With great effort, I steadied my mind and gathered my courage, O King, and pleaded with you to cast aside the terrible burden of brahmin-slaying that had come upon your heart. “Do not let your mind be troubled,” I said, “for I am not a brahmin. I was born to a śūdra mother and a vaiśya father, O lord of the land.” As I spoke these words, my life ebbing away, pierced in my vital spot by your arrow, my body trembled and writhed upon the earth. Seeing me lying there, bent low in agony, you drew the arrow from my body. My body, soaked in water and tears, cried out in pain from the wound that pierced my heart. There, on the banks of the Sarayu, you saw me, O dear one, lying in utter distress. Now, listen to the next chapter of this tale from the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Tormented by the unjust slaying of that great ascetic, the righteous Rāghava, my father, spoke again to Kausalyā. “I have committed a great sin out of ignorance, my senses bewildered, and I am left alone, wondering what good could possibly come from this.” With a heavy heart, he took the pitcher filled with pure water and made his way to the hermitage, following the path as it had been described to him. There, he saw my parents—old, blind, and helpless—like two birds with their wings clipped. Sitting together, unable to move, they passed their time telling stories about me, their only son, now lost to them because of my father’s deed. Deprived of hope, they seemed utterly forlorn, like those with no support in the world. Overcome by grief, their hearts trembling with fear, my father approached the hermitage, his own heart seized by sorrow once more. Hearing the sound of his footsteps, my father, the sage, called out, “Why are you delayed, my son? Quickly bring me water.” My mother, anxious for me, added, “For whatever reason you have been playing in the water, dear child, come quickly into the hermitage.” They pleaded, “If any wrong has been done by your mother or 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, my father, King Dasharatha, spoke to them in a faltering, indistinct voice. Steadying his mind, he gathered his strength and 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 ones, I came to the bank of the Sarayu with my bow in hand, wishing to hunt, thinking some animal—perhaps an elephant—had come to drink. Then I heard the sound of a pitcher being filled in the water. Thinking it was an elephant, I struck with my arrow. When I reached the riverbank, I saw an ascetic lying on the ground, pierced in the heart by my arrow, his life departed. O venerable ones, hearing that sound, I intended to slay an elephant, but by my iron arrow, your son was struck down.” He continued, “As he lay tormented by his wound, I quickly drew the arrow from his vital spot. With the arrow withdrawn, he attained heaven right there, while you, his venerable parents, blind and grieving, mourned for him. Unknowingly, your son was struck by me. Since things have come to this, whatever remains, may the sage show me mercy.” Hearing these cruel words, my father, the sage, sighed deeply, overwhelmed by grief, unable to restrain his intense sorrow. Tears streamed down his face as he spoke to Dasharatha, who stood before him with joined palms. “O king, had you not confessed this evil deed to me yourself, your head would have split instantly into a hundred thousand pieces. The slaying of a forest-dweller, especially by a Kshatriya, if done knowingly, would cast down even Indra from his place. If a weapon is knowingly released against a steadfast ascetic, the head splits into seven parts as a result. But because you acted out of ignorance, you live; otherwise, today the lineage of the Raghus would have perished—how could you have remained?” The sage then said, “Lead us, O king, to that place. Today we wish to see our son for the last time.” Dasharatha led the two, greatly afflicted, to where my body lay—stained with blood, my deerskin garment scattered, lying unconscious, my soul departed to the realm of righteousness. There, he let my parents touch me. Upon reaching me, my mother and father fell upon my body. My father, the sage, cried out in anguish, “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!” Again and again, he pleaded, “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 to us!” In his sorrow, he lamented, “Whose sweet voice, reciting the sacred texts or other teachings, especially at night, will I now hear, soothing my heart? Who, having performed the evening rites, bathed, and offered oblations, will now praise me as I sit, afflicted by grief and fear for my son?” Thus, the pain of loss overwhelmed the hermitage, and the sorrow of my parents echoed on the banks of the Sarayu, forever entwined with the consequence of a single, fateful arrow loosed in ignorance.