Simplified and faithful rendering
of
the Adi Kavya-46
The Returning Arrow
Dasharatha, Karma, and Price of an Unseen Sin
Vanam Jwala Narasimha Rao
(November 03, 2026)
The previous chapter closed
upon a moment of grave realization. In the turmoil that followed Rama’s exile,
that was brought about by Dasharatha’s hasty and unreflective granting of
Kaikeyi’s boons, the king found himself confronted not merely with grief, but
with a deeper moral reckoning. As sorrow pressed upon his heart, a
long-forgotten memory stirred within him. Dasharatha gradually understood that
what he was enduring was not the cruelty of fate, but the return of his own
past action. Destiny was not punishing him. It was simply bringing back what
had once been set in motion.
What unfolds in this chapter is the slow unveiling of that
forgotten episode, a tragic mistake committed in youth, the grief of innocent
parents, and the curse that followed. The unbearable anguish now consuming
Dasharatha begins to reveal its hidden origin, demonstrating how Karma ripens
across time, often returning when one least expects it. The Valmiki Ramayana
repeatedly reminds that actions, whether noble or careless, rarely vanish into
the past. They wait silently for the moment when their consequences must be
faced.
As Kausalya spoke to Dasharatha, she said that the more she
thought of her son, the more her heart burned within her like fire. She
insisted that she had no desire whatsoever to hurt her husband and begged him
to forgive her if any of her words caused him pain. Her grief, she said, was
growing day by day, and she feared what fate might yet await her. As she spoke
these words to Dasharatha, the sun slowly set and darkness spread across the
sky. The king listened to Kausalya’s words of concern and reflection, and,
overwhelmed by anguish, closed his eyes in distress. This was one among the
many scenes unfolding in Ayodhya after Rama had departed for the forest.
After resting for a short while, the king awoke. His mind returned
to the memory of the sin he once committed. Thinking of his son and
daughter-in-law, his heart grew heavy. Then, at midnight on the sixth day after
Rama’s departure, Dasharatha said to Kausalya that he was weeping because he was
separated from Sri Rama. The sorrow he was experiencing, he explained, was the
result of a deed he himself once committed. Because of that past action, he was
forced to part from Sri Ramachandra, and yet, in foolish ignorance, he was
lamenting the very consequence of his own karma.
Grief often loosens the doors of memory. In moments when pride
collapses and the heart stands exposed, the past returns with a clarity that
ordinary days rarely permit. Dasharatha then confessed that in his youth he was
skilled in archery and earned the reputation of a ‘Shabda-Vedi’ the one
who could strike a target merely by hearing its sound. In those days, while
practicing this remarkable skill, he committed a grave sin. The fruit of that
act ripened and returned to him, when the time came.
Dasharatha told Kausalya that the sin was caused by an arrow
released in the practice of that very art. He then narrated the entire story.
At that time, he reminded her, she was not married to him. He was still the
young crown prince. Dasharatha continued his account. One year, during the
rainy season, the heat had subsided and the sky was filled with clouds heavy
with water, shimmering in flashes of lightning. Frogs croaked loudly in the
marshes, and the calls of peacocks echoed across the landscape. In that
pleasant season, filled with the sounds of nature, Dasharatha mounted his
chariot, armed with bow and arrow, and set out with the desire to hunt.
Abilities admired by the world can become instruments of tragedy
when used without restraint. Skill without mindfulness may transform talent
into calamity. He went to the banks of the River Sarayu and waited alone near a
watering spot where wild animals often came to drink. Concealing himself there
during the night, he intended to strike the fierce creatures that approached
the river. After some time, he heard a sound that resembled the deep gurgling
noise made by an elephant while drinking water. Because of the dense darkness, relying
solely upon the sound, he assumed that an elephant stood there, and guided only
by that noise, he released an arrow toward the source of the sound.
The arrow did not strike an elephant. It pierced a young ascetic.
A human voice cried out in agony: ‘Ah! Ah!’ In the stillness of that forest
night, a single arrow transformed a moment of pride into a lifetime of remorse.
