Long, long ago in ancient India, there lived a noble king named Harishchandra. He was so well-known for his honesty and righteousness that people in distant kingdoms would swear oaths in his name. Harishchandra’s wife was Queen Madana, and together they ruled a peaceful, prosperous kingdom. Their people adored them. But despite all their happiness, one sorrow always lingered in their hearts — they had no child.
One evening, the king and queen were walking in their garden, lost in thought. The sadness of being childless surfaced once again.
“What good is all this power and luxury,” sighed the king, “if we have no one to carry on our legacy?”
Hearing this, Queen Madana’s eyes filled with tears.
Just then, a mysterious ascetic appeared in the garden. He wore wooden sandals and had a long tilak (sacred mark) on his forehead. In truth, this was no ordinary ascetic — it was Dharmaraj, the god of righteousness, in disguise.
He looked at the sorrowful couple and blessed them:
“Do not grieve. Soon, you will be blessed with a radiant son. Name him Luhishchandra. But you must promise — if ever needed for the cause of Dharma, you will not hesitate to offer your son in sacrifice.”
Then, without waiting for a reply, he disappeared into the fading evening light.
Sure enough, after ten months and ten days, the queen gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. He was strong, bright-eyed, and mischievous. He was the apple of their eyes — their entire world. The king and queen adored him and affectionately called him Lui.
As he grew, Lui turned out to be as energetic as he was clever. He would spend his days running around the palace, slinging stones with his slingshot and causing minor mischief — but always with a smile so charming no one could stay angry for long.
One day, while playing in the palace garden, Lui aimed his slingshot at a tree. With a sharp thwack, a stone flew through the air and struck a quiet owl perched on a branch.
Unbeknownst to Lui, that owl was no ordinary bird — it was the divine mount of Dharmaraj himself. Offended and hurt, the owl flew straight to his master.
“Look what your blessed prince has done to me!” the owl complained. “I was resting peacefully, and he struck me with a stone! This is no way for a prince to behave.”
Hearing this, Dharmaraj gave a small smile. He knew the time had come to test the promise that had been made long ago.
Disguised once again — this time as a majestic wandering sage — Dharmaraj arrived at Harishchandra’s court. He was a sight to behold:
A radiant umbrella shaded his head, his staff and rosary gleamed, his forehead shone with a sacred mark, and his hair was tied in thick, matted locks. His clothes were red as fire, his seat was a tiger skin, and his whole presence commanded awe.
In those days, kings considered it their duty to serve holy men. And Harishchandra, being the most devout of all kings, rushed to welcome him.
“You honor us with your presence, revered one!” he said. “Please, allow us to serve you.”
The sage smiled but looked weary. “I have been fasting for days. Only a meal prepared by Queen Madana herself can satisfy me.”
Overjoyed, Harishchandra led him into the palace and ordered a royal feast to be prepared. Exotic fruits, sweetmeats, vegetables, and delicacies of every kind were laid out before the sage. But to everyone’s surprise, he turned away from all of it.
“These won’t do,” he said, wrinkling his nose.
“Then tell us, O holy one,” begged the king, “what is it that your heart desires?”
“I am a meat-eater,” the sage replied calmly. “Only a very special kind of meat can satisfy me.”
“Say no more!” said Harishchandra. “We will fetch the choicest meat for you — young goat, tender deer, anything you like.”
Soon, an extravagant spread of meat dishes was placed before the sage. But he only grew more displeased.
“I don’t want ordinary meat,” he muttered. “I seek the supreme meat — something that can truly nourish the soul.”
“What is this ‘supreme meat’?” the queen asked, starting to grow uneasy.
The sage’s eyes gleamed. “It is the flesh of your son, Luhishchandra.”
The room fell silent. Queen Madana turned pale.
“Are you mad?” she shouted. “What kind of cruel joke is this? You wear the robes of a holy man but speak like a demon!”
But the sage remained calm. “You made a promise,” he reminded them. “Years ago, in this very garden. You vowed to sacrifice your son if Dharma demanded it. Have you forgotten?”
At first, Harishchandra was paralyzed with shock. Then slowly, painfully, the memory returned — the ascetic, the blessing, the vow. His knees buckled beneath him.
Madana trembled. The thought of harming their beloved Lui was unbearable.
But the sage’s voice rang out again, sharper than before:
“Where is your devotion now, O King? Is a promise made to Dharma worth less than your love for a child?”
The couple were crushed. They wept and clung to each other. Yet, they had given their word — a king’s word, a sacred vow. Slowly, with the weight of a thousand lifetimes on their shoulders, they obeyed.
The king took up the blade.
The queen lit the cooking fire.
Together, they prepared their son’s flesh for the sage’s meal.
The heart-wrenching cooking began:
“Tender meat, slow-cooked in ghee,
With spices, herbs, and sorrow deep.
Liver fried, bone broth stewed,
A prince’s body turned into food.”
The sage had one final demand: the meal must be served on three plates — one for himself, one for the king, and one for the queen. They were to eat together.
The idea was horrifying. Could any parent ever bring themselves to eat the flesh of their child?
But they had no choice. They picked up their spoons with shaking hands.
Just as they were about to take their first bite, something miraculous happened.
The sage disappeared — and in his place stood Dharmaraj, shining with divine light. A smile played on his lips.
“You have passed the test,” he said. “You remained true to your word, even when it tore you apart. You have proven yourselves worthy.”
Tears streamed down the faces of the king and queen.
“What do you wish for?” asked Dharmaraj.
“We want nothing,” they said in unison. “Only our son — give us back our Lui. Without him, we have no joy in this world, or the next.”
Dharmaraj raised his hand, and in a flash of golden light, Luhishchandra stood before them — whole, alive, and laughing, as if nothing had ever happened.
The palace rejoiced. The sun seemed to shine brighter, and even the birds sang louder that day.
And so, the tale of King Harishchandra, Queen Madana, and their beloved Luhishchandra became a legend — not only of sorrow and sacrifice but of unwavering faith and the power of keeping one’s word, no matter how impossible it may seem.