In the stillness of night, I would often wait at the river’s edge, my mind unsettled and my senses unchecked, seeking to hunt a buffalo or an elephant that might have come to drink, or any animal whose tracks I could find. Alone and alert, my bow drawn taut, I lay hidden in the brush, ready to strike at any wild creature that approached the water’s edge. One night, as I waited, I heard the sound of another fierce animal nearing the river. I listened intently, and in the darkness, I caught the noise of something moving in the water near a pot. The sound, within earshot, resembled the trumpeting of an elephant. Gripping a sharp arrow—its point blazing like the venom of a serpent—I aimed toward the sound, hoping to strike an elephant. With intent, I released the deadly shaft. But as dawn broke, a clear and anguished human cry rose from the forest, a voice lamenting, “Alas, alas!”—the voice of one struck in the vital parts, falling into the water. The moment the arrow struck, I heard that human voice: “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 such as I—a sage who has renounced violence, living in the forest on wild fruits—be slain by a weapon?” He continued, his voice trembling with pain: “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 these pitiful words, my heart was overwhelmed with anguish and a yearning for righteousness. My bow and arrow slipped from my hands and fell to the ground. The sorrowful cries in the night filled me with grief, and I became utterly distraught. Driven by remorse, I hurried to the spot, my spirit broken and my mind troubled, and there I saw the ascetic lying lifeless 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, he looked at me with his eyes and spoke harsh words, burning with the force of his ascetic 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.” The sage’s son, afflicted and weakened by grief, saw the worry in my heart. 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 pierced by the arrow, he trembled and writhed upon the earth, his body quivering. As he lay there, bending low, I carefully drew out the arrow from his body. After lamenting, my own body soaked in water and my heart pierced by grief, I saw him lying there on the banks of the Sarayu, deeply distressed. Now, listen to the next part of this sorrowful tale. Lamenting over the unjust killing of that great sage, I, the righteous Rāghava, spoke again to Kausalyā. Having committed such a great sin out of ignorance, my senses bewildered, I was left alone, thinking deeply about how any good could come from this deed. Then, taking the pitcher filled with pure water, I made my way to the hermitage, following the path as the ascetic’s son had described. There, I beheld his parents: old, blind, and helpless, like two birds with their wings clipped, awaiting the return of their beloved son.