Vishwamitra Tests Harishchandra

The king had made a promise. A promise made in dream, but Vishwamitra held him to it as if it were spoken in court.

Vishwamitra: "You promised me dakshina. The gift a king gives to a brahmin who blesses him."

Harishchandra: "I did. Name your price."

Vishwamitra: "All of it."

Harishchandra: "All of...?"

Vishwamitra: "Your kingdom. Your treasury. Your lands. Everything you own."

The courtiers gasped. Harishchandra's minister stepped forward.

MINISTER: "Sage, surely you jest—"

Vishwamitra: "I never jest about dharma. Your king promised. Either he is a man of truth, or he is a liar. There is no third option."

Harishchandra was silent for a long moment. Then he removed his crown.

Harishchandra: "The kingdom is yours."

Vishwamitra: "The treasury?"

Harishchandra: "Yours."

Vishwamitra: "The palace? The servants? The armies?"

Harishchandra: "All yours. I have nothing left to give."

Vishwamitra: "Actually, you do. You owe me the tax on the gift. The dakshina upon the dakshina. Pay it within a month, or become a debtor—and we both know what happens to debtors."

Harishchandra: "I have nothing!"

Vishwamitra: "Then find something. Truth is not tested in comfort, King. It's tested in fire. Let's see what you're really made of."

Harishchandra left his kingdom with his wife and son. He sold his wife into servitude to pay part of the debt. He sold himself to a chandala, a keeper of cremation grounds, to pay the rest.

Months later, covered in ash, burning corpses for his master, he heard familiar footsteps.

Vishwamitra: "Still truthful?"

Vishwamitra asked.

Harishchandra: "What is truth worth if it only survives in comfort? Yes, I am still truthful. I have lost everything and gained nothing. But I have not lied."

Vishwamitra: "Your son is dead. Your wife brought his body for cremation. She has no money to pay your fee."

Harishchandra: "Then..."

Harishchandra's world collapsed. He looked at the small corpse his wife carried, at her gaunt face, at everything he had lost.

Vishwamitra: "Then what?"

Vishwamitra pressed.

Harishchandra: "Then I must still collect the fee. Because that is my duty. Because I told my master I would. Because truth does not bend, even when it breaks the truthful."

He turned to his wife.

Harishchandra: "Do you have anything? Anything at all?"

WIFE: "Only this."

She held up her last possession—a torn piece of her sari.

Harishchandra: "Then give it. The fee is paid."

Vishwamitra laughed. Not mockingly—joyfully.

Vishwamitra: "It is done. You have passed, Harishchandra. Every god watched. Every realm saw. You are truth itself."

Harishchandra: "Give me back my son."

Vishwamitra: "He lives. He was never dead. None of this was real—except your choices. Those were absolutely real. Go back to your kingdom. It's been held in trust for you. And know this: in ten thousand years, when people speak of truth, they will speak of Harishchandra."

Harishchandra: "Was it worth it? All this suffering—for a test?"

Vishwamitra: "Was it? Only you can answer that."

Harishchandra looked at his wife, at his son—alive, whole, returned to him.

Harishchandra: "Yes. It was worth it. Not for the reward. For the proof. For knowing, absolutely, what I am."