Kausalyā, overwhelmed by grief, lamented the cruel turns her life had taken. “Rāma has left me, and my husband has gone to heaven,” she cried. “I am like a caravan abandoned on a desolate path, bereft of all support or purpose. I have no will to go on living.” Her sorrow deepened as she reflected, “What woman, having abandoned her husband—her own lord and deity—would wish to live? Only one like Kaikeyī, who has forsaken righteousness, could bear such a fate.” She spoke bitterly of Kaikeyī, whose greed had blinded her to her own faults, just as a person eating poison fails to sense its harm. “Because of the hunchback’s influence, Kaikeyī has destroyed the noble lineage of the Raghus,” Kausalyā wept. “The king, forced against his will, sent Rāma into exile. When Janaka hears of this, he too will be plunged into grief, just as I am.” Now, with Rāma, the righteous and lotus-eyed, gone from Ayodhya, Kausalyā felt utterly abandoned. “He cannot know the pain of my widowhood, nor the loneliness that grips me,” she mourned. Her heart ached for Sītā as well—the gentle, ascetic daughter of King Janaka, unaccustomed to hardship—who would now face sorrow and suffering in the forest. “At night, when dreadful cries of wild beasts and birds fill the air, Sītā will be frightened and seek refuge with Rāghava,” Kausalyā imagined. Her thoughts turned again to Janaka, aged and with few sons. “Thinking of Vaidehī, he will surely be overwhelmed by grief and may give up his life.” The weight of her sorrow became unbearable. “I, devoted to my husband, shall reach my destined end today,” she resolved. “Embracing this body, I will enter the fire.” Seeing Kausalyā so distraught, the women of the household gathered around her. Embracing her gently, they tried to restrain her from her desperate resolve. Meanwhile, the ministers, following the proper rites, laid the departed king in an oil vessel, as was customary, and began the rituals for the late monarch. Yet, the wise ministers hesitated to perform the king’s cremation without the presence of the prince, so they watched over the king’s body, awaiting Rāma’s return. The king, now laid out by his ministers in the oil vessel, was mourned by the palace women, who, realizing the full weight of his passing, wailed in anguish. Raising their arms, their faces streaming with tears, they wept, tormented by sorrow and grief. “Alas, great king!” they cried. “Why have you abandoned us, deprived of Rāma, who always spoke kindly and was steadfast in truth?” They lamented their fate, separated from Rāghava by Kaikeyī’s wickedness. “How shall we widows live, forced to remain near the one who brought about our husband’s death?” they wondered. “He was always our protector and yours—lordly and self-possessed. Now Rāma, glorious and righteous, has gone to the forest, leaving behind the splendor of the royal court. Bereft of you and that heroic one, afflicted by misfortune, how shall we remain, disgraced by Kaikeyī?” Their grief deepened as they reflected, “She who abandoned the king, Rāma, mighty Lakṣmaṇa, and Sītā—whom else will Kaikeyī not forsake?” Covered in tears and overwhelmed by immense grief, the noble women of the Raghus writhed in their sorrow, bereft of all joy. Ayodhya itself seemed plunged into darkness. Like a night without stars, like a woman bereft of her husband, the city, deprived of its great king, lost its luster. The people, overwhelmed by tears, filled the empty squares and houses with their cries of “alas!” The city no longer gleamed as before. It was as if the sun had suddenly set, plunging the day into night, and the sky, without its cluster of stars, was left in darkness. The gathered friends and ministers did not consent to the king’s cremation without his son. Thus, they placed the king upon his bed, pondering his unfathomable absence. Ayodhya, like the sky without the sun or the night without stars, appeared bereft of its great soul; the streets and squares were deserted, echoing only with tearful laments. Men and women gathered in groups, reproaching Bharata’s mother, Kaikeyī. With the king gone, the city was filled with distress and found no comfort. Thus ended the sixty-seventh chapter in the Ayodhyākāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. That night, Ayodhya, joyless and filled with cries, passed in sorrow. When the long, mournful night had finally passed and the sun rose, the royal priests and twice-born men assembled and made their way to the council hall. Among them were Markandeya, Maudgalya, Vamadeva, Kashyapa, Katyayana, Gautama, and the illustrious Jabali. These brahmins, together with the ministers, each spoke in turn, all turning to Vasiṣṭha, the foremost royal priest. They said, “This night, which seemed as long as a hundred years, has passed for us in sorrow, since the king met his end, overcome by grief for his son. The great king has gone to heaven, Rāma has taken refuge in the forest, and the mighty Lakṣmaṇa has gone with him. Both Bharata and Śatrughna, great ascetics, are away in Kekaya, in the delightful palace of their maternal grandfather. Let someone from the Ikṣvāku line be made king today, for our kingdom, without a ruler, must not come to ruin.” They spoke of the dangers of a land without a king. “In such a land, even thunderclouds, though resounding greatly, do not rain down upon the earth. Handfuls of seed are not sown, nor does a son obey his father, nor a wife her husband. There is no wealth, nor even a wife; and where there is such disorder, how can truth exist? Men do not build assembly halls, nor do the joyful construct lovely gardens or sacred homes. Twice-born men devoted to sacrifice, self-controlled and firm in their vows, do not perform sacrificial rites.” Thus, the elders and priests of Ayodhya, burdened by grief and anxious for the future, gathered to seek a new king, lest the kingdom fall into ruin.