Rāvaṇa lay lifeless upon the battlefield, and his wife, overwhelmed with grief, poured out her lament. She recalled how he had ignored the words spoken for his welfare by friends and the wholesome advice given by his brothers. Even the wise and reasoned counsel of Vibhīṣaṇa, offered with clear arguments for his benefit, had been disregarded. The warnings of Mārīca, Kumbhakarṇa, her own father, and herself—all had gone unheeded, blinded as Rāvaṇa was by his own power. Now, she saw the bitter fruit of that arrogance. Gazing at him, she cried out, “O Daśānana, you who resemble a dark raincloud, clad in yellow garments and adorned with splendid armlets, why do you lie here, covered in blood, your limbs cast aside?” She pleaded, “Like one asleep, why do you not speak to me, who am distressed by sorrow? You, of great valor and skill, who never fled from battle.” She begged him to rise, “O granddaughter of a yātudhāna, why do you not speak to me? Arise! Why do you lie here, when a new humiliation has been inflicted?” She observed how the sun’s rays now entered Laṅkā without fear, whereas once Rāvaṇa’s brilliance had destroyed his enemies in battle. His mighty mace, always honored and adorned with golden mesh like Indra’s thunderbolt, now lay shattered. His iron club, cut into a thousand pieces by arrows, was scattered, and he lay on the battlefield embracing it as if it were his beloved. “Why do you not speak to me, as if I were unpleasant to you?” she cried. “Shame upon the heart that cannot bear this pain a thousandfold.” Stricken by grief and sorrow, she lamented in this way, her eyes streaming with tears. Her heart, overwhelmed with affection, finally gave way, and she fell into a swoon, collapsing onto Rāvaṇa’s chest. Like a flash of lightning shining in a twilight raincloud, her co-wives, deeply distressed, raised her up. They gathered around her, weeping intensely, and tried to comfort her, saying, “O lady, do you not know that the existence of all worlds is unstable? The fortunes of kings are fickle, changing in tenfold ways.” As she was thus addressed, she wailed aloud, bathing her breasts and pure face with tears. At that moment, Rāma spoke to Vibhīṣaṇa: “Let the funeral rites for your brother be performed, and let the women be consoled.” Vibhīṣaṇa, wise and thoughtful, replied, “Having considered what is proper, righteous, and beneficial, I see that he abandoned virtue, was cruel, merciless, and deceitful. I am not fit to perform the funeral rites for one who violated another’s wife; though he is my brother, he is my enemy, devoted to all that is harmful. Rāvaṇa does not deserve honor, even if he is worthy of respect as an elder. People on earth, Rāma, will call me cruel. Yet, hearing of his faults, all will again speak of my good conduct.” Rāma, the foremost upholder of righteousness, was greatly pleased by Vibhīṣaṇa’s words. He said, “I too wish to do what pleases you, for by your power I have achieved victory. Still, O lord of the Rakshasas, you must be addressed with respect by me, though this night-wanderer was unrighteous and false. He was brilliant, strong, and courageous, undefeated in battle even by the gods led by Indra. Rāvaṇa, the mighty one who brought terror to the worlds—hostilities end with death; our purpose is fulfilled. Let his funeral rites be performed, as you would wish for yourself or for me. Let the proper rites be conducted by you, mighty-armed one. You should quickly perform the rites in accordance with righteousness, and you will gain fame.” Hearing Rāma’s words, Vibhīṣaṇa hastened to carry out the rites. He began to perform the funeral rites for his slain brother and entered the city of Laṅkā. He quickly removed Rāvaṇa’s fire altar, as well as the wooden carts, the fires, and the officiating priests. He brought out sandalwood and other fragrant woods, aloes, and sweet-smelling scents. Vibhīṣaṇa also brought out jewels, pearls, and coral, and soon arrived surrounded by other demons. Together with Mālyavat, Vibhīṣaṇa performed the rites, placing Rāvaṇa, dressed in fine linen, on a splendid golden bier. The twice-born, their faces streaked with tears, honored Rāvaṇa, lord of the demons, with musical instruments and songs of praise. Adorned with colorful banners and garlands, Vibhīṣaṇa and the others lifted the bier. All, facing south, took up the wood and split it, while the fires, kindled by the priests, blazed brightly. They followed behind, weeping bitterly, as they placed Rāvaṇa in a purified spot. They built the funeral pyre with sandalwood, lotus stalks, and sandal-paste, covering it with Brahmin’s cloth and a bed of bark. They performed the supreme ancestral rite for the king of the demons, arranging the altar to the southeast and placing the fire in its proper place. A ladle filled with clarified butter was placed on his shoulder, a wooden cart at his feet, and a mortar at his thighs. All the wooden vessels, the lower and upper fire-sticks, and another pestle were set in their proper places. Thus, with reverence and sorrow, the funeral rites for Rāvaṇa were performed, marking the end of the mighty king of Laṅkā.