Within the royal palace, the women who served and attended the king, well-versed in the habits of sleep and the subtle movements of those around them, were suddenly gripped by trembling fear. Their hearts pounded with anxiety for the king’s life, uncertain and foreboding. Like slender blades of grass shivering at the edge of a swift stream, buffeted by the current, so too did these women shake; and as they gazed upon the king’s motionless form, their fear only deepened. What they had dreaded as a looming calamity was now certain. Queen Kausalya and gentle Sumitra, overwhelmed by grief for their beloved son, did not awaken at the customary hour. Their faces were drained of radiance, pale and bowed with sorrow, as they lay overcome by heartache. Kausalya, once resplendent, now appeared dim, like a star obscured by thick darkness; and after her, Sumitra, the king’s wife, was similarly veiled in sorrow. The queen’s face, stained with the tracks of her tears, no longer shone with its former beauty. As she looked upon the king and the noble queens, all lying as if lifeless, the inner palace itself seemed changed, its very heart subdued. Then, unable to bear their anguish, the noble women raised their voices in loud lamentation. Like a herd of female elephants who have lost their leader in the depths of the forest, the women, suddenly awakened to the full force of their loss, wailed in grief. Kausalya and Sumitra, abandoning the remnants of sleep, rose and approached the king. Seeing him, they touched him, and with a cry of “Alas, lord!” they collapsed to the ground in despair. Kausalya, daughter of the king of Kosala, writhed upon the earth, her brilliance dimmed, covered in dust, like a star fallen from the sky. The king now lay in peace, while Kausalya lay stricken beside him. All those women resembled elephant-cows slain in battle. Then all the king’s wives, led by Kaikeyi, overcome by grief and weeping bitterly, fell unconscious. From their cries arose a mighty, piercing sound that reverberated through the palace. Once, the sounds of joy and prosperity filled those halls; now, confusion, fear, and distress echoed in every chamber. All around, relatives and attendants, their joy suddenly extinguished, broke into tumultuous wailing, pitiable and dejected. Thus, the palace of the king, who had reached his destined end, became a place of sorrow. The illustrious king, surrounded by his wives, was mourned bitterly; they seized his arms and lamented, as if they themselves had been left without protection. Now begins the sixty-sixth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. When Kausalya beheld the king, extinguished like a fire gone out, like the ocean drained of water, like the sun bereft of its brilliance—her heart broke, for he had ascended to heaven. Her eyes brimming with tears, her body emaciated by countless sorrows, Kausalya embraced the king’s head and turned to Kaikeyi, her voice trembling. “Be satisfied, Kaikeyi,” she said bitterly, “enjoy the kingdom without hindrance, for you have cast aside the king himself, you cruel one, devoted to wicked deeds. Rāma has left me, and now my husband has gone to heaven. Like a caravan abandoned on a desolate path, I have no will to live. What woman, having abandoned her husband—her own deity—would wish to live, except one such as Kaikeyi, who has forsaken righteousness? The greedy do not perceive their own faults, just as one who eats poison senses no harm. Because of the hunchback’s influence, Kaikeyi has destroyed the lineage of the Raghus. By the king, compelled against his will, Rāma was exiled. When Janaka hears of this, he too will be overcome with grief, just as I am now. Rāma, righteous and lotus-eyed, has departed from here, unaware that I am now widowed and abandoned. Sītā, the ascetic daughter of the king of Videha, unaccustomed to suffering, will surely be troubled by sorrow in the forest. Hearing the dreadful cries of wild beasts and birds at night, she will be frightened and seek refuge in Rāghava. And Janaka, old and with few sons, thinking of Vaidehī, will be overwhelmed by grief and surely give up his life. I, devoted to my husband, will today meet my destined end; embracing this body, I will enter the fire.” As Kausalya lamented in her anguish, the women of the household gathered around her, gently restraining her and embracing her in her sorrow. Meanwhile, the ministers, following their duty, placed the lord of the earth in an oil vessel, performing all the subsequent rites as instructed. Yet, the wise ministers, unwilling to cremate the king without the presence of the prince, guarded the lord of the earth carefully. The king, laid out by his ministers in the oil vessel, was mourned by the women, who, realizing he was truly gone, lifted their arms and wept aloud, their faces streaming with tears. Tormented by sorrow, they lamented in anguish, crying, “Alas, great king! Why have you abandoned us, deprived of Rāma, who always spoke kindly and was steadfast in truth? Separated from Raghava by Kaikeyi’s wickedness, how shall we, widows, live near the husband-slayer? He was always our protector and yours, lordly and self-possessed; Rāma, glorious, has gone to the forest, leaving behind the royal splendor. Bereft of you and that heroic one, afflicted by misfortune, how shall we remain, disgraced by Kaikeyi? She who abandoned the king, Rāma, mighty Lakshmana, and Sītā—whom else will she not forsake?” Covered in tears and overwhelmed by immense grief, the noble women of Raghava’s house writhed in their sorrow, joyless and bereft.