As I stood before the venerable sage and his wife, their faces drawn with worry and longing, the sage spoke with gentle urgency, “Dear child, whatever reason has kept you playing in the water, your mother is anxious for you. Quickly, come back to the hermitage.” His voice trembled with concern as he continued, “If your mother or I have done you any wrong, my son, you who are devoted to austerity, do 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?” Hearing these words, I was overcome with fear and trembling. My voice faltered and broke as I tried to speak to the sage, my heart heavy with dread. Gathering my resolve, I steadied my mind and told him of the terrible misfortune that had befallen his beloved son. With humility and sorrow, I confessed, “I am a Kshatriya, Dasharatha by name, not your son, O great soul. Through my own actions, I have come to this sorrow, despised by the good. Revered one, 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. Mistaking it for an elephant, I shot my arrow. When I reached the riverbank, I found an ascetic lying on the ground, pierced in the heart by my arrow, his life departed.” I bowed my head in grief and continued, “O venerable one, hearing the sound, I released an iron arrow into the water, intending to kill an elephant. By that arrow, your son was slain. As he lay tormented, I quickly drew the arrow from his vital spot. With the arrow withdrawn, he attained heaven right there, while you, the venerable ones, blind and grieving, lamented for him. Unknowingly, your son was struck by me. Now, whatever remains, let the sage show me mercy.” The sage listened, his breath heavy and his body wracked with grief. He could not restrain his sorrow; tears streamed down his face as he sighed deeply. Worn by anguish, he spoke to me as I stood with joined palms, “O king, if you had not confessed this evil deed yourself, 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. If such a weapon is released knowingly against a steadfast ascetic, the head splits into seven parts. 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, “Lead us, O king, to that place. Today we wish to see our son for the last time.” I led the grief-stricken sage and his wife to the riverbank. There, his son’s body lay, stained with blood, his deerskin garment scattered, lying unconscious on the ground—he had already gone to the realm of righteousness. I gently guided the sage and his wife to their son, allowing them to touch him one last time. Overcome with sorrow, the ascetic parents fell upon their son’s body. The father, his voice choked with tears, cried out, “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 and without support, as a dear guest? How, my son, will I care for this blind, aged, ascetic mother of yours, wretched and longing for her son?” The sage’s lament continued, “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.” He blessed his son, “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. Go, my son, to the state attained by givers of a thousand cows, by those who honor their teachers, and by those who have renounced the body. No one born in this lineage goes to an unfortunate state; but he by whom you, my kinsman, were slain, will go there.” Thus, again and again, the sage lamented in misery. Then, together with his wife, he began to perform the sacred water-rite for their departed son, their hearts heavy with sorrow and love.