In the quiet gloom of the palace, King Dasharatha sat overwhelmed by sorrow, his heart aching for his exiled son, Rama. He lamented, "Whose gentle voice, reciting sacred verses or wise teachings—especially in the stillness of night—will I now hear, soothing my troubled heart? Who, after performing the evening rituals, bathing, and offering oblations, will now offer me words of praise as I sit here, tormented by grief and fear for my beloved son?" He continued, his voice heavy with longing, "Who will bring roots, tubers, and fruits, and feed me—so helpless and without support or protector—as one would a cherished guest? How, my son, shall I care for your blind, aged, ascetic mother, so wretched and yearning for her lost child?" Despairing, Dasharatha pleaded, "Stay, do not go to the abode of Yama, my son. Tomorrow, together with your mother, you shall depart with me. Both of us, stricken by grief and without support, pitiable in this world, will soon journey to Yama’s realm, bereft of you." He imagined the moment he would face Vaivasvata, the lord of death, and speak: "Let the king of righteousness forgive me; let him protect these parents of mine." He prayed that the righteous guardian of the world might grant him one inexhaustible boon—fearlessness—for one so afflicted. Turning his thoughts to his son, Dasharatha declared, "Just as you, my son, are innocent and were slain by one who acted wickedly, by that truth, swiftly ascend to the worlds attained by warriors fallen in battle. Go, my son, to that supreme state which the brave, who do not turn away in battle and fall facing the foe, attain. Go to the state which Sagara, Shaibya, Dilipa, Janamejaya, Nahuṣa, and Dhundhumāra have reached. Go to the state attained by all the virtuous, by those devoted to study, by givers of land, by those who maintain sacred fires, and by those faithful to one wife. Go, my son, to the state attained by those who give a thousand cows, who honor their teachers, and who have renounced the body." He affirmed, "No one born in this lineage goes to an unfortunate state; but he by whom you, my kinsman, were slain, will surely go there." Thus, again and again, Dasharatha lamented in abject misery. Then, together with his wife, he began to perform the water-rite for his lost son. Suddenly, by the merit of his own deeds, the ascetic’s son, now radiant and divine, ascended swiftly to heaven, accompanied by Indra, the knower of action. The ascetic’s son, together with Indra, appeared to his aged parents, comforted them for a moment, and spoke gently, "By your service, I have attained a great place; and soon, you both will join me in my abode." Having spoken thus, the ascetic’s son, composed and self-controlled, quickly ascended to heaven in a resplendent chariot. Then, having completed the water-rite with his wife, the great-souled ascetic, with joined palms, addressed Dasharatha as he stood nearby. "O King," he said, "kill me at once today; I have no fear of death, for by your arrow you have left me, who had only one son, childless. Yet because my pure son was slain by you unknowingly, I shall not curse you with death, but with a sorrow most grievous and terrible. The grief that now afflicts me from the loss of my son—so too, O King, you shall meet your end consumed by grief for your son. Because the sage was slain by you, a Kshatriya, out of ignorance, O lord of men, the sin of Brahmin-slaying will not quickly seize you. But this same fate will swiftly overtake you—a dreadful ender of life—just as the giver of a gift is overtaken by the gift itself." Having pronounced this curse and lamented deeply in their sorrow, the ascetic couple placed their bodies upon the funeral pyre and ascended to heaven. Dasharatha recalled, "That very sin, committed by my own hand in my youth, imitating the art of shooting by sound, now returns to me. O gentle one, this is the ripening of that deed; as disease comes from eating what is unwholesome, so too does this suffering now come to me. Therefore, when I have come to this, the noble one’s words will be fulfilled: that I, overcome by grief for my son, shall give up my life today." His vision fading, Dasharatha said, "I do not see you with my eyes, Kausalya; do not touch me, I pray." Thus, weeping and trembling, the king addressed his wife. "O lady, what I did to Raghava was fitting for me, and what he has done to me is equally fitting for him." He sighed, "If Rama were to touch me even once today, or if I could but behold him, men would not see me as one who has reached Yama’s abode. I do not see you with my eyes; my memory is fading. The messengers of Vaivasvata are urging me on, O Kausalya. What could be more painful than this, that as my life ends, I do not see Rama, the knower of righteousness and steadfast in truth? The grief born from not seeing my son, for which there is no remedy, dries up my life-breaths as the sun dries up a little water." He reflected with longing, "Those who will see Rama’s face again after fifteen years, adorned with lovely, auspicious earrings—they are not mortals, but gods. Blessed are those who will see Rama’s face, with eyes like lotus petals, beautiful brows, shining teeth, and charming nose, resembling the moon among stars. Blessed are those who will see the fragrant face of my lord, like the autumn moon and a blooming lotus. Those who are happy will see Rama, returned to Ayodhya after his stay in the forest, just as one sees the bright path of the sun." Finally, Dasharatha whispered, "Because of Kausalya’s confusion of mind, my heart seems to sink; I do not perceive sounds, touches, or tastes distinctly." And thus, enveloped by sorrow and longing for his son, the great king’s life drew gently to a close.