King Dasaratha, his heart heavy and restless, awoke again and again through the long hours of the night, his mind consumed by grief. The exile of both Rama and Lakshmana had brought disaster upon his kingdom, a calamity so great it was as if the very darkness of the Asuras had swallowed the sun itself, casting all into gloom. When Rama departed with Sita, Dasaratha, lord of Kosala, felt compelled to speak to Kausalya, she of the gentle, dark eyes, for his heart was burdened by the memory of a grievous deed from his past. Thus, on the sixth night after Rama’s departure to the forest, the king lay awake, tormented by sorrow for his son and haunted by his own misdeed. In the stillness of night, Dasaratha spoke to Kausalya, who herself was bowed with grief for her beloved son. “Whatever a person does, O noble lady—be it good or bad—that alone returns to the doer as the fruit of his own actions. He who does not understand the true value of wealth or the consequences of his deeds at their beginning, or their faults, is but a child.” He continued, “Consider one who cuts down a fruitful mango grove and instead waters the palāśa trees; when the palāśa blooms, he delights in the flowers, but when the season for fruit arrives, he grieves, for there is none. Likewise, he who acts without foreseeing the outcome mourns when the fruit of his actions appears, just as the one who waters the kimśuka tree longs for fruit in vain. “So it is with me. I have destroyed the mango grove and nurtured the palāśa; I have cast Rama away in the time of his ripening, and now, foolishly, I grieve. O Kausalya, because of a sound, I once committed a sin with bow in hand, thinking myself a master of shooting by sound alone. Thus, this sorrow is of my own making, as if a child, out of ignorance, had drunk poison. I am like one deceived by the palāśa tree, and now I reap the bitter fruit of my error. “In those earlier days, before you and I were wed, I became king, and the rainy season came, stirring my desires. The sun, having delighted in the earth and scorched it with his rays, vanished to another region, as if following the path of the dead. He drew back his heat, the clouds gathered, and all the frogs, deer, and peacocks rejoiced in the rain. Birds, their wings wet and uplifted, shaken by wind and water, flocked to the trees. The deer, drenched again and again by the falling rain, looked like mountains shrouded in mist. Streams, pure and swift, tumbled down the slopes, their waters white and red, streaked with ash, winding like serpents. Even the purest streams, now muddied and swollen, overflowed their banks with the coming of the rains. “At that most pleasant time, eager for exercise and armed with bow and arrows, I drove my chariot along the Sarayu river. At the watering places, I lay in wait, seeking to hunt buffalo or elephant that might come to drink at night, or any other animal whose tracks I might find—for then, my senses were unrestrained. “There, alone at night, bow drawn, I killed a wild creature that had come to the riverbank, hidden among the brush. Hearing another fierce sound approaching, I listened intently; in the darkness, I heard movement in the water near a pot. Within earshot, the sound was like that of an elephant trumpeting. So, drawing a sharp arrow, blazing like a serpent’s venom, I aimed at the sound, desiring to fell an elephant, and released the deadly shaft. “But then, at dawn, a clear human voice rose from the forest, crying out in agony, ‘Alas, alas!’—the cry of one struck in the vital parts by an arrow and falling into the water. When my arrow struck, I heard a human voice: ‘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 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.’ “Hearing those pitiful words, my heart, yearning for righteousness, was overcome with anguish; my bow and arrow slipped from my hands and fell to the ground. Hearing his sorrowful cries in the night, I was shaken to my core, overwhelmed by grief, and became utterly distraught. When I reached the spot, my spirit broken and my mind deeply troubled, I saw the ascetic lying dead on the bank of the Sarayu, pierced by my arrow. His matted hair was scattered, his water pot overturned and empty, his body stained with blood, tormented by the shaft. He looked at me with his eyes, though I was fearful and agitated, and spoke harsh words, as if burning with the power of his own ascetic energy.