With a heart heavy with grief, the sage’s bereaved parents spoke to King Dasaratha. Although their son had been slain unknowingly by the king, their sorrow was profound and unrelenting. In their anguish, they pronounced a terrible curse upon Dasaratha: just as they now suffered the unbearable pain of losing their pure son, so too would Dasaratha one day meet his end, consumed by grief for his own child. They explained that, since the king had killed a sage while being a Kshatriya and out of ignorance, the sin of Brahmin-slaying would not seize him immediately. Yet the fate decreed by their curse would not delay—it would come upon him swiftly and inexorably, just as a gift inevitably returns to the giver. Having uttered this curse and lamented deeply, the sorrowful couple placed themselves upon the funeral pyre, and, ascending to heaven, departed from the world. Now, as Dasaratha recalled these events, he confessed with deep remorse that it was his own youthful hand that had committed that sin, when he had sought to master the art of shooting by sound. He saw his present suffering as the inevitable fruit of that past deed, just as disease follows the consumption of unwholesome food. He turned to Kausalya, his gentle queen, and spoke: the words of the noble sage would now be fulfilled. Dasaratha, overcome by grief for his son, would surrender his life that very day. He told Kausalya that he could no longer see her, nor did he wish to be touched. Weeping and trembling, he addressed her, explaining that what he had done to Raghava was fitting for a father, and what Raghava had done in return was equally fitting for a son. He lamented that if Rāma were to touch him even once that day, or if he could but see his beloved son again, he would not die, and people would not see him passing to the abode of Yama. But his vision was failing; he could not see Kausalya, and his memory was slipping away. The messengers of Vaivasvata, lord of death, seemed to urge him on. What greater pain could there be, he cried, than to die without beholding Rāma, the knower of righteousness and steadfast in truth? The agony of not seeing his son, for which there was no remedy, dried up his very life-breath, just as the sun dries up a drop of water. Those who would see Rāma’s face again after his fifteen years in exile—adorned with auspicious earrings—were, in his eyes, not mortals but gods. Blessed indeed were they who would behold Rāma’s face, resplendent like the moon among stars, with lotus-like eyes, beautiful brows, shining teeth, and a charming nose. Fortunate too were those who would see the fragrant face of his son, radiant like the autumn moon and a blooming lotus. Those who rejoiced at Rāma’s return to Ayodhya after his forest exile would see him as one beholds the bright path of the sun. Dasaratha’s heart, distressed by Kausalya’s confusion and his own sorrow, seemed to sink within him. He could no longer distinguish sounds, touches, or tastes. His mind clouded, all his senses failed, just as a lamp’s rays fade when its oil is spent. The grief that arose from his own heart overwhelmed him, helpless as a river’s current battering its bank. He cried out in anguish for Raghava, his mighty-armed son and the destroyer of his sorrow, his beloved and protector—wondering where Rāma had gone. He called to Kausalya, to Sumitra the austere, and to Kaikeyi, whom he now saw as the cruel cause of his ruin and a stain upon their lineage. Thus, in the presence of Rāma’s mother Kausalya and Sumitra, King Dasaratha, lamenting and brokenhearted, reached the end of his life. In the deep of night, tormented by his son’s exile and overwhelmed by grief, the noble-souled king gave up his life. When the night had passed and dawn arrived, the royal bards gathered at the palace, as was their custom. Charioteers, refined and skilled in auspicious songs, and singers well-versed in praise, each took their turn. Their lofty blessings for the king echoed throughout the vast palace. As they sang, the charioteers played their instruments, and the musicians joined in. Awakened by this joyful sound, the birds—both those perched on branches outside and those caged within the royal household—began to sing. The palace was filled with the auspicious sounds of the veena, the recitation of blessings, and melodious songs. Women of pure conduct, skilled in their duties and mostly young and beautiful, gathered as before. They brought water mixed with sandalwood and saffron in golden vessels for the king’s bath, as prescribed by custom and at the proper time. Others brought auspicious items for offerings and utensils for drinking. All was in readiness—the king’s chamber adorned with every auspicious mark, prosperity and virtue abounding, everything appearing most fitting for a royal morning. Yet, as the sun rose, everyone waited anxiously, for nothing had happened as expected. The women of Kosala who slept near the king’s chamber gathered together and attempted to awaken their lord. Yet, behaving with proper modesty and decorum, they did not touch his bed or disturb him. These women, skilled in observing the signs of sleep and movement, began to tremble with fear, sensing that something was terribly amiss regarding the king’s life.