Stricken with unbearable grief, the aged king spoke in a trembling voice to his wife, his heart heavy with sorrow for their exiled son. "Both of us, bereft and pitiable, with no support left in this world, will soon journey to Yama’s realm, separated from our beloved child," he lamented. "When I stand before Vaivasvata, the lord of justice, I will plead with him: ‘O king of righteousness, forgive me, and grant protection to these parents of mine who now have no son to care for them.’ "It is only right that the illustrious guardian of the world grant me, so wretched, one inexhaustible boon—freedom from fear. And by the truth that you, my innocent son, have been slain through the wickedness of another, may you swiftly attain the worlds reserved for warriors who fall bravely in battle. Go, my son, to that supreme state reached by the valiant who never turn their faces from the foe and perish with honor. "Go, my child, to the blessed realms where Sagara, Shaibya, Dilipa, Janamejaya, Nahuṣa, and Dhundhumāra dwell. Go where all the virtuous reside: those devoted to study, those who give land in charity, those who keep the sacred fires burning, and those faithful to one wife. Attain the state reached by those who have gifted a thousand cows, who honor their teachers, who have renounced their bodies in renunciation. No one born in our lineage ever falls to an unfortunate state; but the one who struck you down, my kinsman, shall surely go there." Thus, again and again, the king poured out his lamentations in deep misery. Then, together with his wife, he began to perform the water-rite for their departed son. At that moment, by the merit of his own deeds, the ascetic’s son, now radiant in a divine form, ascended swiftly to heaven, accompanied by Indra, the knower of all actions. In that celestial realm, the ascetic’s son, together with Indra, appeared to his aged parents, comforting them, and spoke gently: "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 ascetic’s son mounted a radiant, divine chariot and quickly ascended to heaven. After completing the water-rite with his wife, the great-souled ascetic, hands joined, turned to me as I stood near and said, "O King, end my life at once today. I have no fear of 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 lay upon you a grievous and terrible curse: the grief that now consumes me from the loss of my son will befall you as well, O King—you too will meet your end, consumed by sorrow for your own son. "Because you, a Kshatriya, slew the sage out of ignorance, the sin of Brahmin-slaying will not quickly overtake you. But this same fate—death by grief—will swiftly be yours, just as the giver of a gift is overtaken by the gift itself." Having pronounced this curse, and after much lamentation, the ascetic and his wife placed themselves upon the funeral pyre, and together, that sorrowful couple ascended to heaven. Now, recalling that ancient sin, I confess: it was I, in my youth, who committed this deed, imitating the art of shooting by sound. O gentle one, this suffering that afflicts me now is the fruit of that past action, just as disease arises from eating what is unwholesome. Therefore, when I am overtaken by this fate, the noble ascetic’s words will come true: I, too, will surrender my life today, overcome by grief for my son. My vision fades, 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 only Rāma would touch me, even once today, or if I could but see him again, men would not witness me passing to Yama’s abode. "I no longer see you with my eyes; my memory slips away. The messengers of Vaivasvata urge me onward, 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 of not seeing my son, for which there is no remedy, dries up my very life-breaths, just as the sun dries a drop of water. "Those who will see Rāma’s face again after fifteen years, adorned with lovely, auspicious earrings—they are not mortals, but gods. Blessed are those who will behold Rāma’s countenance, with eyes like lotus petals, beautiful brows, shining teeth, and a charming nose—his face 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. Happy indeed are those who will see Rāma return to Ayodhya after his exile, just as one gazes upon the bright path of the sun. "Because of Kausalya’s distress, my heart sinks within me; I no longer perceive sound, touch, or taste distinctly. My mind is clouded, all my senses fail—just as a lamp’s rays fade when its oil is spent. This grief, rising from my own heart, overwhelms me, helpless and senseless, like a river’s current battering its bank. "Alas, mighty-armed Raghava! Alas, destroyer of my toil! Alas, beloved son, protector of your father—where have you gone now? Alas, Kausalya, I am perishing! Alas, Sumitra, devoted to austerity! Alas, Kaikeyi, my cruel enemy, stain upon our lineage!" Thus, in the presence of Rama’s mother and Sumitra, King Dasaratha, lamenting deeply, reached the end of his life.