King Dasaratha, restless and unable to find peace, spent the sixth night since Rama’s exile in deep sorrow. His mind was overwhelmed by grief, and he could not escape the tormenting thoughts of his own past misdeed. The calamity of losing both Rama and Lakshmana felt as though a darkness, like that which the Asuras cast over the sun, had descended upon his life, plunging Ayodhya into despair. As Rama departed for the forest with Sita, Dasaratha, the lord of Kosala, found himself compelled to speak to Kausalya, whose eyes were darkened with sorrow. He remembered the wrong he had committed, and in the quiet hours of the night, he was haunted by it. Tormented by grief for his son and recalling his own sin, Dasaratha addressed Kausalya, who herself was suffering the pain of separation from Rama. He spoke gently to her: “O noble lady, whatever a person does—good or bad—that alone does the doer obtain as the fruit of their actions. He who does not understand the weight or lightness of wealth, or the consequences of actions at their outset, or their faults, is called a child. Like someone who, having cut down a mango grove, waters palāśa trees and, seeing their flowers, longs for fruit but grieves when the fruiting season comes, so too does one who acts without understanding the outcome. When the time of the fruit arrives, such a person grieves, just as one who waters the kimśuka tree.” Dasaratha continued, his voice heavy with regret, “I too have acted foolishly. I cut down the mango grove and watered the palāśa trees—I have abandoned Rama at the time of fruit, and now I grieve. It was because of a sound, Kausalya, that I, a prince bearing a bow, committed this sin, thinking, ‘He is a sound-shooter.’ Thus, this sorrow, self-caused, has come upon me; confused, as a child might eat poison, so did I err. Just as another man might be deluded by palāśa trees, so too, for me, the fruit of shooting by sound, unknown, has come.” He began to recount the events of that fateful night. “You were unmarried, O queen, and I had just become king. The rainy season arrived, increasing my desires. Having enjoyed earthly delights, the sun, after heating the world with his rays, entered another region, as if following the path of the dead. The heat withdrew, clouds appeared glossy, and all the frogs, deer, and peacocks rejoiced. Birds, their wings wet and uplifted, flocked to the trees, shaken by rain and wind. The intoxicated deer, covered repeatedly by falling water, looked like mountains massed with water. Streams flowed from the mountain slopes—white and red, streaked with ash, like serpents. Even the pure streams, their waters reddened and agitated, overflowed their banks and ran off course as the rains came.” “At that most pleasant time, armed with bow and arrows and intent on exercise, I drove my chariot along the Sarayu river. At the watering places, I sought to kill a buffalo or an elephant that had come to the river at night, or some other animal whose tracks I might find. With uncontrolled senses, I lay in wait. Alone at night, my bow drawn, I killed a wild creature that had come to the riverbank, concealed in the brush.” He described the moment that changed his life forever. “Hearing the sound of another fierce animal approaching, I listened. In the darkness, I heard the noise of something moving in the water near a pot. Within the range of hearing, I heard a sound like an elephant trumpeting. So I drew forth a sharp arrow, blazing like a serpent’s venom, and, aiming at the sound, desiring an elephant, I released that keen arrow, deadly as serpent’s poison.” “Then, at dawn, a clear human voice arose from the forest, crying ‘Alas, alas!’ as one struck in the vital parts by an arrow fell into the water. When the arrow struck, a human voice was heard: ‘How could a weapon fall upon one like me, devoted to austerity? At night, I came to this secluded river to draw water; by whom have I been struck with an arrow? What wrong have I done to anyone? How can one like me, a sage who has renounced violence and lives in the forest on wild food, be slain by a weapon? Who would seek my death, burdened as I am with matted hair, clad in bark and skins? What harm have I done to him? Such an act, fruitless and only bringing harm, would be condemned by all, just as one who approaches his teacher’s wife.’” “‘I do not grieve so much for the loss of my own life, but for my mother and father, who are like me. That aged couple, long supported by me—when I am gone, who will care for them? My aged mother and father, and I too, are all slain by a single arrow—by a mere boy, ignorant of himself.’” Dasaratha’s anguish was overwhelming as he recalled, “Hearing those pitiful words, my heart yearning for righteousness, my bow and arrow fell from my hands to the ground. I was overcome with anguish. Hearing his sorrowful cries in the night, I, greatly agitated and overwhelmed by grief, became utterly distraught. When I reached that place, my spirit broken and my mind deeply troubled, I saw the ascetic lying dead on the bank of the Sarayu, struck by an arrow. His matted hair was scattered, his water pot overturned and emptied, his body stained with blood, and he lay pierced and tormented by the shaft.” Thus, Dasaratha confessed to Kausalya the source of his lifelong sorrow—a single misdeed, born of ignorance, whose consequences now returned to him in the grief of losing his beloved son, Rama.