The king gazed upon his son’s lifeless form, his heart breaking with sorrow. “Alas, my son!” he cried, “Your tender face, with its beautiful eyes, graceful brows, perfect nose, and dark hair—how is it that my heart does not shatter as I look upon you now, stricken and still?” He wept, “My child! My child! Who now will run to me with sweet cries, calling out for their father? Whom will I embrace and lovingly call ‘My son! My son!’ as I did with you?” He remembered the innocent dust on his child’s knees, which would soil his own garments and limbs during play. “Who will do that now?” he lamented. “You were born from my very body, the delight of my heart and mind—yet, in anger, I sold you away as if you were a mere object.” The king’s grief deepened as he reflected, “I have lost my entire kingdom, all its wealth and resources, and now fate’s cruel serpent has struck down my only son.” He gazed upon his son’s face, lovely as a lotus yet marred by death, and felt as if he were blinded by the poison of fate. Overcome, the king took up his son—his only precious pearl—and, his voice choked with tears, embraced the boy. The weight of grief was too much to bear, and he fell motionless, fainting with sorrow. The queen, witnessing this, recognized the king at once. “This is surely that tiger among men—his voice alone reveals him. He is Harishchandra, the moon among the wise—there can be no doubt.” She noted the high, prominent nose and teeth like buds, the marks of that great-souled, renowned king. But confusion and pain clouded her mind. “Why has this lord of men come to the cremation ground today?” she wondered. For a moment, setting aside her grief for her son, she saw her husband fallen. Overwhelmed by the suffering of both her husband and son, she caught sight of the staff he carried—a symbol of his outcaste status—and was filled with revulsion. Her wide eyes, clouded by confusion and sorrow, seemed fit for one cast out from society. Slowly regaining her senses, she spoke in a choked voice: “Shame on you, O merciless, lawless, contemptible fate! Because of you, this king—once equal to the immortals—has been reduced to the state of an outcaste. “You made us lose our kingdom, abandon friends, and sell wife and son. Now you have made this king a despised outcaste. Alas, O King! Afflicted as I am, why does no one lift me up from the ground and seat me on a couch, as in days gone by? Today, I see neither your royal umbrella nor the fly-whisk, not even the yak-tail fan. How has fate turned so cruelly?” She remembered, “In the past, as you walked, even other kings attended you, sweeping the dust from your path with their own garments. Now, you wear a skull fastened to your neck, a string of broken pots, your hair matted with the remains of the dead—you are truly dreadful to behold. You are marked with earth dried by oozing fat, adorned with half-burnt bones, ashes, and marrow clinging together. Tormented by the cries of vultures and jackals, with small birds gone and the horizon darkened by funeral smoke, you wander the impure cremation ground, delighting night-wanderers by tasting corpses, afflicted by sorrow.” Having spoken thus, the king’s daughter threw her arms around his neck and, overwhelmed by grief, wailed in a voice full of pain. The queen, her mind reeling, asked, “O King, is this a dream or is it reality? Please tell me, O blessed one, for my mind is confused and bewildered. If this is truly so, O knower of dharma, then there is no support in righteousness, nor in the worship and protection of Brahmins, gods, and the earth. There is no righteousness, nor truth, nor honesty, nor compassion, when you—so devoted to dharma—have been cast down from your own kingdom.” Hearing her anguished words, the king sighed deeply. With a faltering voice, he told his slender wife how he had come to be among outcastes. She, too, after weeping long and sighing in distress, fearfully recounted the death of their son as it had happened. The king spoke, “Beloved, I do not wish to endure this suffering any longer. But my fate is not in my own hands, slender one—see my misfortune. If I enter the fire without the permission of the outcaste, I will become a slave to the outcaste again in another birth. In hell, I will suffer, devoured by worms in the Vaitarani river, thick with pus, blood, fat, and slippery sinews. In the forest of sword-leaves, I will be terribly mutilated, or I will suffer in the great hells Raurava and Maharaurava. For one sunk in the ocean of sorrow, death alone is the shore—and now, even this one son, the perpetuator of our line, is gone. “Even I, though strong, am overwhelmed by fate, like water swept away. How can I give up my life when I am so helpless and afflicted? Perhaps, tormented by suffering, a man considers sinful acts; but even the pain of an animal or the forest of sword-leaves is not like this. The torment of Vaitarani with its hooks is as the grief of losing a son; thus am I, with my son’s body burning in the sacrificial fire. “I will fall, slender one; forgive my misdeeds. Having been permitted, you may go, lovely-smiling one, to the brahmin’s house. Hear me, gentle one, with a devoted mind: if I have ever given, or offered, or pleased the elders—may there be reunion in the next world with my son and with you, for in this world, how could such a wish come true? “It is better that I go with you, seeking our son. And if, smiling one, I have ever spoken anything improper, even in jest or in secret, I beg you, forgive all that was spoken amiss. Do not, out of pride as a queen, disregard the brahmin; by every effort, you must please him, as you would your lord and deity, O auspicious one.