The aged king, overwhelmed by sorrow, listened to the anguished words of the bereaved sage’s wife. “O King,” she cried, “strike me down at once today! Death holds no pain for me, for by your arrow you have made me, who had but one son, utterly childless. Yet, because my pure son was slain by you unknowingly, I shall pronounce upon you a curse most grievous and terrible. The grief that now consumes me from the loss of my son will, in the same way, consume you, O King—you too shall meet your end, destroyed by sorrow for your own child. “Because the sage was slain by you, a Kshatriya, out of ignorance, O lord of men, the sin of Brahmin-slaying will not seize you quickly. But this same fate will swiftly overtake you, dreadful as it is, just as the giver of a gift is overtaken by the very gift he bestows.” Having uttered this curse, and lamented deeply in their sorrow, the sage’s wife and her husband placed their bodies upon the funeral pyre. In their grief, they ascended to heaven together. Now, as the king recalled these events, his heart heavy with regret, he confessed, “That very sin, committed by my own hand in my youth while imitating the art of shooting by sound, is what I remember now. O gentle lady, 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: I, overcome by grief for my son, shall give up my life today.” He turned to Kausalya, his wife, but his vision was failing. “I do not see you with my eyes, Kausalya; do not touch me, I pray.” The king, weeping and trembling, spoke thus to her. “O lady, what I did to Raghava was fitting for me, and what he has done to me is equally fitting for him. “If Rama were to touch me even once today, or if I could but see him, men would not say I had reached the abode of Yama. But 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? “This 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. 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 a charming nose, resembling the moon among stars. Blessed are those who will behold 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. “Kausalya’s confusion of mind makes my heart seem to sink; I no longer perceive sounds, touches, or tastes distinctly. My senses fail with the loss of mental clarity, just as the rays of a lamp grow faint when its oil is exhausted. This grief, arising from my own heart, overwhelms me, helpless and insensible, like a river’s current striking its bank. “Alas, Raghava of mighty arms! Alas, destroyer of my toil! Alas, beloved of your father, my protector! Alas, son, where have you gone now? Alas, Kausalya, I am perishing! Alas, Sumitra, you who are devoted to austerity! Alas, Kaikeyi, my cruel enemy, stain upon our lineage!” Thus, in the presence of Rama’s mother and Sumitra, King Dasaratha lamented bitterly. Consumed by grief for his beloved son’s exile, tormented and broken in spirit, the noble-souled king reached the end of his life in the darkness of night. Now, listen to what happened next. When the night had passed and dawn arrived, the bards gathered at the royal residence. The charioteers, refined and skilled in auspicious songs, and the singers, each expert in praise, began to speak and sing separately. Their voices, filled with lofty blessings for the king, echoed through the vast palace. As they sang, the charioteers played their instruments, and the musicians joined in, filling the air with music. Awakened by these sounds, the birds—those perched on branches and those in cages within the royal household—began to sing. The auspicious notes of veenas and the recitation of blessings and songs filled the palace. Then, women of pure conduct, skilled in their duties, mostly young and beautiful, gathered as they had before. They brought water mixed with sandalwood and saffron in golden vessels for the king’s bath, as custom required. Other young women brought auspicious items for offering and utensils for drinking. All was as it should be: the king, endowed with auspicious marks, was honored in every way, and the palace was adorned with virtues and prosperity befitting a monarch. Yet, as the sun rose, everyone waited anxiously, wondering what might have happened, for nothing had yet occurred. The women of Kosala who slept near the king’s chamber gathered together and tried to awaken their lord. But, behaving with proper modesty and decorum, they did not touch his bed or disturb him in any way.