Overwhelmed by the immense suffering that had befallen her husband and son, the queen was struck with astonishment and anguish. As her eyes fell upon her husband’s staff—a symbol of his fallen state—it filled her with revulsion and sorrow. Her wide, beautiful eyes, usually so clear, were now clouded by confusion and despair, as if she herself had been cast out of society. Slowly, she regained her composure, and her voice, choked with emotion, broke the silence. “Shame on you, O cruel and lawless fate!” she cried. “How merciless you are, to cast down this king—once equal to the gods—into the wretched state of an outcaste. You have stripped us of our kingdom, forced us to abandon our friends, and even driven us to sell our wife and son. Now, you have made this noble king a figure of contempt.” Her lament continued, “Alas, O King! In my suffering, why does no one come to lift me from the ground and seat me upon the royal couch, as they once did? Today, I see neither your royal umbrella nor the fly-whisk, nor even the yak-tail fan that once signified your sovereignty. What a reversal of fortune this is! Once, even other kings would walk before you, sweeping the dust from your path with their upper garments. Now, see how you appear: a skull hangs from your neck, a string of broken pots adorns you, your hair is matted with remnants of the dead—you are truly dreadful to behold. You wear a patch of earth stained with oozing fat, and your form is terrifying, covered with half-burnt bones, ashes, and clinging marrow. You are tormented by the cries of vultures and jackals, the small birds have fled, and the horizon is darkened by the smoke from funeral pyres. Night-wanderers delight as you taste the flesh of corpses, and you, O king, afflicted by sorrow, now roam the impure cremation ground.” Having poured out her grief, the king’s daughter flung her arms around her father’s neck and, overwhelmed by a hundred streams of sorrow, wailed in agony. The queen then turned to her husband, her voice trembling, “O King! Is this a dream or is it reality? Please, tell me, O blessed one, for my mind is bewildered. If this is truly happening, O knower of dharma, then what support is there in righteousness, or 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 words, the king sighed deeply. With a faltering voice, he began to tell his slender wife how he had come to dwell among outcastes. She, too, after weeping for a long time and sighing in distress, fearfully recounted to him the death of their son, as it had happened. The king spoke, “Beloved, I do not wish to endure this suffering much longer; my fate is not in my own hands, slender one—see how misfortune has overtaken me. If I were to enter the fire without the permission of the outcaste, I would become a slave to the outcaste again in another birth. In hell, I would suffer, eaten by worms, in the Vaitarani river, thick with pus, blood, and fat, slippery with sinews. In the forest of sword-leaves, I would be terribly mutilated, or I would suffer in the great hells Raurava and Maharaurava. For one lost in the ocean of sorrow, the only shore is death; and now, our only son—the perpetuator of our line—is gone. Even I, though strong, am overwhelmed by the force of fate, like water swept away; how can I give up my life, when I am so helpless and afflicted? Perhaps, when tormented by suffering, a man considers sinful acts; yet even the state of an animal, or the torments of the sword-leaf forest, do not compare to the pain I feel from losing my son. Such is the torment of Vaitarani with its hooks, akin to the grief of a burning son’s body in the sacrificial fire.” He continued, “I am about to fall, slender one; forgive my misdeeds. Having been permitted, you may go, lovely-smiling one, to the brahmin’s house. Hear my words, slender 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 of mine come to pass? It is better for me to go with you, seeking our son; and if, smiling one, I have ever spoken anything improper, even in jest or in secret—all that which was spoken improperly should be forgiven by you, as I ask. Do not, out of pride as a queen, disregard that brahmin; by every effort, you must please him, as you would your lord and deity, O auspicious one.” The queen replied, “I too, O royal sage, unable to bear the weight of this sorrow, will go with you today into the blazing fire.” At this, the birds who witnessed these events spoke: The king prepared the funeral pyre and placed his son upon it; together with his wife, he stood there, hands joined in reverence. Contemplating the Supreme Self—Lord Narayana, Hari, who dwells in the cave of the heart, Vasudeva, Lord of the gods, the beginningless and endless Brahman, Krishna, clad in yellow robes, the auspicious one—the king meditated deeply. As he meditated, all the gods, with Indra at their head and Dharma leading them, descended swiftly from the heavens. They called out, “O king, listen, lord! Here is the Grandfather himself, and Dharma, the Blessed One, in person.” The Sadhyas, Visvedevas, Maruts, guardians of the worlds with their vehicles, Nagas, Siddhas, Gandharvas, Rudras, and the Ashvins—all had gathered. Many others too, including Vishvamitra, who once could not make friendship with the threefold universe, now wished to establish friendship with the king. Then Dharma, Indra, and the son of Gadhi ascended and arrived. Dharma spoke: “Do not act rashly, O king! I, Dharma, have come to you, pleased by your virtues of forbearance, self-control, truth, and other noble qualities.” And Indra said, “O Harishchandra, greatly fortunate one! I, Shakra, have come to you; with your wife and son, you have conquered the eternal worlds.