As the rains began to fall, the pure streams turned restless, their waters reddened and surging, overflowing their banks and veering off course. Amidst this most pleasant season, I—armed with bow and arrows, eager for exercise—drove my chariot along the banks of the Sarayu river. At the river’s watering places, I lay in wait, hoping to hunt a buffalo or an elephant that had come at night, or perhaps some other animal whose tracks I might discover. My senses were uncontrolled, and I was intent on the chase. Alone in the night, my bow drawn, I killed a wild creature that had come to the riverbank, hidden among the brush. Then, hearing the sound of another fierce animal approaching, I listened carefully in the darkness. I heard something moving in the water near a pot, and within earshot, a sound like an elephant’s trumpet reached me. With hope of striking an elephant, I drew a sharp arrow—blazing like serpent’s venom—and released it, aiming only at the sound. But as dawn broke, a clear human voice rose from the forest, crying out in anguish, “Alas, alas!”—the voice of one struck in the vital parts by my arrow, now fallen into the water. When the arrow struck, the voice cried, “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. 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 these pitiful words, my heart yearned for righteousness. Overcome with anguish, my bow and arrow slipped from my hands and fell to the ground. The sorrowful cries in the night agitated me greatly; I was overwhelmed by grief and became utterly distraught. When I reached the place, my spirit broken, 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 was fearful and agitated in mind, he looked at me with his eyes and spoke harsh words, as if 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. 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 his anxious thought as I 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: “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.” As he spoke with difficulty, his vital spot struck by the arrow, he trembled and writhed upon the earth, his body quivering. As he lay there, bending low, I drew out the arrow from his body. After lamenting, his body soaked in water, crying out in pain from the constant wound in his heart, I saw him lying there on the banks of the Sarayu, deeply distressed. Now, listen to the sixty-fourth chapter in the Ayodhya Kanda of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Lamenting over the unjust killing of that great sage, the righteous Rāghava again spoke to Kausalyā. Having committed that great sin out of ignorance, my senses bewildered, I was left alone, thinking deeply how any good could come of it.