In the deep shadows of grief, the aged ascetic, bereft and helpless, cried out in anguish: “Who will bring roots, tubers, and fruits to feed me now, who am without support or protector, as one would care for a dear guest? How, my son, will I tend to your blind, aged, ascetic mother—wretched and longing for her only child? Stay, do not leave me yet for the abode of Yama; tomorrow, together with your mother, you shall depart with me. Stricken by sorrow, both of us, unsupported and pitiable in the forest, will soon follow you to Yama’s realm, bereft of your presence. There, before Vaivasvata, I will speak: ‘Let the king of righteousness forgive me; let him support these parents of mine.’ Surely, the righteous and illustrious guardian of the world should grant me one inexhaustible boon of fearlessness for such a one as I. My son, you are innocent, slain by one who acted unwittingly and wrongly—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 never turn away and fall facing the foe, attain. Go to that state reached by Sagara, Shaibya, Dilipa, Janamejaya, Nahuṣa, and Dhundhumāra. Go where all the virtuous dwell, those devoted to study, givers of land, maintainers of sacred fires, and those faithful to one wife. Go, my son, to the state attained by those who give a thousand cows, who honor their teachers, and who have renounced the body. No one born in our lineage goes to an unfortunate state; but he by whom you, my kinsman, were slain—he will go there.” Thus, again and again, the heartbroken father lamented, pouring out his misery. Then, together with his wife, he began to perform the water-rite for his departed son. At that moment, by the merit of his own deeds, the ascetic’s son, now radiant and divine, swiftly ascended to heaven alongside Indra, the knower of actions. Together with Indra, the ascetic’s son spoke, comforting his aged parents for a moment: “By your service, I have attained a great place; and soon, you both will join me in my abode.” Having spoken thus, the self-controlled son quickly ascended to heaven in a radiant, divine chariot. After performing the water-rite with his wife, the great-souled ascetic, with hands joined in supplication, turned to me as I stood nearby and said, “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 lamenting deeply, the ascetic couple placed their bodies upon the funeral pyre and ascended to heaven. That sin, which I now remember, was committed by my own hand in my youth, when I was imitating the art of shooting by sound. O gentle one, this suffering now is the ripening of that deed; just as disease arises from eating what is unwholesome, so too does this sorrow now come to me. Therefore, O noble lady, as I reach this end, the words of the ascetic shall be fulfilled: that I, overcome by grief for my son, shall give up my life today. I can no longer 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. If Rāma were to touch me even once today, or if I could but see him, men would not say I had gone to 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 beloved son, for which there is no remedy, dries up my life-breaths as the sun dries up a little pool of water. Blessed are those who will see Rāma’s face again after fifteen years, adorned with lovely, auspicious earrings—they are not mortals, but gods. Indeed, blessed are those who will gaze upon Rāma’s face, with eyes like lotus petals, beautiful brows, shining teeth, and charming nose, radiant as the moon among stars. Blessed are those who will behold 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, just as one sees the bright path of the sun. Because of Kausalya’s confusion of mind, my heart seems to sink; I do not perceive sounds, touches, or tastes distinctly. With the loss of mental clarity, all my senses fade, just as the rays of a lamp grow dim when its oil is exhausted. This grief, rising from my own heart, overwhelms me, helpless and insensible, like the current of a river striking its bank.