As I lay there, bending low over the fallen ascetic, I drew out the arrow from his body. His form was soaked in the waters of the Sarayu, his cries echoing with the pain of the wound that pierced his heart. I saw him, lying on the riverbank, deeply distressed, his suffering plain to see. Now, dear one, listen as I recount the events of the sixty-fourth chapter in the Ayodhya Kanda of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Lamenting the unjust killing of that great sage, I, the righteous Rāghava, spoke again to Kausalyā, my mother. Having committed such a terrible sin out of ignorance, my senses bewildered, I found myself alone, pondering deeply how any good could ever arise from this misfortune. Taking up the 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. They sat together, unable to move, passing their days with stories of their beloved son, deprived of hope because of me, forlorn and without support. Their minds were overwhelmed by grief, their hearts trembling with fear. As I approached the hermitage, sorrow seized me once again. Hearing the sound of my footsteps, the sage called out, “Why are you delayed, my son? Quickly bring me water.” His voice carried the anxious love of a parent, “Whatever the reason for your play in the water, dear child, your mother is anxious for you. Come quickly into the hermitage.” He continued, “If your mother or I have ever wronged you, 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 stood before the sage, my voice faltering and indistinct. Steadying my mind and gathering my strength, I revealed to him 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, believing 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. 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 one, hearing the sound, I, intending to kill an elephant, released an iron arrow into the water; by that, your son was slain.” “At his own words, tormented by pain, I quickly drew out the arrow from his vital spot. With that arrow drawn out, he attained heaven right there; 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 these cruel words, the venerable sage sighed, consumed by grief, unable to restrain his intense sorrow. His face was filled with tears, his sighs heavy, worn by sorrow; the great and radiant one spoke to me as I stood before him with joined palms. “If you had not confessed this evil deed to me yourself, 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. 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,” he said to me. “Today we wish to see our son for the last time.” His body was stained with blood, his deerskin garment scattered, lying unconscious on the ground, he had gone to the realm of righteousness. Alone, I led those two, greatly afflicted, to the place where their son lay. I let the sage and his wife touch their son. The ascetics, having reached and touched their son, fell upon his body, and 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. Whose sweet voice, reciting the sacred texts or other teachings, especially at night, will I now hear, touching 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? Who will bring roots, tubers, and fruits and feed me, helpless, without support or protector, as one would a dear guest? How, my son, will I care for this blind, aged, ascetic mother of yours, wretched and longing for her son? Stay, do not go, my son, to the abode of Yama; tomorrow, together with your mother, you shall depart with me.” Thus, with hearts broken and tears flowing, the sage and his wife mourned their beloved son, their sorrow echoing across the banks of the Sarayu.