When I was established as husband, food was offered to me, marking the solemnity of that role. It is said that beloved men should be honored even at the cost of one’s own life. In those moments, I turned to her and said, “I will become your husband, O virtuous one; in times of adversity, distinctions of caste, duty, and family are considered.” She then gave me half of her rice, much as half of the nectar from Mādhavī was once shared between Indra and Agni. After drinking the juice of the jambu fruit, I ate the rice of the pukkasa, and there I rested, my mind clouded with confusion. She, dark as the monsoon, filled me like a lake, and taking my hand, drew my very life out as if it were outside my body. Soon after, she encountered my father—a terrifying figure, corpulent and dreadful, like Avīci, the hell of punishment. To him, she who was so attached to me offered her own interests, just as a silent, clinging bee offers itself to an elephant. He replied to her, “Certainly,” and as the day drew to its close, he released us, as if we were two servants of Death bound by his teeth. At the end of the day, we departed from that forest like ghosts, scattered in all directions, swept away as mist and clouds are. In a moment, at twilight, we reached the village from the vast jungle, as if ghosts from a cremation ground had arrived at another great cremation ground. There, the earth was blood-soaked and swarming with flies; the remains of boars, horses, monkeys, fowl, and crows lay scattered about. Birds hovered over nets of moist intestines laid out for drying, and the legs of dogs clung to clusters of lemons set in the alleys. Birds perched on heaps of dried, heavy lumps of fat, their eyes fixed on skins soaked in blood, dripping with flesh and gore. Children held pieces of raw flesh in their hands, attracting buzzing flies, while elder outcastes, ragged and fierce, shouted at the crying infants. We entered that dreadful, foul-smelling abode, its floor strewn with scattered skulls and entrails, as if we were attendants of Death in a world at the end of an age. There, in the new house of my father-in-law, I anxiously sat on a small seat made of banana leaves. My mother-in-law, her eyes moist with tears, addressed me, her son-in-law, welcoming me with kind words. After resting on a deerskin seat, I partook of the food of outcastes that had been gathered there, as if I were consuming accumulated misdeeds in abundance. Even the affectionate words spoken there, though seemingly pleasant, were seeds of endless sorrow and, in truth, entirely inauspicious. Then, on a certain day when the sky was clear and adorned with stars, amidst ceremonies, bustling activities, and offerings of garments and wealth, that man gave me his daughter—a maiden who inspired fear, dark-skinned as if she were a punishment for evil deeds. The outcastes, intoxicated with strong liquor, roared loudly all around; the great ones, intent on evil, seemed like the embodiment of accumulated misdeeds, delighting in the beating of drums and wild revelry. What need is there to say much here? From that time onward, with my mind devoid of any joy, I became a wretched and emaciated outcaste. After the seven-day festival ended, gradually eight months passed; then she became fruitful and pregnant, standing as if bearing a child. She gave birth to a daughter who brought suffering, like a misfortune that brings pain; that girl quickly grew, stout like foolish anxiety. Again, after three years, she gave birth to a son, unattractive, like misfortune itself, dull-witted and bound by the cords of hope. Again, she gave birth to a daughter, and then once more to a child; thus, I became a husband in the forest, aged and decrepit. With her, many years passed by for me there, together with worry, like one perishing with the guilt of killing a Brahmin in hell. Overcome by the torment of cold, wind, and heat in the depths of the forest, I was tossed about for a long time, like an old turtle in a marsh. Struck by anxiety for my wife, my mind burning within, I saw all directions as if ablaze, filled with painful undertakings. Wearing a garment patched with many pieces of linen, carrying a load of wood in the forest, I appeared as if the embodiment of misfortune. Clad in a loincloth, damp and foul-smelling from old age and filth, I was led beneath the homes of the wealthy, where dense clouds gathered. With my wife, worn out and shivering in the cold winds of winter, we were hidden in the depths of the forest, as if in a desolate place. Driven by the tumult of various quarrels and the heat of discord, drops of blood were released from my eyes under the guise of tears. The women, soaked and eating the meat of wild boar in the forest, were taken to the corners of huts on stone floors, overwhelmed by the rain clouds. When affection faded with time and my wife became unresponsive, due to the lack of friendliness among relatives and the constant quarrels, suspicion was everywhere, and the children chattered like young birds. With a miserable heart, I spent years in the homes of others. Disturbed by the quarrels of outcastes and their fierce rebukes, my face became worn and battered, like the moon scarred by Rahu’s jaws. Chewed with a crushed lip, the shreds of leopard flesh—like tongues of hell-dwellers—were bought and consumed in hell. Fierce winter winds, expelled from the caves of the Himalayas, endured on my bare body, felt like arrows freed from death.