She lay on the ground, her form covered in dust, no longer radiant—like a star fallen from the heavens—while the king, now at peace, rested with Kausalya collapsed beside him in her grief. All around, I saw the royal women, the king’s wives, stricken as if they were elephant-cows felled in battle. Led by Kaikeyi, they were overcome by sorrow, weeping and tormented until they lost consciousness; from their cries arose a great and terrible sound. That sound, which once filled the palace with prosperity and joy, now echoed through the royal halls, spreading only fear, confusion, and distress. Relatives, too, wailed tumultuously, their happiness shattered in an instant, and they appeared pitiable and dejected. Thus, the palace of the king—who had now met his destined end—became a place of lamentation. The illustrious king, encircled by his grieving wives, who wept bitterly, seized his arms in despair and mourned as one left without protection. Now, listen to the sixty-sixth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa, from the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Seeing the king, his life extinguished—like a fire gone out, like the ocean drained of water, like the sun robbed of its brilliance—Kausalya, her eyes brimming with tears and her body wasted by many sorrows, embraced the king’s head. Turning to Kaikeyi, she spoke in anguish: “Be satisfied, Kaikeyi, and enjoy the kingdom without hindrance, for you have cast aside the king, you cruel one, devoted to wicked deeds. Rāma has left me, and 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 go on living, except one like Kaikeyi, who has forsaken righteousness? The greedy do not perceive their own faults, just as one who eats poison does not sense its harm. Because of the hunchback, the noble line of the Raghus has been destroyed by Kaikeyi. The king, compelled against his will, exiled Rāma; when Janaka hears this, he too will grieve as I do. “Now, Rāma, righteous and lotus-eyed, has departed and does not know me—widowed and abandoned. Sītā, the ascetic daughter of the king of Videha, unaccustomed to suffering, will surely be overcome by sorrow in the forest. At night, hearing the dreadful cries of wild beasts and birds, she will be frightened and take refuge in Rāghava. And Janaka, old and with few sons, thinking of Vaidehī, will surely be overwhelmed by grief and give up his life. “I, devoted to my husband, shall today reach my destined end; embracing this body, I will enter the fire.” The women of the household, seeing Kausalya so stricken and lamenting, embraced her and gently restrained her from her grief. Meanwhile, the ministers placed the lord of the earth in an oil vessel and, as was proper, performed all the subsequent rites for the king. Yet, being wise, the ministers would not proceed with the cremation of the king without the prince present, and so they guarded the lord of the earth. The king, laid out by his ministers in the oil vessel, was mourned by the women who, realizing he was truly gone, wailed aloud. Raising their arms in distress, their faces streaming with tears, they wept bitterly, tormented by sorrow. “Alas, great king!” they cried, “Why have you abandoned us, deprived of Rama, 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; Rama, 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? By whom the king, Rama, mighty Lakshmana, and Sita were abandoned—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. Ayodhya, deprived of its great king, shone no more—like a night without stars, like a woman bereft of her husband. The city, filled with people overwhelmed by tears, with women in every home crying “alas!”, with empty squares and houses, gleamed no longer as before. It was as if the sky had lost its sun, as if night had fallen without its cluster of stars—when the sun suddenly sets and the day ceases, night rushes forth. Without the king’s son present, the assembled friends would not agree to the king’s cremation; and so, they placed him on his bed, pondering the unfathomable presence that had departed. Ayodhya appeared like the sky without the sun, the night without its stars; bereft of its great soul, its streets and squares were empty, not crowded with tearful throats as before. Men and women gathered in groups, reproaching Bharata’s mother; in the city, now that the king was gone, they were distressed and found no comfort. This is the sixty-seventh chapter in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Thus, Ayodhya, filled with cries and joyless, its people choked with tears, passed through that sorrowful night. When the night had passed and the sun rose, the royal priests and twice-born men assembled and went to the council. Among them were Markandeya, Maudgalya, Vamadeva, Kashyapa, Katyayana, Gautama, and the illustrious Jabali.