The young ascetic’s body lay on the ground, stained with blood, his deerskin garment cast aside and scattered, unconscious—he had departed for the realm of righteousness. Alone, I led his grieving parents, the sage and his wife, to where their son lay; they were stricken with sorrow, and I let them touch their child. As they reached him and laid their hands upon his form, both fell to the ground in anguish. The father, his heart broken, spoke to his son: “My son, am I not dear to you? Behold your mother, O righteous one. Why do you not embrace her, my gentle-voiced child? Speak to us. Am I not dear to you? Your mother stands before you, O virtuous one. Why do you not embrace her, my sweet-voiced child? Speak to us.” He continued, his lamentation pouring forth: “Whose sweet voice, reciting sacred texts or teachings, especially at night, will I now hear, soothing 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 feeds a dear guest? How, my son, will I care for your blind, aged, ascetic mother, wretched and longing for her son?” The sage pleaded, “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 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. 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.” Again and again, the sage cried out in his misery. Then, together with his wife, he began to perform the water-rite for their son. By his own deeds, the ascetic’s son, now in a divine form, swiftly ascended to heaven, accompanied by Indra, the knower of action. Standing with Indra, the ascetic’s son spoke to his aged parents, comforting them for a moment: “By your service, I have attained a great place; and soon, you both will reach my abode as well.” Having spoken thus, the ascetic’s son, self-controlled, quickly ascended to heaven in a radiant, divine chariot. The sage, having completed the water-rite with his wife, then turned to me as I stood nearby, and with joined palms addressed me: “O King, kill me at once today; I have no pain in death, since by your arrow you have made me, who had only one son, childless. But because my pure son was slain by you unknowingly, I shall 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 meet your end consumed by grief for your son. Because the sage was slain by you, a Kshatriya, out of ignorance, O lord of men, the sin of Brahmin-slaying will not quickly seize you. 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 lamented much in deep sorrow, the sage and his wife placed their bodies on the funeral pyre, and together ascended to heaven. Now, as I recall this sin, I know it was committed by my own hand in my youth, when I imitated the art of shooting by sound. O gentle one, this is the ripening of that deed; just as disease comes from eating what is unwholesome, so too does this suffering now come to me. Therefore, when I have come to this, the noble one’s words will be fulfilled: that 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, I spoke to my wife. 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 obtain him, men would not see me as one who has reached the abode of Yama. I do not see you with my eyes; my memory is fading. The messengers of Vaivasvata are urging me on, O Kausalya. What could be more painful than this, that as my life ends, I do not see Rāma, the knower of righteousness and steadfast in truth? The grief born from not seeing my son, for whom there is no remedy, dries up my life-breaths as the sun dries up a little water.