Full · 6 min aloud
Long before any of the rest of it, when was young and rather pleased with himself, he could shoot by sound alone.
It is a real skill and very few people had it. He would go down to the river at night, in the dark, and wait, and when he heard an animal drinking he could put an arrow into the sound.
There was a family living near that river.
An old man and an old woman, both blind, and their son. He was young — old enough to carry things, not old enough to have a beard.
His name was , and he had made his parents a : a pole, with a basket hanging from each end. His mother sat in one. His father sat in the other. He put the pole across his shoulders and he carried them.
He had carried them across most of the country that way. They had wanted to visit the holy places, and he had not argued about whether blindness made the journey pointless. He had picked up the pole and made the journey possible in the way they could experience it.
He had learned how to carry them without jolting them, when to change shoulders, and when to slow down.
And because they could not see, he described the places they passed as he walked: a tank on the left, people at the water, a temple ahead. He became their eyes without treating them as if the journey belonged only to him.
That night they were thirsty, and he went down to the river with a pot.
Daśaratha, some way off in the dark, heard water going into a hollow thing. Glug. Glug.
Elephant, he thought.
And he was so quick, and so pleased with being quick, that he had let go of the string before he had finished having the thought.
He heard a cry that was not an elephant.
He ran towards the cry. He did not hide and he did not wait for morning.
The boy was at the water's edge with the arrow in him and the pot spilled beside him. He could still speak.
He said: I am not angry with you.
He said: but my mother and father are sitting up there and they have had no water since this morning, and they are blind, and they cannot come and find me. Fill the pot. Take it up to them.
And then he added: tell them yourself. would have to carry the truth back with the water, face the parents himself, and say exactly what had happened.
Daśaratha filled the pot. He carried it up the bank to two old people sitting in the dark, who heard footsteps and said — oh, you have been a long time — because they expected their son's step, not a stranger's.
and then heard that the footsteps were wrong.
He told them exactly what had happened. He did not make it smaller than it was, and he did not blame the darkness or the river.
The mother asked him to say it again. He said it again.
They asked to be taken down to their son. led them to the riverbank, and they held for a while, knowing there was nothing left to repair. He stayed there with them.
And then the father, who had nothing left to give anybody, said the only thing he could think of.
He said: you will die the way I am dying. Grieving for a son. I am not inventing that to punish you. It is simply what is going to happen to you.
slow down hereMany years later had four sons. When his eldest, , was sent into the forest for fourteen years, the old king was overwhelmed by grief. He remembered the blind father's words. The young hunter who had trusted one sound too quickly was now the old father who understood the weight of losing a son.
Short · 3 min aloud
When was young he could shoot by sound alone — go down to the river in the dark, wait, and put an arrow into whatever he heard drinking. He was very proud of it.
Near that river lived an old blind couple and their son, . He had made them a — a pole with a basket at each end — and carried them from holy place to holy place. As he walked, he changed shoulders and described what was around them, so the journey belonged to them too.
That night they were thirsty, and he went down with a pot.
Daśaratha heard water going into a hollow thing. Elephant, he thought — and he was so pleased with being quick that he let go of the string before he had finished the thought.
The cry was not an elephant's.
He ran towards the cry. He did not hide or wait for morning. He found at the water's edge, the pot spilled beside him. The arrow had struck the young man who had come down only to fetch water.
The boy could still speak. He said: I am not angry with you. But my mother and father have had no water since this morning and they cannot come and find me. Fill the pot. Take it up. Tell them yourself.
filled the pot, carried the water back to the blind parents, told them what he had done, and took them to their son. They knew the footsteps were wrong before he finished speaking. Then the old father said: you will die the way I am dying — grieving for a son.
slow down hereYears later Daśaratha sent his eldest son into the forest for fourteen years, and did not last a fortnight. He knew exactly why, and he said so.