Harishchandra (7)

7. Epilogue

Except on days I teach, I stay at home

and read or write or grade papers alone

for everyone else has school or office

in daylight hours. In this solitude

I hate to have the carpet-monger's shout,

the vegetable peddler's ill-timed call,

or the late hermit's cymbals or his conch

disturb my profound reveries or thoughts.

Since such things happen every now and then,

though somewhat irked by a dark man's presence

at my gate, I was more surprised when he

instead of stretching out a begging bowl,

gazed at me like a visitor and sought

permission to take up a few moments

out of my busy hours. How could I

under the spell of deep, dark eyes and face

writ all over with serious intent

not comply to such a stranger's request?

I offered him a chair under the eave

beside the chrysanthemum bed and said,

"I did not catch your name." He smiled and said,

"Harishchandra." Amused, I studied him.

Wrapped in a single piece of cloth he sat

composed and calm, his sturdy wooden staff

against the arm of the chair, his long hair

cascading down upon his straight shoulders.

"Harishchandra?" I asked. "Harishchandra,"

he replied, but offered no surname yet

as if that name alone was proof enough

of his entire being here on earth.

Amused, rather than seek to understand

the purpose of his visit, I displayed

my sense of humour by telling him

that it was indeed a coincidence

that I too had written under a whim

an account of Harishchandra and his wife

in Devkotian blank verse. Here he smiled.

"I know," he said, "and that is why I came."

"None but a few intimate friends know that

I have scribbled off this ancient tale

for lack of fresher imagination

to concoct a new one. How would you know

what I have done? You, whom I hardly know?'

"You know me well," replied the sober man,

"but not well enough to put together

the real me and the me you wrote of.

I am Harishchandra, the king, whom fate

turned into a cremator at Kashi's ghat

now named after me. Though gone long ago,

I visit all who praise my truthfulness."

Astounded, I looked with disbelieving eyes

at one who claimed to be almost as ancient

as earth itself. I felt an awe suffuse

through all my limbs, up every strand of hair

that stood erect. My heart galloped away.

A lump of silence choked my throat and I

would have frozen in my seat had not the sun

and broad daylight given me confidence.

"Do not fear me," said Harishchandra.

"I come as friend, a visitor who seeks

the soul of truth in a false and corrupt world.

I seek to know if truth lives in your heart."

Comforted by these words, I dared utter

though in a subdued schoolboy tone,

"I only wrote to wipe my boredom off.

Neither a seer nor a poet, I,

having enjoyed my father's Shakuntala,

imitated his style in secrecy,

without the least intent to publicize

your perverse fate or the arrogance of gods.

But, oh! I am so fortunate to meet

an honest person like you in this age

and putrid times. Tell me, truthful king,

have you ever lied to anyone?"

Grave and silent he sat for a moment,

recalling, I guess, long lost days of yore,

and, in a voice as profound as the sea,

he measured all his words out to me:

"I am as human as a man can be.

To say that I never lied would not be true.

Yet, there were others who lived before me

and were called by the same name that I have.

This is why you have confused the liar

with me who was born ages afterwards."

"Writers lie," I said, "for fun or impact.

Since I am not a scholar of ancient texts,

I thought I'd insist on human potentials

rather than on historical precision."

"That's fine," he said, "as long as you convey

the power of truth as potent remedy

for a corrupt age. All lies are not lies:

some seek to deceive, some to enhance mind."

"True, but unversed writing speaks of laziness

which doubly deceives both reader and he

who pretends at greatness through poetry.

Yet even those who seek to know the facts

find themselves at loss for lack of record

of incidents such as when, in "Exile,"

you return to the palace wearily

to take your wife and child to Benaras.

I wrote a second version of the script

to see if by injecting conflict there—

because superior intelligence

found Harishchandra devoid of conflict

and way short of great poetry—silent,

unvoiced conflict in unrebellious heart,

I could ratify art. This is what I wrote:

'Twas late afternoon when Harishchandra

arrived at the palace and in he went

straight to the queen's cozy chamber scented

with rich perfumes. The marble floor glistened

where the bright carpet felt inadequate

to cover up its variegated design.

Below the arch of corrugated pillars

on pedestals stood statuettes of gods

and goddesses all finely carved and touched;

and against the cream-white walls in vases

bloomed flowers of finest hues. In the cage,

the maina spoke and sang her instant whims.

