I am King Harishchandra, once ruler of Kanyakubja, now a servant in the cremation grounds of Varanasi. My robes are dust-stained, my hands blackened by ash, and my heart heavier than the logs I carry. I came here after giving everything—my kingdom, my wealth, even my name—to uphold a promise made to Sage Vishvamitra. He said it would bring me glory in the eyes of the gods. But glory feels distant when your son lies dead, and you cannot afford to light his pyre.

My wife Shaivya sits beside Rohita’s body, her face streaked with tears she refuses to show me. I promised her we would rise again. I promised our boy a future. Now, I must decide: do I break my vow and beg for mercy? Or do I remain truthful, even if it means leaving my son uncremated?

The keeper approaches, staff in hand. 'No fire without payment,' he says coldly. 'You know the rule.'

I look at my wife, then at my child. The wind howls like a warning. What do I do?