of Vishvamitra’s curse, you have gone somewhere beyond my reach.” Consumed by these thoughts, just as Chanda had foretold, the king’s appearance became wretched—his body filthy, his limbs rough, his hair matted, his scent foul, and a staff in his hand. Brandishing his staff, he wandered the cremation ground like Death itself, crying 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!” He ran in all directions, as if he had entered another birth 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 pyre. His hands and fingers were sticky with fat, marrow, and grease from the corpses. He breathed heavily, always satisfied with food taken from the dead. He adorned his head with garlands snatched from corpses, and neither by night nor by day did he find sleep, constantly crying out in distress. Thus, for twelve months—each seeming like a hundred years—the king endured, weary and bereft of his kin. One day, overcome by exhaustion, his body rough and motionless, he lay as if dead, and on his bed he beheld a wondrous vision. By the force of fate and his ceaseless dwelling among the dead, he saw himself, in another body, giving the teacher his due offering. After twelve years of suffering, release finally came. He saw himself born from the womb of a low-caste woman. While there, the king resolved, “As soon as I am freed from here, I will perform acts of charity and righteousness.” But, immediately upon birth, the low-caste boy was made to labor in the cremation ground, preparing funeral rites. When he reached his seventh year, a twice-born man died and was brought to the cremation ground by his relatives. The poor but virtuous boy saw him, and, demanding payment, insulted the brahmins. The brahmins, angered, spoke of Viśvāmitra’s deeds: “Commit this most sinful and inauspicious act, you doer of evil! Long ago, King Hariścandra was made a low-caste by Viśvāmitra. He lost his merit for taking brahmin property; unable to endure their words, he was cursed in anger. Go now to the terrible hell, you most wicked man!” As soon as these words were uttered, the king found himself in a dreamlike state. He saw the terrifying messengers of Yama, holding nooses, seizing him and dragging him away. Greatly distressed, he cried out, “Alas, my mother, my father, today!” But his pleas were in vain, and he was hurled into hell, plunged into a cauldron of boiling oil. There he was cut apart with saws and razor-sharp blades, tormented in blinding darkness, forced to eat pus and blood. For seven years he saw himself dead, existing as a low-caste; each day in hell he was burned, elsewhere he was cooked. In other places he was tormented, agitated, killed, and cut apart; sometimes scraped, sometimes burned, sometimes struck by cold winds. Thus, for a hundred years, day after day, he suffered in hell, tormented by the attendants of Yama. Then, cast down to earth, he was born as a dog eating excrement, living on vomit, shivering with cold, and dying after only a month. Next, he saw himself as a donkey, an elephant, a monkey, a beast, a goat, a cat, a heron, a cow, a bird, and a worm. He became a fish, a tortoise, a boar, a hunting dog, a cock, a parrot, a mynah, even immobile beings, a snake, and many other embodied forms. Day after day, he experienced birth as countless living beings, tormented by suffering, enduring this endless cycle for a hundred years.