Even if he had known what was to happen, what could he have done? He was powerless, unable to move—just as one tree cannot save another tree being felled. “Go quickly, O Rāghava,” he urged me, “and tell my father yourself. Do not let his anger burn you like a fire blazing in the forest. There is only one path, O King, that leads to my father’s hermitage; go there and appease him, lest, enraged, he 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, weak, and overwhelmed by grief, saw the worry in my heart at that moment. 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, dear one, deeply distressed. Now, listen to the next part of this tale, as told in the sixty-fourth chapter of the Ayodhya Kanda of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Lamenting over the unjust killing of that great sage, I, 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 that 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 were overcome by grief, their hearts trembling with fear. As I reached that 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, 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. O king, the slaying of a forest-dweller, especially by a Kshatriya, if done knowingly, would cast down even Indra from his place. But for a sage steadfast in austerity, if such a weapon is released knowingly against a celibate, the head splits into seven parts as a result. But since this was done out of ignorance, therefore you live; otherwise, today the lineage of the Raghus would have perished—how then could you remain? Lead us, O king, to that place,” he said to me. “Today we wish to see our son for the last time.