The impassioned outbursts of Kausalya vexed King Dasaratha beyond endurance. Troubled by her reproaches, he wrestled with his thoughts, but neither his weary body nor his tumultuous mind offered him solace. A wave of helplessness and despair overcame him, leaving him often semi-conscious—a foreboding sign. His gaze rested upon Kausalya, expressionless yet burdened by memories. The specter of his past transgression loomed large: the heinous act of slaying the innocent sage boy, Sravana, whom he had mistaken for a deer, guided only by the sound of water drawn in a vessel. His mastery of the art of shabdabhedi—shooting by sound—had once been his pride, now his torment.
The thought haunted him, multiplying his woes. Summoning courage, he addressed her:
“Kausalya! I entreat you with folded hands. Never before have you spoken to me so harshly. A woman devoted to dharma must revere her husband above all else, even above the gods. You are wise in the ways of the world, steeped in piety, rituals, and fasting. Despite your virtues and grief, it does not cause you to accuse me of shifting narratives. Consider, I beg you, my genuine remorse.”
The king’s earnest appeal touched Kausalya’s heart, and with newfound humility, she replied:
“O noble King! Forgive my ignorance. My distress blinded me, and I spoke without wisdom. I bow my head in repentance. A woman loses her virtue by dishonoring her husband, and I have belittled you in a moment of despair. My son’s exile has consumed my reason, leaving me adrift in grief—a foe greater and more insidious than any external enemy. Grief clouds judgment crushes confidence, and drives even the wise into folly.”
Tears welled in her eyes as she continued, “O King! Even saints, scholars, and ascetics, embodiments of dharma, are not immune to grief’s snares. Since Rama departed five days ago, sorrow has stretched time into eternity. Each day feels like a year, and my restless mind finds no respite. Like a river quickening, as it nears the ocean, my grief grows unbridled. Yet I must endure.”
As night descended, Kausalya’s heartfelt words momentarily calmed the king, though he remained trapped in a state of fearful agitation. Restless, he ruminated over his past and present.
“Rama, Lakshmana, and Sita are now in the forest,” he thought, “and my spirit falters like the sun eclipsed by Rahu. I must confess my sins to Kausalya.” Gathering his resolve, he spoke:
“O queen of auspicious nature! Every action bears its fruit, known as karma. The wise weigh their deeds carefully, yet I, in my ignorance, planted sorrow instead of joy. Like one who replaces a mango grove with flowering trees only to lament their barrenness, I too erred gravely with Kaikeyi, losing Rama and my peace of mind.”
Reflecting on his youthful arrogance, Dasaratha recounted the fateful day. “In those days, I reveled in my skill with the bow, driven by reckless vigor. I ventured into the Sarayu forests, eager for a hunt. By sound alone, I felled beasts with unerring precision. But my overconfidence led me to a terrible mistake.”
He described the tragic incident with the sage boy, Sravana. Mistaking the sound of water being drawn for an animal, he released his arrow. Hearing a pained cry, he rushed to the spot and found the boy, gravely wounded, his life ebbing away.
The boy’s anguished words pierced Dasaratha’s soul:
“Who has done this to me? We are ascetics, harmless, and devoted to peace. What harm have I caused to warrant such cruelty? My only crime was fetching water for my aged, frail parents. Now, with a single arrow, you have doomed not just me, but them as well. Their survival depends on me. Who will care for them when I am gone? O unrestrained archer, your act is neither just nor humane.”
The boy, struggling for breath, instructed the king to confess to his parents:
“Go to them, tell them of your deed, and beg for mercy before they curse you. Free me from this suffering by removing the arrow, for I can endure no longer.”
Overwhelmed with guilt, Dasaratha removed the arrow, and the boy breathed his last. The king, distraught and trembling, saw the boy’s lifeless form as a reflection of his own folly.
Now, years later, the weight of this sin and the exile of his beloved son bore heavily upon him. As the rain poured outside, mingling with the earth and swelling the rivers in torrents, so too did Dasaratha’s sorrow surge, unstoppable and consuming. His next steps, though uncertain, would shape the fate of his dynasty and his own redemption.
