Though he was aware of the consequences, King Dasharatha, overpowered by fate, acted as he did: entering a pit to drink, he shot arrows at those who had come, thinking them to be wild animals. The mighty-armed king slew these creatures, but fate was soon to turn against him. In that very excellent city, while the king was still in the pit, there lived an old man named Vaiśravaṇa. He was both deaf and blind, and his wife suffered the same afflictions. One night, tormented by thirst, they spoke to their young son. “We are overcome by thirst, and darkness has fallen. The lives of the aged depend entirely on others, yet you are but a child, dear son. Shame on the life of the blind, the deaf, and the aged; shame, shame, my son, on the life of those whose bodies are worn by old age. A man should live only as long as he possesses wealth, a strong body, and unimpeded authority; otherwise, death is preferable—especially at holy places.” Hearing their words, their devoted son, wise and gentle, sought to comfort them. “While I live, how can such sorrow afflict you both? A son who does not remove his parents’ distress through his conduct is unworthy. What use is such a son, who only brings grief to his family?” Having spoken thus, he bowed to his parents and consoled them. Then, with noble intent, he placed his aged parents upon the trunk of a tree for support. Taking up the water pot, the sage’s son departed to fetch water. Neither the sage nor the king recognized one another as they hurried to the same spot. The Brahmin youth entered the water swiftly and filled his pot. But King Dasharatha, mistaking the Brahmin for an elephant, shot him with sharp arrows. Even a wild elephant, knowing the inviolable status of kings, would not have attacked, but the king, deceived by fate, did so. Wounded in a vital spot, the Brahmin youth cried out in pain, “Who has committed this terrible deed against me, a virtuous Brahmin? I am Maitra, a Brahmin, as I have said; there is no fault in me whatsoever.” Hearing the suffering sage’s words, the king became motionless and despondent. Slowly, he approached. There, he saw the illustrious Brahmin youth, radiant even in suffering, and the king, overwhelmed with grief, felt as though pierced by a dart himself. Composing himself, the king spoke: “Who are you, O foremost of Brahmins? For what purpose have you come here? Tell me, for I have committed a great sin. Tell me the supreme atonement. A slayer of a Brahmin, even if eloquent, should never be touched, O wise one—not even by outcastes; he should never be seen at any time.” Hearing this, the sage’s son replied, his life ebbing away: “My life will soon depart, so I will say this. Know that the ripening of actions comes from freedom of conduct and ignorance. I do not grieve for myself, but for my aged parents—who will care for them, both blind, with only one son? Without me, how will they survive in this great forest? Alas, how unfortunate I am—my duty to serve my parents is now broken. Today I am as good as dead—O Fate, what have you done? Still, go quickly, carrying the water-pot. Give them water, so that they do not die.” With these words, his life departed in the great forest. Leaving behind his bow and arrows, the prince took up the water-pot and hurried to where the aged parents were waiting. That night, the two elders, anxious and alone in the forest, spoke to each other: “Is he anxious, or angry, or perhaps eaten by a beast? Why has our son not returned to us? What shall we do, what hope remains? There is no such son anywhere, moving or unmoving, who would disobey his parents’ words—even if reproached. Life is harder than a thunderbolt for those who, unable to see their son, do not quickly die, though their lives depend on him alone.” As the two elders lamented, King Dasharatha slowly approached. Hearing the sound of footsteps, they thought their son had returned. “Child, why have you come after so long? You are our only support, our sight—why do you not speak? Are you angry, son of your blind parents?” Pierced by grief for his own deed and fearful, the king—tormented with sorrow—spoke to them. When the elders heard his voice, they said, “Let us have water.” But then they realized, “This is not our son speaking—who are you? Tell us truly.” The king answered, “Let us drink water afterward. Your son stands there, where the water is kept.” Hearing this, the afflicted couple said, “Speak the truth, do not deceive us.” Then the king told them everything, just as it had happened. Upon hearing of their son’s fate, the two aged ones fell down in despair and cried, “Lead us there. Do not touch us—the touch of a slayer of a Brahmin is a sin that never perishes.