King Dasaratha, overwhelmed by sorrow, spoke from the depths of his heart. “If only Rama were to touch me, even just once today, or if I could but see him, then men would not look upon me as one who has reached the very threshold of Yama’s abode. But now, I do not see you with my eyes, Rama; my memory of you is fading. The messengers of Vaivasvata, the lord of death, urge me onward, O Kausalya. What pain could be greater than this: that as my life draws to its end, I do not behold Rama, the knower of righteousness, steadfast in truth? The grief that comes from not seeing my son, for which there is no remedy, dries up my very life-breath, just as the sun dries up a small pool of water. Fortunate indeed are those who will see Rama’s face again after fifteen long years, adorned with lovely and auspicious earrings—they are not mere mortals, but gods. Blessed are those who will gaze upon Rama’s face, with eyes like lotus petals, beautiful brows, shining teeth, and a charming nose, radiant like the moon among the stars. Blessed are those who will behold 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 sojourn in the forest, just as one beholds the bright path of the sun. Kausalya, your mind is confused with grief, and because of that, my own heart seems to sink. I no longer perceive sounds, touches, or tastes as I once did. 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 sorrow, born from my own heart, overwhelms me, helpless and insensible, like the current of a river striking its bank. Alas, Raghava of mighty arms! Alas, destroyer of my toil! Alas, beloved of your father, my protector! My son, where have you gone now? Alas, Kausalya, I am perishing! Alas, Sumitra, devoted to austerity! Alas, Kaikeyi, my cruel enemy, stain upon our lineage!” Thus, in the presence of Rama’s mother Kausalya and Sumitra, King Dasaratha, lamenting and crushed by grief, reached the end of his life. As the lord of men spoke these words in distress, tormented by the exile of his beloved son, in the darkness of night, deeply afflicted, that noble-souled king gave up his life. When the night had passed and morning arrived, the bards assembled at the royal residence. Charioteers, refined and well-versed in auspicious songs, and singers skilled in praise, each began to speak and sing separately. The sound of their praises, filled with lofty blessings for the king, spread throughout the vast palace. As they sang, charioteers played their instruments, and musicians began to perform. Awakened by this sound, the birds—both those perched on branches and those in cages within the royal household—began to sing. The auspicious sounds of the veenas and the recitation of blessings and songs filled the palace. Then, women of pure conduct, skilled in attendance, mostly young and beautiful, gathered as they had before. They brought water mixed with sandalwood and saffron in golden vessels for bathing, as was customary at the proper time. Other young women brought auspicious items for offering and utensils for drinking, as required. The king, endowed with all auspicious marks, was honored in every way; everything in the palace was adorned with excellent virtues and prosperity, appearing most fitting for a king. Until sunrise, everyone waited anxiously, wondering what might have happened, for nothing had yet occurred. Then, 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, these women suddenly 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 they tremble; and seeing the king, their fear grew. What they had feared as a calamity was now certain. Kausalya and Sumitra, overcome by grief for their son, lay asleep, not awakening at the proper time; their radiance gone, pale and bowed down, they were overcome by sorrow. Kausalya did not shine, like a star veiled by darkness; after Kausalya, the king’s wife Sumitra also appeared the same. The queen, her face stained with tears of grief, no longer shone. Seeing the king and those noble queens lying thus, the inner palace, with its lord lifeless in sleep, seemed utterly changed. Then those noble women, stricken, cried out loudly. Like female elephants whose leader has fallen in the forest, those women, suddenly regaining consciousness, wailed aloud. Kausalya and Sumitra, abandoning sleep, arose; and seeing and touching the king, they cried out, “Alas, lord!” and collapsed to the ground. The daughter of the king of Kosala writhed upon the earth, covered in dust, no longer shining—like a star fallen from the sky—as the king, now peaceful, lay with Kausalya fallen to the ground.