Having pronounced a dreadful curse upon me and lamented in the depths of their sorrow, that bereaved couple placed themselves upon the funeral pyre and ascended to the heavenly realms. The very sin they condemned me for—committed by my own hand in youthful ignorance, when I practiced the art of shooting by sound—now returns vividly to my mind. O noble lady, what I suffer now is the ripening of that deed, just as disease arises from consuming what is unwholesome; so too does this suffering come to me. Therefore, gentle one, the words of that virtuous couple will come to pass: that I, overwhelmed by grief for my son, shall surrender my life this very day. Kausalya, I cannot see you with my eyes; do not touch me, I pray. Thus, weeping and trembling, I spoke these words to my wife. O lady, what I have done to Raghava was fitting for me, and what he has done in return is equally fitting for him. If only Rama could touch me, even once today, or if I could but behold him, then men would not say I had gone to the abode of Yama. But now, I cannot see you, Kausalya; my memory fades, and the messengers of Vaivasvata urge me onward. What sorrow could be greater than this: as my life draws to its end, I do not see Rama, that knower of righteousness, steadfast in truth? The grief of not beholding my son, for which there is no remedy, dries up my very life-breath, as the sun dries a small pool of water. Those who will see Rama’s face again after fifteen years—adorned with lovely, auspicious earrings—are not mortals, but gods. Blessed indeed are those who will gaze upon Rama’s face, with eyes like lotus petals, beautiful brows, shining teeth, and a charming nose, resplendent like the moon among stars. Blessed are those who will behold his fragrant face, like the autumn moon and a blooming lotus. The fortunate will see Rama return to Ayodhya after his sojourn in the forest, just as one beholds the bright path of the sun. Because of Kausalya’s confusion of mind, my heart sinks; I can no longer distinguish sounds, touches, or tastes clearly. With the loss of mental clarity, all my senses fail, just as the rays of a lamp fade when its oil is spent. This grief, rising 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 perish! Alas, Sumitra, 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. As the lord of men spoke in distress, tormented by the exile of his beloved son, in the middle of the night, deeply afflicted, that noble-souled one gave up his life. When the night had passed and the next morning arrived, the bards assembled at the royal residence. The charioteers, refined and skilled in auspicious songs, and singers adept in praise, each spoke separately. The sound of their blessings and praises, uttered with lofty benedictions for the king, spread throughout the vast palace. As they sang, the charioteers played their instruments, and the musicians began their melodies. Awakened by this sound, the birds—those perched on branches and those in cages within the royal household—began to sing. The auspicious tones of the veenas and the recitation of blessings and songs filled the palace. Then, women of pure conduct, skilled in service, 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 was proper and customary. Other young women brought auspicious items for offering and utensils for drinking, as required. All was as it should be: the king, endowed with auspicious marks, was honored and adorned with virtues and prosperity, fitting for a sovereign. Yet, until sunrise, 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 decorum and modesty, they did not touch his bed or disturb him. Skilled in understanding the habits of sleep and movement, they became seized with trembling, fearing for the king’s life. Like blades of grass at a stream’s edge quivering against the current, so did these women tremble; and when they saw the king, their fear only grew. What they had dreaded as a calamity was now certain; and Kausalya and Sumitra, overcome by grief for their son, though asleep, did not awaken at the proper time. Drained of radiance, pale, and bowed down, they were lost in sorrow. Kausalya did not shine, like a star veiled by darkness; and after her, the king’s wife Sumitra appeared the same, her light dimmed by grief.