The sages, their anger blazing, pronounced a terrible curse upon the king: “You shall become a Caṇḍāla!” With these words, those venerable ascetics departed, each returning to his own hermitage. When night had passed and dawn broke, the king’s fate was sealed—he was transformed into a Caṇḍāla. His skin grew dark, his garments turned black, and his hair became wild and unkempt. He adorned himself with garlands made of rags, smeared his body with ashes, and wore ornaments of iron. In this dreadful form, the king presented a fearsome sight, and when his ministers beheld him thus changed, they fled in terror. The people of the city, too, abandoned him, leaving the once-mighty descendant of Kakutstha utterly alone. Yet, even in such dire straits, the king held firm to his supreme self-control. Tormented day and night by the fire of his misfortune, the king made his way to the ascetic Viśvāmitra. When Viśvāmitra saw the king, now rendered fruitless and bereft of all that he once was, his heart was moved with compassion. The great sage, righteous and full of pity, addressed the king, who stood before him in the form of a Caṇḍāla: “May it be well with you,” he said kindly. “For what purpose have you come, O mighty prince?” Viśvāmitra recognized the king as the lord of Ayodhya, fallen into this state by the curse. Hearing the sage’s words, the king, his hands joined in supplication and his speech measured and respectful, replied: “I have been cast aside by my guru and by my guru’s sons. The desire I cherished has not been fulfilled; instead, I have met with its opposite. O gentle one, may I ascend to heaven with my body. Though I have performed a hundred sacrifices, I have not gained their fruit. Never have I spoken falsehood, nor shall I ever do so. Even when afflicted, I have upheld the Kshatriya’s duty. Through many kinds of sacrifice, I have protected my people with righteousness. The elders of great soul have been pleased by my conduct and character, and I have always striven for righteousness, eager to perform sacrifice. Yet, O best of sages, the elders remain unsatisfied. I now believe fate to be supreme and human effort to be powerless. All is overpowered by fate, which is indeed the highest path. I am afflicted and seek your favor, O blessed one; you alone can act for one whose efforts are blocked by fate. I have no other refuge, nor any other shelter. By your effort, you must turn aside the force of fate.” Moved by the king’s plight, Viśvāmitra, son of Kuśika, spoke sweet and comforting words: “Welcome, O Ikshvaku, my child. I know you are truly righteous. Do not fear, O foremost of kings—I grant you refuge. I will summon all the great sages of virtuous deeds, those who assist in sacrifices. Then, O king, you shall perform your sacrifice with satisfaction. The form you now bear, brought about by your guru’s curse—with this very form, you shall ascend bodily. Heaven is within your grasp, O king, for you have come to me, the giver of refuge, seeking shelter.” Having thus reassured the king, the radiant sage instructed his supremely righteous sons, wise in all things, to prepare the sacrificial materials. He called his disciples and said, “Go forth and summon all the sages, along with Vasiṣṭha. Bring their disciples, their friends, and the officiating priests learned in the Vedas. Let anyone else come who, moved by my words, wishes to speak.” Yet, though Viśvāmitra’s command was clear, his words were disregarded by some. The messengers departed in all directions, and soon, from every region, Brahmanical sages gathered, bringing with them their disciples. They approached Viśvāmitra, who shone with the power of asceticism. The assembled sages spoke on behalf of all the Brahmanical sages, and, hearing their words, the twice-born began to arrive from every land—except from Mahodaya. The Vāsiṣṭhas, filled with wrath, spoke harsh words, their eyes red with anger: “O foremost of sages, how can a Kshatriya serve as the officiating priest for a Caṇḍāla? How can the divine sages in the assembly partake of his oblation, or the great-souled Brahmins eat food from a Caṇḍāla? How will those protected by Viśvāmitra attain heaven?” All the Vāsiṣṭhas, along with those from Mahodaya, voiced their anger in this way. Hearing their words, Viśvāmitra, himself now red-eyed with fury, spoke in wrath: “Though I am blameless and steadfast in fierce austerity, they revile me! These wicked ones will surely be reduced to ashes; today, by the noose of Time, they are led to the realm of Yama. For seven hundred births, let them be born as Mṛtapās, feeding on dog flesh, merciless, and known as Muṣṭikas—deformed, misshapen, and wandering the worlds without honor. And Mahodaya, who slandered me though I am blameless, shall become a Niṣāda, infamous in all worlds, intent on killing living beings and devoid of compassion. For a long time, because of my wrath, he will dwell in misery.” Having spoken these words, the great ascetic Viśvāmitra, radiant among sages, fell silent, the assembly hushed in the wake of his pronouncement.