Long ago, in a land woven with rivers and crowned by ancient forests, lived a devoted son named Shravana Kumar. His parents, old and blind, relied on his gentle hands and kind heart for every need. Though their eyes saw only darkness, Shravana’s love painted their world with light. From the time he was a child, Shravana listened to the stories his parents told—of holy places where prayers soared higher, and rivers that carried the footsteps of gods. As years passed, his parents’ longing to visit these sacred sites grew, but their frail bodies could never make the journey on their own. One crisp dawn, Shravana knelt at his parents’ bedside. “Mother, Father,” he said softly, “I wish to carry you both on a pilgrimage to the holy places you have dreamed of all your lives.” Tears welled in their eyes, for they knew of his strength and devotion, but the road was long and filled with hardship. Still, Shravana was determined. He crafted a sturdy kavad—a balance-pole—with two comfortable baskets, one on each end. He seated his mother in one, his father in the other, and hoisted them onto his shoulders. With each step, he whispered words of encouragement, letting them know the world was still full of wonder. The journey began. Days turned to weeks as Shravana carried his parents through dense forests, across rushing rivers, and over sunlit meadows. The path was not easy. Sometimes the sun blazed overhead, and sometimes sudden storms soaked them to the bone. Yet Shravana’s spirit never faltered. He sang songs, told stories, and made sure his parents always felt safe. The love between them was their only compass. One twilight, as purple shadows stretched across the earth, Shravana reached the edge of a great forest near the banks of the Sarayu River. His parents, weary from the day’s journey, pleaded for water. “My son,” his mother whispered, “our throats are parched. Will you fetch us a little water before the night falls?” Shravana set the kavad gently on the ground and hurried toward the river with a brass pot in hand. The woods were quiet, broken only by the soft song of crickets and the gentle lapping of water. As Shravana knelt to fill the pot, an arrow sliced through the air and struck his chest. Pain blossomed through his body, and he fell to the earth, clutching the pot. In the thicket nearby, King Dasharatha—renowned for his skill in hunting—stood frozen with his bow. He had been tracking deer by sound alone and, mistaking Shravana’s movement for that of a wild animal, had let fly an arrow without seeing his target. The king rushed to the wounded youth. “Who are you?” Dasharatha cried, voice trembling. “How could I have made such a terrible mistake?” Shravana’s breaths grew shallow, but his voice held no anger. “I am Shravana Kumar, son to two blind parents whom I carry on a holy journey,” he said. “They wait nearby, thirsting for water. Do not grieve for me, O King. My last wish is simple. Please take this water to them, and tell them what has happened. Let my parents not suffer in their darkness and thirst.” King Dasharatha’s hands shook as he took the pot. Tears streamed down his face. “I will do as you wish, noble son,” he promised. Guided by Shravana’s words, Dasharatha approached the parents. “Who is there?” they called out, hope blooming in their voices. The king’s heart ached as he knelt before them. “Revered mother and father,” he said gently, “I am Dasharatha, king of this land. Your son, Shravana Kumar, sent me to bring you water. He…met with a terrible accident, struck by my arrow, and has left this world.” A mournful silence filled the air. The parents, stricken with grief, clasped each other’s hands tightly. Yet even in their sorrow, they thanked the king for bringing them the last words and kindness of their beloved son. Dasharatha returned to the place where Shravana lay and wept. The weight of what he had done would haunt him all his life. He built a memorial for Shravana by the river, so that travelers would remember the son whose love outshined even the brightest star. And so, the legend of Shravana Kumar endures—a tale of devotion so deep that not even tragedy could break it, and a reminder that the purest love asks not for revenge, but only for kindness to be passed on.

Long ago, in a land woven with rivers and crowned by ancient forests, lived a devoted son named Shravana Kumar. His parents, old and blind, relied on his gentle hands and kind heart for every need. Though their eyes saw only darkness, Shravana’s love painted their world with light. From the time he was a child, Shravana listened to the stories his parents told—of holy places where prayers soared higher, and rivers that carried the footsteps of gods. As years passed, his parents’ longing to visit these sacred sites grew, but their frail bodies could never make the journey on their own. One crisp dawn, Shravana knelt at his parents’ bedside. “Mother, Father,” he said softly, “I wish to carry you both on a pilgrimage to the holy places you have dreamed of all your lives.” Tears welled in their eyes, for they knew of his strength and devotion, but the road was long and filled with hardship. Still, Shravana was determined. He crafted a sturdy kavad—a balance-pole—with two comfortable baskets, one on each end. He seated his mother in one, his father in the other, and hoisted them onto his shoulders. With each step, he whispered words of encouragement, letting them know the world was still full of wonder. The journey began. Days turned to weeks as Shravana carried his parents through dense forests, across rushing rivers, and over sunlit meadows. The path was not easy. Sometimes the sun blazed overhead, and sometimes sudden storms soaked them to the bone. Yet Shravana’s spirit never faltered. He sang songs, told stories, and made sure his parents always felt safe. The love between them was their only compass. One twilight, as purple shadows stretched across the earth, Shravana reached the edge of a great forest near the banks of the Sarayu River. His parents, weary from the day’s journey, pleaded for water. “My son,” his mother whispered, “our throats are parched. Will you fetch us a little water before the night falls?” Shravana set the kavad gently on the ground and hurried toward the river with a brass pot in hand. The woods were quiet, broken only by the soft song of crickets and the gentle lapping of water. As Shravana knelt to fill the pot, an arrow sliced through the air and struck his chest. Pain blossomed through his body, and he fell to the earth, clutching the pot. In the thicket nearby, King Dasharatha—renowned for his skill in hunting—stood frozen with his bow. He had been tracking deer by sound alone and, mistaking Shravana’s movement for that of a wild animal, had let fly an arrow without seeing his target. The king rushed to the wounded youth. “Who are you?” Dasharatha cried, voice trembling. “How could I have made such a terrible mistake?” Shravana’s breaths grew shallow, but his voice held no anger. “I am Shravana Kumar, son to two blind parents whom I carry on a holy journey,” he said. “They wait nearby, thirsting for water. Do not grieve for me, O King. My last wish is simple. Please take this water to them, and tell them what has happened. Let my parents not suffer in their darkness and thirst.” King Dasharatha’s hands shook as he took the pot. Tears streamed down his face. “I will do as you wish, noble son,” he promised. Guided by Shravana’s words, Dasharatha approached the parents. “Who is there?” they called out, hope blooming in their voices. The king’s heart ached as he knelt before them. “Revered mother and father,” he said gently, “I am Dasharatha, king of this land. Your son, Shravana Kumar, sent me to bring you water. He…met with a terrible accident, struck by my arrow, and has left this world.” A mournful silence filled the air. The parents, stricken with grief, clasped each other’s hands tightly. Yet even in their sorrow, they thanked the king for bringing them the last words and kindness of their beloved son. Dasharatha returned to the place where Shravana lay and wept. The weight of what he had done would haunt him all his life. He built a memorial for Shravana by the river, so that travelers would remember the son whose love outshined even the brightest star. And so, the legend of Shravana Kumar endures—a tale of devotion so deep that not even tragedy could break it, and a reminder that the purest love asks not for revenge, but only for kindness to be passed on.