As the evening descended, the bereaved ascetic sat, his heart heavy with grief and fear for his lost son. He wondered aloud, "Who will now perform the evening rites, bathe, and offer oblations, then sing my praises as I sit here, overwhelmed by sorrow? Who will bring me roots, tubers, and fruits, and care for me as a helpless guest, now that I have no support or protector? My son, how shall I tend to your blind, aged, ascetic mother, who is wretched and pining for her child?" In his anguish, he cried out, "Stay, my son! Do not go yet to Yama’s abode. Tomorrow, your mother and I will depart with you. Both of us, stricken by grief and bereft of support, will soon follow you to the realm of Yama, for we cannot bear to remain without you." He imagined himself standing before Vaivasvata, the lord of righteousness, pleading, "Let the king of justice forgive me; let him support these parents who are left behind." He prayed that the illustrious guardian of the world would grant him the single, inexhaustible boon of fearlessness in this sorrow. Turning his thoughts to his son, he invoked the power of truth: "Just as you, my innocent son, have been slain by one who acted wrongly, by this truth may you swiftly reach the worlds attained by warriors who fall nobly in battle. Go, my son, to that supreme state which the brave, who do not turn away from the foe, attain. Go to the realm reached by Sagara, Shaibya, Dilipa, Janamejaya, Nahuṣa, and Dhundhumāra. Go where all the virtuous go—those devoted to study, those who give land, who maintain sacred fires, who are faithful to one wife. Go where the givers of a thousand cows, those who honor their teachers, and those who have renounced the body have gone. No one born in our lineage meets an unfortunate end; but the one who slew you, my kinsman, will surely fall to that fate." Again and again, the grieving father lamented, his sorrow unending. At last, he and his wife began the water-rite for their departed son. Then, by the merit of his own deeds, the ascetic’s son appeared in a divine form, ascending swiftly to heaven with Indra, the knower of actions. Together with Indra, the ascetic’s son spoke to his aged parents, comforting them briefly and saying, "By your service, I have attained a great place; soon, you too shall join me in my abode." With these words, the self-controlled son, radiant and divine, ascended to heaven in a shining chariot. The great-souled ascetic, having performed the water-rite with his wife, turned to me, who stood nearby, and addressed me with folded hands: "O King, slay me at once today. I have no fear of death, for by your arrow you have made me, who had only one son, childless. Yet, though you killed my pure son unknowingly, I shall curse you with a grief most terrible. The sorrow that now consumes me at the loss of my son—you too, O King, shall meet your end, destroyed by grief for your own child. Because you, a Kshatriya, slew a sage out of ignorance, the sin of Brahmin-slaying will not seize you quickly. But this same fate will soon overtake you, just as a gift returns to its giver." Having uttered this curse and lamented deeply, the ascetic couple placed themselves upon the funeral pyre and ascended to heaven. Now, as I recall this, I realize that the sin I committed in my youth—practicing the art of shooting by sound—has come to fruition. Just as illness comes from eating what is unwholesome, so too does this suffering now befall me. Therefore, gentle one, as this fate overtakes me, the noble ascetic’s words will be fulfilled: I, overwhelmed by grief for my son, shall give up my life today. I can no longer see you, Kausalya; do not touch me, I beg. Thus, weeping and trembling, I spoke to my wife: "What I did to Rāghava was just, and what he has done to me is also just. If only Rāma would touch me once today, or if I could see him, I would not be seen as one who has reached Yama’s abode. But I do not see you; my memory fades, and 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?" "My life dries up from the grief of not seeing my son, just as the sun dries up a drop of water. Those who will see Rāma’s face again after fifteen years, adorned with auspicious earrings—they are not mortals, but gods. Blessed are those who will gaze upon Rāma’s face, with eyes like lotus petals, beautiful brows, shining teeth, and a charming nose, like the moon among stars. Blessed are those who will see the fragrant face of my lord, like the autumn moon and a blooming lotus. The fortunate will see Rāma return to Ayodhya after his forest exile, as one sees the bright path of the sun." "Because of my confusion and sorrow, my heart seems to sink; I no longer perceive sounds, touches, or tastes clearly. With my mind clouded, all my senses fail, just as the light of a lamp fades when its oil is spent.