The man gave me his daughter in marriage—a maiden whose very presence inspired fear, her skin dark as if she were a living embodiment of the consequences of past misdeeds. In that place, I found myself surrounded by outcastes, intoxicated with strong drink, roaring wildly on every side. The great ones among them, their minds fixed on evil, seemed the very personification of accumulated sin, delighting in the thunder of drums and frenzied revelry. What more can I say? From that moment on, my heart was stripped of joy, and I became a wretched, emaciated outcaste. After a seven-day festival, eight months slowly passed, and my wife became pregnant, her body bearing the unmistakable signs of new life. In time, she gave birth to a daughter—a child who brought suffering, like a misfortune that brings only pain. The girl grew swiftly, sturdy as the weight of anxious thoughts. Three years later, my wife bore a son, but he was unattractive, dull-witted, and bound by the cords of hope, as if he himself were misfortune made flesh. Again, she gave birth to a daughter, and then yet another child. Thus, I became a husband in the forest—a decrepit, aged outcaste, my days marked by hardship. With her, I spent many years, burdened with worry, tormented as though I bore the guilt of Brahmin-slaughter in hell. The forest became my prison, and I was battered by cold, wind, and heat, tossed about like an old turtle stranded in a marsh. My mind, burning with anxiety for my wife, saw every direction as if it were aflame, filled with painful undertakings. Clad in a garment patched from scraps of linen, I carried heavy loads of wood through the forest, appearing as the very image of misfortune. My loincloth was damp and foul-smelling, stained by age and filth. I was led beneath the homes of the wealthy, where thick clouds gathered ominously above. With my wife—herself worn out and shivering in the cold winter winds—I hid deep in the forest, as if in some desolate wasteland. Quarrels and heated discord erupted constantly, and my eyes wept tears of blood, so fierce was the pain. The women, drenched and eating wild boar meat, were driven to the corners of huts with stone floors, overwhelmed by relentless rain. As time wore on and affection faded, my wife became unresponsive. There was no warmth among relatives, only endless quarrels. Suspicion haunted every corner, and my children chattered like young birds. With a heart full of misery, I spent years living in the homes of others, battered by the harsh words and fierce rebukes of outcastes. My face became worn and scarred, like the moon after Rahu’s bite. We chewed on scraps of leopard flesh—torn with crushed lips—like the tongues of those condemned to hell, bought and consumed in that wretched state. The biting winter winds, driven from Himalayan caves, pierced my bare body like arrows of death. In my decrepitude and confusion, I dug up the roots of withered trees again and again, as if extracting the last remnants of virtue. In the forest, I ate cooked mud from small bowls, food unwashed and unclean, as if sharing a meal with a wicked wife. My own meager share, like a personal fortune, was sold away by those with many mouths and twisted faces, draining the last of my strength. Even the flesh of my living body was cut and sold for a price among the Vindhya outcastes, as if I were bartering away my very lifespan. My accumulated sins, gathered over thousands of births, were scattered and mingled in pleasure gardens and parks. I gazed upon my spade with forlorn affection, and even a crow, as if fallen into Raurava hell, seemed to regard me with tenderness. Wandering through the thickets and bushes of the Vindhya forest, leaves were laid upon my body, marking a kinship with the wild tribes. My wife and children survived on coarse food, begged from villagers or taken by force, as I subdued the strong with my staff. Nights were spent on dry palm leaves, the cries of wild animals echoing around us, our only company the forest monkeys, our teeth chattering in the cold. In the rainy season, my body, bristling with hair, was adorned with drops of water, like strings of pearls. Once, a quarrel broke out between my wife and me in the deep forest—her stomach shrunken by hunger—over a mere piece of ginger or ajwain root. With teeth chattering, eyes wide from cold, and limbs stained with soot, I looked like a goblin even to my own kin. Along riverbanks, I wandered with a fishing hook, searching for fish, like Death himself roaming the worlds with his noose. After many fasts, I drank the warm, freshly drawn blood of a slain animal, just as an infant drinks its mother’s milk. Those around me—intoxicated, blood-stained, and draped in palāś leaves—dwelt in cremation grounds, fleeing like ghouls driven by the fierce goddess. I spread nets in the forest to catch beasts and birds, just as hope is cast for the growth of children, wives, and family. Through my actions, I brought ruin to illusory worlds, birds woven of thread, and nets—destroying the directions of those who lived virtuously. There, my mind rushed headlong into evil deeds, hope stretching ever further, like a river swelling in the rainy season. Compassion, like a snake’s old skin, was quickly cast away, abandoned in shame. In its place, I adopted cruelty, loud anger, and showers of arrows, like dark clouds gathering in the sky at summer’s end.