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knowing what to do. At his request I
pulled the arrow out to release him from
the mortal pain. He is dead. I have told
you the horrible sin I have committed. I
throw myself at your mercy. I await your
judgment.' The miserable couples were
struck dumb by my dreadful tale about
their
son.
Tears
poured
from
their
sightless eyes, and the old man said:
'King, your sin is indeed great. But it was
done in ignorance. And you have come
yourself to tell me your crime. So you
shall live. Now take us both to the spot.
Let us touch our beloved son with our
hands and send him into Yama's keeping.'
I carried them to the river bank where
their son lay dead. They felt his body all
over, cried and blessed his soul and
performed the cremation. Then before
ascending the funeral pyre and giving
them selves up to the fire, they turned to
me and said: 'This great grief you have
brought about for us, you too, will endure
in good time. You will die of grief parted
from your son.' Saying this, they burnt
themselves and their souls joined the
gods. My sin has pursued me and I am
now in its grip. My old crime is killing me
now. As food prohibited by they doctors
foolishly consumed by a sick man kills
him, what that old father uttered in
unbearable grief has now come true. I
have sent my innocent son to the forest
and, unable to bear the grief, I now enter
Yama's abode. How else could these
unnatural events occur? How else could I
be thus deceived and betrayed? Even if I
ordered Rama to go to forest, why should
he obey my unjust command? Why
should he insist on being exiled? It is the
curse of that old blind couple, nothing
else. Kausalya, I
do not see you. My sight
is gone. Death is fast approaching. Come
nearer and let me feel you. All is over.
The messengers of Yama are calling me.
Will Rama come? Shall I see him before I
die? Oh, I am dying. The oil is all
consumed and my light is going out! Ah
Kausalya! Oh Sumitra!"
His life slowly ebbed away and that
night at some time unobserved by any, the
King breathed his last.
As described by Valmiki in the early
pages of the epic, Dasaratha was one who
had mastered all the Vedas and Shastras,
was a farsighted person, the hero of many
battles, the performer of many sacrifices,
follower of dharma, a far-famed king with
many friends and no foes, and one who
had conquered his senses. His power was
like Indra's. His wealth was like Kubera's.
In statesmanship, he was like Manu. Fate
had ordered that such a one should exile
his beloved son and die of a broken heart,
with none by him in his last moments but
two faithful women stricken by himself
with a common sorrow.
Since the King had so often fainted and
recovered, his death was not immediately
noticed by Kausalya or Sumitra. They
were weary, too, with grief and watching,
and fell into a sleep of fatigue in a corner
of the apartment. At dawn, the musicians
and singers, whose duty it was to rouse
the King from slumber, came to his
bedchamber and played on instruments
and sang the usual hymns.
But they saw no sign of the King
waking. The royal servants who attended
to the King's morning needs waited long
and wondered why he slept till so late.
Then
they
made
bold to enter the
apartment and saw him lying dead.
Soon the news spread and filled the
palace with grief. The widows of the great
Dasaratha cried like orphaned children,
embracing
one
another
in
unavailing