As the young ascetic lay mortally wounded on the riverbank, he gazed up at King Dasharatha and spoke with anguish, “O King, what wrong have I ever done to you, dwelling quietly in the forest, that you have struck me down while you sought water for your own purpose? With a single arrow, you have pierced my vital spot, and now my blind and aged parents—my mother and father—are as good as slain by your hand. Those two, weak and sightless, wait for me, parched with thirst, enduring the cruel torment of hope for my return. Truly, what is the fruit of all their asceticism and learning, if my father does not know that I lie here, fallen upon the ground? Even if he did know, what could he do? He is powerless, unable to move—just as one tree cannot save another from being felled. “O Rāghava, go quickly and tell my father yourself; do not let his anger burn you like a forest fire. This is the only path that leads to my father’s hermitage—go there and appease him, lest in his rage he curse you. But first, O King, draw out the sharp arrow from my body, 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.” Afflicted and overwhelmed by grief, the ascetic’s son saw the worry in Dasharatha’s heart. Suffering and in great distress, his body slackening and writhing as he approached his end, 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.” Thus, speaking with difficulty, his vital spot pierced, he trembled and writhed upon the earth, his body quivering. As he lay there, bending low, Dasharatha drew out the arrow from his body. After lamenting, his body soaked in water and crying out in pain from the wound in his heart, Dasharatha saw him lying there on the banks of the Sarayu, deeply distressed. Now, lamenting over the unjust killing of that great sage’s son, the righteous Rāghava recounted the story 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 the youth had 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 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 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, 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. Then, at his own words, as he was tormented, I quickly drew out the arrow from his vital spot. And with that arrow drawn out, he attained heaven right there; both you, the venerable ones, blind, lamenting, grieved for him. Unknowingly, your son was suddenly struck by me; as things have come to this, whatever remains, let the sage show me mercy.’ “Hearing those cruel words, sighing and consumed by grief, the venerable sage could not restrain his intense sorrow. With his face filled with tears, sighing, worn by sorrow, the great and radiant one spoke to me as I stood with joined palms. ‘If you had not yourself confessed this evil deed to me, O king, your head would have split instantly into a hundred thousand pieces as the result.’” Thus did Dasharatha recount the grievous tale, his heart heavy with the burden of his unintended sin.