Sitting there, unable to move, the elderly sage and his wife passed the time recounting stories of their beloved son. Deprived of hope because of me, they were forlorn, like those without any support in the world. Their minds were overcome by grief, their hearts trembling with fear. As I approached their hermitage, I too was seized by deep sorrow. Hearing the sound of my footsteps, the sage called out, “Why are you delayed, my son? Quickly bring me water.” Then he added, “For whatever reason you have been playing in the water, dear child, your mother is anxious for you. Quickly come into the hermitage.” His voice, gentle yet anxious, continued, “If any wrong has been done by your mother or by me, my son, you, devoted as you are 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 faltered and was indistinct as I tried to speak. Gathering my mind and summoning the strength to speak, I told 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 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, thinking 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. Going to 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. Then, as he spoke in torment, I quickly drew out the arrow from his vital spot. With the arrow withdrawn, he attained heaven right there, and you, the venerable ones, blind, lamenting, grieved for him.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 deeply, consumed by grief, unable to restrain his intense sorrow. Tears streaming down his face, sighing and worn by sorrow, the great and radiant one addressed me as I stood with hands joined in humility. “If you had not yourself confessed this evil deed to me, O king, your head would have split instantly into a hundred thousand pieces as the result. O king, the slaying of a forest-dweller, especially by a Kshatriya, if done knowingly, would cast down even Indra from his place. But 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, therefore you live; otherwise, today the lineage of the Raghus would have perished—how then could you remain?” “Lead us, O king, to that place,” the sage said to me, “for 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. Then I, alone, led those two, greatly afflicted, to that place; I let the sage and his wife touch their son. When those ascetics reached and touched their son, they fell upon his body. The father, overcome with grief, 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. 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 wickedly, 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. Go to the state attained by all the virtuous, by those devoted to study, by givers of land, by those who maintain sacred fires, and by those faithful to one wife.” Thus, in their anguish and love, the sage and his wife lamented their son, sending him forth with blessings to the highest realms, their hearts heavy with grief and longing.