In through large windows poured the southern sun

in pools beside the double-bed covered

with red velvet on which the queen drooped low

like a withering stalk unable to bear

the weight of her own miserable soul.

Without her crown and queenly glittergold,

she sat with knees upraised, attired now

not in regal splendour and ornaments

as befitted her, but, alas, in plain,

meagre length of as course a cotton cloth

as can humbly guard human decency.

So like a blotch of perverse fate she stained

the sumptuous perfection all around

that only held back human tears could sound

the sorrow of a joyous nightingale

cruelly forced to grovel on the ground.

Without the strength to lift her head to look

at the crownless king she glanced but once

and closed her eyes to bar these questions in:

"So, what is love when decisions are made

without consulting spouse? What dignity

can woman claim when she has just no say

in matters that affect family life?

What does marriage mean if two lives once joined

by nuptial vows of sharing and caring

share not decisions that chart out their lives

and care not how it might affect the spouse?

And child too! A budling that required

all possible support and nourishment

to bloom into an upright, able soul,

now severed from all such possibilities

by parental folly. To give is fine.

Yet, all life requires a minimum

sustenance of material things

without which the soul simply flies away.

What next? How sustain our lives?

Poor, poor child! Sweet Rohitashwa! Alas!

What a princely pauper have you become!"

Even as she thus pondered wearily,

the king addressed his wife: "I have given

the crown, the sceptre and the kingdom too

to sage Vishwamitra who now commands

that we leave his country. So, let us go."

"Yes, I know, my lord!" she might have replied,

if answering back was the practice then

as it is today between a husband

and his wife. "Yes, I know! You have given

more than what you own: the kingdom's not yours;

it is the people's rightful property.

My life is my own too; so is our son's.

We have a right to choose the course it takes.

Yet you have chosen to give all away

including your own hard-earned happiness.

And I, your spouse, can only look but not

express the nettled soul or rebel thought."

Thinking thus, she played her womanly role;

up she rose like a vague vapour that lingers

against the cliffs for lack of distinct goal;

down she stept from queenly bed like a cloud

that, charged with liquid burden, does not pour;

and when the king moved slow towards the gate,

taking hold of her dear son she followed

him like a leaf that flies the howling storm.

Now comment, truthful king, upon the art

of such intentional lying and supply

that which you alone can supply with truth."

"Padma," he said, "you are not far from truth.

Shaibya and Rohitashwa were ready

and waiting in the inner courtyard where

I found them. My wife shed two large drops

of silent tears that drowned me for a while.

She did not speak a word but followed me

like a lamb unconscious of its destiny.

But what of it? The thoughts you put into

her heavy heart may well have sprouted there.

And, though her actions did not taint my deeds,

I cannot paint the storms that raged inside

the woman's heart if rage it did indeed."

"And I know nothing of heaven," I said.

"Yet I pretend to have been there, seen all.

Would you endorse such nonsense and permit

me to tell the public absolute lies?

I'd rather not! I'd prefer to be wise

than to be a poet, liar in disguise."

"Publish your work," said the honest king,

hoping that upholding truth and honesty

even by such pretentious upholders

as me would help inseminate some hearts

with it. "Publish it," his deep voice rang clear

even as he stood up with staff in hand

and bid me sweet adieu with smiling face.

I held his robe and begged that he withhold

a moment more to clarify my doubt;

but, when he knew what raced inside my head,

he softly replied, "I cannot speak of that."

And, before I could rephrase my question

or beseech him to make an exception,

he left. A mere hallucination now

vanished into thin air, real no more.

Only Harishchandras enter heaven

with their physical bodies. Only poets

enter heaven in their imagination.

Only men like me create their heaven

with all its imperfections. Only you,

dear reader, Trishankhu, hang in mid-sky

until you awaken with a crash to earth.

Harishchandra (6)

6. Revelation

When many-fisted fate shatters high hopes

and perplexes the mind, our views upturn.

When those we expect to love and help us

refuse to do so, feelings cauterize.

When parents, king, and god who should protect

a child from harm become his enemy,

a scared and abandoned Shunashepa

stops crying, laughs with death, becomes a saint.

When Shaibya heard an honest husband speak,

she remained the same faithful wife she was

and replied not in anger or dismay

but gently spoke, "We must cremate our son.

I do not know where we will raise the sum

to pay for funeral service for I

have nothing more than what I wear.

But God be thanked ! For half of this will do !"

