Suffering deeply and writhing in pain, the young ascetic spoke to me, his limbs slackening as the end of his life drew near. With great effort, he steadied his mind and addressed me, his voice filled with anguish: “O King, summon your courage—do not let the sin of brahmin-slaying weigh upon your heart.” He went on, struggling to speak, “I am not a brahmin, O King. Let your mind be at peace. My mother is a śūdra and my father a vaiśya, O lord of the land.” As he uttered these words, his body trembled violently, the arrow wound at his vital spot causing him to writhe upon the earth. Bending low beside him, I gently drew the arrow from his body. His form, soaked and weakened, was wracked by cries of pain, his heart wounded beyond repair. I watched in sorrow as he lay there on the banks of the Sarayu, his suffering overwhelming, his distress profound. Now, listen as I recount what followed. Lamenting the unjust death of that great ascetic, I, Rāghava, spoke again to my mother Kausalyā. The weight of the sin I had committed unknowingly pressed upon me, leaving me alone and bewildered, my mind searching desperately for any hope of redemption. Carrying a pitcher filled with pure water, I made my way to the hermitage, following the path as it had been described to me. There, I saw his parents—old, blind, and helpless—like two birds with their wings clipped. Sitting together, unable to move, they passed their days speaking of their beloved son, now bereft of hope because of my deed, forlorn and without support. Overcome by grief and trembling with fear, I entered the hermitage, sorrow filling my heart anew. As I approached, the sage heard my footsteps and called out, “Why are you delayed, my son? Bring me water quickly.” His wife added, “Whatever has kept you at the water, dear child, your mother is anxious for you. Come quickly into the hermitage.” With gentle concern, they continued, “If any wrong has been done by your mother or by me, my son, you, devoted to austerity, should not hold it in your heart. You are the refuge of the helpless, the eyes of the blind; our lives are bound to you. Why do you not speak to us, even a little?” Trembling and fearful, I stood before the sage and spoke in a faltering, indistinct voice. Steadying myself, I revealed the terrible misfortune that had befallen their 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 banks of the Sarayu with my bow, wishing to hunt, thinking some animal—perhaps an elephant—had come to drink. Hearing the sound of a pitcher being filled, I mistook it for an elephant and released my arrow. When I reached the riverbank, I found an ascetic lying on the ground, pierced in the heart by my arrow, his life departed. O venerable one, it was by my hand, intending to slay an elephant, that your son was struck down.” I continued, “At his request, tormented as he was, I drew the arrow from his vital spot. With the arrow removed, he attained heaven there and then, while you, his blind and grieving parents, lamented for him. Unknowingly, I struck down your son. Now, as things have come to this, whatever remains, let the sage show me mercy.” Hearing those cruel words, the venerable sage was consumed by grief, sighing heavily, unable to restrain his sorrow. Tears streaming down his face, worn by suffering, the great and radiant one addressed me as I stood before him with joined palms. “O King, had you not confessed this evil deed yourself, 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 throne. If a weapon is knowingly released against an ascetic devoted to celibacy, the head splits into seven parts. But since yours was done out of ignorance, you live; otherwise, today the Raghu lineage would have perished—how could you remain?” He then said, “Lead us, O King, to that place; today we wish to see our son for the last time.” I led the stricken couple to where their son lay—his body stained with blood, his deerskin garment scattered, lying lifeless on the ground, gone to the realm of righteousness. Alone, I guided the sage and his wife to their son, letting them touch him one final time. The ascetic parents, reaching their son, fell upon his body, and his father spoke in grief, “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. Whose sweet voice, reciting the sacred texts or other teachings, especially at night, will I now hear, touching my heart?” Thus, sorrow and loss filled the hermitage, as the old, blind parents mourned their beloved son, and I stood witness to the pain my actions had brought upon them.