With a heavy heart, the grieving father addressed his beloved son’s spirit, his voice choked with sorrow: “Go, my son, to that exalted state which was attained by the great souls—Sagara, Shaibya, Dilipa, Janamejaya, Nahuṣa, and Dhundhumāra. Follow the path trodden by all the virtuous, by those devoted to sacred study, by generous donors of land, by guardians of the sacred fires, and by those ever faithful to a single wife. Join the company of those who have given a thousand cows, who have revered their teachers, and who have renounced their bodies in purity.” He continued, his lamentation echoing through the air, “No one born in our noble lineage meets an unfortunate end. But the one who has slain you, my kinsman, will surely bear that fate.” Thus, again and again, the bereaved father mourned, his wife by his side, and together they began the sacred water-rite for their departed son. Then, by the merit of his own deeds, the ascetic’s son, now possessing a divine form, swiftly ascended to heaven, accompanied by Indra, the knower of all actions. Appearing before his aged parents with Indra, the radiant ascetic comforted them gently and spoke: “By your loving service, I have attained a great and blessed place. Soon, you both shall join me in my abode.” With these words, the self-controlled son, shining in a celestial chariot, rose quickly to heaven. After performing the water-rite with his devoted wife, the grief-stricken ascetic, with palms joined and great dignity, turned to me as I stood nearby. “O King, end my life today,” he pleaded. “I do not fear death, for by your arrow you have made me, who had only one son, childless. Yet, because my pure son was slain by you unwittingly, I shall lay upon you a curse of grievous and terrible sorrow.” He fixed his gaze upon me and declared, “The agony that now afflicts me from the loss of my son—so too, O King, shall you be consumed by grief for your son. Since you, a Kshatriya, killed the sage’s son out of ignorance, the sin of Brahmin-slaying will not seize you immediately. But, as a gift returns to its giver, so will this fate swiftly overtake you—a dreadful ender of life.” Having pronounced this curse and poured out their sorrow, the ascetic and his wife placed themselves upon the funeral pyre, and together ascended to heaven. This sin, committed by my own hand in my youth while practicing the art of shooting by sound, now returns to my mind. “O gentle one,” I confessed to Kausalya, “this is the ripening of that deed. Just as disease follows the eating of unwholesome food, so does this suffering now come to me. Therefore, when my time has come, the noble ascetic’s words will be fulfilled: that I, overwhelmed by grief for my son, shall give up my life today.” “My sight fails me, Kausalya. Do not touch me, I pray,” I said, weeping and trembling. “What I did to Rāghava was fitting for a father, and what he has done to me is equally fitting for a son. If only Rāma could touch me once today, or if I could but see him again, I would not be seen as one who has reached the abode of Yama.” “My vision dims—I do not see you, my memory fades. The messengers of Vaivasvata urge me on, O Kausalya. What could be more painful than this, that as my life ends, I do not see Rāma, knower of righteousness and steadfast in truth? The grief of not seeing my son, for which there is no remedy, dries up my life-breaths as the sun dries up a little 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 see 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 happy ones will see Rāma return to Ayodhya after his exile in the forest, just as one beholds the bright path of the sun.” “My mind is confused, and my heart sinks, Kausalya. I cannot clearly perceive sounds, touches, or tastes. With the loss of mental clarity, all my senses fail, just as the rays of a lamp wane when its oil is spent. This grief, arising from my own heart, overwhelms me, helpless and insensible, like a river’s current striking its bank.” “Alas, Raghava of mighty arms! Alas, destroyer of my toil! Alas, beloved of your father, my protector! Alas, my son, 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 bitterly, reached the end of his life. As the lord of men spoke in distress, tormented by the exile of his beloved son, in the deep silence of the night, that noble-souled one surrendered his life. When the night had passed and morning arrived, the bards gathered at the royal residence. Charioteers, refined and skilled in auspicious songs, and singers adept in praise, each offered their blessings separately. The sound of their lofty praises and blessings for the king resounded throughout the vast palace.