As the night deepened, I heard the anguished voice of the ascetic’s son cry out, “My aged mother and father, and I too, are all slain by a single arrow—by a mere boy, ignorant of himself.” The pitiful weight of his words struck my heart, which longed for righteousness. In my overwhelming grief, my bow and arrow slipped from my hands and fell to the ground. The sorrowful cries echoing through the darkness left me deeply agitated and distraught, my spirit utterly shaken. Driven by remorse, I hurried to the place from which the cries came, my heart heavy and my mind tormented. There, upon the bank of the Sarayu, I saw the ascetic lying dead, felled by my arrow. His matted hair lay disheveled, his water pot overturned and emptied, his body stained with blood, pierced and tormented by the shaft. Though I stood before him, fearful and troubled, he fixed his gaze upon me, his eyes burning with pain and energy, and spoke harshly: “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 further, “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, his anxious thoughts were clear. The sage’s son, weak and overwhelmed by suffering, sensed my own worry. In great distress, his limbs slackening as his end drew near, he spoke again, “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 great difficulty, his body quivered and writhed upon the earth, pierced by my arrow. Bending low, I drew out the arrow from his body. He lamented, his body soaked with water and his heart wounded, crying out in pain. There on the banks of the Sarayu, I saw him lying, dear one, deeply distressed. Now, listen to the next part of this account from the Ayodhya Kanda of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Lamenting over the unjust killing of that great sage, I, the righteous Rāghava, spoke again to Kausalyā. “Having committed that great sin out of ignorance, my senses bewildered, I was left alone, reflecting deeply on whether any good could come of it. Then, taking the pitcher filled with pure water, I went to the hermitage, following the path as the ascetic’s son had described. There I saw his parents—old, blind, and helpless—like two birds with their wings clipped. Unable to move, they sat together, passing the time with stories about their son, deprived of hope because of me, forlorn and unsupported. Their minds were overcome by grief, their hearts trembling with fear. As I reached the hermitage, sorrow seized me once more. 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?’ Trembling and fearful, I approached 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. 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. Then I heard the sound of a pitcher being filled in the water. Thinking it was an elephant, I struck with my arrow. Going to the riverbank, I saw an ascetic lying on the ground, pierced in the heart by my arrow, his life departed. O venerable one, hearing the sound, I, intending to kill an elephant, released an iron arrow into the water; by that, your son was slain.