The Ramayana here reminds how one single careless act, committed in ignorance,
can alter the destinies of many lives. The ascetic youth fell to the ground, cried
out in anguish, and wondered aloud how an arrow could have struck him while he
was engaged in a life of penance.
He also wondered at a place where humans seldom venture, how could
someone kill him without cause. What harm had he ever done to deserve such a
fate? Clad in bark garments, with matted locks upon his head, living the life
of a sage in the solitude of the forest, he had been struck down by a cruel
arrow. What gain, he asked himself, could the killer possibly obtain by slaying
him? Surely the world would condemn such an act.
When he said to himself that he did not grieve for his own death, and
instead the thought of his aged parents, whom he had long protected and cared
for. Remembering them caused his heart to tremble. The moment they hear of his
death, they too would perish helplessly. Some foolish person, ignorant of right
and wrong, had with a single arrow destroyed three lives. As Dasharatha
recounted these words, he said that the moment he realized that the victim was
a young ascetic, the bow and arrows slipped from his hands and fell to the
ground of their own accord.
In that instant the pride of the hunter vanished, replaced by the
unbearable awareness that an irreversible act was committed. Often, the weight
of a mistake is felt most deeply not at the moment of action, but at the moment
of recognition. Hearing those heart-rending words, Dasharatha told Kausalya
that, his heart trembled violently. He rushed toward the banks of the River
Sarayu and there saw the young ascetic boy wriggling in agony from the wound of
the arrow. As soon as the boy saw him, he spoke harshly.
The boy said: ‘What harm did I do to you? My parents were thirsty
and asked me to fetch water. I came here for that purpose and dying at your
hands. With a single arrow you have killed not one but three lives. How will my
parents, who wait for me, bear this terrible news? They have no sight. Unable
to search for me, they will lie there crying for me. In this desolate forest
who will tell them what has happened to me? And even if someone tells them, how
will they, unable to walk, find their way to me?’
The boy continued, addressing the Prince by name. ‘Dasharatha! Go
quickly to where my father lives. If you do not go, he will curse you in anger
and reduce you to ashes. I will show you the path to our hermitage. If you go
and beg his forgiveness, he may not be angry with you. Please pull out this
arrow, to enable me to die. Do not fear that the sin of killing a Brahmin will
fall upon you. I am not a Brahmin. I was born to a Vaishya father and a Shudra
mother.’ Having said these words, the ascetic youth fainted. Even while
standing at the threshold of death, the boy’s concern remained fixed not upon
himself, but upon his helpless parents: a reminder that true virtue reveals
itself most clearly in moments of suffering.
Dasharatha told Kausalya that he then removed the arrow, went to the
hermitage, saw two aged people who lost their sight and were unable to walk. As
he approached the parents of the young ascetic, Dasharatha said that his heart
began to pound heavily. Hearing the sound of someone approaching, the blind
couple assumed that their son returned. They asked why he had taken so long.
They thought that the son forgot their suffering and was playing on the way instead
of fetching water. They said that their tongues were parched with thirst, and
asked to give some water.
Still being under the impression that it was not Dasharatha who
came, but it was their son, they continued saying: ‘Dear child! You are our
treasure of austerity. Through your devoted service to us, your parents, you
have become truly blessed. Our lives depend entirely upon you. Why do you not
speak? For us who cannot see, you are our eyes. For us who have no protector,
you are our protector. Is it right for you to neglect us?’ While they spoke in
faint, trembling voices, Dasharatha approached the sage and slowly began to
speak. There are moments in life when confession becomes inevitable, when
silence itself feels heavier than the truth. Dasharatha now stood before that
moment, knowing that words alone could not undo what had already been done.
