As the sorrowful events unfolded, the grieving ascetic, mourning his slain son, spoke with deep emotion. He blessed his son, urging him to ascend to the state attained by all the virtuous—those devoted to study, those who give land, those who maintain sacred fires, and those faithful to one wife. He continued, invoking blessings for his son to reach the realm of those who give a thousand cows, honor their teachers, and renounce the body. He assured his son that no one born in their noble lineage ever descends to an unfortunate state; only the one who had caused the death of his kinsman would meet such a fate. Overcome by misery, the ascetic lamented again and again, and with his wife, he began the water-rite for their departed child. By the merit of his own deeds, the ascetic’s son, now radiant in a divine form, swiftly ascended to heaven alongside Indra, the knower of action. Together, the ascetic’s son and Indra appeared before the aged parents, offering them comfort and speaking gently: “By your service, I have attained a great place; soon, you too will join me in my abode.” Having spoken these words, the ascetic’s son, self-controlled and serene, ascended to heaven in a shining, divine chariot. After performing the water-rite with his wife, the great-souled ascetic, palms joined, addressed me as I stood nearby. He said, “O King, kill me at once today; I have no pain in death, for by your arrow you have made me, who had only one son, childless.” Yet, because his pure son was slain unknowingly, he pronounced a grievous curse: “The sorrow that now afflicts me from the loss of my son—so too, O King, you shall meet your end consumed by grief for your own son.” He explained that since the sage was slain by a Kshatriya out of ignorance, the sin of Brahmin-slaying would not seize me quickly. Still, the same fate would swiftly overtake me, as the giver of a gift is overtaken by the gift itself. Having pronounced this curse and lamented in deep sorrow, the ascetic and his wife placed their bodies on the funeral pyre, and together, they ascended to heaven. Now, recalling these events, I remember the sin I committed in my youth, imitating the art of shooting by sound. This suffering is the ripening of that deed, just as disease comes from eating what is unwholesome. Therefore, O gentle one, when I have come to this, the noble ascetic’s words will be fulfilled: I, overcome by grief for my son, shall give up my life today. I cannot see you with my eyes, Kausalya; do not touch me, I pray. Thus, weeping and trembling, I addressed my wife. “O lady, what I did to Raghava was fitting for me, and what he has done to me is equally fitting for him. If Rama 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.” “My memory is fading, Kausalya; the messengers of Vaivasvata are urging me on. What could be more painful than this, that as my life ends, I do not see Rama, 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. Those who will see Rama’s face again after fifteen years, adorned with lovely, auspicious earrings—they are not mortals, but gods. Blessed are those who will see Rama’s face, with eyes like lotus petals, beautiful brows, shining teeth, and charming nose, resembling the moon among stars. Blessed are those who will see the fragrant face of my lord, like the autumn moon and a blooming lotus. Those who are happy will see Rama, returned to Ayodhya after his stay in the forest, 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 fail, just as the rays of a lamp grow faint when its oil is exhausted. 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, son, where have you gone now? Alas, Kausalya, I am perishing! Alas, Sumitra, you who are 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, reached the end of his life. As the lord of men spoke in distress, tormented by the exile of his beloved son, in the middle of the night, deeply afflicted, that noble-souled one gave up his life. Listen now to the next chapter. When the night had passed and morning arrived, the bards assembled at the royal residence. The charioteers, refined and skilled in auspicious songs, and singers adept in praise, each spoke separately. The sound of their praises, uttered with lofty blessings for the king, spread throughout the vast palace. As they sang, the charioteers played their instruments, and the musicians began to perform.