Therefore, O queen, this sorrow that has overtaken me is of my own making. In my confusion, I acted as a child might, who through ignorance would consume poison. Just as a man might be deceived by the palāśa trees, mistaking them for something else, so too I have been misled by the fruit of shooting by sound—a skill whose consequences I did not fully understand. At that time, you were still unmarried, and I had just become king. The rainy season arrived, stirring desires within me. Having enjoyed the pleasures of the earth, and as the sun, having heated the world with his rays, seemed to journey to another realm as if following the path of the dead, the world changed. The sun, holding back his heat, was veiled by glossy clouds, and all the frogs, deer, and peacocks rejoiced in the rain’s arrival. Birds, their wings wet and uplifted as if they had bathed with difficulty, were shaken by the wind and rain and flocked to the shelter of the trees. The intoxicated deer, covered again and again by the falling water, appeared like a mountain massed with rain. From the mountain slopes, pure streams flowed, white and red, streaked with ash, resembling serpents. Even these pristine streams, their waters reddened and agitated, began to overflow their banks and run wild as the rains came. Amidst this most pleasant season, armed with my bow and arrows and eager for exercise, I drove my chariot along the Sarayu river. At the watering places, I lay in wait, seeking to hunt a buffalo or elephant that might have come to the river at night, or any other animal whose tracks I could find, my senses unrestrained. There, alone at night, with my bow drawn, I killed a wild creature that had come to the riverbank, hidden in the brush. As I listened for the sound of another fierce animal approaching, I heard, in the darkness, the noise of something moving in the water near a pot. Within earshot, the sound resembled an elephant trumpeting, so I took up a sharp arrow, blazing like a serpent’s venom, and, aiming at the sound, I released it, desiring to strike an elephant. But at dawn, a clear human voice rose from the forest, crying out in agony as one struck in the vital parts by an arrow fell into the water: "Alas, alas!" When my arrow struck, the voice was unmistakably human: "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?" He lamented further, "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, my heart, yearning for righteousness, was overwhelmed. My bow and arrow fell from my hands to the ground as I was seized by anguish. His sorrowful cries pierced the night, and I, greatly agitated and overwhelmed by grief, became utterly distraught. When I reached the 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, pierced and tormented by the shaft. Though I stood there fearful and agitated, he looked at me with his eyes and spoke harsh words, as if burning with the force of his energy. He said, "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 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." The sage's son, afflicted, weak, and overwhelmed by grief, saw the worry in my heart at that moment. Suffering and in great distress, he spoke to me with utmost anguish, his limbs slackening, writhing as he approached his end.