The grief that now overwhelms me at the loss of my son, O King, is the very grief that will one day consume you, ending your life in sorrow for your own son. When you, a Kshatriya, slew that sage in ignorance, O lord of men, the sin of Brahmin-slaying did not seize you instantly. But just as the giver of a gift is repaid by the gift itself, so too shall the consequences of your deed swiftly overtake you, bringing a dreadful end to your days. After uttering this curse upon me and lamenting in deep sorrow, the bereaved couple placed themselves upon the funeral pyre, and thus ascended to heaven. I remember well that very sin, committed by my own hand in my youth, when I was practicing the art of shooting by sound. O gentle one, this suffering that now befalls me is the ripening of that deed—just as disease follows from eating what is unwholesome, so too does my present sorrow arise from my past action. Therefore, O noble lady, as I reach this moment, the words of the sage fulfill themselves: that I, overcome by grief for my son, shall give up my life this very day. I cannot 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 have done to Raghava was fitting for me, and what he has done to me is equally fitting for him. If only Rama would touch me, even once today, or if I could but see him, then men would not say I had reached the abode of Yama. But I do not see you with my eyes; my memory fades. The messengers of Vaivasvata, the lord of death, urge me onward, O Kausalya. What could be more painful than this—that at the very end of my life, I do not behold Rama, the knower of righteousness, steadfast in truth? The grief of not seeing my son, for which there is no remedy, dries up my life-breaths as the sun dries a little pool of water. Blessed indeed are those who, after fifteen years, will behold Rama’s face again, adorned with lovely, auspicious earrings—they are not mortals, but gods. Fortunate 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 see the fragrant face of my lord, like the autumn moon and a blooming lotus. Happy indeed are those who will see Rama return to Ayodhya after his forest exile, as one beholds the bright path of the sun. Because of Kausalya’s confusion and sorrow, my heart seems to sink; I no longer perceive sounds, touches, or tastes distinctly. With the loss of mental clarity, all my senses fail, just as the rays of a lamp grow faint when its oil is spent. This grief, born 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, my son, where have you gone now? Alas, Kausalya, I am perishing! Alas, Sumitra, you devoted to austerity! Alas, Kaikeyi, my cruel enemy, stain upon our lineage! Thus, in the presence of Rama’s mother and Sumitra, King Dasaratha, lamenting, reached the end of his life. Tormented by the exile of his beloved son, in the dark of night, deeply afflicted, the noble-souled king spoke his final words and gave up his life. When the night had passed and morning arrived, the bards assembled at the royal residence. Charioteers, refined and skilled in auspicious songs, and singers adept in praise, each offered their words separately. Their lofty blessings for the king echoed throughout the vast palace. As they sang, the charioteers played their instruments and the musicians began to perform. Awakened by that sound, the birds—those perched on branches and those in cages within the royal household—began to sing. The palace was filled with the auspicious sounds of veenas, blessings, and songs. Women of pure conduct, skilled in attendance, mostly young and beautiful, gathered as before. They brought water mixed with sandalwood and saffron in golden vessels for bathing, as instructed, at the proper time and according to custom. Other young women brought auspicious items for offerings and utensils for drinking, as required. Everything was adorned with auspicious marks, virtues, and prosperity, befitting a king. Yet, until sunrise, everyone waited anxiously, wondering what might have happened, as nothing had yet occurred. The women of Kosala who slept near the king’s chamber gathered together and tried to awaken their lord. Yet, behaving with proper modesty and decorum, they did not touch his bed or disturb him in any way. Skilled in knowing the habits of sleep and movement, they became seized with trembling, fearing for the king’s life. Like blades of grass at the edge of a stream quivering against the current, so did those women tremble; and seeing the king, they shook even more.