Shravana Kumar's Last Moments - The Son Who Carried His Parents

The arrow had already struck when Dasharatha realized his mistake.

The sound at the river—the gurgling he mistook for a deer drinking—was a young man filling pots.

Now that young man lay dying, the arrow lodged in his chest.

Dasharatha: "What—what have I done?"

Dasharatha ran to the fallen figure.

Shravana Kumar: "You have killed me. But that is not the greatest tragedy."

Dasharatha: "Who are you? Why were you at the river in the darkness?"

Shravana Kumar: "My name is Shravana. I was getting water for my parents. They are blind—both of them. Too old to walk, too frail to travel alone. I carry them on a kavadi, a pole across my shoulders with a basket on each end. We were on pilgrimage."

Dasharatha's horror deepened.

Dasharatha: "Your parents—"

Shravana Kumar: "Wait near the path. They are wondering why I'm taking so long. They will be thirsty. They will call for me. And I will not come."

Dasharatha: "I'll save you. I'll bring physicians—"

Shravana Kumar: "The arrow has pierced my heart. We both know there is no saving. I don't ask for my own life. I ask for theirs. Take them water. Tell them what happened. Don't let them die of thirst waiting for a son who will never return."

Dasharatha: "I'll care for them. I swear—"

Shravana Kumar: "Your swear means nothing. You killed their only son. There is no caring for that. But do this much: let me die with the sound of their voices. Bring them here. Let me hear them one more time."

Dasharatha carried the old couple to their dying son. They couldn't see—only touch, only hear his weakening breath.

Dasharatha: "Shravana? What happened? We heard a cry—"

Shravana Kumar: "An accident, Mother. Father. An accident."

Dasharatha: "You're hurt. Your voice—"

Shravana Kumar: "I'm going on ahead. You'll have to continue without me. I'm sorry. I wanted to take you all the way. I wanted to carry you to every sacred river, every temple. I wanted—"

Dasharatha: "Shh. You've done enough. You've done everything. What son carries his parents across the world? What child makes himself a vehicle for aging bodies?"

Shravana Kumar: "A child who loves. A child who remembers. Mother, Father—forgive me for leaving you."

Dasharatha: "There is nothing to forgive. There is only gratitude. Only pride. Only—"

Shravana died. His last breath was a smile.

The old couple held their son's body. Dasharatha stood apart, drowning in guilt.

Shravana Kumar: "Who did this? Who killed our son?"

Dasharatha: "I did. Prince Dasharatha. I mistook the sound of water for a deer. I shot without looking. I—"

Shravana Kumar: "You killed our everything. You took the only person who could care for us. Now we will die here. Now our pilgrimage ends in tragedy."

Dasharatha: "Let me help. Let me take you—"

Shravana Kumar: "You can do nothing for us except die knowing what you did. Here is my curse, prince: you will also lose a son. You will also feel this grief—the grief of a parent watching their child leave forever. And like us, you will die of it."

The curse settled like a stone.

Dasharatha would become king. Would father Rama. Would send him to exile. Would die of grief within days of his son's departure.

But that was years away.

For now, there was only a forest, a dead body, two blind parents, and a prince who learned that carelessness costs more than we can imagine.

And that some debts are paid across lifetimes.