As the grievous tale unfolded, the sorrowful voice of the dying ascetic echoed in my heart. He cried, “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 that such an act—fruitless and bringing only harm—would be condemned by all, just as one who approaches his teacher’s wife. His pain was not for himself alone; he mourned more for his mother and father, who, like him, were innocent and vulnerable. “That aged couple, long supported by me—when I am gone, who will care for them?” he wept. “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, ever yearning for righteousness, was overwhelmed. My bow and arrow slipped from my hands and fell to the ground as I was seized by anguish. The sorrowful cries of the ascetic pierced the night, leaving me greatly agitated and utterly distraught. When at last I reached the spot, my spirit broken and my mind deeply troubled, I saw the young ascetic lying dead upon the bank of the Sarayu, 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. Though I stood there, fearful and agitated, he looked at me with burning eyes and spoke harshly, his words searing with 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 implored me, “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.” As I prepared to draw out the arrow, I saw the worry in his heart. Afflicted and weak, overwhelmed by grief, he saw my distress and spoke to me with utmost anguish, his limbs slackening as he writhed in his final moments. “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. Bending low, I drew the arrow from his body. After lamenting, his body soaked in water and crying out in pain from the wound in his heart, I saw him lying there on the banks of the Sarayu, dear one, deeply distressed. Now, listen to the next part of this grievous tale. Still lamenting 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, pondering how any good could come from my deed. Then, taking the pitcher filled with pure water, I made my way to the hermitage, following the path as the ascetic had described. There, I saw his parents—old, blind, and helpless—like two birds with their wings clipped. Sitting together, unable to move, they passed the time with stories of their son, 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 seized again 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 trembled, fearful and ashamed, and spoke in a faltering, indistinct voice. Steadying my mind and gathering my strength, I told him of the terrible misfortune that had befallen his son: “I am a Kshatriya, Dasharatha by name, not your son, O great soul. I have come to this sorrow, despised by the good, as a result of my own actions.