With deep sorrow in his heart, the aged ascetic spoke to his departed son, “Go, my son, to that blessed state attained by those who have given a thousand cows in charity, by those who have honored their teachers, and by those who have renounced the body. No one born in our lineage ever meets with misfortune; but the one who slew you, my kinsman, will surely go to that unhappy state.” Again and again, he lamented his son’s death, his grief overwhelming. Then, with his devoted wife beside him, he began the solemn 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, accompanied by Indra, the lord who knows the actions of all. Together with Indra, the ascetic’s son appeared before his aged parents, offering them comfort for a brief moment. He addressed them with gentle words: “By your loving service, I have attained a great and exalted place; soon, you too shall come to dwell with me in my abode.” Having spoken thus, the self-controlled son, shining in a celestial chariot, quickly ascended to heaven. After the water-rite was completed with his wife, the great-souled ascetic turned to me, his hands joined in reverence as I stood nearby. He said, “O King, end my life this very day. Death brings me no pain, for by your arrow you have left me, who had only one son, utterly childless. Yet, because you slew my pure son unknowingly, I will not curse you with death, but with grief—a grief most grievous and terrible. The anguish I now suffer from losing my son—so too, O King, shall you be consumed by sorrow for your own child. Because you, a Kshatriya, killed a sage’s son out of ignorance, the terrible sin of Brahmin-slaying will not seize you quickly. But this same fate—swift and dreadful—will surely overtake you, just as a gift returns to its giver.” Having pronounced this curse and pouring out his grief, the heartbroken couple placed themselves upon the funeral pyre. United in their sorrow, they ascended to heaven together. Now, as I remember this very sin—a deed committed by my own hand in my youth, when I was practicing the art of shooting by sound—I see its fruits ripening. Just as illness follows the eating of unwholesome food, so too does this suffering now come to me. O gentle one, the noble ascetic’s words are coming true: 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. “O lady, what I did to Rāghava was right for me, and what he has done to me is equally fitting for him. If only Rāma would touch me once today, or if I could but see him, I would not be seen as one who has reached the abode of Yama. But my sight fails—I cannot see you; my memory is fading fast. The messengers of Vaivasvata, the god of death, are urging me onward, O Kausalya. What could be more painful than this: as my life ends, I do not behold Rāma, the knower of righteousness, steadfast in truth? The grief of not seeing my son, for which there is no remedy, dries up my very life-breath, as the sun dries up a small pool 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 his face, with eyes like lotus petals, beautiful brows, shining teeth, and a charming nose, radiant 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 returned to Ayodhya from his forest exile, shining like the bright path of the sun. Kausalya, my heart sinks with confusion; my senses fail—I cannot clearly perceive sound, touch, or taste. With my mind clouded, all my faculties fade, just as a lamp’s rays grow dim when its oil is spent. This grief, swelling within my own heart, overwhelms me, helpless and insensible, like a river’s current battering its bank. Alas, Rāghava of mighty arms! Alas, destroyer of my labors! Alas, beloved son, protector of your father—where have you gone now? Alas, Kausalya, I am perishing! Alas, Sumitra, ever devoted to austerity! Alas, Kaikeyi, my cruel enemy, stain upon our lineage!” Thus, in the presence of Rāma’s mother and Sumitra, King Dasaratha, lamenting and broken-hearted, 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 king gave up his life. Now, listen to the next chapter. When the night had passed and morning dawned, the bards gathered at the royal residence. Charioteers, refined and skilled in auspicious songs, and singers trained in the art of praise, each began to perform. Their voices, filled with lofty blessings for the king, echoed throughout the vast palace. As they sang, the charioteers played their instruments, and the musicians joined in. Awakened by these melodious sounds, the birds—both those perched on branches and those kept in cages within the royal household—began to sing, heralding the start of a new day.