Within the dreadful expanse of the cremation ground, a place so terrifying that even fear itself would hesitate to enter, the air echoed with the cries of those possessed by inauspicious spirits and the howling of jackals. The lamentations of the bereaved resounded ceaselessly, and the ground was thick with sorrow and terror. It was here that the king arrived, overwhelmed by grief and distress. He lamented aloud, “Alas, my servants, my ministers, my priests—my kingdom has fallen into ruin!” His heart heavy, he cried, “Alas, Shaivya! Alas, my son, my child! You have left me, wretched and unfortunate. Because of Vishvamitra’s curse, you have gone somewhere beyond my reach.” Haunted by these thoughts, the king’s appearance changed, just as Chanda had foretold. His body became filthy and rough, his hair matted and unkempt, his scent foul, and he carried a staff in hand. Looking like Death itself, he wandered the cremation ground, running here and there, calling out, “For this corpse, I have received this price, and I will receive more!” In his confusion, he would shout, “This is mine, this is the king’s, and this belongs to the chief Chandalaka!”—as if he had entered another existence while still alive. His garment was patched and tied with many knots. Ash and dust from the funeral pyre smeared his face, arms, belly, thighs, and feet. His hands and fingers were stained with various fats, marrow, and grease from the dead. He breathed heavily, subsisting on food taken from many corpses, and adorned his head with garlands taken from the deceased. Sleep eluded him both night and day; he wandered, ever crying out in distress. Twelve months passed in this way for that noble king, though they felt like a hundred years, as he wandered, weary and bereft of kin. At last, overcome by exhaustion, his body rough and motionless, he lay down as if dead. There, on his bed, he beheld 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. After twelve years of such suffering, he finally found release, and saw himself born from the womb of a low-caste woman. Even as a child in this new life, the king resolved within himself, “As soon as I am freed from here, I will perform acts of charity and righteousness.” Yet from the moment of his birth, the low-caste boy was always engaged in preparing funeral rites at the cremation ground. 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 who were present. The brahmins then spoke among themselves about the actions of Viśvāmitra: “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 by 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 uttered, the king found himself as if in a dream. He saw the terrifying messengers of Yama, holding nooses, who seized him and dragged him away by force. In great distress, he cried out, “Alas, my mother, my father, today!” But his pleas were in vain—he was cast into hell, plunged into a cauldron of boiling oil. There, he was cut apart with saws and razor-sharp blades, tormented in blinding darkness, and forced to consume pus and blood. For seven years, he saw himself as dead, existing as a low-caste, and each day in hell he was burned or cooked. Elsewhere, he was tormented, agitated, killed, and cut apart; in other places, he was scraped, burned, or struck by cold winds. In this way, a hundred years passed for him in hell, day after day, tormented by the attendants of Yama. Then, he was cast down to earth, born as a dog who ate excrement and vomit, burned by cold, and died after only a month. Afterward, he saw himself born as a donkey, an elephant, a monkey, a beast, a goat, a cat, a heron, a cow, a bird, and even a worm. He became a fish, a tortoise, a boar, a hunting dog, a cock, a parrot, a mynah, an immobile being, a snake, and many other forms. Day after day, he was born as various living beings, tormented by suffering, enduring this cycle for another hundred years. During these many degraded births, he once saw someone from his own lineage. Even then, his kingdom had been lost through gambling; his wife and son were taken, and he, left alone, wandered into the forest. There, he encountered a lion with its mouth wide open, terrifying to behold, and accompanied by a wild ox, coming to devour him. Once more, he was devoured, and overcome with grief for his wife, he lamented, “O Shaivya, where have you gone now, leaving me in such misery?” Then again, he saw his own wife with their son, and she cried out, “Save us, Harishchandra! What has gambling done to you, my lord? Your son and I are in a pitiable state.” Yet, though he ran after them again and again, he could not reach them. Once more, as if in heaven, he saw his wife—her hair disheveled, distressed, and half-clothed—being dragged away by force. She cried out repeatedly in distress, “Save me!” Then, by the command of the Lord of Dharma, he beheld another vision. He heard voices wailing in the sky: “Come here, O king! Yama has been informed by Vishvamitra for your sake.” With these words, the mighty one was seized and dragged away with serpent-nooses; this was as Shraddhadeva had declared, and it was the work of Vishvamitra.