O Kausalya, King Dasharatha began, his voice heavy with sorrow, “Long ago, because of a mere sound—thinking it was an animal—I committed a terrible sin with my bow. I believed the tales of the ‘sound-shooter’ prince and, in my ignorance, acted rashly. Thus, O queen, this grief that now consumes me is of my own making. In my confusion, I brought this pain upon myself, just as a child might unwittingly swallow poison. I was deluded, just as some are tricked by the palāśa trees, mistaking them for something else. The consequences of shooting by sound—of that unknown, fateful act—have now come to fruition for me. You were then unmarried, and I had just ascended the throne. The rainy season arrived, stirring desires in my heart. As the sun, having enjoyed his journey across the sky and heated the world, slips away to another realm, following the path of the departed, so did that season pass. The sun withdrew his heat, the clouds thickened and shone, and all the frogs, deer, and peacocks rejoiced at the showers. Birds, their wings sodden and uplifted, struggled in the rain and wind, seeking refuge in the trees. The intoxicated deer, drenched by the ceaseless downpour, looked like mountains shrouded in water. From the mountain slopes, pure streams flowed—white and red, streaked with ash, winding like serpents. Even these clear waters, swollen and muddied by the rains, overflowed their banks and strayed from their course. It was at this most pleasant time that I, armed with bow and arrows, sought exercise and drove my chariot along the banks of the Sarayu River. At the watering places, I lay in wait, hoping to hunt a buffalo or an elephant that might come to the river at night, or any other animal whose tracks I might find. My senses were unchecked, and I was reckless. There, alone at night, my bow drawn, I killed a wild creature that had come to the riverbank, hidden among the reeds. Hearing then the sound of another fierce animal approaching, I listened closely. In the darkness, I heard a noise in the water, near a pot. The sound, like an elephant's trumpet, echoed within range. I drew a sharp arrow, blazing and deadly as a serpent’s venom, and aimed at the sound, thinking to strike an elephant. I released the arrow, swift and fatal. But as dawn broke, a clear human voice rose from the forest, crying out in agony. Someone, struck in the vital parts by my arrow, had fallen into the water, calling out, ‘Alas, alas!’ When my arrow struck, I heard him lament: ‘How could a weapon fall upon one such as me, devoted to austerity? At night, I had come to this secluded river to draw water—by whom have I been struck? What wrong have I done to anyone?’ He grieved, ‘How can 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. My bow and arrow fell from my hands to the earth as I was seized by anguish. The sorrowful cries in the night shattered me; I was utterly distraught. Compelled by remorse, I found my way to the spot, my spirit broken, my mind deeply troubled. There on the bank of the Sarayu, I saw the ascetic’s son, struck down by my arrow. His matted hair was scattered, his water pot overturned and emptied, his body stained with blood and pierced by the shaft. He looked at me with pain and reproach in his eyes, though I was trembling and agitated. With his spirit burning, he spoke harshly: ‘What wrong have I done to you, O King, while I dwelt in the forest? Why have you, seeking water for your own purpose, struck me down? With a single arrow to my vital spot, you have slain both my blind and aged parents—my mother and my father—just as surely as you have ended my life. Surely those two, weak and blind, are waiting for me, parched with thirst, enduring 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 being felled. Go quickly, O Rāghava, and tell my father yourself; do not let his anger burn you as a forest fire. This is the only path 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 river’s water. 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.’ The sage’s son, afflicted, weak, and overwhelmed by grief, saw the distress in my heart at that moment, as I stood there, shattered by the consequences of my deed.