King Dasharatha, overcome with sorrow, spoke to Kausalya, his heart heavy with regret. “I have cut down the mango grove and watered the palāśa trees,” he lamented, “and abandoned Rama at the time of fruit. Now, in my foolishness, I grieve for what I have done.” He explained further, “Because of a sound, O Kausalya, and by a prince bearing a bow, I committed this sin, thinking, ‘He is a sound-shooter.’ Thus, O queen, this sorrow, self-caused, has come upon me; through confusion, as a child might mistakenly consume poison, I have brought this pain upon myself. Just as another man might be deceived by palāśa trees, so too has the unknown fruit of shooting by sound come to me.” Dasharatha recalled the time before marriage, when Kausalya was unmarried and he had ascended the throne. The rainy season arrived, stirring his desires. He enjoyed the pleasures of the earth, and as the sun heated the world with its rays, it soon departed to another region, following the path of the dead. The sun withdrew its heat, and glossy clouds appeared. Frogs, deer, and peacocks rejoiced in the rain. Birds, their wings wet and uplifted as if struggling to bathe, were shaken by rain and wind, flocking to the shelter of trees. Intoxicated deer, covered repeatedly by falling water, seemed like mountains massed with water. Pure streams flowed from mountain slopes, white and red, streaked with ash, like serpents. Even these pure streams, their waters reddened and agitated, overflowed their banks and ran off course with the coming of the rains. At that most pleasant time, Dasharatha, armed with bow and arrows and intent on exercise, drove his chariot along the Sarayu river. At the watering places, seeking to kill a buffalo or an elephant that had come to the river at night, or some other animal whose tracks he might find, he lay in wait, his senses uncontrolled. There, alone at night, with his bow drawn, he killed a wild creature that had come to the riverbank, concealed in the brush. Hearing the sound of another fierce animal approaching, he listened intently. In the darkness, he heard the noise of something moving in the water near a pot. Within hearing range, he caught a sound like an elephant trumpeting. So he drew forth a sharp arrow, blazing like serpent’s venom, and, aiming at the sound, desiring an elephant, he 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?” The sage continued, his words filled with pain: “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.” Hearing those pitiful words, Dasharatha’s heart, yearning for righteousness, was overcome with anguish. His bow and arrow fell from his hands to the ground. Hearing the sage’s sorrowful cries in the night, Dasharatha, greatly agitated and overwhelmed by grief, became utterly distraught. When he reached the place, his spirit broken and his mind deeply troubled, he saw the ascetic lying dead on the bank of the Sarayu, struck by an arrow. The sage’s matted hair was scattered, his water pot overturned and emptied, his body stained with blood, pierced and tormented by the shaft. The dying ascetic looked at Dasharatha with his eyes, though Dasharatha was fearful and agitated in mind, and spoke harsh words, burning with his 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? With a single arrow striking my vital spot, both my blind and aged parents—my mother and my father—are now as good as slain. Surely those two, weak and blind, are waiting for me, parched with thirst, enduring for long the cruel torment of hope. Truly, there is no fruit of asceticism or of learning, since my father does not know that I lie fallen here upon the ground. Even if he knew, what could he do? He is powerless, unable to move, just as one tree cannot save another tree being felled.” He pleaded, “Go quickly, O Rāghava, and tell my father yourself; do not let his anger burn you like a fire blazing in the forest. This is the only path, O King, that leads to my father’s hermitage; go there and appease him, lest he, enraged, curse you. Draw out the sharp arrow from my vital spot, O King, for it blocks my life-breath, just as a gentle mound holds back the water at the riverbank. If I remain pierced by the shaft, I will suffer with my life; if it is removed, I will perish. Such was my anxious thought as you prepared to draw out the arrow.” Dasharatha’s heart was filled with remorse and pain as he listened to the sage’s final words, the consequences of his action weighing heavily upon him.