The Gautamī, revered by the virtuous as the very embodiment of water, is honored and worshipped by the great gods—Hari, Brahmā, and Maheśa. Such is her sanctity that even the gravest transgressions, which none can escape, are overcome if a sinner remembers the Gaṅgā, or if his son does so on his behalf. By this remembrance, one is freed from many terrible hells and attains liberation; what, then, can be said of a son who stands near the Gautamī herself? No one can make such a soul suffer in hell, for the attendants of Yama obey the command of the lord of the southern direction, and the presence of a worthy son at the Gautamī is a shield against all torment. It was thus that the king of Ayodhya, Dasharatha, who was being tormented in hell, was rescued. The attendants spoke to him from that dreadful place, saying, “Blessed are you, O best of kings, who has such a son. In this world and the next, who finds rest except through a worthy son?” As Dasharatha found repose, he slowly addressed the attendants, asking, “While I was being tormented again and again in these terrible hells, how was I drawn out so swiftly? Tell me this here.” One among them, tranquil in mind, replied, “This is a secret carefully kept in the Vedas, scriptures, and Purāṇas, but it is revealed to you because of your son’s power and the sanctity of this pilgrimage. Your illustrious son Rāma has come to the bank of the Gautamī; therefore, O best of men, you have been drawn out from the dreadful hell. If Rāma, along with Lakṣmaṇa, remembers you there at the Gautamī, bathes, and offers piṇḍa and other rites, then you will be freed from all sins and ascend to heaven.” The attendant then asked Dasharatha for permission to convey these words to his sons, saying, “You alone are our refuge.” Hearing this, the attendants of Yama, moved by compassion, granted Dasharatha leave, and he went towards his sons. Assuming a terrifying body marked by torment, he sighed repeatedly, looked at himself in shame, and remembered the deeds he had done. Meanwhile, Rāghava, wandering as he wished, reached the Gaṅgā, and Rāma, together with Lakṣmaṇa, took refuge on the bank of the Gautamī. There, with Sītā, the daughter of Videha, they bathed according to the prescribed rite. Yet, on the bank of the Gautamī, there was neither food nor anything to eat. As they stayed among the dwellers there, Lakṣmaṇa, distressed, spoke to Rāma: “We are the sons of Daśaratha, and your strength is great; yet there is no food for us or for those who live by the Gaṅgā.” Rāma replied, “Brother, whatever deed is ordained cannot be otherwise. Though the earth is full of food, we are desirous of food. Surely, Saumitri, we have not offered oblations into the mouths of Brāhmaṇas; out of neglect, we have not satisfied or worshipped the deities of the earth. Those who are always hungry are born thus. After bathing and worshipping the gods, one should offer oblations into the fire; then, at the proper time, the god will provide us with food.” As the two brothers conversed, observing the course of events, King Dasharatha gradually arrived at that place. Seeing him, Lakṣmaṇa quickly said, “Stop, stop!” and, drawing his bow in anger, declared, “You are a demon or a rakshasa!” Again, seeing him approach, Rāma said, “Go, go! Here is a righteous king, a virtuous man; observe how he stands. Where Raghava stands, devoted to his elders, steadfast in truth, serving gods and brahmins, and skilled in protecting the three worlds, there is no entry for those like you who perform evil deeds. If you enter, you will surely meet your death.” Hearing his sons’ words, Dasharatha slowly called to them and spoke, downcast, with folded hands to his daughter-in-law and sons, repeatedly pondering the fate of one who has committed evil. “I am King Dasharatha; listen, my sons, to my words. Surrounded by three acts of brahma-hatya, I have come into suffering. Behold my body, severed and cast into hell.” Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa, with joined palms, bowed to the earth and spoke: “O father, best of kings, whose deed’s fruit is this?” Dasharatha then narrated, as it happened, the three acts of brahma-hatya. “There is nowhere any expiation for those who slay a brahmin, my sons.” Overwhelmed with great sorrow, all were cast down—the king, the exiles to the forest, the mother, and the father alike. Recalling the arrival of sorrow, the course of karma, and the fall into hell, the king’s son fainted; seeing him unconscious, Sītā spoke: “The great-souled do not grieve at the onset of misfortune; they consider remedies, both divine and human. Even grieving for a thousand ages, calamity is never overcome; those lacking discernment fall into confusion and are never wise. What use is this fruitless sorrow, O lord of men? Tell us first of the murder that occurred, which was exceedingly dreadful. A brahmin, devoted to his father, virtuous, accomplished in the Vedas and their branches, innocent, who was slain—what is the expiation for that sin here? I shall act according to scripture; do not grieve, you two. Let Lakṣmaṇa take the second murder, and you, the other.” Thus, in the presence of the sacred Gautamī and the assembled family, the king’s tale of sorrow and sin was revealed, and the path to expiation was sought with reverence and resolve.