As I stood there, overwhelmed by the gravity of what had occurred, the words of the ascetic echoed in my ears. “How can one like me—a sage who has renounced violence, living in the forest on wild fruits—be slain by a weapon? Who would wish for my death, burdened as I am with matted hair, clad in bark and skins? What harm have I done to him?” His voice trembled with sorrow. “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, which always yearned for righteousness, was seized by anguish. My bow and arrow slipped from my hands and fell to the ground. The sorrowful cries of the ascetic pierced the night, and I, greatly agitated and overwhelmed by grief, became utterly distraught. With my spirit broken and my mind deeply troubled, I made my way to the riverbank. There, on the banks of the Sarayu, I saw the ascetic lying dead, struck down 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. As I approached, fearful and agitated, he looked at me with burning eyes and spoke harsh words. “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 paused, his breath shallow, and continued, “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 weak, 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.” Thus, 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 with a body soaked in water, crying out in pain from the constant wound in his heart, I then saw him lying there on the banks of the Sarayu, deeply distressed. Now, listen to the next part of this tale, as described in the Ayodhya Kanda of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Lamenting over the unjust killing of that great sage, I, the righteous Rāghava, again spoke to my mother 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. Then, taking the pitcher filled with pure water, I went to the hermitage, following the path as it had been described to me. There I saw his parents, old, blind, and helpless—like two birds with their wings clipped. Sitting there, unable to move, they passed the time with stories about him, deprived of hope because of me, forlorn like those without support. Their minds were overcome by grief, their hearts trembling with fear. As I reached the hermitage, I was again seized by deep sorrow. Hearing the sound of my footsteps, the sage called out, “Why are you delayed, my son? Quickly bring me water. For whatever reason you have been playing in the water, dear child, your mother is anxious for you. Quickly come into the hermitage. If any wrong has been done by your mother or by me, my son, you, being devoted to austerity, should not keep it in your heart. You are the refuge of the helpless and the eyes of the blind. Our lives are bound up in you. Why do you not speak to us, even a little?” Seeing the sage, I, trembling and fearful, spoke to him in a faltering, indistinct voice. Steadying my mind and gathering my strength to speak, I told him of the terrible misfortune that had befallen his son.