With the exile of both Rama and Lakshmana, a calamity descended upon the kingdom, as if Indra’s own misfortune had entered Ayodhya. Darkness, like that of the Asuras obscuring the sun, enveloped the land. When Rama departed with Sita, the lord of Kosala—King Dasaratha—longed to speak to Kausalya, she whose eyes were dark and sorrowful. In that moment, the king’s mind turned to his own past misdeeds. After Rama had gone to the forest, Dasaratha spent the sixth night in restless torment, haunted by memories of his wrongdoing in the stillness of midnight. Grief for his son overwhelmed him, and as he remembered his past actions, he spoke to Kausalya, who herself was bowed with sorrow for Rama. He said, “Whatever a person does, noble lady—be it good or bad—that alone does the doer reap as the fruit of his own actions. One who does not know the weight or lightness of wealth, nor the result of actions at their outset, nor their faults, is but a child. Consider a man who, having cut down a mango grove, waters the palāśa trees instead. When the flowers bloom, he longs for fruit, but at the time of harvest, he grieves, for there is none. So too, he who acts without knowing the outcome, mourns when the fruit of his deeds appears, like one who waters the kimśuka tree and is disappointed. “In this way, I have cut down the mango grove and watered the palāśa trees; I have abandoned Rama at the very season of fruit, and now, in my folly, I am left to grieve. Because of a sound, O Kausalya, I committed a sin with my bow, thinking myself a skilled hunter—one who shoots by sound alone. And so, this sorrow, self-caused, has come upon me; in my confusion, as a child might unwittingly take poison, I have brought this upon myself. Just as another is deceived by palāśa trees, so too has the unknown fruit of my sound-shooting come to me. “You were yet unmarried, O queen, when I became king; then the rainy season arrived, stirring new desires in my heart. Having enjoyed the delights of the earth, and as the sun, having heated the world with his rays, withdraws to another region as if following the path of the dead, so too did I seek new pursuits. The sun drew in his heat, glossy clouds appeared, and all the frogs, deer, and peacocks rejoiced. Birds, their wings wet and uplifted, battered by rain and wind, flocked to the trees as if bathed with difficulty. The intoxicated deer, drenched again and again by falling water, looked like mountains shrouded in mist. Streams, pure and clear, flowed down mountain slopes, streaked with white and red, like serpents gliding through the land. Even these streams, their waters reddened and agitated, overflowed their banks and wandered off course with the coming of the rains. “At that most pleasant time, I armed myself with bow and arrows and, intent on exercise, drove my chariot along the Sarayu river. At the watering places, I lay in wait, seeking to hunt a buffalo or elephant that might come to the river at night, or any other animal whose tracks I could find. My senses were unrestrained. “There, alone at night, with my bow drawn, I killed a wild creature that had come to the riverbank, hidden in the brush. Hearing the sound of another fierce animal approaching, I listened intently. In the darkness, I heard the noise of something moving in the water near a pot. The sound, within range of hearing, was like an elephant trumpeting. So I drew forth a sharp arrow, blazing like serpent’s venom, and, aiming at the sound, released it, desiring to strike an elephant. That arrow, keen and deadly, sped forth as if imbued with poison. “Then, at dawn, I heard a clear human voice rise from the forest, crying out in anguish—‘Alas, alas!’—as one struck in the vital parts by an arrow fell into the water. When my arrow struck, a human voice cried out, ‘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. ‘Yet 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. My bow and arrows fell from my hands to the ground as anguish seized me. Hearing his sorrowful cries in the night, I was shaken, overwhelmed by grief, and 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 my 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. He looked at me with his eyes, though I was fearful and agitated, and spoke harsh words, as if burning with his ascetic energy: ‘What wrong have I done to you, O King, as I dwelt in the forest, that you, wishing to take water for your own purpose, have struck me down?