Taking up the pitcher brimming with pure water, I made my way along the path as it had been described, heading toward the hermitage. There, before me, sat his parents—aged, blind, and utterly helpless—resembling two birds whose wings had been clipped. Unable to move, they passed their days speaking only of their son, their hearts bereft of hope because of me, forlorn and unsupported in their sorrow. Their minds were clouded with grief, their hearts quivering with fear. As I approached the hermitage, a deep sorrow seized me once more. The sound of my footsteps reached the sage’s ears, and he called out, “Why are you delayed, my son? Quickly bring me the water.” His words were gentle and anxious: “If you have been playing in the water for any reason, dear child, your mother waits for you, worried. Come into the hermitage at once. And if your mother or I have done anything to wrong you, my son, you, steadfast in your austerities, should not keep it in your heart. You are the refuge of the helpless, the very eyes of the blind. Our lives are bound up in you. Why do you not speak to us, even a little?” Hearing these words, I trembled with fear and sorrow. My voice faltered as I tried to speak to the sage, but I steadied my mind and gathered my strength to tell 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 virtuous, as a result of my own actions. Revered one, I came to the bank of the Sarayu with my bow in hand, intent on hunting, thinking that an animal—perhaps an elephant—had come to drink. Then I heard the sound of a pitcher being filled in the water. Believing it was an elephant, I released my arrow. But when I went to the riverbank, I saw an ascetic lying on the ground, pierced in the heart by my arrow, his life departed. O venerable one, it was by the sound that I, thinking to kill an elephant, released an iron arrow into the water, and by that, your son was slain. At his own words, tormented as he was, I quickly drew out the arrow from his vital spot. With that arrow withdrawn, he attained heaven right there, while you, the venerable ones, blind and grieving, lamented for him. Unknowingly, I struck down your son; now that things have come to this, whatever remains, let the sage show me mercy.” Hearing these cruel words, the venerable sage sighed deeply, overwhelmed by grief, unable to restrain the intensity of his sorrow. Tears streamed down his face as he spoke to me, his voice weary and radiant with dignity, while I stood before him with folded hands. “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 throne. If such a weapon is released knowingly against a steadfast ascetic, the head splits into seven parts as a consequence. 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?” He then said to me, “Lead us, O king, to that place; today we wish to see our son for the last time.” His body was stained with blood, his deerskin garment cast aside, lying unconscious on the ground—he had already gone to the realm of righteousness. Alone, I led the two grieving parents to that place and allowed the sage and his wife to touch their son. Upon reaching him, they 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 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? Who will bring roots, tubers, and fruits and feed me, helpless and without support, as one would a cherished 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. Both of us, stricken by grief, without support, pitiable in the forest, will soon go to Yama’s realm, bereft of you. Then, seeing Vaivasvata, I will speak these words: ‘Let the king of righteousness forgive me; let him support these parents of mine.’ The righteous, illustrious guardian of the world ought to grant me one inexhaustible boon of fearlessness for such a one as I. Just as you, my son, are innocent and slain by one who acted wrongly, by that truth, swiftly go to the worlds attained by warriors fallen in battle. Go, my son, to that supreme state which the brave, who do not turn away in battle and fall facing the foe, attain.