Having taken leave of Muhammad Ali, Pashupati slowly made his way along the royal road. Slowly he went—even though freed from the Yavana’s prison, he felt no urge to hasten his steps. What he saw on the royal road struck death into his heart. At every step, the bodies of dead citizens struck against his feet; at every step, his feet grew wet with blood-soaked mud. On either side of the road, the houses stood deserted—many dwellings reduced to ashes; in some places, hot embers still smoldered. Within the houses, broken doors, shattered windows, ruined chambers—and above all, corpses! Somewhere, some wretched soul, still writhing in the agony of death, uttered inhuman cries of torment. The root of all this—he himself. Driven by terrible greed, he had turned this capital into a cremation ground. Pashupati admitted to himself that he was indeed worthy of the death penalty—why had he, by disgracing Muhammad Ali, fled from prison? Let the Yavanas capture him—let them mete out the deserved punishment—he resolved to return. In his heart, he remembered his chosen goddess—but what could he pray for? There was nothing left to desire.

He looked up at the sky. The moon, stars, and planets adorned the heavens with a smiling, holy beauty that his eyes could not bear—like one scorched by intense light, he closed his eyes. Suddenly, an unearthly fear descended upon his heart—without cause, he could walk no further. All at once, his strength deserted him. As he tried to sit down by the roadside to rest, he found himself sitting upon a corpse. Blood oozing from the dead body stained his clothes and limbs. Shuddering, he sprang up again. He did not pause—he hurried on with quick steps. Suddenly, another thought struck him—his own house? Had it been spared by the hands of the Yavanas? And the flower-like, living idol he had hidden there—what had become of her? What was the fate of Manoroma? She, dearer to him than life, who had again and again restrained him from the path of sin—had she too been engulfed by the waves of his sea of sin? In this flood of Yavana soldiers, who knows where that tender blossom had been swept away!

Like a madman, Pashupati rushed toward his home. His... He appeared before the mansion. He saw that what he had feared had indeed come to pass—the lofty towers of his palace blazed like a burning volcano, consumed by fire.

At the very sight, the unfortunate Pashupati realized that the Yavanas had slain his townsfolk along with Manoroma and set his home ablaze. That Manoroma had escaped, he knew nothing of it—there was no one near to bring him such news. He accepted the verdict of his own shattered heart. The chalice of poison was filled to the brim—the last string of his heart snapped. For a while, he stood with wide, unblinking eyes, gazing at the burning palace—like a moth drawn to its doom, he lingered for a moment, his body paralyzed. Then, with a mighty leap, he hurled himself into the billowing waves of fire. The guards at his side stood stunned.

With desperate speed, Pashupati entered the city through the flaming gateway. His feet were scorched—his limbs were scorched—but Pashupati did not turn back. Crossing the pyre, he made his way to his own bedchamber—he saw no one. With his burning body, he rushed from room to room. The wild fire raging within his heart made him insensible to the torments of the flames without.

Moment by moment, new sections of the house fell prey to the fire—each stricken chamber sent up fierce tongues of flame, roaring skyward in terror. At intervals, the charred remains of his home crashed to the earth with the thunder of doom. Smoke, dust, and countless sparks filled the sky until it vanished from sight.

Like an elephant trapped in a forest fire, Pashupati wandered through the flames, searching here and there for his servants, his kin, and Manoroma. He found no trace of anyone—he despaired. Then his gaze fell upon the temple of the Goddess. He saw that the temple of the eight-armed Goddess, too, was seized by the flames and burning. Like a moth, Pashupati rushed into it— He entered. He saw, amidst the circle of fire, the undamaged golden idol stood resplendent. Pashupati, like a madman, cried out, “Mother! O Mistress of the World! I shall call you Jagadamba no more. I shall worship you no more. I shall not even bow to you. Since childhood, I have served you with body, mind, and speech—meditating upon your feet was the sole purpose of my life—yet now, Mother, for a single day’s sin, I have lost everything. Then why did I worship you? Why did you not turn my sinful mind away?”

The flames consuming the temple roared even more fiercely. Yet Pashupati, addressing the idol, continued, “Look there! Metal image!—you are but a metal image, not a goddess—see, the fire is roaring! The path my beloved has taken—the fire shall send you along that path as well. But I shall not let the fire claim this glory—I installed you here—I myself shall immerse you. Come! My chosen goddess! I shall immerse you in the waters of the Ganges.”

Saying this, Pashupati, desiring to lift the idol, grasped it with both hands. At that very moment, the fire roared again. Then, with a thunderous sound like the splitting of a mountain, the burning temple, sending forth clouds of ash and sparks into the sky, collapsed in ruins. Amidst it all, Pashupati found his living tomb with the idol.