So saying Shaibya pulled the cotton cloth

she wrapped around her female decency

and tearing half of it she gave it to

Harishchandra as beggar's payment poor

for service at the ghat and this he took

from his wife before he built the pyre

on which to set his son and light the fire.

And now with heavy heart he was about

to transfer fire with the kusha grass

onto the camphor stuck between blue lips

of darling Rohitashwa plucked by death

long before he had even fairly bloomed;

he was about to offer up his son

to Agni, god of fire, though he should

long ago have offered up the same

to Varuna, but did not out of love;

he was about to light the pyre when

a gentle hand upon his shoulder fell

and a voice he recognized all too well

spoke gently this: "O king, forebear a while !"

For Vishwamitra had appeared as if

through curtains of the dark and holy night,

for sages then travelled through skyie paths

invisible to average human eyes

and knew through meditation what went on

anywhere on earth, underworld or  skies.

He then related to the perplexed king

the gist of hot debate in heaven high

and Harishchandra understood the cry

of helpless female voice in sylvan depths

and hermit-haunted wilds where game he sought.

Then spoke the sage, "The trial is over,

I am delighted with your honesty

and now the kingdom's yours, Harishchandra.

Rule with justice. May peace descend thereon."

"The gods are kind to focus their debate

on a poor show like me. I am honoured

to find a place in multifarious

crossroads of divine minds that loose not track

of minutest beings and events that

are or come to pass in this wild, wide world.

And Vishwamitra, you have greatly raised

my unworthy self to significance

in the eyes of gods; but, alas ! I weep

for I am human; heavy elements

of grief and misery do weigh my heart

in accordance with my nature for here

my dear child lies cold and dead. O, I weep

when I should faint with joy on knowing all

that has kindly come to pass in heaven."

Even as he uttered these sad, slow words,

like warm, radiant rays that tear apart

the gloomy, sable clouds that overcast

and hang menacingly low upon earth

which glows in spots caressed by these and smiles,

the brahmin and his barrel-woman came

walking in heavenly glory, followed by

a multitude of many brilliant gods

who came to bless the greatest man on earth.

Sweet effulgence now lit the ghat where gods

mingled with miserable humans low

and Ganga herself so melted tonight

with quick emotions as she murmured by

that bank and river met like gods and men.

And as Indrani clasped Shaibya and smoothed

her sorrows to peaceful calm, Indra smiled

in glorious lustre and him addressed:

"Your sorrow's over, King Harishchandra !

Weep no more for your son returns to life.

Behold ! He rises like a second dawn

after a morning tempest shrouded him

for just a little while, yet glorious,

yet soft, yet bright. I give him back to you."

And, indeed, Rohitashwa stirred his limbs,

opened his eyes and wondered why he lay

on top of a pyre. The mother quick

lifting him to her arms so kissed and cried

and hugged him close that tearless eyes of gods

felt a mortal chip like we feel the dust

that irritates the eyes and makes tears flow.

The humble father dumbfounded now,

delighted, yes, and overjoyed indeed,

praised great Indra for such mercy as none

on earth could ever expect again.

And when the family were one and joy

still great,  Indra addressed the truthful king:

"For pain on pain now joy on added joy

you have earned for yourself, Harishchandra.

You now deserve heaven and I its king

invite you to come with me where you shall

remain fore'er a proud and royal guest."

The king grew serious and soft replied:

"Great Indra ! Bountiful you are indeed !

You give me child and wife and future hopes;

what more can I ask of anyone? Yet,

you offer me a place in heaven too !

How can I ever hope to find again

an opportunity like this to serve

the gods of heaven and be blessed by them?

Yet, before I answer, let me request

my master chandala for permission

to leave my job and go to grand heaven.

Allow me, kind Indra, to seek him first

and see what he advises. This I must."

Even as he spoke, with timing precise,

behind him stood his master chandala,

now more like bright Varuna than the dark

bearded lord of fearful cremation ground,

and he spoke with such divine gentleness

that Harishchandra bowed with reverence:

"King ! Accept my reverence. No more I

shall demand a test of your mettle's worth.

I know you for an honest, truthful man,

one in billions, a gem of humankind !

Unlike divine beings, humans

transcend into higher and nobler planes

of existence through sheer effort of will;

they rise through humility; they surprise

heaven itself through such achievements great

as seem beyond them in the eyes of gods.

