After having delighted in the pleasures of the earth and blazing the world with his rays, the sun, as if following the path of the departed, withdrew and entered another region. With his heat held back, glossy clouds began to gather across the sky, and all the frogs, deer, and peacocks rejoiced at the change. The birds, their wings wet and uplifted as if bathed with difficulty, were shaken by the wind and rain and flew in flocks to the shelter of the trees. The intoxicated deer, drenched repeatedly by the falling rain, seemed like a mountain massed with water. From the mountain slopes, pure streams began to flow, white and red in color, streaked with ash, resembling serpents gliding down. The streams, their waters reddened and agitated, overflowed their banks and ran off their usual courses as the rains intensified. At that most pleasant time, I, armed with bow and arrows and intent on exercising my skills, drove my chariot along the banks of the Sarayu river. At the watering places, I lay in wait, seeking to hunt a buffalo or an elephant that might have come to the river at night, or any other animal whose tracks I could find, my senses uncontrolled. Alone at night, with my bow drawn, I killed a wild creature that had come to the riverbank, concealed within the brush. Soon after, I heard the approach of another fierce animal. Listening intently in the darkness, I caught the sound of something moving in the water near a pot. Within earshot, I heard a noise like the trumpeting of an elephant. Eager for the hunt, I drew forth a sharp arrow, blazing like serpent’s venom, and, aiming at the sound, released it, desiring to strike an elephant. But then, as dawn broke, a clear human voice arose from the forest, crying out in anguish, “Alas, alas!”—the cry of one struck in the vital parts by an arrow and fallen into the water. When the arrow struck, I heard that human voice: “How could a weapon fall upon one such as 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 bringing only 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 overcome with anguish; my bow and arrow fell from my hands to the ground. His sorrowful cries in the night left me distraught and deeply agitated. When I reached the spot, my spirit broken and my mind troubled, I saw the ascetic lying dead on the bank of the Sarayu, struck by my arrow. His matted hair was disheveled, his water pot overturned and emptied, his body stained with blood, and he lay pierced and tormented by the shaft. Though I was fearful and shaken, he looked at me and spoke harsh words, his energy burning. “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. “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, his limbs slackening and writhing as he neared his end, he spoke to me with utmost anguish: “I steady my mind with courage, O King; remove from your heart the sin of brahmin-slaying that has been committed. I am not a brahmin, O King, so let your mind not be troubled; I was born to a śūdra mother and a vaiśya father, O lord of the land.” Thus, as he spoke with difficulty, his vital spot struck by the arrow, he trembled and writhed upon the earth, his body quivering in the throes of death.