Dasharatha then told Kausalya that he approached the sage, and in all
humility informed him that he is not his son, is a Kshatriya, and his name is
Dasharatha. He then revealed what all that happened at the banks of the River Sarayu,
and about the death of his son by his arrow. Dasharatha also told the sage
that, before dying his son giving all the details of his parents. ‘Following
the path your son showed, I have come to see you. I am a sinner. Do with me as
you wish. Whether you punish me or forgive me, I shall accept whatever you
decide, for the fault is mine.’ Said Dasharatha to the sage which was revealed
to Kausalya
Dasharatha told Kausalya that when the old couple heard these
words, spoken by him in fear and repentance, they cried out repeatedly for his
son and remembering him. Addressing him, the sage said, ‘A Kshatriya cannot
live in peace after killing one who has embraced the life of austerity in the
forest. Yet you have survived because you confessed your sin with remorse.
Since the mistake was committed in ignorance, I forgive you. Now take us to the
place where our son lies dead. It is our wish to see him lying there upon the
ground, drenched in blood.’
Dasharatha told Kausalya that he guided them both to the spot. Repentance
may soften a heart, but it cannot erase the consequence of an action. In the
moral world of the Ramayana, confession brings dignity, yet suffering must
still run its course. Dasharatha continued his narration to Kausalya. When the
father reached the place where his son laid lifeless, he touched the boy’s body
with trembling hands and spoke in deep anguish: ‘My son! Is it righteous that
when I come near you, you do not rise and offer me respect? Why do you not
speak? Why are you angry with me? Will you not embrace me and relieve our
grief?’
‘Until now you were the one studying the sacred scriptures. Who
will continue that learning now? Who will perform the Sandhya Rites, the sacred
fire offerings, and the daily worship, and remain near me to serve me in my old
age? Who will lovingly bring us roots and fruits from the forest and care for
us with devotion? Is it right that you should abandon us and leave us orphaned in
this forest? How can I bear your mother, who is helpless, blind, and worn with
age? Do not go to the abode of Yama. At dawn we too shall follow you.’
‘Do you want to ask why we must come? Listen, separated from you,
we cannot remain in this forest, wasting away in unbearable sorrow. You have
committed no sin to deserve such a death in the bloom of youth. It is the
sinful king who had killed you. By the power of my truth, you shall attain the
heavenly worlds, just as the great kings Sagara, Dilipa, Nahusha, and
Janamejaya attained them. You shall reach those realms where those who gave
thousands of cows in charity attain. You shall go to the same blessed worlds
reached by those who depart from their bodies at the sacred confluence of Rivers
Ganga and Yamuna. No evil destiny shall befall you.’
The father’s lament carried not anger alone but the immense
dignity of a life built upon truth, austerity, and devotion. In the Ramayana,
the grief of the righteous often becomes a moral force powerful enough to shape
destiny itself. As the sage wept, he offered the ritual waters to his departed
son. At that moment the ascetic youth assumed a divine form and appeared in the
sky, standing beside Indra. Addressing his parents, he said, ‘Knowers of Vedic Dharma!
Because I faithfully served you, I have now attained happiness in the higher
worlds. Therefore, do not grieve for me. Respected Virtuous Ones! You too will
soon come to heaven and meet me there.’ Having spoken these words, he ascended
to the celestial realms.
After their son departed to heaven in this manner, the sage
returned to his dwelling along with his wife. There, noticing that Dasharatha
standing before them with folded hands, overwhelmed with regret, the sage spoke
with a heart, filled with grief and anger to him and said: ‘You made me a
childless though I had only one son. I no longer fear death. Therefore, kill me
as well this very moment. Without reason and out of ignorance you killed my
son. Because of this, I shall pronounce upon you a terrible curse that will
humble your pride. Just as I suffer the unbearable grief of losing my son, you
too shall one day weep in the agony of separation from your own son and die of
that sorrow.’
The sage continued: ‘Since the act was committed unknowingly, the
dreadful sin of Brahma-Hatya will not fall upon you. Yet a lesser sin that
requires punishment shall certainly cling to you. Just as the donor receives
the fruit corresponding to the gift he offers, so too may the condition that
has come upon us come upon you as well.’ In the moral universe of the Ramayana,
even divine reassurance cannot erase the human pain left behind by loss. Words
spoken in grief sometimes become the instruments through which destiny declares
itself.
