Queen Kausalya sat near the ailing King Dasaratha as his life ebbed away, her heart heavy with sorrow. In a trembling voice, Dasaratha spoke to her, “O lady, what I have done to Raghava was my duty, and what he has done to me is also fitting for him.” His words hung in the air, laden with regret and acceptance. Desperate and longing, he continued, “If only Rama would touch me once today, or if I could but see him again, then men would not say I have gone to the land of Yama.” His vision was failing, and he confessed, “I can no longer see you, Kausalya; my memory fades. The messengers of Vaivasvata—Yama—urge me onward.” His voice grew weaker as he lamented, “What could be more painful than this? As my life ends, I do not behold Rama, the knower of righteousness, steadfast in truth.” The king’s grief deepened as he spoke of his son. “The sorrow of not seeing my Rama, for whom there is no remedy, dries up my life-breath as the sun dries a small pool of water.” He gazed into the distance, his voice filled with longing. “Those who will see Rama’s face again after fifteen years, adorned with auspicious earrings—they are not mortals, but gods themselves. Blessed are those who will gaze upon his face, with eyes like lotus petals, beautiful brows, shining teeth, and a charming nose, radiant like the moon amidst stars. Fortunate are those who will see the fragrant face of my lord, like the autumn moon and a blooming lotus. Those who are truly happy will see Rama return to Ayodhya after his exile, just as one sees the shining path of the sun.” Dasaratha’s mind grew clouded. “Because of this confusion, my heart sinks, Kausalya. I can no longer distinguish sounds, touches, or tastes.” His senses faded, “With my mind’s clarity gone, all my senses fail—just as a lamp’s rays grow faint when its oil is spent.” Overwhelmed, he likened his sorrow to a rushing river, “This grief, rising from my own heart, sweeps me away, helpless, like a river’s current striking its bank.” Calling out in anguish, he cried, “Alas, Raghava of mighty arms! Destroyer of my toil! Beloved of your father, my protector! O son, where have you gone?” His voice faltered as he called for those dearest to him, “Alas, Kausalya, I am perishing! Sumitra, devoted to austerity! And Kaikeyi, my cruel enemy, stain upon our lineage!” Thus, in the presence of Rama’s mother, Kausalya, and Sumitra, King Dasaratha, lamenting for his son, reached the end of his life. In the dark of night, tormented by Rama’s exile, the noble-souled king, overcome by grief, surrendered his life. With the passing of that night, the sixty-fifth chapter unfolds. At dawn, the royal bards assembled at the palace, their voices trained in auspicious songs and blessings. Charioteers and singers, skilled in praise, each offered their salutations separately. Their words of benediction and melody filled the vast palace, mingling with the sound of musical instruments played by the charioteers and musicians. The birds, awakened by this symphony—those perched on branches and those in golden cages—began to sing. The palace echoed with the auspicious sounds of veenas, blessings, and songs. Women of pure conduct, mostly young and beautiful, gathered as was customary, bringing water mixed with sandalwood and saffron in golden vessels for the royal bath. Others brought auspicious items for offerings and utensils for drinking, as befitted the occasion. The palace, adorned with all auspicious marks and virtues, seemed a fitting seat for a king. Yet, as the sun rose, everyone waited anxiously, uncertain, for nothing had yet occurred. Meanwhile, the women of Kosala who slept near the king’s chamber gathered together, attempting to awaken their lord. Observing proper decorum, they did not touch his bed or disturb him. Skilled in reading the signs of sleep and movement, they began to tremble, fearing for the king’s life. Like blades of grass quivering at the edge of a stream, so too did these women tremble; and seeing the king, their fears grew. What they had dreaded now became certain. Kausalya and Sumitra, overcome by grief for Rama, had not awakened at the proper time. Their radiance was gone, their faces pale and bowed with sorrow. Kausalya, her face stained with tears, no longer shone—like a star veiled by darkness. After her, Sumitra appeared the same, her grief equally deep. The inner palace, with its lord lying lifeless, seemed transformed. The noble women, stricken with sorrow, cried out loudly. Like female elephants wailing for their fallen leader in the forest, they raised their voices in grief. Kausalya and Sumitra, abandoning sleep, rose and, upon seeing and touching the king, cried out, “Alas, lord!” and collapsed to the ground. The daughter of the king of Kosala writhed upon the earth, overcome by loss and anguish.