At that moment, the sage’s son, weakened and overwhelmed by grief, perceived the turmoil in my heart. Afflicted and in great distress, his body slackening and writhing as he neared his end, he spoke to me with utmost anguish. “I steady my mind with courage, O King,” he said. “Remove from your heart the sin of brahmin-slaying that has been committed.” Comforting me further, he explained, “I am not a brahmin, O King; 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 these words with difficulty, his vital spot pierced by my arrow, he trembled and writhed upon the earth, his body quivering. Bending low as he lay there, I 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, I saw him lying there on the banks of the Sarayu, deeply distressed. Lamenting the unjust killing of that great sage, I, Rāghava, once again spoke to Kausalyā. Having committed such a grave sin out of ignorance, my senses bewildered, I was left alone, pondering deeply if any good could come from my actions. Then, taking a 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 spent their time recounting stories about their son, deprived of hope because of me, forlorn and without support. 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.” He continued, “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, 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 spoke to the sage 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 intended to kill an elephant and 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. With the arrow drawn out, he attained heaven right there; both of you, venerable ones, blind, lamented and 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. His face filled with tears, sighing and 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 a result. 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, you live; otherwise, today the lineage of the Raghus would have perished—how then could you remain?” “Lead us, O king, to that place,” the sage said to me. “Today we wish to see our son for the last time.” His body stained with blood, his deerskin garment scattered, lying unconscious on the ground, he had gone to the realm of righteousness. Then I, alone, led those two, greatly afflicted, to that place, letting the sage and his wife touch their son. The ascetics, having reached and touched their son, fell upon his body. His father spoke these words: “Am I not dear to you, my son? Behold your mother, O righteous one; why do you not embrace her, my gentle-voiced child? Speak. Am I not dear to you, my son? Behold your mother, O righteous one; why do you not embrace her, my gentle-voiced child? Speak.