As the long night finally gave way to dawn, the king underwent a terrible transformation: his skin darkened, his hair became wild and unkempt, and he clothed himself in sooty, tattered garments. Ash smeared his body, iron ornaments weighed down his limbs, and garlands woven from rags hung about his neck. He had become a Chandala, an outcaste, in both appearance and station. When the king’s ministers beheld him in this dreadful form, they recoiled in fear and fled together, as did the townspeople who followed him. Thus, the king—descendant of the noble Kakutstha line—was left utterly alone, yet he remained steadfast, his self-control unshaken. Tormented by anguish day and night, the king journeyed to the ascetic Viśvāmitra. When Viśvāmitra saw the king, now rendered fruitless by fate and transformed into a Chandala, compassion welled up in the sage’s heart. Moved by pity, the supremely righteous ascetic addressed the king in gentle tones: “May it be well with you. For what purpose have you come, O mighty prince?” Viśvāmitra recognized him: “O hero, lord of Ayodhya, by the curse you have become a Chandala.” Hearing these words, the king, now truly in that form, bowed with joined palms and spoke with humility and skill: “I have been rejected by my guru and by his sons. My desires have come to nothing; instead, I have met with calamity. O gentle one, may I ascend to heaven in this very body.” He continued, his voice heavy with sorrow: “Though I have performed a hundred sacrifices, I have not gained their fruit. I have never spoken falsehood, nor will I ever do so. Even in distress, I have upheld the sacred duty of a Kshatriya. I have performed many kinds of sacrifices and protected my people through righteousness. The elders have been pleased with my conduct and character, for I have always striven for righteousness and the performance of sacrifice. Yet, O best of sages, the elders are not satisfied. I now see that fate is supreme, and human effort is fruitless. Everything is overpowered by fate; fate alone is the highest path. I am greatly afflicted and seek your favor, O blessed one—you should act for me, whose actions have been thwarted by fate. I have no other refuge, no other shelter. Only you can turn aside fate by your own effort.” Now begins the next chapter of this sacred tale. Viśvāmitra, son of Kuśika, filled with compassion, spoke sweetly to the king, who stood before him truly transformed into a Chandala. “Welcome, O Ikshvaku, my child. I know you are truly righteous. I grant you refuge—do not fear, O foremost of kings. I will summon all the great sages who assist in sacrifices, those of virtuous deeds. Then, O king, you shall perform the sacrifice to your satisfaction. The form that has come upon you from the guru’s curse—you shall ascend bodily to heaven even with this form. Heaven is within your reach, O king, since you have come to me, the son of Kausika, seeking shelter.” Having spoken thus, the radiant sage instructed his supremely righteous sons, wise in all things, to prepare the materials for the sacrifice. He called his disciples and said, “Go forth at my command. Bring all the sages, including Vasiṣṭha, along with their disciples, friends, and the officiating priests learned in the Vedas. Let anyone else come who, prompted by my words, wishes to speak.” All that Viśvāmitra commanded was proclaimed, but his words were disregarded by some. Nevertheless, his disciples departed in all directions. Soon, from every region, Brahmanical sages gathered, their disciples assembling to approach the sage blazing with ascetic power. They spoke the words of all the Brahmanical sages, and, hearing them, the twice-born began to arrive from every land—except from Mahodaya. The Vāsiṣṭhas, full of wrath, uttered words harsh with anger: “How can a Kshatriya be the officiating priest for a Chandala? How can divine sages in the assembly partake of his oblation, or great-souled Brahmins eat food from a Chandala? How will those protected by Viśvāmitra attain heaven?” Their eyes reddened with fury, all the Vāsiṣṭhas, together with those from Mahodaya, spoke thus. Hearing these words, Viśvāmitra, the foremost of sages, was filled with anger. His eyes reddened, he spoke in wrath: “Though I am blameless and steadfast in fierce austerity, they revile me. Those wicked ones shall 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 and misshapen, wandering the worlds without honor. As for Mahodaya, of perverse mind, who slandered me though I am blameless—he shall become a Niṣāda, intent on killing living beings, devoid of compassion. For a long time, because of my wrath, he will dwell in misery.” Thus, having pronounced his curse, the great ascetic Viśvāmitra, radiant among sages, fell silent. Now begins the next chapter of this holy narrative.