There, I beheld his parents—aged, blind, and helpless—like two birds whose wings had been clipped, unable to fend for themselves. They sat together in their hermitage, unable to move about, passing their days recounting stories of their beloved son. Deprived of hope because of me, they seemed utterly forlorn, like those who have no support left in the world. Their minds were overwhelmed by grief, their hearts trembling with fear. As I approached their dwelling, sorrow overtook 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 was gentle yet anxious. “If you have been playing in the water for any reason, dear child, your mother is worried for you. Come quickly into the hermitage.” The father continued, “If your mother or I have done you any wrong, my son, you, who are devoted to austerity, should not keep it in your heart. You are the refuge of the helpless, the eyes of the blind. Our lives are bound up in you. Why do you not speak to us, even a little?” Trembling and filled with fear, I stood before the sage, my voice faltering and indistinct as I tried to speak. Gathering my composure and steadying my mind, I summoned the 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. It is I who 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 in hand, wishing to hunt. I thought some animal, perhaps an elephant, had come to drink. Then I heard the sound of a pitcher being filled in the water. Believing it to be an elephant, I released my arrow. “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 hearing that sound, intending to strike an elephant, that I released my iron arrow into the water—and by that, your son was slain. At his own words, as he was tormented, I quickly drew out the arrow from his vital spot. With the arrow withdrawn, he attained heaven right there, while you, the venerable ones—blind, lamenting, and grieving—were left behind. “Unknowingly, your son was struck down by me. Now that things have come to this, whatever remains, let the sage show me mercy.” When the sage heard these cruel words, he sighed deeply, consumed by grief, unable to restrain his sorrow. His face was wet with tears, his body worn and trembling, yet radiant with inner light. As I stood before him with folded hands, he spoke: “If you had not confessed this terrible 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 knowingly released 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? Now, lead us, O king, to that place. Today we wish to see our son for the last time.” I led the two, deeply afflicted, to the spot where their son lay. His body was stained with blood, his deerskin garment scattered, and he rested unconscious on the ground, having departed to the realm of righteousness. When we arrived, I let the sage and his wife touch their son. Overcome with grief, they fell upon his body, and the 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 to us. Whose sweet voice, reciting the sacred texts or other teachings, especially at night, will I now hear, touching my heart? Who, after performing 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 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. 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 in ignorance, 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. Go, my son, to that state which Sagara, Shaibya, Dilipa, Janamejaya, Nahuṣa, and Dhundhumāra have attained.” Thus, in the shadow of grief and loss, the sage and his wife mourned their beloved son, their sorrow echoing through the forest, while I, the cause of their suffering, stood before them, my heart heavy with remorse.