After recounting this, Dasharatha said to Kausalya, ‘Thus, they
cursed me. Then, weeping in many ways for their son, they watched as I prepared
the funeral pyre. Entering the fire together, they gave up their lives. What
more can I say? Whenever I think about why such sorrow had come upon me now,
this memory returns to my mind. That sin has followed me and is tormenting me
in this manner. What more remains to be said? The words of that great sage became
true. I am destined to die from the grief of separation from my son. My eyes
can no longer see. I cannot even tell where you are standing. Therefore, touch
me.’
Thus, trembling with fear of death and overwhelmed by sorrow,
Dasharatha said these words while weeping: ‘Time may pass, but Karma does not
forget. When its moment arrives, even kings must bow before its silent justice.’
That night Dasharatha lamented thus: ‘On that day I killed the son of a sage,
and today in effect, brought about the death of my own son. Such a deed none
but I could commit, and no other man would do so, nor could he. What Rama did
in my case alone befits Rama, and no one else could act in such a manner. Is
there any man lacking in wisdom who would abandon his own eldest son? And is
there any son who would go to the forest merely because he was told to do so
without reason?’
Dasharatha continued: ‘While I still live upon this earth, I long
to behold Sri Rama once more. If only Rama’s hand were to touch me, if only I
could see his face with my own eyes, I would have no need to go to the abode of
Yama, and instead I would certainly live. But the messengers of Yama are
calling me. At the moment when my life is leaving me, I cannot behold Sri
Ramachandra with my own eyes. There can be no sorrow greater than this. My
life-breaths are fading away. When Rama returns after fourteen years, only the truly
meritorious and blessed will have the fortune to see him. My eyes no longer
see. My ears no longer hear. My heart is shattered into pieces.’
Dasharatha further continued while weeping: ‘Ah! Rama! You whose
face shines like the full moon! Ah! My beloved son! Alas! My protector! Where
have you gone? Come, come, and relieve my suffering. May great merit be yours!
Kausalya! Because of my sin, not only have I destroyed myself, but I have also
caused you, to suffer the grief of losing your son. Sumitra! I have caused you
much sorrow. Kaikeyi! Enemy in the guise of a loved one! Destroyer of our
lineage! Is it not you who have brought this sorrow upon so many?’
Thus, lamenting and crying aloud, Dasharatha, lost in grief and
thought, breathed his last at midnight. This was the event of the sixth night
after Rama had departed to the forests. In the Ramayana, the fall of a king is
not marked by the loss of power but by the breaking of a father’s heart. The
story reminds that even the mightiest authority cannot shield a person from the
consequences of emotional and moral choices.
When dawn approached, the maidens of the palace prepared the
auspicious articles required for the king’s morning services and ceremonies.
All arrangements were made with the customary signs of prosperity and good
fortune. Yet, though the sun had already risen, the king did not come out as he
usually did. Wondering what might be the cause, the women approached him with
hesitation. They gently placed their hands upon him and softly touched his body
in an attempt to awaken him. But they noticed none of the signs of sleep in
him. His body felt cold. No breath came from his nostrils, and his heart was no
longer beating. A fearful suspicion arose among the women that the king was no
longer alive. Convinced at last that he died, they went in deep sorrow to
inform Kausalya.
Great palaces may be filled with Splendour and ceremony, yet death
enters them as silently as it enters the humblest home. Even though the women
suspected that the king had passed away, they continued to weep beside him,
hoping that Kausalya herself would come and confirm it. When Kausalya arrived
and saw the king, she fainted. The other women, including Kaikeyi and Sumitra,
were overcome with grief. Relatives and attendants gathered around the royal
body and began to lament loudly.
