Then, by the power of his own deeds, the ascetic’s son, now radiant in a divine form, swiftly ascended to heaven, accompanied by none other than Indra, the knower of all actions. As they rose, the ascetic’s son, together with Indra, paused to comfort his aged parents, offering them words of solace. He told them, “By your loving service, I have attained a great and exalted place. Soon, you too will join me in my heavenly abode.” Having spoken thus, the self-controlled son of the ascetic entered a resplendent, celestial chariot and quickly departed for heaven. The great-souled ascetic, having performed the water-rite for his son with his devoted wife, approached me—Rama—as I stood nearby, his palms joined in reverence. He addressed me, saying, “O King, end my life today. I feel no pain in death, for by your arrow you have made me childless, taking away my only son. Yet, because you slew my pure-hearted son unknowingly, I shall not let you go unmarked; I curse you with a grief most grievous and terrible. The sorrow that now afflicts me from the loss of my son—so too, O King, you shall one day meet your end, consumed by grief for your own son. Because you, a Kshatriya, slew a sage in ignorance, the sin of Brahmin-slaying will not seize you swiftly. But this very fate will overtake you, dreadful and inescapable, as surely as a gift finds its giver.” Having pronounced this curse and lamented deeply in sorrow, the ascetic couple placed themselves upon the funeral pyre. There, together, they gave up their bodies and ascended to heaven. Now, recalling these events, I remember the sin I committed with my own hand in my youth, practicing the art of shooting by sound. O gentle one, this suffering that has come upon me now is the ripening of that deed, just as disease follows the eating of unwholesome food. Therefore, O Kausalya, when this moment has come, the noble ascetic’s words will be fulfilled: I, too, overcome by grief for my son, shall give up my life this very day. I cannot see you with my eyes, Kausalya; do not touch me, I pray. Thus, weeping and trembling, I spoke to 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 only Rama could touch me once today, or if I could but see him, then men would not say I had gone to Yama’s abode. But I do not see you with my eyes; 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 Rama, the knower of righteousness, steadfast in truth? This grief, born from not seeing my son and for which 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 look upon Rama’s 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 happy ones will see Rama return to Ayodhya after his exile in the forest, as one beholds the bright path of the sun. Because of my confusion, O Kausalya, my heart seems to sink; I cannot perceive sounds, touches, or tastes distinctly. As my mind loses clarity, all my senses fail, just as a lamp’s rays fade 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 son, my protector—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. Tormented by the exile of his beloved son, distressed and afflicted, the noble king gave up his life in the middle of the night. When the night had passed and morning arrived, the bards assembled at the royal residence. Charioteers, refined and skilled in auspicious songs, and singers adept in praise, each began their duties. The sound of their blessings and praises for the king echoed through the vast palace. As they sang, the charioteers played their instruments, and the musicians joined in. Awakened by these sounds, the birds—both those perched on branches and those in cages within the royal household—began to sing. The palace was filled with the auspicious music of veenas and the recitation of blessings and songs. Then, women of pure conduct, skilled in service, mostly young and beautiful, gathered as they always had. They brought water mixed with sandalwood and saffron in golden vessels, prepared for the royal bath, as was the custom at the proper time.