With deep emotion and reverence, the king began to recount the sorrowful tale of his youth. He spoke of a time when, through the power of his asceticism, a sage had gained mastery over celestial weapons. The king explained, "If such a weapon is knowingly unleashed against one who maintains celibacy and austerity, the head of the offender splits into seven parts. Yet, because I acted out of ignorance, I was spared; otherwise, the entire lineage of the Raghus would have perished that very day. How could I, or any of us, have survived?" He recalled the words of the sage’s grieving father: “O king, lead us to that place. We wish to see our son one last time.” Obediently, the king guided the afflicted sage and his wife to the spot where their son lay. The young ascetic’s body was stained with blood, his deerskin garment scattered, and he lay unconscious upon the ground, having already departed to the realm of righteousness. The king watched as the anguished parents, overwhelmed by grief, reached and touched their son’s lifeless form. They fell upon his body, and the father, his heart shattered, 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!” Again and again, he pleaded, “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!” The father lamented further, “Whose sweet voice, reciting the sacred texts and 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? Who will bring roots, tubers, and fruits, and feed me, now helpless and bereft of support, as one would a dear guest? How, my son, shall I care for your blind, aged, ascetic mother, wretched and longing for her child?” He begged, “Stay, do not go to the abode of Yama yet, my son. Tomorrow, together with your mother, you shall depart with me. Both of us, stricken by grief, without support, pitiable in the forest, will soon join you in Yama’s realm. When I see Vaivasvata, I will plead, ‘Let the king of righteousness forgive me; let him support these parents of mine.’ Surely, the righteous guardian of the world ought to grant me one inexhaustible boon of fearlessness for one such as I.” With trembling voice, he blessed his son: “Just as you are innocent, 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 to the state reached by Sagara, Shaibya, Dilipa, Janamejaya, Nahuṣa, and Dhundhumāra. Go where all the virtuous, the devoted to study, the givers of land, those who maintain sacred fires, and those faithful to one wife have gone. Go where the givers of a thousand cows, those who honor their teachers, and those who have renounced the body have reached. No one born in this lineage goes to an unfortunate state; but the one who slew you, my kinsman, will go there.” Thus, the father grieved repeatedly, pouring out his anguish. Then, together with his wife, he began to perform the water-rite for their departed son. In that moment, by the merit of his own deeds, the ascetic’s son, now in a divine form, swiftly ascended to heaven, accompanied by Indra, the knower of all actions. With Indra by his side, the ascetic’s son appeared before his elderly parents, offered them comfort, and spoke gently: “By your loving service, I have attained a great place. Soon, you both will join me in my abode.” Having spoken thus, the self-controlled ascetic’s son quickly ascended to heaven in a radiant, divine chariot. The parents, having performed the final water-rites, turned to the king. The great-souled ascetic, with joined palms, addressed him: “O King, kill me at once today. I do not fear death, for by your arrow, you have made me, who had only one son, childless. Yet, because you slew my pure son unknowingly, I shall not curse you with immediate destruction. Instead, I curse you with a sorrow most grievous and terrible. The grief that now afflicts me from the loss of my son—so too, O King, you shall one day meet your end, consumed by grief for your own son.” He continued, “Because the sage was slain by you, a Kshatriya, out of ignorance, the sin of Brahmin-slaying will not seize you quickly. But this same fate, a dreadful ender of life, will overtake you, just as the giver of a gift is overtaken by the gift itself.” Having pronounced this curse and lamented deeply, the grieving couple placed themselves upon the funeral pyre, and together they ascended to heaven. The king, now old and weary, confessed, “That very sin, committed by my own hand in my youth as I practiced the art of shooting by sound, is what I remember now. This suffering that I experience is the ripening of that deed, just as disease arises from eating what is unwholesome.” He turned to Kausalya and said, “Therefore, gentle one, the noble sage’s words will be fulfilled: that I, overcome by grief for my son, shall give up my life today.” His vision clouded by tears, the king said, “I do not see you, Kausalya; do not touch me, I pray.” Weeping and trembling, he continued, “O lady, what I did to Rāghava was fitting for me, and what he has done to me is equally fitting for him. If Rāma were to touch me even once today, or if I could but see him, then men would not see me as one who has reached the abode of Yama.” Thus, the king laid bare the sorrowful events of his past, the curse that now bore fruit, and his heart’s final longing for his beloved son Rāma.