Placing the king’s head upon her lap, Kausalya spoke bitterly to
Kaikeyi: ‘O woman of cruel heart! Now that your heart must surely be satisfied,
rule this kingdom freely and enjoy its wealth and pleasures without fear of
anyone. Unable to bear your conduct, the king had died. Sri Rama was driven to
the forests. Your desires were fulfilled. From now on, whatever games you wish
to play, none will oppose you? How can I continue to live in this city, still
breathing, after losing both my husband and my son?’ Grief often seeks a face
to blame, and in moments of overwhelming loss, sorrow can turn even the noblest
hearts toward harsh words.
Kausalya continued to speak: ‘Kaikeyi, driven by harshness,
reduced the noble Raghu dynasty to ashes. All this happened because of Manthara.
When King Janaka hears that Dasharatha, heeding the words of his wife, had sent
Sri Rama to the forest along with Sita, how deeply will he grieve? In Ayodhya
the king had died, and I stand helpless, weeping in sorrow, yet Rama, who
dwells in the forest, knows nothing of it. What meaning can be found in such
events? And how many hardships must Sita be enduring in the forest? She too
must be suffering greatly. King Janaka, on knowing of this, will wither away in
grief. As for me, I shall follow my husband and offer this body into the sacred
fire through Saha Gamana.’
In moments of unbearable loss, the mind searches for meaning,
often moving between grief, blame, and despair. The epic here reflects the raw
human response to tragedy, reminding that sorrow can overwhelm even the most
dignified hearts. While Kausalya was lamenting thus, those who were
knowledgeable in matters of governance arrived. They consoled her as best they
could and placed the king’s body in a large vessel filled with oil for
preservation. Thereafter they began to deliberate about the duties that must
follow. Since not even one of the king’s sons was present nearby, instead of
performing the cremation rites, they instructed the attendants to safeguard the
royal body carefully.
The body was kept within the palace for the time being. Seeing the
king’s body lying preserved in oil, the women of the inner palace began to weep
bitterly. Everywhere in the city people shed tears. Noble women wept in grief.
The city no longer seemed like Ayodhya at all. All the wives of Dasharatha were
immersed in sorrow. The sun set and darkness spread across the land. Meanwhile
the people freely cursed and condemned Kaikeyi. The grief of a kingdom mirrors
the grief of a household. When a righteous ruler falls, the sorrow of the
palace flows outward into the streets and becomes the sorrow of the people.
On the eighth day after Sri Rama departed for the forest, the
senior Brahmins who held the authority to decide matters of kingship assembled
in council. Among them were Gautama, Maudgalya, Katyayana, Markandeya, Jabali,
Kashyapa, Vamadeva, and other ministers. Gathering in the royal assembly, they
addressed the great sage Vasishta and said, ‘Since the king had died and none
of the princes are present in Ayodhya, it is necessary that one among the noble
princes be appointed as the ruler of this city. If this is not done, the
kingdom may fall into grave disorder.’ The Ramayana quietly reminds that
governance cannot remain vacant for long. When leadership disappears, wise
counsel must step forward to preserve order and protect society.
They all said that: ‘If there is no king to rule the land, even
though clouds gather and thunder roars with lightning, the rains will not fall
at the proper time. When there is no ruler over the earth, farmers will not sow
seeds during the season for planting. Even if crops grow, there will be no
confidence that the grain will reach the home without fear of thieves. Because
of rogues and robbers, fear will prevail everywhere. When there is no sovereign
authority, each person acts as he pleases, cutting down trees and destroying
them, and therefore pleasant gardens cannot exist.
They continued: ‘Low and unruly people enter and defile places,
and thus fields cannot remain protected. Since minds will not remain steady,
people will not attend assemblies. In a land where no king rules, Brahmins,
having lost faith, will not perform sacrifices. Out of fear of thieves, even
those who possess wealth will hesitate to give charity or offer gifts. When the
land falls into anarchy, even if actors and dancers exist, festivals and public
celebrations will not appear joyful. Officials, taking bribes, will not settle
disputes with justice.’
