In the midst of his suffering, the king’s condition, warped by unrighteousness, found no relief. All the states of his misery were revealed to him in a dream, as if he were forced to witness his own downfall again and again. For twelve long years, he endured these torments, and when the twelfth year had finally passed, he was seized by Yama’s guards and dragged away with great force. There, he beheld Yama, the Lord of Death, who spoke to him: “This is the wrath of Vishvamitra, the great soul, which cannot be resisted. Kaushika’s anger will even bring about the death of your son. Go now to the world of humans and finish the remainder of your suffering; once you have done so, O king, it will be for your good.” When the twelfth year had ended, the king’s suffering reached its climax. The messengers of Yama cast him down from the sky, and he fell from Yama’s realm. Awaking, agitated and fearful, he thought, “Ah, what misery!” He tended to his wounds with alkaline substances, his mind troubled by the endless suffering he had seen in his dream. He wondered, “What is this vision? Have twelve years truly passed for me?” Anxiously, he asked those present—outcastes dwelling nearby—whether the twelve years had indeed passed. Some replied “No,” while others said “Yes, it has.” Hearing their answers, the king was distressed and sought refuge in the gods, praying fervently for well-being for himself and for Shaivya’s child. He offered salutations to the great Dharma, to Krishna the creator, to the supreme and the lowest, to the pure, to the ancient and imperishable. He saluted Brihaspati and Vasava as well. Having spoken these prayers, the king resigned himself to the work of the outcaste. While collecting payment for the corpses, his memory faded again. Filthy, with matted hair, dark of complexion, carrying a staff, he became bewildered. Neither son nor wife entered his thoughts; his enthusiasm destroyed by the loss of his kingdom, he dwelled in the cremation ground. Then, his wife arrived, weeping, carrying their dead son—the child of the king, Soma—who had been bitten by a snake. “Alas, child! Alas, son! O little one!” she cried again and again, emaciated, pale, distressed, her hair disheveled and covered with dust. The queen spoke, “Alas, king! Today, look upon your child, Soma, lying on the earth. Once seen playing, now dead by the bite of a wicked serpent.” Hearing her lament, the king hurried over, about to perform the task of covering the dead. Yet he did not recognize his wife, who was crying, scorched by long separation, as if she were a stranger. She, too, seeing him with beautiful hair now matted and unkempt, did not recognize the king’s son, who resembled a dried-up tree. The king, seeing the child wrapped in a dark cloth, afflicted by snake venom and bearing royal marks, fell into deep thought. “Alas, how terrible! In whose family is this child born, now taken away by Death, who has destroyed some hope with his evil nature?” Seeing the child lying in his mother’s lap, the king remembered his own son, Rohitashva, whose eyes were like lotuses. He thought, “He too, my child, has reached this same age and condition—unless he has not been taken by the dreadful Death, subject to his own fate.” The queen cried, “Alas, child! By whose sinful thoughts has this great and terrible sorrow fallen, whose end cannot be found? Alas, lord! O king! Console me, who am distressed; how can one remain confident anywhere in such a state?” She lamented, “Loss of kingdom, abandonment of friends, sale of wife and son—O fate, what has not been done to Harishchandra, the royal sage, by you?” Hearing her words, the king fell from his place, suddenly recognizing his beloved wife and his son, who had met their end. He lamented, “Alas, this is Shaivya, and this is my boy,” and, tormented by grief, he wept bitterly and then fainted. Shaivya, too, recognizing him in that condition, collapsed in distress, unconscious and motionless on the ground. Regaining consciousness together, the king and queen, overwhelmed by the weight of sorrow, wept in deep anguish. The king cried, “Alas, my son! Your tender face, with its beautiful eyes, brows, nose, and dark hair—why does my heart not break as I gaze upon your stricken countenance? My child! My child! When you would sweetly call out and come to me, whom shall I now embrace and affectionately call, ‘My son! My son!’? Whose knees, dusted with the earth’s yellow soil, will now soil my upper garment and limbs as you once did? Born from my own body, delight of my heart and mind—alas, my son!—in anger I sold you as if you were a mere object. Having lost my entire kingdom, with all its great wealth and resources, my son has now been struck down by the cruel serpent of fate. Now, as I look upon the lotus-face of my son, bitten by the serpent of fate, I am blinded by its dreadful poison.” Taking up the boy—his only pearl—the king, his voice choked with tears, embraced him and, overcome by faintness, fell motionless. The queen said, “This is indeed that tiger among men—by his very voice he is recognized. He is Harishchandra, the moon among the wise—there is no doubt. His nose is high and prominent, his teeth like buds—such are the marks of that great-souled one, famed for his renown.” She wondered, “Why has this lord of men come to the cremation ground today?” Setting aside her grief for her son, she saw her husband fallen there, and the tragedy of their separation and loss became painfully clear.