This was what Vishwamitra propounded

in heaven before we all decided

to shower suffering upon your soul

to test its adherence to noble truth

and honesty in miserable times;

but, now we are ashamed, Harishchandra,

to have doubted your virtue where it glowed

like youth on teenage cheek, like pink on rose,

like green on cotyledons, or like gold

in the globe that glows bright at heaven's gate.

I cannot give you permission to go

to heaven for I too there play the host.

So, come in all your radiant glory

to eternal heaven for the trials

and tribulations have now come to end."

Astounded Harishchandra stood aghast

and trembled in his limbs amidst the host

of effulgent divinities gathered

by the Ganges ghat, exit from sweet earth,

and turning to the sea-god softly said,

"Kind Varuna ! If this was but a trial,

let more such follow to humble my soul

and teach it to efface itself away.

This for me is blessing; education

in being meek and humble is the best.

And today I am deeply moved indeed

by the kindness and affection that gods

have bestowed on me. Willing to heaven

I would come, great Indra, but how can I

without my people who love me dearly?

The king is husband of the state and he

may not divorce the people for his joy.

So permit me to bring them all with me

to your eternal kingdom, O kind lord!"

The gods stood perplexed now and smiling looked

at each other, for they knew that no man

had thus far been allowed transit therein

with his course physical body; but now

they owed Harishchandra a favour too.

Then Indra spoke: "O king! They do not have

sufficient virtue to enter heaven."

"Then let them share the virtue I have earned,"

replied the king of charity at once.

And this was done. And, with all citizens

of blessèd Ayodhya, king Harishchandra

ascended to bright heaven, as is told

by many worthy mouths and pens who have

sung his praise, for praised must all truthful men

be on earth which now abounds with such as

place their own selfish end above all means

without a needle prick, without a qualm,

for conscience is now a thing of the past

although man must return to truth at last.

Harishchandra (5)

5. The Trial

What man may have to do in future days

to sustain life is not for him to say;

so wisdom does not lie in saying that

one will or wont do such and such a thing.

Beside the burning pyre, mighty king

Harishchandra, for no true fault of his,

stood with his staff, his black beard pointed, long,

tanned and tempered with work and exposure

to the harsher elements of nature;

uncomplaining though, honest, dilligent

for the benefit of a chandala

in charge of all cremations at the ghat.

By night, Harishchandra awaited all

who brought dead bodies of near and dear ones,

assisted them to build the pyre and

consoled them too with words of wisdom great

so that he slowly gained their respect too;

by daylight, he, after the needed sleep,

assisted his master and errands ran

and so in honest earnings passed his days.

His wife and son had with the brahmin gone

to his poor dwelling near the river bank.

The brahmin's wife, a barrel-woman she,

with love for food, tolerance for the rest

and greater desire for rest than work,

welcomed all three with the same haughty smile

for she was queen though small her cottage poor.

The henpecked husband, sheep to shepherd he,

spoke with subdued words of love, "Servants yours !"

Did he include himself? I cannot say.

"Ha, ha ! Ho, ho !" she laughed. "I hope these stay."

She called Shaibya and caught her by the neck,

looked closely at her skin so soft and fair

and chiding husband spoke, "What have we here?

A woman fair and lovely does not work !

O what have you brought? Cohort? Cowife? Maid?

You men are all the same ! All moths to flame !

Beware my tigress nails that'll tear you up

should you but lift a bewitched eye to her.

I'll roughen up her features with hard work

so that such useless things as beauty will

find proper use in serving me, not you.

Now get you in ! Don't stand and stare at me !"

So saying, with a haughty march she went

into the poor abode, this brahmin's queen.

They followed the loud-spoken brahmin's wife,

a veritable Amazon, who used

her words only to command, not to please.

She showed their quarters to the newcomers,

a cold and humble corner dark where sun

never shone, infested by mould and mice,

a small lattice window for breathing air

and so little light that to be outside

working all the time would be better far

in broad daylight or under icy stars.

Early next morning before the cock crew

to anounce the first sight of soft daylight

way high up in the sky, before the stars

sunk in the sky, before the splendid dawn

could smile upon the weary sleepers late,

Shaibya felt a hand that shook her shoulder

to force a rude exit from happy dreams.

"Up ! Lazy bones !" the barrel-woman cried,

"Daylight brightens over the horizon.