‘Because of this, merchants will not be able to conduct trade
profitably. Without a king to govern, citizens cannot remain mentally at ease,
and people will not gather freely to share stories or converse. Out of fear of
wicked men, even women will not adorn themselves. When there is no king to
protect the people, young men and women will not dress in ornaments and enjoy
themselves in gardens during the evenings. Wives will not ride in chariots with
their husbands to pleasant groves to gather flowers. In a kingdom without a
ruler, people will not sleep with their doors open after sunset, for fear of
thieves.’
‘In a city without a king, great elephants adorned with bells will
not move proudly along the royal roads. In such a city the reverberating sound
of bowstrings during the practice of archery will no longer be heard. In a land
without a king, merchants who travel to distant countries will not safely
return to their homes. They will suffer attacks from robbers along the roads.
In a country without governance, even a wandering ascetic will not travel
alone. Having no patron to sustain him, he must sleep wherever night falls. In
a realm without order there is no merit, no prosperity, and no security.’
‘Armies that go to battle will be defeated by their enemies, for
they will have no brave leader to guide them. In a country without a king,
people cannot move about freely and happily upon elephants, horses, chariots,
or other vehicles. In a land without a king, even if people study the sacred
scriptures with diligence, they will not feel free to display their learning
among sages in forests, gardens, or on the banks of rivers. Where there is no
ruler to provide protection, citizens will hesitate to go to temples carrying
flower garlands, offerings, and gifts for the worship of the gods.’
‘In a kingdom without governance, princes themselves will not move
about with comfort, anointed with sandal paste and enjoying their lives. While
the king was alive, we conducted ourselves without ever transgressing your
command, just as the ocean never crosses its shoreline. What more need be said
now? Therefore, considering the welfare of the world, appoint a ruler for this
kingdom. If there is no king, the state will soon become like a wilderness.
This truth is already known to you. Hence decide that one among the sons of
Dasharatha should be installed as king.’
The sages thus spoke not merely of royal authority but of social
order itself: when justice and leadership collapse, every layer of society, from
agriculture to culture, slowly begins to crumble. Their words reveal a profound
insight: political stability is not merely about power, but about the invisible
assurance that allows ordinary life, such as, trade, travel, learning, and
celebration to flourish. Thus, the elders reminded the assembly that a kingdom
without leadership quickly descends into chaos, and that the responsibility of
choosing a just ruler is itself an act of service to the welfare of society.
The elders of Ayodhya placed before the assembly a truth that had
been confirmed many times in the history of kingdoms, that, a land cannot
remain without a ruler even for a short time. Just as a chariot cannot move
without a charioteer, a kingdom cannot function without a king who safeguards
justice, order, and the welfare of the people. The death of Dasharatha left not
only a grieving family but also a vulnerable kingdom. Rama, the rightful heir,
was far away in the forest. Lakshmana accompanied him. Shatrughna was absent.
Bharata, who knew nothing of these events, was still in the land
of his maternal relatives. In this uncertain moment the responsibility for
preserving stability fell upon the sages and ministers who guided the affairs
of the state. Their deliberation was not merely political. It reflected a
deeper principle repeatedly emphasized in the Ramayana, that is, the well-being
of society depends upon righteous leadership. When a just ruler governs with
wisdom and restraint, prosperity, culture, and harmony flourish. When authority
collapses, even the most ordinary rhythms of life: agriculture, trade, worship,
and celebration, begin to disintegrate.
Therefore, the elders urged Vasishta that, one of Dasharatha’s
sons be installed on the throne without delay, so that the kingdom of Ayodhya
might not drift into disorder. With this solemn appeal, the council prepared to
take the next step that would shape the destiny of the kingdom. The passing of
Dasharatha marked the end of one era in Ayodhya. Yet within the sorrow of that
moment lay the beginning of events that would ultimately reveal the greatness
of Rama’s destiny and the enduring ideals of dharma that the Ramayana seeks to
illuminate.
>>>>> Photographs Courtesy Rama Bhakta Vijaya Raghava Dasu
{{From my Published Book ‘Simplified
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