The king spoke with sorrow and gravity, “O queen, know this—if a Kshatriya slays a forest-dweller knowingly, even mighty Indra would be cast down from his throne by the weight of such sin. But if one, aware of his act, releases a weapon against a sage steadfast in austerity and celibacy, his head would split into seven as a result of that deed. Yet, because my act was done in ignorance, I live; otherwise, the entire lineage of the Raghus would have perished on that very day—how could I have survived?” He continued, his voice heavy with memory, “The sage, stricken with grief, pleaded with me, ‘Lead us, O king, to the place where our son lies. Today, we desire to see him one last time.’ I led those two afflicted parents to their son. His body was stained with blood, his deerskin garment cast aside, and he lay unconscious upon the ground, having departed to the realm of righteousness. I stood aside as the heartbroken ascetics reached their son and fell upon his body. The father, overwhelmed by grief, cried, ‘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 sacred texts or teachings, especially at night, will I now hear to comfort my heart? Who, after performing the evening rites, bathing, and offering oblations, will now praise me as I sit, tormented by grief and fear for my son? Who will bring roots, tubers, and fruits, and feed me as a dear guest, now that I am helpless and without support? How shall I care for your blind, aged, and wretched mother, longing for her son? Stay, do not go to the abode of Yama yet, my child; tomorrow, together with your mother, you shall depart with me. Both of us, stricken by grief and bereft of support, will soon join you in Yama’s realm, leaving this forest behind. When I see Vaivasvata, the lord of the departed, I will say to him, ‘Let the king of righteousness forgive me and support these parents of mine.’ The righteous, illustrious guardian of the world should grant me the one inexhaustible boon of fearlessness, for I am so afflicted. By the truth that you, my son, are innocent and slain by one who acted wrongly, may you swiftly reach the realms attained by warriors who fall in battle. Go, my son, to that supreme state which the brave attain—those who never turn from battle and fall facing the foe. Go where Sagara, Shaibya, Dilipa, Janamejaya, Nahuṣa, and Dhundhumāra have gone. Go to the state reached by all the virtuous, those devoted to study, givers of land, keepers of sacred fires, and those faithful to a single wife. Go to the state attained by those who give a thousand cows, who honor their teachers, and who have renounced the body. None born in this lineage ever falls to an unfortunate state—but he who slew you, my kinsman, shall surely go there.’ Thus, again and again, the sage lamented in misery. Together with his wife, he began to perform the water-rite for their departed son. Then, by the merit of his own deeds, the ascetic’s son, now in a divine form, swiftly ascended to heaven with Indra, the knower of all actions. The ascetic’s son, radiant and serene, spoke to his aged parents from that celestial chariot, comforting them for a moment. ‘By your devoted service, I have attained this great place, and soon, you both will join me in my abode.’ Having spoken thus, the self-controlled ascetic’s son quickly ascended to heaven in a chariot shining with divine light. The bereaved sage, after performing the water-rite with his wife, turned to me with joined palms as I stood near. ‘O King,’ he said, ‘strike me down at once today. I feel no pain in death, for by your arrow you have made me, who had only one son, childless. Yet, because my pure son was slain by you unknowingly, I will not curse you with death, but with a sorrow most grievous and terrible. The grief that now consumes me from the loss of my son—so too, O King, you shall meet your end, consumed by grief for your son. Because you, a Kshatriya, slew the sage in ignorance, the sin of Brahmin-slaying will not seize you quickly. But this same fate will swiftly overtake you—a dreadful ender of life—just as the giver of a gift is overtaken by the gift itself.’ Having pronounced this curse upon me, and having lamented much in deep sorrow, the sage and his wife placed their bodies on the funeral pyre and, together, ascended to heaven. That very sin, O gentle one, was committed by my own hand in my youth, when I practiced shooting by sound. Now, as disease follows from eating what is unwholesome, so too does this suffering come to me as the fruit of that deed. Therefore, when I have come to this, the noble sage’s words will be fulfilled: I, overcome by grief for my son, shall give up my life today. I do not see you with my eyes, Kausalya; do not touch me, I pray.” Thus, weeping and trembling, the king spoke to his wife, “O lady, what I did to Rāghava was fitting for me, and what he has done to me is equally fitting for him.