There's work to do. The floor to sweep and smear

with red clay and cowdung mix, milk the cow,

fetch water, boil and serve, cull flowers fresh

for worship, then cut, peel, grind, cook and serve.

There's more as day proceeds. No time to sleep."

So, up she got and Rohitashwa too

and went about their work without a sound.

And thus her grinding-wheel of days,

in which had queenly ego been a stone

'twould have hurt the more, roughly grated on

without all hopes of change for better treat;

for, though the subdued brahmin pity took

on her and on the boy, he dared not look

straight in the eyes of his darling love

to tell her what he really thought of this.

And she was heartless, if that is correct

and signifies a monster inhuman,

demanding, cruel, harsh and hard to please.

Yet Shaibya kept her silent lips shut tight

and let not bitter tears drop from her eyes

knowing well that she did her duty by

her cherished husband who had vows to keep.

Though young Rohitashwa found it hard

to serve because as prince he only had

learnt to command others, not obey, him

she taught and trained to swallow bitterness,

to work hard until better days would come

when they would all unite under a home.

And so the days passed: one sturdily stood

by the cremation ground loyal to one

that hired him; the other two not less

loyal and obedient, although she

whom these two served seemed not to see at all

how hard they drudged and toiled just for her sake.

Instead, on another unlucky day,

when Rohitashwa, culling flowers fine

for early service of the Lord, was bit

by a poisonous snake, a cobra king,

he cried and fell, he held his leg, he called,

felt dizzy, numb and cold and passed away

even before his mother could lift him

to her loving lap and bid him not to go.

She clasped him to her bosom and she wailed,

her constricted heart felt like it would burst,

her tears were warm pools between blades of grass,

her sobs between her wails were tremours great;

now she was dizzy and the world collapsed

into dark oblivion, now again

it seemed to gather its fragments and rise

in such meaningless colours, shapes and forms

as were unable to console distress.

"You are cruel, God !" said Shaibya. "Cruel,

unjust, unfair ! For what is it that I

have done to offend you for which you

punish me, a feeble, innocent soul

that meekly shares her pious husband's fate?

And, O ! When even he is torn apart

from me by blind destiny, must my son

be thus snatched away from his mother's side?

O ! What is woman but a sufferer ! 

A weakling born to kitchen work and care,

robbed of her choice by social pressures and

looted by heaven, scattered in the winds.

If this is life, if this the true reward

of faith in divine justice, so be it.

I have no wish to live, O kill me too !"

Thus Shaibya cried, and tore her hair and breasts

and hit her head with fists and knuckles hard

as neighbours, master and her mistress flocked

around this tragic event silently.

The brahmin, wisest soul of all, addressed

the weeping mother with these gentle words:

"I'm sorry, woman, for this tragedy.

Your boy has unkindly been nipped in bud.

When old men die, we feel they lived their full;

when young men die, we feel the loss is great.

Though death is certain, may it never come

to those so young and budding, in their prime.

But you, you should be brave. Give not up hope

and blame not divine justice for your fate.

What gods brew in heaven can only be

for the ultimate good of everyone.

Weep not over what you no more control,

just do your duty, forsake not your faith."

"That's well said !" Chimed in the good brahmin's wife,

"'Just do your duty !' Oh ! Well-said indeed !

Of what avail is it to weep and cry

now that the soul has flown? The boy is dead.

Accept the fact and let the body lie

where it has fallen. Fall to household work

so that you forget sorrow and distress,

'tis better than to watch and weep and wail."

She spoke thus while kind neighbours gaped and stared;

some whispered, "What a monster have we here !"

But Shaibya pleadingly addressed her thus:

"I cannot leave the corpse of my dear son

out here to dry all day. Dogs and vultures

might snatch or pounce on it. Oh, let me take

his body to the ghat without delay."

The barrel-woman had a different view

which, though harsh and bitter, she thus expressed:

"I have been kind to you. No more will I

accept disobedience from a slave.

Now let the body lie and hie to work.

Tonight when all is done you may proceed

with it to the cremation ground, not now !"

Sweet Shaibya wondered what she served: woman,

demon, ghoul or elf? But choice she had none;

the mistress commanded thus; she obeyed

like one devoid of both her heart and head.

Never has time slowed more for mortal man

than when broken-hearted Shaibya moved slow,

like a zombie from out the grave, at work

for a cruel mistress. The sluggish sun

hung quite insensitive and motionless

from an immobile sky above fixed earth,

which itself froze in its diurnal round,

wind seemed not to blow, water not to flow,

the falling leaf nor fell nor rose but hung

suspended in mid air as all time stopped.

