Let me share the tale as revealed in these verses of the Rāmāyaṇa. The young ascetic, pierced by an arrow, spoke words heavy with sorrow and reproach. He lamented that such an act—fruitless and only bringing harm—would be condemned by all, just as one who approaches his teacher’s wife. His grief was not so much for his own life, but for his aged mother and father, who were like himself. He wondered aloud who would care for them now, for he had long supported them, and with his death, the aged couple would be left helpless. “My aged mother and father, and I too, are all slain by a single arrow—by a mere boy, ignorant of himself,” he cried. 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 ascetic’s sorrowful cries pierced the night, and I, greatly agitated and overwhelmed by grief, became utterly distraught. When I reached the place, my spirit broken and 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, and he lay pierced and tormented by the shaft. He looked at me with his eyes, though I was fearful and agitated in mind, 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?” he asked. “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 urged 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.” Then he pleaded, “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, the sage’s son, afflicted, weak, and overwhelmed 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.” 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 saw him lying there on the banks of the Sarayu, dear one, deeply distressed. Now, listen to the tale as it continues in the sixty-fourth chapter of 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. Then, taking the pitcher filled with pure water, I went to the hermitage, following the path as it had been described. 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 overcome by grief, their hearts trembling with fear, I reached that hermitage and was again seized by deep sorrow. Hearing the sound of my footsteps, the sage spoke: “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. “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. Revered one, I came to the bank of the Sarayu with my bow in hand, wishing to hunt, thinking some animal had come to drink, perhaps an elephant.” Thus, the tale unfolds, revealing the anguish, the remorse, and the sorrowful consequences of actions born from ignorance.