Nothing moved but wounded feelings that churned,

transforming themselves into million drops

that fell where'er she went despite herself

and spoke of grief that knew no bounds at all.

Somehow she spent a million seconds slow,

each a miserable span, each hard blow,

and, when the kindest night of all her life

once more united her with her dead child,

she did not weep again but took a course

straight to the ghat, hugging a beloved corpse.

There by the Ganges banks the northward flow

of holy water murmured a sad truth:

this aberration from a southern course,

this backward flow for a long stretch of space

arrested the human mind as quite rare

and, therefore, holy, sacred like sad death.

Indeed all those who renounce life and seek

the soul's final home travel to the north;

towards the north, they say, proceeds the path

to heaven. Mortal ash and cinder here

float northward in pursuit of soul that flies.

There by the Ganges banks her husband dear

built pyres and lit them and the golden flames

consumed so many each night and day

that the living swarms of humanity

could never guess how life here comes and goes;

for not unless a person dear to one

passes away does one feel painful bite

that leaves behind a blue-black sorrow stain

upon the ruffled human consciousness.

There by the Ganges banks this sad, dark night

with Rohitashwa in her weary arms

Shaibya came. She placed the body now cold

on colder slabs beside the pyre and wept,

for she did not have the means to procure

the needed firewood or priestly help

to perform her only child's obsequies.

"O Lord ! What shall I do?" she cried and sobbed.

A helpless woman by the river bank

this late at night and sobbing silently,

alone, without the normal crowd of men,

cousins, relatives, friends and neighbours too,

was not quite normal. Harishchandra guessed

she must be a truly forsaken soul,

deep in trouble, in need of succour kind,

and so he thither walked to calm her down.

Yet when he saw the likeness of his wife

beside the likeness of his son, he still

doubted what he perceived and, therefore, asked,

for it was pitch dark: "What ails you, woman?

Who is this on the ground? Your child perhaps?"

But Shaibya recognized her lord as soon

as she heard his gentle voice and burst out

through tears and sobs and suppressed misery:

"At last I've found you, lord ! At last ! Alas !

Too late, my lord ! Too late ! For he is gone !

Our son Rohitashwa has passed away."

Nor more could she speak for lumps in her throat

suffocated her; so she threw herself

at his dear feet and wept. 'Twas now his turn

to feel crab-claws clutch at his quickened heart.

"O merciful heaven !" he cried out loud,

"O Vishwanath ! You answer to all pains !

Support me now ! Give me the strength to bear

this sudden blow of evil fate, O Lord !"

And wiping nose and eyes he lifted up

the cold corpse in his arms and hugged it tight

as if by doing so the soul long flown

would briefly return, open eyes and smile.

After the darkest agony, a sense

returned to him and he then turned to wife

Shaibya whom he clasped close and spoke: "Calm down

dear Shaibya ! What is past is past. That which

Almighty Fate has written comes to pass

of necessity. Man is born to die.

'Tis better here than elsewhere, for Kashi,

the city of lights, Shiva's own city,

a spot of pilgrimage and bestower

of liberation, blesses even death."

"You speak wise words, my lord ! But wisdom has

no place in mother's foolish heart of love.

What you say is true, I know; but, O how

can feeble woman find the strength to bear

the miserable loss of one so dear?"

"I do not know, my dear !" he softly said.

"I do not know." And for a moment laid

his head on her shoulder. Thus stood these two

leaning on each other this blackest night

that seemed to swallow all but poignant pain.

The corpse had yet to be cremated here

and Shaibya told her husband to proceed;

but he stood silent, not a word spoke he.

And when she asked him why he so delayed

he stroked his bearded cheeks and pawed the ground,

then cleared his throat and made a stupid sound.

"We must cremate our son," sad Shaibya said.

"E'en for our own son taxes must be paid,

for that is why I stand to guard the ghats.

This is my job and I must do it well."

Oh, who among us living would say so

were wife to request the funeral rites

for our dead child; was Harishchandra mad?

Did he not have a heart? Was he a fool?

Or are we all, all stupid animals

that have no judgment when it comes to true

and honest dealings with those around us?

Can we uphold what we believe is right?

Hold it high over family and self

for social good? Untouched by pomp or pelf?

Man can; Harishchandra can; but, can we?